Steel claws slammed down on Dawson's shoulder, and spun him around. Close-set pig-like eyes blazed into his, and thick lips twisted back in a snarl.
"What are you trying to do?" the owner's voice roared in his ears. "What kind of a trick is this? You think you can still escape, eh?"
Dawson stared steadily at the huge man, who wore a seaman's jacket over civilian clothes. He stared steadily, then grinned, tight-lipped, and shrugged a little.
"You'd never guess, Nazi," he said evenly. "And even if you did, you wouldn't understand. Only white men would!"
The German bunched one huge fist, and it looked as though he were going to smash it straight to the Yank's face. As a matter of fact, Dawson expected just that, but he did not regret his words. He was too filled with boiling rage to care what he said to these Naziland-born butchers. However, the German seemed to think better of his first intentions. His face remained puffed and red with rage, but he relaxed slightly and was content to stab Dawson with his pig-like eyes.
"We will see about that tongue of yours later, Captain Dawson!" he rasped out in a voice that shook and trembled. "Yes, later, we will see about many things. Now, go aft with these other swine. And if you wish a bullet in your swine skull, then just try another trick on me! So! Move along, you dogs!"
With their hearts and hopes down in their boots, but with their heads high and their jaws squared, the little group from the doomed Lockheed permitted themselves to be herded to the conning tower and down into the bowels of the U-boat. And from the central control room they were shoved and cuffed forward to an empty torpedo storing chamber. The air was thick and foul, and it was difficult to breathe. However, not one of them so much as made a face. They were ordered to sit down on a steel bench, and they did so without a word of comment, and with a look of calm defiance on every man's face.
When they were seated, the man in civilian clothes and the commander of the U-boat stood in front of them and swept them with leering, triumphant eyes. Then the commander spoke to the other in German.
"My congratulations,HerrMiller," he said. "It was as simple as you promised it would be. Too bad we were forced to cast all that clever superstructure camouflage adrift. We might have been able to use it again before we return to the St. Nazaire base."
"Yes, it was very simple," the one addressed asHerrMiller grunted back, and toyed with a small but deadly Luger he held in his big hands. "But it is perfect planning, and thoroughly knowing your swine enemies, that makes things so simple. Do not forget that,Herr Kommandant. But I think we had better submerge at once. There are many British patrols in these waters. I can do what I came to do under water as easily as on the surface. But send one of your men in here to assist me in keeping an eye on these dogs. Two of them have the reputation of being reckless, stupid fools. And I do not wish to deal with them until another little matter is settled. So send one of your men in here, at once."
"Ja, ja!" the U-boat commander replied, parrot-like, and turned and ducked out through the compartment door.
Hardly had he disappeared when his place in the compartment was taken by a hefty Nazi sailor wearing the familiar look of meek obedience and Teutonic dumbness from the neck up. At a word fromHerrMiller, he took up a position where the Luger in his hands could be trained dead on any man in the bat of an eyelash.HerrMiller glanced over at him, nodded his approval, then let his leering gaze slide back over the row of prisoners. He gave a jerk of his head, and a jerk of his Luger.
"Empty your pockets, at once!" he rasped out, and let his leering gaze rest for a full second on Dawson's face. "Empty your pockets and toss everything on the deck here at my feet. The swine who does not empty out everything will be shot instantly!"
For a couple of seconds not one of the prisoners moved. Then Dawson chuckled softly and began tossing his personal belongings down onto the compartment's steel deck.
"Might as well give him his selection, fellows," he grinned at the others. "He's holding the gun, he and his brother rat."
"Silence, swine!" the German thundered, and practically waved the barrel of his Luger in the Yank's face. "And let me remind you, you American dog, if you do not empty outeverything, I will shoot you on the spot!"
Dawson looked up at the man, and although he kept a thin grin on his lips, there was nothing but a chip of ice in his chest.
"Okay,HerrMiller," he replied in the man's own tongue. "I'm tossing out everything I've got. And you can strip me, and search my clothes if you want to. But I just want to ask one question. It's important tobothof us,HerrMiller!"
The Nazi narrowed his eyes, and gave Dawson a hard, searching stare. Then he grunted and nodded.
"And what is the question?" he demanded in German.
"Has the Lockheed gone under yet?" Dawson asked with forced calmness.
The Nazi blinked, and looked just a trifle startled.
"But of course!" he finally rasped out. "It was sinking when you fools came aboard. By now it is halfway to the bottom."
"Yeah?" Dawson echoed softly. Then with a head shake of mock pity, "That's tough—foryou,HerrMiller. You should have made the Lockheed emptyitspockets—if you get what I mean?"
The Nazi started to speak, but checked himself and slid his narrow-eyed stare along to Freddy Farmer's face. The English youth was taking a bunch of keys from his tunic pocket. He stopped the motion for a moment, stared innocently back at the Nazi, then flipped out his hand.
"Here, catch, old bean!" he grunted. "The key to the situation, you know, what?"
The German's brain was much too slow for his reflexes. He automatically caught the bunch of keys as they came sailing through the air, and stared down stupidly at them. Then he bellowed out an oath and flung them down onto the steel deck.
"So!" he bellowed. "You swine dogs dare me to shoot, eh?"
"Why not?" Dawson cut right back at him in a flash. "It might as well be now as later. But you're still out of luck,HerrMiller.We haven't got it!I left it aboard, and you'll have to do some diving, what I mean."
As Dawson clipped out the words, he held his breath, and kept his gaze riveted on the German's face. But it wasn't more than a split second or two before he knew beyond all doubt that the fantastic, and the utterly incredible was indeed the truth. A Nazi U-boat, cleverly camouflaged as a British submarine in distress, had shot down an R.A.F. Lockheed Hudson for just one purpose: to capture its crew alive and secure a sealed envelope that thisHerrMillerknewwas carried by someone aboard. Moreover, he knew that that someone was either Freddy Farmer or himself.
The conglomeration of inner emotions that swept across the Nazi's face told Dawson the truth. And if he needed any further confirmation, he received it right after he spoke again.
"That's right,HerrMiller," he said evenly. "There's our stuff on the floor. Strip us and search our clothes, if it will make you feel any better. But you won't find a certain sealed envelope. No, not unless you do some fancy diving and reach that bomber. You see, stupid, we hadourorders, too. And you can guess whattheywere!"
Wild, angry dismay flooded the Nazi's face. Not yet accustomed to dumbfounding defeat, he was unable to maintain rigid control over his emotions. His eyes popped out, and then popped back in again. His jaw sagged, and his lips moved, though he didn't utter a sound. His hands shook, and the beet red came surging up into his flat, moon-shaped face. Dawson knew that the danger point was close, very close. The German had been flung far off balance, and in the next second or so the animal training in him would get the upper hand. Cold, common sense would go flying out the window, and all that would be left would be the savage lust to butcher and slaughter.
And so Dawson half stood up, and tore off his tunic.
"It's the truth,HerrMiller!" he shouted, and started to rip open the seams. "Take a look, stupid! You see anything hidden in the lining? Take a look and weep, you fathead. See any sealed envelope? See anything that interests you? I told you that I left it aboard. Okay! See for yourself. Here! Take a darned good look!"
