_HIGH WATER_
Bailey Brooks arose to greet the newcomer. As he turned to introduce
Flash, Captain Johns forestalled him by saying in a curt voice:
“We have met before, I believe!”
“At the Columbia Hospital,” recalled Flash.
The Captain seated himself on the opposite side of the table, regarding
the cameraman with a cold scrutiny which was not easy to interpret.
Assuming that he was an intruder at a private business conference, Flash
offered an apology and started to leave.
“No, don’t go.” Captain Johns waved him back into his chair. “Finish
your dinner. Why did you fail to keep your promise to Major Hartgrove?”
Flash now understood the reason behind the officer’s coolness. Major
Hartgrove had reported his failure to give up the requested pictures.
“I made no promise,” he replied.
“It was understood that you would bring the pictures to the hospital
without delay.”
“The Major may have understood it that way,” replied Flash evenly. “But
I work for the _News-Vue_ Company, not the United States Army.”
Captain Johns’ lips twisted in a faint suggestion of a smile. Yet his
voice had an edge to it as he asked:
“You still have those pictures?”
“I have.”
“What is your reason for withholding them?”
“No reason,” Flash admitted cheerfully. “As a matter of fact, I went
back to the hospital yesterday after I had them printed. The Major was
gone.”
“You went back _after_ you had looked at them yourself?”
“Quite right, sir. I wanted to see what I was giving away. Just
protecting my paper, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” responded Captain Johns dryly. “You may be interested to
learn that Major Hartgrove has been removed to the army hospital at
Melveredge Field.”
“Doing well I hope.”
“He will be dismissed tomorrow or the day following. Now about those
pictures. Where are they now?”
“In my room at the hotel.”
“May I see them?”
“I’ll be glad to show them to you, Captain,” replied Flash, grinning.
“But I don’t think you’ll find them of any aid in running down the man
who struck the Major.”
“Let me be the judge of that. Now as I recall, Major Hartgrove said you
were the first person to reach him after the train wreck.”
“Hardly the first, sir. As I approached the car, I saw someone slipping
away into the dark. It may have been the man who robbed him.”
“You are mistaken. Major Hartgrove was not robbed.”
“I understood otherwise.”
“An attempt was made to take Major Hartgrove’s wallet. The man did not
succeed.”
Flash accepted the explanation without comment. He was rather inclined
to believe that the Major had not been robbed. However, it seemed
unreasonable that the army men would be making such strenuous efforts to
apprehend an ordinary thief. Obviously Major Hartgrove had carried
military papers or something of far greater value than money.
Ignoring Bailey Brooks for the moment, Captain Johns asked Flash a
number of questions about his actions following the train wreck.
Cleverly but without success he tried to make the cameraman contradict
himself. At last, he seemed satisfied the young man was telling the
truth, and turned his attention once more to the parachute jumper.
After the meal had ended, Captain Johns volunteered to go with Flash to
his room. The three walked together to the Clarinda Hotel.
George Doyle looked up in surprise as Flash pushed open the bedroom
door. He rose quickly to his feet.
“You remember Bailey Brooks,” said Flash. “And this is Captain Ernest
Johns.”
Doyle was impressed by the caller. He lost his customary indifference
and put himself out to be agreeable. But the captain paid him scant
attention.
“I have only a few minutes,” he said impatiently. “May I see the
pictures now, please?”
Flash found the envelope in his luggage. Doyle sat watching him
curiously as he sorted through the prints.
“I have only one which will interest you,” he said to the captain. “It
isn’t much good.”
The army man examined the picture carefully and returned it to the
stack.
“You are right,” he admitted regretfully. “For our purposes it is
valueless.” Methodically, he thumbed through the other prints. “Now here
is an excellent one!”
“A snap I took at the races. Too bad the wreck picture didn’t come out
the same way. Conditions were against me.”
Bailey Brooks had crossed the room. As Captain Johns dropped the prints
carelessly on the table, he picked them up and glanced through the
stack.
The army officer turned to leave but Doyle stepped forward, neatly
blocking his way.
“Say, Captain,” he began, “Flash and I are with _News-Vue_, you know.
What are the picture possibilities out at Melveredge?”
“There are none, Mr. Doyle.”
“Oh, come now, I know it’s hard to get in there these days, but it can
be done with pull. How about giving us a permit?”
“I regret I am not in a position to grant such a favor,” the captain
returned stiffly. “Good evening.”
Accompanied by Bailey Brooks, he went away. As soon as the footsteps
receded, Doyle turned angrily to Flash.
“You might have said something instead of standing there like a clam!
Here the Captain is a good friend of yours. He could have passed us into
Melveredge Field.”
“The Captain isn’t a friend of mine.”
“Then why did you bring him here?”
“You must have observed for yourself, Doyle. To look at those pictures.”
The technician picked up the stack and glanced through the prints.
“What’s all this about anyway?” he demanded. “Why would the Captain be
interested?”
Flash made an evasive answer which only irritated Doyle further. Despite
the technician’s displeasure, he had no intention of taking him into his
confidence.
“I’m tired,” he said shortly. “Let’s go to bed.”
It was dark in the hotel room when Flash awakened to hear the telephone
ringing. Struggling out of sleep, he reached to roll up the window
shade. A few carts were creaking by on the street below. The sky was
barely light.
The telephone rang again.
“Answer it, will you?” growled Doyle.
“All right.”
