  At terrific speed the body of the jumper hurtled toward the earth. The parachute did not open. Grim-faced, his horrified eyes focused upon the falling figure, Flash shot his first picture. His heart was in his throat, but he was able to keep his hand steady. Swiftly he extracted the holder and made ready to take a second exposure. “It’s curtains,” he thought. “The ’chute never can save Brooks now.” And then, even as he abandoned hope, the silken umbrella cracked open. Perspiration oozed from Flash’s forehead. Joe Wells laughed aloud, so great was his relief. The danger, however, was not entirely over. As Flash took a picture of the great umbrella drifting downward, he noted that it was falling at a rapid rate toward the sea. For a time it appeared that Brooks would strike the water with great force. But the aviator began to pull on the risers, and succeeded in working away from the shore. He landed in a plowed field some distance away. The wind billowed the ’chute, dragging him for a few feet. Brooks then skilfully pulled on the underside risers and the big umbrella flattened out. “He’s safe,” observed Wells, taking a deep breath. “I hope he makes a fortune. A jump like that is worth it.” The two photographers began to pack their cameras into carrying cases. “By the way, what did you start to tell me about Albert Povy?” Flash inquired curiously. “He was supposed to have been mixed up in shady espionage business a few months ago. I understand government operatives have kept a sharp eye on him.” “And now he seems to be interested in Brooks’ parachute?” “It looks that way. If Brooks has any sense he’ll steer clear of the fellow. Suppose we get down there, Flash.” Together they began the dangerous descent. By the time they reached the base of the cliff, Bailey Brooks had walked back from the field, and was receiving the congratulations of the News-Vue men. As Flash and Joe added their praise, a tall, dark stranger crossed the open space to the sound truck. “A beautiful jump, Mr. Brooks,” he praised. “You remember me, don’t you? My name is Povy—Albert Povy.” “Yes, I remember you very well,” the jumper replied dryly. “Did I demonstrate what my ’chute could do?” “You certainly did,” the man returned heartily. “It was amazing! I never would have believed it possible, if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes. You know, we may be able to do business together, after all.” A guarded expression came into Bailey Brooks’ steel gray eyes. “I’m open to propositions,” he said. “Come over to my car,” invited Albert Povy. “We’ll talk.” Flash and Joe Wells were closed out of the conversation. Swiftly the News-Vue men loaded their equipment aboard the truck and prepared to leave. “Listen, Flash,” said Joe as he climbed into the sound truck. “When you’re through at the Ledger this afternoon, drop around at the News-Vue offices. I want to talk with you.” He handed over a card bearing the company address, and the truck rolled away. Reminded that he had pictures of his own to rush back to Brandale, Flash stuffed the card into his pocket, and hurried to the waiting taxi. As he drove off he saw that Brooks had gone with Albert Povy. “Wonder if he knows the man’s reputation?” he thought. “I suppose he must.” Flash dismissed the matter entirely from his mind. He never expected to see either of the men again. His only concern was the possibility of future news stories or pictures. The taxicab made a quick trip back to Brandale. Flash paid the bill and kept a receipt to show Riley as proof of his expense. He was hurrying through the news room on his way to the photographic department when the editor hailed him. “Hey, Evans, where have you been all afternoon?” The editor gave him a quizzical glance. Flash paused. “Didn’t Jerry Hayes telephone you?” “Some kid called in. He said you were after a big picture.” “I nailed it, too,” Flash said confidently. “Bailey Brooks just disregarded orders and tested his parachute out at Eagle Cliff.” “Killed?” “No, the test was a success. So far, the News-Vue people are the only ones to get pictures. Mine ought to be dandies.” “Good work!” approved Riley. “We can use them, and the story, too. Crack ’em through.” In a few minutes’ time Flash had developed his pictures and made the prints from wet films. His work finished, he was loitering in the news room when Riley motioned for him to come over to the desk. “You may as well call it a day, Evans,” he said. “Those were fine pictures you turned