Carefully, to avoid the slightest scratch, he lowered it into the tank and kept the water moving. In an agony of hope and suspense he watched as a faint image began to appear on the negative. He had something, but would it turn out to be only a blur?
“Coming up clear and fast!” he exulted, a moment later. “It’s going to be a beaut!”
The faces of the three men all had been turned squarely toward the camera. And the focus was perfect.
Flash watched the film closely, removing it from the developer at exactly the right instant. He saw it through the hypo tank, and gave it a longer washing than usual.
“A perfect negative!” he congratulated himself in a glow of pride. “Not a streak or a scratch! Won’t even need to touch it up.”
While the film was drying Flash developed the picture he had taken in the restaurant. For purposes of identification it was worthless, but he did not need it now. His picture taken in the basement of the Fenmore warehouse should be sufficient to tag the three men.
As an afterthought, Flash decided to develop the negatives of the Tower building. They turned out surprisingly well.
“This seems to be my big night,” he chuckled.
Nevertheless, the fine shots, which an hour before would have thrilled him, now brought only a mild feeling of pleasure. From an artistic standpoint the pictures could not be improved, but they lacked news value. The arson shot was the one which would ring the bell with Riley and Dan Dewey. And it might bring about the capture of the wanted men.
Behind Flash a latch clicked ever so softly. Deeply engrossed in his work, the young photographer failed to hear the sound. Nor did he notice that the door had opened a tiny crack, for the photographic department was as dark as the room in which he stood.
Oblivious of danger, he bent over the tanks, shifting his film to the water. His head throbbed from the cut he had received. But until this moment he scarcely had been aware of any discomfort. Now that his work was finished, he thought he would bathe the wound and clean himself up a bit.
Behind him, a board creaked. Every muscle taut, Flash whirled to see a dark figure looming in the doorway.
“Who is it?” he demanded sharply. “That you, Wells?”