THERE WAS A TERRIFIC CRASH AS CAR AFTER CAR PILED ON EACH OTHER. (See [page 44])
FLASH EVANS
CAMERA NEWS HAWK
By
FRANK BELL
Illustrated
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
Publishers : : New York
FLASH EVANS BOOKS
FLASH EVANS AND THE DARKROOM MYSTERY FLASH EVANS CAMERA NEWS HAWK
Copyright, 1940, By
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I. [CRACKING SILK] 1 II. [OVER THE CLIFF] 10 III. [A TRAIN WRECK] 22 IV. [SUBSTITUTE CAMERAMAN] 32 V. [TROUBLE AT THE GATE] 40 VI. [MAJOR HARTGROVE’S VISITOR] 49 VII. [A HINT TO THE WISE] 56 VIII. [DISTRUST] 64 IX. [FLASH ACCEPTS AN OFFER] 73 X. [CHECKING FACTS] 79 XI. [HIGH WATER] 88 XII. [BRIDGE OUT!] 99 XIII. [A POLO GAME] 107 XIV. [RASCOMB’S INVITATION] 115 XV. [THROUGH THE PASS] 125 XVI. [DOYLE’S TREACHERY] 135 XVII. [A KEY TO MYSTERY] 142 XVIII. [ESCAPE] 149 XIX. [A DOUBLE RESIGNATION] 156 XX. [ACCUSATIONS] 163 XXI. [RASCOMB’S EXPLANATION] 171 XXII. [THE MAJOR’S DISAPPEARANCE] 178 XXIII. [CAPTIVES] 188 XXIV. [A DESPERATE CHANCE] 195 XXV. [FADE-OUT] 202
FLASH EVANS
CAMERA NEWS HAWK
CHAPTER I
CRACKING SILK
Flash Evans dribbled the basketball down the gymnasium floor, gave it a final flip through the net, and started for the shower room.
“Not leaving, are you?” his friend, Jerry Hayes, called after him.
“Yes,” Flash answered regretfully, “I’ll be late getting back to work unless I do. Business before fun, you know.”
“Wait a minute and I’ll walk along to the Ledger office with you.”
“All right, but step on it! My ticker says ten of one.”
For as far back as the two boys could remember they had been close friends. Both were graduates of Brandale High School, lived on the same street, and enjoyed the same sports.
During the past nine months Flash had worked as a photographer on the Brandale Ledger and, of necessity, his pleasures had been somewhat curtailed. Yet, he still found time to swim at the “Y,” and on this Saturday had given up his lunch hour to play basketball.
The two friends quickly dressed. As they left the “Y” building together, Flash strapped a Speed Graphic camera over his shoulder.
“You never go anywhere without that thing, do you?” Jerry remarked.
“Not during working hours. You never know when a big picture may come your way.”
“Those were dandies you ran in the Ledger a short time ago,” Jerry recalled. “Cleaned up an arson gang by getting a picture of the head man, didn’t you?”
“The police did the work,” Flash corrected carelessly, “but my pictures helped. And on the strength of them, Editor Riley is giving me a month’s vacation instead of the usual two weeks. I start tomorrow.”
“Where are you going, Flash?”
“Don’t know yet. I may take in the Indianapolis auto races.”
The pair had reached a street corner. As they halted to wait for the traffic light to change, an automobile rolled leisurely by close to the curb. Flash stared.
“See that fellow at the wheel!” he exclaimed, grabbing Jerry’s arm.
“Sure. Who is he?”
“Bailey Brooks!”
“And who is he?” Jerry demanded bluntly.
“You haven’t read about Bailey Brooks, the aviator and parachute jumper?”
“Oh, sure,” Jerry nodded, “the fellow who has been having so much trouble. I remember now. Government officials refused him permission to test that new parachute he invented.”
“And for a good reason. Brooks claims his new ’chute will open up at a very low altitude. But a month ago when it was given the first test, a jumper was killed.”
The automobile had been held up by a red light. Jerry was staring at the driver with deep interest when a green-painted sound truck bearing the sign, News-Vue Picture Company, rolled up directly behind the car.
