  Bailey Brooks arose to greet the newcomer. As he turned to introduce Flash, Captain Johns forestalled him by saying in a curt voice: “We have met before, I believe!” “At the Columbia Hospital,” recalled Flash. The Captain seated himself on the opposite side of the table, regarding the cameraman with a cold scrutiny which was not easy to interpret. Assuming that he was an intruder at a private business conference, Flash offered an apology and started to leave. “No, don’t go.” Captain Johns waved him back into his chair. “Finish your dinner. Why did you fail to keep your promise to Major Hartgrove?” Flash now understood the reason behind the officer’s coolness. Major Hartgrove had reported his failure to give up the requested pictures. “I made no promise,” he replied. “It was understood that you would bring the pictures to the hospital without delay.” “The Major may have understood it that way,” replied Flash evenly. “But I work for the News-Vue Company, not the United States Army.” Captain Johns’ lips twisted in a faint suggestion of a smile. Yet his voice had an edge to it as he asked: “You still have those pictures?” “I have.” “What is your reason for withholding them?” “No reason,” Flash admitted cheerfully. “As a matter of fact, I went back to the hospital yesterday after I had them printed. The Major was gone.” “You went back after you had looked at them yourself?” “Quite right, sir. I wanted to see what I was giving away. Just protecting my paper, you know.” “Yes, I know,” responded Captain Johns dryly. “You may be interested to learn that Major Hartgrove has been removed to the army hospital at Melveredge Field.” “Doing well I hope.” “He will be dismissed tomorrow or the day following. Now about those pictures. Where are they now?” “In my room at the hotel.” “May I see them?” “I’ll be glad to show them to you, Captain,” replied Flash, grinning. “But I don’t think you’ll find them of any aid in running down the man who struck the Major.” “Let me be the judge of that. Now as I recall, Major Hartgrove said you were the first person to reach him after the train wreck.” “Hardly the first, sir. As I approached the car, I saw someone slipping away into the dark. It may have been the man who robbed him.” “You are mistaken. Major Hartgrove was not robbed.” “I understood otherwise.” “An attempt was made to take Major Hartgrove’s wallet. The man did not succeed.” Flash accepted the explanation without comment. He was rather inclined to believe that the Major had not been robbed. However, it seemed unreasonable that the army men would be making such strenuous efforts to apprehend an ordinary thief. Obviously Major Hartgrove had carried military papers or something of far greater value than money. Ignoring Bailey Brooks for the moment, Captain Johns asked Flash a number of questions about his actions following the train wreck. Cleverly but without success he tried to make the cameraman contradict himself. At last, he seemed satisfied the young man was telling the truth, and turned his attention once more to the parachute jumper. After the meal had ended, Captain Johns volunteered to go with Flash to his room. The three walked together to the Clarinda Hotel. George Doyle looked up in surprise as Flash pushed open the bedroom door. He rose quickly to his feet. “You remember Bailey Brooks,” said Flash. “And this is Captain Ernest Johns.” Doyle was impressed by the caller. He lost his customary indifference and put himself out to be agreeable. But the captain paid him scant attention. “I have only a few minutes,” he said impatiently. “May I see the pictures now, please?” Flash found the envelope in his luggage. Doyle sat watching him curiously as he sorted through the prints. “I have only one which will interest you,” he said to the captain. “It isn’t much good.” The army man examined the picture carefully and returned it to the stack. “You are right,” he admitted regretfully. “For our purposes it is valueless.” Methodically, he thumbed through the other prints. “Now here is an excellent one!” “A snap I took at the races. Too bad the wreck picture didn’t come out the same way. Conditions were against me.” Bailey Brooks had crossed the room. As Captain Johns dropped the prints carelessly on the table, he picked them up and glanced through the stack. The army officer turned to leave but Doyle stepped forward, neatly blocking his way. “Say, Captain,” he began, “Flash and I are with News-Vue, you know. What are the picture possibilities out at Melveredge?” “There are none, Mr. Doyle.” “Oh, come now, I know it’s hard to get in there these days, but it can be done with pull. How about giving us a permit?” “I regret I am not in a position to grant such a favor,” the captain returned stiffly. “Good evening.” Accompanied by Bailey Brooks, he went away. As soon as the footsteps receded, Doyle turned angrily to Flash. “You might have said something instead of standing there like a clam! Here the Captain is a good friend of yours. He could have passed us into Melveredge Field.” “The Captain isn’t a friend of mine.” “Then why did you bring him here?” “You must have observed for yourself, Doyle. To look at those pictures.” The technician picked up the stack and glanced through the prints. “What’s all this about anyway?” he demanded. “Why would the Captain be interested?” Flash made an evasive answer which only irritated Doyle further. Despite the technician’s displeasure, he had no intention of taking him into his confidence. “I’m tired,” he said shortly. “Let’s go to bed.” It was dark in the hotel room when Flash awakened to hear the telephone ringing. Struggling out of sleep, he reached to roll up the window shade. A few carts were creaking by on the street below. The sky was barely light. The telephone rang again. “Answer it, will you?” growled Doyle. “All right.” Flash took the receiver from