“Oh, I see,” said Flash. “My mistake, Major.”
Without waiting for a reply he went out the door, softly closing it behind him.
George Doyle had remained at the elevator.
“Well, did the Major make you a pretty little speech of gratitude, Flash?” he inquired curiously.
“He made me a speech. Period.”
Doyle pressed a button and the automatic elevator descended to the lower floor.
“What was it all about?” he probed.
Flash had no intention of confiding in the technician and so made an evasive answer. Doyle took the hint, but he lapsed into sullen silence as they walked back to the parking lot where the sound truck had been left.
“Where are you going now?” he inquired, watching Flash gather up his camera and luggage.
“The hotel. I think I’ll stay here a day or so and rest up before I start back to Brandale.”
“I may hole in myself,” Doyle responded. “I gaveNews-Vuethis town as my address. I’m stuck here until Clewes sends me orders. I’ll probably be seeing you at the hotel.”
“Well, if we shouldn’t meet again, good-bye and good luck with your pictures.”
“Same to you.”
They shook hands with a show of cordiality and parted company. Flash was glad to be done with the pretense. He never could like George Doyle and was relieved to escape from him. Doubtlessly, the technician felt the same way about him.
At the corner, beyond Doyle’s view, Flash paused. Opening his handbag, he removed the holders which held all the exposed films still in his possession.
“Wonder why the Major is so anxious to see that picture of himself in the wreck?” he mused. “At the time I snapped it I didn’t think I had anything. Maybe I was wrong.”
Deeply puzzled, he could not guess why the picture had any special significance. Yet he shrewdly reasoned that Major Hartgrove would not bother to obtain the negative save for a very particular reason.
The army man’s assured way of expecting his orders to be obeyed without question annoyed Flash. Obviously, the Major had sought to confuse him by contradicting his first story that he had been struck over the head by an assailant.
“I’ll have the film developed and see what all the shooting is about,” he decided. “Then maybe I’ll deliver it to the Major, and maybe I won’t.”
Walking along Main street, Flash presently came to a small photographic studio. Entering he spoke to the owner, Mr. Dee.
“I have some films here to be developed and printed. How soon may I have them?”
“Tomorrow.”
“This is rush work. I’ll be glad to pay extra but I need them right away.”
“Make it three hours, then,” replied the photographer.
“I’ll be back for them later,” nodded Flash.
He walked on two blocks to the Columbia Hotel. The lobby was crowded. In response to his inquiry for a single room, the clerk shook his head.
“We’ve been filled to overflowing ever since the train wreck. Folks coming to see their relatives in the hospital, you know. For a while we were selling cot space in the halls.”
“No chance then?”
“We did have a double room but it was assigned a few minutes ago. If you don’t object to sharing it, I could put you in there. The young man who occupies it isn’t much over your age, and is very respectable, sir.”
“How about him complaining?”
“He took it with the understanding he might be compelled to double up. The room has twin beds.”
“All right, I’ll take it,” decided Flash.
A boy conducted him up two flights of stairs, through a dingy hallway. He knocked and opened the door of Room 42. Flash stepped inside.
At the writing desk sat George Doyle. They stared at each other.
“I seem to be your new roommate,” said Flash at last. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not. Come on in.” Doyle spoke with an attempt at friendliness. “Wait, I’ll take my junk off the bed.”
He arose and carried an armload of garments into a near-by closet.
The bellboy opened a window. An unexpected gust of wind carried a sheet of paper from the writing desk. Flash stooped to pick it up. A name caught and held his attention. It was his own.
Without meaning to read what Doyle had written, he saw the entire paragraph at a glance:
“... rid of that pest, Evans at last. If you put in your application without delay, you should get Wells’ job, and hold it permanently.”
Without reading further, Flash replaced the letter on the desk. Scarcely had he moved away, when George Doyle stepped from the clothes closet. He glanced sharply at the young photographer, but Flash’s face gave no indication that anything was wrong.
Doyle removed the remaining garments from the bed. Then, walking quickly to the desk, he picked up the letter, and thrust it into his pocket.
“Don’t let me interrupt you if you’re busy,” Flash remarked.
“I was only writing a letter to a pal. I’ll finish it another time.”
The bellboy pocketed Flash’s tip and left the two together. A constrained silence settled between them. Flash began to unpack his shirts and socks.