“Say, that sound truck seems to be following Bailey Brooks!” Flash exclaimed, excitement creeping into his voice. “Something must be in the wind!”
“Sure looks that way,” agreed Jerry. “The newsreel lads must be after pictures.”
“Do you know what I think, Jerry? Brooks is slipping off somewhere on the quiet to make his parachute jump despite government orders! Gosh, that’s worth a picture! Whether he succeeds or fails, the Ledger will want it.”
Already the traffic light had changed from red to green. The automobile and the sound truck started to move slowly ahead. Flash knew that if he were to learn the destination of Bailey Brooks and the newsreel men, not a moment must be lost.
“Listen,” he said crisply to his friend. “Telephone the Ledger office for me, will you? Tell Riley I’m after a hot picture!”
Without waiting for Jerry’s reply, he signaled a taxi, leaping on the running board as it slowed down.
“Follow that green sound truck!”
The chase led through the business section of Brandale into open country. There the car and sound truck chose a road which wound along the ocean. Some twelve miles from the city, they both drew up at the base of a high cliff overlooking the beach.
“Wait for me,” Flash instructed the driver.
As he stepped from the cab, he saw that his hunch had been right. Bailey Brooks was unloading parachute equipment from his automobile.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Brooks,” he greeted the aviator. “Are you making a jump from the cliff?”
“You’ve guessed it,” the man grinned. “What paper do you represent?”
“The Ledger. Mind if I take a few pictures?”
“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.”
“He’s a fool to try it,” Wells declared in a low tone. “But if he’s bent on committing suicide just to prove his ’chute will work, that’s his lookout. Ours is to take pictures.”
The sound technician had finished setting up his equipment. Working with quiet efficiency, he stationed Bailey Brooks in front of the microphone, and took his own position at the mixing panel.
After the recording had been made, Joe led Flash over to the truck.
“Meet our sound expert,” he said carelessly. “George Doyle.”
The technician, a sullen, serious man of twenty-eight, did not bother to remove the monitor phones from his ears. He stared at Flash, mumbled a few words, and turned his back.
To cover up the rudeness, Joe said quickly:
“Why not quit the Ledger, Flash, and come in with a real outfit? If you’ll consider it I’ll ask News-Vue to give you a chance.”
“Thanks, Joe, but I like my work at the Ledger. I start my vacation tomorrow.”
“You’re fitted for newsreel work,” Joe declared persuasively. “You have steady nerves, good judgment, and you’re cool in an emergency. I know, because I’ve worked with you. Better think it over.”
Flash smiled and offered no response.
A moment later Bailey Brooks came over to say that he was ready to make the jump. Leaving George Doyle and the others below, Flash and Joe began the steep ascent with the aviator. Burdened as they were with heavy equipment, they took it slowly, proceeding in easy stages.
Presently, pausing to rest, Flash glanced downward. He noticed that a coupe had drawn up in a clump of bushes not far from the cliff. A man with field glasses was watching their progress.
“We have an interested watcher,” remarked Flash. “Wonder who he is?”
Both Joe and Bailey Brooks turned to gaze in the direction indicated.
“I can’t tell from this distance,” said the parachute jumper. “It looks like Albert Povy’s automobile.”
“Povy?” inquired Joe Wells in a startled voice.
“Yes, he’s one of the few persons who has been interested in my new ’chute.”
An odd expression settled over the newsreel man’s face. He said no more. But, as the climb was resumed, he dropped some distance behind Brooks to whisper with Flash.
“If that’s really Povy in the car, he must expect something to come of this test today! I’m telling you, his reputation isn’t very good!”
Flash had no opportunity to learn more about Povy, for Bailey Brooks had paused. He waited on the trail until the two men caught up with him.
At the summit of the cliff the three flung themselves on a flat rock to rest. Bailey Brooks seemed nervous. His hand trembled as he lit a cigarette.
“This jump means a lot to me,” he said. “Since my pal, Benny Fraser, was killed testing out the ’chute, government authorities have advised me that my design is unsound. But I know better. I’m willing to risk my life to prove it.”
