“Say, listen!” Doyle protested angrily, “Tell us what this is all about. Why are we being held?”
“Because you’ve learned too much, buddy. You and your pal.”
“How long are you keeping us here?”
“All depends. If you take it easy and don’t make no trouble, we may let you out tomorrow.”
“After Herbert Rascomb has skipped the country,” drawled Flash.
The chauffeur pushed them roughly into the dark room. Slamming the door, he turned a key in the lock.
Flash and Doyle stood motionless, listening. They both could hear the wheezing breath of someone who slept.
“We have company,” Flash muttered.
Tracing the sound, he crossed the room to a cot which had been set up against a wall. He could not see the man who lay there. Reaching out, he touched his hand.
The sleeper instantly awoke. With a startled rasp in his throat, he swung his feet to the floor and sat up.
“Who is it?” he demanded hoarsely.
Flash thought he recognized the voice.
“Major Hartgrove!”
“And who are you?” the army man countered.
Flash and Doyle gave their names and sat down on the edge of the cot. In whispers they told how they had been tricked by Rascomb’s chauffeur.
“So Rascomb is behind this?” the Major commented. “I should have known!”
“How did they get you here, Major?” questioned Flash.
“Earlier this evening I was attacked by a man who entered my hotel room by using the fire escape.”
“The man who was guarding the cabin?”
“Yes, he took me by surprise, overpowered me, and at the point of a pistol made me go down the fire escape to a waiting car. I was brought here.”
“And were you robbed?”
The Major did not reply immediately. He thought a moment and then said:
“I may as well tell you now. I doubt if I’ll ever get out of this alive anyway. Yes, I was robbed.”
“Not money?” Doyle prompted.
“No, I had possession of important government papers. Correspondence which never should fall into the hands of an enemy. I had plans and specifications for a new tank the army is considering.”
“Nothing pertaining to Bailey Brooks’ parachute?” Flash asked quickly.
“Those plans were among my papers,” admitted the Major. “Captain Johns and I have been working on them intensively the past few days. The truth is, Brooks’ parachute hasn’t quite come up to our strict requirements. Our experts have suggested several changes which are being tried out.”
“Then the government has decided to purchase the parachute?”
“It depends upon a final test which is to be held tomorrow.”
“And if it should fail?”
“The test will be successful,” declared the Major confidently. “Bailey Brooks himself is making the jump. But it is a grave matter for the plans to fall into the hands of the enemy.”
Flash fell silent as he thought over what he had learned. He knew that Rascomb had been intensely interested in the Bailey Brooks’ invention. Unquestionably, he had engineered the theft. But it was difficult to understand why the man delayed his get-away now that the plans were in his possession.
Arising abruptly, Flash began to explore the prison room.
“Any chance of getting out of here?”
“None whatsoever,” the Major responded. “There is no window. If we try to break down the door, we’ll only stop a bullet.”
“They’ll probably let us out tomorrow,” Doyle said. “After Rascomb has safely fled the country.”
“And then it will be too late!” Flash exclaimed. “If only we could get out of here tonight! Rascomb might still be captured.”
The three prisoners were startled to hear a sharp rap on the door.
“Quiet in there!”
For a long while Flash and his two companions conversed in whispers. After they had discussed every angle of the situation, and were agreed that it was hopeless, they lapsed into moody silence.
Presently Flash aroused himself.
“I have an idea,” he told the others. “It probably won’t work, but I’ll try it!”
In whispers he revealed what he intended to do. Then walking over to the door, he pounded to attract the guard’s attention.
“Lay off of that!” the man ordered.
“Listen, we’re suffocating in here,” Flash protested.
“Now ain’t that too bad?” the chauffeur asked sarcastically. “And us with the air conditioner busted down!”
“Open the door.”
“I ain’t that big a fool!”
“At least give us some water to drink.”
“So you want water?”
Flash was prepared to have the request turned down. To his surprise the guard made no answer. But a minute later he unlocked the door. A beam of light shot across the floor.
“Stand back, all of you,” he ordered, covering the three.
Keeping his back to the door, the chauffeur deposited a bottle of water on the table.
“Help yourselves,” he said.
