DAVE DAWSON AT
CASABLANCA

BOOKS BY R. SIDNEY BOWEN

Dave Dawson at Dunkirk
Dave Dawson with the R. A. F.
Dave Dawson in Libya
Dave Dawson on Convoy Patrol
Dave Dawson at Singapore
Dave Dawson with the Pacific Fleet
Dave Dawson with the Air Corps
Dave Dawson on the Russian Front
Dave Dawson Flight Lieutenant
Dave Dawson with the Commandos
Dave Dawson with the Flying Tigers
Dave Dawson on Guadalcanal

DAVE DAWSON
AT
CASABLANCA

by
R. SIDNEY BOWEN

The War Adventure Series

CROWN PUBLISHERS
New York

COPYRIGHT 1944 BY CROWN PUBLISHERS

All rights reserved, including the right
to reproduce this book, or portions
thereof, in any form.




Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to
Johnny Bogardus

CONTENTS

DAVE DAWSON AT CASABLANCA

CHAPTER ONE

"Where is that Freddy Farmer guy, anyway?" he grated to himself. "For half an hour I've been pounding shoe leather here waiting for him. Darned if he isn't worse than a woman, not being at a place on time. But he's probably lost. And if he is, he can stay lost for all I care."

With a sharp nod for emphasis, he walked over to the newsstand and bought a bar of candy. The Union News lad back of the counter glanced at the row of decoration ribbons under Dawson's wings, and gave him a smile and the kind of look that said he'd like to hear about some of Dawson's experiences. Dave ignored the look, however, and turned away. He didn't want to talk about the war. In fact, he didn't even want to think about it. Freddy and he were enjoying a much-deserved leave, and they still had four days to go. And until those four days had come and gone, the war could be on another world as far as he was concerned. Right! The heck with it for four more days!

For the hundred-and-first time Dawson looked at the information-booth clock. The hands said twenty-seven minutes of four now, and Dave made noises in his throat once again. He pulled two hockey-game tickets out of his tunic pocket and looked at them.

"For two cents I'd leave him flat and get somebody else to go with me!" he muttered. "I should have drawn the bum a map so he could use it to get over here from Times Square. He—"

He let the rest trail off as he saw Freddy Farmer hurrying toward him from the direction of the IRT shuttle train to Times Square. He fixed the English-born air ace with a disgusted eye and watched him approach. Freddy came up to him all smiles and slightly flushed.

"Waiting for somebody, old thing?" he greeted Dave.

"No!" Dawson snapped. "And my mother taught me never to speak to strangers. So scram, before I call a cop."

"Speaking of your New York cops," Freddy Farmer chuckled, "I wouldn't be here now, if it hadn't been for a bobby in the Bronx."

"Bronx?" Dawson exploded. "What the heck were you doing up there? This morning you said you were going to hear Benny Goodman's band over at the Paramount Theatre."

"And so I did," Freddy replied with a nod. "And it was absolutely topping. But—"

"Topping, he says!" Dawson snorted. "You should show your passport when you use words like that. You mean keen, or in the groove, or on the beam, or strictly the nuts. But what about the Bronx? Did Goodman lead a parade?"

"If you'll be so kind as to shut that big mouth of yours, I'll explain!" Freddy snapped. "After the show I had something to eat, and—"

"As if I couldn't guess that!" Dawson grunted. "And so?"

"And so when I came out of the restaurant it was snowing," the English youth said. "And—"

"Snowing, in January?" Dawson mock-gasped and widened his eyes. "Well, what do you know about that? So you just stood there and watched it snowing in January, of all times, while I cooled my heels here waiting for you!"

"Do you want to listen, or would you rather give that tongue of yours exercise?" Freddy Farmer bit off.

"Okay, okay, but make it good!" Dawson sighed. "I've got two tickets for the Ranger-Chicago Hawks hockey game tonight. Make your story good, or somebody else goes with me!"

"What?" Freddy cried. "You've got—Good grief! Now we've got four!"

"Four what?" Dawson demanded. "Or am I supposed to guess?"

"Four tickets to the hockey game," Freddy Farmer said, and produced two from his own pocket. "I couldn't remember who was to get the tickets. So after I came out of the restaurant, I walked up to Madison Square Garden and got two tickets just to be sure. And—What's the matter, Dave? You suddenly sick, or something?"

