Plunder of Kurdistan

 Plunder of Kurdistan

by E. Hoffmann Price

From Spicy Adventures magazine, April 1935

Digitized for Stillwoods.Blogspot.Ca, April 2018.

Bayonne at sunset. Glamorous, gray walled Bayonne that for twenty centuries has nestled at the foothills of the Pyrenees, guarding the road to Spain. But Tom Garrett, sitting at a marble topped table beneath that striped awning of Cafe du Theatre, had forgotten Vauban’s fortifications and likewise his tall glass of amer picon. Garrett had acquired an aim in life.

And every time the girl at the adjoining table recrossed her lovely legs, the problem became more urgent. He was certain that he could not leave Bayonne without finding out what kind of garters would draw her hosiery so snugly about her dimpled knees. Something had to be done about it.

But it was the girl who took the initiative. Her eyes suddenly shifted from the milling crowd she had anxiously been scrutinizing and nailed Garrett with their dark, long lashed magnificence. She leaned forward just enough to give Garrett a glimpse of breasts like twin magnolia buds and said in a low, agitated voice, “Monsieur, on m’a poursuivi depuis Espagne jusqu’ a— ”

“Followed you from Spain?” echoed Garrett. And without giving her a chance to answer. he added, “No damn wonder! Listen, ma’mselle, I’da followed you from hell just to see if you kicked your covers off in your sleep.”

“Thank God, an American!” she sighed. She was obviously worried to distraction; but a sweetly malicious smile twitched at the corners of her amiable mouth as Garrett turned a rich Venetian red, swallowed, and finally blurted out, “Gee! Do you speak English?”

“I ought to,” she laughed. “I was raised in Kansas.”

Garrett might have known she wasn’t French.

Her features were a shade too finely drawn. Anyway, she hadn’t slapped him or called a gendarme, and an American speaking girl would be a relief after all this ‘voulez vous couches avec moi’ stuff, followed by an itemized bill with luxury tax extra, and a franc for mama.

“Listen, Susie,” he said, “that makes us neighbors. I’m from Broken Axe, Oklahoma.”

“The name,” she corrected, “is Lydia—”

“Pinkham?”

“No, silly! Lydia Inglis, and I’m in a perfectly terrible jam, and you looked so much at home here, and sort of honest—”

“Honest? Right-o, Lydia, and no lady ever yet claimed Tom Garrett went through her bankroll while she slept— but anyway, what’s the trouble?”

Lydia eyed him, and made a job of it. He saw that she was as lovely above the equator as she was below, and that was saying a lot. But despite her relief at having met a fellow American, Lydia was still a bit dubious about something.

“I brought something rather precious from Spain,” she finally began.

“Uhuh. About a million dollar’s worth, I’d say,” interrupted Garrett as his appraising glance shifted from her slender silken legs to the suave curve of her hips.

“Idiot! What I was referring to is in my hatbox.” She indicated the circular container.

“What I had in mind isn’t and couldn’t possibly be,” grinned Garrett. Yet behind his badinage, he was thinking fast. The girl looked absolutely one hundred proof and the pure quill, right out of the wood; but her remarks hinted at smuggling. There was a lot of it going on, along the Spanish Border. And to test his conclusion, Garrett added, “I guess it must be valuable—or you’d not be packing that automatic in a holster at your knee.”

“Oh!” That took Lydia’s breath, and it worried her. “How did you—”

“That green guard stripe sort of caught my eye,” Garrett explained. “You could make a million modeling for Hyacinth Hosiery.”

Lydia’s eyes widened some more. She was wondering if there was anything he hadn’t seen.

“Why—how did—I am wearing Hyacinth—”

“Sure you are. I make ‘em, back in the states. But about that hat box?”

Lydia emerged from her chair like a kitten rising from a cushion; slick and graceful and effortlessly, with a fluent motion that suggested how tightly she could cling—if she felt that way. Garrett reached for the circular hat box. Lydia’s fingers closed on his wrist. The gesture was instinctive. As her grip relaxed, she smiled and said, “I’m developing a bad case of jitters.”

He accompanied her across rue Bernede, and up the Port Neuf arcade to the first cross street. There she paused and said, “I’m staying at the Panier-Fleuri. If you’re not too busy, I wish you’d come up and wait with me until— oh, good Lord! There’s one of them now!”

Garrett whirled just in time to see a lean, swarthy man with black mustaches duck into a doorway. The fellow had obviously been lurking to intercept Lydia on her way to her hotel. But swiftly as he moved, Garrett caught him by the shoulder before he could dive down the passageway that pierced the otherwise blank wall.

“Qu ’est-ce que c’est?" the fellow demanded as Garrett jerked him into the open. His gimlet eyes were defiant, and he had a face that would make any hangman feel the nobility of his calling.

“You know what it’s about!” snapped Garrett. “Steady, there!” His fingers sank into Gimlet Eyes’ shoulder and held him at arm’s length. Then, to Lydia: “Sure this is the guy?”

Lydia nodded. With his free hand Gimlet Eyes reached for his belt. And that was a false move. Before the knife half cleared its sheath, Garrett’s fist popped home. It landed dead center. Gimlet Eyes was out cold before he crashed into a pilaster and then slumped to the paving.

“Nice boy,” said Garrett. “Now I’ll call a gendarme—”

“No—don’t! I don’t want the police mixed up in this.”

“Then come up to my apartment on the Lachepaillet Wall,” suggested Garrett. “You’d be safer up there than in your room.”

“Oh, anywhere at all!” Her fingers closed on his arm. “If I ever get clear of this mess!”

And as they hurried up the shadowy arcade, looped the cathedral, and headed up the broad street that runs along the city wall, Lydia’s low voiced remarks confirmed Garrett’s suspicions. Smuggling and some hijackers trailing her, making a play for the plunder before she could surrender it to a certain Antoine Ducasse. No wonder she could not appeal to the gendarmes or the Service de Surete for protection. Garrett saw himself plunging into a ticklish mess— but he also saw a chance of finding out whether she talked in her sleep.

Once in Garrett’s apartment, Lydia flung her hat in a corner, set her hat box on the bed and lifted the cover. Out of an invitingly scented froth of silk and lace she drew a brazen bird about the size of a quail. It was a peacock with the tail fanned out. It stood on a pedestal engraved with archaic, angular Arabic script. Oh it might be Persian— Garrett didn’t know, and cared less when Lydia hitched up her skirt to reach for the automatic that nestled in the suede holster at her knee.

“Don’t—you’re spoiling the view,” chided Garrett as the skirt dropped into place to caress the softly rounded flesh it concealed.

“Can’t you ever be serious? Listen, Tom, I’m in an awful jam!”

