  George Doyle slammed the deck of cards together, tossing the box into a suitcase which lay open on the floor. He regarded Flash with an insolent, offended gaze. “Now what would I want with any of your pictures?” “I thought you might have looked at them while I was downstairs.” “You thought!” Doyle mocked. “Why don’t you come right out and accuse me of being a sneak thief! Your personal effects are of no interest to me, little man! Not the slightest.” “I’m not accusing you,” Flash replied quietly. “I was merely asking.” “I don’t like your tone.” “I didn’t mean to imply anything. But it still seems queer that the picture isn’t here.” Doyle lighted a cigarette in his most deliberate manner and then asked: “Which one is missing?” “A snap I took of Rascomb at the races. The only good picture in the lot.” “You probably lost it yourself.” “It was in the envelope yesterday when I showed the pictures to Captain Johns and Bailey Brooks.” “Then maybe they took it,” Doyle suggested sarcastically. “Why don’t you get out search warrants?” Flash allowed the matter to rest, yet he was not altogether convinced that his roommate knew nothing about the missing picture. “Herb Rascomb may have asked him to get it from me,” he thought. “I made a mistake in talking too much today at the polo match.” The telephone rang. Doyle leaped to his feet. “That must be Rascomb now!” he exclaimed. “We may get our trip yet!” “Count me out,” Flash murmured, but the technician did not hear. Doyle talked for several minutes on the telephone, and his eager responses made it evident he was speaking with Rascomb. Presently, he placed his hand over the mouthpiece, turning toward Flash. “Rascomb wants us to come out to his place for the week-end.” “Well, your fish is playing with the bait. Better play him right so he doesn’t get away.” “Rascomb says to bring you along.” “Thanks. I’m not interested. I’ll stay here at the hotel.” Doyle frowned. “For some reason, Rascomb especially wants you. And it will be a wonderful opportunity for us to get some unusual newsreel shots.” “Of what?” Flash asked, showing faint interest. “Rascomb has invited Rajah Mitra as one of his guests. If we can get him togged up in full dress regalia he ought to be worth fifty feet at least!” “Maybe,” Flash conceded. “We might get some good nature pixs while we’re there,” Doyle went on eagerly. “It’s wild around Clear Lake. How about it?” Flash had no time to consider. While he was reluctant to accept Rascomb’s hospitality, he did have a curiosity to see him again, if only to ask about Albert Povy. “All right, I’ll go,” he decided. Doyle relayed the message to Rascomb and hung up the receiver. “Rascomb and his guests are motoring out to the lodge tonight,” he explained. “We leave in the morning. Rascomb says it will be a slow trip over dirt roads so we ought to get a fairly early start.” Flash nodded and began to prepare for bed. Long after Doyle had gone to sleep, he lay in the darkened room, staring at a patch of electric light which shone through the window. There were a number of things which puzzled him. Why had Rascomb insisted upon including him in the invitation? He felt satisfied the sportsman had not liked him particularly. Unable to solve the puzzle, Flash finally dropped off to sleep. He awoke to find Doyle shaking his arm. “Roll out! Seven o’clock!” As Flash dressed, Doyle made slighting remarks about his appearance, suggesting that it might be well to buy a new suit of clothes before they started for the lodge. “Sorry but I can’t buy a new suit before I get home,” Flash replied, unmoved. “This one will have to do.” They breakfasted at a cafÉ across from the hotel and by eight o’clock were ready to start for Clear Lake, twenty miles away. As the sound truck rolled out of the city, Flash remarked: “You sent Clewes a wire didn’t you, telling him we were after special pictures?” “Well, no, I didn’t,” Doyle answered carelessly. “This is Friday. He won’t be around the office until Monday anyway.” “Do you think we should pull out without leaving word?” “Sure. After those flood pixs we turned in, Clewes will expect to give us a few days off. It’s customary.” While the arrangement was not pleasing to Flash, he could do nothing about it, and so settled himself for an uncomfortable ride. They followed the pavement for a distance of four miles, and then turned down a narrow, rutty road. The truck jounced and bumped, shaking the loose equipment around. There was almost no traffic, but whenever they did pass an automobile, a great cloud of suffocating dust rolled into their faces. “This section must have missed the rains,” Flash remarked. “Even the trees look dry.” The car rattled on, making poor time. Doyle fumed at the delay and kept glancing at his watch. Flash was in no hurry for the trip to end. While the ride might be uncomfortable, the scenery was interesting. Hillocks were studded with huge boulders, and the twisting roadway was hemmed in with pine trees. Now and then they glimpsed a patch of blue lake tucked behind the screen of evergreens. A half hour’s drive brought them to the railroad town of Clear Lake which consisted of little more than a