Tom’s words were a mere shot in the dark. But the effect was startling. The former secretary’s face contorted in fear.
“What does a young American fool like you know about the curse of Shaitan?” he blustered.
“I know that it’s already bringing you bad luck,” Tom said smoothly. “Every word we’re saying is being picked up-which means a State Police car is probably on its way here right now!”
“What!”
“Take a look for yourself at that short-wave radio on the dashboard,” Tom prodded. “It’s on.”
Mirza took the bait. As he bent forward slightly to glance into the station wagon, Chow’s gnarled fist shot out in a whirling uppercut!
The punch caught Mirza on his outthrust chin. He tottered backward and Bud dived at his legs in a tackle that brought the man crashing to the ground. Before Mirza could bring his revolver into play, Tom wrested the gun from his hand.
“Don’t try any stunts!” Tom warned.
Mirza struggled like a madman, but Bud and Chow pinned him relentlessly to the ground. Tom quickly got a length of rope from the station wagon, and Mirza was finally subdued and bound.
“Brand my tumbleweed salad!” Chow panted,
CRUCIAL PRESSURE TEST 63
when it was all over. “The critter’s plumb loco!”
Mirza gasped out a torrent of abuse in Arabic. Several times his listeners caught the word “Shaitan.” Sandy and Phyl huddled together in the rear of the car, while Bud and Chow guarded the prisoner and Tom summoned help over the radio.
“Wasn’t the two-way radio on?” Sandy asked.
Tom grinned. “Yes. Just in case of trouble, I turned it on when the car began to act up.”