Before Don could frame a question, the little French-woman caught his
arm.
“_Écoutez!_” she cried in a husky undertone. “Do you know a man about
twenty-six year old, with big, thick chest and red hair dyed black?”
“Yes, yes!” Don whipped back. “Go on! Tell me what you mean! They
haven’t caught him?”
“But they have, Monsieur!” replied Suzette. “Ah, I had the fear it might
be one of your men! They have just brought him in, unconscious, and
Cho-San is very much excited. I hear him say, 'Now I shall grind the
truth out of that clown who calls himself Count Borg. But first, I’ll
burn this dog with dyed hair until he howls all he knows!’”
“It’s Red!” Don groaned, his fists knotting at his sides. “You mean,
Suzette, that they’ve got him in the torture room? Merciful heavens! I’d
rather be there in his place—but, quick! Tell me what we can do to get
him away?”
“There is nothing, Don!” wailed Lotus, wringing her hands in distress.
“Once they have gotten your friend in the Lantern Room, there’s no way
of rescuing him except by a trick. The place is too well-guarded....”
“A trick!” exclaimed Suzette excitedly. “Let me think jus’ a moment I
believe there is a way....”
“There’s got to be!” grated Don. “Even if we lose a chance of trapping
the Scorpion’s whole bunch, we’ve got to get Red out of this. He’s my
shipmate, and....”
_“Mais, oui!”_ cried the little maid. “We will do it with the help of
_le bon Dieu_! Only first, you and Mademoiselle must be in the Lantern
Room. You must pretend not to care how much they torture your poor
friend. You must not let Cho-San see that you know him at all. Then,
when the chance have arrive, the lights will go out. Your friend must be
quickly freed, and then _Ps-st_!”
At Suzette’s hissed warning, Lotus broke into rapid speech.
“I understand, my little maid!” she said loudly, with a wink at the
Frenchwoman. “You think you must play the chaperon whenever I am with
Count Borg. That is why you are always sneaking into the room! Now, let
me tell you this....”
“Stop your chatter, girl!” rasped the voice of Cho-San behind them. “I
have something of importance to tell your André; so be silent or leave
the room! Count Borg, it appears that our task of laying hands on Don
Winslow may be unexpectedly simplified!”
“Really, Cho-San!” shrugged Don indifferently. “Did you think it was
going to be difficult? I imagine if you used a large enough mob to seize
him....”
“Will you never be serious?” spat the Chinese. “To put it bluntly, in
elegant words such as you can understand, we have nabbed a guy who looks
like one of Winslow’s pals. _Now_ do you understand?”
“Oh, I say! That’s luck, you know! Really!” exclaimed Don, acting his
part in spite of inward anxiety. “You mean we can use this man as bait
to trap Winslow? Have the fellow write a note to his Commander, or
something?”
“_Or something!_” the Oriental mimicked him grimly. “I can think of
something even simpler than a written note, my dear Count. With the
information I can get from this Navy spy, by the use of a little
pain.... But come with me to the Lantern Room and see for yourself! You,
too, Lotus, dismiss your maid and come with us. It is time you should
see what a little persuasion—Oriental style—can accomplish. I have
machines, copied from the torture rooms of Ancient China, which can
extract any secret!”
Chuckling evilly, the huge Scorpion leader motioned the two young people
out of the room ahead of him.
As he turned away, Don fought an overpowering desire to smash his fist
into Cho-San’s grinning yellow face. Only by ramming his hands deep in
his pockets did he succeed in controlling them. Although on fire with
anxiety for Red, he must pretend a careless, somewhat bored good humor.
“And I feared we were going to have a tiresome evening, Cho-San,” he
murmured. “Chinese torture machines sound awfully entertaining, I must
say! Er—by the way, I don’t recall how we get to the lamp room, as you
call it.”
“Lantern Room!” growled the Chinese. “Lotus will lead the way and I will
follow. Take the shortest corridor, girl! I am anxious to see your
André’s face when he sets eyes on our latest captive.”
The doorway concealed by the carved screen opened into another dimly
lighted vestibule. Don guessed that a number of its darkly shining
panels were really hidden doors, communicating with as many passageways.
The girl, however, showed no hesitation in locating the one she wanted.
Her small fingers played briefly with one of the carved dragons of the
molding. There was the usual muffled click. Two seconds later a black
opening gaped in the solid wall.
This time the narrow corridor ran almost straight, with a sharp downward
slope. The distance might have been a hundred feet before another panel
slid open at Lotus’ touch, and bright electric light streamed briefly
into the dark passageway. Knowing, yet fearing, what he was going to
see, Don Winslow stepped into the Room of a Thousand Torments.
