“I’ll tell you,” the old man answered, his eyes glazed with hatred. “Your father was the cause of killin’ my boy.”
“Your son Dick was discharged from the Post for taking funds which did not belong to him,” Flash corrected. “My father brought the matter to the attention of the newspaper owners in order to save an innocent man. But from what I can learn he did not even send your son to jail.”
“He done worse. Dick couldn’t get a job. He fell in with bad company. One night he was ridin’ with some boys who aimed to rob a filling station. There was some shootin’ and Dick was hit in the right lung. They took him to the hospital. I hired the best doctors, but they couldn’t do anything for him. I vowed then I’d get even with the man who was the cause of Dick’s death. I never did have my chance until you came here to work.”
Old Herm buried his head in his arms, rocking back and forth.
Flash glanced at the silent group of men in the room. Not a person there but felt sorry for the old fellow whose grief had so distorted his mind.
“Herm, we’re not going to send you to jail,” he said after a moment. “But we do want you to tell us what you did with the fire picture.”
“You mean the one I took off the editor’s desk?”
“No, it doesn’t matter about that. I mean the films you took the night I was struck over the head.”
“Several of them, wasn’t there?” the old man asked slowly.
“Yes, but the picture we want was taken at the Fenmore warehouse. If the police had it they might be able to capture the men who have been setting fires here in Brandale. Did you destroy the films, Herm?”