“A snap I took at the races. Too bad the wreck picture didn’t come out the same way. Conditions were against me.”
Bailey Brooks had crossed the room. As Captain Johns dropped the prints carelessly on the table, he picked them up and glanced through the stack.
The army officer turned to leave but Doyle stepped forward, neatly blocking his way.
“Say, Captain,” he began, “Flash and I are withNews-Vue, you know. What are the picture possibilities out at Melveredge?”
“There are none, Mr. Doyle.”
“Oh, come now, I know it’s hard to get in there these days, but it can be done with pull. How about giving us a permit?”
“I regret I am not in a position to grant such a favor,” the captain returned stiffly. “Good evening.”
Accompanied by Bailey Brooks, he went away. As soon as the footsteps receded, Doyle turned angrily to Flash.
“You might have said something instead of standing there like a clam! Here the Captain is a good friend of yours. He could have passed us into Melveredge Field.”
“The Captain isn’t a friend of mine.”
“Then why did you bring him here?”
“You must have observed for yourself, Doyle. To look at those pictures.”
The technician picked up the stack and glanced through the prints.
“What’s all this about anyway?” he demanded. “Why would the Captain be interested?”
Flash made an evasive answer which only irritated Doyle further. Despite the technician’s displeasure, he had no intention of taking him into his confidence.
“I’m tired,” he said shortly. “Let’s go to bed.”
It was dark in the hotel room when Flash awakened to hear the telephone ringing. Struggling out of sleep, he reached to roll up the window shade. A few carts were creaking by on the street below. The sky was barely light.
The telephone rang again.
“Answer it, will you?” growled Doyle.
“All right.”
Flash took the receiver from its hook. He was informed by the hotel operator that long distance was calling. As he relayed the message to Doyle, the latter leaped from bed and seized the instrument.
“That must be Clewes!”
Doyle talked for several minutes and then hung up the receiver.
“Get dressed!” he said curtly. “We’re clearing out of here. And we haven’t much time.”
“What’s up?”
“We move again. Clewes says to let the Melveredge pictures slide. Arrangements can’t be made with the authorities.”
“A new assignment?”
“Yeah. Not a bad one either. We’re to cover an International polo match at Excelsior City. We ought to be there not later than twelve-thirty.”
Flash looked at his watch and whistled.
“It’s nearly six now. Excelsior City must be at least three hundred miles from here.”
“Nearer three twenty. It means fast stepping.”
Quickly they dressed and crammed their clothing into suitcases. There was no time for breakfast. A clock on the street chimed six-thirty as they pulled out of the drowsing city.
A fog hung low over the valley. Before the sound truck had covered many miles a fine, steady rain began to fall.
Strangely, Doyle offered no complaint about either the weather or the early morning call to duty. Flash stole a curious glance at him. The technician’s face was animated and he whistled a cheerful tune.
“This assignment seems to please you, Doyle.”
“It could be a lot worse.”
“What teams are playing? You haven’t told me anything about the set-up.”
“An American team against one from India headed by Rajah Mitra. Know anything about polo?”
“I’ve seen a few games.”
“Herbert Rascomb will be playing on the American team.”
“Rascomb!”
“He’s one of the best players in the country.”
“I never even heard of him until a few days ago.”
“Rascomb doesn’t like publicity. He goes into a rage if his picture is taken. The boys humor him, and he returns the favor by showing them a good time at his lodge.”
“Buys them off?”
“Nothing of the sort. It’s only to show his appreciation. We could do with a day in the north woods, eh?”
Flash avoided answering the question. Instead he inquired:
“Why is Rascomb so against publicity? A pose?”
Doyle shrugged as he steered the sound truck into a filling station.
“No, he’s just that way. But they tell me Rascomb is a fine fellow.”
An attendant filled the gasoline tank, checked the oil and replenished the water in the radiator. As Doyle paid him, he volunteered road information.
“Aiming to take U.S. 49 out of here?”
“That’s right,” answered Doyle. “How is the road to Excelsior City?”
“The road’s in good condition. But if you want to be on the safe side you’d better take Highway 23. We’ve had some hard rains around here. The Coon River is over its banks, and there’s a bad bridge about six miles beyond town.”
“Then the road is closed?”
“They were keeping it open an hour ago. A radio report said it would be closed if the water came any higher.”
Doyle and Flash studied a map. Highway 23 was graveled and at least fourteen miles out of their way.
