“Major Hartgrove!” Flash exclaimed, reaching his side.
The army man stared at the young photographer in a dazed manner. He kept fumbling in his vest pocket, mumbling to himself.
“I was struck on the head.... My papers ... my wallet!”
“I don’t believe anyone struck you, Major,” Flash corrected. “You were in a wreck.”
“Don’t you think I know that much!” the army man snapped. “I was struck—struck over the head.”
It occurred to Flash that the Major might have been struck and robbed by the person he had observed slipping away into the darkness. But as the man began to mumble again, he reverted to his original opinion. The Major had been dazed by the terrific impact of the wreck and did not know what he was saying.
Flash tried ineffectively to pull away the heavy timbers which held the man fast.
“It’s no use,” he gasped at last. “I’ll bring help.”
Leaving the Major, he met two burly trainmen carrying lighted lanterns. With their aid he finally succeeded in freeing the army man. As he had feared, the Major was severely injured. One foot was crushed and his head had been wounded.
A doctor came hurrying up with an emergency kit. He gave the Major first aid treatment and ordered stretcher bearers to carry him to a waiting ambulance. Joe Wells also was given a hasty examination and transported to the hospital conveyance.
“May I ride along to town?” Flash requested the driver. “I have some pictures I ought to rush through to my paper.”
“Jump in,” the man invited. With a quick glance at the young man, he added: “You don’t look any too good yourself. Feeling shock?”
Flash sagged into the seat beside the driver.
“I’m feeling something,” he admitted. “I guess I’m all in.”
Until now excitement had buoyed him, and made him unaware of either pain or fatigue. He shivered. His teeth chattered from a sudden chill.
The driver stripped off his own topcoat and made Flash put it on.
“Better get yourself a bed at the hotel if you can,” he advised. “You’ll feel plenty in another hour.”
Flash shook his head. With pictures to be sent to theBrandale Ledger, he couldn’t afford to pamper himself. He had to keep going until his work was finished.
“Where is the nearest airport?” he questioned.
“We pass it on our way to Columbia.”
“Then drop me off there,” Flash requested.
A few minutes later he said good-bye to Joe Wells, promising to come to the hospital as soon as he could.
“Don’t fail,” the newsreel man urged, “there’s something I want you to do for me.”
At the airport Flash arranged to have his undeveloped film rushed to theBrandale Ledger. From the shipment he kept back only shots which he was certain would be of no use to the editor.
This important duty out of the way, he walked into town. There he dispatched a lengthy message, reporting to Riley such facts as he had been able to gather. Not until then did he allow himself to relax.
Already the town was crowded to overflowing with survivors of the wreck. Hotels, restaurants and the railroad station were jammed. Every available bed had been taken. Flash waited in line twenty minutes for a hot cup of coffee.
Battered and still chilled, he tramped to the hospital. Inquiring about Joe Wells and Major Hartgrove, he was relieved to learn that they both were doing as well as could be expected. After a long delay he was allowed to talk with the newsreel cameraman.
At sight of Flash, Joe’s face brightened.
“I thought you’d come,” he said. “Do you know what the doctor just told me? I’ll be laid up for weeks!”
“That’s a tough break, Joe.”
“Yeah. Flash, will you do me a favor?”
“You know I will.”
“Doyle’s expecting me to meet him at Indianapolis tomorrow morning,” Joe went on jerkily. “He has the sound wagon and all our equipment.”
“I’ll send him a telegram right away.”
The cameraman shook his head impatiently.
“Listen, Flash,” he said persuasively, “I want you to take my place. Meet Doyle and protect theNews-Vuepeople on the race pictures.”
“But I don’t know anything about newsreel work!” Flash protested.
“Sure you do,” Joe denied. “Doyle can help you a lot.”
“Riley is expecting me to get pictures for him.”
“You can do that, too. You won’t lose a thing by helping me out of this hole. It’s a big favor, I know, but you’re the only person who can swing it for me. What do you say?”
Flash hesitated briefly. Joe made it all sound very easy, but he knew it wouldn’t be. Any newsreel pictures he might take likely would be worthless. The journey on through the night to Indianapolis meant sheer torture. But he owed it to his friend to at least make the attempt.
“I’ll do it, Joe,” he promised. “I’ll do it for you.”
Pleased by Flash’s promise, Joe Wells quickly provided him with George Doyle’s Indianapolis hotel address, and offered such advice as he thought might prove useful.
