“Dey don’t see it, don’t hear it.”
“Perhaps they were asleep.”
“No, no. Not dat. Squattin’ by de fire, playin’ cards. Dey don’t hear dat boat. Don’t see it, I tell you.”
“Then,” said Drew Lane, “our search narrows. The boat landed somewhere between the old warehouse and the gypsy camp. Can’t be more than six blocks apart. Let’s see, what’s out that way?”
“Some homes,” said Howe. “Some shacks—abandoned, tumble-down places—a roadhouse or two. The airport is not far away.”
“That’s right, the airport.” Drew said these words with little animation. At that moment the airport did not enter deeply into his conscious thoughts. In time it was to take on a deep significance.
“All right, Rat. Good work! Here’s your breakfast.” Howe pressed a bill into the Rat’s paw-like hand.
At this instant there came a loud banging at the door.
With a startled glance the Rat sprang for a second door at the opposite end of the room. This door opened into Tom Howe’s tiny laboratory for the scientific study of crime. The window of this room looked out on the fire escape.
Neither Drew Lane nor Tom Howe paid the slightest attention to the Rat’s going. He was by nature what his name implied; a loud banging at any door found him seeking a hole through which he might escape.