Part 7

“It ought to, Mr. Splendor!” smiled Mercedes rising from her chair. “In the meantime, Don and Red are going to rest undisturbed, if I have to stand guard at the door. After swimming all night and fighting all morning, they’ve got to get some sleep!”

With sleepy grins, the two young officers steered obediently for their stateroom. Tumbling into their berths, clothes and all, they knew nothing more until the cabin steward called them for mess that evening.

The ship had already dropped anchor in the harbor of Port-au-Prince, and Don and his friends were eager to go ashore at the first possible moment. After a hastily eaten meal, they shook hands with the _Gatoon’s_ officers, and stepped into the gunboat’s launch.

At the dock Splendor’s pilot, Panama, met them with a powerful car. For ten minutes they dodged and twisted through the city’s quaint old streets, then struck into a fine, smooth road leading toward the hills.

“Ah, me friends,” sighed Michael Splendor, as the big twelve cylinder car picked up speed, “'tis great to be gettin’ home again after the last few days of excitement! I’m well along in years now, and risks are not so thrilling as they used to be. I’d rather be sittin’ by me own fireplace in peace and comfort.”

Panama’s amused chuckle drifted back from the front seat.

“You didn’t act that way, sir, when you were slamming bullets into those two Scorpion bombers!” he observed. “And when some of their slugs ripped into us, it just made you all the happier—to judge by what I heard!”

“Whisht, lad!” growled the veteran, scowling ferociously. “'Twas naught but the Irish blood of me enjoyin’ the scrap. A true son of Erin always howls when he fights; but me brain was tellin’ me all the while that war is a horrible business, even when you’re fightin’ to stop it. And that reminds me, Commander! I’ve made certain arrangements to further your scheme for impersonatin’ Count Borg!”

XVII

ORDERS FROM WASHINGTON

“You mean,” asked Mercedes, as the little party sat sipping their after dinner coffee on Splendor’s wide veranda, “that you actually approve of Don’s risky plan? To me it seems like taking a hundred-to-one chance. There are so many traps he might walk into whichever way he turns!”

“Aye, there’s no denyin’ the dangers,” Michael Splendor agreed solemnly. “But there are ways of lessening them, I think. Take that treacherous radioman, for instance, he is only too anxious to talk, and he knows a great deal that will be useful to Don Winslow. The other captives have not been persuaded to loosen up.”

“Then you’ve interviewed them all?” queried Red Pennington, in surprise. “Gee, you must have been busy while Don and I were pounding our ears this afternoon! But how’re we gonna get hold of Corba again? I heard Captain Riggs sayin’ that he was shovin’ off again in the morning.”

“And so he is,” said Splendor. “But tonight, some time durin’ the wee, small hours, another closed car will be comin’ out here from Port-au-Prince. Inside of it will be Corba and our new friend, Count Borg, under guard, of course. We’ll have a talk with them tomorrow, providin’ Headquarters okays Commander Winslow’s scheme. We should be hearin’ any minute from the phone call I put through to Washington.”

As he spoke, there came the faint ringing of a telephone bell, somewhere in the villa’s spacious interior. A moment later a soft-footed native servant approached Michael Splendor’s chair.

“_C’est pour, M’sieu’_ Don Winslow!” the man murmured in soft Haitian speech.

“There’s your call. Commander!” the young officer’s host interpreted. “I put it through to Captain Holding in your name. Tell him the whole scheme as ye worked it out, and add that I’m helpin’ ye with the details. Here’s hopin’ ye persuade him!”

With a sober nod Don followed the servant through the wide doorway into the house. When he had gone, Mercedes turned to Splendor with a troubled frown.

“How do you know,” she said, “that this telephone conversation won’t be overheard? There is such a thing as wire tapping, you know. And couldn’t a radiophone message be intercepted by anyone who turned in to the right wave length? If the Scorpion’s agents should get wind of Don’s plan, it would be worse than useless to go ahead!”

“Your reasoning is excellent, my dear,” the man in the wheel chair answered. “I believe, however, that the chance of our friend’s words being overheard is less than if he and Captain Holding were sitting in the same room. Commander Winslow is sitting this minute in a soundproofed booth. The wire is connected with me own private radio room, where it is hooked up with a powerful radio beam transmitter. If an airplane with its radio tuned just right should blunder into that beam between here and Washington, the pilot might do a bit of eavesdroppin’. But the chance is one in a billion, I fancy!”

