“Reputation? Oh, he steps around in fast company, if that’s what you mean. He has a lot of foreign friends.”
“Was he ever mixed up in trouble with the government or anything of the sort?”
“Rascomb? Say, that fellow is in the blue book. The only thing he’s interested in is having a good time. If he did get into trouble he could buy himself out.”
Again Flash fell silent, for he saw that Doyle had grown irritated by his questions. It struck him as an interesting fact that Rascomb had been connected with Albert Povy, a man of dubious reputation.
Actually there was no good reason why the pair should not have been friends. With a large circle of acquaintances, Rascomb could have met Povy in his travels about the country and, learning that the man was without relatives, might have claimed the body out of kindness. In any case, it was none of his affair. He never expected to see Rascomb again.
Throughout the day the sound truck rumbled steadily eastward, making only brief stops for oil and gas. Twice Flash offered to relieve Doyle at the wheel, and both times was turned down.
Toward dusk they pulled into a busy little city of some fifty thousand population. They had reached their destination. Melveredge Field was located close by.
Doyle glanced at his watch.
“Ten after five,” he announced. “Too late to do anything tonight. We’ll find the Clarinda Hotel and call it a day.”
Flash nodded. Doyle never bothered to consult his wishes. He quickly had learned that the easiest way to get along with the technician was to have no opinions of his own. So far any differences they might have had were trivial. But clashes were certain to come later.