The last was because Dawson had made a face, groaned, and clapped one hand to his forehead. With the other he reached out and grabbed Freddy's hand that held the hockey-game tickets, and jerked it up until the tickets were about an inch from the end of the English youth's nose.

"Boy, are you something!" he groaned. "Take a look, Bright Eyes! Take a good look! You went to the wrong window. Those tickets are for the Ranger-Boston Bruin game next Wednesday!"

"Oh, good grief, no!" Freddy cried. "I didn't know there was any special window. I just went to one and asked the chap for two good tickets to the next game. And he gave me these. I'll take them back and—"

"No, you won't, sweetheart!" Dawson interrupted, and shook his head. "You'll just be out that dough, and maybe it will teach you to use your head next time. We'll give the tickets to the first two soldiers we meet. But let's get back to the Bronx. Did the ticket fellow send you up there?"

"No, it was one of your blasted tube trains!" Freddy Farmer growled. "I asked the chap what tube I should take to get to Grand Central. He didn't understand me until I remembered that you call the tube the subway. So—"

"You mean you English guys call the subway the tube," Dawson cut in again. "How many times have I got to tell you that when in Rome shoot Roman candles! So you went to the subway, and—? Now what?"

Freddy Farmer didn't reply. He stood staring at something behind Dawson. Dave turned impulsively, but all he saw was a lot of people hurrying toward their respective destinations. He turned back and looked at Freddy.

"Okay, come up for air!" he growled. "What's eating you, anyway?"

"That chap over there by the ticket window," the English-born air ace finally said. "The chap in gray. I've seen him half-a-dozen times today."

"So what?" Dawson grunted. "It's a free country and a small world. What of it?"

"Nothing, except that the first time was in the lobby of the hotel as you and I were leaving," Freddy said. "And the next time he was three seats away from me in the Paramount. And the next time was in the restaurant; then at Madison Square Garden; and up in the Bronx, too."

"No kidding?" Dawson echoed, half expecting his pal to pull some kind of a gag.

"No kidding at all," Freddy replied promptly. "I'm certain that the chap has been following me around."

"Could be," Dawson murmured, and casually turned around so that he could get a look at the man in gray. "Frankly, though, you do look like a guy with itchy fingers, and we've got a lot of expensive things in this town. He's probably a plain-clothes detective from Police Headquarters."

"Then I'm definitely in a mess now!" Freddy Farmer snapped right back at him. "I'm sure it's a crime in any country to be caught talking to the likes of you! See him, Dave?"

"Yeah," Dawson grunted, turning back. "A nice-looking guy. And he didn't get that overcoat with cigarette coupons. We'll check up in a couple of minutes and see if he continues to trail you. Right now, though, I can hardly wait. What about the Bronx, anyway?"

"I took the wrong tube train, that's all," Freddy said. "And I went right to the end of the line, which was in the Bronx, but not a single station said Grand Central. I got off and asked a bobby how to get there. He was a very fine chap, and straightened me out. But, good grief, I've certainly seen a lot of New York today!"

"Well, don't ever take a subway to Brooklyn!" Dawson advised. "You wouldn't be back for a week. What shall we do now? Where'll we go, I mean. Want to take a subway ride?"

"Deliver me!" Freddy Farmer groaned. "Definitely, no! Personally, I'm hungry. Let's go find a nice restaurant and fuel up, what?"

"Okay," Dawson sighed. "I suppose you've got to have a nine-course snack to keep you from fainting until supper. Okay. But let's go to the dining room in the Biltmore Hotel next door. If your friend in gray follows you there, we'll know he's up to something. Ten to one, though, you've been having a pipe dream."

"Perhaps," Freddy Farmer admitted as he dropped into step with Dawson. "But that's definitely the same chap I've been seeing all day long. I wonder why the blighter is following me around? No, no, my little man! Just keep your opinion to yourself. I—I say, wait a minute, Dave!"

Freddy Farmer left Dawson's side and went over to two Yank soldiers who were obviously going no place, but just taking in the sights. They saluted him as he came up and stopped in front of them.