Flash moved to the table. With pretended eagerness he reached for the bottle. His hand brushed carelessly against it.
Over it went, rolling across the table. He made an elaborate effort to save the contents.
For a fleeting instant the guard’s attention focused suspiciously upon Flash, and his gaze was diverted from Doyle and Major Hartgrove.
That instant was sufficient. Acting together, they leaped upon him, knocking the revolver from his hand.
The fight was brief but intense. Caught completely off guard, the chauffeur proved no match for three desperate opponents. A hard blow on the jaw sent him reeling backwards. He fell and was pinned to the floor.
Flash groped about in the dark until he found the revolver. He jammed its muzzle into the chauffeur’s ribs.
“Let me have that,” ordered Major Hartgrove, taking the weapon from him. “See if you can find some rope!”
Flash ran into the adjoining room, and after a brief search, located a coil which evidently had been brought to the cabin by Rascomb’s men.
Doyle and the Major dragged the chauffeur into the lighted room. Skilfully they trussed him up and set him in a chair.
“Now you’ll talk,” said Major Hartgrove. “If you refuse, I know how to change your mind! You’re working for Rascomb?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Albert Povy then,” supplied Flash.
“I don’t know either of them guys,” the chauffeur insisted.
“Who hired you to waylay Flash and me if it wasn’t Rascomb?” demanded Doyle. “He recommended you as a driver.”
The chauffeur glared at his three questioners, refusing to speak.
“You know what a charge of kidnapping means in this state,” reminded the Major. “A life sentence.”
An expression of fear came over the chauffeur’s face. He began to tremble.
“Now if you come clean—tell us everything you know—you may get off with a lighter sentence,” the Major went on. “But if Rascomb makes good his escape, you’ll be the one to take the rap.”
“This is the first job I’ve ever done for him,” the chauffeur whined. “My orders were to let you all escape in the morning.”
“What became of the papers stolen from me?” Major Hartgrove asked.
“Rascomb has them.”
“And where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying,” accused the Major. “Has he gone to Melveredge Field?”
“Not Rascomb! He’s flying to Mexico tonight.”
“Flying!” exclaimed Flash. “In his own plane?”
“Yeah. At the hotel I heard him telephone a man by the name of Fleur. He told him to be at the airport by five o’clock.”
“Rascomb must have meant his own private field,” Flash said, looking at his watch. “It’s fifteen after three now. But we still have a chance to stop him.”
“How far are we from Excelsior City?” asked the Major.
“Forty-seven miles,” the chauffeur informed.
“Let’s get started,” Flash urged tersely. “We haven’t a minute to lose.”
Major Hartgrove untied the chauffeur’s feet and they forced the man to walk back to the road where the car had been left. Flash slid behind the wheel.
As they rode through the night at a furious pace, Doyle and Major Hartgrove continued to question their prisoner. They soon satisfied themselves that he knew almost nothing about Rascomb’s past.
“I only met the guy yesterday,” he insisted. “Rascomb offered me a chance to pick up some easy money. He let on he wanted to play a joke on some friends of his. I was to drive the car. Until tonight I didn’t have no idea I was getting mixed up in a kidnapping, and maybe worse.”
“What do you mean—worse?” the Major inquired.
“Well, I don’t want to have any hand in letting an innocent man be killed. That’s why I’m spilling everything I know. Rascomb planted one of his men at Melveredge Field. He has it fixed so some poor guy will get killed tomorrow when they test out a parachute.”
“Bailey Brooks!”
“Yeah, he’s the one. I heard Rascomb talking about it.”
“I see!” said the Major explosively. “Rascomb figured that if Brooks were killed in the test, the parachute would be discredited, and the army would lose all interest. Then, with the plans in his possession, he would quietly transfer them to his own government. But we’ll stop that test!”
Flash pressed his foot harder on the accelerator. He was afraid to look at his watch again. The speedometer warned him that they were not making good time.
Soon they came to a small town which Flash recognized. A narrow country road bisected the one they were following.
He eased on the brake.
“Major, this would be a short-cut to Clear Lake! How about taking it?”
Major Hartgrove glanced at his prisoner. Flash read the thought.
