“I think I need a bit of air,” Stan declared.
“I’m heading over to the barracks,” Allison said.
O’Malley went along and they walked across the dark grounds slowly.
Allison finally said, “Munson has big plans.”
“I aim to find out just what they are and I think I know just where to start,” Stan said determinedly. “After the cracks he made back there, I’ll have to settle with him.”
“Sure, an’ you should have let me crack him one,” O’Malley grumbled.
“That would have put the boys solidly on his side. He made a very nice, patriotic speech. But if the fellows take time to think it over, they’ll see what he’s up to,” Stan said.
Stan parted with his pals at the barracks door and walked across the grounds. On the outside, he caught a ride with a supply truck headed for Rangoon. His uniform was his passport and he was not questioned by the guards or the driver.
Dropping off near the docks, Stan walked to the place where he had seen the new cars leaving the parking lot. He had a hunch he wanted to follow up. If it was wrong, he would have to try a new angle.
A coupé and two sedans, all new, were parked in the deep gloom outside the gate. Walking toward the cars, he halted and listened, then moved ahead. No one seemed to be guarding them. Easing in close, he saw that no one was inside the cars. He moved over to the coupé and looked into it. It was a de luxe model with a high turtleback and a luggage compartment in the rear. Softly Stan lifted the lid.
A suitcase and satchel sat in the enclosure. Stan bent over them. It would be dangerous to light his electric torch unless he was inside the compartment and had the lid lowered. He examined the catch and found it was exposed on the inside and could be operated from within. Easing himself into the section he let the lid down.
Snapping on his pocket flashlight, he tried to open the satchel. It was locked. He tried the suitcase and it snapped open. His light showed him a neatly folded uniform of the Chinese Army with the shoulder strappings of a colonel of the air arm. Stan dipped in, fishing through layers of clothing. He pulled out a cigarette case and a comb and brush set, both with Nick Munson’s name on them.
Digging further he found a silver pencil in a crevice at one end of the bag. Lifting it out, he looked at its engraved barrel. The name Von Ketch was carved on the pencil in German block lettering. Stan whistled softly. Munson was a spy, possibly a Fifth Columnist who had been working in the United States for years. He repeated the name, Von Ketch, several times so as not to forget it.