As Dawson spoke the last he held out his ripped tunic with his hands. He practically shoved it right under the Nazi's nose. And then, as the German automatically looked down at it, the Yank air ace practically exploded in a whirlwind of action. He flung the tunic straight into the Nazi's face. He slapped down his right hand, caught the Luger by the barrel and twisted it free. His other fist he smashed to the German's jaw, and one knee he brought up hard into the Nazi's belly. And then, in what was practically a continuation of the original movement, he reversed the Luger in his hand, half turned, and drilled a single shot at the pop-eyed Nazi sailor. The bullet hit the steel plate right behind the sailor's left ear. And that was close enough. His own gun dropped from his fingers, as he flung both hands high in terrified surrender. And the Luger had hardly struck the deck before Freddy Farmer had dived from a sitting position on the metal bench and scooped it up. But Dawson didn't see that fast bit of action. He didn't because he was busy clippingHerrMiller one for good measure on the back of the skull as the man fell down. That done with, he shot a look over at Freddy Farmer and grinned broadly.
"Nice going, pal!" he chuckled. "But I'll give you a kiss later. We've got things to do, right now. Okay, you fellows. Get behind Farmer and me. Maybe that shot of mine was heard, and we haven't got time to lose."
"But, good grief, Dawson!" Squadron Leader Hixon gasped out. "What in the world can you do? There must be thirty Nazis, at least, aboard this thing, man!"
"That's right!" Dawson shot back at him. "And I'll bet not one of them has any hankering to drown! Catch on? Okay. Stick close while Freddy and I rush the central control room. Okay, sailor! Step along ahead of me!"
As Dawson spoke the last he whipped out his free hand and caught the scared stiff sailor by the arm, and yanked him over and shoved him through the compartment door leading to amidships. He and Freddy Farmer kept right at the German's heels. Like blockers running interference for a ball carrier, they went charging into the central control room. Dawson saw the U-boat commander turn from his post at the periscope sight. He saw the anger that flooded the Nazi's face as he recognized the sailor, and right after that the look of dumbfounded fear that glazed the man's eyes as he caught sight of Dawson and Freddy Farmer right behind.
Perhaps it was just a nervous twitch of the U-boat commander's hand. Or perhaps he actually did start to reach up for his holstered Luger. At any rate, Dawson didn't wait to find out which. He squeezed the trigger of the Luger he held in his own hand, and the bullet snipped a button off the German's jacket before it smacked into the radio panel on the far side of the control room.
"Don't move, anybody!" Dawson thundered in German. "Get stupid, any one of you square-heads, and we'll all go to the bottom, to stay for good. I—"
The Yank choked off the rest, half turned, and fired the Luger. A thin-faced, hawk-nosed junior officer had tried to snatch up a gun and shoot across his chest at Dawson. His gun didn't even have a chance to go off. Dawson's bullet caught him in the chest, spun him like a top, and dumped him flat on his face, to stay there motionless.
"Anybody else want to play?" the Yank grated, and swept his eyes over the four or five other Germans in the control room. "Suits me swell, if you want to. So just start something. Go ahead, you Nazi slobs!"
There was a moment of silence, save for the whine of the electric motors driving the U-boat down below the surface. Then its commander made sounds in his throat and licked his lips.
"What do you want?" he choked out. "You are prisoners. Not one of you will live to tell of this madness."
At that moment, and for reasons that Dawson couldn't even understand, a flood of war memories swept across the screen of his brain. He remembered scenes of Nazi-slaughtered men, women, and children. He remembered scenes in which houses, villages, and mighty cities had been laid flat in smoking, stinking ruins by the Nazi hordes. He recalled the floating dead bodies of Yank, British, and other United Nations seamen from ship upon ship sent diving to the bottom by Hitler's ruthless U-boat commanders. A hundred scenes of horror and death that made the rage seem to freeze like lumps of ice within him. Lips tight and eyes hard, he stepped over to the U-boat commander and gun-whipped him with the Luger across each cheek.
"Dry up, rat!" he grated as the Nazi reeled back, moaning with pain. "Just get this steel fish up on the surface, or I'll put one right between your fishy eyes. Come on! Snap out your orders! And don't get the idea I don't understand German. You get us top-side, and pronto, or we'll wreck this tub, and all go down together. Step on it, you. Top-side we go, and in a hurry!"
The German shook and shivered, and tried desperately to summon what little courage he had left. But true to the German type, when he no longer held the whip hand there was nothing but cowardly yellowness to him. And he almost fainted with fright as Dawson suddenly drew a bead on a point square between his eyes.
"Don't! Don't shoot!" he sobbed out. "I will do as you ask. I will give the order to surface the U-boat."
"And tell everybody to stay right where they are at their posts, too!" Dawson barked at him. "The first Jerry to stick his face inside this control room will get you a slug right in your fat face. Get it? Okay! Do your stuff!"
The U-boat commander trembled some more, then picked up the inter-com phone and gave the necessary orders. Dawson watched him like a hawk, and with ears tuned to every German word the man spoke into the inter-com. Then, when the U-boat trembled and started up by the bow, a great sense of joyous relief flooded through him. But he didn't let any of it show for an instant on his face, or in the agate hard eyes he kept fixed on the U-boat commander. He didn't worry about the other Germans in the central control room, because he knew that Freddy Farmer was keeping an eye on them. As a matter of fact, at just about that same moment he felt rather than saw his English pal at his elbow. And then he heard Freddy's quiet voice.
"What a shame you've already received all the medals they give out in this war, Dave," the English youth chuckled. "Certainly deserve one for this little bit. Though, of course, it didn't actually happen, you know. Just a mad dream!"
"You telling me, sweetheart?" Dave shot out of the corner of his mouth. "I won't even ever believe this, myself. But keep your eye on those other birds. They might dive for their—"
"Hardly!" Freddy Farmer interrupted. "I've collected all their guns. I'll show them to you sometime when you're not so busy."
"Do that, pal," Dave chuckled. "And get set to crank open that conning tower hatch just as soon as we hit surface. There might be a plane or two up there cruising around. Or maybe a British destroyer."
"What a cheerful chap!" Freddy groaned. "And do I hope you're all wrong aboutthat!"
The next few moments seemed to Dawson to be year upon year stretching slowly out to their fullest extent of time. During every ticking second he kept his gaze fixed steadfastly on the U-boat commander, and held the Luger in his hand steady and ready for instant action, if need be. However, there was no need for that kind of action. Perhaps the German read the truth in the Yank's agate eyes, and realized beyond all possible doubt that Dawson would squeeze the trigger of the Luger, if he was forced to, just as sure as the Lord made little apples. Or perhaps the Nazi was still so paralyzed with fear that he couldn't have moved a single muscle, if he'd wanted to, but could only stand there at the periscope's base sight, and stare with glazed eyes back at the man who had him covered.
