“Sit down and try to calm yourself,” Doyle said solicitously. “You’ve gone through a terrible ordeal tonight. You’re pretty confused.”
“So that’s your defense? You accuse me of being out of my head?”
“Don’t you know what really happened?” Doyle asked patiently.
“Suppose you tell me. I’m sure you’ve thought up an interesting little fairy tale!”
“You and Rascomb were in the boat when it suddenly upset. Rascomb was so busy trying to rescue the oars and the cans of film he didn’t worry about you for a minute. When he looked around, you had disappeared beneath the surface. Then he yelled to me for help.”
“And you saw the boat upset?”
“Well, no, I didn’t,” Doyle admitted. “I was taking pictures. The truth is, I had no idea anything was wrong until Rascomb called to me. Then it was too late to do anything.”
“And what happened next?” Flash demanded. “Go on with the yarn.”
“I see you don’t believe me, but it’s the truth. Rascomb and I righted the boat and shot through the pass. We reached the lodge and started for here in the sound truck.”
“Rascomb came with you?”
“We started together. At Clear Lake he said he had forgotten an important matter and must return to the lodge.”
Since this part of Doyle’s story tallied with what Fleur had reported about Rascomb’s actions, Flash was inclined to believe that the pair actually had started for Excelsior City together, and that later Rascomb had turned back.
Doyle spoke again in a strangely subdued voice. “Flash, we’ve never liked each other any too well. That was my fault, probably. I haven’t made things pleasant for you. But I don’t want you to think I’d be a party to any plot against you.”
Flash was impressed with Doyle’s apparent sincerity. After all, he thought, there was at least a possibility that Doyle had not seen Rascomb’s attack upon him. The words had a genuine ring.
“I don’t know what to think,” he said slowly.
Doyle made no further attempt to convince Flash. Instead, he reached for a sheet of paper on the desk and dropped it into the waste basket.
“I was sending a wire to theNews-Vuepeople,” he explained. “I’m glad it won’t be necessary now.”
Flash’s gaze wandered slowly about the room. It came to rest upon Doyle’s suitcase, neatly strapped, standing by the door.
“You’re packed to leave?”
Doyle offered him a crumpled telegram.
“This came while we were at Rascomb’s lodge.”
“FromNews-Vue?”
Doyle nodded gloomily.
“We’re ordered to cover a warehouse strike at Clinton. That’s a hundred miles from here if it’s a foot. They’re expecting fireworks tomorrow at seven o’clock when a crew of strike-breakers comes on duty.”
Flash read the telegram which confirmed Doyle’s words.
“This comes from not wiring Clewes we were spending the week-end at Rascomb’s place,” he commented.
“I made a mistake,” Doyle admitted reluctantly. “And now, well, I’m in a jam.”
“You still can reach Clinton by traveling tonight.”
“Not with the sound wagon. I burned out a bearing getting back from the lodge. Repairs won’t be made before tomorrow afternoon.”
“You’re getting one break at least,” said Flash. “A new cameraman. I’m quitting.”
“Flash, you can’t run out on me at a time like this!”
“I don’t like to quit because of Joe. But I have an account to square and some work to do. That’s the low-down on why I’m staying.”
“If there was anything I could say to make you change your mind—”
“There isn’t.”
Doyle hesitated, then sat down at the desk and scribbled a message to be telegraphed to theNews-Vuehome office. Flash had picked up the telephone to call long distance.
“Send this when you’re through, will you?” Doyle requested.
He tossed the message to Flash. Entering the bathroom he started the shower running full blast.
Flash looked at the telegram. It read:
“Please accept resignation of Jimmy Evans and George Doyle, effective immediately.”
Flash re-read the message. Then, moving to the bathroom door he called to his roommate. Doyle could not hear because of the running water.
Giving it up, Flash went back to the telephone. He placed a call for Major Hartgrove at Melveredge Field, and waited.
Ten minutes elapsed. The telephone bell jingled. Eagerly he took down the receiver. The operator spoke.
“It is impossible to contact your party,” she reported. “Will you speak with any other person?”
“Get me Captain Ernest Johns.”
Again Flash waited, although a shorter time. Once more the operator had only failure to report.
“Captain Johns and Major Hartgrove no longer are located at Melveredge Field,” she informed. “I am sorry.”
