A glint of anger flamed in Flash’s eyes. He went over to the locked case for his camera and equipment, deliberately taking his time.
“Orris,” he said coolly, “the elevator man tells me you were in the building last night between eleven and eleven-thirty.”
“So what?”
“Maybe you didn’t hear what happened to me in the darkroom last night.”
“Listen,” Orris flared, “are you trying to intimate that I had anything to do with it?”
“I’m just checking up. Thought you might have noticed someone hanging around the halls.”
“Well, I didn’t,” the photographer answered shortly. “What’s more, I was here on legitimate business. I came back to leave a memorandum on Dan Dewey’s desk.”
Flash made no answer. He slipped the camera strap over his shoulder and went out the door. All morning he was kept busy at the courthouse, shooting pictures of witnesses, prosecutor, judge, jury and defense attorneys. He had no time to think of his own problem, for he was compelled to be constantly alert lest he miss an opportunity to photograph an unusual facial expression. The break he awaited came when the defendant lost control of himself for a moment and became consumed with rage.
Some of his pictures Flash had sent back to the Ledger by messenger. He carried the remaining holders with him, and upon developing them, took the precaution of locking himself into the darkroom.
His work completed without mishap, he dropped across the street for a belated lunch. On the stool next to him sat a Ledger reporter who covered the police and fire departments.