“Staying long in Columbia?” Doyle inquired after an awkward moment.
“A day or two, perhaps.”
Flash spoke shortly. Doyle glanced at him curiously, aware that for some reason he was offended.
For the next few minutes the technician made a special effort to be agreeable. Flash could not respond. He felt that the man’s sudden friendliness was only a pose.
“Doyle has no honor,” he thought. “Instead of being loyal to Joe, he’s scheming to install a friend in his job. Between them they’ll arrange it so that Joe never does get his place back again.”
The telephone jingled. Doyle answered, and learning that a telegram had arrived for him, ordered it sent up.
“It must be from theNews-VueCompany,” he remarked. “My boss is the only one who knows where to reach me.”
The telegram was brought to the door. Doyle ripped open the envelope. With feet propped on the foot of the bed, he read it and chuckled.
“It’s from Clewes himself.”
“District manager of theNews-Vue?” Flash recalled.
“That’s right. The auto race pictures turned out great. When Clewes wastes money on a congratulatory telegram you know you’ve hit the bull’s eye!”
Flash could not help feeling elated that his first work as a newsreel cameraman had been successful. He waited for Doyle to read the telegram aloud or offer it to him. Instead, the technician stuffed it into his pocket.
“I’m going to jog downstairs and get something to eat,” he said genially. “Coming along?”
“No, thanks.”
After Doyle had gone, Flash flung himself on the bed, relieved to be left alone. He wanted to think.
Although annoying, it didn’t really matter that Doyle belittled his efforts and withheld praise. What worried him was the letter he had read by accident. Should he warn Wells that the technician was trying to transfer theNews-Vuejob to a friend? And what could Joe do about the matter? Nothing. It would only serve to make him uneasy.
Flash could see only one solution, and that, not to his liking. Still thinking the matter over, he arose, washed, and scribbled a hasty letter to his mother.
Deciding not to mail it in the hotel box, he walked to the post office. As a matter of routine, he asked if any mail had arrived for him, general delivery.
Thumbing through a thick stack of mail, the post master proffered a thin envelope bearing the name of theBrandale Ledger.
As Flash eagerly opened the letter, a crisp new bill fluttered to the floor. He picked it up and saw that it represented twenty dollars. The letter was from City Editor, Riley. Scattered phrases seized his eye:
“... Your train wreck pictures scooped the East.... shots of the Indianapolis races best we’ve run in years.... Congratulations on the excellent work! Accept this twenty dollars as a bonus, and have a good time on your vacation.”
Flash pocketed the money and read the letter twice. At least Riley appreciated his work even if George Doyle didn’t! He was glad to know that all his pictures had turned out well. A big load had been lifted from his mind.
Leaving the post office, Flash glanced at his watch. Two hours had elapsed since he had left the undeveloped camera films at Mr. Dee’s photographic studio. He wandered slowly about for a half hour longer and then dropped into the establishment.
“Your pictures are ready,” the photographer said, offering him the packet. “However, I’m afraid you’ll not be very well pleased. Only two of the prints came out well.”
“I didn’t expect much from them,” Flash replied. “I hope you printed them all.”
“Yes, I did.”
Flash paid the bill, and took the prints over to a window. Running rapidly through them he came to the picture which Major Hartgrove had requested.
There was nothing so very startling about it. Major Hartgrove appeared as an unrecognizable, shadowy figure, with his face half turned away from the camera. But as Flash studied the scene carefully, he distinguished the faint outline of another form—a man slipping away into the darkness.
“I wonder if that might not have been the person who ran when I called to him!” he reflected. “It might be the same man who struck Major Hartgrove and tried to rob him.”
By this time Flash no longer doubted that the army man had been the object of an attack. What the mysterious assailant had been after he could not guess, unless the Major had carried valuable military plans or other documents upon his person. Certainly no ordinary thief had been responsible for the assault.
“I would think Povy might have had a hand in it,” he mused, “only Povy was killed in the wreck. So he’s out.”
To make certain no mistake had been made in the records, Flash decided to investigate further the following day. While very unlikely, there was still a chance that Albert Povy’s name had been listed by mistake.
“The Major won’t learn much from this picture,” he thought. “But it’s no good to me. I’ll take it around tomorrow just to keep him from breaking a blood vessel.”