“I’m in a terribly upset state of mind myself,” countered Garrett. To prove it, he caught Lydia in his arms, drew her slim, deliciously curved body closely to him. For an instant she resisted, but he found her lips and smothered her inarticulate protest. And as he felt the firm, half yielding pressure of her breasts, he kissed her again. An ecstatic shudder rippled down her body . . . her lips were now sultry and she was returning his kisses. Then her arms closed about him and her supple curves yielded, clinging and vibrant—

Finally, as she caught her breath, she protested, “Oh . . . don’t . . . I’ll scream. . . .”

“Mustn’t scream,” whispered Garrett. “Someone might hear, and then we’d both be in an awful jam!”

“You’re terrible! . . . and to think I trusted you. . .” She sighed, flung back her sleek permanent, “Well ... do wait just a moment—please—I won’t run away and hide . . . ”

The fire that smouldered in her dark, misty eyes convinced Garrett. And as he released her from his embrace, she wriggled out of her sports ensemble, and flung it over a chair.

But before Garrett’s eager glance could get more than a glimpse of the warm, soft flesh that smiled at him through tea rose step-ins, Lydia snapped the wall switch. And as she sank back among the cushions, her ardent loveliness became a blurred, palpitant whiteness just beyond the moonlight that filtered in through the river mists that surged over the Lachepaillet Wall. . . .

Finally, however, Garrett’s curiosity ranged beyond the seductive mysteries veiled by silk and moon glamour.

“Speaking again of smuggling,” he said. “You know, we might as well speak about something—”

“I’ve been making a Mediterranean Cruise,” Lydia began. “And at Beirut I met an archeologist. Antoine Ducasse. He’s been among the Yezidi devil-worshipers in Kurdistan. That bird is the sacred image of their god. Satan in the form of a peacock. Anyway, he stole it from their temple on Mount Lalesh, and asked me to bring it to France while they were watching him.”

“And that didn’t throw them off the track and the devil worshipers are chasing you now instead of him?”

“No. But there was an awful scandal about it, and the Yezidis are threatening to massacre all the Armenians or Christians, or something of the sort if the British government don’t dig up the sacred bird. You see, it hasn’t any particular value. Just a relic. So I’m not really a smuggler after all. Only—I’ve been followed all the way from Barcelona, and Monsieur Ducasse wasn’t here to meet me, and I’ve been mortally afraid that some one will catch up with me before I can deliver it, and—”

“Nuts!” interrupted Garrett, filling their glasses with Vieux Armagnac that would burn the fear out of a mooncalf. “Mail it to the old coot, and let’s you and I go to Nice for the next month or so.”

“No, I can’t,” she protested. “I’ve got to collect the ten thousand francs and expenses he promised me when I delivered it here in Bayonne.”

But before Garrett could offer to buy the peacock and Monsieur Ducasse as well, Lydia clasped her hands behind her head and leaned back among the cushions. And the whiteness of her shoulders and the way her breasts filled out the tea rose silk that caressed them was enough to dispose of good suggestions, good resolutions, and everything but thoughts of a good armful. . . .

The door was barred, Lydia’s pistol was handy, and be damned to the dark sinister men who were following her. . . and after just so much of such a fascinating companion, the stoutest fellow in the world would sleep soundly . . . so it did not particularly amaze Garrett when he finally awoke and found that the moon glow had shifted, leaving the room in darkness.

Then he missed the warmth of Lydia’s body, and the possessive confinement of her arm. But when after some time he heard no one stirring about the apartment, he began to wonder. Then he snapped on the lights. No Lydia! And her shoes were missing, and so were the Hyacinth hose and everything else she had flung into a corner.

The hatbox, however, was still there, and he caught the brazen gleam of the peacock stolen from Kurdistan. Which was a hell of a note. A brass bird is poor company after what he’d been chasing around forty acres of chaise longue... but at all events, as long as she’d left the devil worshiper’s god with him, she wasn’t in any danger.

“Unless a couple of Kurds drop in with snickersnees to carve me into hunks of kalter abschnitt,” he concluded with a rueful grin. “But if they ask for it, they can have their damn bird, and if Lydia really needs the ten thousand francs that bad, she can stick with me and take it out in trade.”

He sighed deeply and eyed the imprint her shapely body had left among the cushions, and raised the ante to ten million francs. But his speculations were interrupted by an unusual commotion at the door. He jumped to open up. At first he thought it might be Lydia—but it was not. Still, it was something just as good. She was barefooted, and wore a night gown that might have been woven out of moonbeams on a warp of river mist. The only difference between what she wore and wearing nothing at all was that a suggestion of covering made her shapely body ever so much more alluring. Her violet eyes were wide with fright, her copper colored hair trailed over her shoulders, half to her hips. The heavy tresses half veiled quivering breasts with each frantic gasp brought into dazzling relief.

“Life,” observed Garrett, “seems to be a succession of women in distress.”

“Monsieur—il va me tuer—je suis— ”

“I’d kill you myself,” said Garrett, drawing her across the threshold, “if you ran out on me after giving me an eyeful like that. What the hell’s wrong?”

This lady really didn’t speak English. But after inhaling a bit of Vieux Armagnac, she sobbed a heart rending story and saturated the left shoulder of Garrett’s pajamas. Her lover had threatened to kill her, and had kicked her out with nothing but a scrap of a nightgown you could stuff into your vest pocket, and nobody loved her, and—

“Sit down, sweetheart,” suggested Garrett in passable French. “I’m just the guy you’re looking for. I had a woman run out on me, and we’re both feeling revengeful, n’est-ce pas?”

Whoever had woven the cloth for that nightgown must have had a lewd, lecherous mind. The only mystery about Lili was why anyone had kicked her out of bed.

“Tu es tres gentil,” she sighed, smothering Garrett with a simmering kiss and draping her suave curves to the best advantage.

“A lot of the girls claim I’m kinda rough,” said Garrett, who didn’t quite get gentil. But with wondering which of her fascinations most needed caressing, he couldn’t think of his conversation manual. Garrett had come to France in search of culture, but for the life of him he forgot whether it was spelled with a “k” or a “c”—but that made no difference, and Lili didn’t think he was a bit rough.

“J’aime Bayonne beaucoup, ” he said by way of small talk. Then, fingering the hem of that incredible sea green nightgown he added in English, “If this had fur trimming, it’d keep your neck warm. . . .”

Lili didn’t understand the words, but the gesture was plain enough.

“Que tu es charmant,” she sighed, drawing him closer.

But as she disengaged an arm to reach for the wall switch, something prompted Garrett to follow the gesture.

“Well, for Christ’s sake! ” he growled, “What are you doing here? Allez, you hatchet faced son of a—!”

For just an instant Garrett thought that Lili’s lover had followed her, and this was no occasion for spectators.

Then he recognized the swarthy gentleman whose gimlet eyes had given Lydia the jitters, down on rue du Port Neuf. Another was following him from the living room, and things became a blur of motion.

