“I’ll get there as quickly as I can!” Flash exclaimed.
Bewildered by the unexpected turn of events, he darted back upstairs and quickly dressed.
“Jimmy, you’re not leaving without a cup of coffee,” his mother protested as he raced down again.
“Can’t stop for anything,” he answered, pulling on his overcoat.
Hailing a cab, Flash paused at the Ledger building only long enough to pick up his camera equipment and then drove on to Dock 10. Hiring a launch, he motored out to the two vessels, took his pictures, and was back at the office in record time.
“Want me to help you develop those?” Fred Orris inquired, with a faint suggestion of a sneer.
“No, thanks,” Flash replied shortly.
Joe Wells, who was near, followed him into the darkroom and closed the door.
“Guess you heard what happened to my fire pictures,” Flash said in a low tone. “I can’t figure out what went wrong.”
“Neither can I,” answered Wells. “I fished those films out of the basket and looked at them. Never ran into anything just like it before. Now you go ahead and develop these films while I watch.”
With the photographer standing at his elbow, Flash followed exactly the same procedure which he had used the previous afternoon. The ship pictures came up quickly with good contrast.
“They’re all right,” said Wells with emphasis. “Orris can’t kick on those, or Riley, either.”
“My fire pictures were good, too. Something happened to them while they were in the water.”
“Who was here after you left?”
“Only Orris so far as I know. You don’t think he would play a dirty trick just to get me fired?”
“I hear Orris has a nephew he’s been trying to get into the department for over a year,” Wells remarked thoughtfully. “Still, I’m sure he wouldn’t do it. Orris may be a crab but he’s not a snake.”
Anxiously, Flash washed his films, watching for streaks or defects. From a photographic standpoint they were nearly perfect. With Wells hovering near, he dried the negatives and made his prints.
“Nothing wrong with your technique as far as I can see,” said the older photographer. “Those pictures are good enough to suit anyone.”
The prints were rushed to the news room. Flash waited to hear from Riley. When no word came he knew that his work was satisfactory.
Later in the morning he was sent with Wells to take pictures of a warehouse strike. Again, while not exactly covering himself with glory, his shots were equal to those of the more experienced photographer.
“I can’t get over the shock of still being on the payroll,” he confessed to his friend as they lunched together. “After what happened yesterday I was sure I would be fired.”
Wells gave him an amused glance. “Then Riley didn’t tell you?”
“He hasn’t said a word to me all day.”
“Flash, some folks are just naturally born with a rabbit’s foot,” Wells grinned. “You’re one of ’em. Know who that old man was you rescued yesterday?”
“I saw in the paper his name was John Gelette.”
“Which means nothing to you?”
“Can’t say it does.”
Wells bit into a doughnut. “To tell you the truth, I never heard of the old duffer myself until yesterday,” he admitted. “But it turns out he’s a first cousin to Cordell Burman. I trust you’ve heard of him?”
“The owner of the Ledger!”
“Exactly,” responded Wells dryly. “No one needs to teach you the secret of getting on, my lad. Your job is safe for awhile. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if you found a raise tucked into your next pay envelope.”
CHAPTER VIII
“HELLO, HERO”
Joe Wells’ words proved prophetic. When the pay checks were handed out Saturday night, Flash’s salary had been increased from twenty-five to thirty dollars. After the first thrill of surprise, the raise gave him no lasting pleasure. He knew he hadn’t actually earned the money.
Then, too, in some manner word circled the office by means of the “grapevine” system that he had been singled out for Cordell Burman’s favor. Fred Orris treated him with increasing austerity, seldom missing an opportunity to make cutting remarks. The other photographers, save Wells, remained aloof, no doubt feeling that they had been slighted. Flash could not really blame them.
He did his work efficiently, giving Orris and Riley no chance to criticize. The freighter pictures earned him a measure of respect, but in the days following he was given only routine assignments.
One morning he was waiting for the elevator when two reporters came down the hallway together.
“Anything new on the Elston fire, Bill?” asked one.
“Nothing you dare print,” shrugged his companion. “I was talking with the Fire Chief yesterday. I gathered that he thought the fire had been set, but I can’t get anything definite out of him. The arson squad refuses to discuss the matter.”
Flash digested this bit of information as he rode up to the third floor. Entering the news room, he became aware of a tense atmosphere of excitement. Riley saw him, and motioned him to the desk.