Rapidly he glanced at the remaining prints. The pictures taken at the auto races were only moderately good, and without news value.
With a shrug, he pocketed the envelope and returned to the hotel where he dined and went to bed early.
He did not hear Doyle come in, but when he awoke in the morning, his roommate already was up and dressed. The technician stood by the window, looking over the prints which Flash carelessly had left lying on the dresser.
“These aren’t such hot shots,” he commented, observing that Flash was awake.
“Just some of my bad ones. I study them to learn my mistakes.”
“Ambitious, aren’t you?” Doyle’s lip curled in amusement. “This one of Rascomb is the best of the lot.”
Flash rolled out of bed.
“Rascomb?” he questioned. “Who’s he?”
Peering over Doyle’s shoulder he saw that the man was gazing at an auto-racing picture. It was a shot of one of the drivers talking with a distinguished looking individual in street clothing.
“That’s Rascomb,” identified Doyle, jabbing at the figure with his thumb. “You see him at most of the big sporting events.”
“Never even heard of him. But I thought there was something familiar about his face! Still, I can’t remember ever having seen him before the day of the races.”
“Rascomb has plenty of dough,” Doyle remarked enviously. “Swell car, a plane of his own, even his own private landing field. He’s a good polo player and has a hunting and fishing lodge up in the north woods. The news lads always give him favorable publicity, and he returns the favor with invitations to his lodge.”
“Have you ever been there?” Flash inquired curiously.
“No, but the fellows who have gone tell me he’s a wonderful host. Gives you everything.”
Flash dressed leisurely. As he combed his hair, he saw through the mirror that Doyle was watching him with a peculiar, speculative expression.
“Any plans for this morning, Flash?” he inquired casually.
“None in particular. I thought I would go over to the hospital. Would you like to come along?”
Doyle shook his head. He seemed relieved by Flash’s answer.
“No, I’ll be tied up all morning. I want to check over my sound equipment and get ready to roll when my new assignment comes through. Tell Joe hello for me.”
Flash ate breakfast and reached the hospital in time for the ten o’clock visiting hours. The door of Major Hartgrove’s room stood ajar. But the bed was empty and attendants were stripping off the linen.
A nurse was passing in the hall. Flash stopped her and inquired where he would find the Major.
“You are too late,” she replied. “Major Hartgrove left the hospital early this morning.”
Flash went on to Joe Wells’ room. He had made up his mind not to tell his friend of George Doyle’s treachery. However, when Joe again urged him to take the newsreel job for at least a month, he gave the matter rather serious consideration.
“The only reason I might do it would be to protect you, Joe,” he replied. “If I held the post until you were up and around again, no one could steal it from you.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t happen,” his friend responded carelessly. “I have a good stand-in with theNews-Vuepeople.”
“Even so, you can’t tell what will happen these days,” hinted Flash.
“Then will you take the job if I can land it for you?”
“I’ll not promise yet, Joe. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll wire Riley and see what he says. I can’t afford to jeopardize my own place on theLedger, you know.”
The matter was allowed to rest. Leaving the hospital before the visiting hours were over, Flash dispatched the telegram, and then returned to the hotel.
As he passed through the lobby he was surprised to see George Doyle sitting in a near-by chair, his back turned. He was talking earnestly with an alert-eyed, gray-haired man of forty.
Instantly it struck Flash that Doyle had wished to have him away from the hotel at the time of an anticipated interview. Impulsively, he crossed the room, intending to test out his theory by speaking to the technician.
Doyle did not see him approach. As Flash paused just behind the upholstered chair, he arose and extended his hand to the man who faced him.
“I’m glad you liked my work,” he said heartily. “And I’m sorry about Evans. He’s given me to understand he wouldn’t be interested in any proposition.”
Flash stepped forward into George Doyle’s view. The soundman saw him and lapsed into confused silence.
“Sorry. I couldn’t help hearing,” Flash apologized. “I don’t mind saying I’m curious about this proposition which wouldn’t interest me.”
“You’re not Flash Evans?” inquired the stranger before Doyle could find his voice.
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Flash, this is our district manager, Mr. Clewes,” Doyle said unwillingly. “We were just speaking of your fine work at Indianapolis.”