Lili saw that it was too late to snap off the lights. She held Garrett with everything she had, but she had lost a split second too much. He broke clear of her by no means amorous embrace and landed with both feet on the floor as Gimlet Eyes and Monkey Face closed in. A blackjack smacked down on his head. The room exploded in a blaze of colored lights, but Garrett’s fist landed like the head-on collision of locomotives.

Gimlet Eyes pitched end over end and crashed over one of the tripod mounted basins still green in the memory of the A. E. F.

Monkey Face drew a knife as he closed in. The blade raked Garrett’s ribs from collar bone to hip but he snatched the armed wrist, wrenched it, and ploughed his fist wrist deep into a flabby stomach. Monkey Face doubled up as though kicked in the solar plexus, and landed with a crash among the andirons of the fireplace.

Garrett whirled just as Gimlet Eyes untangled himself from the tripod wash basin and jerked a pistol from his hip. Lead fanned Garrett’s ear, and a mirror spattered to shards. He ducked, snatched a chair as another shot crackled. But as he hurled the chair, Lili ploughed home with the boudoir indispensable.

The tinware buckled under the impact. Garrett flattened to the carpet, not quite out, but paralyzed by the crash.

“Lili!” coughed Monkey Face, recovering from the solar plexus explosion, “Prenes l’oiseau! Fiche-toi, sacre imbecile!”

Which was a vulgar way of saying grab the bird and scram. Garrett gritted his teeth, dug his fingers into the carpet, and tried to drag himself toward the pistol under the pillow; but a sizzling blackjack laid him out cold. The room burst into a glare of volcanic fire, and then irised down to Lili’s rear elevation flashing across the threshold. Then blackness. . .

When Garrett’s scrambled wits assembled, he sat up, rubbed his battered head, and cursed red haired women. Then he remembered the brazen peacock and gritted his teeth at the thought of Lydia’s eventual return.

“Damn it! It’s her fault,” he grumbled, “If she’d stayed here like she should have, no red headed flewzie could have stood a look in.”

But the more he thought of it, the more foolish he felt. He dressed, pocketed Lydia’s pistol and a flashlight. Although he had not been out long, he realized the futility of trying to trail the crooks—but there was one saving point: Lili’s arriving barefooted and clothed only in a whiff of mist indicated that she could not have traveled far to get to his front door. Furthermore, he reasoned, she could not have an apartment on rue Lachepaillet, for the simple reason that no one could have anticipated his having the peacock in his possession. Nor had there been any cab from which she could have emerged. The night was too silent for him to have missed the sound of an engine.

And when he reached the street, Garrett saw that Lili’s arrival had indeed been odd. By the beam of his flashlight he saw the prints of tiny bare feet, plain in the dust of rue Lachepaillet. One set led to, and the other from his door; but the trail ran across and not along the street!

She could not have scaled the thirty feet of masonry between the parapet and the bottom of the dry moat— But maybe she could have. Garrett followed the trail. And then he learned things about the fortifications of Bayonne. In an angle of the parapet he saw a low archway which opened into a yawning blackness that indicated a tunnel running into and parallel to the earthwork that crowned the rampart. He flicked his flashlight. The glow revealed a small, rubbish laden chamber that might once have served as a powder magazine or guard room. The further wall was pierced by an archway. And on the jamb Garrett noted a wisp of sea green silk!

He advanced two paces and stood at the head of a steep stairway the width of whose treads were but half the drop of the steps. The stairs led to some subterranean crypt. Garrett snapped off the flash and picked his way down the treacherous descent.

Far below him he heard a murmur of voices: several men and a woman. It was too good to be true—but there was no mistaking Lili’s laugh. Then he caught a glow of light.

“Oh, Pierre, won’t you ever get that fire going! I’m half frozen!”

“Tais-toi,” snapped one of the trio. “Get into your clothes—do you think I’m building this fire for your benefit?”

Evidently something urgent had kept Lili from dressing. Garrett edged down another dozen steps of the neck breaking stairs, and then halted. There was more than he had expected. By the flickering light of a small fire of broken wine cases he saw a trench scooped out of the sandy bottom of the circular, vaulted dungeon. In it lay a well dressed but brutally battered man with a black, spade shaped beard. His shirt was blood drenched, and his dark suit was slashed and gory. A not yet obliterated trail, leading from a low archway which presumably opened out into the moat, showed how the body had been dragged into the dungeon. The vault, as nearly as Garrett could determine, must be the interior of the bastion that supported the Lachepaillet Wall where it made an angle toward the Gate of Spain; but the entire spectacle had much more immediate significance as an example of what his own fate would be if he made a false move.

Manufacturing Hyacinth hose, however, had not taken the iron out of Garrett’s soul. Furthermore, he had Lydia’s pistol, and thus saw no good reason for sneaking away to notify the gendarmes. Instead, he paused to look, listen, and figure it out.

Lili had made a monkey’s uncle of him; but the more he saw of her by the flickering fire light, the less he wondered at that. She had partly camouflaged her fascinations in turquoise scanties and an entirely needless brassiere, but there was something supremely entrancing about the pose she was in as she balanced or one bare foot while getting a stocking started on the other. Garrett cursed her companions, and sighed regretfully as he watched such agility serving such a commonplace purpose.

But Garrett saw more than just ninety-seven per cent of Lili. He realized now that she and her accomplices, fearing to make an open attack on his apartment, had seen Lydia’s departure without the peacock; and with their hideout so near to Garrett’s quarters, the rest had been easy enough to arrange. And with that settled, Garrett wondered what there was about the plunder from Kurdistan that kept the crooks so close to the scene of the crime. Why the fire? And why was Lili so interested as to forget the chill of that underground vault?

Monkey Face was muttering and cursing to himself as the others watched him twist and tap and tinker with the brazen image. Then an exclamation of satisfaction, and he removed the pedestal of Satan’s symbol, having unscrewed or otherwise loosened it. Lili, while watching, had wriggled her silk clad feet into a shoe and was abstractedly trying to work the bare foot into the rest of her hosiery. A bird’s eye view was tantalizing and through Garrett’s mind flashed a line of that old ditty, “Oh, I wish I was the diamond ring upon my Lulu’s hand....”

He shifted to get a better view, and was fairly cross eyed from trying to cover all in one look, both Lili and the curious ritual centering about the peacock. Monkey Face was holding the bird by the tail and slowly rotating it over the fire, as though broiling an actual fowl. The two men were tense and eager, and Lili was craning her neck to the danger point.

So was Garrett. So would anyone watching Lili’s hosiery-adjustment gyrations as two murderous crooks baked a brass bird. And that was disastrous. The stair treads were narrow and crumbled and rubbish laden. Garrett slipped, vainly clawed the masonry casing. His flashlight clattered down six steps. Monkey Face cursed, dropped the peacock, and bounded forward. Lili started, lost her balance, and landed in a flurry of legs, arms, and lace. Gimlet Eyes made a dive for his pistol.