"I say, you two on leave, what?" he asked with a grin.

"Yes, sir," they replied together, and gave him a funny look.

"Will you be in town come next Wednesday?" Freddy asked again.

"Yes, sir," they replied in the same breath.

"Good!" Freddy beamed, and held out the hockey tickets. "Use these, if you like. And half a minute! Here, buy yourselves some little thing, what? And good luck."

Freddy Farmer added two one-dollar bills to the hockey tickets and walked away. The two soldiers gaped down at the two tickets and the two dollars.

"What's the matter with that guy; is he touched?" one of them mumbled. "And did you hear him, Fuzzy? He didn't even speak English!"

"Who cares?" Fuzzy asked as he came out of his trance. "Two four-buck-forty hockey tickets, and two bucks in cash! Who cares if the guy is touched? He's okay by me!"

"Well, well!" Dawson chuckled when Freddy joined him. "Darned if the kid didn't at that! And even let go of two bucks."

"All I had on me," Freddy said with a smile. "So that makes you the one to pay for our meal, see?"

"Oh, yeah?" Dawson jeered. "Well, don't look right now, but standing in your shoes is a guy who's heading for a lot of dish washing in the Biltmore kitchen!"

CHAPTER TWO

"Hey, come out of your spin, pal!" Dawson chuckled. "What do you think this is, Gestapo stuff?"

Freddy Farmer looked at Dawson and smiled slowly.

"I wouldn't know, old thing," he said. "You see, this isn't England, so I wouldn't know for sure what kind of funny business was afoot."

"Ouch!" Dawson yipped softly, and flung up an arm in front of his face. "Right in the eye, that time. You're improving each day with your snappy come-back, my young friend. Keep it up, and you'll be the life of the party some day. Well, I guess that's all the fodder I want right now. How's for a stroll around in the beautiful January snow, huh? But it's probably slush by now, and—Hey! I almost forgot! You think I'm paying for your meal, don't you? Well—"

"Of course not!" Freddy Farmer cut in quickly. "And just to show my heart's in the right place, I'll even pay for both of us."

"I wonder if there's a doctor in the house?" Dawson murmured, and stared hard at the English youth. "Sure you feel all right, Freddy?"

"Never felt better," the other replied. "Wait just a moment, will you, old thing? I'll be right back."

Before Dawson could ask questions, Freddy got up from his chair and walked quickly across the dining room and down the broad flight of carpeted steps to the lobby. Dawson blinked, then took a sip of water, and glanced over at the man in gray. The mysterious stranger was looking toward the lobby, and was in the act of pushing himself up out of his chair. He seemed to change his mind, however. He shot a quick look over Dawson's way, then settled back in his chair and went to work on a piece of pie the waiter had placed in front of him.

"That bird sure is plenty interested in Freddy," Dawson muttered to himself, and frowned. "I wonder what the heck's cooking around here, anyway?"

He played with that thought for two or three minutes, but was unable to get any place. And then as he happened to glance toward the dining-room lobby entrance, he saw Freddy Farmer standing there and beckoning to him urgently. Dawson raised questioning eyebrows, took a look toward the man in gray, got up from his chair, and started to leave the table. He had taken but two steps when the waiter appeared at his elbow.

"The check, Captain," the waiter said politely.

"Oh, yeah," Dawson murmured absently, and glanced at the total. He pulled some money from his pocket and gave it to the waiter. "There you are," he murmured again, and hurried over to the lobby entrance to the dining room where Freddy was waiting.

The English-born air ace greeted him with a grin like a Cheshire cat.

"And let that be a lesson to you, my good fellow," Freddy said with an emphatic nod of his head.

"Says which?" Dawson grunted, and gave him a blank look.

Freddy Farmer patted his stomach and licked his lips.

"A delicious meal, quite!" he breathed. "I hope you gave the waiter a decent tip. But, knowing you, I doubt it."

Dawson started violently, and his jaw dropped.

"Well, you little I-don't-know-what!" he eventually exploded. "Stuck me for the meal, didn't you? I knew darn well you must have had something in mind when you gave your last two bucks to those soldiers. You play the big-hearted big shot to them, and I get stuck for your two bucks' worth of food!"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Freddy Farmer chuckled. "Just say it's your share in the lease-lend agreement between America and England. I'll pay you back some day, too."

