slashed their way through Dave's brain. Seconds dragged on into
minutes, and the minutes seemed to drag on into an eternity of time.
Then suddenly sound forced its way through Dave's thoughts and brought
him back to the present. The sound was soft moaning and groaning. And
it came from Freddy Farmer's lips.
The English youth was sitting on a gun case just beyond where Colonel
Welsh sat, but out in front of him so that Dave could see his pal.
And the look on Freddy's face was one of great pain, and not a little
of terror, and fear. His eyes were half closed, and he seemed to be
staring at nothing at all as he rocked jerkily back and forth like some
African savage praying to his idol gods. For a brief instant Dave
could hardly believe his eyes or his ears. Then a wave of sympathy
mingled with just a little annoyance swept through him.
"Pull up your socks, Freddy!" he said in a low voice. "Show these rats
you can take it. Come on, Freddy. Chin up, pal!"
The English youth groaned louder and opened his eyes a little. The look
he flung Dave burned with scorn.
"Blast you and your chin-up rot!" he grated. "I've had enough of this.
Gangster stuff, this is, not war. I know now I should never have left
England. This is a madman's country. I tell you I've had enough of it!"
Freddy fairly screamed the last, and had Dave not been tied hand and
foot he would have leaped over and slapped his pal's jaw. Something had
happened to Freddy Farmer. Something had snapped inside of him. Dave
had seen his pal in a hundred tight corners, every bit as tight as this
one. He knew full well that Freddy was red-blooded courage from his
head to his feet. But something had happened, and the English youth was
ready to crack up like an hysterical old woman.
"Freddy, cut it out!" he snapped. "Buck up, old man. Show them. Come
on, Freddy. The old R.A.F. stuff. We're not licked yet, and we won't
be. You know that!"
The English youth didn't answer at once. He sat swaying and groaning,
and staring at Dave out of half closed eyes. Then suddenly he began to
laugh softly. The laugh grew and grew until it was almost a scream.
The pilot and the redhead had put down their whiskey glasses and were
staring at him in wide-eyed amazement.
"R.A.F., my hat!" Freddy suddenly shouted. "This isn't war. This is
gangster business, like I've seen in your American movies. Well, I've
had enough of it. I can't stand it, do you understand. _I can't stand
it!_ These ropes are killing me. I feel as if I were all on fire!"
Freddy stopped short, looked over at the unshaven pair and spoke again
before Dave had time to open his mouth.
"I say, a drink of water, please!" he gasped. "I must have a drink of
water. I'm dying, really. I can't stand the pain. A drink of water,
please!"
The pair stared for a moment longer; then the redhead burst out with
laughter.
"The tough English, huh?" he jeered aloud. "Look at the brave R.A.F.
pilot, I don't think! Well, what do you know? The English can't take
it. I always said they couldn't. Mama! Mama! Sonny boy wants a drink of
water. Here! Pour a slug of this whiskey down his throat and make a man
of him. Okay, I'll do it!"
The redhead laughed some more and splashed whiskey from the bottle into
his glass. He pushed up from the table and came swaggering over to
Freddy Farmer.
"Here you are, sonny boy," he said, and leaned over to put the glass to
the English youth's lips. "Be Papa's great big man. Have a drink. Go
on, take some!"
Freddy Farmer groaned just once more, then leaned forward as though he
were going to drink. But he didn't drink. He became an exploding ball
of chain lightning, instead. Almost before Dave Dawson's startled eyes
could register what was taking place, Freddy Farmer whipped his right
hand around from behind his back and plucked the redhead's automatic
from its holster. In what was practically the same motion, the English
youth stood up and clubbed the gun down on the redhead's ear. At the
same time Freddy brought up his left clenched fist and landed solidly
on the man's jaw. The man closed his eyes, and folded up like an old
army cot to the floor.
The English youth didn't so much as watch the redhead crumple. Instead
he brought the automatic down into line with the pilot sitting stunned
at the table on the other side of the room.
"Don't even wink an eye!" Freddy barked, and slowly sat down again. "I
can put a bullet in your rotten heart from here with my eyes closed.
Keep your hands just as they are on the table. Don't move them an inch,
you dirty blighter!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
_Westward To War_
As Freddy Farmer hurled the words at the pilot, he reached down with
his other hand and fumbled with the ropes tied about his ankles. In
less than a minute he had them free. Still keeping his eye on the
pilot, who now was practically green with terror, he went over and
around in back of the man. In less time than it takes to tell about it,
he had his gun. Then he jerked him from his chair and spun him around.