And then suddenly, the German seaman at the depth gauge board grunted out the fact that the U-boat was awash on the surface. Dawson didn't turn his head to glance over at him. He still kept his eyes fixed on the commander, and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
"Okay, Freddy," he said. "You, and Squadron Leader Hixon, and a couple of the others go top-side, pronto. Yell back down if you see anything. Better take along a couple of those flares, even if it is daylight. The two who don't go up with you can park down here and help me keep these rats in line. Give them each one of the guns from your collection."
"Right-o, Dave!" the English youth replied. "I'll go top-side and take a look. But if I don't see anything, I think we'd better make use of their radio, what?"
"Bright lad," Dawson grunted. "Okay, get set."
As the Yank spoke the last he leaned forward slightly so that the muzzle of his Luger was just a few inches closer to the spot square between the U-boat commander's eyes.
"Up conning tower hatch, you!" he grated out. "And if wearen'ton the surface, it's going to be just as tough for you as for the rest of us. So—"
Dave chopped off the rest, swung his Luger in a short arc and squeezed the trigger. A bull-necked Nazi sailor charging through a door behind the commander took the bullet smack in the chest and fell down in a heap. A gun he had half raised bounced when it hit the steel deck, and went skidding away. Dawson swung his eyes back to the senior officer, who was now having all kinds of difficulty keeping his knees from buckling.
"Catch on?" Dawson snapped. "I never kid, stupid, when I make a promise. And I made one to you. Remember? Okay! Up with that conning tower hatch!"
The Nazi could only bob his head up and down violently. Then the words poured off his lips like raging flood waters going over a broken dam.
"I do not lie,HerrCaptain!" he gasped out. "We are on the surface. Yes, yes! It is so. I would be a fool to drown us all by ordering the hatch to be opened while we are still below the surface. I would be mad to do that. I do not wish to die—that way!"
"Well, there are other ways, if you don't snap it up!" the Yank reminded him with a significant gesture of the Luger. "So step on it, my little Nazi tramp. Step on it!"
The U-boat commander did just that, but during the few seconds it took to issue orders and get the hatch open Dawson's heart stood still, and he held his breath clamped in his lungs. After all, there was just a wild chance that the commander did have a little stiffness in his backbone! However, the man had had more than enough. And like all of his type, when it came to the matter of his own life, he could change from a blustering, arrogant hireling of Hitler to a cringing, sniveling whimperer in practically nothing flat.
And so he did just as he was ordered, and presently the conning tower hatch was opened, and clean, fresh ocean air was pouring down inside to cut the thick, heavy U-boat stench.
"Stop daydreaming, pal!" Dawson snapped, as Freddy Farmer made no move toward the companion ladder. "Get up there and do your stuff, in case somebody has already sighted us. I sure don't want to be kissed now by any made-in-England depth bomb. Scram!"
"You go, Dave," the English youth argued. "You've earned a smell of fresh air. I'll watch these blasted Jerries."
"Nothing doing!" the Yank snapped. "Up with you. This is more fun, see? Maybe some other dope will stick his head through a door. I can do with a little side-arms practice. Get going!"
Freddy didn't bother arguing after that. With Squadron Leader Hixon, and a couple of the Lockheed's crew, he went scrambling up the companion ladder, and out onto the conning tower bridge. Down below, Dawson and the remaining two of the Lockheed's crew kept their eyes and their captured Lugers fixed on the Germans in the central control room. Seconds ticked by to add up to a minute. And the minutes added up to total three, then four. Tension began to tell on Dawson, and a whole flock of little worries and doubts began to play about in his brain. True, he was standing guard over the "nerve center" of the U-boat. And true, his prisoners were the commander and his junior officers. Just the same, he couldn't hope to keep the situation just as it was indefinitely. Maybe the commander and his officers were cringing cowards, but that didn't guarantee that it was the same with every member of the U-boat's crew. Maybe there was a hero or two among them who would rather take death than capture and imprisonment. Or, at least, perhaps there was one among them who might crack easily. One who might go clean off his nut, and do anything, such as open the sea valves, to break the terrific, tormenting strain. And whether a brave hero or a man gone mad opened the sea valves and let the ocean come pouring in, theresultwould be the same!
And so, as each new second ticked by, another little bead of cold, clammy sweat formed on Dawson's forehead. And with each passing instant of time he had to battle harder to keep from showing his nervousness by yelling up to Freddy Farmer to find out if anything had been sighted. Finally, when his nerves were so tightly drawn that they threatened to snap and fly off in small pieces at almost any second, he suddenly heard the welcoming sound of the English youth's voice.
"Cheerio, Dave, old thing!" Freddy shouted down the hatch. "Luck of the Devil for us, for fair. The King's Navy, no less, Dave, my lad. What a beautiful sight to see, and—"
"Save it!" Dawson roared back at him. "What in thunderdoyou see?"
"A British cruiser, of course!" the English youth told him. "Didn't I say the King's Navy? Well, there she is, and coming right for us. Happy days are here again, what?"
Dawson gave a little shake of his head, and dropped the crazy conversation. He realized that Farmer's joy at sighting a British cruiser, which had come up out of nowhere, had sent him just a little joyously haywire for the moment. As a matter of fact, Dawson's own head felt a little light, and he almost smiled at the U-boat commander as he jerked his head upward and gave the order.
"Top-side for you!" he said in German. "A British cruiser is bearing down toward us. Get up there and get an eyeful. Hey, Freddy! Stupid is coming up! Keep your eye on him. I'll be up in a minute."
Right after he had shouted the last in English to Freddy Farmer up on the conning tower bridge, Dave turned to the two members of the Lockheed's crew who had remained below decks with him, and gave them a happy grin and a nod.
"Okay, up you go, too," he said. "And thanks for giving me a hand down here. Too bad we didn't get some—"
"Watch it, sir!" screamed one of the R.A.F. men. "Down with you!"
Dawson had already dropped low and twisted around. He saw the blurred figure ofHerrMiller charging toward him, and saw the Nazi's outstretched hand spit flame and smoke. Something plucked at his tunic sleeve, and almost spun him around. His feet were too well braced, however. And in the next split second the sound of his own gun blended with the crack of the guns held by the two R.A.F. men. All three bullets hitHerrMiller, and the man was stone dead before his feet left the deck as he went toppling over backwards, and down. Dawson swallowed hard and glanced down at the bullet hole in his tunic sleeve.
"Thanks for the yell," he said to the man who had given the alarm. "And thank God he was a rotten shot. Tough that he's dead, though. I've had the hunch that he was Gestapo. I'd hoped to take him alive and learn a thing or two. But maybe it's just as well that he's that way. One less rat to worry about. Well, let's go."
Dawson motioned the other two up the companion ladder, and then, after barking a cautioning word or two to the live Germans still in the central control room, he backed slowly up the companion ladder and then quickly scrambled out of the hatch and onto the bridge. In a flash Freddy Farmer was by his side and pointing excitedly at a British cruiser standing off about a quarter of a mile to starboard while it launched one of its motorboats.
