_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.