“Evans, I want you to get out to the airport. We have a special plane coming in at 10:15 with exclusive pictures of that big airliner crash in the Pennsylvania mountains. Rush them right back so we can get ’em on the wire!”
Flash nodded. The morning papers had carried a front page account of the airliner disaster which had shocked the nation, taking a toll of eleven prominent persons. No pictures had appeared, for the accident had occurred in an isolated region of the mountains. A correspondent for the Ledger, one of the first men to reach the scene, had taken camera snaps, sending them by special chartered plane.
Flash glanced at the downstairs clock as he left the building. It was only 9:40. He would have ample time to reach the airport before the plane was due to arrive.
Boarding a bus, he rode to the outskirts of the city. Alighting at the main entrance to the airport grounds he noticed Luke Frowein coming through the gate.
“Hello, Hero,” the photographer greeted him flippantly. “Looking for a fire?”
“I’m only an errand boy this time,” Flash replied.
He would have passed on, but Luke deliberately halted, blocking the way.
“What’s going on out here?” he asked curiously. “Picking up pictures, eh?”
“You’ve guessed it.”
“There’s no plane due at this hour.”
“Oh, we have a special coming in at 10:15,” Flash revealed carelessly.
A shrewd, calculating look came into the Globe man’s gray eyes.
“Must be something pretty good to merit a special plane. Not by any chance exclusives on the Pennsylvania crash?”
“Maybe.” Flash started to move on.
“Wait a minute,” said Luke. “If you’re going into the station, Mr. Clausson wants to see you.”
“Who is he?”
“President of the Triway Aviation Company. He was asking me a minute ago if I had seen you lately. It may be something fairly important. Better catch him before he leaves.”
“I never met Mr. Clausson in my life,” declared Flash. “Why would he be asking for me?”
“Don’t know,” Luke shrugged. “He may want you to take some publicity pictures. Better see him at any rate.”
Flash walked on toward the station. It still lacked five minutes before the special plane was due to arrive. He entered the building and spoke to one of the clerks.
“Has Mr. Clausson been here this morning?”
“Left only a minute ago,” the man answered. Moving to the window, he pointed out a figure which could be seen walking slowly toward a hangar at the far end of the field. “If you hurry you may be able to catch him.”
“Thanks.”
Flash walked as fast as he could, overtaking the man at the doorway of the Triway hangars.
“Mr. Clausson?” he inquired.
“That’s my name. What can I do for you.”
“I’m Flash Evans from the Ledger.”
“Well?”
Flash was somewhat taken aback by this strange response.
“Didn’t you wish to see me, sir?” he inquired.
Mr. Clausson shook his head. “What gave you that idea?”
“I was told by Luke Frowein that you were looking for me.”
“Luke Frowein?” the airline official repeated. “Never heard of him.”
Flash’s lips tightened into a grim line. “I guess I’ve been made the butt of a joke,” he said. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
Turning, he started back toward the station, angry thoughts racing through his mind. Luke Frowein had played a shabby trick upon him! He had been stupid to trust the fellow.
The loud drone of an airplane motor caused Flash to glance overhead. A silver-winged monoplane was gliding down over the telephone wires for a fast landing. He knew that it must be the specially chartered Ledger plane.
Flash hurried faster. He lost sight of the plane as it dropped below the level of the station building. But upon reaching the runway a minute or two later, he saw that the ship had taxied up to one of the gasoline pumps. He ran toward the pilot who had climbed out of the cockpit.
“Is this the Ledger plane?” questioned Flash tersely.
“That’s right,” the pilot responded.
“May I have the pictures?”
“Pictures? I just gave them to a fellow named Evans from the Ledger.”
“But I’m Evans!”
The pilot stared. “Then someone has pulled a fast one! Fellow in a gray suit stepped up as I landed and said he was Evans from the Ledger. I gave him the package.”
“Luke Frowein, a Globe man!” Flash explained grimly. “And I was dumb enough to fall for the trick!”
Whirling, he ran down the cement, through the station, to the main gate. There was no sign of Luke Frowein.
A taxi cruised slowly past. Flash quickly hailed it.
“To the Globe building!” he ordered tersely. “I’ll give you an extra buck if you step on it!”
The cab roared along the highway at fifty miles an hour, slowing down only when it reached the city limits. Flash kept close watch of other automobiles as they dodged in and out of traffic, but caught no glimpse of the man he pursued.
