  Fred Orris stooped to pick up the broken pieces of glass from the floor. Those who stood in a circle about the watchman were staring at him with a new expression. “Herm, I’m afraid breaking the plate won’t get you out of this,” the head photographer said coolly. “Your guilt is fairly well established in the minds of every person in this room.” “Why did you do it, Herm?” asked Flash. “I didn’t! It ain’t fair to try to make me lose my job.” “You’ll be lucky if you don’t spend your declining days in jail,” Orris said sharply. “It’s a serious business, tampering with pictures, not to mention striking a man with a blackjack.” “Herm,” spoke Flash persuasively, “I’m not particularly interested in seeing you turned over to the police. Maybe if you tell us what you did with my fire picture we’ll let you go? Did you destroy it?” “I don’t know anything about your picture,” the watchman insisted sullenly. “I already proved to the police I wasn’t in this here part of the building at the time it was stole!” “You were punching the time clock on the sixth floor?” recalled Flash. “That’s right. I wouldn’t have had time to get down here even if I had been a-mind to do such a thing!” “Suppose we see what Jeff has to say about it?” Old Herm cringed back against the wall, and every trace of bravado left him. “Has Jeff been talkin’ to you?” he faltered. “You’ve been paying him money to ring the different bells for you,” Flash accused. “It came in very convenient when you wanted to run down to your room for an hour off. And it provided you with a perfect alibi the night my fire picture was stolen.” “Wait until I lay hands on that boy,” Old Herm muttered. “The no-good sneak! Carryin’ tales behind my back!” “Herm, what did you do with the film?” “I ain’t a-sayin’ nothing from now on.” “I’ll call the wagon,” said Fred Orris impatiently. As the head photographer started for a desk telephone, the old man collapsed into a chair. “Don’t call the police,” he pleaded. “I’ll tell you everything. Sure, I did it, and I ain’t sorry, either!” “Why did you do it, Herm?” “I’ll tell you,” the old man answered, his eyes glazed with hatred. “Your father was the cause of killin’ my boy.” “Your son Dick was discharged from the Post for taking funds which did not belong to him,” Flash corrected. “My father brought the matter to the attention of the newspaper owners in order to save an innocent man. But from what I can learn he did not even send your son to jail.” “He done worse. Dick couldn’t get a job. He fell in with bad company. One night he was ridin’ with some boys who aimed to rob a filling station. There was some shootin’ and Dick was hit in the right lung. They took him to the hospital. I hired the best doctors, but they couldn’t do anything for him. I vowed then I’d get even with the man who was the cause of Dick’s death. I never did have my chance until you came here to work.” Old Herm buried his head in his arms, rocking back and forth. Flash glanced at the silent group of men in the room. Not a person there but felt sorry for the old fellow whose grief had so distorted his mind. “Herm, we’re not going to send you to jail,” he said after a moment. “But we do want you to tell us what you did with the fire picture.” “You mean the one I took off the editor’s desk?” “No, it doesn’t matter about that. I mean the films you took the night I was struck over the head.” “Several of them, wasn’t there?” the old man asked slowly. “Yes, but the picture we want was taken at the Fenmore warehouse. If the police had it they might be able to capture the men who have been setting fires here in Brandale. Did you destroy the films, Herm?” “No, I hid ’em.” “Where?” Flash and Fred Orris asked the question together. “I’ll show you.” The old man arose and with a curious group following him, limped to the elevator, and thence to the composing room. He went directly to the supply cupboard. “I might have guessed where the films were hidden,” Flash murmured. Instead of opening the case, Old Herm stooped and ran his hand into the narrow crack behind it. “Here, let me do that,” offered Flash quickly. “You might scratch the films.” With Orris’ help he moved the heavy supply case. On the floor against the wall lay several negatives. Flash snatched them up. Two of the Tower pictures had been ruined by exposure to light too soon after developing. The warehouse shot was in good condition, with only one small scratch which could be retouched. “Say, this may crack the arson case wide open!” Orris exclaimed, excitement creeping into his voice. “You call the police while I make up some 8 × 10 glossies! If we move fast we may be able to catch the last edition!” Old Herm was forgotten. Amazed at the change which had come over the head photographer, Flash rushed for a telephone. Tersely he informed the desk sergeant at police headquarters that the long missing picture had been located. “We’ll have a man right over there,” he was promised. Flash hastened back to the photography department. The door of the darkroom was closed, but in a moment it opened, and Fred Orris stepped out. He offered a print for the younger photographer to see. “It’s a perfect picture,” he praised. “Look how those faces stand out. Ever see those fellows before, Flash?” “Only at the time I snapped the picture.” “This one on the left looks mighty familiar to me, but I can’t seem to place him.” “That’s the man spoken of by the others as ‘H. J.’ He’s supposed to be the brains of the arson ring.” “I know I’ve seen his picture before,” Orris repeated. “But where?” As he was staring at the print, two men strode into the department. Flash recognized them as plainclothesmen from headquarters, Burnett and Kimball. “Let’s have a look at that picture,” said Burnett. Orris turned it over to him. The detective studied the print a moment, obviously startled. He indicated the man who had stood nearest the camera. “That’s Harry J. McCormand!” he exclaimed. “McCormand!” echoed Orris. “I was trying to think of him. But McCormand is one of Brandale’s most prominent lawyers!” “Prominent, yes,” agreed the detective dryly. “He’s been in some shady business in his time. No one ever could pin anything on him.” “You aiming to run this picture in the next edition?” inquired the other detective. “That’s up to the night editor, Dewey. He’ll probably slap it on page one, because it’s hot stuff!” “If the picture runs, McCormand may have a tip-off before we can bring him in. We’ll want it held up until we make our arrest.” “How long will that take?” Flash interposed. “Can’t tell. We may be able to round him up tonight. Again it may take days.” “Better talk with Dewey,” advised Orris. He and Flash led the two detectives to the desk of the night editor. When the situation was fully explained to him, Dan Dewey made his decision instantly. “We’ll hold out the picture providing you give our paper an exclusive on the story when it finally breaks.” “Fair enough,” agreed Burnett. “We’ll take a few men and go out to McCormand’s house right away. Send your photographers along if you like.” “Evans, you and Orris!” said Dewey. Then he hesitated, being fully aware of the antagonism which existed between the two men. He amended: “Or maybe I can locate Ralston—” “I’ll take Orris if it’s all the same to you,” spoke Flash. Dan Dewey nodded in relief. “Good!” he approved. “McCormand’s arrest will shock the town. Bring back some real pictures or I’ll fire you both!” Orris’ lips curled into a faint suggestion of a smile. “Come on, Flash,” he said. “Let’s go!” |
|