"Sorry, old thing," he said, tight-lipped. "But you shouldn't say
things like that about America. Next to England, it's the grandest
country on earth."
The pilot blinked stupidly. Then he closed his eyes for good. He did
so because Freddy Farmer slugged him on the jaw, putting every ounce
of his one hundred and fifty-five pounds behind the blow. The pilot
turned slowly around twice, then fell flat on his face alongside his
unconscious pal. And it was then Dave realized he was not dreaming, and
was able to find his tongue.
"Holy jumping jellyfish!" he gasped. "I--I thought you'd blown your
top, Freddy. But it was a gag, huh? Boy, oh boy! Me for you, pal, every
day in the week, and twice on Sundays. Gee, Freddy! I'm a no good bum
for thinking--"
"Quite!" the English youth said with a wide grin. "But I'll forgive you
this once. But speaking of gags. I'll free the Colonel, and then see
about you. Just cool your heels a bit, my little man."
Moving over to the Colonel, Freddy took the gag away and freed the
senior officer's hands and feet. It wasn't until he was completely free
that the Intelligence chief was able to speak.
"I'll never forget this, Farmer, never!" he exclaimed in a rush of
words. "One of the finest things I ever saw in my life. I can hardly
believe it even now. It--well, it was like magic. It must have been.
How in blue blazes did you manage to free your hands? Mine were tied so
tight they still feel broken in a dozen places."
As the Colonel spoke he rubbed his hands and wrists vigorously. Freddy
blushed to the roots of his hair, but there was a pleased grin on his
lips.
"They tied me pretty tight, too, sir," he said. "But a chap in England
once showed me a trick of holding your hands so that there's still a
little slack no matter how tight they're tied. It doesn't work with
most people. I mean you have to have thin hands, and be able to sort
of fold them up so's they're no thicker than your wrists. Then you can
slide the ropes off, if you work at it long enough. I--well, I was able
to do it. The moaning and the request for a drink was just to get one
of them close enough. I hope you don't think I meant the things I said,
sir."
"Don't worry," the Colonel said, and slapped Freddy on the shoulder.
"You can say anything you want, at any time, and it will always be
okay with me, after this. I mean it! You make me feel like an amateur,
Farmer. It was wonderful. But let's get these two tied up while they're
still listening to the birdies. What a sweet punch you've got, Farmer.
And at your weight, too! You'd keep Joe Louis busy any time. But let's
get at these two, and get going."
Freddy and the Colonel bent over the two prostrate forms and started
roping them up hand and foot. Dave watched for a moment, then made
sounds in his throat.
"Hey!" he shouted. "I'm here, you know!"
Freddy turned his head and looked at him. Bright lights danced in the
English youth's eyes.
"Why, so you are," he murmured, and gave the Colonel a quick wink.
"Just who are you? And when did you come in?"
"Cut the comedy!" Dawson howled. "Get these confounded ropes off me, or
I'll fan your breeches plenty next time I get my hands on you, young
fellow!"
Freddy shrugged, pursed his lips and cocked an eyebrow at the Colonel.
"Bit violent, isn't he?" he grunted. "Think we should let him loose, or
wait a bit until he cools down?"
"I don't know," the Colonel said with a chuckle. "You're the boss. Do
as you think best. Maybe, if he said 'pretty please,' or something."
"Quite," Freddy said, and turned to Dave. "Say 'pretty please,' and
I'll consider it," he grinned.
Dave looked daggers, and pressed his lips tightly together. Freddy
sighed, stood up and started brushing dust off his uniform.
"What do we do now, sir?" he asked, and deliberately turned his back
on Dawson. "Want me to fly you to San Diego, and have somebody come
back for these three? Or--"
"Okay, okay, you win, you sawed off made in England little runt!" Dave
roared. "Pretty please, confound you. Now untie me, for cat's sake."
Freddy walked over to him and leveled a reprimanding finger.
"Such a tone of voice!" he admonished sternly. "Say it nicely, just as
you were taught in school, now."
Dave turned forty different colors of the rainbow, but he finally
managed to swallow his wrath.
"Pretty please," he said. "I will remember this moment always. And I
mean _always_, you cluck!"