Presently the taxi pulled up in front of the Globe building. Flash leaped out, and paying the extra fare he had promised, hurried inside. Although the trip from the airport had been made in record time, he was afraid he had arrived too late.
He pressed his finger on the elevator button and held it there until the cage descended.
“What’s the big idea?” demanded the elevator man indignantly. “I can’t hurry no faster.”
“Has Luke Frowein been here in the past fifteen minutes?”
“No, he ain’t,” the man snapped. “Anyway, he usually comes in the other door.”
Flash ran around to the rear entrance of the building. As he turned the corner, a battered press car wheeled into the loading dock and stopped with a lurch. Luke Frowein climbed down. With a friendly wave of his hand at a trucker who was loading papers, he proceeded toward the rear entrance.
Flash had stepped inside the deserted vestibule beyond view. He waited.
Whistling a cheerful tune, Luke Frowein entered the building. He quickly broke off as he observed the young photographer.
“That was a dirty trick you tried to play on me!” accused Flash. “Give me my pictures!”
“Your pictures?” repeated Frowein mockingly. “Don’t know what you’re prattling about, son.”
Flash could see a flat, bulky package protruding from the photographer’s overcoat pocket. He tried to seize the parcel. Frowein pushed him roughly back against the wall.
“Keep your hands out of my pockets!” he ordered unpleasantly.
The cage of the freight elevator had started to descend slowly from the sixth floor. In another minute Flash knew the elevator man would be there to aid Frowein. He acted instinctively.
His right arm coiled back, then lashed out in a swift, sure arc. At the end of that arc, Flash’s knuckled fist exploded against the photographer’s chin. Thrown off balance, Frowein reeled, and fell backwards, sprawling awkwardly on the stairway.
Before he could get up, Flash leaped on him and jerked the package from his overcoat pocket. One glance convinced him he had made no mistake. The package plainly was marked for the Ledger.
“Hey, get off, will you!” Frowein growled. “Can’t you take a little joke?”
Flash coolly pocketed the package before removing himself from Frowein’s mid-section.
“Your brand of humor doesn’t appeal to me,” he retorted. “And I doubt if it would make such a hit with your editor either!”
“See here,” Frowein protested in quick alarm, “you’re not going to spill this, are you? It was only a joke.”
“A joke which would have cost me my job!”
“I could make it plenty tough for you,” Frowein hinted defensively. “Suppose it should get out that Deems held you up on the Gezzy-Brady fight! But I’m not that sort of fellow. We’ll strike a bargain. You keep your lip buttoned and so will I.”
Flash had no intention of carrying the matter further.
“All right,” he agreed, helping Frowein to his feet. “We’ll call the whole thing a draw.”
The Globe photographer grinned ruefully as he rubbed his chin.
“You pack a wicked wallop,” he said grudgingly.
The cage door opened and the elevator man peered out at the pair.
“What’s going on here?”
“Nothing,” muttered Frowein, rescuing his hat from the stairway. “I slipped and fell, that’s all. They ought to keep these vestibules lighted.”
Flash had turned toward the door. He could not resist one parting shot.
“Well, so long, Frowein,” he tossed cheerfully. “From now on, no more ‘hello, hero,’ stuff. I’m just plain Evans to you.”
CHAPTER IX
A CRY FOR HELP
Flash delivered the airplane crash pictures into the hands of City Editor Riley, whose only comment was that it had taken him long enough to make the trip. In fifteen minutes the prints were on the wirephoto cylinders, by means of which the photos were transmitted to other sections of the country. A short time later the Ledger made the street with a back page devoted to the exclusive shots.
Not even Joe Wells heard the story of how close the Ledger had come to being scooped by the Globe. Flash kept the affair strictly to himself, but he had learned a bitter lesson. While he knew there were few persons who would stoop to Luke Frowein’s low trickery, he never again would entirely trust a rival photographer.
In the days which followed, Flash performed his duties with quiet efficiency. He photographed fashion shows, golf tournaments, swimming meets, and no matter how routine the assignment, accepted it cheerfully. His unassuming ways gradually won him friends, both in and out of the office. However, Fred Orris remained cold and aloof.
Now and then, if Flash worked late at night, Herm would drop into the photography department for a friendly chat as he made his rounds. Flash enjoyed talking with the old fellow, but never succeeded in drawing him out about himself. One day he questioned Joe Wells regarding the watchman’s past life.
“Oh, he’s just a queer duck,” the photographer replied carelessly. “His real name is Herman Ronne. He’s been watchman at the Ledger for eight or ten years.”