Reassured, Mercedes sank back in her chair.

“I guess it’s foolish for me to worry about such things,” she admitted. “You seem to have thought of every detail in advance, Mr. Splendor. I don’t see any armed guards patrolling about, but I suppose we’re safer here in your wild Haitian hills than we were on the high seas, aboard the _Gatoon_!”

Enthusiastically Red Pennington took up the same theme. He had seen enough of Michael Splendor’s shrewd planning to believe the veteran capable of handling any situation, on land or sea or in the air.

That private beam radio was the last word in preparedness, the chubby lieutenant stated. As for guards about the premises, what good would they be, he asked, if they simply strutted back and forth in plain sight like any cop on a beat?

Starting from there, he became really talkative. He praised his host’s magnificent grounds and living quarters, and especially his kitchen staff. In the meal they had just eaten all Red’s dreams of earthly happiness had come true, he declared. With a cook like that, he didn’t see how Michael Splendor could bear to miss a single meal at home!

“Sure, I’ve other duties than stuffin’ me face, Lieutenant!” retorted the older man with a laugh. “I admit that I do meself well, though, back here in the hills, and 'tis a grand place to rest up after a long trip. I hope ye and the Commander and Admiral Colby’s daughter will enjoy your stay with me; be it long or short!”

“I’m afraid,” spoke Don Winslow from the doorway, “that it’s going to be short, so far as I am concerned, Mr. Splendor! I’ve just finished talking with Captain Holding at the Navy Intelligence Office. He’s ordered me to leave at once, by plane, for San Francisco!”

“You—you mean, Don, he’s approved your taking the place of Count Borg?” gasped Mercedes, starting up from her chair.

“Sure, Skipper, I knew he’d do that!” Red Pennington chimed in. “But what did he say about me? If you’re bound for 'Frisco, I’m going right along with you, y’know. You can’t scuttle a shipmate in mid-voyage!”

There followed a lively argument, with Red and Mercedes trying to beat down the protests of Don and the crippled Intelligence chief. The latter pointed out, quite logically, that two disguises would be more than twice as dangerous as one. Besides there was no real need, they said, for Red to risk his life as a bodyguard for the pretended Count Borg. If Don _should_ be discovered in that disguise, a whole platoon of fighting men couldn’t save his life.

In the end, however, Red won his point. It was agreed that he should accompany the pseudo Count as his valet, at least as far as the Empire Hotel in San Francisco. After they registered there, of course, anything might happen.

At present, the main task for all four friends lay in getting the two young officers started on their long flight to the West coast. Captain Holding had urged haste, yet there were many things to be done.

Among these was the job of pumping the Scorpion radioman, Corba, for every scrap of information about the real Count Borg. Michael Splendor volunteered to do the pumping, so that Don and Red might rest up for the hard trip ahead.

Meanwhile, it was decided Panama would be overhauling Splendor’s big, new cabin plane for a nonstop flight. The following night it would be ready, in its hangar behind the villa, for the supposed Count Borg to “steal.” When that was done and the “escaping prisoner” was well on his way, the alarm would be spread. No mention, of course, would be made of Lieutenant Red Pennington’s disappearance at the very same time!

With Don and Red taking turns at the cabin plane’s controls, they should arrive at San Francisco fresh enough for whatever adventures lay in store for them. The plane would be abandoned outside the city. An hour or two later, “Count Borg” would register at the Empire Hotel, with his valet, “Penny,” and the dangerous game would begin.

XVIII

THE DARK FIELD

Two evenings later a heavy fog blanketed the San Francisco waterfront, hiding its smelly wharves and damp alleys under a dreary pall. A distant foghorn sounded dismally above the lap-lap of harbor water against wooden piles. Vaguely the blended roar of a mighty city drifted seaward through the murk and mist. It was a night for secrecy; for furtive business which could not bear the light of day.

In the winding alleys of old Chinatown brooded a heavy silence, spiced with queer oriental odors. It flowed between the buildings like a deep, mysterious river. It reached thick tentacles up a steeply sloping street to close around a huge stone house.

