“Yes, sir, I was. I drop in there on my rounds when the door’s open. You see, the photographers are careless about letting faucets run. It’s no fun mopping up after ’em.”
“At what hour were you there tonight?”
“Just a bit after 10:30. That’s when I ring the time clock in the department.”
So far, Old Herm’s account of his whereabouts left no ground for suspicion. Flash recalled that at ten-thirty he had not yet reached the Ledger Building. According to the clock in the window of the advertising department, it had been eleven-twenty when he arrived and met the watchman in the lower vestibule. Evidently the old fellow had gone directly to the sixth floor to ring the eleven-thirty time bell.
“The record will show whether or not he did,” Flash thought. “If he’s telling the truth, he couldn’t have been the person who attacked me. With his bad leg it would have taken him at least five minutes to get from the sixth floor to the photographic department. And it was only eleven-forty when Joe Wells found me lying unconscious.”
“You’ve been around here quite awhile, haven’t you?” the policeman was asking Old Herm.
“Nigh onto ten years now. And it’s been a mighty tedious life, a dreary existence—walkin’ to the third floor, walkin’ to the fifth floor, walkin’ to the basement, ringin’ the rounds registers, lookin’ for burglars that ain’t there. No, sir, in all my years I never scared up an intruder—not one! And me a brave man able to take care of myself.”
A light of childish bravado shone in Old Herm’s eyes, and the officer directed a covert wink at Flash.
“Suppose we check on that time register,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Old Herm mumbled. “Just come with me.”