"Yeah!" Dawson sneered. "When I'm a hundred and six and have lost all my teeth. When I can eat only soup instead of a thick steak like I just bought for you. But you just wait, my little bowlegged pet! I'll—Oh-oh! The man in gray, eh?" Dawson added the last because of the flinty look that had suddenly leaped into Farmer's eyes.

"Quite!" Freddy murmured. "And I'm jolly well sick of this hide-and-seek business. I'm going to find out what the blighter's up to. I detest shadows, excepting my own."

With a grim nod Freddy Farmer stepped past Dawson and walked over toward the man in gray who was just leaving the dining room. Dawson impulsively swung around and followed him. The man in gray acted as though he did not see Freddy, but the English youth stopped in front of him, barring his way.

"Have you been wishing to speak to me, sir?" Freddy asked quietly. "Is that why you've been following me all over town all day?"

The man in gray looked blank for a moment. Then he shrugged and gave Freddy a friendly smile.

"It has been rather obvious, hasn't it, Captain Farmer?" he said as both Freddy and Dawson stared at him, dumbfounded. "But you went to a lot of places where I couldn't help but show myself. I guess you've had enough experience to guess when you're being trailed. The name is Carter, Captain."

As the man in gray introduced himself, he slipped something out of his pocket and held it cupped in his hand so both youths could see it. They took a good look at the gold F.B.I. badge and quickly raised their eyes to the man's face.

"The F.B.I. no less!" Dawson breathed. "What's up? Is Farmer wanted by the F.B.I.—I hope?"

The man chuckled and shook his head.

"No," he said. "Neither of you are, in fact. The two of us just had orders to keep an eye on you both."

"'Two of us'?" Dave echoed sharply. "You mean—" He let the rest go as the F.B.I. agent nodded.

"That's right, Captain Dawson," he said quietly, and made a faint gesture toward the other side of the lobby. "My partner has been looking after you, while I tried to keep up with Captain Farmer here. If Captain Farmer hadn't returned to the dining room, I'd have taken on the job of sticking with you, and my partner would have tackled Captain Farmer. Frankly, I would have enjoyed the change. But now—"

The F.B.I. agent grinned and shrugged.

"But now that the cat's out of the bag," he said, "suppose we stop playing cops and robbers and make it a foursome? My partner got tickets right behind your seats for the hockey game tonight. We're also staying at your hotel. Or would you rather be alone? Now don't be afraid that you'll hurt my feelings. I'll understand. After all, a couple of fellows on leave have their rights, you know."

"Yeah, sure, of course," Dawson mumbled absently, not quite sure if he was in the middle of a dream or not. "Sure, sure it's okay by Freddy and me. But—but look, sir. I mean, what's all the big idea? Why should the F.B.I. want to follow us around? I don't get it."

"To be perfectly frank, neither do I," Agent Carter made the amazing reply. "All I know is that two days ago we were given orders to come up from Washington, register at your hotel, and keep an eye on you two."

"But for what?" Freddy Farmer asked. "You mean you were to guard us from harm, or some such silly rot?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it silly rot, Captain," the F.B.I. man said gravely. "After all, you two are marked men, in a way. I mean by that, you've been thorns in the side of Axis Intelligence more than once since this Second World War started. Not that personal revenge by enemy agents in this country is to be expected. Yet, on the other hand, there's no sense in regarding it as impossible."

"Well, I'll be darned!" Dawson gulped. "But that's just plain screwy. Why, I can name several dozen famous soldiers in this war that the Axis would love to get a million times more than they'd want to get us. Do you mean that everybody who's got in a few pokes at the Axis has an F.B.I. escort when he goes on leave?"

"Hardly," Agent Carter said with a smile. "Let's say that you two happen to be special cases. Why, you can search me. Lots of times we're given orders, and we have no idea what's behind them. Let's go over and meet my partner. Or is my suggestion of a moment ago out?"

"No," Dawson replied. "I told you it was okay by us. Besides, maybe your partner can tell us things."