And Garrett, rather than lose precious seconds trying to regain his equilibrium, made a headlong dive for the group. Gimlet Eyes jerked three wild shots at the flying target, but Garrett landed, unscratched and in the center of the heap. Then Vauban’s fortifications saw their first real battle. The venerable vault became a howling madhouse. Garrett planted a haymaker that sent Monkey Face kicking backward into the trench to keep the corpse company. He ducked a searing pistol blast, drew his own weapon, but tripped over Lili as she rolled over to struggle to her feet, and pitched headlong to the sand.

“Grab the bird!” yelled Gimlet Eyes. “I’ll tend to this—!”

But as he turned to do so, Garrett hosed the vault with lead. Gimlet Eyes doubled in a heap, dropping his smoking pistol and clutching his stomach. Garrett gained his feet just as Monkey Face recovered his breath and emerged from the open grave, knife in hand. And then it became tough going for Garrett. His automatic was empty. If he turned to block Lili’s dive for the brazen peaock, he would get cold steel to the hilt— and if he took care of Monkey Face, Lili would make a clear getaway. He hurled his useless gun. The enemy dodged and closed in, blade point foremost. Garrett jerked himself aside and missed impalement by a hair.

Monkey Face whirled. The blade in his hand was as venomous as the scowl behind it. A shift—a counter shift— and Garrett was maneuvered with his back toward the stairs. No more footwork to save him. Payday in Bayonne!

All in a split second; but before Monkey Face could gather himself for the final lunge, Lili screamed and dropped the peacock like a red hot rock. Which in a way it was, having lain close to the fire, where it had been dropped at the beginning of the combat. Monkey Face’s attention was distracted for no more than a flickering instant, but that was all that Garrett needed. He charged, brushed the knife aside, and piled Monkey Face crashing against the masonry. He was out for a long count, but Garrett himself was paralyzed by the concussion. He knew that he could not pull himself together in time to block Lili.

She muffled her scorched fingers with her discarded nightgown and bounded toward the fire. But her laugh was cut short. Feet were pounding down the staircase. And someone on his hands and knees was crawling in through the low arch that opened into the moat. Gendarmes! Utterly incredible—but there they were.

It was not until a moment later that Garrett understood how the police could possibly have heard the riot in that underground vault. That was when Lydia appeared at the rear of the procession. Then things began clearing up; and so likewise did Garrett’s battered head.

“Why—oh, good Lord! That’s Monsieur Ducasse!” she exclaimed, catching a glimpse of the bearded man in the shallow trench. “No wonder he didn’t meet me—no wonder I couldn’t get him when I phoned Lyons—”

“Is that why you left?” demanded Garrett.

Lydia nodded. “Yes. And these gendarmes had a tip and were watching me and hunting for him. So when I left the phone station, they followed me back toward your apartment. And we heard that perfectly terrible racket coming up out of the ground, and saw the light of the fire shining out into the moat from that little arch, and two of the gendarmes formed a chain to let the third one drop to the ditch, and—”

“But speaking of rackets,” interrupted Garrett with a perplexed frown, “what’s the idea of roasting a brass bird?”

And then the brigadier took a hand.

“Mais, Monsieur,” he began, “this very thoroughly murdered Monsieur Antoine Ducasse is an international jewel thief. Killed in order to keep him from meeting Mademoiselle In-glees. Look—”

He indicated the peacock. The heat of the fire had melted the substance it contained. Red, sparkling facets were visible.

“Rubies. Stolen in Damascus. Put inside and wax poured over them to keep them from rattling. Devil worship? Quelle blague! No wonder, mademoiselle, he offered you ten thousand francs to bring this charming brazen fowl through the customs, when the duty would be but a trifle!”

Lydia eyed the wrathful red head, the battered Monkey Face, and the late Monsieur Gimlet Eyes. Then her glance shifted to Garrett.

“Oh, I think it was awfully brave of you to follow them—but how did they ever manage to get in the apartment in the first place?” she wondered.

“But yes—do inform us, monsieur,” seconded the brigadier in French. He had none too much confidence in his English. “For the sake of our records— the evidence.”

Garrett shot him a trenchant look and groped for words. This was no place to explain!

Lili caught the situation and with a venomous, mocking smile cut in, “Au secours! Il va me tuer!”

The brigadier eyed Lili’s entrancing display, twisted his moustache, and tried to change the subject. Her words had given him a hint. He saw that Garrett was in a tough spot.

“What did she mean by that?” wondered Lydia as Garrett hurried her up the stairs. “Doesn’t that mean someone was going to kill her?”

“Hell, no!” snapped Garrett as Lili’s laugh followed him from the vault. “It means she wishes she’d stayed for some of what you’re going to get. Now let’s go home and talk about Hyacinth hosiery or something.”

In the Toils of Tagore! Part x of y

In the Toils of Tagore!

CAPTAIN JUSTICE beaten by TERRIFIC and UNCANNY POWERS!

Part x of y

By Murray Roberts

From The Modern Boy magazine, 23 March 1935, No. 372, Vol. 15. Contributed by Keith Hoyt; digitized by Doug Frizzle, March 2013.

The Call to Surrender!

GREAT SCOTT—the Flying Cloud! She's done it! Got here just in time!"

Captain Justice, Dr. O'Mally, Len Connor, Midge, and the rest of the desperate handful of men who had so gloriously defended Professor Flaznagel's main workshop, on Justice Island, since dawn could scarcely believe their own eyes. Dazed, weary, half-stunned by the crashing shell-bursts which had at last reduced their fortress to a mere battered hulk, the little party stood limp with joy.

They were men whom only a miracle had saved from certain massacre. Less than a minute before—though it seemed like a year—the spectre of doom had leered in their faces. Backs to the wall, the exhausted garrison had prepared themselves for a last heroic stand against the savage warriors of Prince Tagore, Wolf of Bhuristan—the high caste, educated Indian who had raided Justice Island with disciplined troops, shells, gas, and grenades! The charging Bhuristanis had almost gained their objective. In another few seconds, triumphant besiegers and stubborn defenders would have clashed in the final brief struggle. But now—

"By James!" Captain Justice swallowed hard. He screwed his eyes uptight, then opened them slowly, as if afraid to find it was all a dream.

But no! The Bhuristanis were running right enough—running like terrified hares! Those same tall, hawk-faced warriors who had swept down upon the garrison so tumultuously were scattering wildly now, yelling, pointing to the skies, fighting each other in their frenzied efforts to get to the boats.

For there, out beyond the bay, the sleek, silver Flying Cloud, Justice's monster airship, was heading for the island at amazing speed.

Captain Justice's tired eyes shone. The Flying Cloud, with Professor Flaznagel and the rest of the captain's men aboard, was coming to the rescue in the nick of time. The SOS that Justice had managed to send out by wireless had been received.