Flash hung up the receiver, disappointed by his inability to contact either of the men. A slight sound caused him to turn in his chair.
He stared. The outside door stood slightly ajar. He could not remember having left it that way.
As he watched, fascinated, it slowly was pulled shut. Someone in the hall had been listening to the telephone conversation!
Flash moved swiftly to the door and jerked it open. The hall was deserted, but as he listened he could hear the soft pad of footsteps fading away.
“That door didn’t open by itself,” he muttered. “Someone was listening. But whoever he was, he’s gone now.”
Flash re-entered the bedroom. The shower was still running, but in a few minutes Doyle came out, wrapped in his flannel robe.
“Did you send that telegram?” he asked.
“No, not yet. Doyle, there’s no reason for you to resign.”
“I’m fed up,” the technician responded shortly.
“I’ve been thinking. I may keep on for awhile, after all. My plans aren’t turning out the way I expected.”
“You mean you want to go on to Clinton? You believe my story, then?”
“Yes. I don’t honestly think you were a party to what happened today.”
Doyle drew a deep sigh.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Flash. You’ve been pretty badly mixed up—”
“Let’s not argue that point,” Flash interrupted. “My opinion about Rascomb won’t change. I intend to report him to the police.”
Doyle frowned.
“You’re making a big mistake if you do that, Flash. Rascomb is an important man with connections around this city. Even if he had done what you think he did, it would be hard to prove.”
“Not if you’ll testify with me.”
Doyle shifted his weight uncomfortably.
“I couldn’t be a party to railroading an innocent man.”
“Innocent!”
“That bump on the head confused you, Flash,” Doyle said anxiously. “Maybe you ought to see a doctor.”
“You think I’m out of my head?”
“Only on that one subject. You’ve been suspicious of Rascomb ever since you met him.”
“And for a mighty good reason. I suppose you’ll think I’m crazy if I tell you that Rascomb and Fleur locked me up in the lodge.”
“What?” Doyle demanded incredulously.
“After he left you, Rascomb came back. He boasted that he intended to pull off a final deal and skip the country. Take a look at this!”
Flash drew the picture of Albert Povy from his pocket and slapped it on the table before Doyle’s startled eyes.
“Where did you get this, Flash?”
“In Rascomb’s desk!”
“It doesn’t seem possible,” Doyle muttered. “There is a marked resemblance I’ll admit, but Rascomb has no scar.”
“You’re mistaken there. He’s been using clever make-up to keep it covered. Now will you go with me to the police station?”
“I still think you’re mixed up somehow,” Doyle protested. “I hate to get involved in this mess. Rascomb isn’t the man to take an accusation sitting down.”
“Then I’ll go to the police alone,” Flash said shortly. “It won’t take me long to make my report. As soon as I’m through we’ll start for Clinton.”
“We can’t get out of here until the truck is repaired.”
“Why not hire a car? We could take the hand camera, get our strike pictures, and come back here later for the truck.”
“We could do that,” Doyle agreed. “Do you feel equal to the trip?”
Flash shook his head impatiently. “No, but I’ll keep going somehow.”
He changed his clothes and hastily packed his belongings in a suitcase. Doyle watched him with a troubled gaze.
“Flash, you look bad,” he said after a moment. “Let me call a doctor.”
“We haven’t time. I’m on my way to the police station now. You might see if you can locate a car while I’m gone.”
Leaving Doyle in the room, Flash went downstairs to the nearly deserted lobby. As he reached the revolving door at the front entrance another man entered the hotel and they met face to face.
Flash stopped short.
“Captain Johns!” he exclaimed.
The army man peered at the young man an instant without recognition, and then he remembered him.
“Evans, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I was trying to reach you by long distance telephone only a few minutes ago,” Flash began eagerly.
The Captain cut him short. “Major Hartgrove and I arrived here early this morning. Glad to have met you again, Mr. Evans.”
“One minute,” Flash protested as the man started to edge away.
“I can’t stop now,” Captain Johns apologized. “Some other time I’ll be glad to grant an interview.”
“I’m not after an interview or pictures. I would like to give you some information about Albert Povy.”
Captain Johns stopped short. He gazed at Flash intently.
“Albert Povy no longer interests me,” he said. “The man is dead.”
