“I didn’t hear a thing about his intentions, Cho-San,” replied Don indifferently. “I fancy, though, that he’ll be in the plane Michael Splendor is flying here today. Splendor’s a bit sore, you know, about my stealing his big cabin job. He broadcast the news that he was flying here on a hunch that I’d head for 'Frisco. Maybe his pilot will be this Winslow chap.”
“Ummmm, I wonder!” mumbled the Oriental. “They say he looks enough like you, Borg, to be your twin. In a certain situation you might even impersonate him. Suppose, for instance, that Winslow should disappear without his friends being the wiser—just what would prevent your taking his place in the interests of Scorpia?”
Don’s answer was a laugh that he tried to make natural.
“Why, my dear Cho-San,” he retorted, “the interests of Scorpia would prevent my doing that to take the words out of your mouth! I admit I look like Winslow, but his voice, his walk, and everything else about him is different; so don’t talk nonsense!”
“Cho-San never talks nonsense, you fool!” hissed the Chinese. “You will do well to remember that your life depends on your usefulness to Scorpia, and to me—its mouthpiece! If you don’t, the next time a bullet strikes your skull it may be better aimed!”
XXII
WET TRACKS IN THE FOG
The big car twisted and turned through the narrow streets, boring deeper into the dark heart of old Chinatown. Don Winslow, seated between Cho-San and Lotus, felt his sense of danger rising.
At any moment now, the Chinese chauffeur would pull up at an unfamiliar building. Then, flanked by two Scorpion spies, the pretended Count Borg would enter the underworld of Scorpia.
What further tests would he have to pass Don could not guess. He knew only that if he failed his life would pay the forfeit!
Tensely he told himself that he must not fail. For the honor of the United States Navy, for the sake of his friends, and of all who prefer peace to war’s mass murder, he must not fail!