"Forward, lads! It's our turn now! Don't give the swabs a chance to turn back and make for the hills!” exclaimed Justice suddenly, and stumbled on down the beach, his bearded jaw firm as granite, the sweat streaming down his hard, sun-tanned face. Dr. O'Mally, Justice's second-in-command, was at his leader's heels. Behind them panted Len, the young wireless operator, red-haired Midge and the rest of the island defenders.

BETWEEN Len and Midge ran Prince Budrudin Ananda, rightful heir to the throne of far-off Bhuristan—the Indian lad whom the Wolf, his ambitious cousin, had hunted half round the world.

"Buddy's" dark, handsome face looked pinched with strain and privation, but his deep, brown eyes flashed fiercely now with excitement and the thrill of victory. As he ran, he kept tight hold of the superb ruby that hung round his neck. For that was the most precious thing in his life—the ancient hereditary Tulwar of Bhuristan, the fateful talisman whoso magnetic power had brought the Wolf in pursuit of him to Justice Island.

"Cowards! Lubbers! Bilge rats!" shrilled the boy prince, in the unpolished English he had picked up from his rough-and-ready old friend, Cap'n Bully Blake, who lay seriously wounded back in the workshop. "Come on, scupper them! Sink the mutinous swabs! Pull up the socks, Cap'n Justice, sahib!"

Captain Justice & Co. were doing so. They were running as fast as fatigue, heat, and soft, yielding sand would permit. And the scrambling Bhuristanis had eyes only for the approaching monster in the skies.

"All right—slow up!" Captain Justice stopped short. "No need to waste breath. We can leave 'em to the Flying Cloud now! By Jove, Tagore and his fellow-ruffians are just about scared out of their wits!"

It was true. By this time every ex-raider had quitted the island. The surface of the small bay was dotted with dinghies and launches, all racing towards the powerful white yacht anchored out between the headlands. The cries of the demoralised natives swelled to a high thin wail as the Flying Cloud closed in. The splendid dirigible skimmed along, barely two hundred feet above the waves.

"She's got 'em!" babbled O'Mally, brandishing his rifle. "Bcgorrah, she's got 'em like rats in a trap! They'll never get that yacht away in time, and if they do the Cloud'll sink her!"

Captain Justice kept his eyes riveted on Prince Tagore. It was not difficult to keep that arch-schemer under observation, even without glasses. His tall, supple figure and the green silk turban he wore distinguished him plainly from the mob as he stood in the stern of the leading launch, vigorously urging the toiling dinghies to greater speed. His own boat swept alongside the yacht at last. He was the first to spring out on to the ladder, which he climbed with the agility of a cat.

For a second or two Justice lost sight of him after Tagore vaulted the rail. Then again the green turban bobbed into view. The Wolf, paying no heed to his rattled followers now, was making aft towards the broad platform-deck that extended out over the vessel's taffrail. On that deck, its metal sides flashing back the sunlight, stood a sturdy, long-range seaplane.

Captain Justice's lips curled as he watched the distant figure of his enemy lurch up to the plane. Then ho shot a calculating glance aloft and smiled.

"Trying to make a getaway on your own, are you, you beauty!" he said. “Leaving your men in the lurch, eh? Well, you're unlucky, my friend—you're too late!"

There was a yell from the watchers on the beach as a great dark shadow rushed across the face of the waters, dulling the yacht's whiteness. Next moment the Flying Cloud pounced, blocking the mouth of the bay with her tremendous bulk. Perfectly handled, she came round broadside-on, then sank lower under whining air-screws. She sank a fraction too low—and the yacht's foremast, snapping like a matchstick, crashed overside.

Then clear above the bedlam of cries and howls sounded the rattle of the airship's guns, spitting out their harsh call to surrender.

On the yacht, groups of cowed Bhuristanis huddled together, their hands fluttering in the air, their abject eyes fixed on the leviathan above them. Justice could see Tagore himself standing, arms folded and head bowed, beside the seaplane's wing. The Wolf's whole attitude proclaimed his defeat.

"And, by James," muttered Justice, as he watched the distant figure, "I'll see to it that you don't get another opportunity to make mischief on this island!"

Caging the Wolf!

SOMETHING like two hours elapsed before Captain Justice and his old friend and partner, Professor Flaznagel, were able to compare notes.

Meanwhile, the dejected raiders had been disarmed, brought ashore, and herded into a barbed-wire pen which had been erected on the beach for their exclusive use!

Young Buddy, overcome by weakness and excitement, had collapsed, and with Cap'n Bully Blake and the two wounded islanders had been removed to the garden behind Justice's shell-wrecked bungalow.

"How the deuce we're going to feed these infernal prisoners for long, as well as ourselves, the dickens only knows!" Justice growled; for the merciless shell-fire had laid waste store and equipment sheds, in addition to the men's quarters, the wireless-house, hospital, and Professor Flaznagel's laboratory and workshops.

As for the professor, never had Justice & Co. beheld him in such a temper.

"Monstrous! Wicked! By heavens. Justice, someone shall pay for this!" spluttered the scientist-inventor, striding up to the captain and his comrades after a tour of inspection. Flaznagel's short-sighted eyes were snapping with rage behind his huge, horn-rimmed spectacles. His long, lanky form quivered as he stamped to a halt.

"Ruined!" he blared. "My machines, apparatus, everything!" The old man tugged savagely at his straggly white beard. "Where is the leader of these confounded barbarians? Bring the scoundrel to me, someone! I'll teach him to destroy my property!"

One of the men marched up with Tagore, and silence fell as Justice & Co. surveyed their attacker.

By now, Prince Tagore, the Wolf of Bhuristan, had recovered some of his arrogance and poise. He stood calmly erect, turbaned head thrown back and a faintly contemptuous smile on his lips. His wrists were bound, and the escort's grip was firm on his arm, but neither indignity seemed to affect him in the least. Nor did he appear troubled by thoughts of punishment. Only the deep, hard glitter in his narrowed eyes warned Justice that the Indian's spirit was still unbroken—still dangerous.

Professor Flaznagcl, however, unimpressed by Tagore's disdainful bearing, snorted:

"So you're the saddle-coloured scamp who has caused us all this loss, danger—and inconvenience!" he stormed, and had the satisfaction of seeing Tagore stiffen at the withering insult. "You rascally bully! All this for the sake of vengeance on a mere boy, whose royal father you have slain simply to install your own worthless sire on an Indian throne! By Jove, it passes all bounds!

"You vandal! I am not in the least interested in your confounded Bhuristani politics, but I am interested in the wanton damage you have wrought here! And for that, as well as your other crimes, I shall see that you pay the severest penalty!"

