“If I were you, Joey,” Vicki said, “I’d go to Mr. Quayle, the FBI investigator, and tell him about your conversation with Mr. Duke.”
“Gee, Vicki!” Joey was so startled by the suggestion that he neglected to add the usual “Miss” which he automatically put in front of her name. “Do you think Mr. Duke might have had something to do with the stolen gold?”
Vicki thought for a swift moment. Her vague, unformed suspicions wouldn’t make any sense to the boy. She said: “Not necessarily. But some mighty peculiar things have been going on around this airport. And even though you proved that you weren’t in the warehouse Thursday night, it was your flashlight the prowler dropped, and up to now you’re the only person who has come under suspicion. I think you ought to go to Mr. Quayle, if, for no other reason, than to show that you want to do everything you can to help him. Besides, sometimes little odd, unrelated facts can be the key that opens up the whole mystery. I’m not saying this one is,” she added hastily, “I’m just saying that it could be.”
“Gee!” Joey said again. “If you think I should, I’ll certainly do it.”
“And do it right now,” Vicki advised, “before you report back to work.”
Joey looked anxiously at the clock over the lunch counter.
“I’m supposed to be back on the job in five minutes. Van’s a good guy, but he gets sore when people are late.”
“Just tell him the FBI sent for you again. I know it’s a sort of fib, but under the circumstances I think it will be all right. And it ought to satisfy your boss.”
As the two were about to get up from their seats, a tall, dark-haired young man in a leather windbreaker loomed over the booth.
“Hello there, Joey!” His browned face smiled at Vicki. “Hello,” he said.