“Yes,” nodded Mr. Clewes, “as I mentioned in my telegram, those pictures were the best we’ve had in months! The sound effects were fairly good, too.”
Flash glanced at Doyle who shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another.
“Thank you, sir,” he said politely to the district manager. “I didn’t happen to see your wire.”
Mr. Clewes gazed questioningly at the sound technician.
“I repeated the contents to him,” Doyle said defensively.
Ignoring the technician, Mr. Clewes turned to Flash again.
“Howard Brandiss, who heads our company, was much impressed by your work. When he saw the crash films run through he said to me: ‘Fly down to Columbia and sign that photographer on the dotted line before some other company gets him.’ But Doyle here tells me you wouldn’t be interested in any proposition we might offer.”
“Flash already is employed by theBrandale Ledger,” Doyle broke in hurriedly. “He’s on his vacation now. I understood him to say he wouldn’t consider working for a newsreel concern.”
“I’m afraid your hearing was almost too acute,” Flash said pleasantly. “Either that or I gave the wrong impression.”
“Then you are interested?” Mr. Clewes asked quickly.
“Not in a permanent job. I might consider filling in a month for Joe Wells. That is, if Mr. Riley has no objection.”
“And who is Mr. Riley?”
“My editor on theBrandale Ledger.”
“I am sure we can arrange everything to his satisfaction,” said Mr. Clewes. “And I respect you for being loyal to your employer. If you are unwilling to leave theLedger, we should not try to convince you otherwise. Nevertheless, after a month of newsreel work, you may decide you prefer it to your newspaper position.”
“That’s quite possible, sir.”
Dismissing Doyle with a curt nod, Mr. Clewes drew Flash aside. For a half hour they talked together, discussing salary and matters of general routine. The district manager then insisted upon placing a long distance telephone call to Riley of theBrandale Ledger.
He stepped from the booth, smiling broadly.
“Everything has been arranged. Mr. Riley says you may work for us, providing we don’t try to steal you away from him at the end of the month.”
“I aim to go back to Brandale when my vacation is over,” Flash insisted. “My home is there.”
Mr. Clewes gazed about the lobby in search of Doyle. The technician had slumped down in a chair in front of the fireplace. He came over as the district manager motioned to him.
“Doyle, meet your new partner. You two will continue to work together.”
The technician’s face twisted into a strained smile.
“Glad Mr. Clewes was able to persuade you when I couldn’t,” he said to Flash. “We’ll get along fine.”
The district manager glanced at his watch. “I have fifteen minutes to catch my plane,” he declared hurriedly.
“How about our next assignment?” asked Doyle.
“I was coming to that. No news of special importance is breaking in this section of the country right now. Your instructions are to start East again. Stop off at Melveredge Field and try to get shots of the new bombing plane which is being tested there.”
“Try is right,” grumbled Doyle. “That place is so surrounded by barbed-wire red tape a newsreel man couldn’t cut his way through in a month. How about permits?”
“News-Vuewill endeavor to make the necessary arrangements. Even if you can’t obtain pictures of the bomber, you should be able to get routine maneuvers. Do the best you can. Further orders will be forwarded to you at the Clarinda Hotel.”
Mr. Clewes shook hands with both Flash and Doyle, and hastened to his taxi. In silence, the two newsreel men went to their room. They began to pack.
“This is a poor assignment,” Doyle complained, jamming shirts into his bag. “We’ll waste a lot of time at Melveredge Field, fail to get the pictures, and then be reprimanded for our pains.”
“Mr. Clewes must think we have a chance or he wouldn’t send us.”
“Us,” said Doyle with biting sarcasm. “A lot of good you’re going to do me!”
The words were spoken before he thought. Once said, he could not retract them. But instantly he was ashamed of the unwarranted outburst.
“Sorry,” he apologized curtly. “I shouldn’t have said that. But you made me sore, trying to show me up in front of Mr. Clewes.”
“In what way?”
“Letting on that I hadn’t shown you his telegram. And then the way you breezed up and accepted a job after you made me think you wouldn’t take one.”
“I don’t remember that we ever discussed it,” Flash returned coldly. “But that’s neither here nor there. I’ve taken the job. Whether we like it or not, we’ll be working together. Why not try to get along without friction?”