Freddy laughed, and in half a minute had Dave free. As he pulled the
last rope loose, he stepped quickly backward and set himself for the
expected rush. But Dave simply rubbed his hands and wrists and glared
at him.
"Relax!" he growled. "I'm going to save this one up, you betcha! And
when the right time comes, will you sing a song and dance a dance for
me! Kidding aside, though, Freddy, that was something. I really mean
it. Boy! Can you always come up with something new! But don't think
that means I'm going to forget, you little bum. My turn will come."
Freddy grinned at him impishly, and then both stopped their horse play
and turned serious eyes toward the Colonel.
"We can still make San Diego with time to spare, sir," Dave said with a
glance at his watch. "Are we going to take those two along with us?"
"We certainly are," the Colonel said, and pointed a finger at the
pilot. "That one is just ripe to be cracked wide open. He'll blab
everything he knows to save his own neck. I've met his type often. Hard
as nails on the surface, but completely yellow underneath."
"It's pretty hard to believe that a couple of Americans would stoop
this low," Dave said, tight-lipped. "But I suppose the Axis has a fifth
column working here in the States just as they had in every other
country they tackled."
"True enough," the Colonel replied with a nod. "And as the saying
goes, some men will sell their souls for gold. Those two are the type.
Country and flag don't mean a thing to them. Something twisted inside
of them. They weren't put together right in the first place. But this
is a big thing for my bureau, boys! And for the F.B.I., too. I have
a hunch I know who their big boss is--a man the F.B.I.'s been after
for weeks. There'll be a welcoming committee waiting for him tonight.
Have no fear of that. Before we get going, however, I want to have a
quick look around here. Give me a hand. Maybe we'll find something of
importance. We've got an hour or so, haven't we?"
"Easy," Dave replied. "Shall we hunt for something special?"
"Hunt for anything!" the Colonel said grimly. "And pray for a miracle
find."
Exactly one hour and six minutes later they had finished going over
the room with fine tooth comb thoroughness. The net result was a batch
of papers that the Colonel clutched in his hand. A couple of them had
lists of names and addresses. The others were covered with messages
that were all in code, and couldn't be broken down right at the moment.
The Colonel was pleased with the results, but there was just the
slightest gleam of disappointment in his eyes. Dave saw the gleam and
wondered.
"We didn't find the miracle, sir?" he asked. "What was it?"
The Colonel tapped the papers and shook his head.
"It could be in this stuff, but I doubt it," he said. "I mean a clue
that would help us with the Carrier Indian business. However, I don't
think--"
The chief of U. S. Intelligence suddenly stopped, and a cold hard
glint came into his eyes. He turned around and stared down at the two
trussed up men on the floor. Both had recovered consciousness and were
watching him out of eyes brimming with terror. The Colonel eyed them
for a moment, then stepped forward and deliberately picked up one of
the two automatics Freddy had placed on the table. Turning, he sighted
the gun and pulled the trigger. The gun roared sound and flame. A hole
appeared in the floor a half inch from the redhead's left ear, and the
man screamed like a stuck pig. Colonel Welsh leveled the gun again and
drilled a hole in the floor a half inch from the redhead's other ear.
"See?" he barked. "I know a little about trick shooting, myself. Okay.
How's this for a bull's-eye? Right between those two. Right on the end
of your nose!"
The man screamed and writhed about on the floor.
"Don't, don't!" he gasped. "Oh, please don't, Colonel! Don't let me
have it."
"Then what about your brother rat aboard the Carrier Indian?" Colonel
Welsh thundered. "Who is he? What name is he using? What's his rank?
Speak up, you! I've got an itchy trigger finger, too!"
The redhead gasped, and gurgled, and choked, and sobbed in a desperate
effort to get the words out of his mouth in a hurry.
"I don't know, I don't know!" he cried. "We don't know anything about
the Carrier Indian. Honestly, we don't, Colonel. We just got orders
to stop you and these two kids from getting to San Diego. We only got
orders to stop them from going aboard the Indian. We don't know nothing
about her, honest to Pete. We don't even know why our boss didn't want
them two kids to go aboard. That's the truth, on my word of honor."
"You have no honor!" the Colonel told him coldly. Then he slowly
sighted the gun on a point between the pilot's eyes. "Well?" he
demanded. "You tell me then!"