“We’ll keep on 49 and take a chance,” Doyle decided.
The decision satisfied Flash, for it had occurred to him that possibly they might have an opportunity to take interesting flood pictures.
Two miles beyond the town limits they began to see evidence of high water. Ditches on either side of the road ran with it. In several low places tiny rivers blocked their way. The water was not deep and they rode through it without mishap.
They picked up speed on a long stretch of clear pavement. Ahead they could see the bridge, a long, wooden affair of ancient design. A flimsy, make-shift barrier of boards had been raised across the entrance way.
“Closed!” muttered Doyle in disgust. “We’ll never get to Excelsior City by game time now!”
He slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a standstill not far from the bridge. Thrusting his head out the window, he called to one of the guards:
“How about letting us through? We’re newsreel cameramen and in a big hurry.”
“The bridge is unsafe,” the man answered. “It’s apt to go out any time now.”
Flash leaped from the truck and went to look at the bridge. He saw for himself that much of the underpinning had washed away. The weight of an automobile, even higher water, would be almost certain to shift it from its position.
“Water still rising?” he questioned a guard.
“Coming up fast, brother. Three inches in the last twenty minutes. Another half hour and this road may be completely covered.”
Flash ran back to the truck. Doyle had turned it around and was impatiently waiting.
“Jump in!” he commanded. “We’re going to be late getting to Excelsior City now that we have to back-track.”
“Listen, Doyle!” Flash was excited. “While we’re breaking our necks trying to reach there, we’ll be passing up better pictures.”
“What do you mean, better pictures?”
“The bridge is going out any time.”
“Maybe,” Doyle retorted. “But we’re not waiting here several hours on a slim chance like that! Our assignment is to shoot the polo match.”
Flash gazed steadily at the technician.
“Sorry to disagree. We’re staying right here.”
“Say who do you think you are?” Doyle drawled insolently. “I’m not taking orders from any fresh kid.”
“I’ve taken plenty of orders from you. But not any more. I’m washed up! Through!”
“Oh, so you’re through, eh? Well, quit any time you like!”
“I’m not quitting,” Flash corrected. “Just letting you know that from now on I’m not your man Friday. Mr. Clewes gave me to understand I was to use my own judgment about picture values. Your part is to record the sound effects.”
Doyle stared at Flash. Spots of bright color tinted his taut cheeks. With an effort he kept his voice under control.
“All right, Evans, you’ll take full responsibility for this!”
“I expect to,” Flash retorted grimly. “Now help me get my stuff up on the roof! That bridge won’t last many minutes!”
Flash was prepared for a curt refusal. Surprisingly, Doyle considered a moment, and then began to unload equipment. He said nothing, but his smoldering eyes made it clear he intended to make a full report to Mr. Clewes.
With camera set up and focused on the bridge, Flash nervously waited. The only thing which would justify his high-handed action would be success. If the bridge failed to go out, Doyle would score heavily in the final reckoning.
The water rose higher and higher, slapping against the piling with a powerful surge. Yet the bridge held. Minutes elapsed and Flash became increasingly uneasy. Surely, he thought, the structure could not withstand such punishment for long.
Doyle looked at his watch with a disgusted expression.
“We’ve wasted another half hour—” he began.
From far down the road came the roar of a fast traveling automobile. Flash and Doyle both turned to stare.
A car raced toward the bridge at seventy miles an hour. It struck a dip in the road where water flowed, and the tires sent up a great muddy sheet. With undiminished speed, the automobile sped on.
At the bridge, guards leaped into action, shouting and waving their red flags to draw attention to the barrier.
The driver could not fail to see that the bridge entrance was blocked. Still the car roared on. Flash suddenly comprehended the reason. The man was being pursued by a state highway police car. If he halted for the bridge, it meant capture!
“There’s our picture, Doyle!” he shouted. “Get ready!”
The car struck the barrier with a resounding crash. Boards splintered like so much match wood, but scarcely slowed down the daring driver. Bridge girders rattled and planks pounded as the automobile plunged on.
Nothing happened for a moment. And then a cry of horror arose from the crowd of spectators.
“It’s going out!”
One side of the bridge wrenched free from the piling and swung around in the swift current. There it held an instant and then slowly toppled sideways into the boiling flood. As the car slid with it, the driver pushed open the door and leaped into the river. His dark head remained above the surface for a minute, then disappeared.
