“Go ahead,” Bailey Brooks responded cordially. “The publicity ought to do me some good.”
Flash took a pose of the man beside his car, but decided to save his remaining films for the actual jump.
He wandered over toward the green sound truck which had maneuvered into position near the base of the cliff. A sound technician and two helpers were stringing up their microphone. Two cameramen, on the roof of the truck, were attaching the tripod of a large turret-front camera to the metal platform.
The younger man turned slightly and Flash recognized him as a photographer who, until three months previously, had been employed by the Ledger.
“Joe Wells!”
The cameraman looked around, and climbed quickly down from his perch.
“Well, if it isn’t Flash Evans!” he exclaimed heartily. “What are you doing out here?”
“Oh, I saw your wagon roll by, and I figured I might get a good picture if I trailed you.”
“Same old Flash, always playing hunches,” Joe chuckled. “But you figured right. Brooks may crack up instead of cracking silk.”
“I hope not. Still, that cliff doesn’t look very high.”