He read the brief item through and handed it back to the editor. Never had he felt more discouraged. With Andy Simpson dead, his missing picture was of greater importance than ever. But it was definitely gone. He never would see it again.
While no word of blame was spoken, Flash saw several reporters glancing at him with a peculiar expression. By morning everyone on the Ledger would have heard the story.
“I’m getting a record for failures,” he thought as he made his way to the street. “Unless I can figure out who is at the bottom of tonight’s attack, things may keep on happening.”
The previous mishaps, while personally humiliating, had not been so serious. But now, with Andy Simpson dead, the loss of the picture undoubtedly meant that the higher-ups in the arson ring never would be brought to trial.
As the bus rolled along the deserted neighborhood street, Flash turned over in his mind every possible person who might have been responsible for the vicious attack. Aside from members of the arson ring, Fred Orris and Old Herm seemed the most likely suspects. The watchman had a perfect alibi, so that left only the head photographer.
“There’s Luke Frowein of the Globe,” Flash mused. “He would enjoy seeing me lose my job. But he couldn’t have known about the warehouse affair.”
A light was burning in the Evans cottage as the bus drew up a short distance away. Flash walked rapidly, realizing that his mother must be waiting up for him.
Hearing his step on the front porch, she opened the door.
“You shouldn’t have waited up, Mother,” he protested.
“Jimmy!” she exclaimed in horror. “Your forehead! You’ve been in an accident!”