"How dreadfully alarming!" drawled Tagore, in his faultless English, then darted, a flashing-glance at the captain. "Do you usually torture prisoners by compelling them to listen to this vapouring old fool?" he sneered. "Come, enough of this! For the present, I am helpless in your hands, but I demand the treatment that is due to my rank. May I remind you that I am Prince Tagore Ananda, of Bhuristan, and not a dog to be dragged about or cooped up in a wire cage? I will, of course, offer you my royal parole—"

"Thank you; I think not!" Justice's icy voice froze the man's insolence. '"You are a dangerous prisoner, Tagore, and you'll be treated as such!"

TAKING a sudden stride forward, Justice looked his enemy squarely in the eye.

"Also," he snapped, "I am telling you now that I shall exert all the energy and influence I possess on behalf of your cousin, Budrudin Ananda. You and your father—who, I gather, is but a puppet in your ambitious schemes—have robbed the boy of his throne and friends and turned him into an exiled orphan and fugitive. It is useless his appealing to our Indian Government, or any other, since Bhuristan is an independent kingdom, so I'll take the job on myself. By James, I'll not rest until I see Budrudin Ananda restored to his rightful position as Rajah of Bhuristan—if I have to hang you, your father, and all the rascally priests who aided you."

Thus Captain Justice proclaimed himself Budrudin's champion. Professor Flaznagel nodded his satisfaction, but Tagore stood very still. It seemed to have dawned on the imperious Indian that, in tackling Captain Justice & Co., he had twisted the tiger's tail!

The sneer passed from his face. As he opened his lips to speak, Justice made a brusque gesture.

"Baker," he said, "you will escort the prisoner to the Flying Cloud. He'll be safer inside, and we'll go deeper into this matter after a night's rest. Lock him in that spare cabin next the wireless-office—see that he is bound securely! Post a sentry outside, and give orders for a relief to take over every two hours. And feed him. That's all."

"Yes, sir."

Baker shifted his grip a little, preparatory to marching the captured Wolf away. As he did so, Tagore wrenched himself free, with sudden violence, and thrust his distorted face into the captain's.

"That is all, you say?" he snarled, his eyes glowing like hot coals. "By the gods you are wrong, Captain Justice! This is not ended yet! You will win back Budrudin's throne! You will fight for that brat and wreck my hopes and plans!" He flung a taunting laugh in Justice's teeth.

"You puny fool! You feeble, dull-witted white clod, what do you know or even guess of the power of Tagore and the Priests of Bhuristan? Nothing! But you will! I tell you that—"

"Oh, take him away, Baker!" snapped Justice irritably; and the escort took another grip on his man.

When he had gone, Justice produced his cigar-case and tapped it meditatively, and Professor Flaznagel polished his spectacles with energy.

"A very pretty rascal, that, Justice!" he exclaimed, and shook his shaggy head. "Bhuristan, eh? Sandwiched between the Afghan-Kirghaz borders, I believe. Curiously enough, Justice, we have been exploring in that direction—surveying and photographing the hidden mineral lands in Kurdistan, to be precise. And really, I am positive that I have made some discoveries of great scientific value. Er—h'm! Yes, quite so."

Realising suddenly that his comrades were becoming restive, the enthusiastic but absent-minded professor brought himself back to the subject in hand.

"Naturally, we did not visit this Bhuristan country. To be candid, we really did not relish crossing the extremely high and dangerous mountains in that region; and I fear that if you are seriously intent on—er—invading Bhuristan you will find yourself faced with some exceedingly formidable obstacles. But, of course, my dear fellow," he added hastily, "we shall surmount them! I am with you heart and soul in this campaign on behalf of that most unfortunate youth—if only to punish his scoundrelly cousin and uncle!

"My goodness!" Again the professor blinked angrily at the blackened buildings, rapidly blurring into shapelessness in the dusk. "The villain has done us an evil turn! Thank Heaven we were on our way back to-day! Near enough, in fact, to pick up your rather indistinct SOS!"

"So it was little me and the wireless that saved the day after all!"

"Yes, that was good work, Len!" smiled Justice, clapping the young wireless operator on the shoulder. "But I'm afraid I've got to ask you to put in still more work on the wireless before the night's out. Go along now and snatch some sleep, and I'll leave word for you to be called just before twelve. Then get aboard the Flying Cloud and get through to Oliver, our Trinidad agent, by wireless. Tell him what's happened. We need a full cargo of supplies as quickly as he can get them out to us. And we'll want temporary frame-huts, and so on, while the township's being rebuilt. Is that clear?

"Right! Well, that ought to take about half an hour, I suppose, so when you've finished, Len, relieve the guard and stand by Tagore till you are relieved. Take a good look at his bonds, and see that he can't get up to mischief. Otherwise, give him anything he wants, in reason, and leave him alone. But have a sleep first—you need it."

"Right!" Len grinned cheerfully. "And if Mister Tagore wants trouble I'll give him that, too, and welcome."

"Now, doc," resumed Justice, when Len had hurried off in search of sleeping quarters, "you'll take charge of your patients, of course. Midge, you help Ham Chow to rustle up some sort of meal—and try not to scoff it all yourself, you imp! I'll attend to the guards round the barbed wire, and we'll sleep turn and turn about." Justice yawned, and smiled wryly. "I could sleep on a bale of barbed wire this moment. It's been what you might call a trying day!"

"Cut My Bonds!"

IT was eleven-forty-five when Len Connor, who had bedded down on the beach, was awakened by his leader. The tall youngster sat up with a start, blinked hazily at the stars while his drowsy wits stirred, then scrambled up. Captain Justice, he saw, was leaden-eyed.

"Gosh, you look all-in, skipper!" he exclaimed.

"I am rather tired," Justice admitted. "However, I've made my last round, lad, so I can turn in now, thank goodness! Here's a flask of Ham Chow's coffee for you. Be off now, and get in touch with Oliver !"

"I'll get him, sir. Good-night!" And Len was off.

The Flying Cloud had been berthed with her stern on the debris-littered airship ramp, her slender bows jutting out over the waterline of the bay and pointing directly to the ghostly shape of Tagore's yacht, which rocked at anchor three hundred yards off-shore. Len, refreshed by the cool night breeze, ascended to the airship's central car. In the communicating-way, where a single light burned, the sentry awaited him.

"Hallo, Johnson!" said Len. "Any trouble from his Nibs?"

"Not a bit, Mr. Connor!" grinned Johnson. "Reckon he's a mighty tame wolf now, sir! Anything you want me to do before I pop off?"

"No, thanks, old son! I'll look in on him presently." Then Len entered the wireless cabin, where, for the next five and twenty minutes, he was busy wirelessing the stirring tidings to a certain discreet and energetic gentleman in Trinidad. Then he went next door.

Tagore lay on the bunk, fully clad, his wrists and ankles tied. A shaded bulb filled the cabin with soft light. On Len's entry, the prisoner turned his head.

"Ah! The estimable Mr. Connor, I believe?" he purred, shifting his position a little. Len stepped nearer.

