No one answered.
Turning off the light, Flash stepped outside. A board creaked. He whirled swiftly.
Before he could defend himself, he was struck directly behind the knees. Thrown off balance, he crumpled and fell to the floor.
A flashlight beam played upon his face, blinding him. The muzzle of a revolver pressed into his ribs.
“Stay where you are!”
The voice, low-spoken and cool, belonged to Herbert Rascomb.
“So it’s you, Povy?”
“There is no such person as Albert Povy,” Flash’s captor corrected. “It will pay you dividends to keep that fact in mind. No! Don’t move! I really shouldn’t enjoy pumping you full of lead.”
“You prefer to assault your victims with oars?”
Rascomb laughed as he snapped on a lamp above the desk. Keeping Flash covered, he motioned for him to rise and sit on a straight-back chair against the wall.