_TROUBLE AT THE GATE_
There was no mistaking the sarcasm in George Doyle’s voice. It was his
nature to lash out at others whenever he was confronted with
difficulties. This realization alone kept Flash from making an angry
retort.
“I have no ideas, brilliant or otherwise,” he responded quietly. “Still,
there ought to be some way to get the truck inside.”
“How?”
“Isn’t there an official around somewhere who might listen to our
explanation?”
“And while we’re trying to find him the races will be underway. We may
as well admit defeat and go back to the hotel.”
“Let’s wait,” urged Flash. “How about trying another entrance?”
Before Doyle could reply, two sound trucks bearing the name of a rival
film company, rolled slowly past and halted. The technician recognized
one of the men and hailed him jubilantly.
“Hello, Benny! Do a fellow a favor, will you? Tell the gateman we’re
okay.”
“What’s the matter?” the other driver asked. “Can’t you get inside?”
“Lost our passes.”
“Now isn’t that too, too bad!” The rival newsreel man grinned wickedly
as he shifted gears. “Never saw you before in my life, George. Watch for
our pictures on the screen!”
The two drivers flashed their passes and drove on through the gate.
Doyle glared after them, calling names under his breath.
Abruptly, Flash leaped to the ground. Without explaining to Doyle, he
walked back to the entrance.
“No arguments,” the gateman forestalled him. “You can’t get through
without a pass, and that’s final. Maybe you’re telling a straight story,
but orders are orders.”
“Isn’t there someone around here who would have the authority to pass us
into the grounds?” Flash asked.
The gateman shrugged. Then his gaze fastened upon a dignified man who
was walking toward the gate.
“Mr. Hartman could do it,” he said. “You might talk with him.”
Flash approached the man, and quickly explained the difficulty. His
straightforward manner impressed the official. He took a quick glance at
the _News-Vue_ truck and called to the gateman.
“It’s all right. Let them through.”
Doyle had no word of praise as Flash slid into the seat beside him.
“It’s almost time for the race to start,” he grumbled. “All the good
places will be gone.”
While rival newsreel companies had had first choice for positions, Flash
and Doyle still were able to park their truck so as to obtain an
unobstructed view of Dead Man’s turn. Hurriedly they arranged their
camera and sound equipment, having everything in readiness for the drop
of the starter’s flag.
With a few minutes still to spare, Flash shot several pictures with his
Graphic. He photographed a number of well known racers as they warmed up
their cars in preparation for the five hundred mile grind.
Observing the previous year’s winner talking with a dark, foreign
looking man who stood beside car 29, he snapped the pair together.
As the shutter clicked, the racer’s companion, turned angrily toward
Flash. Then pulling his hat down low, he hastily retreated.
“Camera shy,” thought Flash. “I’ve seen that fellow before. But where?”
He was staring after the man when Doyle called to him. Quickly he walked
back to the _News-Vue_ sound wagon. A policeman stood there, talking
with the technician.
“Anything wrong?” Flash asked.
“There will be if you don’t get this truck out of here!” the policeman
replied grimly. “You’re blocking the view of race officials.”
“What officials?” Doyle demanded belligerently.
“None of your smart talk,” the policeman returned. “Either show your
permit or move out of here!”
“I can’t see that we’re blocking the judges’ view,” Flash interposed.
“And we’re all set to shoot the start of the race. If we move now we’ll
likely miss it.”
“Why be so tough?” added Doyle.
The policeman had shown visible signs of weakening. But at Doyle’s
question, he became grim again.
“Get going!”
Arguments and explanations were useless. Once more the green _News-Vue_
truck rolled. This time Flash shared Doyle’s disgust. No other place was
available which would offer them an unobstructed shot at Dead Man’s
turn. It was at this point of the track where accidents most frequently
occurred.
“If we can’t train our lens there we’ll miss all the good pictures,”
Doyle said gloomily. “One site is as bad as another now.”
Looking over the big track, they finally chose a place at random.
Scarcely had they set up their apparatus behind the railing when the
first cars roared down the stretch.
“Start grinding!” ordered Doyle curtly.
Flash pressed a button which controlled a motor. The camera began its
steady whirr.
