<h2 id="c4"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER IV</span> <br/><span class="h2line2"><i>SUBSTITUTE CAMERAMAN</i></span></h2>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be having enough troubles without doing any
worrying about him,” Flash returned grimly.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_33">33</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Morning found him, haggard and worn, standing at
the desk of the Seville Hotel in Indianapolis. Nervously
he glanced at the lobby clock. His plane had
been delayed, held back by strong headwinds. He
feared that George Doyle might have already left for
the race track.</p>
<p>“Did you wish a room, sir?” the clerk inquired, regarding
his unkempt appearance with disapproval.
“We’re filled.”</p>
<p>“Do you have a George Doyle here?”</p>
<p>“Newsreel man?” the clerk asked in an altered
tone. “Yes, I think so.”</p>
<p>He checked a card index and reported that the man
occupied Room 704. Without telephoning to learn if
Doyle were in, Flash went up to the seventh floor.</p>
<p>In response to his knock, the door was flung open.
George Doyle, hat pushed back on his head, faced him
with a frozen gaze.</p>
<p>“Well?” he demanded unpleasantly. “What do
you want?”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_34">34</div>
<p>“I guess you don’t recognize me. We met at Brandale.
Remember the Bailey Brooks ’chute pictures—?”</p>
<p>“Oh, sure,” the man broke in, but his voice still
lacked warmth. “Sorry I can’t stop to talk now. I’m
just starting for the track.”</p>
<p>“Joe Wells sent me,” Flash said significantly.</p>
<p>Immediately the sound technician’s manner
changed.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you say so?” he asked, motioning for
Flash to come into the bedroom. “How is Joe?
Haven’t heard a word from him since the wreck.
You weren’t on the same train?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I was. Joe’s leg is broken and he’s badly
battered.”</p>
<p>“No chance then of his getting here today?”</p>
<p>“Not a chance.”</p>
<p>“This leaves me in a nice situation,” Doyle complained.
“I can’t handle the job alone. I might know
Wells would pull something like that!”</p>
<p>“I don’t think he broke his leg on purpose,” Flash
returned dryly.</p>
<p>“Maybe not,” Doyle admitted, “but this was our
big opportunity to make a showing. Now I might as
well pack up and start back East!”</p>
<p>“Joe sent me to take his place. I don’t know how
much good I’ll be, but here I am anyhow.”</p>
<p>Doyle had been nervously pacing the floor. He
paused and stared at Flash.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_35">35</div>
<p>“Joe sent you?” he repeated. “Do you know anything
about newsreel work?”</p>
<p>“Not very much,” Flash admitted truthfully. “I’m
a photographer for the <i>Brandale Ledger</i>. I can do
what you tell me.”</p>
<p>“A lot of help you’ll be,” Doyle growled. “I need
a good, experienced man.”</p>
<p>Flash began to lose patience. It seemed to him that
Doyle had no interest in Joe Wells’ misfortune save as
it affected him. His only thought was for himself and
his work.</p>
<p>“If you don’t care to use me, that’s quite all right,”
he said. “I have some pictures of my own to take.”</p>
<p>As he turned abruptly toward the door, Doyle
stopped him.</p>
<p>“Wait a minute! Don’t be so touchy! I didn’t say
I couldn’t use you, did I? If I decide to tackle the job
I’ll need a helper. You may do.”</p>
<p>“Thanks,” said Flash ironically.</p>
<p>He had taken an intense dislike to Doyle. The man
was conceited and disagreeable. But for Joe’s sake
he would see the thing through.</p>
<p>“Had your breakfast yet?” Doyle asked in a more
friendly tone.</p>
<p>“No, but I’m not very hungry. Still feeling the
effects of last night, I guess.”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_36">36</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“Well, get shaved,” he said gruffly. “I’ll need to
explain to you about the equipment. We haven’t
much time.”</p>
<p>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 <i>News-Vue</i>
equipment, and seemed slightly reassured to discover
that Flash knew a good deal about newsreel
cameras.</p>
<p>“Maybe we can get by somehow,” he said gloomily.