And a little over fifteen minutes later another of Hitler's U-boats had made its last trip, a trip that took it straight down to the bottom of the North Atlantic. Its officers and crew were prisoners of war aboard the cruiser. And in the cruiser captain's quarters, Squadron Leader Hixon was giving a glowing account of all that had happened.
"It was Captain Dawson all the way, I fancy, sir," he finished up with a grin. "The rest of us were simply the audience. But an audience that will never forget his performance, you can be sure. Fact is, when I return to England I'm certainly going to recommend that he be mentioned in Orders, and be cited for a decoration. Truth to tell, sir, it was all so incredibly wonderful that I'm still wondering a little if it actually did happen."
"Well, if it's all right with you, sir," Dawson spoke up, his face flaming red with embarrassment, "let's just say that it didn't, and forget the whole thing. Frankly, it was just bluff, and a barrel of luck. Those two things, plus Jerry brains that can't turn over very fast in the clinches. So if it's all the same to you, sir, I'd—"
Dawson let the rest hang in the air as there came an urgent knock on the door, and the senior radio officer came in with a yellow slip of paper in his hand.
"An answer from your report to the Admiralty, sir," he said, and handed the yellow slip of paper to the senior officer. "But it's from the Air Ministry, sir."
Dawson and Farmer unconsciously stiffened, and exchanged glances. Then they looked at the cruiser's captain. The officer scowled at the yellow slip for a moment, then looked up quickly to meet their gaze.
"Seems that you two chaps were in a bit of a hurry, what?" he said with a faint smile, and tapped the paper with the fingers of his other hand. "This is a special radio request from the Air Ministry—a request to launch you two chaps off in one of our planes, and let you finish your journey by air. A bit of courier work, eh?"
Dawson almost shook his head, but just in time he recalled his little bluff scene withHerrMiller in that empty torpedo store chamber aboard the U-boat. At that time Squadron Leader Hixon and the others had of course tumbled to the fact that he and Freddy were supposed to be carrying something of importance—something thatHerrMiller had been ready to kill to obtain. So it would be silly to deny it now.
"Yes, sir," he said instead. "Yes, you might call it that, sir. But how did the Air Ministry—"
"Find out about your rescue?" the cruiser's captain interrupted with a chuckle. "Routine, I fancy. Any reports on our aircraft, and flying personnel, we radio to the Admiralty are immediately telephoned over to the Air Ministry. Obviously the Air Ministry wants you to get on with the job at once, and can't wait for us to get to the States. Hence, this request."
"And—and are you granting it, sir?" Dawson asked as casually as his inner eagerness would permit.
The cruiser's captain looked stern, and scowled darkly. And then, perhaps because of the fading hope he saw in Dawson's eyes, he smiled broadly, and nodded.
"I fancy so," he said. "After all, you two chaps have got just so muchleavecoming, you know. Haven't the heart to make you spend any more of it than you have to aboard my ship. Probably never hear the end of it from the R.A.F. chaps. Get enough ragging from them as it is. So right you are, then. You can take one of my planes. But see that you deliver it in New York in good shape, mind you! We'll pick it up in a week or so. Not that a cruiser really needs aircraft, you understand. However, the blasted things do have their uses now and then."
"Yes, of course, sir," Dawson replied, refusing to rise to the bait. "And thank you, sir, for granting the request."
"Quite, sir," Freddy Farmer echoed politely. "At any other time both Dawson and I should love to—"
"Not likely, you would!" the senior officer growled. "You flying chaps hate blue water. Much prefer blue sky. But you're all a little balmy, of course. Give me a good solid deck under my feet, and—But never mind. Birds of different feathers, and all that. Hop along below, and clean up. I'll have flying gear routed out, and one of the seaplanes made ready. Good luck, and all that sort of thing."
A few minutes later Dawson and Freddy Farmer were washing off U-boat dirt and filth in a cabin turned over to them by one of the cruiser's officers. They had set to work on the cleaning job in silence, but presently Freddy Farmer couldn't hold back the words any longer.
"What rotten luck, eh, Dave?" he said with a heavy sigh.
Dawson wiped soapsuds from his eyes and squinted over at him.
"Huh?" he ejaculated. "Rotten luck? You mean to do it in a few hours instead of days aboard this tub? You gone nuts?"
"Of course I don't mean that!" the English youth snapped back at him. "I don't fancy cruisers any more than you do. I'm speaking about that confounded business aboard the U-boat. About that envelope for Secretary Hull. Of course you did the right thing to get rid of it in the bomber. But it would have been wonderful if we could have managed to save it."
"That's what I figured," Dawson grunted through the towel on his face. "So I decided to take the chance, pal."
In a flash Freddy Farmer was across the cabin and had him by both arms.
"What?" he cried. "What did you say, Dave? You don't mean—?"
Dawson shook himself free, and chuckled.
"What else?" he demanded, and picked up his ripped and torn tunic off the bunk. "Sure thing, kid. I took the chance of tossingHerrMiller for a loss with a couple of loads of good old Yankee bluff. So I called the turn right on him before he could get set. I told him I'd ditched the thing, and held out my tunic and started ripping open the lining to get him all mixed up. And—well, he was a nice guy anddidget all mixed up—and dropped his guard, you might say. Gosh, Freddy, just think! That darn letter was right there in the pocket of the tunic I shoved in his face. Maybe he even heard the paper crackle. See? Here 'tis, Freddy. A bit wrinkled, but maybe the Secretary of State will forgive us for its appearance."
Dawson had pulled the wrinkled envelope from the inner pocket of his tunic and was holding it out to Freddy Farmer. However, the English youth didn't touch it. In fact, he backed away slowly and sat down hard on the edge of the bunk. And his face was one great picture of absolute dumbfounded amazement.
"Good grief, good grief!" he gasped over and over again. "Good grief, you actuallydiddo it, Dave! Will miracles never cease! Why, I never would believe that—"
"See?" Dawson cut in with a sad shake of his head. "You save the bum's life, and you pull rabbits out of a hat, and the guy has the nerve to tell you he doesn't believe you. He—"
"I didn't say any such thing!" Freddy cried. "I simply said that I—"
"Now, don't try to get out from under!" Dave shut him off and waggled a finger. "I know perfectly well that you—Blub!"
The last was as the wet towel came into his face. And for the next couple of minutes the cruiser's captain would have had sixteen epileptic fits if he had stuck his head inside that cabin and seen those "flying chaps" roughhousing it out with wet towels and gobs of soapsuds!
The dimout hour for the eastern seaboard of the United States was not many minutes away as Dawson slid the cruiser's seaplane down to a perfect landing in the La Guardia Airport basin. As soon as he had settled, he taxied over to the mooring ramp where attendants took over and tied up. Then Freddy and he stepped ashore and started for the Customs Office.
"Fine lot we've got to declare!" Freddy Farmer spoke for the first time in quite a while. "What with our bags still aboard that Lockheed, and down at the bottom of the Atlantic. I'll never forgive the Jerry beggars for that dirty trick."
"Nuts to baggage!" Dawson cried cheerily, and sucked air deep into his lungs. "We're home, pal! That's what counts. Hot dog! Get a load of this Yankee air, Freddy. It'll do wonders for that flat chest of yours. It—Hey! What are you grabbing my arm for?"