"If he can, he won't," Agent Carter said. "You can count on that, I'm afraid. His name is Hickson, and it so happens that he's a rabid Ranger fan. He comes from this town. Let's go over."

Still not quite sure that he wasn't being made the goat of some crazy gag, Dawson walked with Agent Carter and Freddy Farmer across the lobby to where a thin, almost sickly-looking man of uncertain years was seated in a chair reading a newspaper. He put down his paper and smiled as the trio approached. It was then Dawson had a vague feeling he had seen that thin face somewhere quite recently. Then as Agent Carter made the introductions, it came to Dawson. Agent Hickson had been the man next in line behind him when he had bought tickets for the hockey game. As he shook hands and mumbled some pleasantry, Dave realized he had seen that thin face other places, too, during the day.

"Did I give you as much trouble, Agent Hickson," he asked, "as Farmer seems to have given Agent Carter?"

"No, Captain," the other replied with a twinkle in his eye. "And don't ever go in for crime. You'd be a cinch."

"With those big flat feet, it would be obvious!" Freddy Farmer chuckled, as the red climbed into Dawson's face.

"Okay, okay!" Dave growled and grinned at the same time. "I'm not like you, with things on your conscience! So naturally I wouldn't even give it a thought that anybody was following me. But look, Agent Hickson, can you add anything to what Agent Carter has told us? Which was absolutely nothing."

"I'm afraid I can't, Captain." Hickson smiled, and shook his head. "Carter and I are just a couple of slaves who do what we're told and ask no questions."

"But you do know something, only you won't tell us, what?" Freddy Farmer pressed the issue.

The F.B.I. man shook his head again and made a little cross mark over his heart.

"I honestly don't know a thing," he said, "except that I like this particular job. I'm from New York, you know. And I'm a hockey fan, in case Carter hasn't told you."

"He has," Dawson grinned, and glanced at his wrist watch. "And I sort of go for the game, myself. It's hours, though, before game time. Anybody have any suggestions what to do until then? Listen, Freddy! Eating is strictly out, at least for a couple of hours!"

"You don't have to shout, old thing; I hear you," the English youth replied. "Yes, I have a suggestion. I've been meaning to see that United Nations display they have at Radio City. What say we go back to the hotel and clean up a bit? These blasted American shoes I bought yesterday are killing me."

Dawson started to shake his head, but instantly checked the movement. A gleam leaped into his eyes.

"Fair enough," he said. "I could do with a clean shirt myself. Come on. We'll take a cab."

During the cab ride across town to the hotel, they talked of this and that and nothing in particular. When the cab pulled up in front of the hotel, Dawson opened the door, let the two F.B.I. men get out ahead of him, and got out quickly himself, leaving Freddy Farmer the last to alight. Without so much as a look over his shoulder, Dawson linked arms with the two F.B.I. men and hurried them up the steps into the hotel.

"Dave!" he heard Freddy Farmer call out. "Oh, I say, Dave!"

The two F.B.I. men wanted to stop, but Dawson practically pushed them through the doors.

"It's okay," he chuckled. "Just his turn to be left holding the bag. He'll be right in. You'll see."

That was exactly the case. A moment later Freddy came hurrying inside, flush-faced, with a very hard-eyed taxicab driver right at his heels.

"I say, Dave!" the English youth panted. "You know I haven't a bean on me. Let me have—"

"We're all broke!" Dawson said coldly. "You were last out, anyway. Go over to the desk, borrow the fare, and have it put on your bill. I'll see if there's any mail for us. Meet you upstairs in our room."

Freddy Farmer glared and pursed his lips as though he were striving to hold back the blistering words that rose in his throat.

The cab driver looked at him and scowled darkly. "How's about it, General?" he growled. "I can't keep my hack out front all afternoon!"

"Oh yes, quite," Freddy said. "Come along!"

After giving a look that should have raised third-degree burns on the Yank pilot's face, Freddy went over to the lobby desk and spoke to the clerk. Bursting with inner laughter, Dawson watched Freddy's face grow redder and redder as the desk clerk gave him the fishy eye. Then the clerk went into the manager's office. He came right out, though, yanked open a desk drawer, and handed a bill to Freddy.

"Now I have got to watch my step, and how!" Dawson chuckled, and walked over to the mail window.