“You are wrong, sir. Povy never was killed in the train wreck. I have proof of it.”
“Impossible! It happens that Major Hartgrove and I came here this morning to investigate that very thing. Povy is buried in a cemetery at Clear Lake. I visited the grave myself.”
“It couldn’t have been Povy’s grave. The man still lives.”
Captain Johns grasped Flash by the arm.
“Come back into the lobby with me, young man,” he urged. “If your information should be correct it will prove of vital importance to us!”
Flash sank into a chair beside the captain. He offered the picture of Povy and told where he had obtained it.
“But do you realize what you are saying?” the Captain demanded in amazement. “You are accusing Herbert Rascomb of living a dual life!”
“Rascomb and Povy are the same person,” Flash insisted. “For years the man has been living a double existence. As Rascomb he’s acted the part of a wealthy, upstanding citizen. As Povy—well, I don’t know much abouthispast.”
“Albert Povy was one of the most daring spies the government ever encountered,” explained Captain Johns. “He caused us great embarrassment. Recently, evidence piled up against him. Had his death not occurred, he would have been arrested within forty-eight hours.”
“I saw him on the train,” Flash said. “At the time it appeared to me that he might have been shadowing Major Hartgrove.”
“Your observation was correct. Povy knew that the government had taken an interest in a parachute which is being perfected by a man named Bailey Brooks. He was under the impression that Major Hartgrove had possession of certain papers and specifications referring to it.”
“And when the train was wrecked he tried to rob the Major?”
“He made such an attempt and failed.”
“Where is the Major now?” Flash asked. “I believe you said he was here at the hotel.”
“He is waiting for me upstairs.”
“And does he still have the specifications for Brooks’ invention?”
Captain Johns frowned in annoyance. He felt that he had told the cameraman entirely too much.
“The reason I ask is this,” Flash said. “Rascomb boasted while he held me prisoner that he intended to pull off one more deal before he disappeared. He may have learned that Major Hartgrove is here—”
“Major Hartgrove is well able to look after himself,” the captain interposed dryly.
Flash arose.
“You don’t believe my story,” he said.
“I am convinced that you believe it,” returned Captain Johns. “Your accusation against Rascomb is amazing. However, I promise you a complete investigation will be made.”
“Unless you work fast, Rascomb may disappear,” Flash warned impatiently. “I was on my way to the police when I met you.”
“No, you must not go there! Allow me to handle this.”
“Yes, sir.”
A page boy crossed the lobby, gazing questioningly toward the pair.
“Call for Captain Johns! Captain Johns!”
The army man signaled to the boy, and upon learning that he was wanted on the telephone, excused himself. When he returned a few minutes later his face was sober.
“I don’t know what to think now,” he said. “That call was from Charles W. Gordon.”
“Gordon?”
“A prominent and respectable lawyer here in Excelsior City. He requested me to come without delay to Room 47 and to bring you with me.”
“Why should Gordon wish to see us?”
“He said he was representing Herbert Rascomb and had important information to offer.”
“It sounds like a trap!” exclaimed Flash.
“I hardly agree. Gordon is a reputable lawyer.”
“How did he know we were here in the hotel and together?”
“I was wondering about that,” mused Captain Johns. “We’ll see him, but if Room 47 is the spider’s den, let us keep an eye open for entanglements.”
Motioning for Flash to follow, Captain Johns strode across the empty lobby to the desk. Curtly he questioned the sleepy-eyed clerk as to the occupant of Room 47.
“Number 47? It was assigned about a half hour ago to Herbert Rascomb.”
“I’m going up there to see a man,” informed the captain. “Now get this straight. If I fail to return to the lobby within twenty minutes, notify Major Hartgrove in Room 267. Tell him to join me. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. Twenty minutes.”
Flash and the captain walked up a flight of stairs to the first floor. The door of Room 47 was opened by a dignified looking man of forty-five who wore glasses and was slightly bald.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said in a polished voice. “I should not have invited you here at such a late hour, but certain misunderstandings must be cleared up before further harm is done.”
Mr. Gordon glanced significantly at Flash as if to imply that he deliberately and needlessly had created trouble.
A man sat at the window, his face swathed in bandages. Flash stopped short as he recognized him.
“Rascomb!”
“Evans, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you alive!”