“This town must have a constable and a jail,” he said. “We could drop him here and go on.”
“Yes, that will be wiser than trying to take the longer route,” agreed Major Hartgrove.
They aroused a sleepy official from his bed, and turned the chauffeur over to him. Explanations were necessary. The constable was slow to understand.
“We’re losing entirely too much time!” the Major fumed.
“You stay here and enter a charge against this man,” Flash proposed. “Doyle and I will go on to Clear Lake. Unless we move fast, Rascomb is certain to get away.”
The Major considered briefly and consented.
“I’ll telephone to Excelsior City for a police squad,” he promised. “By the time you reach Clear Lake help should be there. I’ll follow as quickly as I can.”
Armed with the Major’s revolver, Flash and Doyle raced on toward Clear Lake. The road they had chosen was bedded with loose gravel. Small stones were thrown against the windshield and fenders as the car skidded around corners.
Doyle snapped on a light and looked at his watch.
“Twenty after four,” he announced. “We’ll never make it.”
“We will unless Rascomb takes off ahead of time!” Flash answered grimly.
Dawn was beginning to color the eastern sky. Trees and houses along the road gradually assumed definite shape. The air was heavy with smoke from the forest fire which still raged miles away.
Flash and Doyle drove through Clear Lake at ten minutes of five. Houses were dark, the streets deserted. There was no police delegation to meet them.
Doyle nervously fingered the loaded revolver.
“It looks as if we’re on our own,” he said. “Unless that chauffeur gave us a bum steer.”
They were drawing near the private air field. Flash snapped off the headlight beams. As the car swung around a bend of the road, they saw the cleared field ahead of them, shrouded in the morning mists.
Flash leaned forward. A plane stood near the hangar, propeller turning, blue flames licking from its exhaust.
“It’s Rascomb!” he shouted.
“We’re too late,” Doyle groaned. “No chance to stop him now.”
A gate which gave entrance to the private field had been left open. Flash whirled the wheel and they went through, bumping over the uneven ground.
Rascomb sat at the controls of the monoplane, with Fleur in the cockpit behind him. They both saw the approaching car.
Derisively, Rascomb waved his hand. Speeding up the engine, he taxied to the end of the cleared space, then nosed the plane into the wind.
“We’ve lost him,” Doyle exclaimed. “He’s taking off!”
Flash had noted the direction of the wind and the path which the plane must travel.
“There’s one way to stop him!” he cried.
As the plane roared down the field, he deliberately headed the car straight toward it.
“Jump!” he shouted to Doyle. “Save yourself! We’re going to crash head-on!”
“Jump!” Flash shouted again as his companion did not obey.
Doyle braced himself against the floor boards.
“I’m sticking,” he said. “Stop ’em if you can, Flash!”
The monoplane roared down the field straight toward the car, rapidly gathering speed for the take-off. In another instant its wheels would leave the ground.
Flash pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The car fairly leaped ahead.
Too late Rascomb saw what the cameramen meant to do. He shouted and swerved the plane. But he could not act quickly enough to avert a crash. The car smashed into the plane’s left wing with terrific impact.
Flash was thrown violently against the windshield. For several minutes he lay in a semi-daze. Then his mind cleared and he shook himself free from the mass of twisted steel.
Doyle was lying limp on the seat, his chin slumped on his chest. As Flash touched him, his eyes opened.
“Stop ’em,” he mumbled. “Stop ’em if you can.”
Relieved that Doyle seemed only stunned, Flash seized the revolver which had fallen to the car seat. Forcing open the battered door, he climbed from the wreckage.
One glance disclosed Fleur lying face downward on the ground. But where was Rascomb?
In bewilderment Flash gazed across the field. He saw a dark figure running toward the woods which bordered the road. Rascomb had escaped injury and was trying to escape.
“Halt!” Flash shouted. “Halt or I’ll fire!”
The man did not pause. He darted into the shelter of the woods and was lost to view.
Flash started to follow, but his legs wobbled beneath him. The crash had shaken him more than he had realized. He never would be able to overtake Rascomb.