“Doyle knows a lot about newsreel work and can help you,” he declared. “But you readily see the job is too big for him to handle alone. I’m frank to say he’s touchy and rather unpleasant at times. Don’t let that bother you.”
“I’ll be having enough troubles without doing any worrying about him,” Flash returned grimly.
“Well, good luck,” Joe said, extending his hand. “I may see you in Indianapolis. I’m getting out of here as soon as the doctor lets me.”
Flash left the hospital, somewhat bewildered by the rapid way his plans had been altered. While he had experimented with amateur newsreel photography and had studied it many months, he had no faith in his ability. Nor did he think that George Doyle would like the new arrangement.
Consulting time tables, Flash discovered that he never could reach Indianapolis by train. The wrecked streamliner had been the last one which would have arrived in time for the races. A passenger plane left the local airport at eleven that evening and by making his decision quickly he was able to get a ticket.
Morning found him, haggard and worn, standing at the desk of the Seville Hotel in Indianapolis. Nervously he glanced at the lobby clock. His plane had been delayed, held back by strong headwinds. He feared that George Doyle might have already left for the race track.
“Did you wish a room, sir?” the clerk inquired, regarding his unkempt appearance with disapproval. “We’re filled.”
“Do you have a George Doyle here?”
“Newsreel man?” the clerk asked in an altered tone. “Yes, I think so.”
He checked a card index and reported that the man occupied Room 704. Without telephoning to learn if Doyle were in, Flash went up to the seventh floor.
In response to his knock, the door was flung open. George Doyle, hat pushed back on his head, faced him with a frozen gaze.
“Well?” he demanded unpleasantly. “What do you want?”
“I guess you don’t recognize me. We met at Brandale. Remember the Bailey Brooks ’chute pictures—?”
“Oh, sure,” the man broke in, but his voice still lacked warmth. “Sorry I can’t stop to talk now. I’m just starting for the track.”
“Joe Wells sent me,” Flash said significantly.
Immediately the sound technician’s manner changed.
“Why didn’t you say so?” he asked, motioning for Flash to come into the bedroom. “How is Joe? Haven’t heard a word from him since the wreck. You weren’t on the same train?”
“Yes, I was. Joe’s leg is broken and he’s badly battered.”
“No chance then of his getting here today?”
“Not a chance.”
“This leaves me in a nice situation,” Doyle complained. “I can’t handle the job alone. I might know Wells would pull something like that!”
“I don’t think he broke his leg on purpose,” Flash returned dryly.
“Maybe not,” Doyle admitted, “but this was our big opportunity to make a showing. Now I might as well pack up and start back East!”
“Joe sent me to take his place. I don’t know how much good I’ll be, but here I am anyhow.”
Doyle had been nervously pacing the floor. He paused and stared at Flash.
“Joe sent you?” he repeated. “Do you know anything about newsreel work?”
“Not very much,” Flash admitted truthfully. “I’m a photographer for theBrandale Ledger. I can do what you tell me.”
“A lot of help you’ll be,” Doyle growled. “I need a good, experienced man.”
Flash began to lose patience. It seemed to him that Doyle had no interest in Joe Wells’ misfortune save as it affected him. His only thought was for himself and his work.
“If you don’t care to use me, that’s quite all right,” he said. “I have some pictures of my own to take.”
As he turned abruptly toward the door, Doyle stopped him.
“Wait a minute! Don’t be so touchy! I didn’t say I couldn’t use you, did I? If I decide to tackle the job I’ll need a helper. You may do.”
“Thanks,” said Flash ironically.
He had taken an intense dislike to Doyle. The man was conceited and disagreeable. But for Joe’s sake he would see the thing through.
“Had your breakfast yet?” Doyle asked in a more friendly tone.
“No, but I’m not very hungry. Still feeling the effects of last night, I guess.”
Doyle asked no questions about Flash’s experiences in the train wreck. It did not occur to him that the young photographer had undergone extreme physical discomfort in order to reach Indianapolis.
“Well, get shaved,” he said gruffly. “I’ll need to explain to you about the equipment. We haven’t much time.”
Flash borrowed a razor, and did not keep Doyle waiting long. They left the hotel, going directly to the garage where the green sound truck had been left. There the sound technician demonstrated theNews-Vueequipment, and seemed slightly reassured to discover that Flash knew a good deal about newsreel cameras.