“And when you succeed, I imagine the government will suddenly take an interest,” Flash remarked.
“Sure. They’ve had their experts studying the invention for months. They claim it has defects which can’t be overcome.”
Brooks arose, tossed aside his cigarette and began to strap on his harness.
“If I succeed everything will be swell. If I fail, I won’t know it. So what’s the difference?”
The man spoke with attempted carelessness. Yet, he could not hide his real feelings from the two observant photographers. He was not so confident as he would have them believe.
Joe Wells set up his automatic hand camera near the edge of the cliff, winding the spring motor and loading the film. Flash stationed himself at a slightly different angle, focusing his Speed Graphic.
“All set?” inquired Brooks.
“Any old time,” said Wells, and signaled the News-Vue men below.
A dizzy, nauseous sensation came over Flash as he gazed downward. If the ’chute failed to open—and the odds were against Brooks—would he have the courage to keep on taking his pictures? He wondered.
“Good luck, Brooks,” said Wells. “Happy landing.”
“I won’t need luck,” the man answered jerkily. “Not with a ’chute like this baby.”
He stepped to the edge of the cliff. For a long moment he stood there, gazing out across the sea, savoring the glint of sunlight upon the tumbling waves.
“Whatever happens,” he said, “keep grinding.”
Then with lips compressed, face tense, he stepped off into space.
CHAPTER II
OVER THE CLIFF
At terrific speed the body of the jumper hurtled toward the earth. The parachute did not open.
Grim-faced, his horrified eyes focused upon the falling figure, Flash shot his first picture. His heart was in his throat, but he was able to keep his hand steady. Swiftly he extracted the holder and made ready to take a second exposure.
“It’s curtains,” he thought. “The ’chute never can save Brooks now.”
And then, even as he abandoned hope, the silken umbrella cracked open.
Perspiration oozed from Flash’s forehead. Joe Wells laughed aloud, so great was his relief.
The danger, however, was not entirely over. As Flash took a picture of the great umbrella drifting downward, he noted that it was falling at a rapid rate toward the sea. For a time it appeared that Brooks would strike the water with great force.
But the aviator began to pull on the risers, and succeeded in working away from the shore. He landed in a plowed field some distance away. The wind billowed the ’chute, dragging him for a few feet. Brooks then skilfully pulled on the underside risers and the big umbrella flattened out.
“He’s safe,” observed Wells, taking a deep breath. “I hope he makes a fortune. A jump like that is worth it.”
The two photographers began to pack their cameras into carrying cases.
“By the way, what did you start to tell me about Albert Povy?” Flash inquired curiously.
“He was supposed to have been mixed up in shady espionage business a few months ago. I understand government operatives have kept a sharp eye on him.”
“And now he seems to be interested in Brooks’ parachute?”
“It looks that way. If Brooks has any sense he’ll steer clear of the fellow. Suppose we get down there, Flash.”
Together they began the dangerous descent. By the time they reached the base of the cliff, Bailey Brooks had walked back from the field, and was receiving the congratulations of the News-Vue men.
As Flash and Joe added their praise, a tall, dark stranger crossed the open space to the sound truck.
“A beautiful jump, Mr. Brooks,” he praised. “You remember me, don’t you? My name is Povy—Albert Povy.”
“Yes, I remember you very well,” the jumper replied dryly. “Did I demonstrate what my ’chute could do?”
“You certainly did,” the man returned heartily. “It was amazing! I never would have believed it possible, if I hadn’t witnessed it with my own eyes. You know, we may be able to do business together, after all.”
A guarded expression came into Bailey Brooks’ steel gray eyes.
“I’m open to propositions,” he said.
“Come over to my car,” invited Albert Povy. “We’ll talk.”
Flash and Joe Wells were closed out of the conversation. Swiftly the News-Vue men loaded their equipment aboard the truck and prepared to leave.
“Listen, Flash,” said Joe as he climbed into the sound truck. “When you’re through at the Ledger this afternoon, drop around at the News-Vue offices. I want to talk with you.”
He handed over a card bearing the company address, and the truck rolled away.
