“No, but I’m not very hungry. Still feeling the effects of last night, I guess.”
Doyle asked no questions about Flash’s experiences in the train wreck. It did not occur to him that the young photographer had undergone extreme physical discomfort in order to reach Indianapolis.
“Well, get shaved,” he said gruffly. “I’ll need to explain to you about the equipment. We haven’t much time.”
Flash borrowed a razor, and did not keep Doyle waiting long. They left the hotel, going directly to the garage where the green sound truck had been left. There the sound technician demonstrated the News-Vue equipment, and seemed slightly reassured to discover that Flash knew a good deal about newsreel cameras.
“Maybe we can get by somehow,” he said gloomily. “Let’s roll.”
“Just as you say.”
Flash jumped into the sound wagon beside Doyle. On the seat he noticed a newspaper of the previous night. In screaming headlines it proclaimed: STREAMLINER WRECKED. 12 DEAD, 27 INJURED.
As the car shot out of the garage into blinding sunlight, he was able to read the finer print. His eye scanned the list of known dead. Seeing a familiar name, he gave a low exclamation of surprise.
“What’s wrong?” Doyle demanded, regarding him curiously.
“Nothing,” Flash answered. “It just gave me a shock—this list of the dead.”