Horrified at the disaster, Flash nevertheless pivoted his camera to photograph the entire scene—the crumbling of the bridge, the driver’s wild leap, even the arrival of the state police car which raced to the end of the road and stopped with a jolting lurch.
Attracted by a startled outcry from the excited spectators, his gaze was drawn far down river. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the struggling man before the unfortunate fellow was pulled under again by the racing current.
The distance was too great for an effective shot, but Flash was not thinking of pictures. Leaving his camera behind, he plunged into a deep ditch at the roadside. Wading across, muddy water oozing about his armpits, he ran on through a soggy field to a bend in the river.
Once more he glimpsed the struggling man who was fighting gamely for life against overpowering odds.
With no thought for his own safety, Flash kicked off his shoes and dived into the river. Exerting all of his strength, he fought to keep from being carried downstream.
He had judged the current accurately, for the man was brought directly toward him. Reaching out, he barely grasped him by the coat. There was a brief struggle and they both disappeared beneath the surface.
After an exhausting effort they regained the surface, and drifted with the current, using what strength remained to keep their heads above water. Even with lungs bursting, Flash managed to hold tightly to the man. Whenever he could, he gulped in air, but breath and strength were ebbing.
Suddenly he felt himself dashed against a solid object. The current had brought a long, heavy plank downstream. He pulled himself and his companion onto it, and they clung with head and shoulders well above water.
For a minute the river carried them swiftly. Then their ride ended abruptly, as the plank caught against a half-submerged fallen tree which was festooned with a motley collection of debris and foam.
There the plank lodged fast. They were able to secure fairly firm holds on the projecting arms of the tree, but the current whipped their legs beneath them and threatened to sweep them on.
Grimly they clung to their precarious refuge. The man Flash had aided aroused himself after a dazed moment, and looked about in panic.
“Easy now,” warned Flash.
Instead of thanking the cameraman for saving his life, he began to revile him.
“If you had kept out of this I would have made a clean get-away! Now the dicks probably are on my tail!”
The man’s words proved prophetic for the state police had followed down river and were at a point opposite where the pair clung.
A rope sailed accurately through the air, settling across the tree. Reaching to his full length, Flash was able to grasp it. As he started to knot it about his companion’s body, the man struck wildly at him.
“They won’t get me!” he shouted hoarsely. “I’ll drown first!”
His hold loosened, but Flash acted quickly. He seized the man’s coat collar with his left hand, maintaining his own grasp on the tree limb. The swift current whipped his legs from beneath him.
But help was at hand. A state patrolman who was a strong swimmer, reached the sunken tree. He tied the rope about the struggling man and signaled for a fast haul-in to shore. Flash followed with the officer.
“Good work,” a trooper praised him. “You took a big chance, young man, both with the river and your pal here. Know who he is?”
Flash shook his head. He was searching for his discarded shoes.
“Andy Clevenger.”
“Not the bank robber?”
“The same. He was recognized at a quarantine stop, but got away. We’ve chased him twenty miles.”
Flash began wringing water from his ruined suit. He was plastered with mud from head to foot.
“There’s a reward out for Clevenger’s capture,” the state policeman went on. “You may get some of the money. Give me your name and address. I think I can guarantee you a new suit at least.”
“I can use it. And I’d like permission to take some pictures before you pack this fellow off to jail.”
“Go right ahead.”
Handcuffed, the prisoner was led back to the patrol car where Flash shot close-ups and obtained complete information about his past record.
Doyle, somewhat stunned by the events which had transpired, had little to say.
“Are you sorry we waited?” Flash asked him. “These pictures should stack up any day with a polo match.”
“You’re a fool for luck, just as Joe said,” Doyle muttered. “I suppose you knew just what would happen?”
“I only hoped for a good bridge picture. But when Lady Luck showers down I believe in spreading a wide net.”
Flash was shivering from cold. Wrapping himself in his overcoat, he allowed Doyle to do most of the loading work.
Back in town once more, he sought a clothing store and quickly purchased a new suit. While it was cheaply tailored, he thought it would serve until he reached Excelsior City.
“You look like a country rube in that outfit,” Doyle jeered as his companion climbed back into the sound truck.
“Can’t help it,” Flash replied, undisturbed. “It’s warm and clean, at least.”
The cameramen followed Highway 23, avoiding the river. At the first city of any size which boasted an airport, they paused long enough to ship their cans of film to the home office. Then they drove on at break-neck speed for Excelsior City.