A high stone wall, clammy with the fog, surrounded the lightless edifice. Within there seemed to be neither sound nor life nor movement. Yet a sharp-eyed passer-by might have noticed a tiny thread of light peeping through the drawn curtain of a second floor window.

At least the light was there, although blurred and scarcely visible in the close-pressing fog.

One thing no curious passerby could have guessed—the luxurious richness of the room behind that drawn curtain. Soft shaded lights spread their glow over satin wall hangings, deep piled oriental rugs, and beautiful costly furniture. The air was heavy with incense, sweet but oppressive.

At a table a young woman sat gazing at her reflection in a large mirror. Clad in a loose, flowing gown of silk, her figure was almost girlish. Her face beneath its oriental coiffure had a fresh, flowerlike beauty which deepened as she turned and spoke.

“Suzette!” she murmured plaintively. “Do you think I am as lovely tonight as I was three months ago?”

A trimly uniformed maid appeared from an alcove beyond the dressing table. Her bright eyes took in the dark-haired girl in one swift, approving glance.

“But yes, Mademoiselle! You are even more beautiful tonight!” she answered. “It is that little touch of _tristesse_ which make you so, I think. Is it because you are impatient to see Count Borg again after three long months? Ah, Mademoiselle Lotus! You cannot fool the little French maid, Suzette!”

With a laugh, the girl called Lotus shrugged her pretty shoulders.

“After all, Suzette,” she retorted, “the Count is much more charming than the desperadoes, white and yellow, which surround us here....”

“Sh-h-h! Please, Mademoiselle!” the maid whispered sharply. “Please do not talk that way in this house. It is not safe! To be sure, we _think_ the others have all gone out for the night, but all the same, there are things even Mademoiselle must not say!”

“Oh, bother!” cried the younger woman, springing up with small fists clenched in anger. “I know what you mean, Suzette! And I am tired of measuring all my words to suit the great Cho-San. I am sick of looking out for eavesdroppers and spies—yes, _spies_—who run to him with reports of all I say or do! Let me tell you this, my little maid, if I ever find _you_ have been bearing tales about me, it will not be well for you!”

Stamping her slippered foot, Lotus turned to the window and savagely flung up the lower sash. Through the parted curtains she leaned out, drawing in deep breaths of the foggy night air.

“But, Mademoiselle!” cried the little French maid in a tone of keen distress. “Suzette have nevair bear the tales to anyone. You do her a wrong to think she would—w’at you call—double cross Mademoiselle. She only warn you that Cho-San, he is jealous w’en you speak of Count Borg!”

“Jealous, is he?” spat the girl, whipping around to face her maid. “But I don’t love Cho-San! I—I think I am too young to be in love with anybody. I like Count Borg, because he is young and handsome, and—well, he’s _different_. Cho-San is a great man. He is older and stronger and he has the ear of the Master. But sometimes Cho-San forgets that he and Lotus are not of the same race!”

Gently, yet with determination, Suzette took her mistress’ hand and led her back to the chair.

“Mademoiselle excites herself too much!” she murmured, picking up a brush and running it through the girl’s shiny, dark hair. “Suzette, she know w’at is the reason. You are wonder if Count André Borg have make good his escape from Haiti. Evair since Monsieur Michael Splendor broadcast the stealing of his big cabin plane, the friends of Count Borg have wonder if he will dare to fly straight here.”

“He’ll try, anyway, Suzette,” cried the girl. “He knows that Cho-San has called a general meeting for day after tomorrow night. André will be there unless something terrible happens to him between here and Haiti. Oh, it seems like years since I saw him last!”

“And now it may be only hours till you see him again,” murmured the little maid. “Oh, I know how you feel, Mademoiselle! But now we must hurry, so you will not be late at the appointment downtown which Cho-San has made for you tonight. I heard him tell you it was important.”

* * * * *

While Lotus was worrying over the whereabouts of Count Borg, the Count’s double was speeding through the night sky less than a hundred miles east of San Francisco.

Already Don Winslow was training himself mentally for the part he was to play. In talking with Red Pennington who occupied the co-pilot’s place in the big cabin plane, he tried to imitate the very tone and accent of Count Borg’s speech.

Red, on the other hand, was training himself for the part of Penny, the Count’s valet-to-be. Only for brief periods during the trip had he dropped the pose of a manservant, for he knew that his part must be played to perfection from the moment they met the first Scorpion agent.

