_A CAMERA TRAP_
The old man did not appear to notice that a blind had been pulled down
in the bedroom. Lowering himself into a comfortable chair, he sighed
audibly. His shoes thudded on the bare floor as he jerked them off. For
a long while there was no other sound.
Daring to peer forth, Flash saw that the watchman was reading one of the
books on photography.
“Wonder why Herm has the evening off?” he thought. “He certainly doesn’t
look or act sick.”
While Flash suffered both mental and physical discomfort in his cramped
quarters under the bed, the old man continued to read. An hour elapsed.
The photographer was afraid to shift his position lest he make a noise
which would betray his presence.
When it seemed to him that every muscle of his body had twisted into a
knot, Old Herm put aside the book. He pulled on his shoes again, brewed
himself a cup of coffee, and then donned warmer outer clothing.
“Back to the old grind,” Flash heard him mutter. “Bells, bells, bells!
Always a-ringin’ the darn things.”
A moment later, the watchman switched off the lights, and leaving the
apartment, locked the door behind him.
Flash waited until the footsteps had died away. Then he rolled out from
under the bed, brushing dust from his suit.
Without bothering to glance again at the photography books, he unlocked
the door with his skeleton key, stepped out into the deserted hall, and
locked the door after himself. He reached the street in time to catch a
glimpse of the watchman disappearing around a corner.
Flash believed that Old Herm meant to return to the _Ledger_ office. To
make certain he followed.
Drawing near the newspaper building, the watchman turned down an alley
and emerged at the loading dock where Jeff, the colored boy was working.
“I’m back now, Jeff,” he said.
“Okay, boss,” the boy responded. “I done just like you told me.”
Old Herm took a coin from his hand and gave it to Jeff. With a friendly
nod, he went on into the building.
Flash waited an interval before approaching the colored boy. Perching
himself on the platform near the paper chute, he watched Jeff polish a
windshield to a high gloss.
“Lookin’ fer someone?” the boy asked.
“Just killing time,” Flash returned. “How are you making out these days,
Jeff? Get quite a few cars to polish?”
“Ten steady customers now,” the colored boy said proudly. “I ain’t doin’
bad.”
“I suppose you pick up a little extra money now and then, doing odd jobs
around the building?”
“Yes, suh!”
“Old Herm?”
“Ah earned fifty cents from Herm dis last week. De easiest money ah
made, too!”
“And what job do you look after for him?” Flash inquired.
Jeff shook his head and grinned. “Ah ain’t ’llowed to tell, suh. Old
Herm get in trouble if de boss find out.”
Flash understood the colored boy well enough to know that he would
divulge the information if offered a small bribe. But he surmised that
Jeff then would reveal to Old Herm who had questioned him. He decided to
allow the matter to rest.
“I can guess what Herm has been doing,” he told himself as he slid down
from the platform. “And if I’m right, his alibi on the night I lost my
arson picture isn’t worth a nickel!”
Debating a moment, Flash entered the _Ledger_ building. After exploring
several floors he finally located the watchman in the deserted composing
room. Old Herm, who was peering into a supply cupboard, did not see the
photographer until he was close by.
Startled, he slammed the cupboard door shut and stood with his back to
it, facing Flash.
“Oh, it’s you!” he exclaimed. “You scared the daylights out o’ me,
coming in so quiet-like.”
“I believe a burglar could carry off half the building and you never
would know it, Herm,” Flash said in a joking tone.
“It ain’t so!” the watchman denied vigorously. “I make my rounds every
hour just as I’m supposed to do.”
“How come I couldn’t find you around during the last hour?”
“Were you lookin’ for me?” Old Herm asked innocently. “Did you go down
into the basement?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“That’s probably where I was. What is it you want?”
“Nothing now,” replied Flash. “It’s too late. Well, so long, see you
tomorrow.”
Without a backward glance, he sauntered from the composing room and made
his way to the street. Riding home in the bus, he thought over what he
had learned. Old Herm was not the honest, genial person he once had
believed him to be. The watchman neglected his duties, lied about it,
and displayed a decided tendency to pry.
“Wonder what he was doing in that supply cupboard when I surprised him?”
he reflected. “Old Herm acted as guilty as the dickens!”
Flash still was thinking about the matter when he went to work the next
morning. He rode up the elevator with Joe Wells and they entered the
photography department together.
“You haven’t solved the darkroom mystery yet?” the older photographer
asked jokingly. “Who slugged you and why?”
Flash shook his head.