“Suits me. All I ask is that you do your work and don’t expect to use me as a crutch.”
“We understand each other perfectly, Doyle. Now when do we start?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“I’ll meet you at the parking lot. I want to telephone Joe and tell him I’ve taken the job.”
Flash had another errand in mind, one which he did not reveal to Doyle. Quickly he made his telephone call from the lobby of the hotel.
“I’m glad you’ve changed your mind,” Joe told him gratefully. “Can’t you come over to the hospital before you leave town?”
“Afraid not. We’re starting in a few minutes.”
Joe Wells hesitated, and then said: “You’ll get along fine, Flash, if you manage to stay on the good side of Doyle. He can help you a lot. But I’ll give you a tip. If he takes a dislike to a fellow, he knows all the ways of making it plenty tough.”
“Everything will be fine, Joe. I’ll manage. And your job will be waiting whenever you want it back.”
He hung up, smiling ruefully at his friend’s belated warning. Already he had incurred George Doyle’s dislike. But he was not afraid of what the technician might attempt to do. He would be ready and waiting.
With fifteen minutes to spare, Flash made a quick trip to the railroad station. His next errand was anything but to his liking. Yet he was unwilling to leave Columbia without verifying a certain fact.
He found the station agent in his little office behind the ticket window.
“What may I do for you, sir?” the man questioned.
Introducing himself as a representative of theBrandale Ledger, Flash added that he was checking upon the death of a man reported killed in the streamliner crash.
“Sorry I can’t help you on that,” replied the agent. “It’s against orders to give out information about the accident. You’ll have to see some other person.”
Flash was persistent. He explained that any information obtained would not be published in a newspaper.
“I’m trying to learn about a man named Albert Povy.”
“I guess I can tell you about him,” the agent conceded. “He was among the victims.”
“The body was shipped from here?”
“It was.”
“To relatives?”
“Couldn’t tell you as to that. The body was claimed by a man named Rascomb. Herbert Rascomb.”
Flash was startled by the name. He wondered if it could be the same man George Doyle had been telling him about. But that scarcely seemed possible.
“And where was the casket sent?” he asked after a moment. “That is, what city?”
“To a place called Clear Lake.”
Flash thanked the agent for the information and left the station. He was ten minutes late in reaching the parking lot. Doyle was waiting in the sound truck, appearing none too pleased at the delay.
They drove out of town with Doyle at the wheel. The truck made good speed. For a time neither of them spoke.
“Oh, by the way,” Doyle said at length, “what sort of salary did Clewes give you?”
“Somewhat less than Joe was getting,” Flash answered vaguely. “More than I’ll earn probably.”
“You’ll be getting a double salary while you’re on vacation, won’t you?” Doyle could not hide his envy.
“Yes, but it won’t last long.”
Flash decided to ask a few questions himself. A little later he introduced the subject of the sportsman, Rascomb, asking Doyle the man’s first name.
“Herbert. Herb Rascomb.”
“And where is his lodge located? What town is it near?”
“Couldn’t tell you exactly,” responded Doyle. “I understand it’s not far from where we’re heading—Melveredge Field. But why this sudden interest in Rascomb?”
“Merely curious, that’s all. What sort of reputation does he have?”
“Reputation? Oh, he steps around in fast company, if that’s what you mean. He has a lot of foreign friends.”
“Was he ever mixed up in trouble with the government or anything of the sort?”
“Rascomb? Say, that fellow is in the blue book. The only thing he’s interested in is having a good time. If he did get into trouble he could buy himself out.”
Again Flash fell silent, for he saw that Doyle had grown irritated by his questions. It struck him as an interesting fact that Rascomb had been connected with Albert Povy, a man of dubious reputation.
Actually there was no good reason why the pair should not have been friends. With a large circle of acquaintances, Rascomb could have met Povy in his travels about the country and, learning that the man was without relatives, might have claimed the body out of kindness. In any case, it was none of his affair. He never expected to see Rascomb again.
Throughout the day the sound truck rumbled steadily eastward, making only brief stops for oil and gas. Twice Flash offered to relieve Doyle at the wheel, and both times was turned down.
Toward dusk they pulled into a busy little city of some fifty thousand population. They had reached their destination. Melveredge Field was located close by.
Doyle glanced at his watch.
