Dave’s eyes were bulging out, and his heart was hammering furiously against his ribs as he recovered from the sudden dive and brought the Vultee back onto even keel.
“I knew it, I knew it!” he choked out.
“Knew what?” Freddy cried angrily. “For Heaven’s sake, what’s got into you?”
“Another hunk of the mystery puzzle, Freddy!” Dave shouted as he twisted around in the seat. “Remember how I said we should both keep chewing over poor Tracey’s four words that sounded like Albuquerque? Well, that’s just what he meant, Freddy. But not Albuquerque, New Mexico!”
“No?” the English youth cried breathlessly, and leaned way forward so that he could see the map chart Dave Dawson held in his hands. “Then what did he mean?”
“He said 'southern Albuquerques'!” Dave cried. “Get it? Plural! That’s what he meant—right there!”
As Dave spoke the last he touched a fingertip to a point on the map chart. It was a group of tiny islands about a hundred and twenty-five miles due east of the central east coast of Nicaragua. And right underneath the group of tiny dots was printed:
ALBUQUERQUE CAYS
Freddy had been holding his breath while he stared at the map chart, and when he let it out it was close to the whistle of a locomotive.
“Good grief, you’re right, of course, Dave!” he cried. “If he mentioned the words 'Cays,’ we must have missed it completely. But I’ll swear I didn’t hear any word that sounded like cays, did you?”