A drooping, discouraged little figure, Lotus stumbled back to the closed
curtains. As she raised a hand to part them, Don Winslow called her
back.
“You are wrong,” he said huskily as the girl turned. “Count Borg needs
friends right now. He needs you, Lotus! One of these days he will be
released. If he has no friend to whom it matters, _he’s_ going to feel
life and liberty aren’t worth much, isn’t he? Answer me that!”
Slowly Lotus’ small chin lifted. Her shoulders lost their discouraged
droop.
“Thank you, Don Winslow!” she whispered. “André was like that, too,
saying things to give me courage when all seemed hopeless. You resemble
each other in more things than voice and appearance. That is why I
couldn’t ever betray you to Cho-San! But come! It is dangerous to talk
here longer. We must return to the living room, in case Cho-San comes
looking for us.”
Don realized that she was right. Without a word he followed back through
the curtained archway, ready once more to play the part of Count Borg.
As it turned out, they were barely in time.
Lotus had just seated herself when the little French maid, Suzette,
appeared silently.
“A telephone message for Mademoiselle!” the girl announced. “Cho-San
requests that you take it from the apartment of Doctor Skell.”
With a warning glance at Don, Lotus rose to her feet. “You will excuse
me, André?” she asked. “It seems that our evening together is doomed to
be broken up ... Suzette! Are you not glad to see Count Borg after his
three months’ absence?”
The maid bobbed a quaint little foreign courtesy.
“I am ver’ glad to see you again, Monsieur!” she smiled, as Lotus left
the room. “Did Mademoiselle have time to show you through the new
apartment beyond this one? It has been made over since you were last
here.”
The wink which accompanied the last statement set Don’s thoughts racing.
Suzette’s hint was plain enough. She wanted an excuse to lead him out of
the room. But why? Did she have something to say that was not meant for
the hidden dictaphone?
“Made over, hmmm?” Don drawled, picking up the cue where she dropped it.
“No, Mademoiselle didn’t show me that. Might as well kill time while
she’s gone by taking a look.”
Rising, he followed the little maid through the same archway where Lotus
had taken him. As the heavy curtains fell back in place, he was not
surprised to find Suzette at his elbow. Standing on tiptoe, the French
maid whispered swiftly in his ear.
“I also,” he caught the softly breathed words, “know who you are,
Commander!”
The shock to Don’s nerves was less, this time; but before he had time to
recover, Suzette pulled his ear down once more.
“We must be brief, M’sieur,” she murmured, “but I will tell you that
w’ich even Mademoiselle Lotus do not know. I am operative of the French
Secret Service, working to discover the Scorpion’s so evil plans. I
listen w’en you talk with Mademoiselle behind this curtain. Of course I
have hear of the so famous Don Winslow, so I tell myself: 'Suzette, you
are one lucky woman! Perhaps you can help the Commander to trap the
enemy tonight!’”
In silent admiration, Don offered the plucky girl his hand. How long she
had been risking her life surrounded day and night by Scorpion agents,
he could only guess. Both her cleverness and her courage, he knew, must
be extraordinary to get away with such a feat.
“You mean we can find a way to trap them at the big meeting tonight?” he
whispered breathlessly. “That’s even a bigger stunt than I’d hoped to
pull off! I came here to get evidence against the big shots, but if we
can deal Scorpia a crippling blow at the same time....”
“_Oui!_ That is my thought!” cut in the French woman swiftly. “But there
is not now time to tell you my plan. Instead I must warn you. Something
have happen to make Cho-San suspect you are not André Borg!”
“That cuts it!” groaned Don. “I must have been pulling a whole string of
boners. First Lotus, then you, and now Cho-San gets wise to me....”
“No! No! It is not that, M’sieur!” whispered the little maid. “You have
not pull the boner, and Cho-San is not sure. You see he have just got
the news that Michael Splendor and Commander Winslow have arrived by
plane. The Scorpion spy who saw them at the airport say Don Winslow have
a wound on the head jus’ like yours. That start Cho-San wondering w’ich
is the real Don Winslow and w’ich is Count André Borg.”
“And so,” smiled Don grimly, “Cho-San sent you in to size me up and
report which of the two _you_ think I am! Well, so long as he isn’t
sure, I stand a chance to get away with it. I’ll have to be more than
ever on my guard now, that’s all.”
“_Mais oui!_” Suzette said loudly, pushing aside the curtains. “And now,
Monsieur, that you have seen the made over apartment, is there anything
else you desire? Perhaps some music from the radio, while you await
Mademoiselle Lotus?”
Before Don could reply, Cho-San himself appeared from behind the tall
screen. A wave of his long fingered hand disposed of the maid. As she
glided from the room, the big Chinese turned slowly to face the young
Intelligence officer.
“I have news for you. Count Borg,” he announced in an ominous tone. “The
man who is your double in voice and features has just arrived at the
airport. My agent who saw him reported that the wound on his head is
identical with yours. But that is not all. It seems that even the tiny
scar beneath Count Borg’s cheekbone has reproduced itself on the face of
Don Winslow!”
For a long moment Don’s gray eyes returned the Oriental’s snakelike
gaze. Above all things, he told himself, he must not show nervousness.
Instead, he managed an incredulous laugh.
“Now, really, Cho-San,” he bantered. “You can’t expect me to swallow a
whopper like that! Either you’re pulling my leg, or your agent had one
glass too many under his belt when he looked at Winslow. The Commander
wouldn’t have any reason to copy my facial misfortunes, you know!”
“I do not know!” snarled Cho-San, giving way to one of his sudden rages.
“I have found Commander Winslow unbelievably clever on many occasions.
If I thought he could lower his stiff pride to impersonate a fool, I
should suspect that _your_ scars were faked!”
“And that the real Count Borg is now a traitor wearing the uniform of a
United States Navy Commander?” crowed Don, sinking limply onto the
nearest couch. “Oh-h-n, ha-ha-ha! I never thought to see you so
confused, Cho-San! Why, supposing Winslow were—ha, ha—such an idiot as
to shoot himself in the head, he couldn’t fake this scar under my eye,
too. You can see for yourself, Cho-San. It isn’t painted!”
Lurching to his feet, Don thrust his face close to that of the glowering
Chinese. The effect was everything that he desired. On the instant,
Cho-San’s suspicion was swept away by the sheer violence of his wrath.
“Silence, you laughing hyena!” thundered the Scorpion leader. “Perhaps
if your silly face _were_ painted it would sicken me less! As it is, I
shall use it to serve the purposes of Scorpia, in a way suggested by Don
Winslow himself. Within the next twenty-four hours that young officer
will disappear. At the same time you, André Borg, will take his place
and carry out certain orders. With Winslow safely in our hands, we shall
proceed to spread dismay in the ranks of the Navy Intelligence!”
The harsh brutality in Cho-San’s voice did more than anything to
reassure Don. The Chinese had evidently made up his mind that Count Borg
now stood before him, and had turned his explosive energy to another
problem. From now on Don’s best play was obviously to agree.
As he was about to reply, a concealed buzzer sounded loudly in the room.
Cho-San turned with a muttered exclamation, and hurried out by way of
the carved screen.