The pilot turned white as a sheet under his beard, and looked as if he
were going to faint. His eyes popped way out, and spittle drooled out
the corners of his mouth.
"I don't know either!" he cried hoarsely. "So help me, Colonel, I'm
willing to spill everything I know. But I don't know a thing about the
Indian business. Go on, shoot me right between the eyes if I'm telling
you any lie. We just manned this station. And like he said, we got
orders to stop those two from going aboard the Indian. So help me!
That's the truth!"
Colonel Welsh hesitated, then shrugged and stuck the gun in his pocket.
"It was too much to hope for, anyway," he muttered more to himself.
"Let's get going. You lads get the plane started while I lug these two
outside. A mighty big day for America so far. Now, if only you two
can--"
The senior officer sighed and let the rest hang in the air. Then he
bent over, caught each man by the heels, and hauled them out into the
brilliant sunshine like a couple of logs. They yelped and babbled with
pain, but the Colonel had deaf ears. Twenty minutes later the two fifth
column prisoners were stowed aboard the Stinson, and the plane's props
were ticking over. Dave and Freddy had refilled the tanks from tins of
gas they found in the second shack. The shiny thing that Dave had seen
under the trees from the air proved to be a high speed Waco fitted with
two machine guns. For a moment they debated whether or not one of them
should fly it back. On second thought, though, they decided it was best
for them all to stick together in the same ship, and let somebody else
pick up the Waco later.
"Okay, all aboard!" Dave finally announced, and gave Freddy a friendly
slap on the back. "Go on and fly her, pal. You've sure earned the
honor. And, heck, my nerves can stand anything, now."
"I knew the compliment would have a nasty ending to it!" the English
youth growled, and shook his head. "No, fly her yourself. I've done my
share of work today. Besides, you know this neck of the world. I don't."
"Well, somebody fly it!" Colonel Welsh shouted from inside the cabin.
"We've still got to get to San Diego, you know. Come on, snap it up,
you two!"
"Okay!" Dave growled, and shouldered Freddy Farmer out of the way. "If
I must I must. Who was your slave last year, Mister?"
"Same chap," Freddy said with a chuckle. "And his good manners haven't
improved a bit. San Diego, my good man! And in a bit of a hurry,
please!"
"Very good, sir!" Dave grunted and made a face. "And you can guess what
I'm _thinking_!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
_Death Strikes Often_
A huge ball of gold and red hung balanced on the western lip of
the world. Shafts of shimmering fire radiated out from it in all
directions. They filled the sky with a mixture of shades that ranged
from a delicate pink to blood red. They bathed the earth with the same
hues, and seemed actually to creep into every nook and corner. The line
of planes on the San Diego field looked like the work of an imaginative
artist on nature's canvas rather than the real thing. It was a sight
to hold the eye and catch the breath--but Dave Dawson stared at it and
wasn't even conscious of what he was looking at.
He and Freddy Farmer were in the field Commandant's office, waiting for
Colonel Welsh to show up. But that was just the trouble. They had been
waiting for three solid hours for the Intelligence chief to return from
wherever he had gone. Three hours before Dave had put the Stinson down
on the field. At Colonel Welsh's order he had taxied it straight into
an empty hangar and cut the engines. The Colonel had jumped out and
disappeared for five minutes. He had returned with the field's C.O. and
a half dozen mechanics, and a closed car. The two fifth columnists had
been dumped in the car, and driven away. After hasty introductions to
the field Commandant, the Colonel had led them over to the field office
and told them to wait for him to return.
That had been three hours ago, and they were still waiting.
"Stop worrying, and come finish this food they sent over," Freddy
Farmer presently broke the silence. "Good grief, Dave, it doesn't do
any good to wear out the floor like that. Come on and have some more to
eat. Eggs, mind you! I haven't had an egg since I don't know when."
"You and your stomach!" Dave grated, and half turned from the window.
"You should choke on them. Look out there. The Indian! If they're
not getting ready to weigh anchor, then I'm nuts! Where is that guy,
anyway? He should have told us that--Jeepers!"
Freddy stopped some egg halfway to his mouth and looked up.
"What?" he demanded. "What's the matter?"
"The Colonel," Dave said with an effort. "I mean--I sure hope nothing's
happened to him."
Freddy Farmer considered that for a moment, then shrugged and carried
the egg the rest of the way to his mouth.