in.” “Thanks, Mr. Riley.” “You start your vacation tomorrow, I believe?” “Yes, sir, I do.” “You’ve earned it,” Riley said with an attempt at geniality. “Where are you planning to spend your month off?” “Home mostly. I may visit some friends in Indianapolis and take in the auto races.” Riley pounced upon the information with the avidity of a bass after live bait. “We could use some good pictures, Flash. How about covering the races for the Ledger?” “Well—my plans aren’t definite. I may not be able to make it.” “Buy yourself a ticket to Indianapolis at the Ledger’s expense,” Riley urged, guessing the reason behind the young man’s indecision. “Why not hop the special streamliner which leaves here tomorrow morning?” “I’ll do it!” Flash decided suddenly. “Good! Take any equipment you may need, and send your pictures back by plane.” Flash returned to the photography department for his camera. After saying good-bye to several friends, he went downstairs where his pay check awaited him. He was finished with work an hour earlier than usual. It would seem strange, he thought, being off duty for an entire month. As Flash reached for bus fare, he pulled the card Joe Wells had given him from his pocket. The address of the News-Vue Company was only a few blocks away. “May as well drop around there and kill a little time,” he reflected. “But I don’t aim to let Joe talk me into leaving the Ledger.” Flash presently found himself standing before a tall white stone building located not far from the waterfront. He consulted the room directory in the lobby and rode the elevator up to the sixth floor. A receptionist was asking him whom he wished to see when Joe Wells, hearing a familiar voice, stepped from one of the offices. “Hello, there, Flash,” he greeted cordially. “Come on in.” He led the photographer into a small room crowded with desks, waving him to a chair. “I’ll be through in a minute. Then I’ll show you around. I want to write up this dope sheet first.” “Take your time, Joe.” The News-Vue man inserted a sheet of printed paper in a typewriter, rapidly filling in the blanks. “I’m getting ready to take off for Indianapolis tomorrow,” he remarked casually. “George Doyle started on ahead with the sound wagon about an hour ago. I follow by train and meet him there.” “Maybe I’ll see you,” Flash replied. “I’m covering the races myself. For the Ledger.” “I never could go back to working on a paper now,” Joe commented. “Too tame compared with the newsreels. Flash, why don’t you consider—” “No!” Flash cut in with a laugh. “I’m not listening to any arguments.” Joe shrugged and said no more. He spent the next half hour showing his friend the newsreel cameras and explaining their operation. “We ordinarily use one with a front turret, carrying three or four lenses,” he instructed. “This particular camera holds four hundred feet of film in its magazine and can be hand-cranked or driven with either a 110 volt A.C. motor or a 12 D.C.” “I suppose power is generated from storage batteries?” “Yes, our trucks are equipped with chargers. Sometimes we are able to plug into a service line. But why am I telling you all this? You know as much about it as I do.” “Hardly,” Flash corrected. “But I have done a little studying.” After a trip through the laboratories where positives were being made from “master blues,” Joe led his friend into the projection room. “We’re in luck,” he said. “They’re showing those Bailey Brooks pictures.” In the darkened room several editors, script writers and a commentator, sat at dimly lighted desks. On the wall before them a strip of film was being run through. To Flash the moving figures seemed grotesque, for blacks and whites were in reverse. “What’s this?” demanded an editor as he watched the spectacular leap made by Bailey Brooks. “Just another parachute jump?” Information provided by Joe Wells’ caption sheet was read aloud. “That’s interesting stuff,” decided the editor. “Run it full. Cut down that racing shot from Cuba. Now what do we have on the Japanese earthquake?” For several minutes Flash watched the work of cutting and assembling the eight different subjects which would be used in the completed newsreel. He ended his tour by visiting a studio where the various shots were synchronized with music and the explanatory speech of a commentator. “The releases will be shown in Brandale theatres in another hour,” Wells declared, escorting his friend to the elevator. “In this business speed means everything.” Although he would not have