Things just kept getting better and better. Flash-burning paper? What secret could be passing hands and going up in, smoke, Ben wondered. The shutters rattled as quick as Ben could mash the button and crank the lever. There was a sort of iron-clad resolve in those picture-perfect features, something that, in Ben's experience, was much rarer than people thought. 

He watched a bushel of those papers slip from those slender fingers to Jacqueline's bag, and he wanted nothing more than to see what they said in that moment. The mystique was almost worth working for the old Nazi politician. Almost. It would be a relief to cover something, anything but another celebrity sex scandal, and for the pay, Ben could feel the excitement and the relief crackling in his fingers like electricity. 

Seeing her in the windows, framed by the frame and the viewfinder of Ben's camera, there was a look in those eyes like jewels that made Ben's heart sink. The anticipation turned to ashes in his mouth as sure as if it was that flash-paper in Jacqueline's purse, grimacing as he snapped a series of photos of the fellow's face and the shuttering of the blinds. 

Well. That was that, it seemed. 

Sweeping his head hither and thither to spy for any other possibly photographers, spotters, or voyeurs, only to find nothing, Ben sighed and sat himself on a nearby crate and fetched a cigarette from his pocket. A long and dejected draw filled his lungs. Another day, another dame, another goddamn scandal. It wasn't like Ben could blame her. It surely would beat getting frisky with that teutonic mummy that was her husband. 

An hour and a several cigarette butts later, the groan of distant sea-rusted hinges drew Ben's attention. Well, the foreman had stamina, it seemed. Ben huffed in a wry bemusement as he snapped one more photo of the lady and her slightest dishevelment before stuffing the camera away and tugging his hat low, ready to tail her wherever she went next. 

Rolling out ahead of her a ways, looking the part of a fellow just off the clock, Ben walked in the meandering swagger of a life-long Californian, helping himself to another smoke as he rolled through a mental checklist of his photos. He would, of course, need to see how many came out in development and where this wild chase took him next. For the time being, if even one in every three photos was solid enough to use, that was nearly a whole roll of evidence. 

If he wanted to milk Mr. Shultz for all the Deutschmarks he was worth, Ben could just sit pretty on the most incriminating photos until the time was right. While he had a nose for this kind of thing, there was more to he story. The papers, in particular, stuck to Ben's thoughts like fly paper. 

There wasn't much more to do but play it safe. No need to ruin a fellow's life over an incomplete narrative. While Mr. Schultz didn't seem the sort to lay hands on his wife, the man was still a Nazi, and a highly ranking, decorated one at that. Ben felt that if he provided these photos as they were, the foreman would vanish under the worst circumstance. He may be a lucky son of a bitch, but being green at the gills with a distant envy was no means to condemn the man to an incinerator.