“Married?”
“They say his wife died about fifteen years ago. He had a son, quite a promising young fellow, they tell me. Old Herm saved and scraped to put him through college.”
“Then I suppose the boy repaid him by going his own way?”
“No, the boy was grateful enough, but he up and died. Old Herm never did get over the shock. He’s been a bit screwy ever since—goes around talking to himself.”
“I’ve noticed the habit.”
“His work around here hasn’t been any too good the past year,” Wells added. “But the Ledger probably will keep him on until he dies.”
To Flash, Old Herm never mentioned his son or his troubles. Instead, he showed a deep interest in the young photographer’s aspirations and progress on the paper.
“It does my old bones good to see a cub like you get on,” he said heartily. “So many boys these days want the path smoothed out for ’em or they won’t play. But you grab the bull by the horns and dare him to gore you. I had that kind of stuff in me, too, when I was a lad years ago. The bull was stronger than I was, and here I am, workin’ a watch dog job at sixty-eight.”
It was rather difficult for Flash to imagine that Old Herm ever had been a man to wrestle directly with life, but he felt flattered by the watchman’s remarks.
“You were saying the other day you remembered my father,” he reminded the old fellow.
“Oh, yes, yes, I remember him well.”
“You didn’t by chance ever work in the old Post building?”
Old Herm shook his head as he pulled out his watch, a huge disc of yellow gold. “Well, got to be movin’ along. Time to punch another one of them infernal clocks.”
Saturday evening instead of going directly home after work, Flash took dinner downtown and then went to the Y.M.C.A. for a swim with his friend, Jerry Hayes. It was practically the first recreation he had taken since starting his new job on the Ledger. Every spare moment had been spent in study and experimentation. Now he felt he could take a little time off.
“I’m beginning to get on top of my work at last,” he confided to Jerry. “At first it seemed as if everything was against me, but the breaks are coming my way again.”
The two friends spent an hour in the pool, swimming and diving, and topped it off by taking part in a rough, exhausting game of water polo. After their showers, they dropped into Gus’s place for hamburgers and huge slices of apple pie.
“My treat, this time,” grinned Flash, slapping a dollar on the counter. “I can afford it now. Wish they would hand me another raise, though.”
“Can’t you manage to save another John Gelette or marry the boss’s daughter?” joked Jerry.
“Never will live that rescue down. I want to earn my next pay raise, if I ever get one!”
While they ate, Flash showed Jerry copies of some of his better pictures, many of which had been printed in the Ledger.
“You sure like your work, don’t you?” Jerry asked.
“I’d rather be a newspaper photographer than anything else,” Flash answered. “You work long hours, risk your life, perhaps, but when an editor says ‘get that picture,’ it fires your blood! The tougher the assignment, the better you like it.”
Jerry shrugged as he climbed down from the stool.
“Every man to his taste,” he said. “I think I’ll stick to being a lawyer or maybe a dentist.”
The big clock on the Fisher building chimed eleven as the two friends left the hamburger diner. The evening was warm, and they sauntered slowly down the street, rather reluctant to return home. But at length Flash said:
“Guess I ought to hit the hay. The old alarm goes off regularly at six-thirty these days.”
“It is getting late,” Jerry agreed.
They cut through an alley to a deserted street on the bus route. As they stood waiting, a muffled cry reached their startled ears.
“What was that?” Flash demanded, whirling around. “Sounded like someone yelling for help.”
The street was empty of pedestrians. For a moment they were unable to localize the strange cry. Actually it had seemed to come almost from beneath their feet.
“Must have been in one of the buildings!” exclaimed Jerry. “Maybe this furniture store!”
He and Flash stood directly in front of the Sam Davis Home Supply Company. Only a few steps away was an iron ventilating grating anchored in the sidewalk. They both thought that the cry might have carried to them from the basement of the building.
Flash and Jerry waited for the call to be repeated. There was no further sound to disturb the tranquillity of the street. But suddenly, a door opening into the alley was flung wide. From the furniture store bolted a man in a dark suit, hugging something close beneath his coat.
He started toward Flash and Jerry. Then, observing them, he wheeled and ran in the opposite direction.
“Let’s get him!” exclaimed Flash.
They took to the alley in pursuit of the man who proved to be astonishingly agile and quick-witted. Vaulting over a wooden fence, he raced through a yard and disappeared between two buildings.
