"What's that?" Freddy Farmer spoke up. "What do you mean, no real Jap?"
"A Nazi can pass for an Englishman, or a Yank, or 'most any nationality under the sun," Dave said. "But that's barring the yellow races, of course. And that's just what I mean. A Jap aboard an American ship can't pass for a Yank. He's out and out of the yellow race. And you haven't any Americanized Japs on the Indian, have you, sir?"
Dave directed the last at Colonel Welsh, who instantly shook his head.
"None," the senior officer said. "Not a one. And you've got the right idea, Dawson. It couldn't have been a Jap who killed Jackson and Pollard. So it must have been one of Hitler's men, or maybe one of Mussolini's. I doubt that, though. Italians just haven't got the brains to be that clever. So a Hitlerite is our man. Naturally he's cooperating with the Japs, and will pass on what he has the first instant he can. That's our job, though: to nail him, and nail him good, before he has that chance."
"I suppose you've checked the Indian's list of officers and lesser ratings, haven't you, sir?" Dave asked.
"Backwards and forwards!" the Colonel said savagely. "And up and down as well. We've dug into every man's life with pick and shovel, you might say, and didn't come up with so much as a single suspicion. That's the devilish part of this kind of a thing. It's quite possible that this particular rat, or rats, has served in our navy for years. The whole civilized world is learning more and more each new day, to its sorrow, how thoroughly Germany and Japan planned for this thing long, long ago. When Hitler was somebody we just laughed at and made jokes about, he was sending his confounded spies to the four ends of the earth, and getting them all set to do their part when Der Tag arrived. But I don't have to tell this to you. You two have no doubt seen countless examples of that sort of thing."
The chief of Intelligence paused for a moment and slowly closed his long tapering fingers into rock hard fists.
"I'm a spy myself," he said eventually, "so I think I have a good idea of both sides of the picture in this kind of business. A spy is regarded as the lowest form of worm in wartime, and he's usually shot five minutes after he is caught. But there have been a lot of spies who were brave and gallant men, and they took the job of going behind the enemy lines because that was the best way they could serve their country. But the type of spy such as we're dealing with now—the slinking rat who in peace-time becomes the citizen of another country, enjoys all of its advantages, and then turns on that country when his former country goes to war—well—he is in my opinion the rottenest form of vermin that ever existed. He doesn't rate the privilege of being shot when caught. He should be strung up by the thumbs, and skinned alive."
"And even that's too good for him!" Captain Lamb echoed viciously. "Those who bite the hand that's feeding them deserve the worst of the worst. And man! Would I give my life just to get my hands on that skunk aboard the Indian, whoever he is!"
Dave was slightly startled by the almost berserk rage in the redheaded Captain's voice. He glanced at Colonel Welsh and saw a look of pity and sympathy flit across the chief of U. S. Intelligence officer's face. That expression told much to Dave, and he glanced at Captain Lamb again.