“Anyone see Al?” demanded Pat.
“He left just before sundown to get some supplies he needed,” said Erich Gaunt. “He should have been back half an hour ago.”
“We’ll wait a few minutes more,” said Pat, hurrying below to inform Commander Ford that the cook was missing.
A half hour elapsed and Al was still among the missing. At Commander Ford’s Order, the crew scattered along the docks, seeking their missing cook. By ten o’clock, with still no trace of Al, the commander gave the order to clear the lines. The S-18 was going without its cook.
“Maybe you can find him in the hoosegow in the morning,” Pat told Tim. “If you do, load him in your plane and bring him along. We need a good cook.”
“I’ll do my best to find him,” promised Tim as the S-18 slipped away from the dock.
Tim watched the submarine until its lights faded into the night. He made arrangements with the watchman at the dock to keep an eye on the seaplane. Then he turned away from the waterfront. He was unfamiliar with the city and he stumbled along a poorly lighted street. From an alley to his right came a groan. Tim hesitated. It sounded like a human being in agony, but it might be a waterfront trap of thugs to lure him from the street.
The sound came again. There was no mistaking it this time. Someone was in great pain. Tim ducked into the alley. Along one wall was a huddled form. He bent down and lifted the man’s head. It was too dark to distinguish the features and Tim lugged the man to the head of the alley where the rays from a street lamp half a block away gave him some light.
He bent down again and looked into the battered face of Al Hardy, the missing cook.