“Not right now,” replied Blatz. “Keep going; I’ll watch them.”
He turned and looked out the rear window. There was no mistake on the part of the driver; another machine was following, making every turn they did, maintaining the same speed and keeping about a block to the rear. Had the American secret service become suspicious of him and placed him under surveillance?
The thought alarmed Blatz and he ordered the driver to attempt to lose the pursuing machine. For fifteen minutes they turned and twisted from one street to another, darted through alleys and doubled back onto thoroughfares. At last the lights of the other machine vanished and Blatz felt sure that they had lost their pursuers.
He gave the order to continue to the address he had given the driver and relaxed again. He would be glad to get back to the hotel and rejoin his friends.
The American headquarters of the Gerka were located on the fifth floor of a warehouse building on the east side, a district which was anything but reassuring after dusk had fallen. Street lights cast their feeble rays at infrequent intervals and there was no traffic on the street. One dusty electric globe hung in the little cubby which was marked “watchman’s office.”
“Want me to wait?” asked the taxi driver.
“That’s not necessary,” replied Blatz. “I’ll call a cab when I’m ready to return.”
The taxi lurched down the street and Blatz walked up to the watchman’s window.
The password of the Gerka was in Rubanian and Blatz spoke a guttural phrase.
The watchman, a middle aged man with distinct Rubanian features, stepped to a phone and made sure that Blatz was really an agent of the Gerka. Informed that the newcomer was to be shown to the headquarters, he took Blatz into the dim confines of the building and showed him into a freight elevator. They were lifted slowly to the fifth floor and when the door opened, Blatz stepped out into a comfortably furnished suite of rooms.