  Pleased by Flash’s promise, Joe Wells quickly provided him with George Doyle’s Indianapolis hotel address, and offered such advice as he thought might prove useful. “Doyle knows a lot about newsreel work and can help you,” he declared. “But you readily see the job is too big for him to handle alone. I’m frank to say he’s touchy and rather unpleasant at times. Don’t let that bother you.” “I’ll be having enough troubles without doing any worrying about him,” Flash returned grimly. “Well, good luck,” Joe said, extending his hand. “I may see you in Indianapolis. I’m getting out of here as soon as the doctor lets me.” Flash left the hospital, somewhat bewildered by the rapid way his plans had been altered. While he had experimented with amateur newsreel photography and had studied it many months, he had no faith in his ability. Nor did he think that George Doyle would like the new arrangement. Consulting time tables, Flash discovered that he never could reach Indianapolis by train. The wrecked streamliner had been the last one which would have arrived in time for the races. A passenger plane left the local airport at eleven that evening and by making his decision quickly he was able to get a ticket. Morning found him, haggard and worn, standing at the desk of the Seville Hotel in Indianapolis. Nervously he glanced at the lobby clock. His plane had been delayed, held back by strong headwinds. He feared that George Doyle might have already left for the race track. “Did you wish a room, sir?” the clerk inquired, regarding his unkempt appearance with disapproval. “We’re filled.” “Do you have a George Doyle here?” “Newsreel man?” the clerk asked in an altered tone. “Yes, I think so.” He checked a card index and reported that the man occupied Room 704. Without telephoning to learn if Doyle were in, Flash went up to the seventh floor. In response to his knock, the door was flung open. George Doyle, hat pushed back on his head, faced him with a frozen gaze. “Well?” he demanded unpleasantly. “What do you want?” “I guess you don’t recognize me. We met at Brandale. Remember the Bailey Brooks ’chute pictures—?” “Oh, sure,” the man broke in, but his voice still lacked warmth. “Sorry I can’t stop to talk now. I’m just starting for the track.” “Joe Wells sent me,” Flash said significantly. Immediately the sound technician’s manner changed. “Why didn’t you say so?” he asked, motioning for Flash to come into the bedroom. “How is Joe? Haven’t heard a word from him since the wreck. You weren’t on the same train?” “Yes, I was. Joe’s leg is broken and he’s badly battered.” “No chance then of his getting here today?” “Not a chance.” “This leaves me in a nice situation,” Doyle complained. “I can’t handle the job alone. I might know Wells would pull something like that!” “I don’t think he broke his leg on purpose,” Flash returned dryly. “Maybe not,” Doyle admitted, “but this was our big opportunity to make a showing. Now I might as well pack up and start back East!” “Joe sent me to take his place. I don’t know how much good I’ll be, but here I am anyhow.” Doyle had been nervously pacing the floor. He paused and stared at Flash. “Joe sent you?” he repeated. “Do you know anything about newsreel work?” “Not very much,” Flash admitted truthfully. “I’m a photographer for the Brandale Ledger. I can do what you tell me.” “A lot of help you’ll be,” Doyle growled. “I need a good, experienced man.” Flash began to lose patience. It seemed to him that Doyle had no interest in Joe Wells’ misfortune save as it affected him. His only thought was for himself and his work. “If you don’t care to use me, that’s quite all right,” he said. “I have some pictures of my own to take.” As he turned abruptly toward the door, Doyle stopped him. “Wait a minute! Don’t be so touchy! I didn’t say I couldn’t use you, did I? If I decide to tackle the job I’ll need a helper. You may do.” “Thanks,” said Flash ironically. He had taken an intense dislike to Doyle. The man was conceited and disagreeable. But for Joe’s sake he would see the thing through. “Had your breakfast yet?” Doyle asked in a more friendly tone. “No, but I’m not very hungry. Still feeling the effects of last night, I guess.” Doyle asked no questions