INCH BY INCH THE YOUNG PHOTOGRAPHER BACKED TOWARD HIS OWN WINDOW. (See [page 47])

FLASH EVANS
and the
DARKROOM MYSTERY

By
FRANK BELL

Illustrated

CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
Publishers : : New York

FLASH EVANS BOOKS

FLASH EVANS AND THE DARKROOM MYSTERY FLASH EVANS CAMERA NEWS HAWK

Copyright, 1940, By
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE 1 [PICTURE “PUNCH”] 1 2 [A NEWS BREAK] 12 3 [COVERING THE FIGHT] 22 4 [OLD HERM] 32 5 [THREE ALARM FIRE] 40 6 [RESCUE] 50 7 [DARKROOM DIFFICULTIES] 57 8 [“HELLO, HERO”] 66 9 [A CRY FOR HELP] 75 10 [THE MISSING PICTURES] 82 11 [DISASTER AT SEA] 90 12 [A DARING PLAN] 100 13 [ABOARD THE BELMONIA] 108 14 [THROUGH THE WINDOW] 117 15 [PUBLICITY PLUS] 127 16 [THE BASEMENT ROOM] 135 17 [A DOOR OPENS] 141 18 [SUSPICION] 150 19 [A LOST KEY] 159 20 [OUT OF THE PAST] 168 21 [FLASH INVESTIGATES] 177 22 [A CAMERA TRAP] 185 23 [ACCUSATIONS] 194 24 [A SHATTERED ALIBI] 200 25 [FRONT PAGE STORY] 207

FLASH EVANS
and the
DARKROOM MYSTERY

CHAPTER I
PICTURE “PUNCH”

“Sorry, son. There are no jobs open. Afraid we can’t use these pictures, either.”

Tom Riley, city editor of The Brandale Ledger shoved the stack of glossy black and white prints across the desk toward Jimmy Evans who faced him squarely, a miniature camera protruding from the pocket of his shabby tweed overcoat.

“Well, thanks anyway.”

Jimmy spoke in a flat, discouraged tone as he gathered up the photographs and slid them into a cardboard folder. The editor watched him with a thoughtful gaze.

“You’ve been coming around here quite often, Evans.”

“Yes, I have. I figure there’s no law against trying.”

“Sold us a few pictures, haven’t you?”

“A few,” Jimmy said with a rueful grin. “But lately I haven’t done so well. There must be something radically wrong with my stuff.”

Before the editor could reply, a reporter dashed up to the desk to make a report on a story assignment.

Jimmy assumed that his presence no longer was desirable. He turned to leave.

“Wait a minute, Evans,” said Riley. “Sit down. I’ll be through in a moment. I want to talk to you.”

Jimmy sat down. While the reporter talked to the editor, his eyes wandered over the long news room. The clicking of a dozen typewriters, the absorbed interest of the copy readers as they bent over their work, even the purposeful scurrying about of the office boys, filled him with a vague yearning. It would be great to belong to a place like the Ledger—to have a job of his own!

Presently Riley finished with the reporter and turned to Jimmy again.

“About your pictures, son,” he said. “They’re pretty fair art. What they lack is news punch. The woods are full of fellows who can take pretty pictures; but they wouldn’t recognize a good news shot if you labeled it for them.”

“I’m always anxious to pick up ideas,” answered Jimmy. “Any tips you can give me will be a big help—that is, if you can spare the time, Mr. Riley.”

Jimmy was a tall, slender lad with a thick shock of dark, curly hair and frank gray eyes set in a pleasant, firmly molded face.

The editor smiled at the young man’s persistence and swept a pile of copy paper to one side.

“Well, this thing they call ‘punch’ is hard to define,” he began. “Sometimes it’s a picture which ties up with a big front page story. For instance, a bank robbery, an explosion, or maybe a shipwreck.

“Then again, it may be human interest stuff. A policeman holding up city traffic while a cat carries its kitten across a busy intersection. You see, a free lance photographer must have ideas, and be on the spot when important news is breaking.”

“Isn’t there a lot of luck to that—being on hand when it happens?”

“Yes, but not always,” admitted the editor. “Learn to use your head as well as your feet. Be ready when an opportunity comes along.”

“The one I’m looking for is a steady job on a newspaper.”

“We’re not likely to have an opening on the Ledger for months to come. If a job does turn up, it probably will go to an experienced newspaper photographer.”