As he considered whether or not to remain and guard Fleur, who might recover consciousness, he heard the roar of a speeding automobile. He turned to gaze toward the road and his heart leaped. A car loaded with armed men had turned into the field. Help had arrived!
Major Hartgrove was the first to jump from the car.
“Get Rascomb!” Flash gasped. “He escaped into the woods!”
Leaving one man behind to guard Fleur, Major Hartgrove and his recruits took up the chase. As Flash assisted Doyle from the battered car, he could see their flashlights moving in and out among the tall pines.
“Did you capture Rascomb?” Doyle muttered, holding his head in his hands.
“Not yet. But we will. He hasn’t a chance against six men.”
“Where’s Fleur?”
“Over by the hangar. He’s out cold. How are you feeling now?”
“Shaken up,” Doyle answered, “but I’ll be all right as soon as I collect my wits. Too bad we didn’t get a picture of that crash. It was a beauty!”
The technician’s words reminded Flash of his automatic newsreel camera which had been carried in the rear of the automobile. He groaned at the thought.
“What’s the matter, Flash?” Doyle asked in surprise.
“My camera! It’s probably ground to powder!”
“Maybe not. I packed it carefully in the case.”
Darting back to the car, Flash began to burrow in the wreckage. He pulled out the cases of equipment and eagerly examined them. So far as he could tell the camera was not damaged, but only thrown out of adjustment.
“I may as well waste some film just for the fun of it,” he said to Doyle with a grin.
From somewhere deep in the woods two shots rang out in rapid succession. The cameramen listened tensely. There were no other shots, but in a few minutes Major Hartgrove and his posse came into the clearing with Rascomb manacled to one of the men.
“They got him!” Doyle exclaimed jubilantly.
Flash trained his camera on the group, and despite his excitement, managed to hold it steady as the film ran through.
Rascomb was grim but smiling as he was led to the waiting automobile. His gaze fastened upon Flash.
“You win,” he said grudgingly. “I didn’t figure you would have the courage to crash my plane. But then, you live a charmed life!”
Major Hartgrove turned to Flash and grasped his hand.
“We saw the crash as we came down the road,” he explained. “It was a foolhardy thing to do, but magnificent! If you hadn’t stopped Povy, he would have escaped to Mexico.”
“I threw you off the track for a time, Major,” the prisoner said pleasantly. “It was this fresh kid who tossed a monkey wrench into plans I’ve been building up for years.”
“You made your final mistake when you had Doyle and me waylaid tonight,” said Flash. “I was tired of trying to convince anyone you were Povy. If you had allowed us to go on to Clinton, I probably never would have bothered you again.”
“That was one of my mistakes,” the man agreed. “Another was inviting you to my lodge.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I knew you were wondering if I might not be Povy. I intended to convince you otherwise.”
“You might have succeeded save for one thing.”
“Yes, my scar betrayed me. My make-up was not as clever as I thought. Even so, I should have escaped, had you not lived such a charmed life. And you are very handy at opening locked doors.”
“There’s one thing I would like to know,” said Flash. “How did you manage to give out the impression that Albert Povy had been killed in the train wreck?”
“I don’t mind telling you—not in the least. It was very simple. While on the train I fell into conversation with a man who chanced to mention that he had entered this country recently and had no relatives or friends living here.”
“The man was killed in the wreck?” prompted Major Hartgrove.
“He was. I merely transferred my own identification papers to his pockets. Then, later, I claimed the body and had it buried in the Clear Lake cemetery.”
“You thought that with Albert Povy dead, the government would drop its case against him,” commented the Major. “Then as Herbert Rascomb you would be free to continue your espionage work.”
“Oh, no, Major,” the prisoner corrected. “This was to have been my last deal. I am not as young as I once was and excitement palls upon one. I had planned to retire to Mexico and live a quiet, respectable existence.”
“You’ll find prison a quiet place,” Major Hartgrove said dryly.
“Undoubtedly. I trust you’ll visit me sometime so that we may chat about old times? You really proved yourself very stupid, Major.”
“Kindly hand over the plans to Bailey Brooks’ invention,” Major Hartgrove ordered testily. “It will save a disagreeable search.”
“Anything to oblige.”
Rascomb drew a fat packet of papers from his pocket and dropped it into the Major’s hand.