The English youth didn't answer. He simply grabbed Dawson's arm with one hand, and pointed the other at the door of the airport's Customs Office. The Yank air ace took a good look, and stopped dead in his tracks.
"Holy smoke!" he gasped. "Boy! Do they keep tabs on the comings and goings of you and me, pal! That's Colonel Welsh, of U. S. Intelligence. How in thunder did he know we were landing here?"
"Perhaps that cruiser's radio," Freddy grunted. "Or maybe direct from the Air Ministry. But he's here, right enough. And here he comes. Funny thing, though, Dave."
"What's funny?" Dawson prompted when Freddy didn't continue.
"The feeling I've got," the English youth replied in a low tone. "I suppose it's a bit rotten of me to feel this way, but—well, to be perfectly frank, Dave, I don't think I'm greatly overjoyed that Colonel Welsh is here to meet us."
"Huh? Not glad that—?" Dawson began, and stopped short with a gulp. "Oh-oh! I get you, pal. And check and double check. I've got that same feeling. Colonel Welsh isn't the one to take time out to greet a couple of guys going on leave."
"Of course, he could be just making sure that we carried right on down to Washington," Freddy Farmer murmured.
"Oh, sure, sure!" Dawson grunted. "And maybe, too, he just wants to know how the weather was when we left England. Nope. No soap, Freddy. Much as I like the colonel, and heisone swell person, whenever he pops into the picture you can bet your bottom dollar that there's something cooked up for you to do."
"Yes, quite," Freddy sighed unhappily. "But it was a wonderful leave we spent—at sea."
"Couldn't have been better, unless we'd spent it on dry land," Dave shot out of the corner of his mouth. Then, as the Chief of U. S. Intelligence came within earshot, he said, "Well, well, hello, sir! We certainly didn't expect to see you."
"No, Dawson?" the senior officer chuckled as he returned their salute, and then shook hands with them both. "Not disappointed, I hope? Got the flash you'd been launched from that cruiser, and so I flew right up to meet you. Well, you two have been mixing up in it again, as usual, eh?"
"Wasn't any of our doing, sir," Freddy Farmer grinned. "Sort of forced on us, you might say. Forced on Dawson, rather. He's quite a hero. Better than a story book hero, and all that. Why, Colonel, if it had not been for Captain Dave Dawson, we'd—"
"Okay, okay!" Dave interrupted. "The colonel is an old friend, Freddy. He knows us both. Skip it, pal. But, Colonel, is it all right to ask what brings you here?"
For a split second the Intelligence Chief stiffened. His thin face even paled slightly, and he shot a quick glance back over his shoulder.
"You didn't bring it?" he asked sharply. "You lost it, or were forced to destroy it?"
"We have it, sir," Dawson told him quietly, and started to reach for his tunic pocket. "We're to turn it over to you?"
"No, no, don't!" the colonel said quickly. "Not here. Just wanted to know that you have it, so I won't have to make other plans. Well, it's time to eat, I'd say. I've arranged with Customs, and the Military, so come along with me. I've got my car. You're putting up for the night at the Astor. Suite of rooms all reserved for you. So we might as well eat there. And I want to hear of your latest venture, with all the details, of course. But let's get going and—Well, what do you know! I haven't yet said that I'm glad to see you. However, I certainly am—much more than either of you may realize."
Some three hours later, Dawson leaned back in his chair in the Astor main dining-room, and vaguely wondered if his tunic buttons were going to stay on, or pop and go sailing across the room. It was his first made-in-America meal in many, many months, and without any prompting from Colonel Welsh he had started at the top of the menu card and gone right down the list. Freddy Farmer was still eating, but then, he was starting down the list for the second time.
"Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at anything you two pull off," Colonel Welsh suddenly broke the moment or two of silence. "But this latest is certainly tops for sheer nerve."
"And bluff," Dawson interrupted with a chuckle. "Just plain bluff, and one hundred per cent good luck. And if you want the honest truth, Colonel, if anybody had ever told me I'd try for a crazy long shot like that, I'd have told them they were nuts from away back. And that's a fact."
"Bluff, or luck, you did get away with it, Dawson," the colonel said with a smile. "And that's the important thing. But let's get off the war for a little while. Tell me, how does it feel to be back in the United States, you two? Of course, Dawson, I've got a pretty good idea how you feel about it. What about you, Farmer?"
The English youth smiled and gave a shrug.
"I fancy it's all right, sir," he said. "I've always been very fond of America, and there's no reason why I should change now. Of course, I'd have much rather spent our leave in England, but Dave, here, pulled one of your American tricks on me, and I had to come along."
"He's just a hard-headed guy, sir," Dawson explained as Colonel Welsh looked puzzled. "We tossed for it, two out of three, and I won. He still can't get it out of his head that it wasn't crooked."
"But you see, Dave," Freddy spoke up gravely, "I've known you so long, and so well."
"Ouch!" Dawson cried, and clapped a hand to his jaw. "And to think he's the ungrateful cuss whose life I saved a few hours back. But you can bet your life, Colonel, he wasn't making any of his smart cracksthen! You should have seen the way he gazed at me. Such dumb appeal, and befuddlement, and helplessness in his eyes. Reminded me of a little kitten I once found lost in a snow bank. Only difference was the kitten didn't give me the high-hat afterward. Okay, my little man! Next time we're stuck aboard a U-boatyoucan get us out of it!"
"Not a chance!" Freddy said quickly. "Because if I've got anything to say about it, and I hope I'll have, I'm never going to step inside one of those things again."
"Amen to that!" Colonel Welsh breathed.
The trio lapsed into silence for a few minutes after that. Freddy Farmer was content to go on eating, Colonel Welsh seemed to be mulling over some serious thoughts, and Dave was wondering whether or not this was the right place or time to bring up a most important subject. A most important subject, and one that had been worrying him not a little ever since they'd landed at the La Guardia Airport basin. In short, the envelope addressed to Secretary of State Cordell Hull that he still carried in his inside tunic pocket. Rather, the envelope he had transferred from his ripped and torn tunic to the fresh and clean one that had been sent up to the hotel suite.
Apart from Colonel Welsh asking that single question as to whether or not they had brought the envelope, not a word had been mentioned about it. And that fact had Dawson worried, plenty. No, not exactly worried. It had him more bewildered and befuddled. He was sure that the Intelligence Chief had come up to New York to accompany them down to Washington and present them to the Secretary of State. But the senior officer hadn't even said he was going to do that. In fact, he hadn't spoken about anything that he was going to do. He'd simply rushed them over here to the Astor, seen that they were comfortable, that clean uniforms and so forth were sent up, and then had gone away to return in an hour and take them down to dinner. And all during dinner the conversation hadn't once touched on the sealed envelope still in Dawson's pocket.