“But how can a fellow get experience when no one will give a beginner any chance?”

With a trace of impatience, the editor replied gruffly:

“You’ll have to create your own job. No one will hand it to you on a silver platter. Study news photographs and try to discover what makes them click. Learn how to take good pictures under every possible lighting condition. Then maybe someday you’ll stumble into one so big we couldn’t afford to turn it down.”

Riley reached for a sheet of copy paper, a signal that the interview had ended. But as the young man started away, a tired droop to his shoulders, he added:

“I didn’t intend to discourage you, Evans. You’re young, with plenty of time ahead. Not over eighteen, are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“You look older. Well, keep at it, and one of these days you may make the grade.”

Only slightly encouraged by the words, Jimmy pocketed his samples and left the office. Rather than face the knowing glance of the elevator man, he walked down three flights of steps to the street.

For months now, since graduating from Brandale High School, he had tried without success to obtain a staff position on a newspaper. There was scarcely a newspaper or syndicate in town where he had not been flatly rejected at least once a week. Few editors were as decent about it as Riley of the Ledger.

Jimmy shifted his camera to a more comfortable position, and wandered aimlessly down a street leading toward the waterfront. Where would one find picture material which packed a punch? It was all very well to talk about being in a place where news was breaking, but buildings didn’t explode or ships sink just to oblige an ambitious photographer. His prospect of ever landing a job on the Ledger seemed pretty hopeless.

“Hi, Jimmy!” called a familiar voice. “What are you doing in this part of town?”

Hearing his name, Jimmy turned to see Jerry Hayes, a boy who lived on his street, lounging in the doorway of a corner drugstore.

“Hello, Jerry,” he answered briefly. “Just out job hunting.”

Jerry fell into step with him. “No luck, I’ll bet.”

“It’s the same old story. There’s no place for a beginner.”

“Why don’t you quit playing around with that camera of yours and start looking for other kind of work?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Jimmy returned. “I’ve spent a lot of time learning how to take pictures. My father was city editor on the Brandale Post—that was years ago before the paper folded. I sort of figured I would follow a newspaper career, too.”

“You’ve had a tough time of it since your father died, Jimmy.”

“It’s been worse for Mother than it has for me. What I need is a job.”

“The Red Ball Chain Store is looking for a delivery boy. Why don’t you apply there?”

“Maybe I will. Thanks for the tip.”

They had reached the next corner where the Green Hut Hamburger Diner stood. Jerry paused.

“Let’s have one, Jimmy,” he proposed. “I’ll treat.”

Jimmy hesitated, then shook his head. Lately he had accepted entirely too many favors from his friend.

“Oh, come along,” Jerry urged, pulling him through the doorway.

Jimmy was hungry, for he had not eaten since breakfast and it was now late afternoon. Perched high on a stool at the counter, he watched Gus, the cook, pound sandwich meat into two flat cakes which he slapped on the smoking grille.

“Plenty of excitement around here today,” the man volunteered. “The police caught a fellow wanted for stealing automobiles. They just walked in and yanked him off a stool. Coffee?”

Jimmy nodded mechanically. “Wish I had been here,” he said. “That’s the trouble. I’m never around at the right time.”

As he ate his sandwich, Jimmy stared out the window. He dreaded going home. Not that his mother would blame him for failing to find a position. She encouraged him in his ambition to follow a chosen field of work, but camera supplies constantly drained their slender resources. The small amount of monthly insurance dividends was barely enough to feed and clothe them, and keep his younger sister, Joan, in school. He never accepted pocket money without a sense of shame.

A loud screeching of brakes on the pavement, caused Jimmy to whirl around. A black sedan, ignoring a traffic light which had flashed from green to red, plunged across the intersection at high speed, to crash into the side of a blue automobile driven by a woman.

Both boys leaped down from their stools. Jimmy pulled his miniature camera from his pocket, adjusting it as he ran out into the street.

One of the first persons to reach the scene of the accident, he snapped a picture of the wreck, and then took a second photograph just as the driver of the black sedan stepped to the pavement. Without particularly taking mental note of the fact, Jimmy saw that the man was heavy-set with dark hair and bushy brows. His companion who did not alight appeared to be a tall, thin fellow with a slightly hooked nose.

The woman driver also left her car. One glance at the damaged fenders and she began to berate the two men in an angry voice.

“Just see what you have done! You’ll have to pay for this! It was entirely your fault because you went against the light!”