“Ten after five,” he announced. “Too late to do anything tonight. We’ll find the Clarinda Hotel and call it a day.”
Flash nodded. Doyle never bothered to consult his wishes. He quickly had learned that the easiest way to get along with the technician was to have no opinions of his own. So far any differences they might have had were trivial. But clashes were certain to come later.
Flash had been relieved to learn thatNews-Vuepaid all traveling expenses. The arrangement, however, had one distinct drawback. He and Doyle were expected to share the same room.
“We see too much of each other as it is,” thought Flash. “Before the end of a month we won’t be on speaking terms.”
They registered at the Clarinda Hotel and inquired for mail. There was none. The anticipated orders from theNews-VueCompany had not yet arrived.
The newsreel men both were tired and dirty from their long journey.
“Me for the tub,” Doyle announced.
Slamming the bathroom door behind him, he started the water running, and remained soaking for nearly an hour. Flash became irritated at the long delay.
“Say, have you gone to bed in there?” he called at last. “You’re not the only dirty pebble on the beach!”
Doyle did not answer, nor would he hurry. He took another half hour to dress. Finally be unlocked the door and sauntered out.
“What’s all the shouting about, Flash?”
“You’ve been in there exactly an hour and a half!”
“Well, it’s all yours now,” Doyle shrugged. “Such impatience! Dear! Dear!”
Flash glanced at the tub. It was rimmed with dirt. Every bath towel had been used.
“Say, you lug—” he began.
An outside door slammed. The culprit had gone.
Ringing for more towels, Flash cleaned the tub and hastened through his own bath.
“I’ll get even with him tomorrow,” he thought. “We’ll see how he likes it when the joke is on him.”
It was after seven o’clock when Flash finally left the hotel in search of a restaurant. He sauntered along, pausing to read menus printed on the plate glass windows. Suddenly he felt a hand touch his shoulder.
Flash whirled around. For a moment he did not recognize the smiling young man who stood there. Then he gave a pleased cry:
“Bailey Brooks! What are you doing out this way?”
“Oh, prowling around,” the parachute jumper replied. “Had your dinner?”
“Not yet.”
“Then let’s go inside. I’m meeting a man, but he’s not due to show up for fifteen minutes.”
Flash felt flattered that Bailey Brooks had remembered him. He was even more pleased when the parachute jumper praised him for the pictures he had taken at Brandale.
“All the publicity helped,” Brooks declared warmly. “Since the parachute test proved successful, several concerns have been after me. I’ve not had a definite offer yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”
The two young men entered the restaurant and selected a table not far from the door. Flash hesitated, and then said:
“Too bad about Povy.”
“Yeah.” The smile faded from Brooks’ face. “He was interested in my invention. Offered me a good price for it, too. But probably it’s just as well the deal didn’t go through.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You know who Povy was, don’t you?”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“He was mixed up with a spy ring years ago and probably was doing espionage work at the time of his death. That was the main reason I held off about selling him the parachute. I liked Povy personally but I never trusted him.”
“I wonder what government employed him?”
“I never learned. Povy was very cautious in his dealings. He revealed nothing about himself. All he ever told me was that he represented a firm which would pay well for my invention, providing the tests were successful.”
A waitress came to take orders and Flash gave his. Bailey Brooks said that he would wait for a man with whom he had a dinner appointment.
“You say several other persons are after your invention now?”
“Several is an exaggeration,” Brooks admitted with a grin. “One private party and the United States Army.”
“So that’s why you’re here!”
Brooks nodded. “The ’chute is to be given exhaustive tests out at Melveredge Field. If it comes through okay, I’ll be sitting pretty.”
“When will the tests be made?”
“All week. There’s an endless amount of red tape.”
“I’m with theNews-Vuepeople now,” Flash explained abruptly. “Any chance to get some shots of the tests?”
“Not a glimmer. Melveredge Field is closed tighter than a drum these days. I doubt if they’ll even allow you near the place with a newsreel camera.”
Flash mentioned the chain of events which had led him to spend his vacation working for theNews-VueCompany. The parachute jumper immediately recalled Joe Wells and expressed regret over his accident.
“While I was in Columbia I inquired about Albert Povy,” Flash presently remarked. “You know, I thought there might have been some mistake about his death.”
“There wasn’t?”
