  The minutes passed slowly. Flash had begun to think that his scheme had failed when he heard a step outside the door. Instantly he became alert. Fred Orris entered the room. He crossed to his desk and, snapping on a small lamp, rummaged in a drawer for some object which he had left there. He sat for several minutes smoking a cigarette. Finally he switched off the light, and crossed toward the darkroom. Flash’s pulse quickened as he saw the man pause. Orris seemed to debate a moment, then with a shrug, he turned and walked out of the department. “Now why did he hesitate?” thought Flash. “Perhaps he intended to try something and lost his nerve! It looks as if my scheme wasn’t so clever after all.” Deciding to carry out the test for a few minutes longer, he remained in hiding. Scarcely had Orris’ footsteps died away when another sound reached his ears. Some other person was approaching from the opposite direction! Softly, an inch at a time, the hall door swung open. Peering from behind the wirephoto cabinet, Flash could distinguish only the shadowy outline of a man. The intruder stood motionless for a moment before gliding noiselessly toward the door of the darkroom. There he paused, and with his ear pressed to the panel, listened. “Anyone inside?” he asked in a low tone. Flash started, for he recognized the voice. His first impulse was to dart from his hiding place and accost the man, but he forced himself to wait. Proof he must have. The man repeated his question. When there was no reply, he quietly pushed open the door. Flash became tense with anxiety. Suppose the fellow failed to walk against the cord? What if the flash bulb did not go off? Why was it taking so long? Then suddenly he saw the flare of light and heard a muttered exclamation of fear. The door of the darkroom swung open and a man bolted out. But Flash was ready for him. “Oh, no, you don’t!” he shouted. “I’ve got you this time!” He leaped and they crashed to the floor together. Flash was strong and muscular for his age, but his opponent had arms of steel. However, he was gaining the upperhand when the room lights suddenly went on. Someone grasped him roughly by the collar and jerked him to his feet. Whirling around, he saw that the newcomer was Fred Orris, who evidently had returned upon hearing the commotion. “Say, what’s the big idea?” the head photographer demanded. “Beating up an old man!” Flash glanced down at the whimpering figure on the floor. Poor old Herm! But he steeled himself against a feeling of pity. The watchman was deserving of no sympathy or consideration. “Herm is the one who stole my arson picture!” Flash accused. “He’s been trying to make trouble for me from the day I started work here, adding chemicals to the hypo tank and doing dirty little tricks to ruin my work!” “It’s a lie!” muttered Herm, offering his gnarled hand for Fred Orris to help him to his feet. “I been workin’ here over ten years and have a long record of faithful service. He can’t hang nothin’ on me!” “What were you doing in the darkroom?” Flash demanded. “I went in there to see if you had left the water runnin’.” “That excuse is getting rather threadbare, Herm.” “You’re one of the worst offenders of the lot,” the watchman accused, glaring at Flash. “I don’t believe I ever left a tap running in my life. But we’ll not argue that point. You say you went in the darkroom to turn off the water?” “I not only say it! I did!” “And you didn’t tamper with anything? The film drying machine, for instance?” “I wasn’t even in that part of the room.” “That’s exactly what I wanted to know,” said Flash with grim satisfaction. “We’ll see!” Old Herm had brushed off his clothes. He now edged toward the door, but Flash grasped his arm and pulled him back. “Oh, no, you don’t, Herm! You’ll stay right here. I may decide to turn you over to the police!” “Evans, I consider you’ve gone entirely too far,” Fred Orris interposed coldly. “You’ve made some very serious accusations. If you fail to prove them—” “Don’t worry, I’ll prove them. I just want to make certain Old Herm doesn’t do a disappearing act. And it might be a good idea to frisk him.” The watchman protested angrily as his pockets were searched. Triumphantly, Flash brought to light a blackjack. “There ain’t no crime in carryin’ that, I hope,” Old Herm defended himself. “I need a harmless weapon in case I’m attacked while makin’ my rounds.” “A blackjack isn’t exactly a harmless weapon,” Flash returned, raising his hand to rub the lump on his head. “What proof do you have that Herm was tampering with anything in the darkroom?” demanded Fred Orris. “Because I deliberately set a camera trap. That story about the riot was made up.” “Then you had no pictures?” “Not a one. I hung some old films on the drying machine as bait and focused my camera there. The flash went off, so I ought to have something on my plate.” “You can’t blame me,” Old Herm whimpered. “It was dark in there. I brushed against something and a flash went off. It was an accident.” “A camera doesn’t lie,” said Fred Orris quietly. “Develop your plate, Evans. I’ll keep Herm here until you’ve finished your work.” Flash shut himself up in the darkroom. With trembling hands he removed the plate from its holder and lowered it into the developer. Everything depended upon the picture. The sympathy of the entire office naturally would go toward Old Herm because of his age and service record. If the shot revealed nothing, the watchman’s story would be accepted in preference to his own. He must expect it. Carefully, Flash timed the plate. As he removed it from the developer one quick glance assured him that he had his picture! It was slightly blurred but Old Herm was clearly recognizable. And he had been snapped in the act of reaching for the film on the drying machine. “I have my proof!” Flash thought exultantly. “Old Herm can’t talk himself out of this!” He washed the plate and as soon as he dared, opened the door and carried it out into the adjoining room. Old Herm was still there, guarded by Fred Orris. Other newspapermen had gathered from the near-by offices, and had evidently been told the entire story. Flash fancied they gazed at him accusingly, as if to imply that he was unjust to falsely accuse an old man. “Get anything?” asked Orris. Flash offered the wet plate. “Here it is!” The head photographer studied the evidence a moment in silence. “This is proof enough for me,” he said. “Old Herm! I never would have believed it! But now that I think back, he came into the office the night your Elston fire pictures were streaked—” “Let me see that plate,” the watchman demanded. Orris turned toward him. With a quick swipe of his hand, Old Herm brushed the plate to the floor. It broke into a multitude of tiny pieces. “Now where is your proof?” the watchman chuckled in triumph. “You ain’t a goin’ to hang this mess on me! No, sir! I got an alibi.” |
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