  The night was one long to be remembered. In the police car, Flash and Fred Orris rode to the McCormand home on Aldingham Drive. There they learned from a maid that the man they sought was attending a late business conference at his downtown office. Back-tracking, the police car presently drew up before a white stone building not far from the Brandale Ledger. Nearly all of the windows were dark, but lights glowed in one of the offices on the fourth floor. The building directory provided information that McCormand occupied Room 407. From the elevator man, police learned that the lawyer had entered the building shortly after nine o’clock and had not been seen leaving. Detective Burnett was assigned to post himself on the fire escape directly opposite Room 407, and the two photographers chose to accompany him. Gaining access to it from the third floor, they moved noiselessly to the window. Inside they could see McCormand at his desk, talking with two other men. One of them Flash instantly recognized as the same person who had been involved in the Fenmore warehouse affair. A loud knock came on the office door. McCormand sprang to his feet. “Who’s there?” he called sharply. “Open up or we’ll break down the door!” came the order. McCormand jerked his head toward the window. His two companions made a dive for the fire escape, stepping directly into the arms of the waiting detective. Flash and Orris took pictures simultaneously. The detective backed his prisoners into the office again, keeping them covered with his revolver. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” demanded McCormand wrathfully. “I demand an explanation.” “You’ll get it,” said Burnett coolly. Flash unlocked the door and let the other detective into the room. Then he deftly inserted another holder in his camera, and cocked the lever of the shutter. As Detective Kimball told McCormand he was under arrest, he pulled the slide and shot his next picture. Protesting angrily, the lawyer and his companions were hustled downstairs to the waiting police car. Flash and Orris both obtained action shots of McCormand trying to free himself from the grasp of two detectives. “Not bad,” chuckled Orris as they stood watching the car drive away. “We haven’t any time to waste,” said Flash abruptly. “If we move fast we still have a chance to make that last edition.” The words spurred Orris to action. Running nearly all of the distance to the Ledger building, they related their story of the capture in a few terse sentences. “We’ll hold the edition ten minutes,” Dan Dewey decided. “Get busy!” Flash and Orris rushed their pictures through in record time, making prints from wet negatives. Not until each picture had been captioned and sent to the photo-engraving department did they allow themselves a moment to relax. “What a night!” said Flash, sinking into a chair. “Wonder what became of Old Herm?” Orris shrugged in his characteristic way. “Who cares? He won’t make you any more trouble. I imagine he’ll never show up at the Ledger again after what happened. But if he should be dumb enough to try to keep his job, I’ll drop a hint in the editor’s ear.” “We’ve probably seen the last of Old Herm,” Flash agreed. “From now on things should roll a lot smoother for me.” There was an awkward pause. Orris avoided looking directly at Flash as he said: “I owe you an apology. The truth is, I didn’t like you very well when you first started work here. I thought you were a cocky kid who needed to be put in his place.” “Guess you weren’t far wrong at that.” “Yes, I was,” Orris denied. “You had the stuff even if it took me a long while to recognize it. When you had so much trouble with your pictures, streaking and losing them, I figured you were inexperienced.” “I did slip up on the fight pictures, Fred. The other mistakes were the result of Old Herm’s work.” “You have what it takes,” Orris resumed. “After being out with you tonight I know your pictures aren’t a matter of accident. You’re a good photographer.” “Thanks,” returned Flash. Coming from Orris, the praise was indeed high. He added: “But I still have plenty to learn.” He bore the head photographer no grudge. From now on he would understand him much better. Orris never would be as friendly or sociable as Joe Wells and the other photographers, but he knew his work. One could learn a great deal from him. Flash felt worn out from the night’s work. However, before starting home, he printed up the one good Tower picture and dropped it on the editor’s desk, without caring whether or not it ever was used. As he picked up his hat to leave the office, Orris asked in surprise: “Aren’t you waiting for the paper to come out? It shouldn’t be more than a minute or two now.” “No, I’m too tired,” Flash yawned. “I’m going home and hit the hay.” “You might get a by-line,” Orris hinted. “And you know what that means around here?” “No, what?” “Usually a raise.” “I could do with one,” grinned Flash. “Well, I think I’ll bear the suspense until morning.” “I’m sticking around for a few minutes longer,” Orris replied. “See you tomorrow.” Flash left the building and, after a wait of ten minutes at the corner, caught his bus home. Wearily he sagged into the first empty seat. It had been a big night, but a satisfying one. Due to his work and the recovery of the warehouse picture, the arson ring would be entirely cleaned up. He might be called to testify against McCormand, but the man’s conviction was practically assured. “And the darkroom mystery is solved, too,” he chuckled. “From now on I’ll have clear sailing.” The bus presently stopped at a corner. A well-dressed man of middle age came into the car, settling himself in the vacant seat beside the young photographer. He opened his paper to read. Turning his head slightly, Flash saw that the man had a copy of the Ledger, the last edition which news-boys were just starting to cry. Bold headlines told of McCormand’s arrest, and a picture had been spread over four columns. Flash bent nearer. The picture was the one he had taken of McCormand and the two other men at Fenmore’s warehouse. Beneath it was a tiny caption, “by staff photographer, Jimmy Evans.” “Well, I see they’ve captured the big-shot behind the arson ring,” remarked the passenger conversationally. “Turns out to be H. J. McCormand!” Flash smiled and nodded. “Interesting picture, too,” the man went on. “These newspaper photographers always seem to be on the wrong spot at the right time. But this picture takes the prize. I wonder how he ever got it?” “If you ask me,” said Flash with a sheepish grin, “the fellow was a fool for luck. He must have been born with a silver horseshoe around his neck!” THE END Endpapers
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