A crowd had gathered. Opinion was divided as to who had caused the accident, but the majority of pedestrians favored the woman driver. One man offered to telephone for the police.

At mention of the word “police,” the slim fellow spoke in a low tone to his companion, who promptly leaped into the sedan. They drove rapidly away, the car turning at the first corner.

“Someone stop them!” cried the woman helplessly. “I haven’t the license number.”

No other automobile had taken up the pursuit, and indeed, considering the speed of the first car, pursuit seemed useless. Jimmy stepped forward.

“Excuse me,” he said to the woman. “I just took two pictures of the smash-up. The license number ought to show on the negative.”

“Then I could trace the men and have them arrested!”

“Yes,” nodded Jimmy, “and if they refuse to settle, my pictures will serve as court evidence.”

“Thank you, young man. Thank you,” the woman said gratefully. “I’ll be glad to pay you well for your work. How soon may I have the pictures?”

“In an hour. I’ll hurry home and develop them for you right away.”

The woman, Mrs. Clyde Montross of East Moreland Drive, gave Jimmy her engraved card. He, in turn, gave the woman his name and address. Without waiting for the arrival of the police, he hastened toward home in company with his friend, Jerry.

“That was a nice break for me,” he declared. “I should pick up five dollars at least for my pictures. And if the case comes to court I ought to get a witness fee, too.”

“How about selling your pictures to the Ledger?” asked Jerry.

“They wouldn’t be interested. Accident cases are too common.”

“It’s queer how those fellows drove off when someone spoke of calling the police.”

“Oh, they were afraid of being arrested, all right,” Jimmy agreed carelessly. “Well, so long, Jerry. See you later.”

They parted company and Jimmy entered a pleasant, white-painted cottage. His mother was baking cookies, while Joan, his twelve-year-old sister, was perched on the kitchen sink.

“Hello, Jim,” she sang out. “Did you get the job?”

He shook his head, helping himself to a handful of warm cookies.

“No, but I have a chance to pick up a little pocket money by selling some auto-crash pictures. I’m going to develop them now. Mother, I wish you’d tie Joan up so she doesn’t come barging into the darkroom when I’m half finished.”

“I’ll try to keep my eye on her,” Mrs. Evans promised, smiling. Mrs. Evans was a slender, gray-haired woman with kindly blue eyes and a pleasant disposition.

“Oh, go on!” said Joan, tossing her head. “Who wants to see your silly old pictures, anyway?”

Jimmy had taken over a large closet adjoining the bathroom for his photographic laboratory. In addition to a ruby and green lamp, developer and hypo trays, he had equipped it with a film drying machine and had built shelves to hold his chemicals, printing papers and general supplies.

He mixed fresh developer. Then, closing himself in the darkroom, he ran his films through the tray. The two pictures came up quickly. As he studied them beneath the red glow he was elated to see that they both would make good, clear prints. The license number of the black sedan showed plainly, as did the face of the heavy-set driver.

Jimmy had taken the films from the fixing solution and was washing them when Joan rattled the door knob.

“Oh, Jim! Are you about finished?”

“Listen, little half-pint, if you come in here now—”

“Who wants to come in?” she called in a longsuffering voice. “But you’d better hurry! A policeman is downstairs waiting to see you, and he says it’s important!”

CHAPTER II
A NEWS BREAK

Jimmy scarcely knew whether or not to take his sister seriously, but he quickly finished his work and stepped out of the darkroom. Gazing from the window at the end of the hall he saw a police cruising car parked by the curb.

He bounded down the stairway. Two blue-coated policemen were in the living room talking with his mother.

The sergeant arose, surveying him with an appraising glance. “You’re Jim Evans?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We want to talk to you about the auto accident at the corner of Summit and Clark. The lady who owned the blue sedan gave us your name as a witness. Said you took some pictures.”

“That’s right. I just finished developing them.”

“How did they turn out?”

“They’ll make good prints.”

“Do the license plates show?” asked the policeman.

“Yes. I snapped the hit-and-run driver, too, and his companion.”

“Let’s have a look at those films.”

Jimmy led the two policemen upstairs where they examined the wet films. For several minutes they studied the negatives in dead silence while the sergeant compared the car license number with several he had noted down in a little leather book.

“That black sedan was a stolen car,” he said. “Probably abandoned by this time.”

