<h2 id="c13"><span class="h2line1">CHAPTER XIII</span> <br/><span class="h2line2"><i>A POLO GAME</i></span></h2>
<p>The <i>News-Vue</i> sound truck pulled into the private
grounds of the Excelsior Polo Club at exactly ten
minutes to three. Through the elm trees George
Doyle caught sight of the field, and gave a chuckle of
pleasure.</p>
<p>“The match is still on!”</p>
<p>The seventh chukker was underway as the truck
drew up at the sidelines. Flash and Doyle worked
swiftly, knowing they had little time.</p>
<p>“How’s the score?” the technician demanded of a
spectator.</p>
<p>“Six to four in favor of the Internationals.”</p>
<p>Flash carefully looked over the field as he focused
his camera. Two riders were outstanding, Rajah
Mitra for the Internationals, and Herbert Rascomb on
the American team. Mitra, a handsome, dark man of
thirty, handled his mount expertly. His clashes with
Rascomb were frequent.</p>
<p>Deliberately, Flash trained the camera lens upon
them. Doyle’s protest was immediate and explosive.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_108">108</div>
<p>“Say, what’s the idea? Do you want to make Rascomb
sore?”</p>
<p>“Since when are we working for him?” Flash countered.
“We’re here to get good pictures. He happens
to be one of the best players on the field.”</p>
<p>The argument might have waxed warmer, but just
then the chukker ended with a spectacular goal made
by Rascomb. He wheeled his horse, a beautiful black
mare, and rode over to the sound wagon.</p>
<p>“Good afternoon, boys,” he said heartily. “Taking
a few pictures?”</p>
<p>“<i>News-Vue</i>,” Doyle replied. “That last shot of
yours was pretty, Mr. Rascomb.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, thank you.” The sportsman doffed
his cork helmet mockingly, and his lips parted in a
smile. “The fact is, Rajah Mitra is too fast for me
today. A marvelous player, that man!”</p>
<p>There was an expansive, friendly quality to Rascomb
which attracted Flash despite himself. For
some reason he had felt distrustful of the man. Now
that he had heard him speak, the feeling was slipping
away.</p>
<p>“A little request, boys,” the sportsman said casually.
“No close-ups of me, please.”</p>
<p>“You don’t like to be photographed?” Flash inquired,
watching the man curiously.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_109">109</div>
<p>Rascomb’s dark eyes appraised the cameraman.
His glance took in the cheap suit, the muddy shoes,
wrinkled tie.</p>
<p>“You’ll have to excuse Evans’ appearance.” Doyle
spoke apologetically. “He fell into a river this morning.”</p>
<p>“A river?” Rascomb asked in amusement.</p>
<p>Flash did not bother to explain or correct Doyle’s
misstatement.</p>
<p>After a lengthy pause the polo player inquired
thoughtfully:</p>
<p>“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Your face
seems familiar.”</p>
<p>“Funny. I was thinking the same thing when I
first saw you—that was at the Indianapolis auto
races.”</p>
<p>“Oh, so you saw me there?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I have a picture as a souvenir. Snapped it
while you were talking with one of the drivers in the
pit.”</p>
<p>The pleasant smile receded from Rascomb’s face.
The corners of his lips twitched.</p>
<p>“I dislike being photographed,” he said. “I dislike
it intensely. It makes me especially nervous to know
that a camera is focused upon me during a polo match.
I trust you’ll oblige me by not taking any pictures
except from across the field?”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_110">110</div>
<p>“Oh, sure,” Doyle said instantly before Flash could
answer. “We’ll be glad to do you that little favor.”</p>
<p>“You’ll not lose by it.”</p>
<p>Rascomb wheeled his horse as if to ride away.
Plainly he was irritated. Flash decided to court further
displeasure.</p>
<p>“I’d like to ask a personal question, if you don’t
mind, Mr. Rascomb,” he remarked. “Are you related
to a man named Povy?”</p>
<p>“Povy?” the sportsman demanded sharply.</p>
<p>“Albert Povy. He was listed as killed in the recent
train wreck.”</p>
<p>“Whatever gave you the idea I knew him?”</p>
<p>“I was told that you had claimed the body.”</p>
<p>Rascomb’s expression became inscrutable. His
dark eyes bored into Flash as if probing for what lay
behind the question. He moistened his lips to speak.</p>
<p>At that instant a player motioned to him from across
the field. Rascomb’s relief was obvious.</p>
<p>“Excuse me,” he said, “I’ll talk with you later.”</p>
<p>Jerking his mount’s head, he rode to his post. The
game was resumed.</p>
<p>“What was the idea of deliberately trying to antagonize
Rascomb?” Doyle accused. “Such tactics won’t
get you anywhere!”</p>
<p>“Maybe not a trip to the hunting lodge,” Flash
cheerfully admitted.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_111">111</div>
<p>He had no intention of allowing Rascomb to dictate
what pictures he could or could not take. Oddly, as
the game continued, no occasion arose to photograph
the sportsman at close range.</p>
<p>Rascomb played erratically. His mallet slashed
wickedly but many of his shots were badly placed.
