  Flash opened his eyes to the glare of an unshaded electric light. Someone was sponging his head with a damp cloth. Struggling to a sitting posture, he brushed the back of his hand against his throbbing head. “My pictures!” “Take it easy,” cautioned a quiet voice. The whirling room righted itself before his eyes, and Flash saw Joe Wells kneeling on the floor beside him. He was still in the darkroom but the overhead light had been turned on. “What hit me?” he mumbled. “It wasn’t you, Joe?” “Hardly. I came in here a minute ago and found you out cold. Looks to me as if you’ve been slugged with a blackjack!” Aided by the photographer, Flash struggled unsteadily to his feet. “That’s a nasty wound on your forehead,” Wells said anxiously. “What happened?” “Someone attacked me in the dark,” Flash returned briefly. “But the cut came from another fight.” Staggering to the film drier, he took one glance and groaned. “I knew it! They’re gone!” “Pictures you were developing?” Flash felt actually sick. He sagged into a chair, staring at the wall. “Snap out of it, kid,” Joe advised kindly. “Tell me what it’s all about and maybe I can help you.” Flash shook his head. “Thanks, Joe, but no one ever will be able to get that picture back. The fellow who slugged me must have come here with the deliberate purpose of stealing it!” “What picture are you talking about?” Flash related in a halting voice everything which had occurred that evening. The older photographer listened with growing astonishment. “You’re both the luckiest and unluckiest chap I ever met!” he exclaimed. “To think of losing a picture like that!” “It wasn’t bad luck,” Flash said shortly. “What do you call it?” “Someone has been laying for me ever since I started work at the Ledger!” “A number of queer things have happened to your pictures,” Wells replied mildly. “It may have been accidental—” “And do you call this an accident tonight?” Flash demanded. “No, I’m satisfied you didn’t slug yourself,” Wells responded, unruffled. “But I fail to see that the theft of your picture has anything to do with those other mishaps.” “I figured something like this might happen, Joe. I was especially cautious. Mixed fresh chemicals. Stayed with my pictures every minute. What I didn’t expect was a personal attack!” “You think someone who works in the building did the trick?” “Yes, I do!” “Maybe you’re right,” Wells said, “but I doubt it. How many persons knew you had the picture?” “Not many. Old Herm. And I spread the news in the other room.” “How about those two members of the arson gang who made their get-away? They knew you had the picture?” “Naturally. They nearly did me in for taking it! If the sound of gunfire hadn’t brought a policeman, they probably would have finished me.” “All right, those birds knew you had the picture. And they reasoned that if the police ever saw it, their capture would be certain. So they waylaid you here—” “Hold on,” interrupted Flash, “they didn’t know I was a newspaper photographer or that I worked at the Ledger.” “Couldn’t you have been followed here?” “Yes,” Flash admitted reluctantly, “but I doubt if I was. Those fellows knew the police would be on their trail in a very short while. They were hard pressed to get away.” “You didn’t see the man who struck you, I suppose?” “Only an indistinct outline. Funny thing, for a minute I thought it was you.” Wells glanced hard at Flash. “That doesn’t sound very funny to me,” he said. “So you think I did it?” “No, of course not,” Flash denied, smiling. “But the man did seem about your height. Wonder how long I was knocked out?” Joe Wells looked at his watch. “It’s eleven forty-five now.” “Then I couldn’t have been unconscious very many minutes before you reached me. Joe, you didn’t see anyone around here, did you?” Wells hesitated and then answered: “Only members of the regular staff.” Flash rose to his feet and went over to examine the water tank. He swirled his hand deep into it without finding a film rack. “My Tower pictures are gone, too,” he announced. “Not that I care about them. Whoever the fellow was, he made a clean sweep of everything. And look at that!” Flash pointed to a tiny puddle of water beneath the tank which obviously had been made when the films were removed. A line of drops led through the doorway of the darkroom to the outside hall. The two photographers followed the trail a few steps toward the back stairway, and then lost it. “Let’s ask Old Herm and the elevator man if they’ve seen anyone leaving the building,” Wells