“The heavy-set bird looks like Legs Jovitch,” added the other policeman. “Can’t be sure from this film. Son, rush these through, will you? We’ll have prints made at headquarters.”

“I oughtn’t to take them out of the water for a minute or two yet,” Jimmy protested. “And they take quite a while to dry—”

“Push ’em through as fast as you can,” the sergeant interrupted. “I’ll telephone headquarters.”

As Jimmy worked in the darkroom with the second policeman at his elbow, he thought swiftly. While he wished to cooperate with the law, he didn’t like to relinquish the films and a possible opportunity to profit from them. Vaguely he recalled having read a newspaper story about Legs Jovitch being a notorious bank thief who had escaped from New York state police. Quite by luck he had come into possession of pictures which might pack a news punch.

“I’m glad to let you have these films except for one thing,” he said to the policeman. “I thought I might sell them to the Ledger.”

“Tell you what we’ll do. It’s against regulations but you can ride along to headquarters with us. We’ll have extra prints made there.”

“Suits me fine.”

“Now what do you remember about those two men?”

Jimmy provided the best description he could and was surprised that his mind as well as his camera had photographed so many details.

“Sounds like Legs, all right,” the policeman nodded. “The fellow with him may be Al Morgan—he’s wanted for shooting his way out of a bank down state.”

The films were partly dry by the time Sergeant Bedlow tramped back upstairs after making his telephone call.

“We have orders to proceed to Morewell Avenue right away,” he reported. “We’ll pick up those films later on.”

“You can take them now if you’re careful not to let them touch anything,” Jimmy replied quickly. “Want me to go along and handle them for you?”

“The boy figures on selling his pictures to the Ledger,” explained the other policeman. “I told him he could ride along with us and get some extra prints at headquarters.”

“Sure. Let’s go.”

Jimmy followed the two men from the house, not forgetting to tuck his miniature camera into his coat pocket.

“Jump in,” invited Sergeant Bedlow.

Jimmy climbed into the rear seat of the big sedan. He pinned the damp films to a chromium crossbar so that they would swing free.

The car left the neighborhood street and toured down Jackson Street to Florence Boulevard. Suddenly the sergeant slammed on the brakes, scrutinizing a black sedan without license plates which was parked at the curb.

“That looks like the same car!” cried Jimmy. “I remember the front bumper was partly torn away.”

The cruiser pulled up and the two policemen went over to look at the sedan. They made a systematic, unhurried inspection, finally locating the missing license plates hidden under the back seat.

“This is the car we’re looking for,” said Sergeant Bedlow. “Stolen two days ago from a party in the Heights.”

While the policemen went on with their methodical search, Jimmy snapped a picture of them standing beside the abandoned car. Their inspection completed, they made out a report and returned to the cruiser.

The car had not traversed a block when the radio under the dashboard came to life.

“Cruiser 6.... Calling Cruiser 6.... Proceed to corner of Dover and Jefferson. Two men reported in vicinity answering description of Jovitch and Morgan. Cruiser 6.... Cruiser 24.... Cruiser 12.... Calling....”

Sergeant Bedlow swung the wheel and turned the car around. They took the corner on screeching tires, heading for Dover and Jefferson streets, twelve blocks away.

A thrill of excitement ran down Jimmy’s spine. He leaned forward, watching the road. With siren wailing, they zoomed through red lights and passed all slow moving traffic.

Minutes later they swerved to a stop before a dilapidated frame building. A police car, a small coupe, was parked not a dozen yards away and a third, a big cruiser, careened into the narrow space beside them.

From inside the dwelling three shots rang out. There came an answering report.

“Keep down!” ordered Sergeant Bedlow sharply. And then to his companions: “Come on boys! We’ll run those rats out of there!”

As Jimmy crouched low, the policemen both leaped from the cruiser, revolvers drawn. But as they moved swiftly up the walk, the front door of the house swung open. The two men who had been in the black sedan were marched outside, escorted by police officers. The heavy-set one held his right arm which had been wounded.

Jimmy stared. Then, realizing that he was losing a grand opportunity, he sprang from the cruiser and focused his camera. His hand trembled as he opened the shutter. He had ruined the exposure.

Steadying his nerves, he quickly took a second and third picture. He finished with one at close range while the prisoners were being loaded into a police car, handcuffed to their captors.

“Well, son, you got some real pictures this time,” grinned Sergeant Bedlow.

“Are the men really Legs and Morgan?”

