  There was no mistaking the sarcasm in George Doyle’s voice. It was his nature to lash out at others whenever he was confronted with difficulties. This realization alone kept Flash from making an angry retort. “I have no ideas, brilliant or otherwise,” he responded quietly. “Still, there ought to be some way to get the truck inside.” “How?” “Isn’t there an official around somewhere who might listen to our explanation?” “And while we’re trying to find him the races will be underway. We may as well admit defeat and go back to the hotel.” “Let’s wait,” urged Flash. “How about trying another entrance?” Before Doyle could reply, two sound trucks bearing the name of a rival film company, rolled slowly past and halted. The technician recognized one of the men and hailed him jubilantly. “Hello, Benny! Do a fellow a favor, will you? Tell the gateman we’re okay.” “What’s the matter?” the other driver asked. “Can’t you get inside?” “Lost our passes.” “Now isn’t that too, too bad!” The rival newsreel man grinned wickedly as he shifted gears. “Never saw you before in my life, George. Watch for our pictures on the screen!” The two drivers flashed their passes and drove on through the gate. Doyle glared after them, calling names under his breath. Abruptly, Flash leaped to the ground. Without explaining to Doyle, he walked back to the entrance. “No arguments,” the gateman forestalled him. “You can’t get through without a pass, and that’s final. Maybe you’re telling a straight story, but orders are orders.” “Isn’t there someone around here who would have the authority to pass us into the grounds?” Flash asked. The gateman shrugged. Then his gaze fastened upon a dignified man who was walking toward the gate. “Mr. Hartman could do it,” he said. “You might talk with him.” Flash approached the man, and quickly explained the difficulty. His straightforward manner impressed the official. He took a quick glance at the News-Vue truck and called to the gateman. “It’s all right. Let them through.” Doyle had no word of praise as Flash slid into the seat beside him. “It’s almost time for the race to start,” he grumbled. “All the good places will be gone.” While rival newsreel companies had had first choice for positions, Flash and Doyle still were able to park their truck so as to obtain an unobstructed view of Dead Man’s turn. Hurriedly they arranged their camera and sound equipment, having everything in readiness for the drop of the starter’s flag. With a few minutes still to spare, Flash shot several pictures with his Graphic. He photographed a number of well known racers as they warmed up their cars in preparation for the five hundred mile grind. Observing the previous year’s winner talking with a dark, foreign looking man who stood beside car 29, he snapped the pair together. As the shutter clicked, the racer’s companion, turned angrily toward Flash. Then pulling his hat down low, he hastily retreated. “Camera shy,” thought Flash. “I’ve seen that fellow before. But where?” He was staring after the man when Doyle called to him. Quickly he walked back to the News-Vue sound wagon. A policeman stood there, talking with the technician. “Anything wrong?” Flash asked. “There will be if you don’t get this truck out of here!” the policeman replied grimly. “You’re blocking the view of race officials.” “What officials?” Doyle demanded belligerently. “None of your smart talk,” the policeman returned. “Either show your permit or move out of here!” “I can’t see that we’re blocking the judges’ view,” Flash interposed. “And we’re all set to shoot the start of the race. If we move now we’ll likely miss it.” “Why be so tough?” added Doyle. The policeman had shown visible signs of weakening. But at Doyle’s question, he became grim again. “Get going!” Arguments and explanations were useless. Once more the green News-Vue truck rolled. This time Flash shared Doyle’s disgust. No other place was available which would offer them an unobstructed shot at Dead Man’s turn. It was at this point of the track where accidents most frequently occurred. “If we can’t train our lens there we’ll miss all the good pictures,” Doyle said gloomily. “One site is as bad as another now.” Looking over the big track, they finally chose a place at random. Scarcely had they set up their apparatus behind the railing when the first cars roared down the stretch. “Start grinding!” ordered Doyle curtly. Flash pressed a button which controlled a motor. The camera began its steady whirr. Motor wide open, a car whizzed past and skidded around the turn. Flash kept his camera lens trained on