“Maybe we can get by somehow,” he said gloomily. “Let’s roll.”
“Just as you say.”
Flash jumped into the sound wagon beside Doyle. On the seat he noticed a newspaper of the previous night. In screaming headlines it proclaimed: STREAMLINER WRECKED. 12 DEAD, 27 INJURED.
As the car shot out of the garage into blinding sunlight, he was able to read the finer print. His eye scanned the list of known dead. Seeing a familiar name, he gave a low exclamation of surprise.
“What’s wrong?” Doyle demanded, regarding him curiously.
“Nothing,” Flash answered. “It just gave me a shock—this list of the dead.”
“Someone you know?”
“You remember that fellow, Albert Povy?”
“Povy—I can’t seem to place him.”
“The man we both saw at Brandale. He was trying to buy Bailey Brooks’ parachute after the successful test.”
“Oh, sure,” nodded Doyle. “He wasn’t killed in the wreck?”
“His name is listed.”
Doyle guided the sound truck through traffic at a reckless pace, deliberately stealing the right-of-way from timid motorists.
“If Povy’s dead, then Bailey Brooks is out of luck,” he remarked in a matter of fact tone. “Too bad for him.”
“And for Povy, too,” added Flash dryly. “However, from what I’ve heard of the man, his death may not be such a great loss to humanity.”
“Mixed up in some sort of government scandal, wasn’t he?”
“I never did learn many of the details,” Flash admitted. “It was a funny thing, though. Joe and I saw him on the train. He didn’t remember us or, if he did, he gave no sign. He seemed especially interested in an army man, Major Hartgrove.”
“Interested?”
“Oh, it was only my idea. It struck me he might have boarded the train with the intention of watching the Major.”
“Well, if he’s dead he won’t do any more watching,” Doyle returned carelessly. “We’re getting near the main gate now. Let me have the passes.”
“What passes?”
“Didn’t Joe give them to you?” Doyle demanded, lifting his foot from the accelerator.
“He didn’t give me anything.”
The sound technician groaned. “Joe had all our credentials. You didn’t think they’d let us through the gate without proper identification?”
Flash had not given the matter a thought. “Won’t our truck get us by?” he asked.
“It may, but I doubt it. They’re not letting many sound outfits inside.”
“What will we do?”
“What can we do? If we’re questioned, we’ll have to put up a loud argument.”
The truck had entered dense traffic. It halted to await its turn to enter the grounds. Slowly the line moved up.
Shouting “News-Vue” in a loud voice, Doyle attempted to drive through the gate. He was promptly stopped.
“Not so fast, young man,” said the gateman. “Let’s see your passes.”
“Passes?” Doyle inquired innocently.
“You heard me,” retorted the gateman. “And don’t try any bluff.”
“See here, we don’t need any passes,” Doyle argued. “We’re newsreel men for theNews-VueCompany.”
“Can’t let you through without passes. Those are my orders.”
“Have a heart,” Doyle growled. “We did have passes, but we lost ’em. If we don’t get inside and locate our truck before race time, we’ll lose our jobs!”
“And I’ll lose mine if I disregard orders,” the gateman countered.
Doyle alternately argued and pleaded, but to no avail. The gateman remained firm. And at last he lost all patience.
“Pull out of line,” he ordered sharply. “You’re holding up these other cars.”
Angrily Doyle swerved the truck, parking it a short distance away. His eyes smoldered as he turned toward Flash.
“Joe certainly used his brain when he sent you here without credentials!” he muttered. “Now how are we to get those pictures? Any brilliant ideas, Mr. Evans?”
There was no mistaking the sarcasm in George Doyle’s voice. It was his nature to lash out at others whenever he was confronted with difficulties. This realization alone kept Flash from making an angry retort.
“I have no ideas, brilliant or otherwise,” he responded quietly. “Still, there ought to be some way to get the truck inside.”
“How?”
“Isn’t there an official around somewhere who might listen to our explanation?”
“And while we’re trying to find him the races will be underway. We may as well admit defeat and go back to the hotel.”
“Let’s wait,” urged Flash. “How about trying another entrance?”
Before Doyle could reply, two sound trucks bearing the name of a rival film company, rolled slowly past and halted. The technician recognized one of the men and hailed him jubilantly.
“Hello, Benny! Do a fellow a favor, will you? Tell the gateman we’re okay.”
“What’s the matter?” the other driver asked. “Can’t you get inside?”
“Lost our passes.”