“Let’s roll.”</p>
<p>“Just as you say.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong?” Doyle demanded, regarding him
curiously.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_37">37</div>
<p>“Nothing,” Flash answered. “It just gave me a
shock—this list of the dead.”</p>
<p>“Someone you know?”</p>
<p>“You remember that fellow, Albert Povy?”</p>
<p>“Povy—I can’t seem to place him.”</p>
<p>“The man we both saw at Brandale. He was trying
to buy Bailey Brooks’ parachute after the successful
test.”</p>
<p>“Oh, sure,” nodded Doyle. “He wasn’t killed in
the wreck?”</p>
<p>“His name is listed.”</p>
<p>Doyle guided the sound truck through traffic at a
reckless pace, deliberately stealing the right-of-way
from timid motorists.</p>
<p>“If Povy’s dead, then Bailey Brooks is out of luck,”
he remarked in a matter of fact tone. “Too bad for
him.”</p>
<p>“And for Povy, too,” added Flash dryly. “However,
from what I’ve heard of the man, his death may
not be such a great loss to humanity.”</p>
<p>“Mixed up in some sort of government scandal,
wasn’t he?”</p>
<p>“I never did learn many of the details,” Flash admitted.
“It was a funny thing, though. Joe and I
saw him on the train. He didn’t remember us or, if he
did, he gave no sign. He seemed especially interested
in an army man, Major Hartgrove.”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_38">38</div>
<p>“Interested?”</p>
<p>“Oh, it was only my idea. It struck me he might
have boarded the train with the intention of watching
the Major.”</p>
<p>“Well, if he’s dead he won’t do any more watching,”
Doyle returned carelessly. “We’re getting near
the main gate now. Let me have the passes.”</p>
<p>“What passes?”</p>
<p>“Didn’t Joe give them to you?” Doyle demanded,
lifting his foot from the accelerator.</p>
<p>“He didn’t give me anything.”</p>
<p>The sound technician groaned. “Joe had all our
credentials. You didn’t think they’d let us through
the gate without proper identification?”</p>
<p>Flash had not given the matter a thought. “Won’t
our truck get us by?” he asked.</p>
<p>“It may, but I doubt it. They’re not letting many
sound outfits inside.”</p>
<p>“What will we do?”</p>
<p>“What can we do? If we’re questioned, we’ll have
to put up a loud argument.”</p>
<p>The truck had entered dense traffic. It halted to
await its turn to enter the grounds. Slowly the line
moved up.</p>
<p>Shouting “<i>News-Vue</i>” in a loud voice, Doyle attempted
to drive through the gate. He was promptly
stopped.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_39">39</div>
<p>“Not so fast, young man,” said the gateman. “Let’s
see your passes.”</p>
<p>“Passes?” Doyle inquired innocently.</p>
<p>“You heard me,” retorted the gateman. “And
don’t try any bluff.”</p>
<p>“See here, we don’t need any passes,” Doyle argued.
“We’re newsreel men for the <i>News-Vue</i> Company.”</p>
<p>“Can’t let you through without passes. Those are
my orders.”</p>
<p>“Have a heart,” Doyle growled. “We did have
passes, but we lost ’em. If we don’t get inside and
locate our truck before race time, we’ll lose our jobs!”</p>
<p>“And I’ll lose mine if I disregard orders,” the gateman
countered.</p>
<p>Doyle alternately argued and pleaded, but to no
avail. The gateman remained firm. And at last he
lost all patience.</p>
<p>“Pull out of line,” he ordered sharply. “You’re
holding up these other cars.”</p>
<p>Angrily Doyle swerved the truck, parking it a short
distance away. His eyes smoldered as he turned toward
Flash.</p>
<p>“Joe certainly used his brain when he sent you here
without credentials!” he muttered. “Now how are
we to get those pictures? Any brilliant ideas, Mr.
Evans?”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_40">40</div>
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