_CHECKING FACTS_
With fifteen minutes to spare, Flash made a quick trip to the railroad
station. His next errand was anything but to his liking. Yet he was
unwilling to leave Columbia without verifying a certain fact.
He found the station agent in his little office behind the ticket
window.
“What may I do for you, sir?” the man questioned.
Introducing himself as a representative of the _Brandale Ledger_, Flash
added that he was checking upon the death of a man reported killed in
the streamliner crash.
“Sorry I can’t help you on that,” replied the agent. “It’s against
orders to give out information about the accident. You’ll have to see
some other person.”
Flash was persistent. He explained that any information obtained would
not be published in a newspaper.
“I’m trying to learn about a man named Albert Povy.”
“I guess I can tell you about him,” the agent conceded. “He was among
the victims.”
“The body was shipped from here?”
“It was.”
“To relatives?”
“Couldn’t tell you as to that. The body was claimed by a man named
Rascomb. Herbert Rascomb.”
Flash was startled by the name. He wondered if it could be the same man
George Doyle had been telling him about. But that scarcely seemed
possible.
“And where was the casket sent?” he asked after a moment. “That is, what
city?”
“To a place called Clear Lake.”
Flash thanked the agent for the information and left the station. He was
ten minutes late in reaching the parking lot. Doyle was waiting in the
sound truck, appearing none too pleased at the delay.
They drove out of town with Doyle at the wheel. The truck made good
speed. For a time neither of them spoke.
“Oh, by the way,” Doyle said at length, “what sort of salary did Clewes
give you?”
“Somewhat less than Joe was getting,” Flash answered vaguely. “More than
I’ll earn probably.”
“You’ll be getting a double salary while you’re on vacation, won’t you?”
Doyle could not hide his envy.
“Yes, but it won’t last long.”
Flash decided to ask a few questions himself. A little later he
introduced the subject of the sportsman, Rascomb, asking Doyle the man’s
first name.
“Herbert. Herb Rascomb.”
“And where is his lodge located? What town is it near?”
“Couldn’t tell you exactly,” responded Doyle. “I understand it’s not far
from where we’re heading—Melveredge Field. But why this sudden interest
in Rascomb?”
“Merely curious, that’s all. What sort of reputation does he have?”
“Reputation? Oh, he steps around in fast company, if that’s what you
mean. He has a lot of foreign friends.”
“Was he ever mixed up in trouble with the government or anything of the
sort?”
“Rascomb? Say, that fellow is in the blue book. The only thing he’s
interested in is having a good time. If he did get into trouble he could
buy himself out.”
Again Flash fell silent, for he saw that Doyle had grown irritated by
his questions. It struck him as an interesting fact that Rascomb had
been connected with Albert Povy, a man of dubious reputation.
Actually there was no good reason why the pair should not have been
friends. With a large circle of acquaintances, Rascomb could have met
Povy in his travels about the country and, learning that the man was
without relatives, might have claimed the body out of kindness. In any
case, it was none of his affair. He never expected to see Rascomb again.
Throughout the day the sound truck rumbled steadily eastward, making
only brief stops for oil and gas. Twice Flash offered to relieve Doyle
at the wheel, and both times was turned down.
Toward dusk they pulled into a busy little city of some fifty thousand
population. They had reached their destination. Melveredge Field was
located close by.
Doyle glanced at his watch.
“Ten after five,” he announced. “Too late to do anything tonight. We’ll
find the Clarinda Hotel and call it a day.”
Flash nodded. Doyle never bothered to consult his wishes. He quickly had
learned that the easiest way to get along with the technician was to
have no opinions of his own. So far any differences they might have had
were trivial. But clashes were certain to come later.
Flash had been relieved to learn that _News-Vue_ paid all traveling
expenses. The arrangement, however, had one distinct drawback. He and
Doyle were expected to share the same room.
“We see too much of each other as it is,” thought Flash. “Before the end
of a month we won’t be on speaking terms.”
They registered at the Clarinda Hotel and inquired for mail. There was
none. The anticipated orders from the _News-Vue_ Company had not yet
arrived.
The newsreel men both were tired and dirty from their long journey.
“Me for the tub,” Doyle announced.