Motor wide open, a car whizzed past and skidded around the turn. Flash
kept his camera lens trained on the racers behind.
And then it happened!
Watching through the viewfinder, he saw a driver suddenly lose control.
A car skidded toward the railing.
Flash’s instinct was to leap aside out of all possible danger, but he
held himself to his post.
The car careened toward him. Racers directly behind could not swerve
aside. There was a terrific crash as car after car piled on each other
and went rolling. Two overturned on the track, and a third smashed
against the fence. The fourth tore away a section not six yards from
where Flash stood. A body hurtled through the air.
Horrified, but with nerves steady, Flash swung his camera to catch it
all. He kept grinding until the crowd closed in about the wrecked car,
blocking his view. A siren screamed.
“Get the ambulance!” Doyle yelled at him.
Flash shot the entire “clean up” scene, only delaying long enough to
first obtain a few “still” shots of the wreckage for the _Brandale
Ledger_. When track attendants had carried the injured from the field
and had towed away the battered cars, he drew a deep sigh. He felt as
weak as a rag, but at least he hadn’t wilted at the critical moment.
“Boy, we shot a picture that time!” Doyle exclaimed with his first show
of enthusiasm. “If we had stayed with the other newsreel men, we’d have
missed it!”
“The cop booted us into a lucky place, all right,” Flash agreed.
“No chance of our getting another shot like that today,” Doyle sighed.
“We may as well take some crowd pictures and then try for ordinary
fill-in stuff of cars coming down the stretch.”
They shifted locations twice, finally returning to a place at the
railing not far from their original site. Both Flash and Doyle felt that
they had experienced their big moment of the day. They anticipated no
additional favor of luck, but it came when a second crash occurred close
to where they had set up their equipment.
“What a day!” Doyle chuckled. “Now we’ll shoot the finish of the race
and be done!”
They managed after considerable difficulty to squeeze into a hole near
the finish line. Flash caught a picture of the race winner, weary and
covered from head to foot with dust and oil, being congratulated upon
his victory. The man was induced to speak a few words into the
microphone.
“Now we’re through,” Doyle said in satisfaction. “I certainly didn’t
miss any tricks! If the pictures turn out well, I ought to get a raise.”
They stowed their equipment away and edged the sound truck into the flow
of traffic. Flash waited, expecting that Doyle would offer some word of
praise. He waited in vain. The technician took the entire credit for the
day’s work to himself.
As they neared the exit gate, they caught sight of two rival sound
trucks.
“Hi, Benny!” Doyle shouted in a loud voice. “How did you do?”
“Terrible,” was the discouraged response. “We missed all the crashes.”
“I got everything,” Doyle boasted, “and I mean everything!”
During the ride back to the hotel, the technician remained in a high
mood. Flash had little to say. He was tired, and in addition, bored by
his companion’s smug boasting.
They stopped at the airport where Doyle previously had arranged for
shipment of the cans of exposed film to the _News-Vue_ offices. Flash
made up a package of his best “still” shots for the _Brandale Ledger_.
With that duty accomplished, his work was completed. At last he was free
to enjoy his vacation.
“Well, good-bye,” he said, extending his hand to Doyle.
“Good-bye?” the man echoed in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“To find myself a bed,” Flash answered. “Then tomorrow I may go back to
Columbia. I want to see how Joe is doing.”
“Oh, yes,” Doyle murmured, frowning. “I’ll have to drive over there
myself tomorrow. Want to ride along?”
Flash hesitated. The matter of car fare was an item to be considered.
Doyle certainly owed him free transportation if nothing more.
“Thanks,” he accepted. “I’ll be glad to ride along.”
But later, alone in his hotel room, he regretted the decision. He did
not like George Doyle. And the technician had no use for him. The
journey at best would be an unpleasant one.
Flash picked up a newspaper which he had bought on the street. The
headlines were devoted to the auto races and the two deaths which had
occurred. Already the train wreck story was old, buried on page two.
However, a revised and final list of the known casualties had been
reprinted. Again Albert Povy’s name appeared.
“I’m sure that fellow was on the train to shadow Major Hartgrove,” he
mused. “But now—well, it doesn’t matter. The mystery, if any, has been
blacked out by death.”