"Is there anything you require?" he asked coldly, but politely.

Tagore stared at him for a moment intently.

"You are gracious," he replied at last. "To tell the truth, Mr. Connor, I am positively dying for a smoke—that is, if prison rules permit. None of my former guards would come near me, alas! My cigarette-case? Yes, it is here in my breast-pocket. Ah, thank you! That is kind!"

Len, whose good nature was a byword among his comrades, fumbled inside the Indian's tussore jacket, then took out a gold and platinum case. Captain Justice had said that the prisoner might have what he wanted—in reason. Len placed a thin brown Russian cigarette between Tagore's lips, lighted it, and the Wolf puffed contentedly.

"The Good Samaritan, eh?" he murmured. "I needed this, Mr. Connor. If you like to empty out the cigarettes, you may keep the case as a souvenir. No?" He laughed softly as Len shook his head, and eyed him keenly again,

"Let me see," he drawled. "You are the wireless officer in this most interesting organisation, are you not? Indeed, from what I hear it was you who brought this detestable airship in such haste to the rescue—yes?"

Len nodded. He began to back away, made uneasy by the man's curiously penetrating stare, yet unable for some reason to shift his own gaze. A frown appeared on his brow as he stood looking down into Tagore's tranquil face wreathed in wisps of smoke.

Len's worried air deepened unconsciously. He was no longer edging back, though he did try halfheartedly to turn away. He became dimly aware that a queer sensation of rigidity was stiffening his muscles, yet, oddly enough, the fact seemed unimportant. A return of weariness, perhaps. Tagore had begun talking again, in a flat, toneless voice.

"I—" began Len. But whatever remark he had intended to make halted on his lips. Again he strove to turn away, and again the impulse died. There was something wrong, he told himself. But what was it?

That smooth brown countenance on the pillow was utterly devoid of expression. Only the brilliant eyes had any life in them. But the pupils—almost jet-black they looked now seemed suddenly larger—more piercing than ever. And still Tagore lay motionless in his bonds, talking quietly, trickling smoke through his nostrils, and staring—staring—

It dawned on Len that Tagore's look had changed subtly to one of terrific intensity—as though with all his Oriental soul he was striving to do—what? Len's mind felt sleepy—clogged. Then suddenly a wild throb of fear fluttered his heart.

With every jot of mental energy he possessed, the youngster struggled to turn then—to fling off the weird inertia stealing over him—to fight against the Indian's hypnotic stare? A numbing coldness was spreading through him—the lethargy, as he realised with sick despair, of departing will-power. He tried to turn and run, but his feet were leaden weights. And still Tagore continued to talk gently at him through the cigarette-smoke.

"Yes, you are the wireless officer, Mr. Connor. It was you who summoned help," he droned on; then suddenly smiled, a slow, mirthless smile. Without raising his voice, he said:

"And now will you please cut my bonds, Mr. Connor?"

Len moved forward. His penknife seemed to come out of its own accord. The blade sliced through knotted cords. Prince Tagore of Bhuristan rose slowly, stretched himself, and rubbed his wrists.

LEN CONNOR stood and watched him. The young wireless operator's eyes were glazed, like the eyes of a sleepwalker. His arms dangled loosely at his sides; his face was a blank. He was in a state of suspended animation. One could have heard a pin drop in the cabin as the Wolf of Bhuristan studied his victim closely.

Tagore expelled a long breath at last, and lit another cigarette.

“And there you are, Mr. Connor!" he said. "As I explained to your bumptious captain, my young friend, there is much he does not know of Tagore's peculiar powers—of the powers of the East. Hypnotism, dear Mr. Connor—one of our finer arts! Being tired, you succumbed even more easily than I anticipated!"

His hands—long and slender—moved rhythmically to and fro across Len's eyes. But Len never blinked. Tagore shrugged, and flicked him spitefully on the chin.

"Ay, hypnotism!" he rapped "Now listen to me! You will do exactly as I tell you! You will obey every order! You are mine, do you understand? Speak!"

"I will obey," Len replied unemotionally. Again the smile lighted the Indian's eyes.

" Good! Now answer questions! Are there any more men on board?"

"No."

"Any men aboard my yacht? Has the yacht or the seaplane been tampered with in any way? Speak!"

"Two sentries on the yacht. The seaplane has not been touched."

"Excellent!" The Wolf tossed up his head exultantly. "Then I will inspect this wonderful airship now—the engine-room first, I think! Lead the way, Mr. Connor. And tread very quietly. Go!"

Len turned, stiffly as a clockwork figure. He opened the door, and marched unseeingly along the alleyway. His rubber-soled shoes made hardly a sound. Tagore prowled behind him, stride for stride.

All was as still and dark as a vault. They came to the huge forward car—the engine-room and nerve centre of the mighty dirigible. Len's hand went out automatically to the electric switchboard, but Tagore forestalled him. He shoved the youngster farther on into the darkness, then patted Len's pockets, and found his flash-lamp.

The torch-ray travelled down the long, narrow compartment, revealing rows of shining levers, the intricate array of control-dials and gauges, the four powerful engines, like sleeping monsters under their sleek, open-ended casings. For several minutes Tagore eyed, them thoughtfully. Then suddenly the swaying beam picked out a door at the far end.

The Wolf asked no question, but some uncanny flash of thought-telepathy compelled the mesmerised Len to speak.

"That door” he announced woodenly, his voice hollow and lifeless, "opens into the small laboratory which Professor Flaznagel maintains on board."

"Ah!" Tagore's eyes widened at the importance of the discovery. His fingers dug into Len's shoulders like steel hooks.

"You will stay here! Do not move or speak—understand?" he snapped, and was away in a moment.

Unfortunately, in his haste to get ashore, Professor Flaznagel had neglected to lock the door of the adjoining room, which was his most cherished and perfectly equipped laboratory, Tagore purred as he swept the torchlight across well-stocked shelves, shockproof cabinets and containers, and the wondrous collection of instruments, apparatus, and electric switches. Then he flitted across to a glass-topped bench and fell swiftly to work, selecting bottles, phials, and retorts with practised ease.

Twenty tense minutes passed in a silence broken only by the occasional clink of glass and the soft hum of an electric furnace. Outside, the silence of the night brooded over Justice Island undisturbed.

Tagore vacated the laboratory at last, walking with quick steps and hugging something under his jacket. He set it down with care, and flashed the torch on Len, who still stood as Tagore had left him, his dormant facilities chained to the will of the Indian master. Tagore nodded, then went to work again, faster than before.

Five minutes later the stinging fumes of acid tainted the air, and a flush of triumph darkened his face. He dragged Len out into the alleyway once more.

"And now," hissed Tagore of Bhuristan, "for my yacht! Since you were chiefly instrumental in capturing me, Mr. Connor, you will continue to assist in my escape."

“You will Silence the Sentries!"