“Not yet, but I have a few clues. You know, I’m becoming convinced Old
Herm might have had something to do with it.”
Wells laughed. “Any evidence?”
“I’ve learned Herm has been neglecting his duties here. Now and then he
slips off home while he’s supposed to be at work.”
Wells showed surprise at the information, but he did not interpret the
matter as Flash had expected.
“Old Herm will lose his job if you spread the story around,” he replied.
“And doesn’t he deserve it?”
“Maybe,” Wells shrugged, “but if Herm lost this job he’d never get
another. As far as watching the building is concerned, he never was any
good. But he’s a fixture at the _Ledger_. All the boys like him.”
“And for that reason I’m to let him crack me on the head—”
“You’re cracked now!” Wells interrupted with a trace of impatience.
“Herm is an inefficient, simple old fellow, but he’s harmless. If you
ask me, it’s not very sporting of you to try to throw the blame upon
him. Better get a new theory.”
A wave of anger swept over Flash, but it was gone in an instant. In a
way, Joe was giving him a warning it would be well to heed. He had
forgotten how affectionately Old Herm was regarded by many of the
employees of the _Ledger_. Any hints or direct accusations against the
watchman would only serve to rally many loyal defenders.
“Some day I’ll learn to keep thoughts to myself,” he reflected grimly.
“What I need is absolute proof!”
Flash knew of no way to gain evidence against the old man, and he had
moments when he even doubted that the fellow was responsible for the
loss of the arson picture.
“But if Herm didn’t do it, then it must be Fred Orris,” he reasoned.
“Both of them had the opportunity.”
And then an idea came to Flash. In thinking over past events, it dawned
upon him that always when he had encountered difficulties in the
darkroom, he had been working on an important story. Evidently the
person who plotted his undoing bided his time, waiting until he was in
possession of an unusual picture.
“I’ll set up a camera trap in the darkroom!” he decided. “Then I’ll pass
around the word that I have some remarkable shots! That should prove
enticing bait for my victim!”
His mind made up, Flash only awaited a suitable opportunity for putting
his plan into effect. Knowing that Fred Orris nearly always dropped into
the office late Tuesday night after the theatre, he chose that evening
to carry out his scheme.
Slipping into the office when it was deserted, Flash set up his camera
in a corner of the darkroom, focusing it upon the drying machine. Two
feet away he stretched a cord and fastened it to the camera trigger. The
slightest pressure upon the cord would open the lens and set off the
flash bulb.
“Now if only one of the regular photographers doesn’t barge in here
before I’m ready!” Flash told himself.
Taking another camera from the equipment case, he left the newspaper
building. Crossing the street to the café, he took a table by the window
where he could watch the main entrance of the _Ledger_. Presently he saw
Fred Orris arrive.
“Now my act begins!” Flash thought. “And if it doesn’t come off as I
plan, I’m going to look plenty silly.”
He quickly left the café and returned to the _Ledger_ office. As he
swung through the revolving doors of the front entrance he saw that luck
was favoring him. Fred Orris had paused in the circulation office to
chat for a moment with Old Herm. He would be able to clip two birds with
one stone!
“Where’s the fire, Evans?” Fred Orris demanded as he rushed past the two
men.
“Big story!” Flash tossed over his shoulder, barely pausing. “Didn’t you
hear about the riot?”
“Riot! No! Where?”
“Silverman’s Chain Store warehouse. Employees have been on a strike
there for a week. Tonight the fireworks started!”
The “fireworks” consisted of a rock having been thrown through a
warehouse window, but Flash allowed the two men to draw their own
conclusions.
Fred Orris gazed after the young photographer with an expression of
mingled envy and irritation.
“And I suppose you just happened to be out there,” he said. “You’re a
fool for luck if ever I saw one!”
Flash tapped his holders. “Wait until you see what I have here,” he
boasted. “The best pictures of my career—I hope! I’m putting ’em through
the soup now.”
He ran on up the stairway.
Had his little act gone over? Flash could not be sure. If Fred Orris
doubted the story he could prove it false in three minutes. But both he
and Old Herm had seemed impressed.
Unlocking the photography department, Flash closed the door behind him
but did not snap on the overhead lights. He entered the darkroom and
turned on the green lantern by the developing tank. A glance satisfied
him that the camera trap had not been disturbed. Everything was in
readiness.
Slipping outside again, he carefully closed the door. Then he tiptoed
across the darkened main room.
Hiding himself behind the power cabinets of the wirephoto machine, he
waited.