“Now isn’t that too, too bad!” The rival newsreel man grinned wickedly as he shifted gears. “Never saw you before in my life, George. Watch for our pictures on the screen!”
The two drivers flashed their passes and drove on through the gate. Doyle glared after them, calling names under his breath.
Abruptly, Flash leaped to the ground. Without explaining to Doyle, he walked back to the entrance.
“No arguments,” the gateman forestalled him. “You can’t get through without a pass, and that’s final. Maybe you’re telling a straight story, but orders are orders.”
“Isn’t there someone around here who would have the authority to pass us into the grounds?” Flash asked.
The gateman shrugged. Then his gaze fastened upon a dignified man who was walking toward the gate.
“Mr. Hartman could do it,” he said. “You might talk with him.”
Flash approached the man, and quickly explained the difficulty. His straightforward manner impressed the official. He took a quick glance at theNews-Vuetruck and called to the gateman.
“It’s all right. Let them through.”
Doyle had no word of praise as Flash slid into the seat beside him.
“It’s almost time for the race to start,” he grumbled. “All the good places will be gone.”
While rival newsreel companies had had first choice for positions, Flash and Doyle still were able to park their truck so as to obtain an unobstructed view of Dead Man’s turn. Hurriedly they arranged their camera and sound equipment, having everything in readiness for the drop of the starter’s flag.
With a few minutes still to spare, Flash shot several pictures with his Graphic. He photographed a number of well known racers as they warmed up their cars in preparation for the five hundred mile grind.
Observing the previous year’s winner talking with a dark, foreign looking man who stood beside car 29, he snapped the pair together.
As the shutter clicked, the racer’s companion, turned angrily toward Flash. Then pulling his hat down low, he hastily retreated.
“Camera shy,” thought Flash. “I’ve seen that fellow before. But where?”
He was staring after the man when Doyle called to him. Quickly he walked back to theNews-Vuesound wagon. A policeman stood there, talking with the technician.
“Anything wrong?” Flash asked.
“There will be if you don’t get this truck out of here!” the policeman replied grimly. “You’re blocking the view of race officials.”
“What officials?” Doyle demanded belligerently.
“None of your smart talk,” the policeman returned. “Either show your permit or move out of here!”
“I can’t see that we’re blocking the judges’ view,” Flash interposed. “And we’re all set to shoot the start of the race. If we move now we’ll likely miss it.”
“Why be so tough?” added Doyle.
The policeman had shown visible signs of weakening. But at Doyle’s question, he became grim again.
“Get going!”
Arguments and explanations were useless. Once more the greenNews-Vuetruck rolled. This time Flash shared Doyle’s disgust. No other place was available which would offer them an unobstructed shot at Dead Man’s turn. It was at this point of the track where accidents most frequently occurred.
“If we can’t train our lens there we’ll miss all the good pictures,” Doyle said gloomily. “One site is as bad as another now.”
Looking over the big track, they finally chose a place at random. Scarcely had they set up their apparatus behind the railing when the first cars roared down the stretch.
“Start grinding!” ordered Doyle curtly.
Flash pressed a button which controlled a motor. The camera began its steady whirr.
Motor wide open, a car whizzed past and skidded around the turn. Flash kept his camera lens trained on the racers behind.
And then it happened!
Watching through the viewfinder, he saw a driver suddenly lose control. A car skidded toward the railing.
Flash’s instinct was to leap aside out of all possible danger, but he held himself to his post.
The car careened toward him. Racers directly behind could not swerve aside. There was a terrific crash as car after car piled on each other and went rolling. Two overturned on the track, and a third smashed against the fence. The fourth tore away a section not six yards from where Flash stood. A body hurtled through the air.
Horrified, but with nerves steady, Flash swung his camera to catch it all. He kept grinding until the crowd closed in about the wrecked car, blocking his view. A siren screamed.
“Get the ambulance!” Doyle yelled at him.
Flash shot the entire “clean up” scene, only delaying long enough to first obtain a few “still” shots of the wreckage for theBrandale Ledger. When track attendants had carried the injured from the field and had towed away the battered cars, he drew a deep sigh. He felt as weak as a rag, but at least he hadn’t wilted at the critical moment.
“Boy, we shot a picture that time!” Doyle exclaimed with his first show of enthusiasm. “If we had stayed with the other newsreel men, we’d have missed it!”
“The cop booted us into a lucky place, all right,” Flash agreed.