Rascomb arose painfully, and taking a step forward, extended his hand.
“I met Doyle downstairs a few minutes ago,” he explained. “He told me of your miraculous escape from the fire! I can’t make you understand the feeling which went over me.”
“You are an excellent actor,” Flash retorted, ignoring the proffered hand. “But I don’t doubt you were surprised to learn I was in Excelsior City. You thought you had taken care of me for several days at least!”
“My dear young man,” Rascomb said soothingly, “you seem to be laboring under some delusion. Doyle warned me, but I found it most difficult to believe.”
“Let’s sit down and talk this over in a sensible way,” interposed Mr. Gordon. “Through Mr. Doyle we have learned that Evans here has been making false and libelous accusations against Mr. Rascomb.”
“False!” exclaimed Flash angrily. “I can prove every statement I’ve made!”
“You most certainly will be given the opportunity,” the lawyer said. “Possibly in court.”
“Now I don’t want to be too hard on you, Evans,” spoke Rascomb quietly. “You have gone through an ordeal tonight, enough to break an iron man. Slight wonder you became confused and thought your friends were enemies.”
“So I imagined that you struck me over the head with an oar? And later that you locked me in the cabin?”
Rascomb gazed despairingly at Captain Johns. Turning to Flash once more, he said:
“How can I convince you of the truth? Doyle will support my story. You were thrown into the water when our boat accidentally upset. You may have struck your head on a rock or submerged log. I know you failed to come to the surface. Doyle and I searched as long as we dared.”
“And did I lock myself in the lodge?”
“No,” admitted Rascomb, smiling faintly. “Fleur shut you up there.”
“Fleur?” questioned the captain.
“My caretaker. Evans raved so much and told such an outlandish story that Fleur considered him out of his head. He locked him up and telephoned me. I immediately ordered his release.”
“Your story is very smooth,” said Flash, “but there’s one little detail you can’t gloss over. How about that scar on your cheek?”
“I have no scar.”
“Prove it,” Flash challenged. “Take off those bandages!”
Mr. Gordon spoke with exasperation.
“We are trying to be patient. You make it most difficult. In returning to Excelsior City this evening from his hunting lodge, Mr. Rascomb was in a motor accident. Hence the bandages.”
“A very convenient accident!”
“I shall be glad to remove the bandages whenever my doctor grants permission,” said Rascomb with dignity. “Possibly by tomorrow. However, I assure you I have no scar, unless I may bear some slight mark as a result of today’s accident.”
Flash glanced toward Captain Johns who had listened attentively to the argument. Rascomb’s story was so flimsy that he did not think the army man could place the slightest confidence in it.
To his amazement, Johns gave every indication of being impressed.
There was a moment of silence. Then Rascomb inquired:
“Are there any other questions you wish to ask me? I have nothing to hide.”
“One question,” said Captain Johns. “Why did you have a picture of Albert Povy in your possession?”
Rascomb’s eyes became wary, but he did not lose poise.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Captain.”
“This picture.”
The army man displayed the photograph which Flash had given him a few minutes before, but did not place it in Rascomb’s outstretched hand.
“Oh, that picture,” the sportsman said carelessly. “I found it among Povy’s personal effects. His luggage was sent to me after I claimed the body.”
“And why were you so interested in Povy?” pursued Captain Johns. “I must say that you bear a remarkable resemblance to him.”
Rascomb drew a deep sigh.
“I had hoped to be spared this confession,” he said. “Povy was distantly related to me—a second cousin. You may be sure I never was proud of the kinship. I knew my cousin had an unsavory reputation, and his activities never ceased to alarm and embarrass me. Heartless as it may seem, his death came as a relief to me.”
“You changed your story,” observed Flash. “Yesterday Povy was a stranger you befriended.”
“I told you that, I admit. However, I considered your questions somewhat impertinent. And I never have willingly admitted my relationship to Albert Povy. He was the one black sheep in an otherwise honorable and distinguished family.”
The telephone rang. Mr. Gordon arose to answer it.
“For you, Captain,” he announced.
Captain Johns glanced at his watch and picked up the receiver.
“What’s that?” he demanded incredulously into the transmitter. “Impossible!”
Hanging up the receiver, he turned to face the surprised group.
“Not bad news I hope?” inquired Rascomb.
