Dave Dawson at Casablanca

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

The Man in Gray

The four-faced clock over the information booth on the Upper Level of the Grand Central Station in New York City showed exactly twenty-five minutes after three. Dave Dawson paused in his restless pacing up and down to look at it for the hundredth time in the last half hour. He glared at it, sighed heavily, and made noises deep in his throat.

"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!...