“No chance of our getting another shot like that today,” Doyle sighed. “We may as well take some crowd pictures and then try for ordinary fill-in stuff of cars coming down the stretch.”
They shifted locations twice, finally returning to a place at the railing not far from their original site. Both Flash and Doyle felt that they had experienced their big moment of the day. They anticipated no additional favor of luck, but it came when a second crash occurred close to where they had set up their equipment.
“What a day!” Doyle chuckled. “Now we’ll shoot the finish of the race and be done!”
They managed after considerable difficulty to squeeze into a hole near the finish line. Flash caught a picture of the race winner, weary and covered from head to foot with dust and oil, being congratulated upon his victory. The man was induced to speak a few words into the microphone.
“Now we’re through,” Doyle said in satisfaction. “I certainly didn’t miss any tricks! If the pictures turn out well, I ought to get a raise.”
They stowed their equipment away and edged the sound truck into the flow of traffic. Flash waited, expecting that Doyle would offer some word of praise. He waited in vain. The technician took the entire credit for the day’s work to himself.
As they neared the exit gate, they caught sight of two rival sound trucks.
“Hi, Benny!” Doyle shouted in a loud voice. “How did you do?”
“Terrible,” was the discouraged response. “We missed all the crashes.”
“I got everything,” Doyle boasted, “and I mean everything!”
During the ride back to the hotel, the technician remained in a high mood. Flash had little to say. He was tired, and in addition, bored by his companion’s smug boasting.
They stopped at the airport where Doyle previously had arranged for shipment of the cans of exposed film to theNews-Vueoffices. Flash made up a package of his best “still” shots for theBrandale Ledger. With that duty accomplished, his work was completed. At last he was free to enjoy his vacation.
“Well, good-bye,” he said, extending his hand to Doyle.
“Good-bye?” the man echoed in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“To find myself a bed,” Flash answered. “Then tomorrow I may go back to Columbia. I want to see how Joe is doing.”
“Oh, yes,” Doyle murmured, frowning. “I’ll have to drive over there myself tomorrow. Want to ride along?”
Flash hesitated. The matter of car fare was an item to be considered. Doyle certainly owed him free transportation if nothing more.
“Thanks,” he accepted. “I’ll be glad to ride along.”
But later, alone in his hotel room, he regretted the decision. He did not like George Doyle. And the technician had no use for him. The journey at best would be an unpleasant one.
Flash picked up a newspaper which he had bought on the street. The headlines were devoted to the auto races and the two deaths which had occurred. Already the train wreck story was old, buried on page two. However, a revised and final list of the known casualties had been reprinted. Again Albert Povy’s name appeared.
“I’m sure that fellow was on the train to shadow Major Hartgrove,” he mused. “But now—well, it doesn’t matter. The mystery, if any, has been blacked out by death.”
The long journey to Columbia proved less disagreeable than Flash had anticipated. For the most part, George Doyle attended strictly to his driving. True, he bemoaned the hard life of a newspaper cameraman, the ingratitude of his superiors. But by this time Flash had learned to expect a steady stream of complaint.
Reaching Columbia, they drove at once to the city hospital. Although the building still was overcrowded with patients, Joe Wells had been assigned to a private room.
They found him with his leg in a cast, propped up by pillows. He tossed aside a newspaper as they entered and grinned a welcome.
“It’s sure good to see a familiar face in this morgue,” he chuckled. “Sit down—anywhere except on the bed.”
“How are you feeling, Joe?” asked Flash.
“Not so hot,” he admitted, “but I’m getting out of here tomorrow if it means climbing down a fire escape. Tell me, how did you make out at the races?”
Doyle related their success, taking most of the credit upon himself. Joe listened with a tolerant, half-amused attitude.
“Where was Flash while all this was going on?” he inquired dryly.
“Flash?” Doyle was brought up sharply. “Oh, he was right at my elbow. He helped a lot.”
“I figured he might. You know, big stories and smash pictures always have a way of breaking around him. He’s better than a rabbit’s foot any day!”
“We were lucky yesterday,” Flash admitted with a grin. “Those auto crashes seemed to have been staged for our special benefit. I only hope the films turn out well.”
“How did you like the experience?” Joe asked curiously.
“It was exciting. Still, I can’t say I enjoyed it. Seeing two men go to their deaths—”
“I know,” Joe interrupted, “it shatters you, at first. That’s why so few men are any good as newsreel cameramen. But you have the stuff, Flash. Why don’t you take my job until I’m able to get around again?”