Was it possible that thiswasjust a friendly meeting? Was it possible that Colonel Welsh didn't know anything about the sealed envelope? Was it possible that the Chief of U. S. Intelligence didn't have a darned thing cooked up for Freddy Farmer and himself? Those and hundreds of other questions whirled and spun around in Dave's brain, as he relaxed comfortably in his chair and let his eyes roam absently over the well filled dining-room. He wondered plenty about those thought questions, but there was one thing hewanted, not wondered. That was to get rid of the confounded envelope. It had come much, much too close for comfort to spelling curtains for Freddy and himself. He would be glad when he was rid of it, and the sooner that time arrived, the happier he would be.
"That envelope you're carrying for Secretary Hull, Dawson—" The Colonel's words seemed suddenly to explode in his ears. "You've got it with you? Or are you carrying it, Farmer?"
Dave jerked his head around, gulped, and nodded.
"Yes, yes, sir, I've got it," he said.
The colonel reached out his hand as though he were asking for the salt and pepper.
"I'll take it," he said. "Give it to me. You're probably pretty sick of carrying it around by now."
Dawson hesitated a moment, completely at sea as to just what to do. The orders at Croydon Airport had been to deliver it in person to no one but the Secretary of State. Of course, Colonel Welsh was different. If he couldn't be trusted, then—
"It's all right, Dawson," the other's quiet voice broke into his scrambled thoughts. "I realize just what you're thinking. And I don't blame you. However, the Secretary is out of Washington for a few days, so you can give it to me."
"Yes, sure, sir," Dawson gulped. "But—but righthere?"
"It's all right, don't worry," the colonel said quietly.
Dawson didn't hesitate any more after that. He had been given an order by a superior officer, and there wasn't anything he could do but obey. So he reached inside his tunic, took out the wrinkled and slightly dirtied envelope and handed it over.
"The mailman fell in a mud puddle, sir," he said in a half-hearted attempt at humor. "Sorry."
Colonel Welsh looked at him and grinned. Then as both Freddy Farmer and Dawson stared pop-eyed, he ripped open the flap of the envelope and took a quick look inside. He smiled again, and nodded, and stuck the envelope in his own inside tunic pocket.
"Fine, boys, fine!" he grunted. "This may mean a lot of changes in this war. But let's forget the war. I guess you haven't heard that story that's going the rounds about the private and the sergeant of the guard? It's very funny."
The Chief of U. S. Intelligence made a little gesture with one hand and hitched his chair closer to the table. Then he casually took a cigar from his pocket, and took his own sweet time about lighting it up. And then, just as Dawson was about to explode in confusion, he heard the colonel's low voice carry to him through the cloud of cigar smoke.
"Act as though this one were a howl," he said. "But keep your ears open, and listen carefully. You, Dawson! When I pick up my dessert spoon, let your napkin fall down under the table. Go down after it, and when you get down you'll see another envelope held between my knees. Snake it into your napkin and sit up again. And when you get the chance slip that envelope into your pocket. All right. Here goes with the story. Show lots of interest, and grin and chuckle!"
With that the colonel paused a moment, and then started in on a long drawn out story about a private and a sergeant of the guard. But Dave only heard every other word, if that many. His brain was spinning like a top, and a crazy, cockeyed jumble of thoughts were having a wonderful time playing leap frog. And all the time he watched to see when Colonel Welsh would pick up his dessert spoon. What in thunder was all this about? What other envelope? And why was the Colonel being so cagey about how he was to get it? Holy smoke! Hadn't he just handed Secretary Hull's envelope across the table? Why should the colonel get fancy and make him do tricks to get another envelope he held between his knees? Or was it that something very heavy had dropped down on the Intelligence Chief's head since their last meeting, and the man had gone just a little screwy?
Dawson had no idea, and it was utterly useless even to try to guess. His war experience had taught him to try to take things in stride, and expect 'most anything, and 'most everything. The minute you stopped to figure out the whys and wherefores of things that happened in this crazy war, you were sunk. And so Dawson half listened to the long drawn out story, grinned or chuckled in what he hoped were the right places, and kept half an eye on Colonel Welsh's dessert spoon.
And then, suddenly, the senior officer picked it up and dipped it into the untouched dish of ice cream that was before him. A split second later Dawson gave his napkin a shove so that it dropped off his knees and down under the table onto the floor.
"Excuse me a second, sir," he said, and pushed back his chair a little.
He ducked his head down, and reached for the napkin on the floor. It was there, of course, and so was a letter sticking out from between Colonel Welsh's knees. In one lightning-like motion Dawson scooped up the napkin, flipped it over the extended letter, and sat up in his chair again with the napkin back in his lap, and the envelope safely hidden under it.
"... And so that's why Private Jones swore he'd never be a sergeant of the guard," Colonel Welsh said, and grinned broadly as Freddy Farmer burst into laughter.
"That's top-hole, sir!" the English youth cried. "Very, very funny, really!"
"Sure is a pip, sir," Dawson said as he forced his own lips to grin broadly. "I must remember that one. I sure must."
"I thought it was pretty good, myself," Colonel Welsh nodded. Then, as he seemingly decided against the ice cream, he went on, "Well, how about a walk around New York in the dimout? It's like high noon compared to London and the other cities across the Pond. But maybe you'll get a kick out of it."
"Well, it's New York," Dawson grinned, and pushed back his chair. "So that makes it okay with me. Okay with you, Freddy?"
The English youth cast a fond parting glance at the menu, and shrugged.
"Right you are, then," he said. "Perhaps on the way back we can pop in some place for a midnight bite, what?"
"Not a chance, pal," Dave said, and threw a quick wink at Colonel Welsh. "Wartime rules and regulations. I read about them in England. No male or female over fifteen years of age can have more than seven meals per day."
"Sevenmeals per day?" Freddy Farmer echoed, and looked puzzled.
Dawson nodded at the collection of empty dishes in front of where the English youth had been sitting.
"And if that lay-out didn't total up toeightfull meals, then I don't know my groceries," he said. "So come along, before the head waiter hails a cop to haul you in for busting the law so soon!"
"Blast if I wouldn't stay here and wait for him," Freddy said with a long sigh, "if I only knew that the food in your American jails was as good as this!"
After the blaze of lights, the countless intricate neon signs, and the thousand and one other things that made New York night life famous the world around, the dimout condition was a strange thing indeed to witness. Strange, and interesting, and so utterly unreal to a native Yank who had seen the city so many times before Hitler drew his bloody butcher's sword.
Yes, strange, and interesting, and quite unreal. But not to Dave Dawson. Nor to Freddy Farmer, for that matter. For the very simple reason that they were two youths with a great big absorbing problem on their minds. Rather, it was a great big question mark, that neither of them could begin to figure out. And so they could very easily have strolled through the streets of the New York World Fair and not paid much attention to what they saw.
And as they walked up Broadway, and over to Fifth Avenue, and on down around the Grand Central section, it was all Dawson could do to refrain from blurting out the one and obvious question in his mind. In short, what in thunderation was this second sealed envelope all about? Just as the first one had done, this second envelope was practically burning holes in his tunic pocket. It was the same overall size as the other one, but it was considerably fatter than the first. By fingering it he could guess that there were several folded sheets of paper inside. And stiff paper, too, he imagined. This second envelope didn't "give" so much with the movements of his body. Fact was, whenever he bent over quickly a corner of it would stick into his ribs.