Doyle squinted at a clock in a store window as they went through a town.
“By skipping lunch we still might get there in time for the last chukker of the game,” he announced.
“It won’t do any harm to try,” Flash agreed. “But after the pictures we just took, polo will seem pretty tame.”
“It’s our assignment,” Doyle said sharply. “Don’t forget that.”
“I’ve not forgotten.”
Flash glanced sideways at his companion. He could not believe that Doyle honestly thought they had made a mistake in passing up a polo game for the flood pictures. Obviously, the technician had a special reason for wishing to reach Excelsior City.
“And that reason,” he reflected, “has nothing to do with our work. If I’m any good at guessing, he’s bent on wangling an invitation to Rascomb’s lodge!”
TheNews-Vuesound truck pulled into the private grounds of the Excelsior Polo Club at exactly ten minutes to three. Through the elm trees George Doyle caught sight of the field, and gave a chuckle of pleasure.
“The match is still on!”
The seventh chukker was underway as the truck drew up at the sidelines. Flash and Doyle worked swiftly, knowing they had little time.
“How’s the score?” the technician demanded of a spectator.
“Six to four in favor of the Internationals.”
Flash carefully looked over the field as he focused his camera. Two riders were outstanding, Rajah Mitra for the Internationals, and Herbert Rascomb on the American team. Mitra, a handsome, dark man of thirty, handled his mount expertly. His clashes with Rascomb were frequent.
Deliberately, Flash trained the camera lens upon them. Doyle’s protest was immediate and explosive.
“Say, what’s the idea? Do you want to make Rascomb sore?”
“Since when are we working for him?” Flash countered. “We’re here to get good pictures. He happens to be one of the best players on the field.”
The argument might have waxed warmer, but just then the chukker ended with a spectacular goal made by Rascomb. He wheeled his horse, a beautiful black mare, and rode over to the sound wagon.
“Good afternoon, boys,” he said heartily. “Taking a few pictures?”
“News-Vue,” Doyle replied. “That last shot of yours was pretty, Mr. Rascomb.”
“Thank you, thank you.” The sportsman doffed his cork helmet mockingly, and his lips parted in a smile. “The fact is, Rajah Mitra is too fast for me today. A marvelous player, that man!”
There was an expansive, friendly quality to Rascomb which attracted Flash despite himself. For some reason he had felt distrustful of the man. Now that he had heard him speak, the feeling was slipping away.
“A little request, boys,” the sportsman said casually. “No close-ups of me, please.”
“You don’t like to be photographed?” Flash inquired, watching the man curiously.
Rascomb’s dark eyes appraised the cameraman. His glance took in the cheap suit, the muddy shoes, wrinkled tie.
“You’ll have to excuse Evans’ appearance.” Doyle spoke apologetically. “He fell into a river this morning.”
“A river?” Rascomb asked in amusement.
Flash did not bother to explain or correct Doyle’s misstatement.
After a lengthy pause the polo player inquired thoughtfully:
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Your face seems familiar.”
“Funny. I was thinking the same thing when I first saw you—that was at the Indianapolis auto races.”
“Oh, so you saw me there?”
“Yes, I have a picture as a souvenir. Snapped it while you were talking with one of the drivers in the pit.”
The pleasant smile receded from Rascomb’s face. The corners of his lips twitched.
“I dislike being photographed,” he said. “I dislike it intensely. It makes me especially nervous to know that a camera is focused upon me during a polo match. I trust you’ll oblige me by not taking any pictures except from across the field?”
“Oh, sure,” Doyle said instantly before Flash could answer. “We’ll be glad to do you that little favor.”
“You’ll not lose by it.”
Rascomb wheeled his horse as if to ride away. Plainly he was irritated. Flash decided to court further displeasure.
“I’d like to ask a personal question, if you don’t mind, Mr. Rascomb,” he remarked. “Are you related to a man named Povy?”
“Povy?” the sportsman demanded sharply.
“Albert Povy. He was listed as killed in the recent train wreck.”
“Whatever gave you the idea I knew him?”
“I was told that you had claimed the body.”
Rascomb’s expression became inscrutable. His dark eyes bored into Flash as if probing for what lay behind the question. He moistened his lips to speak.
At that instant a player motioned to him from across the field. Rascomb’s relief was obvious.