The abrupt question startled both Flash and Doyle. The latter could not hide a frown of displeasure.
“How about it, George?” Joe asked the soundman. “You’d like to have him work with you?”
“Oh, sure,” he replied without warmth. “Only I imagine district manager, Clewes, has a man hand-picked for the job.”
“Flash is on the spot. Another man would need to come here. I can send Clewes a wire.”
“Please don’t bother,” Flash said quietly. “This is my vacation.”
“It would be good experience for you.”
“I don’t doubt that, Joe. Perhaps, some other time I’ll try it.”
“Well, thanks anyway for pinch hitting,” the newsreel man replied gratefully. “That trip yesterday must have been quite a strain. You’re tough as a hunk of whang leather, Flash.”
A nurse entered the room to take a temperature reading. After she had gone, Joe turned to Doyle:
“Do me a favor, will you? Run over to the drug-store and buy me some tooth paste.”
Doyle left on the errand. As soon as his footsteps had died away, Joe motioned for Flash to draw his chair closer.
“Now we can talk,” he said comfortably. “What’s the real reason you don’t want my job? Doyle?”
“His attitude figures. He doesn’t like me. Working with him would be unpleasant.”
“You’ll get used to his grouching and boasting after awhile. I did. Why not give it a little whirl—while you’re on your vacation anyhow? It’s not easy, getting a chance to break into the newsreel game, and here it drops right into your lap. If you don’t like it, you can go back to theLedgerand no harm done. And another thing, the pay is much better.”
As Flash remained thoughtfully silent, Joe added: “If your pictures turn out well, Clewes may offer you the job on his own initiative. Don’t let Doyle’s personality stand in your way.”
“I’ll think it over. By the way, how is the Major?”
Joe jerked his head toward the wall behind the bed.
“They have him in the next cell,” he revealed in a low voice. “I’m telling you that old goof nearly drives me crazy.”
“Not out of his head?”
“You couldn’t prove it by me. He keeps that call bell ringing like a fire engine! Always wanting this and that. And visitors! If you ask me, the entire Intelligence Department of the Army has been here to see the Major.”
“Then he’s connected with the secret service?” Flash questioned in astonishment.
Joe raised himself on an elbow.
“I’m sure of it, although I never guessed it before. He thinks someone on the train deliberately cracked him over the head after the wreck. He claims the fellow tried to steal important papers he carried on his person.”
“That’s odd, Joe. When I helped him from the wreckage he kept mumbling something about being struck. I thought he was out of his head.”
“Maybe he still is, but he talks straight enough. These walls are like paper. I’ve heard him conferring with big-wigs of the Army. They’re out to get some fellow involved in an espionage plot against the government.”
“Who is he, Joe?”
“No names mentioned. I’ve been wondering if it might not be that man we saw in the club car.”
“Povy?”
Joe nodded. “He’s had the reputation of being mixed up in that sort of business. Nothing ever was proven against him though.”
“Povy seemed to be interested in Major Hartgrove on the train. But he couldn’t have been the one—”
Flash broke off quickly. George Doyle stood in the doorway.
Returning with the tooth paste, the sound technician had approached so quietly he had not been heard. His attitude was that of a person who suspected he was the object of discussion.
Conversation became general. Within a few minutes the two visitors took leave of Joe.
“I’m holing in over at the hotel,” Flash remarked. “Before I leave town I’ll drop around and see you again.”
“I’ll be here, too, until I hear from Clewes,” added Doyle. “So far I haven’t had any assignment.”
They shook hands with Joe, and quietly closed the door behind them. As they went down the hall, Flash could not keep from directing a curious glance toward Major Hartgrove’s room.
The door stood half open. A man in military uniform sat with his back to the corridor. Major Hartgrove, reclining in a wheel chair, also was plainly visible. As Flash stared at him, the Major returned the steady gaze.
“Someone you know?” asked Doyle.
“A man I helped at the time of the wreck,” Flash explained briefly.
As they passed on, the signal light over the Major’s door winked in rapid succession. Flash smiled, recalling Joe’s remark about the army man’s demand for constant service.
The two cameramen reached the elevator and were entering it when an attractive nurse came quickly after them.
“One moment please,” she requested in a muted voice.
They both waited. Doyle straightened his tie and twisted his face into a wasted smile. The pretty nurse gazed at Flash as she spoke.
