  Flash hastily took his final picture without attracting the attention of diners inside the restaurant. He then crept back to the open window and was helped through. “Did you get what you were after?” asked the bellboy. “I think so,” answered Flash, taking a coin from his pocket. “Thanks for your trouble.” The boy locked the bedroom door behind them, and they went out into the hall. “I notice the cafÉ is on this floor,” remarked Flash carelessly. “I believe I’ll drop around there for a bite to eat.” Without question the bellboy accepted his explanation and went away. Left alone, camera strap over his shoulder, Flash drifted down the hall to the doorway of the restaurant. Unobserved for a moment, he stood there watching. The three men who had drawn his attention were still seated at their table near the window. The head waiter came over to where Flash stood, “How many in your party, sir?” “No party,” said Flash, tapping his camera case. “I’m just looking over the situation.” “Oh, a photographer,” the waiter murmured. “I suppose Mr. Hodges sent you to take publicity pictures?” The question gave Flash a sudden idea. “May I set up my tripod wherever I like?” he asked. “Yes, anywhere. Only try to keep the main aisle clear. Mr. Hodges will expect you to focus so that our new decorations will show up to advantage.” Flash nodded, but actually he had no intention of wasting film upon the new murals of the Green Room. He followed the head waiter into the cafÉ, taking care not to glance toward the three strangers. The room quieted down as heads turned and all eyes focused curiously upon him. In his most professional manner, Flash set up his tripod and trained the lens of his camera toward the orchestra. All the while, out of the corner of his eye, he was estimating the distance to the window table. He saw that the three men were hurrying through their dinners, watching him alertly. He would need to act quickly if he obtained the picture he was after. Suddenly pretending to change his mind, he turned the camera so that it focused directly upon the three men. As the shutter clicked one of the diners ducked his head. The other two raised napkins in front of their faces. Before Flash could change holders they arose, and with angry glances directed at him, dropped a bill on the table and left. His interest deepening, Flash packed his camera and followed. He reached the corridor in time to see the three men enter the elevator. Taking to the stairs, he raced down several flights, and there caught another elevator which was descending. The three men had crossed the lobby to the main entrance. Flash stood by the cigar stand until he saw them enter a taxi. He then ran out and, signaling the next one in line, leaped aboard. “Follow that checkered cab ahead,” he instructed. Sinking back against the seat, Flash recaptured his breath. While he still was far from certain that one of the men was the same fellow he had chased from the Davis Furniture store, he felt convinced that the three in the cab ahead had a special fear of being photographed. And they were well versed in the method of avoiding having their pictures taken. His snaps would be worthless for purposes of identification. The checkered cab weaved leisurely through downtown traffic with the occupants apparently unaware they were being trailed. Presently the car turned into the park, winding in and out among the curving streets, and then duplicating its route. “What do you think?” Flash asked his driver. “Are they wise to the fact that we’re following?” “Looks to me as if they’re only killing time,” the cabman answered. “Plenty of folks do that if they have an appointment.” “We’ll trail them for awhile longer,” Flash decided. “Drop farther back.” He began to watch the meter anxiously. Figures ticked up on the dial with an alarming speed. Flash examined the money in his wallet. He had a little over seven dollars, but it must last him to the end of the week. “Guess you may as well let me out here,” he said at last. “This sport is getting too expensive for me.” The cab drew up at the curb, and the one ahead disappeared among the trees. Flash paid his bill and started afoot through the park, intending to return to the Ledger office. Ruefully, he reflected that a sizeable amount of his money was gone, and he had learned nothing. “Probably my hunch was a crazy one anyway,” he thought. “A man isn’t necessarily a crook because he doesn’t like to have his picture taken.” As Flash drew near the park entrance, he was startled to have the same checkered cab roll past him. For a fleeting instant he thought that he might become the target of a brutal attack. Then he realized the three passengers had not seen him. Darkness and the deep shadow of an arching maple tree protected him completely. The checkered cab swung out of the park, turning left into the busy business street. Immediately it picked up speed. “It looks as if they’re really going somewhere now,” thought Flash. “Probably they were only waiting for me to give up the chase.” The temptation to follow once more was too great to resist. Hurrying to the main thoroughfare, he glanced up and down for another taxi. He sighted one drifting by on the opposite side of the street, and hailed it. The driver made a quick turn, pulling up beside him. “Follow that checkered cab,” Flash ordered, slamming the door. “Keep well back if it slows down.” The taxi ahead did not slacken speed. On the contrary, Flash and his driver lost sight of it several times and were hard pressed to remain in the race. The trail led through downtown Brandale toward the waterfront. Before many minutes the two cabs were twisting down a narrow street which Flash recognized as the site of the Fenmore Warehouse. In passing the darkened building, the taxi ahead slackened speed somewhat. Whether or not this action was deliberate, he could not determine. The car cruised past the building. Three blocks farther on, it drew up at a street corner. Two of the men alighted, while the third passenger rode away in the cab. Telling his own driver to pull up farther down the street, Flash climbed out. His funds had been whittled again, and seemingly to no purpose. He was disgusted. The two men had turned and were walking swiftly down the deserted street, their backs to the photographer. As he watched, his interest kindled. One of the men carried a small black case. “Wonder where that came from?” he mused. “I know they didn’t have it when they left the cafÉ. They may have picked it up from the hotel check room.” The two men were heading in the direction of the Fenmore Warehouse, a significant fact which immediately registered upon Flash. Could it be that the third member of the party had driven past the building for the deliberate purpose of pointing it out to his companions? He had not forgotten the threats made against Mr. Fenmore, or the man’s belief that an attempt would be made to damage his warehouse. Flash waited until the two men had turned the corner beyond the warehouse, before following them. He now believed they were returning to the building. He was certain of it when the men, after glancing carefully about, slipped down an alley leading to the rear of the warehouse. “They’re up to something!” thought Flash, his pulse stepping up a pace. He glanced about for a policeman. None was in sight. Evidently the man assigned to guard the warehouse had been withdrawn or else had taken himself elsewhere. Stealthily, Flash entered the dark alley, keeping well out of the glare of a street lamp. Crouching in the angle of a building, he watched and waited. The two men walked directly to a rear door of the warehouse. With no hesitation or delay they unlocked it with a key and entered. Flash was puzzled. “Maybe those fellows have a right to be here,” he thought. “They act that way. And they have a key.” He moved closer, watching for lights to be turned on inside the warehouse. The building remained dark. Through a dirt-caked basement window, Flash caught the gleam of a flashlight. Instantly his suspicions took definite form. The two men had no business in the warehouse! They were bent upon mischief! Turning, Flash darted back to the entrance of the alley. The street was deserted both of cars and people. There was no sign of either a police officer or a watchman. “If I take time to go for help those fellows may get away!” he reasoned. “This job is up to me!” He returned to the rear of the warehouse. Quietly opening the door, he listened a moment and then stepped into the dark interior. |
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