Gregori seldom conversed with Prensky. The tones that he heard carried an odd accent, yet they also sounded like the voice of Motkin’s aid, as Gregori recalled it, the words were a command, and Gregori realized that it was his duty to obey. Ivan Motkin had told him to follow Prensky’s orders.
It was a long run to the airport. Nothing was said from the back seat on the way. Gregori was not surprised. Prensky was usually silent. Only when they neared the flying field did Gregori receive another order.
“Drive close to the Warsaw plane. Behind it.”
Gregori obeyed. He brought his car to a standstill, at a spot some yards away from a huge monoplane that glistened in lights of the flying field.
A choking exclamation came from Gregori’s lips as two hands clutched his throat from in back. The action was swift and certain. The chauffeur had no opportunity to emit a cry. He slumped in back of the wheel.
Leaning over the front seat, The Shadow gagged the senseless chauffeur with a handkerchief. He bound Gregori’s hands with a leather belt. Noting that the half-choked man was helpless, The Shadow slid back and removed his cloak and hat. He folded them into a compact bundle, and opened the car door.
The ship was making ready for its flight. A surly officer gazed curiously at the tall, hatless figure that approached him. This man did not announce himself as Henry Arnaud.
“M. Prensky, aid to Ivan Motkin,” he declared. “Here are my passports and instructions.”
The words were in perfect Russian. The officer examined the papers, and motioned the tall figure into the cabin of the plane. There were two other passengers, already in the ship. The officer gave instructions to the pilot.
The whirling propellers sped more swiftly. The big plane started across the field. Gaining speed, it took off into the wind. Rising, it swerved back across the field, where, far below, the automobile in which Gregori lay gagged appeared like a tiny toy.