Slamming the bathroom door behind him, he started the water running, and
remained soaking for nearly an hour. Flash became irritated at the long
delay.
“Say, have you gone to bed in there?” he called at last. “You’re not the
only dirty pebble on the beach!”
Doyle did not answer, nor would he hurry. He took another half hour to
dress. Finally be unlocked the door and sauntered out.
“What’s all the shouting about, Flash?”
“You’ve been in there exactly an hour and a half!”
“Well, it’s all yours now,” Doyle shrugged. “Such impatience! Dear!
Dear!”
Flash glanced at the tub. It was rimmed with dirt. Every bath towel had
been used.
“Say, you lug—” he began.
An outside door slammed. The culprit had gone.
Ringing for more towels, Flash cleaned the tub and hastened through his
own bath.
“I’ll get even with him tomorrow,” he thought. “We’ll see how he likes
it when the joke is on him.”
It was after seven o’clock when Flash finally left the hotel in search
of a restaurant. He sauntered along, pausing to read menus printed on
the plate glass windows. Suddenly he felt a hand touch his shoulder.
Flash whirled around. For a moment he did not recognize the smiling
young man who stood there. Then he gave a pleased cry:
“Bailey Brooks! What are you doing out this way?”
“Oh, prowling around,” the parachute jumper replied. “Had your dinner?”
“Not yet.”
“Then let’s go inside. I’m meeting a man, but he’s not due to show up
for fifteen minutes.”
Flash felt flattered that Bailey Brooks had remembered him. He was even
more pleased when the parachute jumper praised him for the pictures he
had taken at Brandale.
“All the publicity helped,” Brooks declared warmly. “Since the parachute
test proved successful, several concerns have been after me. I’ve not
had a definite offer yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”
The two young men entered the restaurant and selected a table not far
from the door. Flash hesitated, and then said:
“Too bad about Povy.”
“Yeah.” The smile faded from Brooks’ face. “He was interested in my
invention. Offered me a good price for it, too. But probably it’s just
as well the deal didn’t go through.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You know who Povy was, don’t you?”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“He was mixed up with a spy ring years ago and probably was doing
espionage work at the time of his death. That was the main reason I held
off about selling him the parachute. I liked Povy personally but I never
trusted him.”
“I wonder what government employed him?”
“I never learned. Povy was very cautious in his dealings. He revealed
nothing about himself. All he ever told me was that he represented a
firm which would pay well for my invention, providing the tests were
successful.”
A waitress came to take orders and Flash gave his. Bailey Brooks said
that he would wait for a man with whom he had a dinner appointment.
“You say several other persons are after your invention now?”
“Several is an exaggeration,” Brooks admitted with a grin. “One private
party and the United States Army.”
“So that’s why you’re here!”
Brooks nodded. “The ’chute is to be given exhaustive tests out at
Melveredge Field. If it comes through okay, I’ll be sitting pretty.”
“When will the tests be made?”
“All week. There’s an endless amount of red tape.”
“I’m with the _News-Vue_ people now,” Flash explained abruptly. “Any
chance to get some shots of the tests?”
“Not a glimmer. Melveredge Field is closed tighter than a drum these
days. I doubt if they’ll even allow you near the place with a newsreel
camera.”
Flash mentioned the chain of events which had led him to spend his
vacation working for the _News-Vue_ Company. The parachute jumper
immediately recalled Joe Wells and expressed regret over his accident.
“While I was in Columbia I inquired about Albert Povy,” Flash presently
remarked. “You know, I thought there might have been some mistake about
his death.”
“There wasn’t?”
“No. His body was shipped to a place called Clear Lake.”
“That town isn’t so far from here,” Brooks said thoughtfully. “I’ve
heard of it.”
“Povy’s body was claimed by a man named Herbert Rascomb. A well known
sportsman and—”
Bailey Brooks had been toying with a silver knife. It slid from his
hand, making a clatter as it struck the floor.
“Rascomb?” he asked in a strange voice. “Did you say Rascomb?”
Flash could see that the information had startled the parachute jumper.
But before he could explain further or ask a question, the door of the
café swung open.
A dapper man in army uniform strode across the room directly toward the
pair at the table.
“Ah, here is my host now,” murmured Bailey Brooks.
Flash turned his head. The man who approached was Captain Ernest Johns.