“I sure as hell don’t,” he said.
“Well,” Saufley said carelessly; “that wasn’t nobody much. Just Billy Mitchell.”
Dorman’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” he said. “General Mitchell. I guess he saw the—er—mess?”
Saufley nodded. Dorman pulled off his helmet and went over to the cubicle. He flung his helmet against the wall and swore loudly and took off his coat and shirt and poured a pan of water. He washed himself loudly and continued to swear, then he dressed and went back to the hangar.
“Get somebody to take me over to headquarters,” he told Saufley.
Saufley went inside the hangar and in a moment a mechanic rode out with a motorcycle and sidecar. Dorman piled in without saying anything. He looked back off in the direction where he had seen Luf chasing the Fokker but there was nothing in the sky. It was serene and blue.
General Mitchell had his headquarters in a two story house on the Rue Pigalle, and the motorcycle jerked to a stop before the huge iron grillwork.
Dorman got down and went inside. He announced himself and in a minute was shown into a deep-ceilinged room. There was a desk in the center and behind it sat the General.
Dorman saluted and the General nodded.