The secretary was at the window, a flashlight in his hand. He focused the beam on the quarry, a man in flying togs who kept his face turned from the light. Now other rays shot out from the roof, bathing the Merlin in merciless brilliance. A shot cracked sharply.
“They’ll get him,” the Rajah said. “I’ve sub-machine guns on the roof.”
The Merlin’s hand lifted, fumbled over the ladder. And—suddenly—he was gone! Ladder and outlaw vanished!
The Rajah stared in blank amazement. “How—”
“Automatic winding device in his plane. It just wound him up.” The European who spoke looked at his empty gun. “Better get your planes after him.”
At a nod from the Rajah the secretary hurried from the room. “We’ll get him,” royalty remarked.
“No, you won’t. The Merlin’s got a fast plane. He’s pulled off these things before. But this time—well, he lost his mask.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“Stone did, before he fell. He screamed a name. Remember? Martell.”
“A common name,” the Rajah frowned.