_ACCUSATIONS_
Flash moved swiftly to the door and jerked it open. The hall was
deserted, but as he listened he could hear the soft pad of footsteps
fading away.
“That door didn’t open by itself,” he muttered. “Someone was listening.
But whoever he was, he’s gone now.”
Flash re-entered the bedroom. The shower was still running, but in a few
minutes Doyle came out, wrapped in his flannel robe.
“Did you send that telegram?” he asked.
“No, not yet. Doyle, there’s no reason for you to resign.”
“I’m fed up,” the technician responded shortly.
“I’ve been thinking. I may keep on for awhile, after all. My plans
aren’t turning out the way I expected.”
“You mean you want to go on to Clinton? You believe my story, then?”
“Yes. I don’t honestly think you were a party to what happened today.”
Doyle drew a deep sigh.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Flash. You’ve been pretty badly mixed
up—”
“Let’s not argue that point,” Flash interrupted. “My opinion about
Rascomb won’t change. I intend to report him to the police.”
Doyle frowned.
“You’re making a big mistake if you do that, Flash. Rascomb is an
important man with connections around this city. Even if he had done
what you think he did, it would be hard to prove.”
“Not if you’ll testify with me.”
Doyle shifted his weight uncomfortably.
“I couldn’t be a party to railroading an innocent man.”
“Innocent!”
“That bump on the head confused you, Flash,” Doyle said anxiously.
“Maybe you ought to see a doctor.”
“You think I’m out of my head?”
“Only on that one subject. You’ve been suspicious of Rascomb ever since
you met him.”
“And for a mighty good reason. I suppose you’ll think I’m crazy if I
tell you that Rascomb and Fleur locked me up in the lodge.”
“What?” Doyle demanded incredulously.
“After he left you, Rascomb came back. He boasted that he intended to
pull off a final deal and skip the country. Take a look at this!”
Flash drew the picture of Albert Povy from his pocket and slapped it on
the table before Doyle’s startled eyes.
“Where did you get this, Flash?”
“In Rascomb’s desk!”
“It doesn’t seem possible,” Doyle muttered. “There is a marked
resemblance I’ll admit, but Rascomb has no scar.”
“You’re mistaken there. He’s been using clever make-up to keep it
covered. Now will you go with me to the police station?”
“I still think you’re mixed up somehow,” Doyle protested. “I hate to get
involved in this mess. Rascomb isn’t the man to take an accusation
sitting down.”
“Then I’ll go to the police alone,” Flash said shortly. “It won’t take
me long to make my report. As soon as I’m through we’ll start for
Clinton.”
“We can’t get out of here until the truck is repaired.”
“Why not hire a car? We could take the hand camera, get our strike
pictures, and come back here later for the truck.”
“We could do that,” Doyle agreed. “Do you feel equal to the trip?”
Flash shook his head impatiently. “No, but I’ll keep going somehow.”
He changed his clothes and hastily packed his belongings in a suitcase.
Doyle watched him with a troubled gaze.
“Flash, you look bad,” he said after a moment. “Let me call a doctor.”
“We haven’t time. I’m on my way to the police station now. You might see
if you can locate a car while I’m gone.”
Leaving Doyle in the room, Flash went downstairs to the nearly deserted
lobby. As he reached the revolving door at the front entrance another
man entered the hotel and they met face to face.
Flash stopped short.
“Captain Johns!” he exclaimed.
The army man peered at the young man an instant without recognition, and
then he remembered him.
“Evans, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I was trying to reach you by long distance telephone only a few
minutes ago,” Flash began eagerly.
The Captain cut him short. “Major Hartgrove and I arrived here early
this morning. Glad to have met you again, Mr. Evans.”
“One minute,” Flash protested as the man started to edge away.
“I can’t stop now,” Captain Johns apologized. “Some other time I’ll be
glad to grant an interview.”
“I’m not after an interview or pictures. I would like to give you some
information about Albert Povy.”
Captain Johns stopped short. He gazed at Flash intently.
“Albert Povy no longer interests me,” he said. “The man is dead.”
“You are wrong, sir. Povy never was killed in the train wreck. I have
proof of it.”
“Impossible! It happens that Major Hartgrove and I came here this
morning to investigate that very thing. Povy is buried in a cemetery at
Clear Lake. I visited the grave myself.”
“It couldn’t have been Povy’s grave. The man still lives.”
Captain Johns grasped Flash by the arm.
“Come back into the lobby with me, young man,” he urged. “If your
information should be correct it will prove of vital importance to us!”
Flash sank into a chair beside the captain. He offered the picture of
Povy and told where he had obtained it.
“But do you realize what you are saying?” the Captain demanded in
amazement. “You are accusing Herbert Rascomb of living a dual life!”
“Rascomb and Povy are the same person,” Flash insisted. “For years the
man has been living a double existence. As Rascomb he’s acted the part
of a wealthy, upstanding citizen. As Povy—well, I don’t know much about
_his_ past.”
“Albert Povy was one of the most daring spies the government ever
encountered,” explained Captain Johns. “He caused us great
embarrassment. Recently, evidence piled up against him. Had his death
not occurred, he would have been arrested within forty-eight hours.”
“I saw him on the train,” Flash said. “At the time it appeared to me
that he might have been shadowing Major Hartgrove.”
“Your observation was correct. Povy knew that the government had taken
an interest in a parachute which is being perfected by a man named
Bailey Brooks. He was under the impression that Major Hartgrove had
possession of certain papers and specifications referring to it.”
“And when the train was wrecked he tried to rob the Major?”
“He made such an attempt and failed.”
“Where is the Major now?” Flash asked. “I believe you said he was here
at the hotel.”
“He is waiting for me upstairs.”
“And does he still have the specifications for Brooks’ invention?”
Captain Johns frowned in annoyance. He felt that he had told the
cameraman entirely too much.
“The reason I ask is this,” Flash said. “Rascomb boasted while he held
me prisoner that he intended to pull off one more deal before he
disappeared. He may have learned that Major Hartgrove is here—”
“Major Hartgrove is well able to look after himself,” the captain
interposed dryly.
Flash arose.
“You don’t believe my story,” he said.
“I am convinced that you believe it,” returned Captain Johns. “Your
accusation against Rascomb is amazing. However, I promise you a complete
investigation will be made.”
“Unless you work fast, Rascomb may disappear,” Flash warned impatiently.
“I was on my way to the police when I met you.”
“No, you must not go there! Allow me to handle this.”
“Yes, sir.”
A page boy crossed the lobby, gazing questioningly toward the pair.
“Call for Captain Johns! Captain Johns!”
The army man signaled to the boy, and upon learning that he was wanted
on the telephone, excused himself. When he returned a few minutes later
his face was sober.
“I don’t know what to think now,” he said. “That call was from Charles
W. Gordon.”
“Gordon?”
“A prominent and respectable lawyer here in Excelsior City. He requested
me to come without delay to Room 47 and to bring you with me.”
“Why should Gordon wish to see us?”
“He said he was representing Herbert Rascomb and had important
information to offer.”
“It sounds like a trap!” exclaimed Flash.
“I hardly agree. Gordon is a reputable lawyer.”
“How did he know we were here in the hotel and together?”
“I was wondering about that,” mused Captain Johns. “We’ll see him, but
if Room 47 is the spider’s den, let us keep an eye open for
entanglements.”