“Do you know the place we are supposed to land, sir?” he queried in his most respectful tone. “Even if one is acquainted with the city’s outskirts, it won’t be easy to find an unlighted field at night.”

“That will all be taken care of, Penny,” replied the pseudo Count Borg. “According to the last code message we got from Haiti at least one man will be there to meet us with a fast car. Undoubtedly he will light a couple of ground flares as soon as he hears our motor overhead. Anyhow, judging by the highway lights ahead, we’re almost over the spot which Splendor described.”

“But supposing, sir,” objected “Penny,” “that one of the Scorpion stations picked up Mr. Splendor’s broadcast and was able to decode it! In that case perhaps the man who is waiting for us will be a Scorpion agent backed by an armed gang. If they _should_ suspect anything wrong they wouldn’t hesitate to rub us out and ask questions later—not that gang!”

The idea was startling enough as “Penny” expressed it. But “Count Borg” showed no trace of nervousness.

“Of course anything is possible with that gang, as you call them,” he agreed; “but Navy secret codes aren’t easily broken down, even by experts. Besides I’ve got a feeling our number isn’t up yet—look, Red! There are the ground flares being lighted now! Over to starboard, and about two miles north. We’ll come down just between them, and upwind!”

The rough field lighted by the flares turned out to be a sandy patch between two highways and far from any lighted house. This much Don Winslow guessed as he set his wheels down with a gentle bump. When he had braked to a stop beyond the flares, both of them were suddenly blacked out, leaving earth and sky pitch dark.

“That’s so no chance-passing motor cop will see lights and start to investigate, I guess,” remarked Red Pennington, sliding back the plane’s sliding door. “We wouldn’t want our arrival noted on the San Francisco Police Blotter, would we, Don?”

“Hardly!” smiled the young commander, switching off the cabin light. “Out with you, now, shipmate! There’s a car headed this way across the field. Keep your hand on your automatic until we know who it is. If it should be a Scorpion reception party, we won’t go down without a battle!”

The lightless car skidded to a dusty standstill ten feet from the plane. Then only its head lamps flashed on, and into their blinding radiance stepped a well-built man in civilian clothes. Keeping both hands in sight, he faced the darkened plane and spoke.

“Commander Winslow, you and the Lieutenant may trust me without risk,” he said quietly. “I am Hammond, from the San Francisco Office, and here are my identification papers. This car is at your service along with anything else you wish to ask for.”

As Red was about to step out of the shadows, Don elbowed him back. It was still possible that a Scorpion machine gun was trained over the car’s rear door, ready to fire at the sound of his voice.

He must make sure, without showing himself. Shielding his mouth with a cupped hand, he threw his voice along the plane’s fuselage.

“Never mind the papers, Hammond,” he responded. “A few words will do to show you have been in communication with our friends.”

The car’s spotlight showed Hammond’s smile.

“Wise precaution, sir!” he approved. “How’s this for a set of passwords:—Captain Holding—beam radiophone—Count Borg—Haiti—'Penny’—Michael Splendor? Or do you want more?”

XIX

A LUCKY ENCOUNTER

Pocketing his pistol, Don Winslow moved out into the glow of the car’s lights.

“Thanks, Hammond!” he said simply, gripping the other’s hand. “Your coming for us is going to simplify a lot of things. Come on, Red—I mean, Penny! Michael Splendor’s last message told us to leave the plane right here.”

As the car cut back into the highway leading to the city, Hammond leaned forward to speak to the driver.

“Drive slowly when you get inside the city’s limits, Martin,” he said. “Swing around past Cho-San’s place before you pull up at the office.”

Leaning back against the cushions, he addressed the two young Intelligence officers.

“We got the whole story by beam radiophone,” he explained. “That’s how we were able not only to meet you gentlemen, but also to make certain other preparations as well; such as an electric needle for giving you a scar, like the little one Count Borg has just below his cheek bone. You can only see that mark by a bright light, but it’s one of the things his Scorpia friends are going to look for.”

“I know about that, Hammond,” Don Winslow answered. “Borg himself called my attention to it yesterday. There’s the matter of his clothes, too. Borg has always been a slick dresser, and he is supposed to have escaped with a wad of Splendor’s cash. That means his Scorpia pals will expect him to show up dressed like a fashion plate.”

