“One turn?” he asked, laying a bony hand upon the rack’s windlass.
The Chinese nodded. Slowly the rack’s wooden crank moved downward, tightening the ropes. Count Borg’s body stiffened under the frightful tension. Through his clenched jaws issued a grinding sob of pain.
“Another turn and his bones snap out of their sockets,” came the dry croak of Dr. Skell. “Shall I go on?”
“No! No!” came Lotus’ frantic cry. “Torture me, Cho-San, but not André! Anything—anything but that!”
“Tear him apart!” snarled the Scorpion leader. “Put your weight on that windlass, or—”
CR-RACK!
The whipping report of a rifle slapped against the walls. With a queer, animal whine, the bony Skell shrank back, his bullet grazed hand dripping red.
For a moment paralysis seemed to grip the assembled Council of Scorpia. Then through tense silence the voice of Don Winslow cut like a knife.
“Hold it, Cho-San! We’ve got every exit covered. You’d better give up!”
Quick as a cat, the big Chinese leaped. Outside the spotlight, his figure was a swift vanishing blur. The slam of an automatic pistol came seconds too late, as Michael Splendor charged onto the stage at the head of twenty fighting men.