  The News-Vue sound truck pulled into the private grounds of the Excelsior Polo Club at exactly ten minutes to three. Through the elm trees George Doyle caught sight of the field, and gave a chuckle of pleasure. “The match is still on!” The seventh chukker was underway as the truck drew up at the sidelines. Flash and Doyle worked swiftly, knowing they had little time. “How’s the score?” the technician demanded of a spectator. “Six to four in favor of the Internationals.” Flash carefully looked over the field as he focused his camera. Two riders were outstanding, Rajah Mitra for the Internationals, and Herbert Rascomb on the American team. Mitra, a handsome, dark man of thirty, handled his mount expertly. His clashes with Rascomb were frequent. Deliberately, Flash trained the camera lens upon them. Doyle’s protest was immediate and explosive. “Say, what’s the idea? Do you want to make Rascomb sore?” “Since when are we working for him?” Flash countered. “We’re here to get good pictures. He happens to be one of the best players on the field.” The argument might have waxed warmer, but just then the chukker ended with a spectacular goal made by Rascomb. He wheeled his horse, a beautiful black mare, and rode over to the sound wagon. “Good afternoon, boys,” he said heartily. “Taking a few pictures?” “News-Vue,” Doyle replied. “That last shot of yours was pretty, Mr. Rascomb.” “Thank you, thank you.” The sportsman doffed his cork helmet mockingly, and his lips parted in a smile. “The fact is, Rajah Mitra is too fast for me today. A marvelous player, that man!” There was an expansive, friendly quality to Rascomb which attracted Flash despite himself. For some reason he had felt distrustful of the man. Now that he had heard him speak, the feeling was slipping away. “A little request, boys,” the sportsman said casually. “No close-ups of me, please.” “You don’t like to be photographed?” Flash inquired, watching the man curiously. Rascomb’s dark eyes appraised the cameraman. His glance took in the cheap suit, the muddy shoes, wrinkled tie. “You’ll have to excuse Evans’ appearance.” Doyle spoke apologetically. “He fell into a river this morning.” “A river?” Rascomb asked in amusement. Flash did not bother to explain or correct Doyle’s misstatement. After a lengthy pause the polo player inquired thoughtfully: “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Your face seems familiar.” “Funny. I was thinking the same thing when I first saw you—that was at the Indianapolis auto races.” “Oh, so you saw me there?” “Yes, I have a picture as a souvenir. Snapped it while you were talking with one of the drivers in the pit.” The pleasant smile receded from Rascomb’s face. The corners of his lips twitched. “I dislike being photographed,” he said. “I dislike it intensely. It makes me especially nervous to know that a camera is focused upon me during a polo match. I trust you’ll oblige me by not taking any pictures except from across the field?” “Oh, sure,” Doyle said instantly before Flash could answer. “We’ll be glad to do you that little favor.” “You’ll not lose by it.” Rascomb wheeled his horse as if to ride away. Plainly he was irritated. Flash decided to court further displeasure. “I’d like to ask a personal question, if you don’t mind, Mr. Rascomb,” he remarked. “Are you related to a man named Povy?” “Povy?” the sportsman demanded sharply. “Albert Povy. He was listed as killed in the recent train wreck.” “Whatever gave you the idea I knew him?” “I was told that you had claimed the body.” Rascomb’s expression became inscrutable. His dark eyes bored into Flash as if probing for what lay behind the question. He moistened his lips to speak. At that instant a player motioned to him from across the field. Rascomb’s relief was obvious. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’ll talk with you later.” Jerking his mount’s head, he rode to his post. The game was resumed. “What was the idea of deliberately trying to antagonize Rascomb?” Doyle accused. “Such tactics won’t get you anywhere!” “Maybe not a trip to the hunting lodge,” Flash cheerfully admitted. He had no intention of allowing Rascomb to dictate what pictures he could or could not take. Oddly, as the game continued, no occasion arose to photograph the sportsman at close range. Rascomb played erratically. His mallet slashed wickedly but many of his shots were badly placed. Losing his temper, he began jerking his horse about and calling it an “evil brute.” The Internationals, led by the Rajah, piled up two goals in rapid succession, and won by a wide margin. Secretly Flash wondered if Rascomb had been upset by the question about Albert Povy. The game over, Doyle seemed in no haste to leave the club grounds. “I’ll be back in a little while,” he said vaguely, and wandered down to the stables where Rascomb last had been seen. “Take your time.” Presently Flash saw the pair disappear into the clubhouse together. He settled himself in the truck for a long wait. “Doyle is breaking his neck to make a good impression on that fellow,” he thought. “Oh, well, it’s none of my affair.” He was half tempted to follow Doyle into the clubhouse. While he had no desire to seek Rascomb’s favor, he would enjoy driving the sportsman into a corner with another question about Albert Povy. A half hour elapsed before Doyle returned to the truck. He was in high spirits. “Rascomb and I had a long talk together,” he declared enthusiastically. “I think I’ve swung it!” “An invitation to Rascomb’s lodge?” Doyle nodded as he guided the sound truck down the winding road to the main highway. “He’s been thinking of getting up a week-end party out at his place. If he does he’ll telephone us tonight at the Parker Hotel.” “Us?” “Rascomb isn’t a fellow to hold a grudge. You were short with him but he’s overlooking it.” “Nice of him,” Flash said dryly. “He was interested in you,” Doyle admitted. “Asked a lot of questions.” “Did he? What sort of questions?” “Oh, nothing out of the way. Just who you were, where you came from, and what sort of fellow you were. If the invitation comes through, we’ll both be included.” “It was decent of you to put in a good word for me,” Flash said. “Nevertheless, I don’t think I’ll be interested.” “Then you’re a sap! Rascomb would show us a wonderful time. And it wouldn’t cost us a penny.” “I’m not so sure. I figure there’s a string attached somewhere.” “A string? What do you mean?” “I don’t know myself,” Flash admitted. “I’ll be frank and say Rascomb has me puzzled.” Driving back to Excelsior City, the newsreel men located themselves at the Parker Hotel. Not wishing to be far from a telephone, Doyle insisted upon dining in the building. Later he returned to his room. Flash remained in the lobby reading a newspaper until after nine o’clock. Entering the bedroom, he found Doyle gloomily playing a game of solitaire. “Your telephone call didn’t come through?” Flash asked. “No! Rascomb must have been handing me a line! It’s enough to make a fellow sick!” “I’m sorry you didn’t get the invitation, George,” Flash said sincerely. “Still, I don’t see how you could have made the trip. We’re supposed to be working for News-Vue.” “No new assignment has come through. They expect to give us a day off now and then.” Flash began to check through his suitcase to see what clothes he would need to buy. He had written his mother for additional shirts and underwear, but it would take days for a package to overtake him. The suit he had worn in his river plunge must be sent to the cleaners. Whether or not it ever could be worn again was problematical. As he sorted garments, Flash came upon the envelope which contained photographic prints. He poured them out on the table, examining them one by one. Reaching the last print, a peculiar expression crossed his face. “That’s queer,” he muttered. He went through the stack a second time, taking care that two did not stick together. The picture he sought was not there. His chair made a grating sound on the bare floor as he turned to face his roommate. “Doyle,” he said quietly, “tell me the straight truth. Did you remove a picture of Herbert Rascomb from this envelope?” |
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