“Oh sure,” replied the policeman carelessly. “You were right. He’s only a foolish old fellow. No motive for the crime.”
“For that matter, what reason would anyone in the building have for doing such a trick? A personal grudge against me?”
“Might have been. I’m satisfied it was an inside job and not the work of any of the arson gang.”
After the officer had gone, Flash returned to the darkroom for his hat. As he passed through the news room a moment later, the editor stopped him at the desk.
“Here’s something that may interest you,” he said, thrusting a sheet of copy paper into Flash’s hand. “One of our reporters just brought it in. About ten minutes ago an old man named Andy Simpson was run over by an automobile and killed.”
“Andy Simpson!” Flash exclaimed. “Not the watchman at the Fenmore warehouse!”
“Same fellow.”
“Run over deliberately?”
“No. It appears he was dazed or had been drinking too much. Anyway, according to the story of the motorist, he ignored the traffic lights and walked straight into the path of the car.”
“Andy Simpson was the one person who could have thrown new light on the arson case,” Flash muttered. “He met ‘H. J.,’ the man who is supposed to be the brains of the arson gang. Now the police never will be able to get a description.”