Reminded that he had pictures of his own to rush back to Brandale, Flash stuffed the card into his pocket, and hurried to the waiting taxi. As he drove off he saw that Brooks had gone with Albert Povy.
“Wonder if he knows the man’s reputation?” he thought. “I suppose he must.”
Flash dismissed the matter entirely from his mind. He never expected to see either of the men again. His only concern was the possibility of future news stories or pictures.
The taxicab made a quick trip back to Brandale. Flash paid the bill and kept a receipt to show Riley as proof of his expense.
He was hurrying through the news room on his way to the photographic department when the editor hailed him.
“Hey, Evans, where have you been all afternoon?” The editor gave him a quizzical glance.
Flash paused. “Didn’t Jerry Hayes telephone you?”
“Some kid called in. He said you were after a big picture.”
“I nailed it, too,” Flash said confidently. “Bailey Brooks just disregarded orders and tested his parachute out at Eagle Cliff.”
“Killed?”
“No, the test was a success. So far, the News-Vue people are the only ones to get pictures. Mine ought to be dandies.”
“Good work!” approved Riley. “We can use them, and the story, too. Crack ’em through.”
In a few minutes’ time Flash had developed his pictures and made the prints from wet films. His work finished, he was loitering in the news room when Riley motioned for him to come over to the desk.
“You may as well call it a day, Evans,” he said. “Those were fine pictures you turned in.”
“Thanks, Mr. Riley.”
“You start your vacation tomorrow, I believe?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“You’ve earned it,” Riley said with an attempt at geniality. “Where are you planning to spend your month off?”
“Home mostly. I may visit some friends in Indianapolis and take in the auto races.”
Riley pounced upon the information with the avidity of a bass after live bait.
“We could use some good pictures, Flash. How about covering the races for the Ledger?”
“Well—my plans aren’t definite. I may not be able to make it.”
“Buy yourself a ticket to Indianapolis at the Ledger’s expense,” Riley urged, guessing the reason behind the young man’s indecision. “Why not hop the special streamliner which leaves here tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll do it!” Flash decided suddenly.
“Good! Take any equipment you may need, and send your pictures back by plane.”
Flash returned to the photography department for his camera. After saying good-bye to several friends, he went downstairs where his pay check awaited him. He was finished with work an hour earlier than usual. It would seem strange, he thought, being off duty for an entire month.
As Flash reached for bus fare, he pulled the card Joe Wells had given him from his pocket. The address of the News-Vue Company was only a few blocks away.
“May as well drop around there and kill a little time,” he reflected. “But I don’t aim to let Joe talk me into leaving the Ledger.”
Flash presently found himself standing before a tall white stone building located not far from the waterfront. He consulted the room directory in the lobby and rode the elevator up to the sixth floor.
A receptionist was asking him whom he wished to see when Joe Wells, hearing a familiar voice, stepped from one of the offices.
“Hello, there, Flash,” he greeted cordially. “Come on in.”
He led the photographer into a small room crowded with desks, waving him to a chair.
“I’ll be through in a minute. Then I’ll show you around. I want to write up this dope sheet first.”
“Take your time, Joe.”
The News-Vue man inserted a sheet of printed paper in a typewriter, rapidly filling in the blanks.
“I’m getting ready to take off for Indianapolis tomorrow,” he remarked casually. “George Doyle started on ahead with the sound wagon about an hour ago. I follow by train and meet him there.”
“Maybe I’ll see you,” Flash replied. “I’m covering the races myself. For the Ledger.”
“I never could go back to working on a paper now,” Joe commented. “Too tame compared with the newsreels. Flash, why don’t you consider—”
“No!” Flash cut in with a laugh. “I’m not listening to any arguments.”
Joe shrugged and said no more. He spent the next half hour showing his friend the newsreel cameras and explaining their operation.
“We ordinarily use one with a front turret, carrying three or four lenses,” he instructed. “This particular camera holds four hundred feet of film in its magazine and can be hand-cranked or driven with either a 110 volt A.C. motor or a 12 D.C.”
“I suppose power is generated from storage batteries?”
