“A blackjack isn’t exactly a harmless weapon,” Flash returned, raising his hand to rub the lump on his head.
“What proof do you have that Herm was tampering with anything in the darkroom?” demanded Fred Orris.
“Because I deliberately set a camera trap. That story about the riot was made up.”
“Then you had no pictures?”
“Not a one. I hung some old films on the drying machine as bait and focused my camera there. The flash went off, so I ought to have something on my plate.”
“You can’t blame me,” Old Herm whimpered. “It was dark in there. I brushed against something and a flash went off. It was an accident.”
“A camera doesn’t lie,” said Fred Orris quietly. “Develop your plate, Evans. I’ll keep Herm here until you’ve finished your work.”
Flash shut himself up in the darkroom. With trembling hands he removed the plate from its holder and lowered it into the developer. Everything depended upon the picture. The sympathy of the entire office naturally would go toward Old Herm because of his age and service record. If the shot revealed nothing, the watchman’s story would be accepted in preference to his own. He must expect it.
Carefully, Flash timed the plate. As he removed it from the developer one quick glance assured him that he had his picture! It was slightly blurred but Old Herm was clearly recognizable. And he had been snapped in the act of reaching for the film on the drying machine.
“I have my proof!” Flash thought exultantly. “Old Herm can’t talk himself out of this!”