When Jerry and Flash reached the place an instant later there was no sound of footsteps or any clue to tell them which way the fellow had gone. They searched between the buildings and looked up and down the streets.
“May as well give it up,” Jerry said in disgust. “He’s blocks away by this time. Wonder what he was up to anyhow?”
“Robbery, like as not,” answered Flash. “Let’s go back and see what we can learn.”
The side door of the furniture store building remained slightly ajar. Flash kicked it farther open with the toe of his shoe.
“Anyone there?” he called.
There was no answer. Flash stepped inside the dark vestibule, sniffing the air.
“I smell smoke, Jerry!”
“So do I!”
With one accord they rushed down a flight of wooden steps to the basement. Flash groped for a switch and finding it, flooded the room with light. Dense, black smoke was pouring from an adjoining doorway. They could hear the faint crackling of flames.
Rushing into the furnace room, Flash and Jerry stopped short. A wall of fire met their gaze. And on the cement floor, writhing and twisting, lay a man, bound and gagged.
CHAPTER X
THE MISSING PICTURES
Flash leaped forward. Pulling a knife from his pocket, he slashed at the ropes which held the man a prisoner. Jerry jerked off the handkerchief gag, and pulled him to his feet.
“Thanks!” gasped the man. “Now turn in a fire alarm quick, before my building goes up in smoke!”
Jerry ran out to the street, while Flash and the building owner turned on the disconnected sprinkler system. In addition they used buckets and hooked up a hose, keeping a steady stream of water playing on the blaze. By the time Jerry raced back, they had the fire well under control, while the sprinkler system would complete their work.
“Guess we won’t need the fire department after all,” murmured Flash, gazing at the blackened wall. He turned to the building owner. “What happened anyway? Who tied you up?”
“I’ll tell you!” the man said excitedly. “My name is Sam Davis. I own this building. Two weeks ago I was approached by a man who represented himself as Judd Slater, an agent for the North Brandale Mutual Insurance Company.”
“Never heard of it,” commented Flash.
“Nor has anyone else! It’s a dummy company, set up for the sole purpose of forcing building owners to pay exorbitant sums for protection.”
“A racket?” asked Jerry.
“That’s the way I figured it. And tonight proves I was right! If I had paid over eight dollars a week, I was assured my building would be safe from fire and damage.”
“You refused, I suppose?” inquired Flash.
“I did,” Sam Davis said with emphasis. “But I figured they would try to get me. So I had this sprinkler system installed. Then I made a point of keeping special watch of the building. The last few nights I’ve been sleeping here.”
“You surprised someone firing the building?” questioned Flash. “That fellow we saw running away?”
“He surprised me,” Sam Davis answered ruefully. “I was pretty tired, and nothing had happened for the past two weeks. I must have been sleeping like a log not to hear him enter the basement. He had set the fire before I aroused. Then I let out a yell for help but he overpowered me before I could do a thing.”
“Trussed you up and left you to burn?”
“Sure,” said Sam Davis. “Figured a dead witness couldn’t carry any tales to the police!”
“Did you get a good look at the man?”
“It was dark in here. But I know it wasn’t the same man—Judd Slater—who originally tried to shake me down.”
“The fellow Jerry and I chased down the alley was about my height,” Flash contributed thoughtfully. “He wore a dark suit and a floppy-brimmed hat. Not much to go on.”
“I’d know the man by his voice if ever I ran into him again,” declared Sam Davis. “He had an unusual way of pronouncing his words. Oh, yes, another thing! He began nearly every sentence with, ‘Listen, you!’”
“You’ll report to the police, of course?”
“Oh, sure!” The building owner shrugged. “But what good will it do? They’ve known for months that this sort of business was going on, but they can’t get evidence which will stand up. The gang is a big one and the higher-ups are too clever to be caught.”
“Mind if I take a picture or two?” Flash questioned abruptly.
“A picture? What for?”
“I’m Evans, a photographer for the Ledger,” Flash explained. “My paper may be able to use the story.”
“Go ahead. I’d like nothing better than to see this so-called North Brandale Insurance Company exposed. Take as many pictures as you like.”
“You’ll have to hurry,” added Jerry as he heard the wail of a fire siren from far down the street. “We’re going to have visitors.”
Flash seldom went anywhere without his miniature camera and a few extra flash bulbs tucked in his pocket. He was grateful now for the habit which made it possible to take advantage of a golden opportunity. He snapped two pictures of Sam Davis, one showing him trussed up, and another against a background of smoking ruins. As he finished, firemen clomped down the stairway.
