  Captain Johns pressed his finger steadily on the elevator signal bell. When the cage did not immediately ascend, he started up the stairway. Flash followed him. “It was the hotel clerk who telephoned me,” he explained. “Major Hartgrove can’t be located. His room is empty and there is evidence of a brutal attack!” “Rascomb—” Flash began only to be cut short. “How could Rascomb have had anything to do with it?” Captain Johns demanded with a snort of impatience. “We were with him for the past twenty minutes. Young man, you should devote your talents to picture taking.” “I’m right about Rascomb,” Flash maintained stubbornly. “But if you want to drop the matter that’s your concern. I intend to swear out a warrant for his arrest on a charge of assault.” “You couldn’t do a more foolish thing,” the captain snapped. “No, don’t go. I want to have a talk with you. But first I must learn what has happened upstairs.” Flash followed his companion down the corridor to Room 267. The door stood half open, and several hotel officials, an excited bellboy and a chambermaid, already were gathered there. “What has happened?” demanded Captain Johns gruffly. “We don’t know,” answered the hotel manager nervously. “I followed your instructions, sir,” the clerk explained. “In exactly twenty minutes after you left the lobby I telephoned this room. Failing to arouse Major Hartgrove I sent a boy up here. This is the way the room was found. Nothing has been touched.” Flash gazed curiously about. One of the beds had been used, the other remained neatly made up. A chair was overturned. Suitcases lay open, their contents spread about the floor. “The room has been ransacked,” the captain muttered. “And I know what they were after.” “Can you tell if anything is missing?” asked the manager. “Major Hartgrove carried important documents upon his person.” Captain Johns made a silent appraisal of the bedroom. He examined the contents of the suitcases, the windows opening upon the fire escape, and then questioned the bellboy and the chambermaid in turn. Neither had seen strangers on the floor during the past two hours, nor had they observed Major Hartgrove since early in the evening. As the inquiry continued, Flash became aware of how fast time was slipping away. He was annoyed at Captain Johns’ slow but thorough way of conducting the investigation, and he was disgusted because the army man refused to believe that Rascomb was an impostor. “Rascomb had a finger in the Major’s disappearance,” he thought grimly. “But no one ever will believe it. I may as well save my breath.” Knowing that Doyle would be expecting him, he decided to await the Captain’s pleasure no longer. Without bothering to explain that he was leaving, he went to join the News-Vue technician. “Where’ve you been, Flash?” Doyle greeted him impatiently. “I’ve kept the car waiting fifteen minutes.” “I was having a talk with Rascomb.” “I saw him myself in the lobby. Flash you’re dead wrong about—” “Let’s not say anything more about Rascomb tonight or later,” Flash broke in wearily. “I’m willing to forget him.” “Then let’s move,” said Doyle, picking up his suitcase. “This is a swell hotel! Not even a boy to carry your luggage!” “Everyone is in Major Hartgrove’s room.” “What’s going on there?” “Oh, nothing of consequence,” Flash remarked, enjoying the effect of his news. “Major Hartgrove has been kidnapped—that’s all.” Doyle stopped short. “Kidnapped!” “It looks that way. He disappeared from his room, and the place has been ransacked.” “This isn’t another of your yarns?” “Call it that,” Flash shrugged. “I’m tired of trying to convince anyone of anything.” “Don’t get sore,” Doyle said placatingly. “Tell me what happened.” Relenting, Flash related all which had transpired at the interview with Gordon and Rascomb, and likewise told of the summons to Major Hartgrove’s room. “You’ll scoff,” he ended, “but I think Rascomb called Johns and me into conference so he would have an alibi when it was discovered Hartgrove was missing.” Doyle did not laugh. “You cling like a leech to your theory that Povy and Rascomb are the same person.” “I do. If Captain Johns would have Rascomb arrested, I could prove in two minutes that my story is straight. Rascomb can’t get rid of his scar. It was a transparent trick, covering it up with bandages.” “Well, I don’t know,” Doyle replied doubtfully. “You’re honest in your opinion, but I still think you jumped to conclusions. If I were you, I’d forget about Rascomb.” “I intend to do exactly that,” Flash agreed. “But just wait! When it is too late, Captain Johns will discover that Rascomb has disappeared.” “No chance of getting pictures tonight, I suppose,” Doyle commented thoughtfully. “But maybe the story will have developed by the time we come back here tomorrow. What documents was the Major carrying?” “I don’t know. Captain Johns hasn’t told me very much. I would guess they might be specifications or official reports pertaining to Bailey Brooks’ new invention.” “And who would be interested in anything of that sort? Kidnapping is a more dangerous sport than it once was.” “Another government could use that parachute, especially in war time. Povy was dickering with Brooks for its purchase, and not getting very far.” “Yes, I remember he was interested in the parachute test,” Doyle admitted slowly. “Povy followed Hartgrove on the