  Flash awoke the next morning to find himself clawing the bed clothing and fighting for breath. He had been dreaming that he was locked in a death struggle with a masked man who had attacked him in a dark alley. “Wow! What a nightmare!” he gasped. “Worse than the real thing!” He became aware that someone was rapping on the bedroom door. “Wake up, Jimmy!” his mother called. “It’s almost seven!” His feet struck the floor. “Be right up,” he answered. “I didn’t hear the alarm go off.” Dressing hurriedly, he snatched a cup of coffee, and raced out the front door just as his bus came into view. He barely reached it, swinging aboard a moment before the door slammed shut. Flash dropped a dime into the coin box and sagged into an empty seat beside an elderly white-haired gentleman with a cane. “You catch a bus the same way your father always did,” chuckled his companion. “He never was a man to waste any time waiting, either.” Startled, Flash glanced quickly at the elderly man. He was certain he had never seen him anywhere before. “You knew my father?” he inquired in astonishment. “Jimmy Evans, aren’t you?” “Yes, I am.” “Thought so,” the man nodded. “Yes, I knew your father years ago when we worked together on the Post. You’re the spittin’ image of him, and you have the same mannerisms. When you swung on that bus, I said to myself, ‘that spry young fellow is Evans’ son.’ My name is Thomas Brown.” “I’m glad to meet you, sir,” Flash responded heartily. “I guess you know my father died several years ago.” “Yes, I saw a notice in the paper.” The man nodded sadly. “It hit me hard when I heard about it. I thought a lot of your father. Working on a paper yourself?” “The Ledger. But I don’t know how long I’ll last,” Flash admitted with a grin. “I’m new there and I’ve run into a little trouble.” “There’s always plenty of it waiting to pounce on a man these days,” Mr. Brown said philosophically. “Well, don’t let it get you down.” “I don’t aim to run up the white flag yet. I’m in for the duration of the war.” “That’s the spirit,” the old man approved. “I remember once when I thought I was licked. Your father pulled me out of that jam, and I’ve always been grateful.” “Tell me about it, sir,” urged Flash. “It’s not much of a story. I worked in the cashier’s office at the Post. From time to time we kept missing small amounts of money. The blame fell on me and I was about to be discharged. “But your father didn’t agree with the other higher-ups that I was the guilty person. He took it upon himself to do a little investigating of his own.” “With the result that you were cleared?” Flash questioned. “Yes, it turned out that a new employee, a young fellow named Ronne, had been taking the money. He was real clever at it, but not smart enough to fool your father.” “Did you say Ronne?” Flash asked in a startled voice. “Yes, his name was Dick Ronne. He would be a middle-aged man by this time. Never did hear what became of him after he was discharged.” The old man pressed a signal bell, and Flash arose to let him out of the seat. “Well, glad to have met you,” Mr. Brown murmured. “Don’t let that trouble, whatever it is, get the best of you. Your father would have licked it!” “Thank you, sir,” smiled Flash. “You’ve given me something to think about.” And it was true, although not exactly in the way that Mr. Brown understood. The conversation had suggested to the young photographer a most startling possibility. Old Herm’s last name was Ronne, and Ronne by no means was a common name. Flash recalled that Joe Wells had mentioned something about the watchman having had a son who was no longer living. Could it be that Dick Ronne, the person his father had caused to be discharged years before, was Old Herm’s son? “First chance I get I’m going to ask Joe more about it,” he told himself. So deeply was Flash absorbed in his thoughts that the bus went past his stop before he was aware of it. Jumping off at the next corner he walked hurriedly back to the Ledger building. He was five minutes late for work. Fred Orris, hat pushed back on his head, was repairing the bellows of a camera as Flash entered the photography department. He made no direct comment upon the arson story or what had occurred in the darkroom the previous night. Instead he said sharply: “You’re fifteen minutes late, Evans.” “Five,” corrected Flash. “This clock is fast.” “Get over to the courthouse and shoot some pictures of the Fulton murder trial. And bring them back, too. Remember, we want pictures, not adventure stories!” A glint of anger flamed in Flash’s eyes. He went over to the locked case for his camera and equipment, deliberately taking his time. “Orris,” he said coolly, “the elevator man tells me you were in the building last night between eleven and eleven-thirty.” “So what?” “Maybe you didn’t hear what happened to me in the darkroom last night.” “Listen,” Orris