  Flash silently followed the officer down the hallway to the elevator. The pointed remark about not having set ideas struck home, making him suddenly conscious that his attitude had been anything but unbiased. Hadn’t he been so certain Fred Orris was responsible for the theft that he refused to consider any other possibility? Now that he reflected, he realized that the watchman had seemed unusually interested in his work. As he thought back, it came to him that when they had been together, he usually was the one to do most of the talking. Old Herm asked many questions and supplied few answers. “But it couldn’t have been Herm,” he repeated to himself. “He’s only a foolish old cod, and he’s always seemed to like me.” They presently located the watchman on the fifth floor. As Old Herm saw the police officer striding toward him, he started perceptibly. “Lookin’ for me?” he inquired uneasily. “You are the night watchman here?” asked the policeman, gazing steadily at him. “That’s right. Anything the matter?” “Nothing to be skittish about,” the officer said. “All we want is to see how good you are at answering questions.” “Answerin’ questions!” the old fellow echoed timidly. “I ain’t done nothin’, sir.” “You were in the building at eleven-thirty tonight?” “Oh, yes, sir,” Old Herm replied. “I’m always here then. It’s my job.” “What part of the building?” “On the sixth floor, sir. I punch a clock there every night at eleven-thirty.” “And you punched it tonight?” “Oh, yes, sir. I’ve never missed in five years.” “Any one see you do it?” “Maybe so and maybe not so,” Old Herm answered vaguely. “If anyone saw me, I didn’t see them.” While the old fellow’s voice and face was innocence itself, it seemed rather strange to Flash that he did not ask the officer why he was being questioned. It was barely possible, he thought, that Old Herm knew the reason, yet the chances were against his having talked with anyone about the theft and attack. The officer studied the watchman for a moment. Then he took the key which had been found in the darkroom and held it before Old Herm’s eyes. “Ever see that before?” “Why, ah, yes, I have,” the watchman stammered. “Yours isn’t it?” “Yes,” Old Herm admitted readily, “it’s the key to the janitor’s supply room in the basement.” “We didn’t find it in the basement. We picked it up in the photography department. Have you been in there tonight?” “Yes, sir, I was. I drop in there on my rounds when the door’s open. You see, the photographers are careless about letting faucets run. It’s no fun mopping up after ’em.” “At what hour were you there tonight?” “Just a bit after 10:30. That’s when I ring the time clock in the department.” So far, Old Herm’s account of his whereabouts left no ground for suspicion. Flash recalled that at ten-thirty he had not yet reached the Ledger Building. According to the clock in the window of the advertising department, it had been eleven-twenty when he arrived and met the watchman in the lower vestibule. Evidently the old fellow had gone directly to the sixth floor to ring the eleven-thirty time bell. “The record will show whether or not he did,” Flash thought. “If he’s telling the truth, he couldn’t have been the person who attacked me. With his bad leg it would have taken him at least five minutes to get from the sixth floor to the photographic department. And it was only eleven-forty when Joe Wells found me lying unconscious.” “You’ve been around here quite awhile, haven’t you?” the policeman was asking Old Herm. “Nigh onto ten years now. And it’s been a mighty tedious life, a dreary existence—walkin’ to the third floor, walkin’ to the fifth floor, walkin’ to the basement, ringin’ the rounds registers, lookin’ for burglars that ain’t there. No, sir, in all my years I never scared up an intruder—not one! And me a brave man able to take care of myself.” A light of childish bravado shone in Old Herm’s eyes, and the officer directed a covert wink at Flash. “Suppose we check on that time register,” he said. “Yes, sir,” Old Herm mumbled. “Just come with me.” He led Flash and the policeman to the sixth floor. The register, which was located in the front part of the building, gave conclusive proof that it had been punched at the hour Old Herm claimed. “You see, it’s just like I told you,” the watchman declared. “I don’t know what this is all about, but I been tendin’ strictly to my work all evening. And I ain’t seen no one in the building except those that have a right to be here.” “It probably was an inside job,” the officer commented, dropping the lost key into the watchman’s hand. “Was something stole?” Old Herm asked anxiously. “A film from the photography department,” responded the policeman briefly. “An important one,” added Flash. “I had just finished developing it when someone slugged me on the head.” “Shoo, you don’t say!” Old Herm muttered. “That’s bad. Nasty lookin’ cut, too. Will it get you into trouble, losin’ your picture?” “It won’t do me any good,” Flash