  With fifteen minutes to spare, Flash made a quick trip to the railroad station. His next errand was anything but to his liking. Yet he was unwilling to leave Columbia without verifying a certain fact. He found the station agent in his little office behind the ticket window. “What may I do for you, sir?” the man questioned. Introducing himself as a representative of the Brandale Ledger, Flash added that he was checking upon the death of a man reported killed in the streamliner crash. “Sorry I can’t help you on that,” replied the agent. “It’s against orders to give out information about the accident. You’ll have to see some other person.” Flash was persistent. He explained that any information obtained would not be published in a newspaper. “I’m trying to learn about a man named Albert Povy.” “I guess I can tell you about him,” the agent conceded. “He was among the victims.” “The body was shipped from here?” “It was.” “To relatives?” “Couldn’t tell you as to that. The body was claimed by a man named Rascomb. Herbert Rascomb.” Flash was startled by the name. He wondered if it could be the same man George Doyle had been telling him about. But that scarcely seemed possible. “And where was the casket sent?” he asked after a moment. “That is, what city?” “To a place called Clear Lake.” Flash thanked the agent for the information and left the station. He was ten minutes late in reaching the parking lot. Doyle was waiting in the sound truck, appearing none too pleased at the delay. They drove out of town with Doyle at the wheel. The truck made good speed. For a time neither of them spoke. “Oh, by the way,” Doyle said at length, “what sort of salary did Clewes give you?” “Somewhat less than Joe was getting,” Flash answered vaguely. “More than I’ll earn probably.” “You’ll be getting a double salary while you’re on vacation, won’t you?” Doyle could not hide his envy. “Yes, but it won’t last long.” Flash decided to ask a few questions himself. A little later he introduced the subject of the sportsman, Rascomb, asking Doyle the man’s first name. “Herbert. Herb Rascomb.” “And where is his lodge located? What town is it near?” “Couldn’t tell you exactly,” responded Doyle. “I understand it’s not far from where we’re heading—Melveredge Field. But why this sudden interest in Rascomb?” “Merely curious, that’s all. What sort of reputation does he have?” “Reputation? Oh, he steps around in fast company, if that’s what you mean. He has a lot of foreign friends.” “Was he ever mixed up in trouble with the government or anything of the sort?” “Rascomb? Say, that fellow is in the blue book. The only thing he’s interested in is having a good time. If he did get into trouble he could buy himself out.” Again Flash fell silent, for he saw that Doyle had grown irritated by his questions. It struck him as an interesting fact that Rascomb had been connected with Albert Povy, a man of dubious reputation. Actually there was no good reason why the pair should not have been friends. With a large circle of acquaintances, Rascomb could have met Povy in his travels about the country and, learning that the man was without relatives, might have claimed the body out of kindness. In any case, it was none of his affair. He never expected to see Rascomb again. Throughout the day the sound truck rumbled steadily eastward, making only brief stops for oil and gas. Twice Flash offered to relieve Doyle at the wheel, and both times was turned down. Toward dusk they pulled into a busy little city of some fifty thousand population. They had reached their destination. Melveredge Field was located close by. Doyle glanced at his watch. “Ten after five,” he announced. “Too late to do anything tonight. We’ll find the Clarinda Hotel and call it a day.” Flash nodded. Doyle never bothered to consult his wishes. He quickly had learned that the easiest way to get along with the technician was to have no opinions of his own. So far any differences they might have had were trivial. But clashes were certain to come later. Flash had been relieved to learn that News-Vue paid all traveling expenses. The arrangement, however, had one distinct drawback. He and Doyle were expected to share the same room. “We see too much of each other as it is,” thought Flash. “Before the end of a month we won’t be on speaking terms.” They registered at the Clarinda Hotel and inquired for mail. There was none. The anticipated orders from the News-Vue Company had not yet arrived. The newsreel men both were tired and dirty from their long journey. “Me for the tub,” Doyle announced. Slamming the bathroom door behind him, he started the water