flared, “are you trying to intimate that I had anything to do with it?” “I’m just checking up. Thought you might have noticed someone hanging around the halls.” “Well, I didn’t,” the photographer answered shortly. “What’s more, I was here on legitimate business. I came back to leave a memorandum on Dan Dewey’s desk.” Flash made no answer. He slipped the camera strap over his shoulder and went out the door. All morning he was kept busy at the courthouse, shooting pictures of witnesses, prosecutor, judge, jury and defense attorneys. He had no time to think of his own problem, for he was compelled to be constantly alert lest he miss an opportunity to photograph an unusual facial expression. The break he awaited came when the defendant lost control of himself for a moment and became consumed with rage. Some of his pictures Flash had sent back to the Ledger by messenger. He carried the remaining holders with him, and upon developing them, took the precaution of locking himself into the darkroom. His work completed without mishap, he dropped across the street for a belated lunch. On the stool next to him sat a Ledger reporter who covered the police and fire departments. “Anything new on the arson case?” Flash inquired. The reporter shook his head. “That fellow Slater refuses to talk. And if the police have found any evidence against the so-called North Brandale Insurance Company they’re not giving it out. Too bad that picture you took last night was stolen. They say it might have cleared up the case.” Flash nodded gloomily. “It was a dandy picture. And one of the men was supposed to be the brains of the outfit. ‘H. J.’ they called him.” “Police haven’t any idea who broke into the darkroom and cracked you?” “No. They thought it must have been an inside job. They didn’t even take fingerprints because so many persons had smeared around the place.” “Too bad,” the reporter remarked again, and devoted himself to his bowl of chile. Flash had not forgotten his talk with old Mr. Brown. At the first opportunity upon his return to the office he sought Joe Wells and quietly questioned him about Old Herm. “I’ve told you all I know,” the photographer insisted. “Why this sudden interest? You surely don’t think poor Old Herm sneaked in here last night and blackjacked you?” “I haven’t any definite theory,” Flash replied evasively. “Well, don’t get ideas about Old Herm. He’s simple minded, but hardly a criminal. Why, the fellow has a crippled leg—” “Just the same, he could have done it. He’s strong as an ox.” “You’re almost as goofy as Old Herm,” Wells scoffed. “First you think Orris did it, and next you blame the watchman. Maybe it was Riley!” “I’m not accusing anyone,” Flash defended himself. “All I’m doing is trying to check every angle and keep an open mind.” “Doesn’t sound very open to me. I’ll grant you some mighty queer things have been going on here, though. I’m getting the creeps myself when I close myself into the darkroom.” “The next time our mysterious visitor pays a call he may not be so gentle in his methods,” replied Flash. “We ought to get him before he gets us!” “Why not make Colt 45’s standard equipment for all Ledger photographers,” Wells said jokingly. “We could have target practice out in the auto lot.” “You wouldn’t be laughing so hard if you had been the one to get cracked,” Flash retorted. “Tell me something. What was the name of Old Herm’s son?” “Never heard it. Why don’t you ask him?” “That’s an idea,” said Flash. “Maybe I will.” Since the watchman did not come on duty until after the day workers had left the building, it meant that to talk with the old fellow he must make a special trip back to the Ledger. Flash decided it might be well worth his trouble. Accordingly, he remained downtown that evening. After attending a movie he returned to the nearly deserted building. Locating Old Herm on the third floor, Flash pretended to run into him by accident. “Workin’ late again?” the watchman inquired, pausing in surprise. “No, just dropped in for a minute. I see they keep you busy.” “I’m at it without a let-up,” the old man sighed. “Since the darkroom was busted into, the building superintendent clamped down on me hard—said I wasn’t payin’ attention to my duties. ‘You jest follow me around for a night,’ I says to him.” Herm rambled on for several minutes, but presently Flash deftly switched the subject. After talking about the past he casually asked the old fellow the name of his son. “It was Richard,” Herm answered and a different expression came over his wrinkled face. “My boy died when he was only twenty. Four years older than you be. They crucified him! They killed him!” “Whom do you mean?” Flash questioned in a puzzled voice. But old Herm did not answer. Tears rolled down his withered cheeks. Turning his back upon Flash, he hobbled painfully away. |
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