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—”