A sneer twisted Old Curmudgeon's hard features, and anger blazed coldly in his blue eyes. "You wish to make a clean breast of the whole thing, Curtis?"
"I've been proved guilty of nothing," Curtis reminded him. "I have nothing to confess. If you don't want to listen to me—"
Old Curmudgeon's eyes softened. The lines of his face relaxed. "I'm listening."
Curtis quickly told him of the words he'd overheard as he lay half conscious on the bridge of the Comerford, and of how they dovetailed with the information obtained from the British Intelligence Service.
Henderson seemed impressed. There was a more respectful note in his gruff voice. He picked up his telephone and started to dial.
"Remember, Curtis, I'm doing this at your insistence!"
Crisply, concisely, he gave his message, then got up from his desk and went to the window. His eyes turned toward the basin, where the big navy patrol bombers lay at their floats. His head cocked, as if listening for the roar of their motors.
Curtis moved toward him. His eyes lighted with hope as he heard the man-made thunder, saw the big birds taxi out, pick up speed, go soaring into the air, after kicking their spiteful way off the tops of a few waves.
"They'll have our answer," Henderson said, "within a few hours. I'll let you know what happens!"
Curtis took the words as meaning that he was dismissed. He thanked Old Curmudgeon and started back for his quarters.