“Major Hartgrove wishes to speak with one of you,” she said. “He doesn’t know the name. However, he means the young man who aided him in the wreck.”
“I guess that must be me,” acknowledged Flash. “My name is Jimmy Evans.”
“Then will you please come with me?”
The nurse turned and walked back down the corridor. Flash and George Doyle both followed.
“You didn’t tell me you were a hero,” the technician said jokingly. “Maybe the Major is going to pin a medal on your chest!”
At the door of Room 67, the nurse paused. She smiled apologetically at Doyle.
“Do you mind waiting outside?” she requested. “The Major expressly requested that he wished to see Mr. Evans alone.”
As Flash entered the bedroom, a stocky, middle-aged man in a captain’s uniform, turned to face him. He regarded the young man with an alert, penetrating gaze.
Major Hartgrove, his head and leg swathed in bandages, sat in a wheel chair by the window. He too appraised the visitor.
“You wished to see me, sir?” Flash inquired.
The Major nodded. “Captain Johns,” he said gruffly, “this is the young man I was telling you about. The photographer who pulled me out of the wreck. Your name—”
“Evans. Jimmy Evans.”
“I am pleased to meet you, sir,” Captain Ernest Johns spoke cordially and extended his hand. “So sorry I must be going. Another appointment. You will excuse me?”
Without waiting for a reply, he departed, carefully closing the door behind him. Clearly the speedy leave-taking had been prearranged.
“Sit down!” invited the Major abruptly.
His tone was so explosive that Flash jumped. He dropped into a chair opposite the army man.
“Evans,” said the Major, “I’ve tried to locate you ever since the night of the wreck. Where have you been hiding?”
“Indianapolis,” Flash returned, and explained how he had substituted as a cameraman for Joe Wells.
“So you’re a professional photographer?” inquired the Major. “Took a few pictures of the train wreck, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have they been published?”
“I couldn’t say. I sent some of my films to theBrandale Ledger. Haven’t had time to hear from my editor yet.”
The Major took a quick turn across the room in his wheel chair. He came back to the window again.
“If I remember correctly you shot a picture of me.”
“Of you?” Flash asked in surprise.
“A flash bulb went off just as I was trying to pull myself from the wreckage.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” Flash nodded. “I doubt if that picture will be much good. I didn’t send it with the others.”
The Major relaxed in his chair.
“You still have it?” he demanded.
“Yes, but I haven’t had time to develop the film yet.”
“How long will it take?”
“Why, I don’t know,” Flash replied. “I have no developing outfit with me. I could send it to a local newspaper—”
“Not to a paper,” Major Hartgrove interrupted. “To a studio where photographic work is done. I’ll want no publicity.”
Flash smiled, rather amused by the army man’s assured way of giving orders.
“As soon as the film is developed, bring it to me,” the Major resumed. He hesitated, and then added: “Under no circumstances must that picture be published until after I have seen it. You understand?”
“I hear,” responded Flash dryly. “I can’t say I understand. After all, I’m a professional photographer. If a picture has news value it’s my duty to publish it unless I have a mighty good reason for doing otherwise.”
The Major made a rumbling noise in his throat.
“Young man, a hint to the wise is sufficient. There are certain things I am not in a position to explain. However, great harm might result if that picture were printed. I wish to make it clear that if you disregard my wishes, you may find yourself in trouble with the government.”
“I doubt if the picture would be worth it, Major. However, I’ll try to cooperate with you.”
“I am glad that you are taking a sensible attitude,” the army man returned. “I assure you the picture has no value save to myself and possible enemies. Upon second thought, you are to bring the film to me undeveloped.”
Again Flash smiled. The Major mistook his silence for consent.
“Where is the film now?” he questioned.
“In my luggage.”
“Then please bring it to the hospital without delay,” the army man requested in dismissal.
Flash walked to the door. There he paused.
“Oh, by the way,” he said carelessly, “did you ever learn who it was that struck you over the head?”
Major Hartgrove made a swift turn in his wheel chair.
“What was that?” he demanded.
Flash repeated the question.
“You’re mistaken, young man,” the Major snapped. “No one struck me. What gave you that idea?”
“Merely your own words. When I helped you from the wreck you muttered that someone had struck you and taken your wallet.”
“Then I was dazed. I may have been hit by a falling timber when the car was derailed. Nothing was stolen from me. An absurd notion!”