“Don’t need you boys,” the building owner called cheerily. “Fire’s out. Thanks to these young fellows here.”
Flash and Jerry waited while the firemen inspected the basement. The odor of gasoline was strong. In poking about on the floor, one of the men found the remains of a rubber bladder which had been used to start the fire.
“I saw how the fellow did it!” Sam Davis revealed excitedly. “The bladder was filled with gasoline. Then he started a little fire beneath it. The heat made the bladder explode, and the flames spread everywhere. It’s a miracle I wasn’t burned.”
Flash took a picture of one of the firemen examining the device, and then with Jerry, slipped quietly away. On the street, they paused to consider their plans.
“You go on home without me,” urged Flash. “I want to run over to the newspaper office and develop these films.”
“Does the paper print tonight?” Jerry asked in surprise.
“The last edition is out. But the Sunday editor will want the pictures, I’m pretty sure. There’s dynamite in this arson story, Jerry! If it should develop that the Elston Apartment fire was set by the same outfit—”
“No evidence to support that theory, is there?”
“None yet. But it’s been rumored that the Elston Apartment fire was a planned job.”
“Haven’t seen anything about it in the newspapers.”
“It’s a ticklish story to print. The fire chief won’t give out any definite information and neither will the owners of the Elston Apartments. But it looks to me as if these pictures I’ve just taken may have some significance. At least, I’ll wave ’em under the editor’s nose and see what he says!”
“I’ll be watching for them in tomorrow’s paper,” Jerry promised, moving to the curb to board a bus. “So long.”
Flash walked swiftly to the Ledger building. Lights were burning on various floors, but nearly all of the offices were deserted. It lacked twenty minutes of midnight before the men who worked the “lobster” trick would come on duty.
In the hallway Flash met Old Herm, who seemed surprised to see him at such a late hour.
“Want I should let you into the office?” he asked.
Flash shook his head. “No, thanks, Herm. I have a key now.”
The photography department was deserted. Closing himself in the darkroom, Flash worked swiftly and with precision. In five minutes time the films had been put through the tanks. He washed them carefully and placed them on the heated ferrotype machine to dry.
When the prints were finished, he slipped them into an envelope, wrote a note of explanation to accompany them, and dropped the packet on the city editor’s vacant desk.
As Flash went out the front door, he met Fred Orris and an attractive young woman, obviously his wife, entering the building. Apparently they had attended the theatre, for Mrs. Orris still carried a program. He tipped his hat politely and went on, well aware that the photographer gave him a curious, unfriendly stare.
“Suppose Orris wonders what I am doing here at this hour?” he thought. “Oh, well, he’ll find out tomorrow!”
A bus, the last one until two o’clock rumbled down the street. Flash broke into a run and caught it at the corner. He reached home shortly after midnight, raided the refrigerator, and finally went to bed.
At six-thirty he was sleeping soundly when the alarm buzzed in his ear. Flash started up, and then as the realization came to him that he need not go to work on Sunday, he muffled it and fell back on his pillow.
But he had been thoroughly aroused and could not sleep again. He lay for a time staring at the ceiling. From the street he heard the cheerful whistle of a boy on a bicycle. The Sunday paper thudded against the front porch.
Jumping out of bed, Flash put on his robe and stole quietly down the stairway. He shot up the blinds and unlocked the door.
Eagerly he stripped off the brown wrapper and glanced at the front page of the Ledger. His fire pictures were not there.
Flash thumbed rapidly through the paper. There were pictures in profusion but none he had taken.
Finally, on the back page of Section C he found a brief four-line news item, stating that the Sam Davis Home Supply Store had been damaged to the extent of two hundred dollars by fire of an undetermined origin.
“Undetermined, my eye!” Flash exclaimed, slamming the paper on the davenport.
Joan appeared at the top of the stairway.
“What’s the matter, Jimmy?” she asked. “Didn’t they use your pet pictures?”
“No,” he answered briefly, “and they were good pictures, too, with plenty of punch! Now I’d like to know what happened this time!”
CHAPTER XI
DISASTER AT SEA
All day Sunday Flash remained deeply depressed. He had been almost certain that his pictures would be used in the Ledger. They had been remarkably clear prints, showing Sam Davis in action poses. He didn’t like to think that the pictures had been withheld because of policy, yet he could reach no other conclusion.
