Clearly he, Flash Evans, was in a predicament.
CHAPTER XXII
A CAMERA TRAP
The old man did not appear to notice that a blind had been pulled down in the bedroom. Lowering himself into a comfortable chair, he sighed audibly. His shoes thudded on the bare floor as he jerked them off. For a long while there was no other sound.
Daring to peer forth, Flash saw that the watchman was reading one of the books on photography.
“Wonder why Herm has the evening off?” he thought. “He certainly doesn’t look or act sick.”
While Flash suffered both mental and physical discomfort in his cramped quarters under the bed, the old man continued to read. An hour elapsed. The photographer was afraid to shift his position lest he make a noise which would betray his presence.
When it seemed to him that every muscle of his body had twisted into a knot, Old Herm put aside the book. He pulled on his shoes again, brewed himself a cup of coffee, and then donned warmer outer clothing.
“Back to the old grind,” Flash heard him mutter. “Bells, bells, bells! Always a-ringin’ the darn things.”
A moment later, the watchman switched off the lights, and leaving the apartment, locked the door behind him.
Flash waited until the footsteps had died away. Then he rolled out from under the bed, brushing dust from his suit.