“Excuse me,” he said, “I’ll talk with you later.”
Jerking his mount’s head, he rode to his post. The game was resumed.
“What was the idea of deliberately trying to antagonize Rascomb?” Doyle accused. “Such tactics won’t get you anywhere!”
“Maybe not a trip to the hunting lodge,” Flash cheerfully admitted.
He had no intention of allowing Rascomb to dictate what pictures he could or could not take. Oddly, as the game continued, no occasion arose to photograph the sportsman at close range.
Rascomb played erratically. His mallet slashed wickedly but many of his shots were badly placed. Losing his temper, he began jerking his horse about and calling it an “evil brute.”
The Internationals, led by the Rajah, piled up two goals in rapid succession, and won by a wide margin. Secretly Flash wondered if Rascomb had been upset by the question about Albert Povy.
The game over, Doyle seemed in no haste to leave the club grounds.
“I’ll be back in a little while,” he said vaguely, and wandered down to the stables where Rascomb last had been seen.
“Take your time.”
Presently Flash saw the pair disappear into the clubhouse together. He settled himself in the truck for a long wait.
“Doyle is breaking his neck to make a good impression on that fellow,” he thought. “Oh, well, it’s none of my affair.”
He was half tempted to follow Doyle into the clubhouse. While he had no desire to seek Rascomb’s favor, he would enjoy driving the sportsman into a corner with another question about Albert Povy.
A half hour elapsed before Doyle returned to the truck. He was in high spirits.
“Rascomb and I had a long talk together,” he declared enthusiastically. “I think I’ve swung it!”
“An invitation to Rascomb’s lodge?”
Doyle nodded as he guided the sound truck down the winding road to the main highway.
“He’s been thinking of getting up a week-end party out at his place. If he does he’ll telephone us tonight at the Parker Hotel.”
“Us?”
“Rascomb isn’t a fellow to hold a grudge. You were short with him but he’s overlooking it.”
“Nice of him,” Flash said dryly.
“He was interested in you,” Doyle admitted. “Asked a lot of questions.”
“Did he? What sort of questions?”
“Oh, nothing out of the way. Just who you were, where you came from, and what sort of fellow you were. If the invitation comes through, we’ll both be included.”
“It was decent of you to put in a good word for me,” Flash said. “Nevertheless, I don’t think I’ll be interested.”
“Then you’re a sap! Rascomb would show us a wonderful time. And it wouldn’t cost us a penny.”
“I’m not so sure. I figure there’s a string attached somewhere.”
“A string? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know myself,” Flash admitted. “I’ll be frank and say Rascomb has me puzzled.”
Driving back to Excelsior City, the newsreel men located themselves at the Parker Hotel. Not wishing to be far from a telephone, Doyle insisted upon dining in the building. Later he returned to his room. Flash remained in the lobby reading a newspaper until after nine o’clock.
Entering the bedroom, he found Doyle gloomily playing a game of solitaire.
“Your telephone call didn’t come through?” Flash asked.
“No! Rascomb must have been handing me a line! It’s enough to make a fellow sick!”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get the invitation, George,” Flash said sincerely. “Still, I don’t see how you could have made the trip. We’re supposed to be working forNews-Vue.”
“No new assignment has come through. They expect to give us a day off now and then.”
Flash began to check through his suitcase to see what clothes he would need to buy. He had written his mother for additional shirts and underwear, but it would take days for a package to overtake him. The suit he had worn in his river plunge must be sent to the cleaners. Whether or not it ever could be worn again was problematical.
As he sorted garments, Flash came upon the envelope which contained photographic prints. He poured them out on the table, examining them one by one.
Reaching the last print, a peculiar expression crossed his face. “That’s queer,” he muttered.
He went through the stack a second time, taking care that two did not stick together. The picture he sought was not there.
His chair made a grating sound on the bare floor as he turned to face his roommate.
“Doyle,” he said quietly, “tell me the straight truth. Did you remove a picture of Herbert Rascomb from this envelope?”
George Doyle slammed the deck of cards together, tossing the box into a suitcase which lay open on the floor. He regarded Flash with an insolent, offended gaze.
“Now what would I want with any of your pictures?”
“I thought you might have looked at them while I was downstairs.”
“You thought!” Doyle mocked. “Why don’t you come right out and accuse me of being a sneak thief! Your personal effects are of no interest to me, little man! Not the slightest.”