The place was really a stone vault of immense proportions, fifty feet
wide and perhaps a hundred long. Its groined ceiling was supported by
thick stone pillars to which were affixed chains and ring bolts of iron.
Along the walls stood a weird array of mechanical monsters, some of them
so crudely made that they might have been centuries old. Don glimpsed a
medieval “rack” for pulling living human bodies apart, a rude “wheel”
between whose heavy spokes human legs and arms could be broken like
matchsticks, an “iron maiden” whose hinged and hollow halves were spiked
with deadly knife blades.
There were rows of other horrible machines at which he barely glanced.
What drew his attention like a terrible magnet was the prone figure of
Red Pennington, still in his valet’s garb, lying on a dark stained plank
table. Blood trickling from Red’s broken scalp had smeared the chalklike
whiteness of his face. So deathly was his appearance that the two
Chinese hatchet men standing guard above him looked like murderers
gloating over their kill!
Biting hard on his tongue, Don Winslow held back his rage. Still keeping
his outward pose of lazy boredom, he turned to the Scorpion leader.
“Oh, come now, Cho-San!” he protested. “What kind of a silly joke is
this? The fellow’s dead as dust! No fun in tormenting a corpse, you
know.”
With a feline hiss, Cho-San leaped past him, shouldering aside the
nearest hatchet man. Placing his ear to Red’s chest, he listened for the
heartbeat. The silence in the great, vaulted room was breathless.
Abruptly the big Oriental straightened up, motioning the guards away.
“The man is not quite dead; we can quickly revive him,” he said. “Come
nearer, Count Borg! We shall show you some fun _at the expense of your
own valet_!”
“What’s that?” cried Don sharply, striding across to the table. “Why,
you’re right, Cho-San! I didn’t recognize him with all that blood on his
face. But see here—you can’t put the screws on my valet, you know! He’s
just a harmless chap I picked up to do for me....”
“Ummmmm-hmmmmmm! Of course, of course!” rumbled Cho-San. “Just a
harmless chap you—or perhaps someone else—told to follow our car this
evening! Well, my dear Count Borg, he succeeded, as you observe!”
The guards had returned with two buckets of water and a wide leather
strap. At a gesture from Cho-San, they sloshed the water over Red’s body
from head to foot. As soon as both buckets were empty one of the hatchet
men began slapping their bound and helpless victim’s face with the heavy
strap.
Suddenly Red groaned, rolling partly on his side. The man with the strap
stepped away. At the same time, Cho-San pushed Don forward.
The trick was cleverly planned. Only luck and Don’s presence of mind
prevented a showdown then and there. As it happened, Red in his
half-conscious state still thought he was back at the Empire rehearsing
the part of “Penny.”
“Yes, sir! I’ll get right up, sir!” he mumbled, opening one eye. “I
didn’t mean to fall asleep, but ... mmmmm—my head!”
At that moment Don flashed him a warning signal often used between
them—a sharp lift of the right eyebrow. And, foggy as poor Red’s brain
still was, he got it.
Instead of answering, he shut his mouth and groaned.
With a sigh of inward relief, Don Winslow went on with the act. Until
the chance should come for a getaway, he must play for time.
“Look here, my man!” he snapped angrily. “What on earth possessed you to
follow my friend’s car this evening? Hang it! If this is some stupid
police trick....”
“Not at all, my dear Count!” chorded Cho-San, seizing Red by the scalp.
“It’s a trick of the famous Navy Intelligence, if anything. Look closely
at this stout lieutenant’s hair—dyed black, _except at the roots_!”
A flat accusation could not have been more menacing than Cho-San’s leer.
Yet, somehow Don sensed that the Chinese was still only guessing. With a
puzzled frown he returned the man’s snaky gaze.
“A lieutenant?” he drawled. “Oh, of course! You mean Red Pennington. But
really, Cho-San, this fellow Penny couldn’t be Don Winslow’s shipmate. I
picked him up only today on the sidewalk, mooching for dimes. He told me
he’d been a valet and I hired him. Even bought him an outfit of clothes.
Come now, Cho-San, admit that your idea’s a bit fantastic! Besides, how
could Pennington have got here so soon from Haiti, old dear? Ha-ha! I’ve
got you there, haven’t I?”
“Unless,” smiled the Chinese with sinister emphasis, “—unless you, my
dear Don Winslow, brought him with you as a passenger in the plane that
Michael Splendor _allowed_ you to steal!”