“If they aren’t, someone has made a bad mistake. Sure, they’re the ones, all right. Tried to shoot it out when they were cornered.”

Jimmy asked several questions about the brief gun battle, and then added:

“I want to rush my pictures straight to the Ledger office. How about those auto crash films? Will you need them now that you’ve caught the men?”

“No hurry if we do. Take them along. And if you’re heading for the Ledger we’ll drop you off there on our way to headquarters. Hop in!”

Jimmy needed no second invitation. He jumped into the cruiser again, and they sped back to the downtown section of Brandale. At the Ledger office, he leaped off, the precious films and camera held tightly in his hands.

The elevator shot him up to the third floor. Brushing past the receptionist who sought to halt him, Jimmy walked straight to Riley’s desk. The editor looked up, scowling.

“I have them!” said Jimmy. “Pictures with a real news wallop! Take a look at these films.”

The auto crash negatives had dried during the wild ride in the police cruiser. He slapped them down on Riley’s desk.

“What is this?” the editor asked wearily. “Another auto wreck? Now you ought to know we can’t use that stuff unless it has an unusual angle.”

“This has. The car was stolen—”

“Brandale has anywhere from six to a dozen taken each day.”

“But this car was driven by Legs Jovitch.”

“What?” demanded Riley.

“The other man is Al Morgan. They crashed into a car driven by a Mrs. Clyde Montross. After they abandoned their sedan, the police surrounded them in a rooming house on Jefferson street. Both were captured after an exchange of shots. Jovitch was wounded in the right arm.”

The news did not excite the editor as Jimmy had confidently expected. Riley looked interested but skeptical.

“Say, are you trying to pull a fast one on me?” he demanded. “We’ve had no such report here.”

“That’s because I was the only person on the scene except the police. A cruiser dropped me off here. You can check all my facts. And I have pictures of the capture undeveloped in my camera.”

Riley came to life.

“Higgins!” he bellowed to a reporter. “Get busy on the phone. Call the police station and find out if they’ve captured Legs Jovitch! Then get Mrs. Clyde Montross on the wire. Boy! Run these films into the photographic department and tell ’em to rush prints. Let’s have those other films, Evans.”

A reporter, hat pushed back on his head, came running breathlessly into the office.

“Big story, Chief!” he gasped. “Police have captured Legs Jovitch and Al Morgan! Haven’t been able to get all the details yet.”

“Here’s someone who can supply them,” barked Riley, jerking his head in Jimmy’s direction.

The newsroom had been thrown into confusion. Reporters clicked telephone receivers impatiently as they sought to speed calls. Miss Breen was sent to the morgue to locate clippings and photographs dealing with the unsavory history of the two notorious characters. Rapid fire orders went to the composing and photographic departments.

In an incredibly short time the finished prints were laid on Riley’s desk. He ran through them with a critical eye, throwing out those which he considered without merit. The others he marked for page one.

“Evans—” the editor’s voice held a note of respect. “You’ve rung the bell. We’ll give you twenty dollars for the lot.”

Jimmy smiled, and shook his head.

“Thirty, then. They’re good pictures. I won’t quibble.”

Jimmy reached for the prints.

“Say, what do you want?” Riley asked with biting sarcasm. “The Ledger building?”

“Only a little niche in it. A job.”

Riley’s face flushed an angry pink and the veins stood out on his forehead. Then, unexpectedly, he relaxed and laughed.

“You have your nerve, Evans! Holding me up like this.”

“I’m only following your advice,” grinned Jimmy. “Trying to use my head.”

“You’re using it all right,” muttered Riley.

“Do I get the job?”

“You do. Start tomorrow at eight in the photographic department under Fred Orris. Twenty-five dollars per week. You’ve made a spectacular beginning, Evans, but I’m giving you fair warning. Follow it up with good steady work if you expect to remain on the Ledger payroll!”

CHAPTER III
COVERING THE FIGHT

The late afternoon and night editions of the Ledger carried Jimmy’s pictures on the front page, giving prominent space to his eye-witness account of the Jovitch-Morgan capture. At the Evans cottage there was high jubilation, and until long after midnight neighbors dropped in to congratulate him upon his success.

Yet as Jimmy entered the newspaper office at a quarter to eight the next morning, he had a feeling that already both he and his pictures were forgotten. As he passed through the news room, only a few reporters turned their heads to regard him with curious stares.