post office and a few houses. At the edge of the village stood a ranger’s station. A man in uniform held up his hand for the truck to stop. “You’re newsreel men I see,” the ranger observed pleasantly. “Going in to take pictures of the fire?” “What fire?” Doyle asked in astonishment. “A small one has been reported over near Craig Point. The wind is blowing it this way. Thought I’d give you a word of warning.” “We didn’t know anything about it,” Doyle replied. “We’re on our way to Herbert Rascomb’s lodge.” “You’ll be in no danger there. At least, not unless the wind should shift again.” “I wonder if we couldn’t get some fire pictures for News-Vue!” Flash began speculatively. “How far is Craig Point from Rascomb’s place?” Before the ranger could answer, Doyle broke in impatiently: “Listen, we’re not doing any fire pictures this trip! Mugging the Rajah will be the extent of our labors.” Now that it had been called to their attention, Flash and Doyle both imagined they could smell smoke in the air. They could not see it, nor were they able to detect any actual signs of fire. “It seems to me we’re passing up an unusual opportunity,” Flash remarked, as they rode on. “You’re new at this business,” Doyle replied discouragingly. “When you first start in everything looks like a wonderful idea. I helped cover a forest fire in Minnesota two years ago. It was no fun, I’m telling you.” “I shouldn’t think it would be.” “You burn yourself to a crisp and ruin your clothes. Then more than likely your shots are no good, or the editor cuts ’em out in favor of a bathing beauty parade at Atlantic City! Not for me.” A short distance beyond the town Flash called Doyle’s attention to a cleared field. In its center stood a lone hangar. Through the windows they were able to see a red and black-painted airplane. “This must be Rascomb’s private landing field,” Flash remarked. “Probably,” Doyle agreed. “We’re close to his place now.” A half mile farther on the sound truck reached a road which branched off to the left. Entrance was blocked by a wooden gate which bore a carved sign plainly marked: “Rascomb Lodge. No Admittance.” Flash unfastened the barrier and Doyle drove through. The road led them deeper into the forest and presently emerged in a cleared area. To their right lay a crescent-shaped lake with motor and row boats tied up at the dock. Some distance back stood a sprawling structure made of logs with a great cobblestone chimney. There were no automobiles parked in the yard. The boats, tugging gently at their moorings, provided the only sign of occupation. “This place looks deserted,” observed Flash. “Rascomb will be here.” “But you said he had invited other guests. Rajah Mitra—” “They may not have arrived yet.” Leaving the sound truck at the end of the road, Flash and Doyle walked to the side door of the lodge. Their approach had been observed. Before they could knock, the door opened. Herbert Rascomb, dressed in dark shirt and slacks, a pipe thrust in the corner of his mouth, greeted them heartily. “Good morning, boys. Glad you were able to come. How do you like our roads out this way?” Rascomb stepped aside for them to pass before him into the living room. A fire blazed on the hearth. It was an inviting scene and their host had a comfortable way of making them feel welcome. Yet, the absence of guests puzzled Flash. “Rajah Mitra isn’t here yet?” he inquired. Rascomb hesitated, and then said: “I deeply regret that the Rajah was compelled to change his plans.” “He isn’t coming?” “Unfortunately, no. The Rajah expected to be my guest but he was called to New York this morning. I should have telephoned you. We have no telephone here at the lodge. It would have meant an early trip to the ranger station.” “Then if there are to be no pictures, we may as well start back to town,” Flash remarked, glancing at Doyle. “I couldn’t think of allowing you to hasten away,” Rascomb interposed smoothly. “You must have luncheon and remain for the night. I can put you up quite comfortably. My cook is excellent.” “That’s mighty nice of you,” Doyle said, giving Flash a hard look. “We’ll be glad to stay. You sure have a nice place here.” “Merely comfortable, not pretentious,” Rascomb smiled. “Now make yourselves at home. If you care to fish, my man Fleur will be glad to take you out on the lake.” Rascomb’s manner was perfect. He chatted with Flash and Doyle about their work, and after they had removed the dust of their trip, left them to entertain themselves. The cameramen wandered alone down to the lake. A breeze ruffled the blue water, slapping waves against the boats tied up at the dock. It whistled softly in the pine trees, rubbing the boughs gently together. About the place there was an atmosphere of quiet and peace, yet Flash felt uneasy. Turning his head, he glanced back toward the lodge. Rascomb stood in the doorway. The man was watching them and smiling—a cold, triumphant smile. “Doyle,” Flash said in a low tone. “Yes? What’s on your mind now?” “This Rajah business is a phony! Rascomb never did invite him to the lodge. Do me a favor, and let’s get away from here!” |
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