running, and remained soaking for nearly an hour. Flash became irritated at the long delay. “Say, have you gone to bed in there?” he called at last. “You’re not the only dirty pebble on the beach!” Doyle did not answer, nor would he hurry. He took another half hour to dress. Finally be unlocked the door and sauntered out. “What’s all the shouting about, Flash?” “You’ve been in there exactly an hour and a half!” “Well, it’s all yours now,” Doyle shrugged. “Such impatience! Dear! Dear!” Flash glanced at the tub. It was rimmed with dirt. Every bath towel had been used. “Say, you lug—” he began. An outside door slammed. The culprit had gone. Ringing for more towels, Flash cleaned the tub and hastened through his own bath. “I’ll get even with him tomorrow,” he thought. “We’ll see how he likes it when the joke is on him.” It was after seven o’clock when Flash finally left the hotel in search of a restaurant. He sauntered along, pausing to read menus printed on the plate glass windows. Suddenly he felt a hand touch his shoulder. Flash whirled around. For a moment he did not recognize the smiling young man who stood there. Then he gave a pleased cry: “Bailey Brooks! What are you doing out this way?” “Oh, prowling around,” the parachute jumper replied. “Had your dinner?” “Not yet.” “Then let’s go inside. I’m meeting a man, but he’s not due to show up for fifteen minutes.” Flash felt flattered that Bailey Brooks had remembered him. He was even more pleased when the parachute jumper praised him for the pictures he had taken at Brandale. “All the publicity helped,” Brooks declared warmly. “Since the parachute test proved successful, several concerns have been after me. I’ve not had a definite offer yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” The two young men entered the restaurant and selected a table not far from the door. Flash hesitated, and then said: “Too bad about Povy.” “Yeah.” The smile faded from Brooks’ face. “He was interested in my invention. Offered me a good price for it, too. But probably it’s just as well the deal didn’t go through.” “Why do you say that?” “You know who Povy was, don’t you?” “I’ve heard rumors.” “He was mixed up with a spy ring years ago and probably was doing espionage work at the time of his death. That was the main reason I held off about selling him the parachute. I liked Povy personally but I never trusted him.” “I wonder what government employed him?” “I never learned. Povy was very cautious in his dealings. He revealed nothing about himself. All he ever told me was that he represented a firm which would pay well for my invention, providing the tests were successful.” A waitress came to take orders and Flash gave his. Bailey Brooks said that he would wait for a man with whom he had a dinner appointment. “You say several other persons are after your invention now?” “Several is an exaggeration,” Brooks admitted with a grin. “One private party and the United States Army.” “So that’s why you’re here!” Brooks nodded. “The ’chute is to be given exhaustive tests out at Melveredge Field. If it comes through okay, I’ll be sitting pretty.” “When will the tests be made?” “All week. There’s an endless amount of red tape.” “I’m with the News-Vue people now,” Flash explained abruptly. “Any chance to get some shots of the tests?” “Not a glimmer. Melveredge Field is closed tighter than a drum these days. I doubt if they’ll even allow you near the place with a newsreel camera.” Flash mentioned the chain of events which had led him to spend his vacation working for the News-Vue Company. The parachute jumper immediately recalled Joe Wells and expressed regret over his accident. “While I was in Columbia I inquired about Albert Povy,” Flash presently remarked. “You know, I thought there might have been some mistake about his death.” “There wasn’t?” “No. His body was shipped to a place called Clear Lake.” “That town isn’t so far from here,” Brooks said thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of it.” “Povy’s body was claimed by a man named Herbert Rascomb. A well known sportsman and—” Bailey Brooks had been toying with a silver knife. It slid from his hand, making a clatter as it struck the floor. “Rascomb?” he asked in a strange voice. “Did you say Rascomb?” Flash could see that the information had startled the parachute jumper. But before he could explain further or ask a question, the door of the cafÉ swung open. A dapper man in army uniform strode across the room directly toward the pair at the table. “Ah, here is my host now,” murmured Bailey Brooks. Flash turned his head. The man who approached was Captain Ernest Johns. |
|