In the photographic department adjoining the wire-photo room, a man in a rumpled shirt sat with one leg thrown carelessly over the edge of a desk. Jimmy approached him hesitantly.

“Are you Mr. Orris?”

“No, I’m Joe Wells, just another flunky around this joint. Fred will be along any minute. I take it you’re the flashy kid Riley was raving about yesterday?”

“Raving at, you mean,” grinned Jimmy. “He didn’t like the way I held him up for a job.”

“Nuts! Riley always bellows, but he never holds it against a fellow for standing up to him. Now Orris is different.”

The photographer arose and stretched himself. “Your name is Evans, isn’t it?”

“Yes, they call me Jimmy mostly.”

“Jimmy is all right, but you need a niftier moniker than that. Something with a little snap. I have it! Flash! That fits you like a glove! Flash Evans! How’s that, kid?”

Jimmy hardly knew what to make of the liberties so freely taken with his name but he smiled at the older man as if a favor had been conferred upon him. And strangely enough, the nickname “Flash” stuck, so that within a short time he answered to it as readily as he did to his own.

“You were speaking of Orris,” Wells went on, discreetly lowering his voice. “When that fellow reads you the riot act you say ‘yes, sir,’ and click your heels together like a little gentleman. Not that he isn’t usually right. Orris is a good photographer himself and knows what he wants. You can’t pass off any dud pictures on him.”

“I’ve a lot to learn and I’ll need to learn it quick. I can see that.”

Wells nodded absently. “While you’re waiting for Orris, I’ll show you around,” he offered. “Over there is our portrait parlor where we mug the publicity seekers. We have a pretty fair darkroom.”

He went ahead, snapping on the electric lights, Jimmy’s eyes kindled as he gazed about. The Ledger darkroom was one of the best equipped he had ever seen, with long, chip-proof tanks of seamless, stainless steel and a foot-controlled treadle light to prevent any shock from wet hands.

“You’ll be expected to develop and print most of your own films,” said Wells. “Had much experience?”

“Not with deluxe equipment like this.”

“You’ll soon catch on. This is the electric dryer. Now I’ll show you the different printing papers we use and how we mix our chemicals—”

An outside door had slammed. A thin, hollow-cheeked man came into the photography room.

“There’s Orris now,” volunteered Wells.

He waited until the head photographer had removed his overcoat, and then took Jimmy over to meet him.

“Orris, this is Flash Evans.”

The older man smiled briefly upon hearing the nickname and studied Jimmy with concentrated attention.

“Good morning, Evans,” he said coldly. “You did a fine job yesterday in getting those Jovitch-Morgan pictures.”

“Thanks.”

“I hope you keep up the good work,” Orris resumed curtly. “I hardly need tell you that past deeds don’t count around here. A photographer must deliver the goods and deliver it every day. Ever handle a Speed Graphic?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wells will give you your equipment and tell you anything you want to know about the routine. You’ll work the day shift except on special assignment. When a big story breaks everyone is expected to be on call. You take orders from the city editor.”

Flash spent a half hour examining his camera equipment and learning the office routine. He liked Joe Wells and Blake Dowell, another photographer to whom he was introduced, but he could not rid himself of a feeling that Fred Orris had taken a deep dislike to him.

“Oh, Orris hates everyone, even himself,” Wells confided in the privacy of the darkroom. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll treat you right if you turn out good pictures.”

On his first assignment, a convention at the Hotel Brandale, Flash worked with Joe Wells, and everything went smoothly. His pictures, while not in any way spectacular, were clear and properly focused. Fred Orris merely nodded and offered no comment when he examined them.

In the afternoon Flash was called to Riley’s desk.

“Get down to the Y.W.C.A.,” the editor ordered. “They’re giving a water carnival. We want a snappy picture of some girls.”

Flash caught a street car farther downtown. He was nervous over the assignment, but he need not have been. Upon arriving at the Y.W.C.A. building everything was made easy for him. He merely said, “I’m Evans, from the Ledger,” and a kindly, white-haired lady who was the publicity director, took him in charge.

A dozen swimmers were waiting in the tank room. Flash had only to pose the girls on the diving board, set up his tripod and snap three flash-gun pictures.

Hurrying back to the newspaper office, he ran the films through the darkroom, and when the glossy prints were ready, offered them to Orris.

“Not bad,” the photographer said, “only you could have posed the girls better. Where are the names?”

“Names?”

