_A DESPERATE CHANCE_
The fight was brief but intense. Caught completely off guard, the
chauffeur proved no match for three desperate opponents. A hard blow on
the jaw sent him reeling backwards. He fell and was pinned to the floor.
Flash groped about in the dark until he found the revolver. He jammed
its muzzle into the chauffeur’s ribs.
“Let me have that,” ordered Major Hartgrove, taking the weapon from him.
“See if you can find some rope!”
Flash ran into the adjoining room, and after a brief search, located a
coil which evidently had been brought to the cabin by Rascomb’s men.
Doyle and the Major dragged the chauffeur into the lighted room.
Skilfully they trussed him up and set him in a chair.
“Now you’ll talk,” said Major Hartgrove. “If you refuse, I know how to
change your mind! You’re working for Rascomb?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Albert Povy then,” supplied Flash.
“I don’t know either of them guys,” the chauffeur insisted.
“Who hired you to waylay Flash and me if it wasn’t Rascomb?” demanded
Doyle. “He recommended you as a driver.”
The chauffeur glared at his three questioners, refusing to speak.
“You know what a charge of kidnapping means in this state,” reminded the
Major. “A life sentence.”
An expression of fear came over the chauffeur’s face. He began to
tremble.
“Now if you come clean—tell us everything you know—you may get off with
a lighter sentence,” the Major went on. “But if Rascomb makes good his
escape, you’ll be the one to take the rap.”
“This is the first job I’ve ever done for him,” the chauffeur whined.
“My orders were to let you all escape in the morning.”
“What became of the papers stolen from me?” Major Hartgrove asked.
“Rascomb has them.”
“And where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying,” accused the Major. “Has he gone to Melveredge Field?”
“Not Rascomb! He’s flying to Mexico tonight.”
“Flying!” exclaimed Flash. “In his own plane?”
“Yeah. At the hotel I heard him telephone a man by the name of Fleur. He
told him to be at the airport by five o’clock.”
“Rascomb must have meant his own private field,” Flash said, looking at
his watch. “It’s fifteen after three now. But we still have a chance to
stop him.”
“How far are we from Excelsior City?” asked the Major.
“Forty-seven miles,” the chauffeur informed.
“Let’s get started,” Flash urged tersely. “We haven’t a minute to lose.”
Major Hartgrove untied the chauffeur’s feet and they forced the man to
walk back to the road where the car had been left. Flash slid behind the
wheel.
As they rode through the night at a furious pace, Doyle and Major
Hartgrove continued to question their prisoner. They soon satisfied
themselves that he knew almost nothing about Rascomb’s past.
“I only met the guy yesterday,” he insisted. “Rascomb offered me a
chance to pick up some easy money. He let on he wanted to play a joke on
some friends of his. I was to drive the car. Until tonight I didn’t have
no idea I was getting mixed up in a kidnapping, and maybe worse.”
“What do you mean—worse?” the Major inquired.
“Well, I don’t want to have any hand in letting an innocent man be
killed. That’s why I’m spilling everything I know. Rascomb planted one
of his men at Melveredge Field. He has it fixed so some poor guy will
get killed tomorrow when they test out a parachute.”
“Bailey Brooks!”
“Yeah, he’s the one. I heard Rascomb talking about it.”
“I see!” said the Major explosively. “Rascomb figured that if Brooks
were killed in the test, the parachute would be discredited, and the
army would lose all interest. Then, with the plans in his possession, he
would quietly transfer them to his own government. But we’ll stop that
test!”
Flash pressed his foot harder on the accelerator. He was afraid to look
at his watch again. The speedometer warned him that they were not making
good time.
Soon they came to a small town which Flash recognized. A narrow country
road bisected the one they were following.
He eased on the brake.
“Major, this would be a short-cut to Clear Lake! How about taking it?”
Major Hartgrove glanced at his prisoner. Flash read the thought.
“This town must have a constable and a jail,” he said. “We could drop
him here and go on.”
“Yes, that will be wiser than trying to take the longer route,” agreed
Major Hartgrove.
They aroused a sleepy official from his bed, and turned the chauffeur
over to him. Explanations were necessary. The constable was slow to
understand.
“We’re losing entirely too much time!” the Major fumed.
“You stay here and enter a charge against this man,” Flash proposed.
“Doyle and I will go on to Clear Lake. Unless we move fast, Rascomb is
certain to get away.”
The Major considered briefly and consented.
“I’ll telephone to Excelsior City for a police squad,” he promised. “By
the time you reach Clear Lake help should be there. I’ll follow as
quickly as I can.”
Armed with the Major’s revolver, Flash and Doyle raced on toward Clear
Lake. The road they had chosen was bedded with loose gravel. Small
stones were thrown against the windshield and fenders as the car skidded
around corners.
Doyle snapped on a light and looked at his watch.
“Twenty after four,” he announced. “We’ll never make it.”
“We will unless Rascomb takes off ahead of time!” Flash answered grimly.
Dawn was beginning to color the eastern sky. Trees and houses along the
road gradually assumed definite shape. The air was heavy with smoke from
the forest fire which still raged miles away.
Flash and Doyle drove through Clear Lake at ten minutes of five. Houses
were dark, the streets deserted. There was no police delegation to meet
them.
Doyle nervously fingered the loaded revolver.
“It looks as if we’re on our own,” he said. “Unless that chauffeur gave
us a bum steer.”
They were drawing near the private air field. Flash snapped off the
headlight beams. As the car swung around a bend of the road, they saw
the cleared field ahead of them, shrouded in the morning mists.
Flash leaned forward. A plane stood near the hangar, propeller turning,
blue flames licking from its exhaust.
“It’s Rascomb!” he shouted.
“We’re too late,” Doyle groaned. “No chance to stop him now.”
A gate which gave entrance to the private field had been left open.
Flash whirled the wheel and they went through, bumping over the uneven
ground.
Rascomb sat at the controls of the monoplane, with Fleur in the cockpit
behind him. They both saw the approaching car.
Derisively, Rascomb waved his hand. Speeding up the engine, he taxied to
the end of the cleared space, then nosed the plane into the wind.
“We’ve lost him,” Doyle exclaimed. “He’s taking off!”
Flash had noted the direction of the wind and the path which the plane
must travel.
“There’s one way to stop him!” he cried.
As the plane roared down the field, he deliberately headed the car
straight toward it.
“Jump!” he shouted to Doyle. “Save yourself! We’re going to crash
head-on!”