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?”
“That’s a long time to wait, André, when I haven’t seen you for so
long!” sighed Lotus, with a hint of disappointment. “I guess you know
best, though. Suppose you meet me in the dining room, at that same
little table in the corner—remember?”
“At seven o’clock,” agreed Don, as the girl turned with one gloved hand
on the gate latch. “And I’m awfully glad your ankle isn’t really
injured! Good night!”
Returning across the street, he found that Hammond’s chauffeur had about
finished putting on the spare wheel. Hammond beckoned both officers into
the car and closed the door after him. A moment later the motor started.
“Tell us about it, Commander,” the office man urged, as they turned in
to a more brightly lighted section of the city. “You think the Lotus
really took you for Count Borg? If she didn’t, it’s going to make things
pretty difficult.”
“I don’t think you need to worry, Hammond,” Don replied. “Remember, the
light was very dim, so she couldn’t have noticed small details. Of
course, I had to explain the loss of my moustache.... By the way, I’ve
got a dinner date with her for tomorrow evening at the Empire!”
“That ought to give us enough time to get fixed up and coached for our
parts,” Red Pennington commented. “Gee, Don! What a lucky break! Our
tire blowin’ out, and Lotus showin’ up at the same time! It all happened
so naturally, not even the Scorpion himself could suspect anything
queer.”
“Unless,” said Don thoughtfully, “the guard inside Cho-San’s iron gate
smelled something phony. You see, Lotus _wanted_ to believe I was Borg,
but that other guy may have been leery.”
“A guard, huh?” snorted Hammond. “I don’t like that, Commander! As you
say, he just _might_ have smelled a mouse. Those Scorpion agents are
suspecting each other half the time, and.... Hmmmm! You were close
enough to see him plainly?”
“Only the glow of his cigarette tip,” answered Don. “But why worry over
that? Looks as if we’d arrived at your office already; and I’m hungry
enough to eat the letters off a stone monument!”
“And those letters are sunk in, too!” laughed the Intelligence man,
reaching for the door handle. “Well, Commander, there’s a hot meal
waiting for you right upstairs. I ordered it brought in, because you’re
not visiting any restaurant until your make-up is absolutely perfect.”