There was something in the box. It was a telegram addressed to them both. Dave ripped it open and was reading the message just as Freddy Farmer came over. The wire read:

"And so what?" Dave asked, looking at Freddy Farmer.

"So leave it over, I fancy," the English youth murmured with a frown. "I wonder what now?"

"You do the guessing; I'm stumped," Dawson said, glancing up quickly as Agents Carter and Hickson came over.

There was a telegram in Agent Carter's hand. Agent Hickson looked as though he had just lost his last friend.

"So we all take an airplane ride instead, eh?" Agent Carter said, and nodded at the wire in Dawson's hand.

"You too?" Dave questioned.

"Right," Agent Carter replied. "There are four reservations waiting for us at La Guardia."

"Wouldn't you know!" Agent Hickson groaned and shook his head sadly. "Wouldn't you know I was nuts to think I could mix pleasure with business!"

CHAPTER THREE

Agent Carter laughed and raised a protesting hand.

"Now let's not go into that again!" he said. "The answer is still that I don't know. Maybe Colonel Welsh will tell you. We can't, because we simply don't know. What's the matter, Captain Farmer?"

Freddy was just straightening up after sticking his head back in through the cab door opening. He shrugged and grinned.

"Just looking to see if you had your fingers crossed, sir, while you said that," he replied. "But I see you didn't, and so that's that. Well, cheerio, and good hunting, and all that sort of thing. Sorry I didn't speak to you sooner."

"That's the kind of tough break we get in our kind of job," Agent Carter said, and made a flip wave with his hand. "So long, until we meet again."

"And let's hope that'll be soon!" Dawson called out as the cab rolled away.

The two air aces stood on the curb until the taxi turned the corner toward Pennsylvania Avenue and was lost to view. Then they impulsively turned and looked at each other.

"Swell fellows, those two," Dawson said. "Wish we could have had more time together. I've always wanted to ask a real honest-to-goodness F.B.I. man a few questions."

"Then those two will never know how lucky they are," Freddy Farmer came right back. "But speaking of questions—"

"Check, and double-check!" Dawson echoed, and started across the sidewalk to the main entrance of the War Department Building. "The sooner we ask them, the sooner we may get an idea as to what the heck is going on."

The door guard stopped them and requested identification papers. They complied by producing their leave papers and the wire from Colonel Welsh. The guard referred to a book on his table desk, and nodded.

"Third floor, Captain," he said, and gave them each a building pass that had to be turned in when they left. "Room Three Twenty-Nine."

The two youths nodded, returned the guard's salute, and headed for the stairway. The door of Room 329 was just like all the other doors on that floor except that it had "Colonel Welsh, Private" painted on the glass. Dawson rapped his knuckles on the glass, and immediately received the summons to enter. Colonel Welsh, Chief of U. S. Armed Forces Intelligence, was seated behind a huge desk that seemed to take up most of the office. He was practically hidden behind a mass of papers, bound reports, and such, piled up all over the desk top.

He glanced up, smiled, pushed back his chair, and rose to come around the end of the desk.

"Welcome to Washington again, you two," he said, and shook hands. "A nice flight down?"

"Fine, sir," Dawson replied. "We had a couple of swell air companions, too. You in charge of the F.B.I. now, Colonel?"

"F.B.I.? Me?" Colonel Welsh echoed. "Hardly! Not as long as J. Edgar Hoover continues to run it so perfectly. But what do you mean?"

Dawson stared hard at the senior officer, and then gave a little sigh.

"Oh, so it's like that, eh?" he murmured. "I thought that maybe you might have had something to do with the two F.B.I. agents who trailed Freddy and me all over New York. I suppose you didn't?"

Colonel Welsh didn't reply at once. He motioned them to chairs and then reseated himself at his desk.

"No, not directly," he said in reply to Dawson's question. "But of course I knew all about it. So you spotted them, eh?"

"Freddy did," Dawson replied. "I didn't, because I have a clear conscience. We—or Freddy, I mean—called the turn on one of them. He 'fessed up and introduced us to his partner. Naturally, we asked questions, but they didn't, or wouldn't, admit they knew what it was all about."

