Late that afternoon she picked up another shred of evidence. When the day’s work was done, she got out one of the motorcycles and rode back to the photography studio. Carl Langer had promised that the pictures for their identification cards would be done. Then, too, she was wondering about the three films she had left on his table.
By the time she arrived fog had driven in from the sea, making everything look dark and gloomy. The studio seemed darkest, most gloomy of all. Only a faint light showed through the window. The three black pigeons sat silently along the ridge of the roof.
As if her arrival had disturbed them, they took off with noisy flapping of wings to soar away and lose themselves in the fog out over the sea.
Norma tried the door. It was locked. She rang the bell. No response. A second ring failed. A third long one brought an angry response.
The door flew open and Langer’s white hair seemed to give off sparks as he stormed angrily:
“Why do you ring now? You know my hours. Everybody knows. You—”
He broke off short. At last he had taken time to look at his caller.
“Oh, it is you.” His voice changed. “You are Miss Kent, one of those lady soldiers.” He laughed hoarsely. “Come in. The pictures are done. They are not beautiful, but natural.” He laughed again.
He did not turn on more light. A small lamp on a table gave out a feeble glow.
“See,” he said, shuffling a pack of prints as if they were playing cards, “Here they are, all of them.”