The Red agents had picked up his trail after he had given the jewels to Bruce Duncan. Since then they had played a waiting, catlike game.
Now he was safe — free from any avenging hand. He could write a warning letter to Bruce Duncan from the Middle West; and could keep on to California; then to Australia.
These thoughts were in Berchik’s mind as he rounded a long curve, on the side of a hill. Below him, at the right, yawned a deep ravine.
“Prince Zuvor is clever,” murmured Berchik. “This is the plan he chose for escape. They are watching him — as they watched me. But there is no danger for me now. I am safe. They cannot strike me.”
He turned the wheel to the left, as the curve increased. From the back of the car he heard a slight click. He wondered what it meant. Then came a second click.
A sudden fear came over Berchik. He thrust his foot forward to the brake pedal.
But his action was too late. Before Berchik could save himself from the unknown danger, a terrific explosion came from the rear of the car.
The back of the light coupe was lifted upward as though by a giant hand. The shattered automobile hurtled forward and crashed through the fence at the side of the road.
Rolling in its plunge, the car fell over and over into the ravine below, leaving a trail of wreckage as it went. It smashed into a large tree, and its course ended there.
In ten brief seconds, the speeding automobile had become a battered hulk, and in the mass of twisted metal and broken glass lay the dead body of Berchik.