“Listen to the bloke, will you?” he groaned. “Of all the cheeky ideas he gets. Didn’t ask me if I’d rather not come! Well, I like that. When the truth is that Colonel Welsh said to me, out of your hearing, he said—'I say, Farmer, if you don’t think Dawson would be of any value to you this time—!’”
The English youth cut off the rest and made a little significant gesture. Dave glared daggers at him, and then chuckled.
“Chalk one up for you, pal!” he cried. “I walked into that one with my eyes wide open, and got clipped. Okay. Kidding is off the books from here on in. Have you seen any sign of that agent who is supposed to tag along after us—just in case? He’s flying a Navy Grumman job with Air Corps markings. I saw his ship over on the other side of the field.”
“So did I,” Freddy replied. “But I haven’t seen him since. And I’ve been looking. Perhaps he decided not to get close enough for us to see him. Then the other bloke wouldn’t see him either. I say, Dave, do you really think that baited trap idea will work?”
“I don’t know,” Dawson replied with a scowl. “Right now the hunch department isn’t working. But I hope he does show up. When I think of poor Tracey—”
Dave lifted a hand and slowly closed it into a rock hard fist to indicate the rest of his sentence.
“Quite!” Freddy Farmer echoed, and patted the butts of his rear cockpit guns. “And right now I’m not sure I’d hold my fire if the blighter jumped out with his parachute. But it’s the dirty rotter at the Albuquerque end I’d rather meet. He’s the beggar who really did in poor Tracey.”
“Well, let’s hope this is our lucky day,” Dave said. “Let’s hope we get a good fair crack at both of them, or the six, or the dozen of them, if there are that many!”
With a nod for emphasis, Dave turned front and stared flint-eyed at the banks of clouds that were beginning to pile up above the eastern slopes of the mountain range. After a while the flinty look died out of his eyes, and was replaced by a look of thoughtful speculation. Then suddenly he grinned to himself.
“Guess this is the way with war,” he murmured softly, “at least with Intelligence work. You get faced with a mystery that hasn’t any strings hanging out of it at all. So you grab at what you hope is a string, and follow it through. If you’re lucky, one thing leads to another, and you begin to get results. If you’re not lucky, you get kicked in the face, and most times end up in a hole six feet deep. So here’s hoping Lady Luck is still smiling on Freddy and me!”