"Like a clam. You said, 'Sorry, Miss T., Military Secret,' " Barbara verified. "But it isn't, really. It was in all the papers. About the plans having disappeared, I mean." And that, she remembered triumphantly, was exactly what she had been trying to recall. She had even clipped the item from the papers while comparing the different styles of the Courier and the Herald!
Greg grimaced. "With friends like our newspapers, this country doesn't need enemies," he growled. "That information shouldn't have been released."
"Have to keep the American public informed," Whit shrugged. "At least by releasing the news themselves, the authorities could play down its importance. Suppose a sharp news hound like Shelby had sniffed it out? He'd have blared it in three-inch headlines and had every Congressman in the country forming investigating committees to plague the Navy."
"Quit locking the sub door after the plans have been stolen and tell us your idea," Barbara said impatiently. "What about Buck Younger and his accomplice?"
The anger faded from Greg's face. "Usually visitors to Port Dixon are kept to a minimum and allowed in only on special passes. But two weeks ago when Shelby came to interview Admiral Billingsly, a crew of news-reel photographers sat in on the session, and half a dozen consulting engineers who had helped blueprint the new sub were there, too, surveying the harbor facilities. The base was bulging with visitors."
"I remember. All we needed was a drum and bugle corps to make it look like convention time at Madison Square Garden," Whit agreed. "Well, go on-get to the point."
"The point," said Greg earnestly, "is that any one of those people, or even someone who slipped in with them during all the confusion, could have stolen the plans. But he couldn't just stroll in and pick them off the admiral's desk. They were in a locked steel cabinet, and a guard was posted in that office day and night. That's where I think Buck Younger came in."
"That big bruiser is too clumsy to be a safe-cracker," Whit protested. "The only thing he really knows how to do is fight."
"Exactly! As I said, the thief couldn't just walk into the admiral's office. He needed a diversion to pull the guard out of there first. My guess is that he hired Younger to start such a lulu of a brawl that every Shore Patrolman on the base would come running to squelch it. The Navy couldn't afford to let that mob of newsmen and photographers get wind of a riot-not with the Senate already bickering over military appropriations. So, while everyone else was pitching in to stop the battle, the thief jimmied the cabinet and did a Houdini act with the blueprints."
Whit was awed by his friend's deductive abilities. "Good lord, Greg, I think you've hit it!"
"It could easily have happened that way. And listen!" Barbara cried excitedly. "Buck Younger was the only one who could point out the thief. He couldn't be allowed to come up before a court martial-he might have confessed the whole scheme! So the thief slipped back onto the base a couple of nights later and sprung him out of the brig!"
"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage-when you've got a friend on the outside," Whit quipped.
"What was that you were saying before, about the timing being all wrong, Greg?" Barbara asked.
"Well, first I had the notion that Younger himself was the thief. He couldn't have been, though, because the guard didn't leave the admiral's office until after the fight had started. Buck was right in the thick of it the whole time. You know," he ruminated, "in some ways Port Dixon is a little like Alcatraz was. It's almost impossible to get in or out without a written pass. And when you do enter or leave, you're subjected to a search."
"So how did this mastermind get the blueprints past the gate?" Whit asked.
Greg casually exploded a bombshell. "He didn't. At least, I don't think so."
"They're still on the base?" Barbara gasped.
"Nope. I don't know where they are now," Greg admitted, "but I have a hunch that at one time they were right here on the Albatross."
"Right here on the Albatross?" Whit echoed.
"You're not serious!" Barbara exclaimed.
But Greg was grimly earnest.
"Sure. It hit me a few minutes ago when Shelby mentioned that he had brought his houseboat down to Port Dixon. You know the setup there, Whit. A pass could be faked; an unauthorized person might get onto the base-and off again-but not with those blueprints. The guards at the gate use an X-ray type machine which would show up bulky papers, as well as any metal object. And if anyone had tried going over that twelve-foot electric fence, or taking off in a plane or chopper, he'd have been spotted within seconds."
"Which leaves the water," Whit said, beginning to understand.
"That's the only way those papers could have been smuggled out." Greg paced a few yards down the deck, a faraway look in his eyes. "Shelby requested permission to bring his houseboat into the harbor while doing that interview. Because he is such a well-known person, authorization was granted almost immediately. Between then and the time he actually made the trip, any number of people might have learned of his plan. Shelby made no secret of the fact that he is an avid fisherman. He probably went around bragging that he was going to get the interview and a good catch of fish in the bargain."
"I guess he bragged to one person too many," Barbara said with a little shiver.
"As I see it, the thief learned of Shelby's plans in advance, which gave him a chance to work out a timetable with Buck Younger. When the riot started and the guard ran out to help break it up, the thief slipped into the office and broke open the cabinet. Then he barreled down to where the Albatross was berthed, hid the plans aboard, and hurried back to rejoin his group. The whole operation shouldn't have taken more than half an hour."
"And with the blueprints safely concealed, he had no further need for haste." Whit took up with the sordid tale. "He left when everyone else did, passed the gate search like any innocent citizen, and settled down in Santa Teresa to wait for Lance Shelby to return from his fishing trip. As soon as Shelby came ashore, the thief retrieved the cache." Whit brought his fist smashing down on the rail. "It was so simple it had to be foolproof. He couldn't miss!"
"Don't you think," Barbara interrupted quietly, "that 'thief' is the wrong word to use? Wouldn't 'spy' be more appropriate?"
"Well, let's just say that ordinary second-story men are more interested in diamond necklaces than in the blueprints for a nuclear sub," Greg admitted.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the Albatross as each of them was lost in his own thoughts. Barbara retraced the steps of Greg's reasoning and could find no flaw in it. The only trouble, she decided morosely, was that they hadn't figured out the ruse in time. The spy had neatly outfoxed them.
"Even that creepy Mr. Smith caught on before we did," she murmured to herself. "I wonder where he got the notion that the blueprints were still aboard the houseboat? Maybe he suspected that the spy hadn't been able to smuggle them out of the country yet, and figured this was as safe a temporary hiding place as any."
"I'll bet Buck Younger started worrying that he wasn't going to get his cut of the profits," Whit said, showing that his thoughts were running parallel to hers. "He took an awful risk coming out of hiding."
Greg nodded gloomily. He seemed to be blaming himself for not unraveling the plot sooner.
"What are you going to do now?" Barbara asked. "Notify the military authorities or the FBI?"
"Guess we'd better. Though, as you so aptly put it, starting an investigation now is like locking the sub door after the plans have been stolen." Greg kicked absently at a splinter jutting up from the deck. "I want to think about it a little longer. I've got a feeling that somewhere along the way I overlooked an important point."