“You can’t run a picture without names,” said Orris with biting emphasis. “If a reporter isn’t sent along with you, you’re expected to get them.”

His confidence somewhat shattered, Flash hastened to a telephone. After endless trouble, he obtained the names and succeeded in properly tagging the girls in the picture.

“I don’t think I’ll last long on this job,” he confessed gloomily to Joe Wells.

“Sure, you will, Flash. In a few days you’ll learn the routine.”

Flash was grateful for the help and friendly advice which the photographer gave him. During the next few days his work gradually showed improvement. He became more confident, and Orris seldom had occasion to offer criticism.

Then Friday afternoon as he was ready to leave the office, Riley called him to the desk. Flash’s pulse hammered. He was almost certain the city editor meant to tell him he was fired.

“Evans, how about doing some extra work tonight?” Riley asked. “We’re short of photographers and I need a good picture of the Gezzy-Brady fight at the armory.”

“I’ll be glad to go,” said Flash in relief.

He telephoned home, then had supper at a café across from the Ledger office. A full hour before the fight was scheduled to start, he carried his equipment to the armory, setting it up close to the arena.

The building began to fill. Other photographers and reporters from various newspapers began to take their ringside seats. Among the late arrivals were Luke Frowein and Clyde Deems, both veteran photographers for the Globe.

A sports writer from the Ledger slumped into the empty seat beside Flash.

“Wouldn’t waste many films if I were you,” he said with a yawn. “Gezzy is expected to take the kid in three or four rounds.”

By fight time the armory was packed. The buzzing rumble of the crowd arose from behind a blanket of murky tobacco smoke. A gray-shirted referee climbed into the ring to test the ropes.

With tolerant good humour the crowd sat through the first two preliminary bouts, but when the third dragged itself out into a clinching match, the customers began to call impatiently:

“Give us Gezzy! We want Brady!”

At last the main bout was brought on and Flash watched the ring with alert attention. He took only one picture during the first three rounds because the experienced Gezzy made the youngster look very bad. The older fighter feinted him out of position, made him miss by wide margins, and kept up a steady tattoo of stinging left jabs which had Brady bewildered.

And then it happened! The writers said the next day it was only a lucky punch, but Brady connected with a slashing left hook to the point of Gezzy’s chin. The older boxer folded at the hips and toppled to the canvas in a limp heap.

Flash clicked his camera just as the blow landed. He took another shot as Gezzy made a pathetic attempt to struggle to his feet at the count of ten. The fighter fell back and rolled over, his face ashen and still in the blinding glare of the ring lights. Flash got a shot of that, too.

Elated at his success, he pushed his way through the milling crowd to the street. He was jubilant over the streak of luck which had turned an ordinary assignment into a big story.

“Riley can’t do any kicking this time,” he thought. “I ought to have four dandy pictures.”

Back at the newspaper office he closed himself into the darkroom and placed his films in the developing tank. He set the timing clock. When it went off he removed the films. Eagerly he studied the first one under the ruby light.

For a minute Flash could not believe his own eyes. The film was dark! Not a single detail was visible.

With frantic haste he examined a second film, and the remaining two. Every one had been over-exposed.

Weakly, he sagged against the wall, nearly overcome by the disaster which confronted him. Every film ruined! An icy feeling of dread trembled along his nerves.

“But how could I have done it?” he muttered. “Must have figured my lighting wrong.”

After several minutes he opened the door and stepped out into the blinding light. Joe Wells, who also had been on a special night assignment, was putting away his camera. He stared curiously at Flash.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look sick.”

Flash showed him the blank films and explained what had happened.

“This is a tough break,” said Wells, “though you’re not the first photographer who has had the same experience. Know what it means?”

Grim-lipped, Flash nodded.

“Riley will fire me. My work hasn’t impressed him much anyhow.”

Wells stood looking at the black films, frowning thoughtfully.

“There’s just one chance,” he said, “a pretty slim one at that. Do you know Deems of the Globe?”

“Only when I see him.”

“Was he assigned to the fight tonight?”

“Yes, I saw him there taking pictures. But I don’t see—”

Wells did not bother to answer. Grabbing his hat, he started toward the door.

“You stay here,” he instructed. “Don’t tell anyone about those films until I get back! Deems is a friend of mine. If I can locate him in time, I may be able to save your job.”