“No. His body was shipped to a place called Clear Lake.”
“That town isn’t so far from here,” Brooks said thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Povy’s body was claimed by a man named Herbert Rascomb. A well known sportsman and—”
Bailey Brooks had been toying with a silver knife. It slid from his hand, making a clatter as it struck the floor.
“Rascomb?” he asked in a strange voice. “Did you say Rascomb?”
Flash could see that the information had startled the parachute jumper. But before he could explain further or ask a question, the door of the café swung open.
A dapper man in army uniform strode across the room directly toward the pair at the table.
“Ah, here is my host now,” murmured Bailey Brooks.
Flash turned his head. The man who approached was Captain Ernest Johns.
Bailey Brooks arose to greet the newcomer. As he turned to introduce Flash, Captain Johns forestalled him by saying in a curt voice:
“We have met before, I believe!”
“At the Columbia Hospital,” recalled Flash.
The Captain seated himself on the opposite side of the table, regarding the cameraman with a cold scrutiny which was not easy to interpret. Assuming that he was an intruder at a private business conference, Flash offered an apology and started to leave.
“No, don’t go.” Captain Johns waved him back into his chair. “Finish your dinner. Why did you fail to keep your promise to Major Hartgrove?”
Flash now understood the reason behind the officer’s coolness. Major Hartgrove had reported his failure to give up the requested pictures.
“I made no promise,” he replied.
“It was understood that you would bring the pictures to the hospital without delay.”
“The Major may have understood it that way,” replied Flash evenly. “But I work for theNews-VueCompany, not the United States Army.”
Captain Johns’ lips twisted in a faint suggestion of a smile. Yet his voice had an edge to it as he asked:
“You still have those pictures?”
“I have.”
“What is your reason for withholding them?”
“No reason,” Flash admitted cheerfully. “As a matter of fact, I went back to the hospital yesterday after I had them printed. The Major was gone.”
“You went backafteryou had looked at them yourself?”
“Quite right, sir. I wanted to see what I was giving away. Just protecting my paper, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” responded Captain Johns dryly. “You may be interested to learn that Major Hartgrove has been removed to the army hospital at Melveredge Field.”
“Doing well I hope.”
“He will be dismissed tomorrow or the day following. Now about those pictures. Where are they now?”
“In my room at the hotel.”
“May I see them?”
“I’ll be glad to show them to you, Captain,” replied Flash, grinning. “But I don’t think you’ll find them of any aid in running down the man who struck the Major.”
“Let me be the judge of that. Now as I recall, Major Hartgrove said you were the first person to reach him after the train wreck.”
“Hardly the first, sir. As I approached the car, I saw someone slipping away into the dark. It may have been the man who robbed him.”
“You are mistaken. Major Hartgrove was not robbed.”
“I understood otherwise.”
“An attempt was made to take Major Hartgrove’s wallet. The man did not succeed.”
Flash accepted the explanation without comment. He was rather inclined to believe that the Major had not been robbed. However, it seemed unreasonable that the army men would be making such strenuous efforts to apprehend an ordinary thief. Obviously Major Hartgrove had carried military papers or something of far greater value than money.
Ignoring Bailey Brooks for the moment, Captain Johns asked Flash a number of questions about his actions following the train wreck. Cleverly but without success he tried to make the cameraman contradict himself. At last, he seemed satisfied the young man was telling the truth, and turned his attention once more to the parachute jumper.
After the meal had ended, Captain Johns volunteered to go with Flash to his room. The three walked together to the Clarinda Hotel.
George Doyle looked up in surprise as Flash pushed open the bedroom door. He rose quickly to his feet.
“You remember Bailey Brooks,” said Flash. “And this is Captain Ernest Johns.”
Doyle was impressed by the caller. He lost his customary indifference and put himself out to be agreeable. But the captain paid him scant attention.
“I have only a few minutes,” he said impatiently. “May I see the pictures now, please?”
Flash found the envelope in his luggage. Doyle sat watching him curiously as he sorted through the prints.
“I have only one which will interest you,” he said to the captain. “It isn’t much good.”
The army man examined the picture carefully and returned it to the stack.
“You are right,” he admitted regretfully. “For our purposes it is valueless.” Methodically, he thumbed through the other prints. “Now here is an excellent one!”