Dave stopped talking abruptly, and he also pulled up to a quick halt.

Freddy went on a pace or two, then stopped and waited.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Think you were running into one of them?

An ash can, I mean?"

"No," Dawson grunted, and moved forward again. "Thought I saw something moving up ahead--somebody ducking into a doorway. Doggone it! I must be getting the jimjams. You'd think I were trying to steal across Berlin and give the Gestapo the go-by. Good gosh! This is New York, for cat's sake! And--_Freddy!_"

Dave had only time to bark out his pal's name as two shadows came charging out of a night-darkened doorway. He sensed them, rather than saw or heard them. It was more that sixth sense, that science calls premonition, that put him on the alert and made him drop halfway to one knee and shoot his hands up and out in front of him.

One of the shadows came at him like a streak of black lightning. He wasn't sure, but in the split second he was allowed to set himself he thought he saw the dull gleam of a knife in an upraised hand. Maybe so; maybe not. He didn't bother to make sure. The silent attacker was coming upon him too fast. There was no time for thought. There was only time for action--furious, split second action for which he had been training these last five weeks.

And so action it was! He dropped like a flash, ducked his head, and then stiffened his legs and shot his body upward, half turning it at the same time. He felt the top of his head crash into a broad chest, and he felt his hands lock about the wrist of the hand that held the knife. A quick pivot on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, and a bend downward that brought the attacker's arm down across his shoulder. He heard the gasp of pain, heard the clatter of a knife hitting the pavement, and then he was arching his back and twisting viciously. The result was that his helpless attacker flew over him like a sack of wet wheat, and slammed down on the pavement on his side. Dave clung to the wrist, but the attacker's greater weight pulled it free, and the man went rolling over and over toward the gutter.

In a flash, Dave dived after him, but the attacker seemed full of coiled steel springs. He was up on his feet in a flash and speeding down the badly lighted street. Impulsively Dave streaked his hand to where his holstered service gun should have been. Only it wasn't there. It was back in the bureau drawer in his hotel room! He took a couple of leaping steps after the fleeing shadow, but checked himself and swerved sharply as a second shadow virtually flew past him. He shot out his hands, got hold of jacketcloth, but all the good that did him was that he ripped off a piece of a jacket as the second shadow went by him and down the street.

"Dave! You all right?"

He turned to see Freddy Farmer at his elbow. The English youth was breathing hard, and fingering the right side of his jaw.

"I'm okay, but boiling!" Dave grated. "I had my bird cold, so I thought.

But he must be made of rubber. I couldn't stay with him. What's the matter with your jaw?"

"The blighter's head!" Freddy Farmer muttered. "We connected violently.

Say, Dave! Those beggars had knives. There's one! And there's the other.

Phew! Wicked-looking things, aren't they?"

The English youth had stooped down and retrieved two knives out of the gutter. In the bad light Dave and Freddy saw that they were mates. Each was about seven inches long, razor sharp, and with a needle point. Dave squinted at them and whistled softly.

"You see what I see, Freddy?" he breathed. "They had knives exactly like those at the Commando school! Looks like a couple of thugs stole a couple."

"But as you said, Dave," Freddy cried, "this is New York! I know your underworld characters use machine guns, and such. But do they also go about the streets knifing people to steal their purses?"

Dave didn't reply at once. He stood scowling down at the pair of knives, as cold, clammy chills started rippling up and down his spine. He knew full well that anything can happen in New York City, and usually does in time. But to be knifed for the few dollars he carried, instead of being blackjacked, or held up at the point of a gun, was something that just didn't jell right in his brain. He also was. .h.i.t by another equally disturbing thought. The light had been so bad, and the action so swift and short lived, he hadn't got so much as a flash glimpse at either of the attackers. But for general build--well, he couldn't help but think of the two hard-faced men back in the hotel dining room.

"I'm nuts, completely nuts!" he chided himself aloud. "It just couldn't have been!"

"What couldn't have been?" Freddy Farmer wanted to know.

"Those two, just now," Dave replied. "I had the flash thought that they might have been that hard-faced pair in the dining room. But they didn't come at us from behind. They were ahead of us. Besides, they left before we did. Well, which of these do you want for a souvenir?"

"Neither," Freddy replied. "I suggest we turn them over to Colonel Welsh. Those are Commando knives, right enough. He might be interested to know that some of your American underworld chaps also carry them."