Losing his temper, he began jerking his horse about
and calling it an “evil brute.”</p>
<p>The Internationals, led by the Rajah, piled up two
goals in rapid succession, and won by a wide margin.
Secretly Flash wondered if Rascomb had been upset
by the question about Albert Povy.</p>
<p>The game over, Doyle seemed in no haste to leave
the club grounds.</p>
<p>“I’ll be back in a little while,” he said vaguely, and
wandered down to the stables where Rascomb last had
been seen.</p>
<p>“Take your time.”</p>
<p>Presently Flash saw the pair disappear into the
clubhouse together. He settled himself in the truck
for a long wait.</p>
<p>“Doyle is breaking his neck to make a good impression
on that fellow,” he thought. “Oh, well, it’s none
of my affair.”</p>
<p>He was half tempted to follow Doyle into the clubhouse.
While he had no desire to seek Rascomb’s
favor, he would enjoy driving the sportsman into a
corner with another question about Albert Povy.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_112">112</div>
<p>A half hour elapsed before Doyle returned to the
truck. He was in high spirits.</p>
<p>“Rascomb and I had a long talk together,” he declared
enthusiastically. “I think I’ve swung it!”</p>
<p>“An invitation to Rascomb’s lodge?”</p>
<p>Doyle nodded as he guided the sound truck down
the winding road to the main highway.</p>
<p>“He’s been thinking of getting up a week-end party
out at his place. If he does he’ll telephone us tonight
at the Parker Hotel.”</p>
<p>“Us?”</p>
<p>“Rascomb isn’t a fellow to hold a grudge. You
were short with him but he’s overlooking it.”</p>
<p>“Nice of him,” Flash said dryly.</p>
<p>“He was interested in you,” Doyle admitted.
“Asked a lot of questions.”</p>
<p>“Did he? What sort of questions?”</p>
<p>“Oh, nothing out of the way. Just who you were,
where you came from, and what sort of fellow you
were. If the invitation comes through, we’ll both be
included.”</p>
<p>“It was decent of you to put in a good word for me,”
Flash said. “Nevertheless, I don’t think I’ll be interested.”</p>
<p>“Then you’re a sap! Rascomb would show us a
wonderful time. And it wouldn’t cost us a penny.”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_113">113</div>
<p>“I’m not so sure. I figure there’s a string attached
somewhere.”</p>
<p>“A string? What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know myself,” Flash admitted. “I’ll be
frank and say Rascomb has me puzzled.”</p>
<p>Driving back to Excelsior City, the newsreel men
located themselves at the Parker Hotel. Not wishing
to be far from a telephone, Doyle insisted upon dining
in the building. Later he returned to his room. Flash
remained in the lobby reading a newspaper until after
nine o’clock.</p>
<p>Entering the bedroom, he found Doyle gloomily
playing a game of solitaire.</p>
<p>“Your telephone call didn’t come through?” Flash
asked.</p>
<p>“No! Rascomb must have been handing me a line!
It’s enough to make a fellow sick!”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry you didn’t get the invitation, George,”
Flash said sincerely. “Still, I don’t see how you could
have made the trip. We’re supposed to be working
for <i>News-Vue</i>.”</p>
<p>“No new assignment has come through. They
expect to give us a day off now and then.”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_114">114</div>
<p>Flash began to check through his suitcase to see
what clothes he would need to buy. He had written
his mother for additional shirts and underwear, but
it would take days for a package to overtake him.
The suit he had worn in his river plunge must be sent
to the cleaners. Whether or not it ever could be worn
again was problematical.</p>
<p>As he sorted garments, Flash came upon the envelope
which contained photographic prints. He poured
them out on the table, examining them one by one.</p>
<p>Reaching the last print, a peculiar expression
crossed his face. “That’s queer,” he muttered.</p>
<p>He went through the stack a second time, taking
care that two did not stick together. The picture he
sought was not there.</p>
<p>His chair made a grating sound on the bare floor as
he turned to face his roommate.</p>
<p>“Doyle,” he said quietly, “tell me the straight truth.
Did you remove a picture of Herbert Rascomb from
this envelope?”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_115">115</div>
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