“It was Corba who put me wise to that resemblance,” Don told the
astonished group after Borg had left. “That radioman is a born traitor,
and he’s figuring every possible way to cross up his old pals in hope of
getting in right with us. He suggested that I might use my likeness to
Count Borg as a means of spying on Scorpia’s activities. It certainly
looks like a hot idea; but I’d want your opinion of it, Mr. Splendor,
before going farther with any plans.”
“It will take a bit of study, I can see that,” replied the veteran
Intelligence man. “But first of all, Commander, why ye think Count Borg
is not planning a clever trap for ye? He’s too bright a man to be a
common double-crosser like Corba. Mind ye, he has been one of the
Scorpion’s most trusted agents. Considerin’ that, it strikes me he fell
in with your impersonation scheme a bit too quickly. It’s not like him
to play traitor to his chief.”
“Which is the very reason I believe he will be loyal to our cause now!”
retorted Don, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You see, Mr. Splendor,
our man has been a victim of _amnesia_. The bullet wound he received
this morning restored his memory of everything that happened until the
night of April fourteenth, nineteen thirty-three. At that time his skull
was fractured by a thug’s blackjack. Of the seven years between then and
now he has not the slightest recollection.”
“Amazin’, if true!” muttered the cripple, meeting Don’s level look. “Are
ye sure, Commander, that this _is_ amnesia, and not another clever piece
of actin’? Count Borg is no ordinary man, remember. He’d be quite
capable of plannin’ a trick like that from the moment he found himself
aboard ship!”
“He couldn’t fake amnesia well enough to fool an expert,” Don pointed
out. “Our medical officer happens to have made a special study of brain
disorders, and he says this is a genuine case. Doc thinks that Borg’s
first injury changed his whole character. Recalling little except his
name, the man became an obedient tool of Scorpia. He remembered no other
friends, no other life; and his naturally keen brain was completely at
the service of his criminal master. Now, of course, he is horrified at
the idea of having been one of that crowd. He wants to make up in some
way for the damage he has done as a Scorpion agent.”
“But what luck it would be, Don,” put in Mercedes, “if Count Borg
_should_ start to remember his life as one of Scorpia’s aces! He might
give us enough information to clean up the entire organization in one
swoop. Of course that sort of luck is too good to be real!”
“I’m afraid it is, my dear,” said Splendor. “However, I think we have a
chance of getting most, if not all, of the evidence we need, thanks to
this resemblance between Don Winslow and his captive. Do ye recall the
code message we discovered at the submarine base—the one which Corba
later stole from your stateroom, Commander? Well, I had the
master-at-arms search all five of our new prisoners before ye were on
deck this mornin’. And every last one of them had the same code message
tucked away in his clothing! Ye see what that means?”
“Hmmm! It looks as if the Scorpion were calling all his forces together
at San Francisco for some big job, if you ask me,” Don answered soberly.
“That would be the very thing to get in on—a general conference of
Scorpia’s operatives. If I got out of it alive, we’d have enough
evidence to hamstring the organization’s power for years to come!”
“That’s all very well, gentlemen,” growled Captain Riggs, picking up his
hat, “but I believe you’re going to find some pretty big difficulties in
the way. Unless Borg recovers his memory and gives you the Scorpia
passwords, not to mention a lot of other information, I fear your
disguise won’t get you very far, Commander. You’ll excuse me if I leave
you now to take my watch on deck!”
With a brusque nod the _Gatoon’s_ master closed the cabin door behind
him. Mercedes looked across at Don, her eyes dark with anxiety.
“I’m afraid Captain Riggs is right about that,” she said. “Oh, Don, I
hope you’ll not attempt anything so risky as to pass yourself off for
the count! There are a thousand details on which your ignorance would
trip you!”
“There’s a way out of that difficulty, Skipper,” spoke up Red
Pennington. “Suppose we give out a story that Borg has escaped. Actually
of course, he’ll stay in plain sight dressed in your uniform. You’ll be
the one who disappears and shows up in San Francisco as Count Borg.
You’ll pretend that your memory is partly blacked out by your head wound
and that will account for any slips you make, like forgetting people and
passwords that Borg used to know.”
“Great stuff, sailor!” cried Don Winslow, leaping up to pound Red
enthusiastically on the back. “That story will have enough truth in it
to convince the most suspicious Scorpion operatives. What do you think
of it, Mr. Splendor?”
The man in the wheel chair wagged his gray head.
“'Tis a clever plan—very clever indeed,” he admitted. “As a matter of
fact, I can think of only one person in Scorpia’s ranks whom it would
not fool. When I was stationed in San Francisco it was reported that a
certain beautiful young girl was in love with Count Borg....”
“A woman!” cried Mercedes Colby. “That tears it, Don! Remember, I was
the only one of us who knew that Count Borg was not you? A woman’s
instinct will tell her the truth, in spite of the most perfect disguise.
If you meet this girl, as you surely will, she’ll know you’re not her
lover. By the way, what is her name, Mr. Splendor?”
“They call her the Lotus,” chuckled the gray-haired cripple. “Some say
that she is part Chinese, others that she is of pure white blood,
brought up by Chinese who kidnapped her in infancy. All agree that she
is very lovely and _very_ clever having been trained by Cho-San
himself.”
“Then she is all the more dangerous!” Mercedes protested. “Please, Don!
Give up this wild notion of putting yourself into Scorpia’s power, for
that is just what you would be doing! You might be able to disguise your
identity from men, but never from a woman in love!”
“Maybe,” suggested Red Pennington, “this gal Lotus isn’t in love with
Count Borg any more. A lot of things have happened since you were
stationed in 'Frisco, Mr. Splendor. And a dame like that _could_ change
her mind, you know.”
“Sure, 'tis entirely possible, Lieutenant,” the older man agreed. “I’ll
think over the whole proposition between now and the time we drop anchor
in Port-au-Prince. On the way to my villa in the mountains we can talk
again, me friends. Will that suit you?”
“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!”