Flash took the receiver from its hook. He was informed by the hotel
operator that long distance was calling. As he relayed the message to
Doyle, the latter leaped from bed and seized the instrument.
“That must be Clewes!”
Doyle talked for several minutes and then hung up the receiver.
“Get dressed!” he said curtly. “We’re clearing out of here. And we
haven’t much time.”
“What’s up?”
“We move again. Clewes says to let the Melveredge pictures slide.
Arrangements can’t be made with the authorities.”
“A new assignment?”
“Yeah. Not a bad one either. We’re to cover an International polo match
at Excelsior City. We ought to be there not later than twelve-thirty.”
Flash looked at his watch and whistled.
“It’s nearly six now. Excelsior City must be at least three hundred
miles from here.”
“Nearer three twenty. It means fast stepping.”
Quickly they dressed and crammed their clothing into suitcases. There
was no time for breakfast. A clock on the street chimed six-thirty as
they pulled out of the drowsing city.
A fog hung low over the valley. Before the sound truck had covered many
miles a fine, steady rain began to fall.
Strangely, Doyle offered no complaint about either the weather or the
early morning call to duty. Flash stole a curious glance at him. The
technician’s face was animated and he whistled a cheerful tune.
“This assignment seems to please you, Doyle.”
“It could be a lot worse.”
“What teams are playing? You haven’t told me anything about the set-up.”
“An American team against one from India headed by Rajah Mitra. Know
anything about polo?”
“I’ve seen a few games.”
“Herbert Rascomb will be playing on the American team.”
“Rascomb!”
“He’s one of the best players in the country.”
“I never even heard of him until a few days ago.”
“Rascomb doesn’t like publicity. He goes into a rage if his picture is
taken. The boys humor him, and he returns the favor by showing them a
good time at his lodge.”
“Buys them off?”
“Nothing of the sort. It’s only to show his appreciation. We could do
with a day in the north woods, eh?”
Flash avoided answering the question. Instead he inquired:
“Why is Rascomb so against publicity? A pose?”
Doyle shrugged as he steered the sound truck into a filling station.
“No, he’s just that way. But they tell me Rascomb is a fine fellow.”
An attendant filled the gasoline tank, checked the oil and replenished
the water in the radiator. As Doyle paid him, he volunteered road
information.
“Aiming to take U.S. 49 out of here?”
“That’s right,” answered Doyle. “How is the road to Excelsior City?”
“The road’s in good condition. But if you want to be on the safe side
you’d better take Highway 23. We’ve had some hard rains around here. The
Coon River is over its banks, and there’s a bad bridge about six miles
beyond town.”
“Then the road is closed?”
“They were keeping it open an hour ago. A radio report said it would be
closed if the water came any higher.”
Doyle and Flash studied a map. Highway 23 was graveled and at least
fourteen miles out of their way.
“We’ll keep on 49 and take a chance,” Doyle decided.
The decision satisfied Flash, for it had occurred to him that possibly
they might have an opportunity to take interesting flood pictures.
Two miles beyond the town limits they began to see evidence of high
water. Ditches on either side of the road ran with it. In several low
places tiny rivers blocked their way. The water was not deep and they
rode through it without mishap.
They picked up speed on a long stretch of clear pavement. Ahead they
could see the bridge, a long, wooden affair of ancient design. A flimsy,
make-shift barrier of boards had been raised across the entrance way.
“Closed!” muttered Doyle in disgust. “We’ll never get to Excelsior City
by game time now!”
He slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a standstill not far
from the bridge. Thrusting his head out the window, he called to one of
the guards:
“How about letting us through? We’re newsreel cameramen and in a big
hurry.”
“The bridge is unsafe,” the man answered. “It’s apt to go out any time
now.”
Flash leaped from the truck and went to look at the bridge. He saw for
himself that much of the underpinning had washed away. The weight of an
automobile, even higher water, would be almost certain to shift it from
its position.
“Water still rising?” he questioned a guard.
“Coming up fast, brother. Three inches in the last twenty minutes.
Another half hour and this road may be completely covered.”
Flash ran back to the truck. Doyle had turned it around and was
impatiently waiting.
“Jump in!” he commanded. “We’re going to be late getting to Excelsior
City now that we have to back-track.”
“Listen, Doyle!” Flash was excited. “While we’re breaking our necks
trying to reach there, we’ll be passing up better pictures.”
“What do you mean, better pictures?”
“The bridge is going out any time.”
“Maybe,” Doyle retorted. “But we’re not waiting here several hours on a
slim chance like that! Our assignment is to shoot the polo match.”
Flash gazed steadily at the technician.
“Sorry to disagree. We’re staying right here.”
“Say who do you think you are?” Doyle drawled insolently. “I’m not
taking orders from any fresh kid.”
“I’ve taken plenty of orders from you. But not any more. I’m washed up!
Through!”
“Oh, so you’re through, eh? Well, quit any time you like!”
“I’m not quitting,” Flash corrected. “Just letting you know that from
now on I’m not your man Friday. Mr. Clewes gave me to understand I was
to use my own judgment about picture values. Your part is to record the
sound effects.”
Doyle stared at Flash. Spots of bright color tinted his taut cheeks.
With an effort he kept his voice under control.
“All right, Evans, you’ll take full responsibility for this!”
“I expect to,” Flash retorted grimly. “Now help me get my stuff up on
the roof! That bridge won’t last many minutes!”