CHAPTER IV
OLD HERM

Flash waited without hope for Joe Wells’ return. He did not know exactly what the photographer had in mind, but it was too much to believe that Clyde Deems, a rival photographer, would make the slightest effort to help him even if it were possible.

The door swung open. Wells came hurrying in to slap a photograph mailing envelope on the desk before Flash’s startled eyes.

“Got it!” he announced triumphantly. “Only one picture and it’s not of the knock-out. But it may be enough to save your job.”

Flash snatched up the envelope and examined the film eagerly. It was a good clear negative taken during one of the early rounds of the fight.

“Print it up before Riley starts yelping,” Wells instructed tersely. “He’ll squawk because you missed the knock-out, but he may not fire you.”

“Joe, how did you do it? I’ll never forget this favor.”

“Thank Deems, not me, Flash.”

“But I thought photographers were supposed to work entirely on their own.”

“That’s the general idea,” Wells nodded. “Mostly we do work alone, but now and then we give the other fellow a helping hand. Not a photog in the business who hasn’t been in a jam sometime in his life. And Deems is a good friend of mine.”

“I hope he doesn’t get into trouble on my account.”

“He won’t unless Luke Frowein spills the story.”

“Does Luke know?”

“Yes, he was in the darkroom at the Globe while I was talking with Deems. I didn’t know it until later. He ought to be decent enough to keep quiet.”

With Joe looking on, Flash rushed the picture through and sent it to the news room. He waited for the summons. It came.

“Is this the best you can do, Evans?” the city editor demanded. “We send you to get good fight pictures and you come back with one shot of the second round! What were you doing—sleeping?”

“I took some others,” Flash admitted lamely. “They weren’t clear enough to print.”

“If you expect to stay with the Ledger you’ll have to buckle down and do better.”

The editor glared and, writing a caption for the picture, tossed it into a wire basket.

A wave of relief passed over Flash. He wouldn’t be discharged, after all. At least, not before the end of the week. But he had been warned.

The next morning he received a curt reprimand from Fred Orris, and then the matter was dropped. Flash did not forget the way Joe had come to his aid. He made up his mind that if ever he had an opportunity he would return the favor with good measure.

Whenever he was not occupied with picture assignments, Flash puttered about the darkroom, trying to improve his skill in handling films. He spent hours at the public library, studying books on photography, and asking countless questions of Joe Wells.

One Sunday afternoon when the Ledger plant was closed, he went downtown with the intention of using the newspaper darkroom to develop a roll of his own films. As he stepped from the bus, he noticed Luke Frowein leaning indolently against a drugstore wall.

“Well if it isn’t Flash Evans!” the Globe photographer greeted him mockingly. “Covered any more fights?”

“No, I haven’t,” Flash answered with attempted good nature.

He passed quickly on, but the photographer’s remark both irritated and made him uneasy. He felt that Luke Frowein was not to be trusted. The man would like nothing better than to see him lose his job.

“He’s probably put out because the Globe missed the Jovitch-Morgan pictures,” thought Flash. “I’ll need to be on my guard.”

The Ledger building was deserted, for the night shift would not come on until four. Finding the front entrance locked, Flash went around to the rear. The freight elevator was not running. He climbed three flights of steps only to find the photography department locked. And he had neglected to obtain a key.

Disappointed, Flash decided he must do his work at another time. Then his gaze fell upon a time register attached to the wall. “Old Herm,” the watchman, should be along within the hour to sign in upon making his rounds of the building.

Taking a photography magazine from his pocket, Flash sat down on the steps to wait. He had finished the first article when he heard approaching steps. Turning his head, he saw a bent old man with white hair coming down one of the back corridors. Old Herm did not see him.

After a prolonged fumbling at a bunch of keys, the watchman fitted one of them into the time register and turned it.

“It’s the age! It’s the age!” he muttered. “They can’t trust a man to make his rounds, so they make him leave his callin’ card with one of these devil’s own machines. Tyranny, I calls it. Nothin’ but tyranny.”

Flash brought the old man out of his reverie by asking him if he could open the door into the photography department.

“And who are you?” Old Herm demanded suspiciously. “What business do you have in the building?”

“I’m Flash Evans, the new photographer. I have some work to do.”

The old man gazed sharply at the boy.

“You don’t look like a photographer to me. No, sir!”

He stared at Flash as if trying to bore a hole through him with his gimlet-like eyes.

“But there’s somethin’ familiar about you,” he said. “What’s your name again?”

“Evans.”