And, as had happened once before, his thoughts were all on a certain sealed envelope in his inside tunic pocket when suddenly Colonel Welsh's voice broke right through his train of thought.
"Relax about that thing in your pocket, Dawson," the senior officer said in a low voice. "You'll both get full explanations in a little while. First, though, I want to make sure of something. Take it easy, and let's walk back to the hotel along Forty-Second Street. Good old New York. I'm not a native here, but I always loved this town."
"Me, too," Dawson said with a grin and a nod. "They say that if you hunt long enough and hard enough in New York you can find a touch of every other country in the world in it."
"True as the day you were born," Colonel Welsh agreed instantly. "Including Hitler's Gestapo."
"Eh?" Freddy Farmer gasped out. "What was that you said, sir?"
"The Gestapo," the Colonel repeated in a low voice. "At least, I'm willing to bet my shirt on it. Spotted him in the Astor dining-room, and he's been tagging along after us ever since."
A wild urge to turn around and look back swept through Dawson. However, he killed the urge and kept his eyes front.
"Then he must have seen you take that envelope, sir," he said quietly, "In the dining-room."
"That's what I hope," Colonel Welsh replied quietly. "And the way he's tagging around after us now seems to indicate as much."
"The dirty blighter!" Freddy Farmer muttered. "What's the chap look like, sir? Let's duck around the next corner, and give the beggar something to think about when he comes around. Matter of fact, sir, why have you been letting him tag us around?"
The Chief of U. S. Intelligence didn't answer that question at once. Instead he came to a stop and nodded his head toward a small all-night restaurant on the other side of the street.
"Not that we're hungry," he said, "but let's go in there for a small bite or two."
"A splendid idea!" Freddy Farmer replied enthusiastically.
"It always is, with you!" Dawson growled. "Me, I won't be able to look food in the face again for hours."
"Full up, myself," Colonel Welsh grunted. "But that's a good place to talk. It's half empty now. We can get a corner table where we can keep an eye on the door. Then, if our little Gestapo friend—and, of course, I could be wrong—comes inside, you can get a good look at him. But let's go in and rest the feet, anyway. And I'll try to give you a little bit of the picture."
A few minutes later the trio was seated at a corner table in the all-night restaurant, and the waiter had taken their orders. Coffee and sinkers for Dawson and the colonel, and a three-decker sandwich for "starving" Freddy Farmer.
"First, I'll answer your question, Farmer," Colonel Welsh began in a low voice. "I'll answer it by saying that sometimes it's better to let a spy go free than to throw him into jail, or put him in front of a firing squad. The reason, I think, is fairly obvious. Throw a spy in jail, or shoot him, and he is no longer useful to anybody. But, on the other hand, let him go free, and keep your eye on him, and oftentimes he'll lead you to bigger fish. But in the case of this chap we think is following us around, I'm not dead sure that he is Gestapo. True, I'm just about as sure as I can be, but we haven't as yet learned exactly where he fits into the Axis picture of espionage in this country. So we've been giving him plenty of rope, in the hope that he'll unknowingly add to our knowledge of Axis activities in this country."
The senior officer paused for a moment to grin, and give a little shrug of his shoulders.
"He's following us around," he said presently, "but one of my men is also following him around. So, as you might say, we're keeping tabs on him both coming and going."
"I had a hunch that was so," Dawson grunted. "Didn't figure you'd carry that envelope around and present your unprotected back to any trailing Nazi. But I still don't get the idea why you had me hand it over in plain view of anybody who was there to take a look."
"Yes, I know," the colonel said with a chuckle. "I've been watching both of you go quietly screwy wondering what it was all about. And—well, what I'm about to say will give you both quite a jolt, considering your little experience out there on the North Atlantic. But before you both hit the roof, give me a chance to explain. The sealed envelope you two escorted across the ocean contains nothing but a few sheets of blank paper. And not blank paper with invisible writing either. Just plain blank paper you could pick up in any ten-cent store."
Both Dawson and Farmer stiffened as though they had been shot in the back. For a long minute both held their breath clamped in their lungs as they stared at Colonel Welsh out of wide, disbelieving eyes. Then, finally, Dawson managed to regain control of his tongue.
"Maybe you'd better repeat that, sir," he said with an effort. "That envelope addressed to Secretary of State Cordell Hull was nothing but a lot of blank paper? And Freddy, and I—?"
"That's right," the other replied quietly. "Just blank paper. And you and Farmer darned near lost your lives over a sealed envelope of blank paper. But—well, it was something like the stunt you pulled on thatHerrMiller, Dawson. The very fact that you were so eager to have him search you convinced him that youdidn'thave what he wanted. And that conviction baffled him so, that you were able to catch him off guard, and get away with your colossal bluff. In other words, by doing the one thing he didn't expect you to do, you made him believe that you had done the exact opposite."
The Chief of U.S. Intelligence took time out for a moment to light up a cigar.
"Well, we did something the same way, you might say," he continued presently. "But I'll have to give you a bit of history by way of explanation. At a recent meeting between Prime Minister Churchill and President Roosevelt, and their respective staffs, a detailed agreement was reached regarding the vitally important matter of military and economic aid to China. The entire program was mapped out in detail. And after the meeting a pledge was drawn up—a secret pledge to Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek, and the Chinese peoples. It was perhaps one of the most secret documents drawn up in this war thus far. It contained everything. Amounts of guns, tanks, planes, ammunition, and so forth to be delivered by England and the United States to China. The supply routes to be followed. Dates of arrival. Troop strength, flying strength, and ground crew strength, and so forth. Plus locations of air bases selected by an Air Forces commission recently returned from China. In short, everything that China wants, needs, and wishes to know."
The senior officer paused again to take care of his cigar that had gone out.
"Well," he continued as blue cigar smoke drifted ceilingward, "all that was drawn up here in the States, and signed by the necessary parties. Then it was sent to England for English signatures. Right there we threw Axis rats, who had got wind of the document, off the track for a short time. It seems that they expected it all to be drawn up in England, and sent over here for signatures. So they kept watchful eyes on all our courier planes, diplomatic pouches, and such, ready to leap and strike the instant that document was on its way back to the States. Naturally, for the Axis boys to get their hands on that agreement would be worth a dozen victories in the field. Not only would they learn what we could, and could not, do for China, but they could use it as a powerful propaganda weapon against China. Particularly, the Japs could use it. Imagine how the brave Chinese would feel to find out first from their enemies what their allies were going to do for them! It would put the war in the Far East back a full year, at least. So it was absolutely essential to keep this agreement a perfect secret, get it to Chiang Kai-shek's hands by a fast route the Axis spies would least suspect, and then let Chiang Kai-shek decide what parts of it he would let be made public, and what parts would continue to remain a secret."
"Which, of course, ruled out the usual diplomatic channels," Dawson grunted as the senior officer paused for breath. "Or even a special courier. The Axis rats would probably smell out both angles."