“Yes, our trucks are equipped with chargers. Sometimes we are able to plug into a service line. But why am I telling you all this? You know as much about it as I do.”
“Hardly,” Flash corrected. “But I have done a little studying.”
After a trip through the laboratories where positives were being made from “master blues,” Joe led his friend into the projection room.
“We’re in luck,” he said. “They’re showing those Bailey Brooks pictures.”
In the darkened room several editors, script writers and a commentator, sat at dimly lighted desks. On the wall before them a strip of film was being run through. To Flash the moving figures seemed grotesque, for blacks and whites were in reverse.
“What’s this?” demanded an editor as he watched the spectacular leap made by Bailey Brooks. “Just another parachute jump?”
Information provided by Joe Wells’ caption sheet was read aloud.
“That’s interesting stuff,” decided the editor. “Run it full. Cut down that racing shot from Cuba. Now what do we have on the Japanese earthquake?”
For several minutes Flash watched the work of cutting and assembling the eight different subjects which would be used in the completed newsreel. He ended his tour by visiting a studio where the various shots were synchronized with music and the explanatory speech of a commentator.
“The releases will be shown in Brandale theatres in another hour,” Wells declared, escorting his friend to the elevator. “In this business speed means everything.”
Although he would not have admitted it, Flash was strangely impressed. Riding home in the bus, he reflected that Joe might be right about newsreel work offering more thrills than fell to the lot of an ordinary photographer. He would like to try it. But for the present he couldn’t consider leaving the Ledger.
At home a warm supper was waiting. As he shared the well-cooked meal with his mother and younger sister, Joan, Flash mentioned his assignment to cover the Indianapolis races.
“Working on your vacation?” Mrs. Evans inquired mildly. “Really, Jimmy, you need a rest.”
“Shooting a few pictures won’t be work, Mother. I’ll enjoy it. And I’ll get a free trip.”
It was true. Flash never had considered professional picture-taking as drudgery. Save for a month when persons had sought to undermine his job, he had thoroughly enjoyed the time spent on the Ledger.
Flash, who seldom answered to his real name of Jimmy, was seventeen, the son of a former newspaper editor. Since Mr. Evans’ death several years earlier, the little family of three had been hard pressed to make ends meet. But Flash’s recent salary increases had made things much easier. That was one reason why he could not give up a sure job for the more uncertain calling of newsreel cameraman.
“I see you have set your heart upon the Indianapolis trip,” Mrs. Evans remarked, “so you may as well pack your bag.”
Early the next morning when Flash reached the railroad terminal he found it buzzing with activity. He stood in line to buy his ticket, noting that Indianapolis seemed to be the popular destination. Special rates had been offered, and only Indiana passengers were allowed on the streamliner.
Flash swung aboard. Wandering through several cars, he finally came upon his friend, Joe Wells.
“Hello, there,” the newsreel man greeted him. “Let’s go back to the club car and grab a seat before they’re all taken.”
The train began to move. Joe led the way through the corridors. So quietly did the streamliner run that they scarcely were aware of its gathering speed.
At the entrance to the club car, Joe halted suddenly and Flash bumped into him.
“See who is here,” he muttered, indicating a man who sat reading a magazine.
“Albert Povy!” Flash exclaimed in an undertone.
Offering no additional comment, the two photographers entered the car. They took the only vacant chairs which chanced to be directly across from the man who held their attention.
Flash scrutinized the passenger with keen interest. There was something about Povy which fascinated and yet repulsed him. The man was tall, well-built, with a hollow, almost gaunt face. A faint but jagged scar on his left cheek evidently had resulted from an old war wound.
Povy glanced up and met Flash’s steady gaze. He stared hard at the young man for a moment and then glanced away. If he recognized either of the photographers he gave no further sign.
Joe nudged Flash. Raising a newspaper to shield his face, he called attention to a middle-aged man of military bearing who was writing a letter at the desk.
“Major Creighton Hartgrove,” he whispered. “Retired from the army. It’s rumored, though, that he’s doing secret work for the government.”
As Wells spoke, Hartgrove arose and left the club car. A moment later, Albert Povy put aside his magazine and followed. Or at least, Flash gained the impression that the man seemed to be interested in the Major’s movements.
