“_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.”