"Exactly as we figured it," Colonel Welsh grunted, with a nod for emphasis. "But, to make doubly sure of everything, it was decided to cross up the Axis agents in England. In other words, to actually slip it into a diplomatic pouch bound for Washington by plane,butmake it appear that we were trying to sneak it out of the country by secret courier. By the way, did you two enjoy meeting Mr. Soo Wong Kai?"
Dawson and Farmer sat bolt upright again.
"And how, particularly Freddy, here!" Dawson gasped. "But—? Oh, so that wasn't just one of those things, eh? He was part of the picture, too?"
"Very much so," Colonel Welsh replied. "And it worked out just as we hoped it would. Axis eyes saw him meet with you. They saw him hurry back to the Air Ministry. They naturally figured that he was giving his okay on you two taking the document out of the country. They were unquestionably dead sure when they saw an Air Ministry courier later tear out to Croydon Airport. And it's ten to one they actually saw the Croydon commandant turn an envelope over to you. What theydidn'tknow was that the real envelope had actually left England by air twelve hours before!"
As the senior officer paused, Dawson gulped and wiped a hand across his forehead.
"Boy! Am I glad I was in the dark all the time!" he breathed. "For a bunch of blank paper I don't think I'd have been so keen to stick my neck out."
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed. "Though, of course, I wouldn't have remained the blasted Nazi's prisoner any longer than I could have helped."
"I know just how both of you feel," Colonel Welsh said softly. "In a way, it was a low-down dirty trick to play on you two. A trick that might have cost two lives the United Nations can ill afford to lose. But if and when you get to thinking about it being a raw deal, try and remember this. You never would have been chosen for that red herring mission if we hadn't had absolute faith that you two would put it across. And that you did simply confirms the faith that the High Command has in you two."
"Well, thanks, sir," Dawson mumbled. "But don't worry about me thinking it over. I want to forget it, and how. From now on every time I see a batch of blank paper I know doggone well that I'll break out in a cold sweat. But just the same, it does make me feel good to know that Freddy and I have that degree of the High Command's confidence, whether we deserve it or not."
"Yes, quite!" was all that Freddy Farmer could add to his pal's statement.
"Well, it's certainly deserved!" Colonel Welsh told them gravely. "No doubt about that. But to get on with the story. While you two were still at sea—and I do mean at sea—the document was received in Washington, and turned over to me. When you arrived on this side we knew that attempts would be made to get to you, if they had not already been made. Which, of course, they were. So I came up to meet you, knowing full well that Axis agents would follow me sooner or later. So I took you to that hotel, and to dinner, with the express idea of taking Axis agents off you. In other words, with the express idea of making it appear to watching Axis rats that you had completed your part of the mission, and were now definitely out of the picture. To make them forget you, and concentrateon me. So I had you turn over that envelope right there in the dining-room. I took a chance, yes. But what I hope I gained counts most. In short, they know now that I have it. And they will soon learn, by keeping tabs on me, that I'm returning to Washington tonight. They saw it handed to me. They haven't got to wonder if, or if you didn't, slip it to me when we were alone in your suite before dinner."
As the senior officer paused, Dawson licked his lips, and found it terribly difficult to ask aloud the question that was uppermost in his mind.
"And—and that second envelope, sir?" he finally managed to get out.
Colonel Welsh nodded slowly.
"Yes, Dawson," he said quietly. "It is. And while I am knocking the pins out from under you two, I might as well give you the bad news now. Your two months leave has been postponed—until after you've arrived in Chungking, China, and have seen Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek."
Dawson looked at him for a moment, then turned his head and met Freddy Farmer's eyes. A moment later they both started to chuckle.
"What goes on here?" Colonel Welsh demanded with a frown. "What strikes you so funny?"
"Well, to be headed for Chungking is sort of a surprise, sir," Dawson explained. "But—well, to have our leave tossed overboard isn't. You see, sir, when we first spotted you at La Guardia Airport, we had a hunch that you weren't there just to say hello to us. We were pretty sure that—Well—I mean, that is—"
"That seeing me meant trouble, eh?" Colonel Welsh groaned. "Yes, I understand. It happens all the time. I guess I'm the most unpopular man in the armed forces. And that's one reason why I told you long ago, when we first met, never to let yourself get promoted to a high rank in Intelligence. You either get shot, or avoided by friend and foe alike."
"Well, it's okay by us, sir," Dawson put in quickly. "The truth of the matter is that both Freddy and I would go nuts by the time two months were up. Also, we both do want to see China. We said so to Soo Wong Kai. But gosh! Little did we know whatheknew then."
"Aren't you right!" Freddy Farmer grunted. "And I certainly hope we have the good fortune to meet him again."
"Yeah!" Dawson shot at him with a grin. "Provided, of course, he has a good stock of meat ration coupons! But you say you're heading for Washington tonight, sir?"
"In a little over an hour," the senior officer replied after a glance at his wrist-watch. "But about you two. It will appear as though you're going to carry on with the regular program. The War Bond speeches, I mean. Your first stop is scheduled to be made in San Francisco the day after tomorrow. There's even a piece in tonight's New York papers to that effect. So tomorrow at nine you will go to La Guardia Airport and board a TAT transport plane for San Francisco. Reservations have already been made for you. In Frisco you'll be met by the military commandant out there, Major General Hawks. Ostensibly, you'll be staying at his quarters. But actually you won't be there long. You'll be loaned a plane for a courtesy flight about the city and Bay. But you'll go on down the Coast to an emergency field that General Hawks will tell you about. There a Fortress will be awaiting you. It will take you to Honolulu, and from there to Darwin, Australia. And from Darwin you'll fly to Calcutta, India. And from Calcutta to Chungking, China. If all goes well you should be in Chungking by the end of the week. So, strictly speaking, you'll be simply postponing your leave one week."
"And I bet we'll want to spend it all sitting in rocking chairs, after that bit of cloud hopping!" Dawson said with a chuckle. "Just a little fifteen thousand mile joy-ride."
"And my prayers are that it'll be just that!" Colonel Welsh said grimly. Then, "Well, we'd better get on back to your hotel. I guess you two can do with some sleep. Any changes, or additional instructions, will be flashed to you en route. And—well, what can I say but the same old thing I've said to you countless times? Good luck, and Godspeed, to both of you. The prayers of the civilized world will be for you."
"Thank you, sir," Dawson said quietly, as they all stood up. "And we'll get to Chungking. You can count on it. But one thing, sir?"
"Yes, Dawson?"
Dave gave the slightest of nods toward the street outside.
"Our little rat pal, if he's still around, sir," he said. "I mean, I hope you'll watch your step going back to Washington tonight. I hope he doesn't try to pull anything on you, sir."
Colonel Welsh grinned, but only with his lips. His eyes held the glint of polished cold steel.
"On the contrary, I hope he does!" he said softly. "I sure do hope so. It's been quite a spell since I've had the chance to chalk up a Nazi rat. Yes, I hope he tries to shoot the works. I could do with a little workout on him, or them!"