“Listen, don’t raise a sweat worrying about that. H. J. himself is taking care of him.”
“Didn’t know the big boss ever dirtied his gloves on these jobs.”
“He doesn’t as a rule. For some reason he’s taken a special interest in seeing that Fenmore gets his without any slip. If the old warehouse goes up in smoke, the other boys will take warning and fall into line.”
“Speaking of slips, Al, you certainly muffed that Davis job.”
“Shut up, will you!” the other growled. “I’m sick of hearing about that! How was I to know the old man slept by the furnace?”
Flash had reached the doorway. Peering inside he saw two men standing with their backs toward him. From the conversation he knew that the one who had been called Al was none other than Judd Slater, a self-termed representative of the North Brandale Insurance Company—the same man he had chased some nights previously.
One glance disclosed that the warehouse was being fired. The men had connected up two electric irons which they placed in a box of excelsior. It was a simple and effective device. The irons would slowly heat, giving the pair ample time to make their getaway without directing suspicion to themselves. Later, in the early hours of the morning, the fire would break out.
Unexpectedly, Flash heard footsteps on the stairway. He held himself rigid, listening. The two men in the furnace room likewise were aware of the sound. Neither spoke but their attitude was one of tenseness.
From the stairway came a low whistle. Immediately the pair relaxed and one of the men responded with a similar signal.
Flash barely had time to crouch back against a wall before a third man passed directly in front of him to stand silhouetted in the doorway. As the flashlight beam played full upon him for a moment, the young photographer saw a bulky, expensively dressed man of middle age who might have been taken for a substantial business person. The features of his face could not be discerned, and in a minute he moved beyond view.