He ventured such an opinion to Joe, who made light of his observation.
“You’re as imaginative as ever, Flash,” he scoffed. “I shouldn’t have told you lurid tales about Povy’s reputation.”
Several times during the day as the streamliner raced westward, Flash caught glimpses of the two men. It struck him as significant that usually the pair were in the same car. More than ever he became convinced that Major Hartgrove was being watched and was himself aware of it.
Joe Wells had scant interest in either of the men, and as the day wore on, slept much of the time. When a colored steward gave the first call for dinner, he shook himself awake.
“Let’s amble into the diner before the big rush starts, Flash.”
They walked forward through two cars, and had just entered the third where Major Hartgrove sat, when the train’s air brakes suddenly were applied.
“Now what?” gasped Joe, clutching a seat for support.
The next instant he and Flash both were hurled violently from their feet. There was a deafening crash, and the car crumpled like an accordion, burying them beneath the debris.
CHAPTER III
A TRAIN WRECK
Flash lay stunned for several minutes, unable to comprehend that the train actually had been derailed. Screams of terror and moans of pain mingled with the shouted orders of the trainmen. The sounds came to him as if from a long distance away.
Dazedly he sat up, dragging himself from beneath a pile of twisted steel and splintered wood. Blood streamed from a gash in his head, but miraculously, he seemed to have suffered no serious injury.
In the gathering twilight he could see that every car had left the track. The engine, taking the baggage car with it, had rolled down a steep embankment. It lay on its side, belching steam like a wounded dragon.
Flash pulled himself to his feet and called hoarsely: “Joe! Joe!”
A moan of pain came from beneath a pile of debris almost at his feet. He saw an arm protruding from the wreckage. Frantically, he worked at a car seat which had wedged fast, and finally succeeded in lifting it off. Joe lay there, his face twisted in agony.
“Go easy,” he muttered. “My leg’s broken. And my insides are scrambled.”
Flash managed to get a supporting arm under Joe’s shoulders, but when he raised the man to a half-standing position, he crumpled back again.
“No use,” the cameraman moaned. “It’s broken. What a fix! Pictures to the right and left, and me with a busted leg and no camera! Leave me to die!”
Joe’s spirited complaint slightly reassured Flash. If his friend could think of pictures, it was unlikely that he had suffered serious internal injuries. But there was no question about the leg. It was broken.
Stretching Joe out as comfortably as possible, he looked about for a board which could be used as a splint.
“Listen,” said Joe, “you can’t do me any good. Run to the nearest farmhouse and send out a call for ambulances and doctors!”
“I don’t like to leave you, Joe.”
“Go on, I say!”
Aroused to action, Flash started for the nearest house, a quarter of a mile away. Crawling beneath a barbed wire fence, he ran through a plowed field. The ground was soft from recent rains. He stumbled and fell flat. Scrambling up, his clothes covered with mud, he raced on, finally reaching the house.
The kitchen door was opened by a housewife who screamed when she saw him. In dramatic words, Flash told what had happened and begged the use of a telephone.
He called the nearest town of Columbia and was promised that all available aid would be rushed to the scene. Then, as an afterthought, he dispatched a telegram to the Brandale Ledger, providing the first news of the train disaster.
Followed by the excited housewife, her husband, and a hired man, Flash ran back to the wreck.
Confusion had increased. Frantic persons moved in a bewildered way from one place to another, searching for loved ones. Already a number of inert bodies had been removed from the wreckage. Only the trainmen seemed cool and effective in their actions.
A coach had caught fire. Flash hurried there, helping a brakeman pull two shrieking women from the debris. By working furiously they were able to make certain that no one had been left under the wreckage. Soon the car was a blazing inferno, adding to the terror of the frightened survivors.
“What caused the wreck?” Flash demanded of the brakeman.
“Rail out of place,” the man answered grimly.
“Done deliberately to derail the train?”
“Can’t say,” the other replied. “Not allowed to talk.”
The rapidly darkening sky increased the difficulty of rescue work. Flash toiled on, unaware of fatigue.