proposed. “All right,” Flash agreed. “But it won’t do any good.” The passenger elevator did not operate after eleven o’clock. They located the man who handled the freight cage. He told them he had seen no strangers in the building during the past hour. “Who has come down in the last ten minutes?” Flash inquired. “No one—that is, not in the elevator. I saw a photographer take the stairway. He rung for me and then didn’t wait.” “A photographer!” Flash exclaimed. “Who do you mean?” “I don’t know his last name. I’ve heard him called Fred.” “Fred Orris!” Flash completed, and his voice was hard. “Now don’t jump to conclusions,” Wells broke in quickly. “I was talking to Orris myself as I came into the building.” “You didn’t tell me.” “No. I know how you feel about him, but you’re wrong this time.” Flash turned and entered the elevator. “Third floor,” he said briefly. Wells followed him into the cage. “Where’s Herm?” he asked the elevator man. “Haven’t seen him,” was the reply. “He’s probably around somewhere punchin’ bells. I wish I had a soft job like that.” “Let’s see if we can find Old Herm,” Wells suggested, turning to Flash. “No use. I think I’ll get my hat and go home.” Wells did not speak until the two had been let off at the third floor. “I know what you’re thinking, Flash,” he said. “But you have Orris all wrong. He’s surly, and there’s no denying he’s been unpleasant to you, but he’s not the type to hit a man with a blackjack or steal films!” “Did I accuse him?” countered Flash. “No, not in words.” “Let’s skip it, then. The pictures are gone, and that’s all that counts. I’ll have some fancy explaining to do, especially to the police.” Flash was irritated because his friend deliberately had withheld information from him. But he felt duly grateful when Wells went with him to the night editor, supporting his story as to what had happened in the darkroom. The ordeal, while embarrassing, was not as hard a one as he had anticipated. Although disappointment over the loss of the picture was keen, Wells’ theory that Flash had been attacked by a member of the arson ring, received credence. And he could not be blamed for having fallen down upon an assignment since the work had been extra. It was not so easy to explain to the police officer who came later for the promised picture. Flash was given to understand that he had thwarted justice, and that the policeman who had permitted him to keep the film very likely would be reprimanded. He was asked a number of sharp questions. At first, the officer seemed rather suspicious, and after that, plainly disgusted. “Your picture would have been of great value to us,” he told Flash curtly. “Both of the men escaped.” “How about the man you did capture? Won’t he talk?” “He hasn’t yet.” “There was a building watchman who saw one of the men—” “Andy Simpson,” the officer supplied. “We haven’t been able to locate him yet. What can you tell me about those two fellows?” “Not very much,” Flash confessed. “I only gained a general impression. The film was a dandy, though. If I had that—” “Would you be able to identify either of the men from another picture?” the officer cut in. “I doubt it,” Flash admitted lamely. “I never was very good at noticing details.” He described the men as best he could and then the policeman said abruptly: “Let’s have a look at the darkroom where you were attacked.” Flash opened the door and switched on the lights. The policeman glanced about with the unhurried gaze of one who neglected no details, and photographed it indelibly in his mind. “Anyone been in here since you were struck?” he questioned. “Joe Wells and the night editor. Possibly a few of the reporters.” The officer stooped and picked up an object lying on the floor. It was a door key. “Yours?” he asked, showing it to Flash. “Why, no!” “But you recognize it?” “Well, it looks like one of the keys from Old Herm’s ring.” “Old Herm?” “The night watchman.” “Comes in here often, does he?” “Once in awhile, I suppose.” “Let’s have a talk with the fellow,” the officer said. “What can you tell me about him?” “He’s rather queer, but harmless,” answered Flash. “It couldn’t have been Old Herm who struck me.” Even as he spoke, the thought assailed him that actually he knew almost nothing about the watchman. “Maybe not,” commented the policeman dryly, “but in this business you learn not to have any set ideas about the guilty fellow. Give the evidence a chance to speak for itself!” |
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