"If you'll only explain, sir," Freddy Farmer chimed in, "maybe I'll be able to sleep tonight."

"Of course I'll explain, Farmer," the Colonel said with a smile. "As for sleeping tonight, I wouldn't count on it, if I were you. Those F.B.I. men were following you around simply to see if anybody else was following you around, that's all."

"That's all?" Dawson echoed. "Who else would be following us around? And why, for cat's sake? Don't tell me, Colonel, that you really believe some Axis agent might try to get in a bit of personal revenge just because Freddy and I have been lucky on a couple of things! Why, that's—"

"No, that wasn't the idea," the Chief of Intelligence interrupted quietly. "Though I have had that fear more than once. Your being lucky a couple of times, as you so wrongly call it, was most disheartening to certain Japs and certain Nazis, who have long memories. But this recent F.B.I. business was a bit different. I'm not going to give you details, because I'm pledged to utmost secrecy. So don't waste breath asking questions. This much, though, I can tell you. A list of names, compiled by the War Department, was recently turned over to the F.B.I. Your names were on that list, and you've been watched over by F.B.I. men ever since. The reason, as I said, was to see if anybody was following you."

"You mean, sir—" Dawson frowned and hesitated. "You mean—because if they were, it would indicate that the mysterious list of names wasn't as secret as it was supposed to be? That it, sir?"

"That's it exactly, Dawson," the Colonel said. "Nice work to have figured that out, too. That's right—that list is most secret. It has the President's approval, the Secret Service's approval, as well as the okay of the Army, Navy, and Air Forces. It is most secret, and it was the F.B.I.'s job to make absolutely sure by maintaining a constant check on every man on that list. Now does that satisfy you?"

"No, sir," Dawson said with a grin. Then with a shrug: "But you said something about not wasting breath asking for details. However, I could do with a hint, if that's in order."

"It isn't," the Colonel told him instantly. "For once it's my job to assign you to a certain mission without the right to tell you a thing about it. You'll learn soon enough, and when you do, you'll realize why I have to keep my lips silent. This I can and will tell you, though. It'll be a most pleasant mission, and you'll both get a tremendous thrill out of it."

"Well, that's something, anyway," Dawson said. "I'm all for it, whatever it is."

"Quite," Freddy Farmer echoed. Then, with an almost sly look at the Colonel, he asked, "A mission in this country, sir?"

"A mission that will take in several countries, Farmer," the Intelligence Chief replied. "And that is the very last bit of information I'm going to give you. Now just excuse me a couple of minutes while I tend to some of this stuff. Then we'll get along out to Bolling Field."

"Bolling Field, sir?" Dave cried, and leaned forward.

For all the good it did him, he might just as well have yelled at the man in the moon. Colonel Welsh seemed to forget that either Dawson or Farmer existed as he gave all his attention to the paper work on his desk.

It was almost ten minutes later when he signed his name to the last of the papers, collected them, and slipped them into one of the desk drawers which he locked with one of many keys he took from his pocket.

"Sorry it took so long, boys," he said, and reached for his service cap. "All done now, though. So let's go."

The colonel led the way outside, locked his office door, and touched Dawson on the arm as the Yank air ace started along the corridor toward the main stairway.

"No, not that way, Dawson," he said, and pointed a finger the other way. "We're still not taking any chances. Follow me, you two."

Dawson and Farmer did just that. They came out into the Washington night by a small rear door on the ground floor of the War Department Building. There was no guard there, and Colonel Welsh used another key from his bunch to unlock the door. From the door they followed him through a shadow-filled alley, down another one that crossed the first at right angles, and finally out onto a narrow, poorly lighted street, where a car was parked in the deep shadows of some overhanging tree branches.

"Jump in, you two," Colonel Welsh said, and opened the door. "I think we can all sit in front. I'll be your pilot this time. But on four rubber tires, instead of wings."

"What about our building passes, sir?" Freddy Farmer asked. "Won't the guard—"

"I'll take care of that," the colonel said. "You can explain to him, if you want, when you come back."

"Come back from where, sir?" Dawson asked before he could choke off the question.

"From a lot of places, Dawson," Colonel Welsh said with a chuckle. "From a lot of places. Now, hop in, and enjoy the ride."