“Men coming,” said Larson. “Two airplanes landing, too—looks like a landing-ground. For the love of heaven, Durant, keep your mouth shut about the money!”
“But he got away with it!” exclaimed Durant. Freed, he sat up, saw the high radio towers and the huts below. “This is Abbeville, just outside town—they can get him. I had the pilot radio his name and—”
“Lay off!” cried Larson frantically. “I got to get to Paris and drop out of sight quick—beat it! Understand? Our pilot ain’t dead—he only got a bullet through his leg. Let ’em all think the fellow was just trying to make his get-away—”
“And let the money go?” demanded Durant, incredulous.
“Sure, let it go!” said Larson, with a wink. “I got more of it. Let it go!” Durant shrugged.
Next morning, in his little hotel in the Rue Vignon, behind the Madeleine, Durant caught at the Echo de Paris brought with his coffee and rolls. On the front page was the story he sought:
Michael Korin, the assassin of Grand Duke Vassily, was killed yesterday near Abbeville by gardes champêtres, in a running battle.
It was no ordinary, sordid slaying; it was drama! This great criminal was crossing audaciously from London to Paris by avion.
Recognized by one of the passengers, he brought the avion to earth by shooting away the propeller. The pilot, who was wounded, sent the alarm by radio. Unhappily for himself, Korin touched earth at the Abbeville aërodrome.
Durant, thrilled, laid down his paper. Korin was dead, then! And since the names of all air passengers were carefully registered, and the names of all hotel arrivals in Paris were at once deposited with the police, he would soon be traced here and interviewed.
What of Larson, then? Durant chuckled—for Larson was gone. He had slipped out of the Airways bus as it passed the Gare du Nord, after one hasty grip of farewell, and Durant had last seen him darting into the big station. Larson was gone, somewhere, like a rat hunting its hole. Why? He was safe enough here, surely. And he had still some money left. But what about the money Korin had taken? Surely Larson would claim it.
His eye fell on the paper again, and followed down to the final paragraph of the story. He read it, with stupefied astonishment. The whole thing swept upon him then, with stunning force. Here he had the explanation of Larson’s puzzling conduct—and the most astounding joke on Boris Makoff! For Makoff, at this very moment, must be reading this news-story too; he would not understand Larson’s share in it, perhaps, but he would quite understand for what he had expended money and brains prodigally, not to mention for what Michael Korin had thrown away his life.