As the first truckload of doctors, nurses, and stretcher bearers arrived from Columbia, he made his way back to the car which he and Joe had occupied throughout the journey. The Pullman was overturned but had not been crushed. Nearly all passengers riding in it had escaped with only minor injuries.
The car was now deserted. Flash crawled inside. Locating his former seat he groped about in the dark. Almost at once his hand encountered Joe Wells’ luggage, and a moment later he found his own camera.
Eagerly, he examined the lens and tested the mechanism.
“This is luck with a capital L,” he exulted. “It doesn’t seem to be damaged.”
Continuing the search, he located his equipment case which provided him with a stock of flash bulbs and film holders.
Without losing another moment, he began making a photographic record of the disaster. First he shot an over-all scene, showing the general wreckage. The derailed engine where two men had lost their lives, was worth another picture. He took one of the burned coach, one of the rail which had caused the wreck, and then turned his attention to human interest shots of the passengers.
A number of prominent persons had been aboard the train. Whenever he recognized a passenger he snapped a picture, but he wasted no film. Every shot told a story.
Gradually, Flash worked his way forward to where he had left Joe Wells. Failing to see the newsreel man he assumed that stretcher bearers had carried him to a waiting ambulance.
More for his own record than because it had news possibilities, he shot a picture of the crushed car in which he had been riding at the time of the wreck. As the flash went off, he saw a dark figure move back, away from him.
Reassuringly, he called to the fleeing person. There was no answer.
Instead, from the railroad right of way, a familiar voice shouted hoarsely: “That you, Evans?”
“Joe!” he answered.
He found the newsreel man sitting with his back to a telephone pole where he had dragged himself, there to await attention from the first available doctor.
“How are you feeling, Joe?” Flash asked him anxiously.
“Okay.”
“I’ll see if I can’t get you some blankets. And I’ll try to bring a doctor.”
“Skip it,” said Joe quietly. “Some of these other folks need attention a lot worse than I do. I see you found your camera.”
“Your luggage, too,” Flash told him encouragingly.
“Stow it in a safe place if you can find one,” Joe advised. “I saw a suspicious-looking fellow going through one of the cars. Helping himself to what he could get!”
“I think I must have seen that same man. He slipped away when I took a picture a moment ago. The wrecking crew ought to be here soon. They’ll put a stop to such business.”
“Don’t let me keep you from shooting your pictures,” said Wells abruptly.
“I’m almost through now.”
As Flash spoke, both men were startled to hear a moan of pain. The sound came from the wrecked Pullman close by.
“Some poor fellow pinned under there!” exclaimed Joe.
Turning his camera and holders over to his friend for safe keeping, Flash darted to the wreckage. In the indistinct light he saw a man sitting with head buried in his hands. The lower portion of his body seemed to be imprisoned.
“Major Hartgrove!” Flash exclaimed, reaching his side.
The army man stared at the young photographer in a dazed manner. He kept fumbling in his vest pocket, mumbling to himself.
“I was struck on the head.... My papers ... my wallet!”
“I don’t believe anyone struck you, Major,” Flash corrected. “You were in a wreck.”
“Don’t you think I know that much!” the army man snapped. “I was struck—struck over the head.”
It occurred to Flash that the Major might have been struck and robbed by the person he had observed slipping away into the darkness. But as the man began to mumble again, he reverted to his original opinion. The Major had been dazed by the terrific impact of the wreck and did not know what he was saying.
Flash tried ineffectively to pull away the heavy timbers which held the man fast.
“It’s no use,” he gasped at last. “I’ll bring help.”
Leaving the Major, he met two burly trainmen carrying lighted lanterns. With their aid he finally succeeded in freeing the army man. As he had feared, the Major was severely injured. One foot was crushed and his head had been wounded.
A doctor came hurrying up with an emergency kit. He gave the Major first aid treatment and ordered stretcher bearers to carry him to a waiting ambulance. Joe Wells also was given a hasty examination and transported to the hospital conveyance.
“May I ride along to town?” Flash requested the driver. “I have some pictures I ought to rush through to my paper.”