“I’m not accusing you,” Flash replied quietly. “I was merely asking.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“I didn’t mean to imply anything. But it still seems queer that the picture isn’t here.”
Doyle lighted a cigarette in his most deliberate manner and then asked:
“Which one is missing?”
“A snap I took of Rascomb at the races. The only good picture in the lot.”
“You probably lost it yourself.”
“It was in the envelope yesterday when I showed the pictures to Captain Johns and Bailey Brooks.”
“Then maybe they took it,” Doyle suggested sarcastically. “Why don’t you get out search warrants?”
Flash allowed the matter to rest, yet he was not altogether convinced that his roommate knew nothing about the missing picture.
“Herb Rascomb may have asked him to get it from me,” he thought. “I made a mistake in talking too much today at the polo match.”
The telephone rang. Doyle leaped to his feet.
“That must be Rascomb now!” he exclaimed. “We may get our trip yet!”
“Count me out,” Flash murmured, but the technician did not hear.
Doyle talked for several minutes on the telephone, and his eager responses made it evident he was speaking with Rascomb. Presently, he placed his hand over the mouthpiece, turning toward Flash.
“Rascomb wants us to come out to his place for the week-end.”
“Well, your fish is playing with the bait. Better play him right so he doesn’t get away.”
“Rascomb says to bring you along.”
“Thanks. I’m not interested. I’ll stay here at the hotel.”
Doyle frowned.
“For some reason, Rascomb especially wants you. And it will be a wonderful opportunity for us to get some unusual newsreel shots.”
“Of what?” Flash asked, showing faint interest.
“Rascomb has invited Rajah Mitra as one of his guests. If we can get him togged up in full dress regalia he ought to be worth fifty feet at least!”
“Maybe,” Flash conceded.
“We might get some good nature pixs while we’re there,” Doyle went on eagerly. “It’s wild around Clear Lake. How about it?”
Flash had no time to consider. While he was reluctant to accept Rascomb’s hospitality, he did have a curiosity to see him again, if only to ask about Albert Povy.
“All right, I’ll go,” he decided.
Doyle relayed the message to Rascomb and hung up the receiver.
“Rascomb and his guests are motoring out to the lodge tonight,” he explained. “We leave in the morning. Rascomb says it will be a slow trip over dirt roads so we ought to get a fairly early start.”
Flash nodded and began to prepare for bed. Long after Doyle had gone to sleep, he lay in the darkened room, staring at a patch of electric light which shone through the window. There were a number of things which puzzled him. Why had Rascomb insisted upon including him in the invitation? He felt satisfied the sportsman had not liked him particularly.
Unable to solve the puzzle, Flash finally dropped off to sleep. He awoke to find Doyle shaking his arm.
“Roll out! Seven o’clock!”
As Flash dressed, Doyle made slighting remarks about his appearance, suggesting that it might be well to buy a new suit of clothes before they started for the lodge.
“Sorry but I can’t buy a new suit before I get home,” Flash replied, unmoved. “This one will have to do.”
They breakfasted at a café across from the hotel and by eight o’clock were ready to start for Clear Lake, twenty miles away.
As the sound truck rolled out of the city, Flash remarked:
“You sent Clewes a wire didn’t you, telling him we were after special pictures?”
“Well, no, I didn’t,” Doyle answered carelessly. “This is Friday. He won’t be around the office until Monday anyway.”
“Do you think we should pull out without leaving word?”
“Sure. After those flood pixs we turned in, Clewes will expect to give us a few days off. It’s customary.”
While the arrangement was not pleasing to Flash, he could do nothing about it, and so settled himself for an uncomfortable ride.
They followed the pavement for a distance of four miles, and then turned down a narrow, rutty road. The truck jounced and bumped, shaking the loose equipment around.
There was almost no traffic, but whenever they did pass an automobile, a great cloud of suffocating dust rolled into their faces.
“This section must have missed the rains,” Flash remarked. “Even the trees look dry.”
The car rattled on, making poor time. Doyle fumed at the delay and kept glancing at his watch.
Flash was in no hurry for the trip to end. While the ride might be uncomfortable, the scenery was interesting. Hillocks were studded with huge boulders, and the twisting roadway was hemmed in with pine trees. Now and then they glimpsed a patch of blue lake tucked behind the screen of evergreens.
A half hour’s drive brought them to the railroad town of Clear Lake which consisted of little more than a post office and a few houses. At the edge of the village stood a ranger’s station. A man in uniform held up his hand for the truck to stop.