the racers behind. And then it happened! Watching through the viewfinder, he saw a driver suddenly lose control. A car skidded toward the railing. Flash’s instinct was to leap aside out of all possible danger, but he held himself to his post. The car careened toward him. Racers directly behind could not swerve aside. There was a terrific crash as car after car piled on each other and went rolling. Two overturned on the track, and a third smashed against the fence. The fourth tore away a section not six yards from where Flash stood. A body hurtled through the air. Horrified, but with nerves steady, Flash swung his camera to catch it all. He kept grinding until the crowd closed in about the wrecked car, blocking his view. A siren screamed. “Get the ambulance!” Doyle yelled at him. Flash shot the entire “clean up” scene, only delaying long enough to first obtain a few “still” shots of the wreckage for the Brandale Ledger. When track attendants had carried the injured from the field and had towed away the battered cars, he drew a deep sigh. He felt as weak as a rag, but at least he hadn’t wilted at the critical moment. “Boy, we shot a picture that time!” Doyle exclaimed with his first show of enthusiasm. “If we had stayed with the other newsreel men, we’d have missed it!” “The cop booted us into a lucky place, all right,” Flash agreed. “No chance of our getting another shot like that today,” Doyle sighed. “We may as well take some crowd pictures and then try for ordinary fill-in stuff of cars coming down the stretch.” They shifted locations twice, finally returning to a place at the railing not far from their original site. Both Flash and Doyle felt that they had experienced their big moment of the day. They anticipated no additional favor of luck, but it came when a second crash occurred close to where they had set up their equipment. “What a day!” Doyle chuckled. “Now we’ll shoot the finish of the race and be done!” They managed after considerable difficulty to squeeze into a hole near the finish line. Flash caught a picture of the race winner, weary and covered from head to foot with dust and oil, being congratulated upon his victory. The man was induced to speak a few words into the microphone. “Now we’re through,” Doyle said in satisfaction. “I certainly didn’t miss any tricks! If the pictures turn out well, I ought to get a raise.” They stowed their equipment away and edged the sound truck into the flow of traffic. Flash waited, expecting that Doyle would offer some word of praise. He waited in vain. The technician took the entire credit for the day’s work to himself. As they neared the exit gate, they caught sight of two rival sound trucks. “Hi, Benny!” Doyle shouted in a loud voice. “How did you do?” “Terrible,” was the discouraged response. “We missed all the crashes.” “I got everything,” Doyle boasted, “and I mean everything!” During the ride back to the hotel, the technician remained in a high mood. Flash had little to say. He was tired, and in addition, bored by his companion’s smug boasting. They stopped at the airport where Doyle previously had arranged for shipment of the cans of exposed film to the News-Vue offices. Flash made up a package of his best “still” shots for the Brandale Ledger. With that duty accomplished, his work was completed. At last he was free to enjoy his vacation. “Well, good-bye,” he said, extending his hand to Doyle. “Good-bye?” the man echoed in surprise. “Where are you going?” “To find myself a bed,” Flash answered. “Then tomorrow I may go back to Columbia. I want to see how Joe is doing.” “Oh, yes,” Doyle murmured, frowning. “I’ll have to drive over there myself tomorrow. Want to ride along?” Flash hesitated. The matter of car fare was an item to be considered. Doyle certainly owed him free transportation if nothing more. “Thanks,” he accepted. “I’ll be glad to ride along.” But later, alone in his hotel room, he regretted the decision. He did not like George Doyle. And the technician had no use for him. The journey at best would be an unpleasant one. Flash picked up a newspaper which he had bought on the street. The headlines were devoted to the auto races and the two deaths which had occurred. Already the train wreck story was old, buried on page two. However, a revised and final list of the known casualties had been reprinted. Again Albert Povy’s name appeared. “I’m sure that fellow was on the train to shadow Major Hartgrove,” he mused. “But now—well, it doesn’t matter. The mystery, if any, has been blacked out by death.” |
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