"Not likely, I think," he finally said. "Probably got those two chaps
to talk. Maybe it's made a difference. I mean, maybe he's decided to
call off this Indian show. Wouldn't mind that at all. They might post
us here at this field. Wonderful food, you know."
"It certainly _sounds_ good!" Dave cracked. Then, glancing out the
window again: "I sure hope they don't call off the show. That Indian
looks pretty nice to me out there. I could go for a trip on her.
Besides, I'm itching to take a whack or six at those dirty Japs. I
think I hate them worse than the Nazis, Freddy."
"Me, too, if that's possible," the English youth replied. "But I was
really talking just to hear myself. I'd like a trip on the Indian,
too. She's the latest of her class, and should have everything. Also,
according to the Colonel, she's steaming out to do battle. I could
fancy a little combat work. Doesn't pay to get rusty. My, but that meal
was good!"
"What a man!" Dave sighed at the window. "On an empty stomach he's not
worth a dime. Fill him up and he's a one man air force, and raring to
go. He's--"
Dave stopped short and wheeled quickly as the door opened and Colonel
Welsh came inside. The man's face was grim, and there was the look of
angry defeat in his eyes.
"Sorry I took so long, fellows," he said, and dropped into a chair. "I
had to check up on a few things, and get a few things underway. Took
longer than I figured."
"Those rats told the truth, eh?" Dave grunted. "They still don't know a
thing about the Indian?"
The Colonel shook his head and clenched his two fists in a helpless
gesture.
"Not a thing!" he got out savagely. "But they seem to be the only two
who don't."
"What do you mean by that, sir?" Freddy asked.
"Well, I don't mean it exactly the way I put it," the Colonel said with
a shake of his head. "But it seems the entire Axis organization in this
country has found out that their agent aboard the Indian has stolen the
battle plans of the carrier, and that I was to put four men aboard to
try and trap him and nail him to the mast. Those two agents of mine,
and you two."
"Your two agents got aboard last night, sir?" Dave prompted as the
senior officer stopped talking abruptly.
"No," was the bitter reply. "They were shot and killed as they stepped
into the waiting tender at the Navy pier."
"Shot?" Dave gasped. "Gee! That was tough. I hope the killers were
caught."
"They were, and captured dead," the Colonel said bluntly. "Two
waterfront rats. Looked that, anyway. One a Jap, obviously. The other
looked like a German. No papers or anything on him, though. So he could
have been almost any nationality. But the important thing is, that I
found the leak in my own organization. I put through a call to Captain
Lamb and he told me. He'd sent word to our San Diego office last night
for me to contact him at once. I called him, and--"
"The bloke reading the book in your outer office!" Freddy Farmer cried.
"The man who ran the elevator!" Dave exclaimed.
Colonel Welsh caught his breath and shot a hard look at Dawson.
"How did you know?" he demanded.
"I didn't," Dave replied. "But I had a hunch it might be one of those
two. It had to be somebody close to you, and--well, Freddy had already
picked the one in the outer office."
"It was the one who brought you up in the elevator," Colonel Welsh
said with an effort. "It's--it's things like this that almost make me
lose faith. That man had been in the bureau for six years. For four
years before that he was connected with Secret Service. His record was
spotless. And the amazing part is that he had performed some valuable
services for me. But that goes to show you the finesse of the Gestapo
and Nazi agent technique. Shows you how long ago Hitler laid plans for
America. I would have staked my life on Babson, but--"
The officer paused and gestured despairingly.
"But of course I would have lost my life!" he suddenly bit off. "But
for an accident I'd never have found out, perhaps. And who knows what
else that would have cost us? He was taking Lamb down late last night.
As he opened the doors a slip of paper fell out of his pocket. Lamb
caught it in mid-air, and was starting to hand it back when he saw
what was on the paper. It was a bit of code, obviously jotted down in
a hurry. But it was a code that only Lamb and I knew, not another
soul in the world. For years he and I have been working on a code that
can't possibly be broken down by any of the experts. We thought we had
found it. Kept our papers on it in a safe. Only Lamb and I knew the
combination--we thought."
"What happened, sir?" Freddy asked eagerly as Colonel Welsh let his
voice trail off into silence. "Did Captain Lamb make the dirty beggar
confess?"
The chief of U. S. Intelligence shook his head.