returned. Turning, he followed the police officer down the hall, leaving the old watchman to stare after them. When they were beyond earshot, Flash said: “You were satisfied with his story?” “Oh sure,” replied the policeman carelessly. “You were right. He’s only a foolish old fellow. No motive for the crime.” “For that matter, what reason would anyone in the building have for doing such a trick? A personal grudge against me?” “Might have been. I’m satisfied it was an inside job and not the work of any of the arson gang.” After the officer had gone, Flash returned to the darkroom for his hat. As he passed through the news room a moment later, the editor stopped him at the desk. “Here’s something that may interest you,” he said, thrusting a sheet of copy paper into Flash’s hand. “One of our reporters just brought it in. About ten minutes ago an old man named Andy Simpson was run over by an automobile and killed.” “Andy Simpson!” Flash exclaimed. “Not the watchman at the Fenmore warehouse!” “Same fellow.” “Run over deliberately?” “No. It appears he was dazed or had been drinking too much. Anyway, according to the story of the motorist, he ignored the traffic lights and walked straight into the path of the car.” “Andy Simpson was the one person who could have thrown new light on the arson case,” Flash muttered. “He met ‘H. J.,’ the man who is supposed to be the brains of the arson gang. Now the police never will be able to get a description.” He read the brief item through and handed it back to the editor. Never had he felt more discouraged. With Andy Simpson dead, his missing picture was of greater importance than ever. But it was definitely gone. He never would see it again. While no word of blame was spoken, Flash saw several reporters glancing at him with a peculiar expression. By morning everyone on the Ledger would have heard the story. “I’m getting a record for failures,” he thought as he made his way to the street. “Unless I can figure out who is at the bottom of tonight’s attack, things may keep on happening.” The previous mishaps, while personally humiliating, had not been so serious. But now, with Andy Simpson dead, the loss of the picture undoubtedly meant that the higher-ups in the arson ring never would be brought to trial. As the bus rolled along the deserted neighborhood street, Flash turned over in his mind every possible person who might have been responsible for the vicious attack. Aside from members of the arson ring, Fred Orris and Old Herm seemed the most likely suspects. The watchman had a perfect alibi, so that left only the head photographer. “There’s Luke Frowein of the Globe,” Flash mused. “He would enjoy seeing me lose my job. But he couldn’t have known about the warehouse affair.” A light was burning in the Evans cottage as the bus drew up a short distance away. Flash walked rapidly, realizing that his mother must be waiting up for him. Hearing his step on the front porch, she opened the door. “You shouldn’t have waited up, Mother,” he protested. “Jimmy!” she exclaimed in horror. “Your forehead! You’ve been in an accident!” “It’s nothing.” Despite his protests, she hastened to the medicine cabinet for iodine and adhesive tape. As she bathed and bandaged the wound, she drew from Flash an account of what had occurred. He ended by saying: “This was extra work I was doing tonight, so I’ll not be fired. But I figure it’s bound to come before many weeks. Someone is out to get my job!” “I almost wish you would lose it,” Mrs. Evans shuddered. “Since you started work at the Ledger, I’ve not had an easy moment. I’m so afraid something dreadful will happen to you. If only you hadn’t become mixed up in this arson affair!” “I had a close call tonight,” Flash admitted. “But the same thing isn’t likely to happen twice. What makes me sore is that by losing the picture, I’ve fixed it so the real head of the arson gang never will be captured.” “It wasn’t your fault.” “Maybe not, but the result is the same. I muffed a wonderful opportunity to round up those men, get a scoop for the Ledger, and at the same time make a name for myself.” “Things have been running against you,” his mother murmured sympathetically, “but it can’t continue that way indefinitely.” “It can, unless I do some tall thinking,” he replied grimly. “Someone in the office has been after my job from the day I started work there!” “You’re alluding to that man, Fred Orris?” his mother asked in a quiet voice. “I’ve heard he has someone in mind for my job. But I don’t know whom I suspect. The thing has me completely baffled.” “From what you’ve told me of Mr. Orris, it scarcely seems to me he would be the type of man to resort to a brutal attack. If I were you, I should be very careful about accusing anyone.” “Oh, I know better than to do that,” Flash promised gravely. “But from now on, I’m trusting no one! And I may think of some scheme to trap that fellow, whoever he is!” |
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