“John,” asked Garry, “what do these mean? There isn’t anything on them but printing. They say, ‘Admit bearer’ and give the Palace name and they are signed by the theatre manager. But there isn’t any help there, unless something is written on the backs in disappearing ink.”
“Maybe, if we heated them, or wet them, something would come out,” suggested Chick hopefully, “as they stand, they are just three passes.”
John, with a quiet smile on his copper-colored face, replied curtly:
“My father is a clever man. He put this with that, and know much. You try doing that.”
“Personally,” Mr. McLeod was a trifle sceptical, “I think they are part of the plot to confuse you and the rest of us. No doubt the old ‘medicine man’ is clever—clever enough to be involved in some way and to try to pretend that he is a helpful chap when his whole attention is to throw out a smoke screen to protect himself and—” he frowned at the young Indian, “—his son.”
Garry put them back in the skin bag, slipped it into his pocket and switched in the current to back the launch around.
“You might try using those passes,” the control chief suggested, as the boat moved down the channel.
Garry nodded.
“We will,” he agreed.
With the ignition key and a carburetor needle and float removed, the helicopter, tied once more to its stakes, was in no danger of being removed. They felt that they could safely leave it: no one would be able to use it with parts so vital missing. If the owner had a spare switch key, it was totally unlikely that the carburetor parts were duplicated.