“Jump in,” the man invited. With a quick glance at the young man, he added: “You don’t look any too good yourself. Feeling shock?”
Flash sagged into the seat beside the driver.
“I’m feeling something,” he admitted. “I guess I’m all in.”
Until now excitement had buoyed him, and made him unaware of either pain or fatigue. He shivered. His teeth chattered from a sudden chill.
The driver stripped off his own topcoat and made Flash put it on.
“Better get yourself a bed at the hotel if you can,” he advised. “You’ll feel plenty in another hour.”
Flash shook his head. With pictures to be sent to the Brandale Ledger, he couldn’t afford to pamper himself. He had to keep going until his work was finished.
“Where is the nearest airport?” he questioned.
“We pass it on our way to Columbia.”
“Then drop me off there,” Flash requested.
A few minutes later he said good-bye to Joe Wells, promising to come to the hospital as soon as he could.
“Don’t fail,” the newsreel man urged, “there’s something I want you to do for me.”
At the airport Flash arranged to have his undeveloped film rushed to the Brandale Ledger. From the shipment he kept back only shots which he was certain would be of no use to the editor.
This important duty out of the way, he walked into town. There he dispatched a lengthy message, reporting to Riley such facts as he had been able to gather. Not until then did he allow himself to relax.
Already the town was crowded to overflowing with survivors of the wreck. Hotels, restaurants and the railroad station were jammed. Every available bed had been taken. Flash waited in line twenty minutes for a hot cup of coffee.
Battered and still chilled, he tramped to the hospital. Inquiring about Joe Wells and Major Hartgrove, he was relieved to learn that they both were doing as well as could be expected. After a long delay he was allowed to talk with the newsreel cameraman.
At sight of Flash, Joe’s face brightened.
“I thought you’d come,” he said. “Do you know what the doctor just told me? I’ll be laid up for weeks!”
“That’s a tough break, Joe.”
“Yeah. Flash, will you do me a favor?”
“You know I will.”
“Doyle’s expecting me to meet him at Indianapolis tomorrow morning,” Joe went on jerkily. “He has the sound wagon and all our equipment.”
“I’ll send him a telegram right away.”
The cameraman shook his head impatiently.
“Listen, Flash,” he said persuasively, “I want you to take my place. Meet Doyle and protect the News-Vue people on the race pictures.”
“But I don’t know anything about newsreel work!” Flash protested.
“Sure you do,” Joe denied. “Doyle can help you a lot.”
“Riley is expecting me to get pictures for him.”
“You can do that, too. You won’t lose a thing by helping me out of this hole. It’s a big favor, I know, but you’re the only person who can swing it for me. What do you say?”
Flash hesitated briefly. Joe made it all sound very easy, but he knew it wouldn’t be. Any newsreel pictures he might take likely would be worthless. The journey on through the night to Indianapolis meant sheer torture. But he owed it to his friend to at least make the attempt.
“I’ll do it, Joe,” he promised. “I’ll do it for you.”
CHAPTER IV
SUBSTITUTE CAMERAMAN
Pleased by Flash’s promise, Joe Wells quickly provided him with George Doyle’s Indianapolis hotel address, and offered such advice as he thought might prove useful.
“Doyle knows a lot about newsreel work and can help you,” he declared. “But you readily see the job is too big for him to handle alone. I’m frank to say he’s touchy and rather unpleasant at times. Don’t let that bother you.”
“I’ll be having enough troubles without doing any worrying about him,” Flash returned grimly.
“Well, good luck,” Joe said, extending his hand. “I may see you in Indianapolis. I’m getting out of here as soon as the doctor lets me.”
Flash left the hospital, somewhat bewildered by the rapid way his plans had been altered. While he had experimented with amateur newsreel photography and had studied it many months, he had no faith in his ability. Nor did he think that George Doyle would like the new arrangement.
Consulting time tables, Flash discovered that he never could reach Indianapolis by train. The wrecked streamliner had been the last one which would have arrived in time for the races. A passenger plane left the local airport at eleven that evening and by making his decision quickly he was able to get a ticket.