UNDER the light in the alleyway the Indian halted, and again his hands flickered across Len's immobile face. Satisfied, he caught the young wireless operator by the wrist and stole on to the open doorway through which Len had entered the Flying Cloud.

Tagore peered out warily. Not a light showed anywhere down below, but he made out the dim figures of the sentries moving round the wire pen farther up the beach. He went down a few rungs of the ladder, and, craning his neck, saw a line of captured dinghies and launches beached beneath the Flying Cloud's bows. He chuckled softly, returned to Len's side, and once again brought his uncanny powers of thought-transmission into play.

The road was clear. In another moment the escaping Wolf of Bhuristan was climbing noiselessly down to the beach, Len following like an automaton. The inky shadows under the airship engulfed them both. Tagore eased a light yacht's lifeboat into the water and lifted his helpless assistant bodily on to a thwart.

For a second he remained staring up the beach.

"I would dearly love to rescue my men, Mr. Connor, but"—he shrugged callously and slipped into his own seat—"it is too risky, I fear, and I can always find more men. As for that brat, Budrudin, and the Tulwar" —Tagore scowled as he fitted an oar soundlessly into the rowlock—"they must wait, too! The battle is not nearly over yet."

Strongly, skilfully, the Wolf began to pull. The bows of the Flying Cloud screened the dinghy from possible watchers until it was safely out into the bay—a phantom shape amid black waves. In any case, there were no watchers near by—only tired men fast asleep on the sands.

Two yawning sentries on his own yacht were all that barred the fugitive's way now.

Half-way to the yacht he swerved off in a wide detour that brought him unobserved under the vessel's stern. From there he allowed the current to sweep him round to the ship's ladder on the starboard side. As the little boat floated on, he steered it deftly with one oar. Suddenly he pressed a heavy brass rowlock into Len's limp hand.

"And now," he directed coolly, "you will go aboard my yacht, and you will silence the guards! You understand? Go!"

Poor Len obeyed. Like one in a trance, he stepped quietly out on to the ladder while Tagore steadied the boat, and climbed up it. There sounded a quick, startled cry and the patter of feet as his head and shoulders loomed over the rail. Then a light flashed in his eyes and two voices sang out breathlessly:

"What's up? Great Scott, it's you, Mr. Connor! Anything wrong ashore?"

The guards stopped and stared, struck by Len's peculiar expression. Then suddenly, without warning—Thud! Crack! Swiftly, jerkily, Len's loaded fist shot out twice in bewildering succession.

Those punches broke down Tagore's last obstacle. Both blows snapped home with fearful force and precision, and the two sentries dropped flat, knocked clean out. Hearing the dull thuds on deck, Tagore came swarming up the ladder.

"Thank you, Mr. Connor! You are quite a hitter!" he sneered, snatching the rowlock and stooping over the prostrate sentries. "Yes, both insensible. There remains only one more task for you, my friend."

Chuckling to himself, Tagore seized Len and dragged him along the deck and up on to the bridge. At the head of the companion a machine-gun stood mounted on a swivel tripod. He jerked off the tarpaulin hood, clicked an ammunition drum into the breech, and swung the weapon round till its muzzle pointed down at the deck and rails. And then he snapped more orders into Len's passive brain.

"You will do as I bid you! You will not stir from here! You understand that? You are still mine!" he snarled. "By the gods, it will be a sweet revenge! Hark!"

A roaring explosion on shore shattered the stillness of Justice Island.

With the terrifying violence of a tropical thunderclap the savage detonation crashed through the night. It shook the air, set the seabirds screaming and wheeling, and jerked men headlong from their slumber. Captain Justice came staggering to his feet, and other figures sprang up all around him. It was Midge who first realised the awfulness of the catastrophe.

"The Flying Cloud!" he yelled. "Look—look!"

"By James! Tagore!" rasped Justice instinctively.

Disaster had overtaken the Flying Cloud. Through splintered windows and ports in the forward car smoke gushed—smoke that was tinged with the hot, red glare of leaping flames.

"The engine-room!" shouted a score of voices, and Flaznagel uttered a heartrending groan. These men rushed onwards, up the ladders, into the central car.

There they stopped. It was impossible to go forward into the danger zone, for the communicating-way was filled with dense clouds of smoke and bitter fumes. Justice sniffed once and clapped a hand over mouth and nostrils, his face pale beneath its coat of tan.

"Picric acid!" he gasped. "Set off by a fuse-bomb, too, I'll swear! Someone's been at the professor's laboratory! Back, everyone!"

Spinning round, Justice made a dash for Tagore's cabin. He was back again in seconds, bristling like an angry panther.

"He's gone! Connor's missing, too! By James, I'll—What's that?" Justice exclaimed fiercely, and everyone froze to a standstill.

IT was a sudden outburst of sound from the bay—the hoarse roar of an aero engine warming up! Justice reeled for a moment under the shock; the next he was on his way to the ladder once more.

"Come on!" he barked. "Into the launches! We might stop the beggar yet! Midge, tell the guards to watch those prisoners! Baker, take charge of the fire-squad! Follow me, the rest of you!"

Recklessly the pursuers slid down to the beach, piling into launches, dinghies—anything that would float. The increasing bellow of the seaplane's engines spurred them on. Justice's speedboat, piloted by O'Mally, won the race to the yacht. Without a word, the captain went aloft hand over fist, and then:

Brr-rr-rr-rrrr-r ! The crowning blow descended just as he drew his revolver and whipped over the rail. Only coolness and miraculous agility saved him in that moment. He clucked and rolled over, warning his followers back as he did so. From the bridge another burst of bullets slashed down, cutting up the deck, rattling against the rails. Justice's blood ran cold.

“Connor—Len!" he croaked, for at that instant the lights in the seaplane's cabin went on, casting a bright glow over the bridge and its solitary occupant. A harsh shout rang out from the boats in the bay. Captain Justice clasped his aching head.

He felt stupefied, unable to think or move. The Flying Cloud's engine-room wrecked, Tagore escaping in his own plane, and now Connor was covering the Wolf's retreat! Len was up there on the bridge behind a machine-gun, waiting to mow down his own comrades as they rushed aboard.

It must be a dream! Len Connor, sharer of so many of his adventures, would never aid Tagore to escape and turn on his comrades like this!

But it was no dream. There on the bridge stood Len, waiting to shoot anybody who approached him!

"Connor! Len, my boy!" cried Justice; but his husky appeal was blotted out by the sound of a full-throated roar as a huge, all-metal seaplane skimmed off its runway and zoomed into the star-spangled heavens, pursued by futile shots from the water. Tagore, the Wolf of Bhuristan, had slipped his chain!

With true Indian cunning Tagore has made his getaway, but he has not finished with Captain Justice & Co. yet. He hands them a VERY startling reminder of himself in Next Saturday's Murray Roberts thriller!