Captain Johns did not answer. His eyes roved about the room, glinting with anger as they fastened upon Flash.
“Evans,” he said sharply, “you have misled me. We shall consider this investigation closed.”
A triumphant smile crossed Herbert Rascomb’s face. He offered his hand to Captain Johns who shook it firmly.
“You are a just and reasonable man, Captain. I was certain I could convince you of the truth. Evans meant well, but he allowed his imagination to run away with him.”
“He did that. My apologies, Mr. Rascomb.”
“Don’t be too hard on Evans,” Rascomb replied with a show of solicitude. “A day in the hospital and he’ll feel like himself again.”
Flash started to speak and changed his mind. With the Captain against him he had no chance. Angrily, he started for the door.
“Wait!” commanded Captain Johns. “I have a few words to say to you.”
Reluctantly, Flash paused. The captain politely bade Gordon and Rascomb good evening, and departed.
Once in the hallway his manner immediately altered. Grasping Flash’s arm, he guided him toward the elevator.
“Don’t take what I said too seriously, Evans,” he advised. “There’s something wrong here. While we were with Rascomb an attack was made on the Major!”
Captain Johns pressed his finger steadily on the elevator signal bell. When the cage did not immediately ascend, he started up the stairway. Flash followed him.
“It was the hotel clerk who telephoned me,” he explained. “Major Hartgrove can’t be located. His room is empty and there is evidence of a brutal attack!”
“Rascomb—” Flash began only to be cut short.
“How could Rascomb have had anything to do with it?” Captain Johns demanded with a snort of impatience. “We were with him for the past twenty minutes. Young man, you should devote your talents to picture taking.”
“I’m right about Rascomb,” Flash maintained stubbornly. “But if you want to drop the matter that’s your concern. I intend to swear out a warrant for his arrest on a charge of assault.”
“You couldn’t do a more foolish thing,” the captain snapped. “No, don’t go. I want to have a talk with you. But first I must learn what has happened upstairs.”
Flash followed his companion down the corridor to Room 267. The door stood half open, and several hotel officials, an excited bellboy and a chambermaid, already were gathered there.
“What has happened?” demanded Captain Johns gruffly.
“We don’t know,” answered the hotel manager nervously.
“I followed your instructions, sir,” the clerk explained. “In exactly twenty minutes after you left the lobby I telephoned this room. Failing to arouse Major Hartgrove I sent a boy up here. This is the way the room was found. Nothing has been touched.”
Flash gazed curiously about. One of the beds had been used, the other remained neatly made up. A chair was overturned. Suitcases lay open, their contents spread about the floor.
“The room has been ransacked,” the captain muttered. “And I know what they were after.”
“Can you tell if anything is missing?” asked the manager.
“Major Hartgrove carried important documents upon his person.”
Captain Johns made a silent appraisal of the bedroom. He examined the contents of the suitcases, the windows opening upon the fire escape, and then questioned the bellboy and the chambermaid in turn. Neither had seen strangers on the floor during the past two hours, nor had they observed Major Hartgrove since early in the evening.
As the inquiry continued, Flash became aware of how fast time was slipping away. He was annoyed at Captain Johns’ slow but thorough way of conducting the investigation, and he was disgusted because the army man refused to believe that Rascomb was an impostor.
“Rascomb had a finger in the Major’s disappearance,” he thought grimly. “But no one ever will believe it. I may as well save my breath.”
Knowing that Doyle would be expecting him, he decided to await the Captain’s pleasure no longer. Without bothering to explain that he was leaving, he went to join theNews-Vuetechnician.
“Where’ve you been, Flash?” Doyle greeted him impatiently. “I’ve kept the car waiting fifteen minutes.”
“I was having a talk with Rascomb.”
“I saw him myself in the lobby. Flash you’re dead wrong about—”
“Let’s not say anything more about Rascomb tonight or later,” Flash broke in wearily. “I’m willing to forget him.”
“Then let’s move,” said Doyle, picking up his suitcase. “This is a swell hotel! Not even a boy to carry your luggage!”
“Everyone is in Major Hartgrove’s room.”
“What’s going on there?”
“Oh, nothing of consequence,” Flash remarked, enjoying the effect of his news. “Major Hartgrove has been kidnapped—that’s all.”