“They will,” nodded Hammond. “Splendor broadcast the story of 'Count Borg’s’ escape with his plane and his dough. There’s no doubt the Scorpion and his agents know about that. They’ll expect you to show up at the meeting two nights from now, if not sooner. They’ll find out about the plane having landed. Splendor’s flying here tomorrow with Miss Colby on Captain Holding’s orders. He’ll pretend he’s just trailing his stolen plane....”

“Z-ZZZ-ZZZZ! PR-R-R-RRH!”

A sudden loud snore from Red Pennington drowned out Hammond’s voice. The chunky lieutenant had done his full share of the piloting since leaving Haiti, and was letting weary Nature have her way now.

“We’ll let him sleep,” chuckled Don, “until we get to your office, Hammond. We can discuss everything then.”

Red’s slumber, however, was due to be rudely interrupted. After skirting the edges of San Francisco’s old Chinatown, the car turned up a steep hill at the top of which stood the great stone-walled house of Cho-San.

“I wanted to show you this place just in passing, Commander,” Hammond was saying. “Cho-San lives here like an Oriental prince, yet his only visible income is from his curio shop down the hill. We know he’s a big shot in the criminal organization of Scorpia, but we can’t pin it on him. That job will be up to you, if you live to finish it! Cho-San’s thugs will stop at nothing—”

BANG!

At the loud report, the car lurched sidewise, swayed another twenty yards, and stopped. Red Pennington awoke with a yell. Guns out, the three men in the back seat peered through the bulletproof windows.

They were just opposite the dark stone edifice, which was the only building within a hundred yards. Could a single shot from behind those misty walls have ripped through one of the rear tires?

It was Don Winslow who answered the question in all their minds.

“Just an accidental blowout, I think,” he stated, putting away his automatic. “There’s not enough light to fire a shot with any accuracy.”

“You’re right, sir!” muttered Hammond, following Don through the door. “I guess I’m jittery just because it happened right across from Cho-San’s stone fort. Probably just an accident—”

“Is that the fort you mean?” gulped Red, with one foot still on the running board. “Gee! If they’ve got machine guns trained on us, isn’t it kinda foolish to stick around?”

“I didn’t mean a fort in that sense, Lieutenant!” said Hammond. “Cho-San’s rock pile here _looks_ like a fort, especially in the dark. If there’s any machine guns inside, they won’t be aimed at us now.... But, say! What’s that car pulling in ahead of us?”

A long, low hung, black car had boiled up the hill behind them, only to stop ten paces beyond with a squeal of gripping tires. The two young officers, with Hammond and Martin, stiffened instinctively, hands whipping to their pistols. For all they knew this might be a gang car, filled with Scorpion killers.

A door opened, and a man in uniform cap jumped out. Swiftly he moved to the rear door, opened it, and stood back waiting. From the dark interior appeared a young woman in a white evening wrap, her dark hair lighted by the flash of jewels. With a murmured word, she turned away from the car, walking quickly toward the house of Cho-San.

The four men watching her relaxed.

“That’s the girl they call the Lotus!” whispered Hammond in Don Winslow’s ear. “She’s the one you’ll have to look out for especially, Commander. Look! What’s she up to, now?”

With a low cry of pain, the girl had stumbled. Now she stood swaying, as if about to fall.

“She’s turned her ankle! I’m going to help her, Hammond,” muttered Don. “You all stay here.”

The other car, Don noted, was just driving away. Reaching the girl’s side, he caught her arm firmly, taking the weight off her injured foot.

“I saw you trip,” he said, imitating Count Borg’s smoother tone. “What luck that I was just across the street!”

“André! André!” gasped Lotus, leaning heavily against him. “Is it really you? But yes! Your voice—your touch on my arm! I know them, though your face is queer in this light!”

“Of course, little Lotus bud!” laughed Don, slipping an arm about her shoulders. “You miss the moustache I had to shave off. But your ankle must be paining you a lot. Let me help you as far as the house!”

“To the house, André!” cried the girl. “You mean you’re not coming inside? Didn’t you come here to see me?”

“Please—not so loud!” warned the pseudo Count. “I can’t stop longer without making the men with me suspicious. It was just the accident of a blowout that made them stop here at all. I’ll explain everything when I see you next—say tomorrow night, at the Empire?”