“Hmm.” Tom considered thoughtfully. “That seems to point back to Africa again, just like the devil doll. Maybe Kwanu’s hunch was right.”
Noon found Tom in the Swifts’ spacious double office deep in thought over the mystery. He was interrupted by the clumping of cowboy boots in the corridor. Chow Winkler wheeled in a lunch tray.
36 REPELATRON SKYWAY
“Soup’s on, boss!” came his foghorn voice.
Chow, a former Texas range cook, was sunburned and roly-poly. Balding, with a heart as warm as the desert sunshine, he had met the Swifts during one of their trips.
Later, he had come East to serve as chef for Tom and his father at Enterprises and also on their scientific expeditions.
“Hi, Chow!” Looking up, Tom noticed that despite a gaudy lemon-yellow shirt which Chow was sporting that day, the cook seemed troubled. “Anything wrong, old-timer?”
“Jest thinkin’ about them queer African goin’s-on around here,” Chow confided.
“First, that ugly lil ole idol what squirted pizen gas, an’ then that spear-throwin’ last night.
Brand my skillet, Tom, I’m plumb worried! What’s behind it all?”
“Wish I knew,” Tom said. “Maybe it’s just someone’s idea of a joke-a ‘sick’ joke, that is. Whoever’s responsible, he’s bound to trip himself up sooner or later, and then the police or the FBI will take care of him.”
“Sure hope you’re right.” Chow looked relieved as he went on, “Didn’t want you sendin’ out fer cold sandwiches, boss, so I brought you over some nice mulligan stew today. Jest wait’ll you-”
As he lifted the cover from the pot to ladle out the stew, Chow’s voice suddenly trailed off in an eerie screech.
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