about Flash’s experiences in the train wreck. It did not occur to him that the young photographer had undergone extreme physical discomfort in order to reach Indianapolis. “Well, get shaved,” he said gruffly. “I’ll need to explain to you about the equipment. We haven’t much time.” Flash borrowed a razor, and did not keep Doyle waiting long. They left the hotel, going directly to the garage where the green sound truck had been left. There the sound technician demonstrated the News-Vue equipment, and seemed slightly reassured to discover that Flash knew a good deal about newsreel cameras. “Maybe we can get by somehow,” he said gloomily. “Let’s roll.” “Just as you say.” Flash jumped into the sound wagon beside Doyle. On the seat he noticed a newspaper of the previous night. In screaming headlines it proclaimed: STREAMLINER WRECKED. 12 DEAD, 27 INJURED. As the car shot out of the garage into blinding sunlight, he was able to read the finer print. His eye scanned the list of known dead. Seeing a familiar name, he gave a low exclamation of surprise. “What’s wrong?” Doyle demanded, regarding him curiously. “Nothing,” Flash answered. “It just gave me a shock—this list of the dead.” “Someone you know?” “You remember that fellow, Albert Povy?” “Povy—I can’t seem to place him.” “The man we both saw at Brandale. He was trying to buy Bailey Brooks’ parachute after the successful test.” “Oh, sure,” nodded Doyle. “He wasn’t killed in the wreck?” “His name is listed.” Doyle guided the sound truck through traffic at a reckless pace, deliberately stealing the right-of-way from timid motorists. “If Povy’s dead, then Bailey Brooks is out of luck,” he remarked in a matter of fact tone. “Too bad for him.” “And for Povy, too,” added Flash dryly. “However, from what I’ve heard of the man, his death may not be such a great loss to humanity.” “Mixed up in some sort of government scandal, wasn’t he?” “I never did learn many of the details,” Flash admitted. “It was a funny thing, though. Joe and I saw him on the train. He didn’t remember us or, if he did, he gave no sign. He seemed especially interested in an army man, Major Hartgrove.” “Interested?” “Oh, it was only my idea. It struck me he might have boarded the train with the intention of watching the Major.” “Well, if he’s dead he won’t do any more watching,” Doyle returned carelessly. “We’re getting near the main gate now. Let me have the passes.” “What passes?” “Didn’t Joe give them to you?” Doyle demanded, lifting his foot from the accelerator. “He didn’t give me anything.” The sound technician groaned. “Joe had all our credentials. You didn’t think they’d let us through the gate without proper identification?” Flash had not given the matter a thought. “Won’t our truck get us by?” he asked. “It may, but I doubt it. They’re not letting many sound outfits inside.” “What will we do?” “What can we do? If we’re questioned, we’ll have to put up a loud argument.” The truck had entered dense traffic. It halted to await its turn to enter the grounds. Slowly the line moved up. Shouting “News-Vue” in a loud voice, Doyle attempted to drive through the gate. He was promptly stopped. “Not so fast, young man,” said the gateman. “Let’s see your passes.” “Passes?” Doyle inquired innocently. “You heard me,” retorted the gateman. “And don’t try any bluff.” “See here, we don’t need any passes,” Doyle argued. “We’re newsreel men for the News-Vue Company.” “Can’t let you through without passes. Those are my orders.” “Have a heart,” Doyle growled. “We did have passes, but we lost ’em. If we don’t get inside and locate our truck before race time, we’ll lose our jobs!” “And I’ll lose mine if I disregard orders,” the gateman countered. Doyle alternately argued and pleaded, but to no avail. The gateman remained firm. And at last he lost all patience. “Pull out of line,” he ordered sharply. “You’re holding up these other cars.” Angrily Doyle swerved the truck, parking it a short distance away. His eyes smoldered as he turned toward Flash. “Joe certainly used his brain when he sent you here without credentials!” he muttered. “Now how are we to get those pictures? Any brilliant ideas, Mr. Evans?” |
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