admitted it, Flash was strangely impressed. Riding home in the bus, he reflected that Joe might be right about newsreel work offering more thrills than fell to the lot of an ordinary photographer. He would like to try it. But for the present he couldn’t consider leaving the Ledger. At home a warm supper was waiting. As he shared the well-cooked meal with his mother and younger sister, Joan, Flash mentioned his assignment to cover the Indianapolis races. “Working on your vacation?” Mrs. Evans inquired mildly. “Really, Jimmy, you need a rest.” “Shooting a few pictures won’t be work, Mother. I’ll enjoy it. And I’ll get a free trip.” It was true. Flash never had considered professional picture-taking as drudgery. Save for a month when persons had sought to undermine his job, he had thoroughly enjoyed the time spent on the Ledger. Flash, who seldom answered to his real name of Jimmy, was seventeen, the son of a former newspaper editor. Since Mr. Evans’ death several years earlier, the little family of three had been hard pressed to make ends meet. But Flash’s recent salary increases had made things much easier. That was one reason why he could not give up a sure job for the more uncertain calling of newsreel cameraman. “I see you have set your heart upon the Indianapolis trip,” Mrs. Evans remarked, “so you may as well pack your bag.” Early the next morning when Flash reached the railroad terminal he found it buzzing with activity. He stood in line to buy his ticket, noting that Indianapolis seemed to be the popular destination. Special rates had been offered, and only Indiana passengers were allowed on the streamliner. Flash swung aboard. Wandering through several cars, he finally came upon his friend, Joe Wells. “Hello, there,” the newsreel man greeted him. “Let’s go back to the club car and grab a seat before they’re all taken.” The train began to move. Joe led the way through the corridors. So quietly did the streamliner run that they scarcely were aware of its gathering speed. At the entrance to the club car, Joe halted suddenly and Flash bumped into him. “See who is here,” he muttered, indicating a man who sat reading a magazine. “Albert Povy!” Flash exclaimed in an undertone. Offering no additional comment, the two photographers entered the car. They took the only vacant chairs which chanced to be directly across from the man who held their attention. Flash scrutinized the passenger with keen interest. There was something about Povy which fascinated and yet repulsed him. The man was tall, well-built, with a hollow, almost gaunt face. A faint but jagged scar on his left cheek evidently had resulted from an old war wound. Povy glanced up and met Flash’s steady gaze. He stared hard at the young man for a moment and then glanced away. If he recognized either of the photographers he gave no further sign. Joe nudged Flash. Raising a newspaper to shield his face, he called attention to a middle-aged man of military bearing who was writing a letter at the desk. “Major Creighton Hartgrove,” he whispered. “Retired from the army. It’s rumored, though, that he’s doing secret work for the government.” As Wells spoke, Hartgrove arose and left the club car. A moment later, Albert Povy put aside his magazine and followed. Or at least, Flash gained the impression that the man seemed to be interested in the Major’s movements. He ventured such an opinion to Joe, who made light of his observation. “You’re as imaginative as ever, Flash,” he scoffed. “I shouldn’t have told you lurid tales about Povy’s reputation.” Several times during the day as the streamliner raced westward, Flash caught glimpses of the two men. It struck him as significant that usually the pair were in the same car. More than ever he became convinced that Major Hartgrove was being watched and was himself aware of it. Joe Wells had scant interest in either of the men, and as the day wore on, slept much of the time. When a colored steward gave the first call for dinner, he shook himself awake. “Let’s amble into the diner before the big rush starts, Flash.” They walked forward through two cars, and had just entered the third where Major Hartgrove sat, when the train’s air brakes suddenly were applied. “Now what?” gasped Joe, clutching a seat for support. The next instant he and Flash both were hurled violently from their feet. There was a deafening crash, and the car crumpled like an accordion, burying them beneath the debris. |
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