Doyle stopped short. “Kidnapped!”
“It looks that way. He disappeared from his room, and the place has been ransacked.”
“This isn’t another of your yarns?”
“Call it that,” Flash shrugged. “I’m tired of trying to convince anyone of anything.”
“Don’t get sore,” Doyle said placatingly. “Tell me what happened.”
Relenting, Flash related all which had transpired at the interview with Gordon and Rascomb, and likewise told of the summons to Major Hartgrove’s room.
“You’ll scoff,” he ended, “but I think Rascomb called Johns and me into conference so he would have an alibi when it was discovered Hartgrove was missing.”
Doyle did not laugh.
“You cling like a leech to your theory that Povy and Rascomb are the same person.”
“I do. If Captain Johns would have Rascomb arrested, I could prove in two minutes that my story is straight. Rascomb can’t get rid of his scar. It was a transparent trick, covering it up with bandages.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Doyle replied doubtfully. “You’re honest in your opinion, but I still think you jumped to conclusions. If I were you, I’d forget about Rascomb.”
“I intend to do exactly that,” Flash agreed. “But just wait! When it is too late, Captain Johns will discover that Rascomb has disappeared.”
“No chance of getting pictures tonight, I suppose,” Doyle commented thoughtfully. “But maybe the story will have developed by the time we come back here tomorrow. What documents was the Major carrying?”
“I don’t know. Captain Johns hasn’t told me very much. I would guess they might be specifications or official reports pertaining to Bailey Brooks’ new invention.”
“And who would be interested in anything of that sort? Kidnapping is a more dangerous sport than it once was.”
“Another government could use that parachute, especially in war time. Povy was dickering with Brooks for its purchase, and not getting very far.”
“Yes, I remember he was interested in the parachute test,” Doyle admitted slowly.
“Povy followed Hartgrove on the train. After the wreck, someone—and I’m satisfied it was Povy—attacked the Major and tried to rob him.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“No.”
“And you figure Povy was the man?”
“I do. Without question it was Povy. To avoid arrest, he made it appear he had been killed.”
“But see here, Flash, Brooks’ parachute barely had been successfully tested at the time of the wreck. Your reasoning is as full of holes as a sieve.”
“I’m not saying what Povy was after. That’s my guess.”
“Well, it may have been Povy who attacked the Major the first time,” Doyle conceded. “But to connect him with Rascomb! I’ve seen both men. They don’t look alike, they don’t act alike—”
“Okay,” Flash cut in, “let’s skip it. Now where is the car?”
“In front of the hotel.”
They passed through the revolving doors and moved to the curb. Doyle looked up and down the street, finally signaling a driver in a new black touring car.
“We’re riding to Clinton in style,” he grinned.
“So I see. A chauffeur?”
“I picked this man up cheap. With a driver we’ll both be able to sleep.”
“I can use some,” said Flash.
The car drew up at the curb. Doyle introduced the chauffeur as Clarence Purcell. He was a sharp-faced individual of forty with dark eyes and an unpleasant habit of sniffing his nose at frequent intervals.
“How long will it take to reach Clinton?” Flash asked him.
“Hard to tell,” the man answered. “There’s a bridge out East of here. We’ll have to take a detour which will slow us down.”
“We’ll arrive there by seven o’clock?”
“Oh, sure. Easy! You fellows roll up on the back seat and leave the driving to me. I’ll get you there.”
The car rode smoothly and Clarence Purcell was a skilful driver. As soon as they were well out of the city, Doyle rearranged the cameras to make more foot room. He stretched out comfortably, pillowing his head on his overcoat.
“I’m catching forty winks,” he said. “Better do the same. We’ll have a tough day tomorrow.”
Flash was weary to the point of exhaustion, but for some reason he could not sleep. His head ached. Disconnected thoughts kept racing through his mind.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have left Excelsior City without at least trying to have Rascomb arrested,” he reflected. “Oh, well, it’s too late now.”
Rolling up on the opposite side of the seat, he closed his eyes. Sleep refused to come.
Arousing a few minutes later, he surprised Clarence Purcell in the act of peering over his shoulder into the back of the car. Observing that Flash was awake, he quickly turned his head again.
The night was dark. Not a star illuminated the sky. Glancing out the window, Flash could not see beyond the hedges which lined the road. Nor was he certain of his directions.