train. After the wreck, someone—and I’m satisfied it was Povy—attacked the Major and tried to rob him.” “You didn’t tell me that.” “No.” “And you figure Povy was the man?” “I do. Without question it was Povy. To avoid arrest, he made it appear he had been killed.” “But see here, Flash, Brooks’ parachute barely had been successfully tested at the time of the wreck. Your reasoning is as full of holes as a sieve.” “I’m not saying what Povy was after. That’s my guess.” “Well, it may have been Povy who attacked the Major the first time,” Doyle conceded. “But to connect him with Rascomb! I’ve seen both men. They don’t look alike, they don’t act alike—” “Okay,” Flash cut in, “let’s skip it. Now where is the car?” “In front of the hotel.” They passed through the revolving doors and moved to the curb. Doyle looked up and down the street, finally signaling a driver in a new black touring car. “We’re riding to Clinton in style,” he grinned. “So I see. A chauffeur?” “I picked this man up cheap. With a driver we’ll both be able to sleep.” “I can use some,” said Flash. The car drew up at the curb. Doyle introduced the chauffeur as Clarence Purcell. He was a sharp-faced individual of forty with dark eyes and an unpleasant habit of sniffing his nose at frequent intervals. “How long will it take to reach Clinton?” Flash asked him. “Hard to tell,” the man answered. “There’s a bridge out East of here. We’ll have to take a detour which will slow us down.” “We’ll arrive there by seven o’clock?” “Oh, sure. Easy! You fellows roll up on the back seat and leave the driving to me. I’ll get you there.” The car rode smoothly and Clarence Purcell was a skilful driver. As soon as they were well out of the city, Doyle rearranged the cameras to make more foot room. He stretched out comfortably, pillowing his head on his overcoat. “I’m catching forty winks,” he said. “Better do the same. We’ll have a tough day tomorrow.” Flash was weary to the point of exhaustion, but for some reason he could not sleep. His head ached. Disconnected thoughts kept racing through his mind. “Maybe I shouldn’t have left Excelsior City without at least trying to have Rascomb arrested,” he reflected. “Oh, well, it’s too late now.” Rolling up on the opposite side of the seat, he closed his eyes. Sleep refused to come. Arousing a few minutes later, he surprised Clarence Purcell in the act of peering over his shoulder into the back of the car. Observing that Flash was awake, he quickly turned his head again. The night was dark. Not a star illuminated the sky. Glancing out the window, Flash could not see beyond the hedges which lined the road. Nor was he certain of his directions. “Where are we anyway?” he asked the driver. “Fifty-eight miles out of Excelsior City.” “I must be turned around. It seems to me we’re traveling the wrong direction.” “The road twists.” Flash settled down again and at length dropped off to sleep. He awakened to find the car no longer moving. Straightening up, he looked about him. The automobile was parked beside the highway not far from an all-night restaurant and filling station. The driver had disappeared. Flash rolled down the window, gazing toward the lighted cafÉ. The main grille room was deserted save for the proprietress, and a man who appeared to be using a telephone. Flash nudged Doyle to awaken him. “What’s the matter now?” the technician mumbled drowsily. “Why have we stopped?” “That’s what I would like to know,” replied Flash. “Our driver is inside the cafÉ telephoning. He’s acting peculiar.” Before Doyle could offer an opinion, the chauffeur came hurriedly toward the car. “Why have we stopped?” Flash asked him sharply. “Oh, you’re awake!” the man exclaimed. “I had to stop to find out about the roads. We took a wrong turn.” “How much time have we wasted?” Doyle demanded. “Not any if we keep going. I found out about another road we can take. It’s rough for a few miles but connects with our highway.” “Okay, let’s be traveling,” Doyle said, curling up on the seat again. “Why were you telephoning?” Flash questioned the driver. “I called back to the nearest town for road instructions. No one in the cafÉ could give me accurate information.” “I notice you didn’t inquire at the filling station.” “The attendant was busy. I knew you were in a hurry so I telephoned.” “Never mind,” growled Doyle irritably. “Let’s get started.” The car moved on down the road, turning at the first corner. For the next ten minutes they followed a narrow, twisting dirt highway which led deep into a pine woods. Flash had lost all desire to sleep. The chauffeur’s explanation did not satisfy him. As the car bumped on mile after mile over the deserted road, Doyle too began to show signs of nervousness. “How much farther?” he asked the driver. “We’ll soon be where we’re going.” The words had a ring which Flash did not like. Turning to Doyle he asked him in an undertone where he had obtained the driver. The technician remained silent for a moment. Then he gave his answer reluctantly. “You’re not going to like this, Flash, but I may as well tell you. Rascomb recommended him.” “Rascomb!” “Yes, I met him in the hotel lobby and—” Doyle did not finish for the chauffeur had applied brakes. Before either he or Flash could act, the man whirled around, covering them with a revolver. “Reach!” he ordered harshly. “This is the end of the line!” |
|
