  Flash searched his pockets for a knife he usually carried. It was missing, as were many other articles which had been lost in his flight from the forest fire. A desk occupied one corner of the room. Crossing to it, he began searching for an object which might be used to pry off the hinges of the outside door. Save for a few scattered pins, blank paper and metal clips, the drawers were empty. They all gave evidence of having been hastily cleaned out. “Just my luck,” grumbled Flash. In disgust, Flash slammed one of the drawers shut. It jammed and did not entirely close. For a moment he thought the wood had warped. Then he saw that a piece of cardboard prevented it from returning to its normal position. Jerking out the drawer completely, he ran his hand into the opening, and brought to light an old faded photograph. One glance assured him that it was a picture of Albert Povy in his younger years. The man wore the military uniform of a foreign country which Flash did not recognize. Across the bottom of the picture had been scrawled a name and date: “Albert Povy ... December 22, 1917.” Flash studied the photograph with deep interest. Povy’s face was marked with the same jagged scar which had identified him in later years. Deciding to keep the picture as evidence, he carefully folded it and placed it in an inside coat pocket. “This may prove useful,” he murmured. To make certain no other article had dropped behind the drawer, he again ran his hand into the opening. His fingers encountered a paper booklet of smooth finish. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a railroad time table. Flash would have tossed it aside had not a penciled circle drawn his attention to the second page. A train number had been marked, and it was the same streamliner which Povy had taken from Brandale. He stuffed the time table into his pocket along with the photograph. The two discoveries added nothing to his general knowledge, but if ever he should meet Rascomb again, the evidence might be of use. Next his search took him to the bathroom, which connected with the den and which also lacked windows. Almost at once he was rewarded. In the medicine cabinet he found two tools, a nail file and a rusty razor blade. Diligently, Flash set to work, trying to remove the screws which held the ornamental door hinges. The task was a tedious one. Twice he was compelled to wait as he heard Fleur’s step in a near-by hall. Success crowned his efforts at last. With the hinges off, he swung back the door and stepped from his prison. Flash stood for a moment, listening. The only sound came from a dripping faucet in the kitchen. He moved stealthily to the door. It had been locked from the outside. The door opening from the dining room likewise was barred. Testing a window, he found it both locked and nailed. In no mood to delay, Flash seized a plate from the sideboard and hurled it through the pane. Enlarging the hole, he climbed through, lowering himself to the ground. The sound of splintering glass had brought Fleur running from the dock. He swung his lantern so that the beam fell upon the cameraman. “Hey, get back in there! Get back or I’ll fire!” Flash did not believe that Fleur was armed. To be on the safe side he dodged behind a tree. Hidden by the darkness, he kept watch of the moving lantern, and when he saw his chance, ran for the road. Fleur made no attempt to follow. Actually he was afraid for his own safety, believing his employer’s story that the young man had lost his mind. Flash ran until he was exhausted. After that he walked at a fast pace. The shoes he had borrowed from Rascomb’s wardrobe were too large for his feet, and rubbed up and down at every step. Soon he was tormented by painful blisters on each heel. Driven by the knowledge that minutes were precious, he kept steadily on. The road was deserted of traffic. Cars neither approached nor passed him. Turning a bend he came within view of Rascomb’s private air field. A sudden fear assailed him. Already he might be too late! In all probability the man had made a quick get-away by plane. Crawling under a fence, he hastened to the hangar. The huge doors were padlocked. Striking a match, he gazed through a window. To his great relief, the monoplane was still there. “Then Rascomb must be at Excelsior City or somewhere fairly close,” he reasoned. “That final ‘deal’ he mentioned! It is holding him here and may yet prove his undoing!” As far as Flash was concerned, Rascomb’s espionage work still was shrouded in deep mystery. His knowledge of the man’s past was merely vague rumor. But there were certain definite points from which he might work. He definitely knew that Rascomb and Albert Povy were the same man. From his own observation, Povy had displayed interest in Bailey Brooks’ new parachute, which might or might not have significance. And Povy’s interest in Major Hartgrove was a factor not to be ignored. Obviously he had boarded the streamliner with the intention of keeping the army man under observation. The wreck itself might have been an accident, but one which possibly had given Povy the opportunity he sought. “He tried to steal something from the Major and seemingly failed,” Flash reasoned. “Then, knowing that his identity had been learned, he deemed it wise to disappear. But now he may make a final attempt to achieve his purpose. The first thing I must do is get in touch with the Major and warn him!” The road curved and a cluster of lights could be seen ahead. Flash quickened his step. He was within view of Clear Lake at last. A few minutes later he walked into the general store at the edge of the village. The only occupant was a woman who stood behind the counter. She stared as he moved toward her. “Where can I hire a car to take me to Excelsior City?” Flash asked. “Well, now, I don’t know,” she answered with deliberate speech. “All the men folks is fightin’ the fire. I’m lookin’ after the store for my husband.” “Isn’t there someone here who has a car I could borrow or rent?” “You look like you been in the fire yourself, Mister.” “I have,” Flash replied briefly. “It’s very important for me to get to town—” “Claude Geiser might take you,” the woman interrupted. “He’s too no-account to do an honest lick of work or help the rangers, but he has a car.” “Where will I find him?” “Second house past the post office. He may not be at home.” A light shone in the dwelling, and Flash was relieved to find Claude Geiser there. The young man displayed no interest in making the long trip to Excelsior City, but his attitude changed when a ten dollar bill was waved before his eyes. “All right, I’ll take you,” he agreed reluctantly. “How soon you want to start?” “Now,” said Flash. “And I’ll do the driving.” The trip to Excelsior City was made in fast time despite young Geiser’s frequent protests that his new car was being shaken to pieces. At the hotel Flash paid what he owed and they parted company. Left alone, the cameraman hesitated. After an instant of debate he decided to talk with Major Hartgrove by long distance telephone before taking any action against Rascomb. “Accusing a man of being a spy even when I know it to be true, is ticklish business,” he thought. “I’ll need someone to back me up.” Flash entered the hotel. He crossed to the desk and asked for the key to his room. “Mr. Evans!” exclaimed the clerk. “We understood—that is, your friend told us you were lost in the forest fire!” “I’m very much alive,” Flash snapped. “When did you last see Doyle?” “I haven’t noticed him in the lobby since midnight.” “Midnight! How late is it?” “Twenty after one, sir.” Flash nodded and walked to the elevator. So intent was he upon his thoughts that he failed to see a familiar figure slip quietly from a telephone booth on the opposite side of the lobby. The man was Herbert Rascomb. |
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