  The butt end of a revolver slammed against Flash’s skull. Blood trickled down across his eyelids. His hold on his assailant’s knees loosened. As if from a great distance he heard a harsh voice order: “Come on! Come on! We’ve got to get out of here!” And then Flash became aware of another sound—the opening of an upstairs door, then footsteps treading on the landing. A powerful flashlight beam played over the wall. Flash felt the muzzle of a gun pressing hard into his ribs. “Keep quiet!” he was advised in a whisper. From above came a gruff shout: “Hallo, down there!” Grasping the revolver muzzle in one hand and the man’s wrist in the other, Flash gave a violent twist and shouted for help. The gun boomed again, then clattered to the cement. The bullet, sharply deflected, hummed through the shattered window, while Flash and his attacker groped for the weapon. Suddenly the basement room was flooded with light. “Reach!” commanded a gruff voice from the door. Flash saw the revolver lying almost at his finger tips. He grabbed it and, swinging about, jammed it into the chest of the man who had attacked him, pinning him to the floor. From across the room another gun belched flame, and there was answering fire from the doorway. Then the two men who were free made a concerted dash for the stairs. The lights went out. Flash heard two more shots, a grunt of pain, running feet on the stairway, and finally the slamming of an outside door. In a moment the light came on again. A policeman staggered into the room. His right wrist was hanging limp, but with his other hand he flipped a pair of steel bracelets from his pocket and snapped them on the wrists of the man Flash guarded. “The others got away?” the photographer gasped. “Yeah, but I winged one of them. Who are you, kid?” “Evans, a photographer for the Ledger.” “I came near letting you have it when you reached for that gun,” said the policeman. “Now who is this hombre?” Tersely Flash told all that had happened, identifying the prisoner as Judd Slater, the same man who was thought to have set the Sam Davis fire. “We may be able to pick up those other two a little later,” the policeman commented. “We don’t want tough shot here to get lonesome. He might miss his little playmates.” He jerked the prisoner’s arm roughly and half spun him around. “You won’t be so hard after we’ve worked on you awhile at headquarters. We’ve softened up tougher cookies than you.” Flash went into the adjoining room and detached the electric irons. He then started away, being anxious to learn if the two escaping men had gained possession of his camera and exposed film. “Where are you going, son?” the officer demanded. Flash explained briefly about the picture he had taken. “All right,” nodded the policeman. “We can use that picture. Go ahead and get it.” Flash had reached the door when the officer called after him: “Say, can you call up headquarters for me while I watch this fellow? My wounded arm is quite stiff.” “What shall I say?” “Tell them to send the wagon. Give them a description of those two men who got away if you can. And move fast!” Hurrying to the street, Flash cast a quick glance about the alley. No one was in sight. He groped for a minute beneath the shattered window. Failing to find the camera, he was fearful that the two men had taken it. Wasting no more time, he ran across the street to a cigar store and there telephoned the nearest police station. Tersely he made his report. The desk sergeant assured him the wagon would reach the warehouse within five minutes, while the district would be bottles up in an attempt to capture the wounded man and his companion. Returning to the warehouse, Flash resumed his search for the missing camera although he had scant hope of finding it. He struck a match. By its flare he saw the battered case lying against a wall on the opposite side of the alley. It surprised him that he had been able to hurl it so far. He snatched up the camera. The film holder was still there, and seemingly in good condition. “Boy! I hope I’ve got something!” he purred to himself. Tucking the camera under his arm, he hastened back to the basement. “I phoned headquarters,” he told the policeman. “The wagon will be here in a minute or two.” “Good! I see you found your camera.” “It doesn’t look to be very much damaged. And the plate holder is okay!” “That’s fine,” said the policeman. “If you snapped those two missing fellows we ought to run them in without much trouble. You ride along to headquarters with me.” “But I took the picture for my newspaper,” Flash protested. “After all, I’m working for the Ledger, not the city.” “So what?” “This is a big story. I want to get my film to the paper right away. It will mean a lot to me, officer.” “But not half as much as it will to the law, son. You’ll