"Or--" Dave started to say, and then stopped himself with a snort of disgust. "Doggone, but my imagination is going haywire tonight! Must be something I ate."

"You don't think they were underworld beggars?" the English youth demanded. "Good grief! You're not thinking of n.a.z.i agents, are you?"

"Well, I did give it a whirl for a second or two," Dawson confessed with a shrug. "But that's plain silly. No n.a.z.i agents should have any interest in us, right now."

"I don't know about that," Freddy grunted as they started along the street again. "The Gestapo beggars are quite keen about revenge killings, you know. And we've been lucky enough to send a few of them to where they belong in days gone by."

"Okay, n.a.z.i agents!" Dave snorted. "They read those route instructions before we did, and were waiting for us in the dark doorway! See? It doesn't make sense, Freddy. It's all c.o.c.keyed to drag n.a.z.i agents into this thing."

"You're right, of course," the English youth murmured. "But all I can say is, praise the good Lord for our Commando training. I'm still shuddering, thinking of one of those things slicing into my hide. And my beggar almost got me, I'll frankly confess."

"Well, mine didn't exactly send me a letter," Dave echoed. "I'm sore we didn't stop them, though. After that scare it would have done me a world of good to go to work on his mug. Well, one thing, and that's final.

From now on I'm not going to leave my gun parked in a bureau drawer. Let the public laugh and snicker. If I'd had it, I could have clipped that bird in the leg and brought him down. But, boy! What a pair of broken field runners they were!"

"Let's try and forget about them, if you don't mind," Freddy said with a little shudder. "And let's put on a bit of speed. My nerves never were of the best, you know."

The remark brought a laugh from Dave.

"Listen to him lie, will you!" he cried. "Pal, if your nerves aren't the best I ever came across, then I'm Uncle Bay-Window Goering. But I was just about to suggest, myself, that we get over on Tenth Avenue where there's more light and fewer darkened doorways. Not too fast, though.

I've still got some jelly in my knee joints."

The rest of the trip, though, was made without incident or accident. And in due time they were standing in front of a five storied brick building that was Number 697 River Street. The street was dimmed out like all the rest, but it wasn't half so dark as had been Cort Street.

Also, there were plenty of people pa.s.sing by on the sidewalks. They stared up at the building front in silence for a moment. It showed only one lighted room, and that was on the third floor.

"Well let's go up the steps and push Mr. Brown's bell b.u.t.ton," Dave eventually grunted. "There's an entryway light there, so we should be able to find it. Let's go."

They went up the stone steps to the small outer foyer that contained a double row of bell b.u.t.tons. They found the one that had "Brown" printed on the plate card, and Dave stabbed it with his thumb. They didn't hear the ring inside, and for a couple of minutes they stood there just waiting.

"Give it another go, Dave," Freddy suggested.

Dawson lifted his hand, but froze it in mid-air as the shadow of a figure appeared on the other side of the door. There was the sound of a locking bolt being shot, and a key being turned. Then the door was pulled inward to reveal the figure on the other side. Both Dave and Freddy gulped and stared. Standing in the lighted doorway was a Sergeant of infantry, complete with side-arms. The Sergeant flashed them both a searching look, then stepped back, opening the door wider.

"Come in, sirs," he said. "And follow me, please."

CHAPTER THREE

_Eastward To War_

For a long minute Dave and Freddy just stood there and stared at the infantry Sergeant as though he were something escaped from a museum.

Then they snapped out of their collective trance and stepped in through the door. It was then that Freddy let the question pop off his lips before he could stop it.

"Is Colonel Welsh here, Sergeant?" he asked.

The non-commissioned officer looked at him with a faint puzzled frown.

"Colonel Welsh, sir?" he echoed. Then, shaking his head, "No, sir.

There's no Colonel Welsh here. My orders are to take you to Major Barber. Follow me, please."

The two flying aces exchanged looks, shrugged, and then followed the Sergeant up the stairs. On the landing of the third floor the Sergeant turned right along a hallway and finally came to a stop in front of the fifth door down on the right. He motioned politely for Dave and Freddy to wait, then knocked and went inside.

"I don't think I like this, Dave!" Freddy whispered when they were left alone. "You heard him say that Colonel Welsh wasn't here. What the devil do you suppose is up?"