“One request,” he said. “My man, Fleur, knew nothing of my real past. Attorney Gordon also is blameless. I trust you will not try to involve them. Now gentlemen, is there anything else you wish to know?”
“You had nothing to do with the train wreck?” Flash inquired after a moment.
“No, I merely profited by it. For years I have been building up the respectable character of Rascomb. I knew that I was being closely watched by the Department of Justice. So when the chance came for Povy’s fade-out, I took it.”
Both Rascomb and Fleur were loaded into the car and driven back to Excelsior City, where the latter was taken to the prison hospital for emergency treatment. Flash was greatly relieved to learn that the caretaker had not been seriously injured in the crash and would recover.
“Now to round up the remaining members of Rascomb’s ring,” Major Hartgrove said briskly. “It may take us weeks, but eventually we’ll get every man who ever worked with him.”
“What about Bailey Brooks?” Flash questioned anxiously. “The parachute test has been ordered stopped?”
“Yes, I telephoned Melveredge Field over an hour ago and talked with Brooks himself. The test will be postponed.”
His mind relieved, Flash went with George Doyle to dispatch a telegram to Mr. Clewes of theNews-VueCompany. Afterwards, since it was too late to cover the strike at Clinton, they engaged a hotel room and went to bed.
It was late afternoon when Flash awoke to hear someone pounding on the door. The visitor proved to be Captain Johns.
“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he apologized.
“That’s all right,” returned Flash. “We’ve slept the clock around anyway.”
Captain Johns had come to report that another member of Rascomb’s ring had been taken into custody.
“Major Hartgrove has identified the man as the one who entered his hotel room and robbed him,” the captain revealed. “He was caught when he applied at the airport for a ticket to New York.”
“Then your case is closed?” Doyle inquired.
“Very nearly so.”
Captain Johns chatted for several minutes, revealing interesting details about Rascomb’s past life. Taking a snapshot from his pocket, he gave it to Flash. It was the missing picture of Rascomb which had been obtained at the Indianapolis races.
“So it was you who took it from my room!” exclaimed Flash. “And I blamed Doyle.”
“I am the guilty party,” admitted Captain Johns. “For weeks I had been investigating Rascomb’s record. However, I did not agree with you that he was Albert Povy. You proved me wrong, and I am glad you did. It gives me pleasure to congratulate you.”
After the captain had gone, Flash was not slack in apologizing to Doyle for having misjudged him.
“It was a natural mistake to make,” the technician replied. “Forget it.”
Later in the afternoon a telegram arrived from Mr. Clewes, praising the two cameramen for their recent pictures. The message ended: “Take a week’s rest. You have both earned it.”
“We haveNews-Vueby the tail now,” Doyle grinned. “And boy, can we use that week off!”
“Working on theBrandale Ledgeragain will seem like a picnic after this,” added Flash.
The smile faded from Doyle’s face.
“You’re not thinking of going back?” he asked. “Why, you’ve made a name for yourself withNews-Vue. They’ll give you anything you want on a silver platter.”
“I’m only filling in for Joe,” Flash reminded him.
“Sure, I know. But there are other jobs withNews-Vue. Maybe we could keep on working together.”
Flash remained thoughtfully silent.
“You don’t like me,” Doyle said after a long moment. “I can’t blame you, because I deliberately made it hard. The truth is, I thought you were nothing but a fresh kid. I wanted the job for a friend of mine.”
“I know,” smiled Flash.
“I’ve changed my mind about you. But naturally you wouldn’t feel the same way—”
“I do,” interrupted Flash, extending his hand. “Shake, pal.”
“Then you’re willing to forget?” Doyle demanded eagerly. “And keep on withNews-Vue?”
“Well, for a few weeks. But I’ve promised to return to theLedger.”
“You’ll have a job waiting withNews-Vuewhenever you want it,” Doyle predicted. “And you’ll come back. Once a newsreel cameraman, always one. The excitement seeps into your blood.”
“Yes, Doyle, you’re right,” Flash said heartily. “Taking ordinary pictures will seem pretty tame after this. One of these days I’ll probably be coming back.”
THE END
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