SUSPICIONS
Tom Raymond started across the field toward headquarters. Jack followed,
but there was a strange look on the latter's face.
"I don't see how you're going to Paris," remarked Jack, at length. "Do
you mean we're to go in separate machines, or together?"
"Oh, nothing like that!" exclaimed Tom. "We won't go in machines at all.
We'll go by train, if we can get one, or by motor."
"But you're heading for the Escadrille Headquarters office, and--"
"We've got to get official permission to go," explained Tom. "We can't
rush off, whenever we like, as we used to go fishing together."
To his captain Tom explained matters more fully than he had done before.
In effect he related the fact of having received the letter, stating
that Mr. Raymond had started for Paris, presumably to engage in some
work for the French government, or at least for the Allies. Whether he
had arrived or not, and, in the former case, to ascertain why he had
not sent some word to his son, was the object of Tom's quest.
"I've tried and tried, from this end, to get in touch with him,"
explained Tom; "but something seems to happen to my messages. I know
they leave here all right, but after that they are lost. Now I have an
idea that there is so much going on in Paris--so much necessary war
work--that the ordinary lines of communication are choked. But if I
could go to the capital in person I could soon find out whether my
father was at the address he gave."
"And you want, do you, to go together?" asked the kindly French captain,
smiling at Tom and Jack.
"We'd like to go," said Tom.
"And go you shall. I will write the necessary order. You have done well,
and I understand you have some days of leave coming. To them I shall add
more. But come back to me," he added, as he filled out the pass form.
"Come back. We need you Americans now more than ever!"
"We'll come back," promised Tom. "All I want to go to Paris for is to
find out about my father."
"Ah, I envy you," said the captain softly. "Both in the possession of a
father, who must be proud to have such a son as you, and also because
you are going to Paris. It is the most beautiful--the most
wonderful--city in the world. And to think--to think that those
barbarians would sack her! Ah, it is terrible!" and with a sad nodding
of his head, following the shaking of an avenging fist toward the German
lines, he waved Tom and Jack an adieu.
The two Air Service boys lost little time in making their preparations
to leave for the French capital. They had to get certain passes and
papers, and they wished to say good-bye to some of their comrades in
arms. For, more than any other branch of the service, is aviation
uncertain as to life or death. Tom and Jack well knew that some, perhaps
many, of those who wished them "_au revoir_," and "_bonne chance_,"
would not be alive when they returned. And Tom and Jack might not return
themselves. True, their chances were comparatively good, but the
fortunes of war are uncertain.
And so, after certain preliminaries, Tom and Jack, their pet machines in
the hangars, left behind their beloved comrades and were taken by motor
to the nearest railway station. There they secured their tickets and
took their places to wait, with what patience they could, their arrival
in Paris.
The train was well filled with "_permissionnaires_," or soldiers on
leave for a few days of happiness in the capital, and at certain
stations, where more got on, the rush was not unlike that at a crowded
hour in some big city.
"I see something good," remarked Jack, as they sat looking out at the
scenery, glad, even for a brief moment, to be beyond the horrors of war.
"What?" asked his companion.
"There's a dining-car on this train. We sha'n't starve."
"Good enough, I almost forgot about eating," said Tom. "Now that you
speak of it, I find I have an appetite."
They ate and felt better; and it was as they were about to leave the
dining-car to go back to their places, that Jack nudged Tom and
whispered to him:
"Did you hear what he said?"
"Hear what who said?"
"That man just back of you. Did you have a good look at him?"
"I didn't, but I will have," said Tom, and, waiting a moment so as not
to cause any suspicion that his act was directed by his chum, Tom turned
and looked at the person Jack indicated. He beheld a quietly dressed
man, who seemed to be alone and paying attention to no one, eating his
lunch.
"Well, what about him?" asked Tom. "I don't see anything remarkable
about him, except that he's a slow eater. I admit I bolt my food too
much."
"No, it isn't that," said Jack in a low voice. "But don't you think he
looks like a German?"
Tom took another casual glance.
"Well, you might find a resemblance if you tried hard," he answered.
"But I should be more inclined to call him a Dutchman. And when I say
Dutchman I mean a Hollander."
"I understand," remarked Jack. "But I don't agree with you in thinking
that he may be from Holland. Of course men of that nationality have a
right to go and come as they choose, where they can, but I don't believe
this chap is one."
"Why not?"
"Because I heard him mutter something in German."
"Well, lots of Hollanders can speak German, I have no doubt. I can
splutter a few words myself, but not enough to hurt me. I began to pick
up some from the prisoners, after we had that experience with Potzfeldt,
when we realized that even a little knowledge of the Hun's talk, much as
we hate him, would be of service. And so you think you heard this fellow
speak German?" asked Tom, as he pretended to tie his shoe lace, to make
an excuse for pausing.
"I'm sure I did," said Jack.
"What did he say?"
"Something about wishing he had a plate of _metzel suppe_. Of course I
don't guarantee that pronunciation, but--"
"Oh, it'll do," said Tom, graciously. "Well, there's nothing very
suspicious in that, though. I might wish for some _wienerwurst_, but
that wouldn't make me a German spy."
"No. But take one other thing and you'll have to admit that there is
some ground for my belief."
"What's the other thing, old top?" asked Tom, in imitation of some
Englishmen.
"He was making drawings of the railroad line," asserted Jack.
"How do you know?"
"I saw him. He pretended to be looking at the _carte de jour_, and I
caught a glimpse of a sheet of paper on which he was making certain
marks. I'm sure he was sketching out something about the railroad, for
use, maybe, in a future air raid."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Tom. "As a matter of fact, I don't doubt that the
German secret agents know every foot of ground in and about Paris. They
must have maps of this railroad the same as the French have of some of
Germany's, only you've got to hand it to the Huns! They certainly went
into this thing well prepared the more discredit to us, in a way. But
are you sure of what you say, Jack?" he added, after a moment's thought.
"Positive! I'm sure that man is a German spy, masking as a Hollander or
possibly a Swiss. He's sighing for some of his country's good
cooking--though that's one of the few good things about it--and he's
making some sort of a map."
Tom thought over the matter a moment. The man did not appear to notice
the two chums.
"I'll tell you what we can do," Tom said. "We'll soon be in at the Gare
de l'Est, and we can tip off some of the officers around there. They can
follow this fellow, if they think it's worth while."
"Well, I think it's worth while," said Jack. "If that fellow isn't a spy
I'm a Dutchman!"
As Jack spoke the man looked up and full at the two lads, almost as if
he had heard the words.