have to come along.” Flash was taken back by this development. His film might be tied up for hours or even days by the police. Yes, there would be a big story in the Ledger about the arson plot, but it looked very much as if it would not be illustrated by any art from Flash Evans’ camera. Then he thought of a plan. “Listen,” he pleaded, “why not let me take the film to the Ledger office? I’ll have the picture developed and printed before they even know I’ve taken one at headquarters. I’ll run off some extra prints and you can send a man to pick them up. That way, we both win.” The officer grinned good-naturedly. “Maybe I shouldn’t do it,” he said, “but I will. You run along and I’ll have a man over there in thirty minutes.” No taxi cab was in sight as Flash reached the street. He ran three blocks and finally hailed one. “Drop me off at the rear entrance of the Ledger,” he ordered the driver. He leaped out as the cab presently stopped. Tossing a handful of change into the driver’s hand, he ran into the building. In the doorway he collided full tilt with Old Herm. “Hi, young man, where’s the fire?” “Big story!” Flash returned as he pressed the elevator button. “I have a corking picture! If only it turns out—and I think it will! Say, has that fellow gone to sleep?” Unwilling to wait for the cage to descend, he took the stairs two at a time. Pausing in the news room only long enough to tell the night editor what he had, Flash went on down the corridor to the photography department. He knew “I hope the film is okay,” he thought uneasily. “A lot depends on it.” Into Flash’s mind came a dread which he could not have expressed in words. It was exactly as if he had received an intuitive warning. He had lost several big pictures, seemingly through no fault of his own. Something might happen this time. “I’ll not take any chances,” he told himself. “Until my picture is out of the darkroom and actually in the hands of the editor, I’ll stay with it! There will be no slip-up.” The photographic department was dark and deserted. Flash did not bother to turn on the lights. Entering the darkroom, he closed the door. Unwilling to take any chance by using old developer or hypo, he mixed fresh chemicals before switching on the green light and removing his precious film from the holder. Carefully, to avoid the slightest scratch, he lowered it into the tank and kept the water moving. In an agony of hope and suspense he watched as a faint image began to appear on the negative. He had something, but would it turn out to be only a blur? “Coming up clear and fast!” he exulted, a moment later. “It’s going to be a beaut!” The faces of the three men all had been turned squarely toward the camera. And the focus was perfect. Flash watched the film closely, removing it from the developer at exactly the right instant. He saw it through the hypo tank, and gave it a longer washing than usual. “A perfect negative!” he congratulated himself in a glow of pride. “Not a streak or a scratch! Won’t even need to touch it up.” While the film was drying Flash developed the picture he had taken in the restaurant. For purposes of identification it was worthless, but he did not need it now. His picture taken in the basement of the Fenmore warehouse should be sufficient to tag the three men. As an afterthought, Flash decided to develop the negatives of the Tower building. They turned out surprisingly well. “This seems to be my big night,” he chuckled. Nevertheless, the fine shots, which an hour before would have thrilled him, now brought only a mild feeling of pleasure. From an artistic standpoint the pictures could not be improved, but they lacked news value. The arson shot was the one which would ring the bell with Riley and Dan Dewey. And it might bring about the capture of the wanted men. Behind Flash a latch clicked ever so softly. Deeply engrossed in his work, the young photographer failed to hear the sound. Nor did he notice that the door had opened a tiny crack, for the photographic department was as dark as the room in which he stood. Oblivious of danger, he bent over the tanks, shifting his film to the water. His head throbbed from the cut he had received. But until this moment he scarcely had been aware of any discomfort. Now that his work was finished, he thought he would bathe the wound and clean himself up a bit. Behind him, a board creaked. Every muscle taut, Flash whirled to see a dark figure looming in the doorway. “Who is it?” he demanded sharply. “That you, Wells?” There was no answer, but the man lunged at him. Flash threw up his hands to ward off the blow. He acted an instant too late. A heavy, blunt object crashed down on his head. With a low moan of pain he sagged to the floor and knew no more. |
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