its hook. He was informed by the hotel operator that long distance was calling. As he relayed the message to Doyle, the latter leaped from bed and seized the instrument. “That must be Clewes!” Doyle talked for several minutes and then hung up the receiver. “Get dressed!” he said curtly. “We’re clearing out of here. And we haven’t much time.” “What’s up?” “We move again. Clewes says to let the Melveredge pictures slide. Arrangements can’t be made with the authorities.” “A new assignment?” “Yeah. Not a bad one either. We’re to cover an International polo match at Excelsior City. We ought to be there not later than twelve-thirty.” Flash looked at his watch and whistled. “It’s nearly six now. Excelsior City must be at least three hundred miles from here.” “Nearer three twenty. It means fast stepping.” Quickly they dressed and crammed their clothing into suitcases. There was no time for breakfast. A clock on the street chimed six-thirty as they pulled out of the drowsing city. A fog hung low over the valley. Before the sound truck had covered many miles a fine, steady rain began to fall. Strangely, Doyle offered no complaint about either the weather or the early morning call to duty. Flash stole a curious glance at him. The technician’s face was animated and he whistled a cheerful tune. “This assignment seems to please you, Doyle.” “It could be a lot worse.” “What teams are playing? You haven’t told me anything about the set-up.” “An American team against one from India headed by Rajah Mitra. Know anything about polo?” “I’ve seen a few games.” “Herbert Rascomb will be playing on the American team.” “Rascomb!” “He’s one of the best players in the country.” “I never even heard of him until a few days ago.” “Rascomb doesn’t like publicity. He goes into a rage if his picture is taken. The boys humor him, and he returns the favor by showing them a good time at his lodge.” “Buys them off?” “Nothing of the sort. It’s only to show his appreciation. We could do with a day in the north woods, eh?” Flash avoided answering the question. Instead he inquired: “Why is Rascomb so against publicity? A pose?” Doyle shrugged as he steered the sound truck into a filling station. “No, he’s just that way. But they tell me Rascomb is a fine fellow.” An attendant filled the gasoline tank, checked the oil and replenished the water in the radiator. As Doyle paid him, he volunteered road information. “Aiming to take U.S. 49 out of here?” “That’s right,” answered Doyle. “How is the road to Excelsior City?” “The road’s in good condition. But if you want to be on the safe side you’d better take Highway 23. We’ve had some hard rains around here. The Coon River is over its banks, and there’s a bad bridge about six miles beyond town.” “Then the road is closed?” “They were keeping it open an hour ago. A radio report said it would be closed if the water came any higher.” Doyle and Flash studied a map. Highway 23 was graveled and at least fourteen miles out of their way. “We’ll keep on 49 and take a chance,” Doyle decided. The decision satisfied Flash, for it had occurred to him that possibly they might have an opportunity to take interesting flood pictures. Two miles beyond the town limits they began to see evidence of high water. Ditches on either side of the road ran with it. In several low places tiny rivers blocked their way. The water was not deep and they rode through it without mishap. They picked up speed on a long stretch of clear pavement. Ahead they could see the bridge, a long, wooden affair of ancient design. A flimsy, make-shift barrier of boards had been raised across the entrance way. “Closed!” muttered Doyle in disgust. “We’ll never get to Excelsior City by game time now!” He slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a standstill not far from the bridge. Thrusting his head out the window, he called to one of the guards: “How about letting us through? We’re newsreel cameramen and in a big hurry.” “The bridge is unsafe,” the man answered. “It’s apt to go out any time now.” Flash leaped from the truck and went to look at the bridge. He saw for himself that much of the underpinning had washed away. The weight of an automobile, even higher water, would be almost certain to shift it from its position. “Water still rising?” he questioned a guard. “Coming up fast, brother. Three inches in the last twenty minutes. Another half hour and this road may be completely covered.” Flash ran back to the truck. Doyle had turned it around and was impatiently waiting. “Jump in!” he commanded. “We’re going to be late getting to Excelsior City now that we have to back-track.” “Listen, Doyle!” Flash was excited. “While we’re breaking our necks trying to reach there, we’ll be passing up better pictures.” “What do you mean, better pictures?” “The bridge is going out any time.” “Maybe,” Doyle retorted. “But we’re not waiting here several hours on a slim chance like that! Our assignment is to shoot the polo match.” Flash gazed steadily at the technician. “Sorry to disagree. We’re staying right here.” “Say who do you think you are?” Doyle drawled insolently. “I’m not taking orders from any fresh kid.” “I’ve taken plenty of orders from you. But not any more. I’m washed up! Through!” “Oh, so you’re through, eh? Well, quit any time you like!” “I’m not quitting,” Flash corrected. “Just letting you know that from now on I’m not your man Friday. Mr. Clewes gave me to understand I was to use my own judgment about picture values. Your part is to record the sound effects.” Doyle stared at Flash. Spots of bright color tinted his taut cheeks. With an effort he kept his voice under control. “All right, Evans, you’ll take full responsibility for this!” “I expect to,” Flash retorted grimly. “Now help me get my stuff up on the roof! That bridge won’t last many minutes!” |
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