“Right, boss!” They were gone.
“The rest of you get ready to carry out withdrawal plan-full plan, with provisions and supplies. Jerry, don’t disconnect either the receiver or theline-of-sight till I give the word. Margie will help you. Cathleen, get ready to serve anything that can’t be carried. We’ll have one big meal. ‘The condemned ate hearty.'”
“Just a moment, Captain.” McCracken touched his sleeve. “I had better get a message into Barclay.”
“Soon as the boys report. You better get back into town.”
“I wonder. Benz knows me. I think I’m here to stay.”
“Hm…well, you know best. How about your family?”
McCracken shrugged. “They can’t be worse off than they would be if I’m picked up. I’d like to have them warned and then arrangements made for them to rejoin me if possible.”
“We’ll do it. You’ll have to give me a new contact.”
“Planned for. This message will go through and my number-two man will step into my shoes. The name is Hobart-runs a feed store on Pelham Street.”
Morgan nodded. “Should have known you had it worked out. Well, what we don’t know — ” He was interrupted by Cleve, reporting.
“He got away, Boss.”
“Why didn’t you go after him?”
“Half the roof came down when Dad chucked the grenade. Tunnel’s choked with rock. Found a place where I could see but couldn’t crawl through. He’s not in the tunnel.”
“How about Dad?”
“He’s all right. Got clipped on the head with a splinter but not really hurt.”
Morgan stopped two of the women hurrying past, intent on preparations for withdrawal. “Here-Jean, and you, Mrs. Bowen. Go take care of Dad Carter and tell Art to get back here fast. Shake a leg!”
When Art reported Morgan said, “You and Cleve go out and find Benz. Assume that he is heading for Barclay. Stop him and bring him in if you can. Otherwise kill him. Art is in charge. Get going.” He turned to McCracken. “Now for a message.” He fumbled in his pocket for paper, found the poster notice that McCracken had given him, tore off a piece, and started to write. He showed it to McCracken. “How’s that?” he asked.
The message warned Hobart of Benz and asked him to try to head him off. It did not tell him that the Barclay Free Company was moving but did designate the “post office” through which next contact would be expected-the men’s rest room of the bus station.
“Better cut out the post office,” McCracken advised. “Hobart knows it and we may contact him half a dozen other ways. But I’d like to ask him to get my family out of sight. Just tell him that we are sorry to hear that Aunt Dinah is dead.”
“Is that enough?”
Yes.
“Okay.” Morgan made the changes, then called, “Margie! Put this in code and tell Jerry to get it out fast. Tell him it’s the strike-out edition. He can knock down his sets as soon as it’s out.”
“Okay, boss.” Margie had no knowledge of cryptography. Instead she had command of jive talk, adoléscent slang, and high school double-talk which would be meaningless to any but another American bobbysoxer. At the other end a fifteen-year-old interpreted her butchered English by methods which impressed her foster parents as being telepathy-but it worked.
The fifteen-year-old could be trusted. Her entire family, save herself, had been in Los Angeles on Final Sunday.
Art and Cleve had no trouble picking up Benz’s trail. His tracks were on the tailings spilling down from the main entrance to the mine. The earth and rock had been undisturbed since the last heavy rain; Benz’s flight left clear traces.
But trail was cold by more than twenty minutes; they had left the mine by the secret entrance a quarter of a mile from where Benz had made his exit.
Art picked it up where Benz had left the tailings and followed it through brush with the woodsmanship of the Eagle Scout he had been. From the careless signs he left behind Benz was evidently in a hurry and heading by the shortest route for the highway. The two followed him as fast as they could cover ground, discarding caution for speed.