“Any relation to Curtis Evans who used to work on the Post in the old days?”
“He was my father.”
“So! I remember him,” the old man’s voice dropped to a little more than a mumble. “And I—” He ceased speaking and seemed lost in deep thought.
“Nearly everyone in Brandale knew my father,” remarked Flash proudly. “How about letting me into the office?”
“You’re not playin’ a trick on me? You’re really Evans?”
“Of course.”
“Then I kin let you in, I guess.” The watchman gazed at Flash with an expression which was veiled and unfathomable.
Rather puzzled, the young photographer followed him to the door of the department. Old Herm was slightly crippled in one leg, but his somewhat bent and deformed body still showed the framework of a once-powerful man. Flash felt sorry for the simple old fellow.
The watchman dawdled with his keys and finally opened the door.
“Don’t leave no lights burnin’,” he cautioned. “And turn off the water spigots. I’ve mopped up this place more than once.”