“Your old sheet must be afraid to buck the rackets,” commented Jerry Hayes who dropped in during the afternoon.
“I can’t understand it,” Flash confessed. “The Ledger has a reputation for being a fighting paper. And there was nothing libelous in my pictures.”
“Maybe the editor was afraid to make a direct accusation against the North Brandale Insurance Company without proof.”
“That’s possible,” admitted Flash, “but it still doesn’t explain why my pictures weren’t used. They told a story of their own. It wouldn’t have been necessary to implicate the insurance company. By the way, did you ever hear of such an outfit, Jerry?”
“Never did.”
“Probably it’s a fake company, just as Sam Davis believes. Anyway, the name isn’t listed in the telephone directory. Looks to me as if the Ledger is missing a chance for a big story.”
“And some good pictures,” added Jerry, grinning. “Well, cheer up. Maybe they’ll be printed in tomorrow’s paper.”
Upon his way to work Monday morning, Flash bought an early edition of the Ledger. A hasty glance assured him that his pictures had not been used.
Riley was occupied making out an assignment sheet when Flash passed his desk. He did not glance up. Flash hesitated, then paused and spoke.
“I see you didn’t use my fire pictures, Mr. Riley.”
“What’s that?” the editor barked.
Flash repeated his words.
“Fire pictures?” Riley demanded. “Didn’t find anything of the sort on my desk.”
“I left an envelope with a note of explanation. That was late Saturday night.”
“Better ask Clingston about it,” said Riley carelessly. “He came on at midnight.”
Flash nodded and entered the photography department. The room was deserted. He debated a moment, then looked up Clingston’s telephone number and placed a call.
A sleepy voice answered: “Yeah? Clingston speaking.”
Flash nearly lost his courage as he realized he had aroused the man from his bed. But he said tersely:
“This is Evans. I’m checking up on some pictures of the Sam Davis fire. I left them on the city desk late Saturday night.”
“Didn’t find them,” the editor answered.
“That’s funny. They were in an envelope.” Flash described the pictures, repeating what Sam Davis had told him.
“We could have used those shots,” Clingston said regretfully. “Too bad they were lost.”
“I don’t see how it could have happened.”
“The janitor may have brushed the envelope into the waste basket by mistake.”
“Shall I print them up again?”
“No use now,” Clingston returned. “The story is two days old.”
Flash hung up the receiver just as Fred Orris entered the office. He thoughtfully watched the head photographer as he hung his hat on a peg.
“Orris,” he began abruptly.
“Well?”
“When you came into the building Saturday night did you notice an envelope of pictures lying on the city desk?”
“No, I didn’t,” Orris answered shortly. “What of it?”
“I left some there—fire pictures. They disappeared before Clingston came on duty.”
Orris shot Flash a sharp, questioning glance.
“Say, just what are you trying to suggest?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, I trust not,” the head photographer muttered grimly. “I don’t know anything about your pictures and care less. My wife and I dropped in here after the theatre to telephone for a taxi. The trouble with you Evans, you’re always looking for an easy way out.”
An angry flush stained Flash’s face. With an effort, he kept from making a sharp retort. Orris would like nothing better than to draw him into a fight, and then request his dismissal.
Getting up abruptly from the telephone table, he went into the darkroom and closed the door. He distrusted the head photographer more than ever now. Orris hadn’t liked him from the day he had started work on the Ledger. While he had no proof that the man had destroyed his pictures, a suspicion took root in his mind. After this he would be more careful than ever, remaining constantly on the alert for treachery.
Thinking there was a possibility that the janitor knew something of the matter, Flash sought the man. He likewise questioned a scrub woman who cleaned the news room at night. As he fully expected, neither of them could throw any light upon the mystery. All the waste paper baskets had been emptied, and if ever the pictures had been consigned there, they were burned.
Later that morning, Flash was testing his camera, when Riley stepped into the office, a batch of prints in his hand.
“Anything wrong?” Fred Orris asked in alarm.
“Nothing in particular,” Riley replied. “I was wondering why we can’t have these pictures printed with a duller finish. Give ’em a softer tone.”
“But Mr. Riley, all the other editors want glossy prints.”
“Is there any reason why I can’t have a duller finish?”
“Well, yes, there is,” Orris responded in a conciliatory tone. “You see, the ferrotype machine only dries the prints one way—with a gloss.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to take them this way.” Riley shrugged and started to move off.
Flash, who had been listening to the conversation, stepped forward.