“Where are we anyway?” he asked the driver.
“Fifty-eight miles out of Excelsior City.”
“I must be turned around. It seems to me we’re traveling the wrong direction.”
“The road twists.”
Flash settled down again and at length dropped off to sleep. He awakened to find the car no longer moving.
Straightening up, he looked about him. The automobile was parked beside the highway not far from an all-night restaurant and filling station.
The driver had disappeared.
Flash rolled down the window, gazing toward the lighted café. The main grille room was deserted save for the proprietress, and a man who appeared to be using a telephone.
Flash nudged Doyle to awaken him.
“What’s the matter now?” the technician mumbled drowsily. “Why have we stopped?”
“That’s what I would like to know,” replied Flash. “Our driver is inside the café telephoning. He’s acting peculiar.”
Before Doyle could offer an opinion, the chauffeur came hurriedly toward the car.
“Why have we stopped?” Flash asked him sharply.
“Oh, you’re awake!” the man exclaimed. “I had to stop to find out about the roads. We took a wrong turn.”
“How much time have we wasted?” Doyle demanded.
“Not any if we keep going. I found out about another road we can take. It’s rough for a few miles but connects with our highway.”
“Okay, let’s be traveling,” Doyle said, curling up on the seat again.
“Why were you telephoning?” Flash questioned the driver.
“I called back to the nearest town for road instructions. No one in the café could give me accurate information.”
“I notice you didn’t inquire at the filling station.”
“The attendant was busy. I knew you were in a hurry so I telephoned.”
“Never mind,” growled Doyle irritably. “Let’s get started.”
The car moved on down the road, turning at the first corner. For the next ten minutes they followed a narrow, twisting dirt highway which led deep into a pine woods.
Flash had lost all desire to sleep. The chauffeur’s explanation did not satisfy him.
As the car bumped on mile after mile over the deserted road, Doyle too began to show signs of nervousness.
“How much farther?” he asked the driver.
“We’ll soon be where we’re going.”
The words had a ring which Flash did not like. Turning to Doyle he asked him in an undertone where he had obtained the driver.
The technician remained silent for a moment. Then he gave his answer reluctantly.
“You’re not going to like this, Flash, but I may as well tell you. Rascomb recommended him.”
“Rascomb!”
“Yes, I met him in the hotel lobby and—”
Doyle did not finish for the chauffeur had applied brakes. Before either he or Flash could act, the man whirled around, covering them with a revolver.
“Reach!” he ordered harshly. “This is the end of the line!”
“Say, what is this?” Doyle demanded in an angry voice.
“Put up your hands,” the chauffeur ordered again. “Don’t try any clever business or I’ll let you have it! Now get out of the car!”
Silently Flash and Doyle obeyed.
“Walk straight ahead down the road,” their captor commanded.
“Is this a stick-up?” Doyle asked, standing his ground.
The revolver prodded his back.
“No, it isn’t a stick-up, brother. Move along before I get impatient.”
“Where are you taking us?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Keep lookin’ straight ahead.”
Doyle glanced sideways at Flash as they marched down the road, hands held high.
“Don’t think I had any part in this!” he muttered. “I was double-crossed by that swine, Rascomb!”
“You delivered us both into his hands,” Flash agreed bitterly. “Maybe now you’re willing to believe what I told you about him.”
“I’ve been a dumb ox, all right.”
“If you had only listened—”
“Hey, no talk!” ordered the man behind them. “Keep quiet!”
A few yards farther up the road he commanded the pair to turn into a path on their right. It led through dense woods to a small log cabin. Blinds covered all the windows, but a crack of light shining from beneath one of them, gave evidence of occupancy.
Keeping his revolver trained upon Flash and Doyle, the chauffeur rapped twice on the door.
Almost at once it was opened by a burly man whose fleshy face looked hard and cruel in the dim light.
“You took long enough getting here!” he said gruffly.
“Made it as quick as I could,” the chauffeur answered. “You can go now. I’ll take over.”
He held a whispered conference with the burly man who then walked swiftly away through the forest. Flash and Doyle were forced to enter the cabin.
The room in which they found themselves was dirty, and provided with the plainest of furniture. Opening from it was a second room.
“Get in there!” the chauffeur ordered.