  George Doyle was in the bedroom, sitting at the writing desk. As Flash pushed open the door, he twisted in his chair to face him. “Flash!” “Rather surprised to see me, aren’t you, Doyle?” “Surprised?” Doyle arose unsteadily to his feet. “It’s a miracle! I—I gave you up for dead. Thought you had drowned.” “So sorry to inconvenience you.” “What are you looking at me like that for, Flash?” Doyle asked in a shaky voice. “Surely you don’t think that I—” “Oh, no!” Flash broke in. “You wouldn’t wish to harm me! Not you, Doyle!” “Listen,” the technician pleaded nervously, “I don’t know what happened. But I can see you have the wrong slant on things. You think Rascomb and I deserted you?” “That’s a mild way to put it.” “We were sure you had drowned,” Doyle repeated. “When the boat upset you must have gone down like a ton of bricks. There was no sign of you anywhere. I wanted to wait but Rascomb was nasty about it. He said if we didn’t leave right away we never would get through the pass.” “And you expect me to believe a tall story like that?” “It’s the truth. You don’t think I’d have gone if I’d had even a faint hope you were still alive?” “Doyle, you’re a very good actor, but not quite good enough to convince me. Next you’ll try to tell me you never saw Rascomb strike me over the head.” “What?” demanded the technician incredulously. “Say that again!” “You heard me. Rascomb stunned me with the oar after I accused him of being Albert Povy. I fell into the water and was carried to the opposite shore. That part you may not know.” “Flash, you must be out of your mind,” Doyle said anxiously. “Rascomb wouldn’t strike you. As for his being Albert Povy, that’s ridiculous! Povy was killed in the train wreck.” “Oh, no, he wasn’t,” Flash denied. “He merely found it convenient to give out that impression. Povy and Rascomb are the same person, and you must have known it!” “Sit down and try to calm yourself,” Doyle said solicitously. “You’ve gone through a terrible ordeal tonight. You’re pretty confused.” “So that’s your defense? You accuse me of being out of my head?” “Don’t you know what really happened?” Doyle asked patiently. “Suppose you tell me. I’m sure you’ve thought up an interesting little fairy tale!” “You and Rascomb were in the boat when it suddenly upset. Rascomb was so busy trying to rescue the oars and the cans of film he didn’t worry about you for a minute. When he looked around, you had disappeared beneath the surface. Then he yelled to me for help.” “And you saw the boat upset?” “Well, no, I didn’t,” Doyle admitted. “I was taking pictures. The truth is, I had no idea anything was wrong until Rascomb called to me. Then it was too late to do anything.” “And what happened next?” Flash demanded. “Go on with the yarn.” “I see you don’t believe me, but it’s the truth. Rascomb and I righted the boat and shot through the pass. We reached the lodge and started for here in the sound truck.” “Rascomb came with you?” “We started together. At Clear Lake he said he had forgotten an important matter and must return to the lodge.” Since this part of Doyle’s story tallied with what Fleur had reported about Rascomb’s actions, Flash was inclined to believe that the pair actually had started for Excelsior City together, and that later Rascomb had turned back. Doyle spoke again in a strangely subdued voice. “Flash, we’ve never liked each other any too well. That was my fault, probably. I haven’t made things pleasant for you. But I don’t want you to think I’d be a party to any plot against you.” Flash was impressed with Doyle’s apparent sincerity. After all, he thought, there was at least a possibility that Doyle had not seen Rascomb’s attack upon him. The words had a genuine ring. “I don’t know what to think,” he said slowly. Doyle made no further attempt to convince Flash. Instead, he reached for a sheet of paper on the desk and dropped it into the waste basket. “I was sending a wire to the News-Vue people,” he explained. “I’m glad it won’t be necessary now.” Flash’s gaze wandered slowly about the room. It came to rest upon Doyle’s suitcase, neatly strapped, standing by the door. “You’re packed to leave?” Doyle offered him a crumpled telegram. “This came while we were at Rascomb’s lodge.” “From News-Vue?” Doyle nodded gloomily. “We’re ordered to cover a warehouse strike at Clinton. That’s a hundred miles from here if it’s a foot. They’re expecting fireworks tomorrow at seven o’clock when a crew of strike-breakers comes on duty.” Flash read the telegram which confirmed Doyle’s words. “This comes from not wiring Clewes we were spending the week-end at Rascomb’s place,” he commented. “I made a mistake,” Doyle admitted reluctantly. “And now, well, I’m in a jam.” “You still can reach Clinton by traveling tonight.” “Not with the sound wagon. I burned out a bearing getting back from the lodge. Repairs won’t be made before tomorrow afternoon.” “You’re getting one break at least,” said Flash. “A new cameraman. I’m quitting.” “Flash, you can’t run out on me at a time like this!” “I don’t like to quit because of Joe. But I have an account to square and some work to do. That’s the low-down on why I’m staying.” “If there was anything I could say to make you change your mind—” “There isn’t.” Doyle hesitated, then sat down at the desk and scribbled a message to be telegraphed to the News-Vue home office. Flash had picked up the telephone to call long distance. “Send this when you’re through, will you?” Doyle requested. He tossed the message to Flash. Entering the bathroom he started the shower running full blast. Flash looked at the telegram. It read: “Please accept resignation of Jimmy Evans and George Doyle, effective immediately.” Flash re-read the message. Then, moving to the bathroom door he called to his roommate. Doyle could not hear because of the running water. Giving it up, Flash went back to the telephone. He placed a call for Major Hartgrove at Melveredge Field, and waited. Ten minutes elapsed. The telephone bell jingled. Eagerly he took down the receiver. The operator spoke. “It is impossible to contact your party,” she reported. “Will you speak with any other person?” “Get me Captain Ernest Johns.” Again Flash waited, although a shorter time. Once more the operator had only failure to report. “Captain Johns and Major Hartgrove no longer are located at Melveredge Field,” she informed. “I am sorry.” Flash hung up the receiver, disappointed by his inability to contact either of the men. A slight sound caused him to turn in his chair. He stared. The outside door stood slightly ajar. He could not remember having left it that way. As he watched, fascinated, it slowly was pulled shut. Someone in the hall had been listening to the telephone conversation! |
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