“You’re newsreel men I see,” the ranger observed pleasantly. “Going in to take pictures of the fire?”
“What fire?” Doyle asked in astonishment.
“A small one has been reported over near Craig Point. The wind is blowing it this way. Thought I’d give you a word of warning.”
“We didn’t know anything about it,” Doyle replied. “We’re on our way to Herbert Rascomb’s lodge.”
“You’ll be in no danger there. At least, not unless the wind should shift again.”
“I wonder if we couldn’t get some fire pictures forNews-Vue!” Flash began speculatively. “How far is Craig Point from Rascomb’s place?”
Before the ranger could answer, Doyle broke in impatiently:
“Listen, we’re not doing any fire pictures this trip! Mugging the Rajah will be the extent of our labors.”
Now that it had been called to their attention, Flash and Doyle both imagined they could smell smoke in the air. They could not see it, nor were they able to detect any actual signs of fire.
“It seems to me we’re passing up an unusual opportunity,” Flash remarked, as they rode on.
“You’re new at this business,” Doyle replied discouragingly. “When you first start in everything looks like a wonderful idea. I helped cover a forest fire in Minnesota two years ago. It was no fun, I’m telling you.”
“I shouldn’t think it would be.”
“You burn yourself to a crisp and ruin your clothes. Then more than likely your shots are no good, or the editor cuts ’em out in favor of a bathing beauty parade at Atlantic City! Not for me.”
A short distance beyond the town Flash called Doyle’s attention to a cleared field. In its center stood a lone hangar. Through the windows they were able to see a red and black-painted airplane.
“This must be Rascomb’s private landing field,” Flash remarked.
“Probably,” Doyle agreed. “We’re close to his place now.”
A half mile farther on the sound truck reached a road which branched off to the left. Entrance was blocked by a wooden gate which bore a carved sign plainly marked: “Rascomb Lodge. No Admittance.”
Flash unfastened the barrier and Doyle drove through. The road led them deeper into the forest and presently emerged in a cleared area. To their right lay a crescent-shaped lake with motor and row boats tied up at the dock.
Some distance back stood a sprawling structure made of logs with a great cobblestone chimney. There were no automobiles parked in the yard. The boats, tugging gently at their moorings, provided the only sign of occupation.
“This place looks deserted,” observed Flash.
“Rascomb will be here.”
“But you said he had invited other guests. Rajah Mitra—”
“They may not have arrived yet.”
Leaving the sound truck at the end of the road, Flash and Doyle walked to the side door of the lodge.
Their approach had been observed. Before they could knock, the door opened. Herbert Rascomb, dressed in dark shirt and slacks, a pipe thrust in the corner of his mouth, greeted them heartily.
“Good morning, boys. Glad you were able to come. How do you like our roads out this way?”
Rascomb stepped aside for them to pass before him into the living room. A fire blazed on the hearth. It was an inviting scene and their host had a comfortable way of making them feel welcome. Yet, the absence of guests puzzled Flash.
“Rajah Mitra isn’t here yet?” he inquired.
Rascomb hesitated, and then said: “I deeply regret that the Rajah was compelled to change his plans.”
“He isn’t coming?”
“Unfortunately, no. The Rajah expected to be my guest but he was called to New York this morning. I should have telephoned you. We have no telephone here at the lodge. It would have meant an early trip to the ranger station.”
“Then if there are to be no pictures, we may as well start back to town,” Flash remarked, glancing at Doyle.
“I couldn’t think of allowing you to hasten away,” Rascomb interposed smoothly. “You must have luncheon and remain for the night. I can put you up quite comfortably. My cook is excellent.”
“That’s mighty nice of you,” Doyle said, giving Flash a hard look. “We’ll be glad to stay. You sure have a nice place here.”
“Merely comfortable, not pretentious,” Rascomb smiled. “Now make yourselves at home. If you care to fish, my man Fleur will be glad to take you out on the lake.”
Rascomb’s manner was perfect. He chatted with Flash and Doyle about their work, and after they had removed the dust of their trip, left them to entertain themselves.
The cameramen wandered alone down to the lake. A breeze ruffled the blue water, slapping waves against the boats tied up at the dock. It whistled softly in the pine trees, rubbing the boughs gently together. About the place there was an atmosphere of quiet and peace, yet Flash felt uneasy.