Chapter 87

 

Caplin waited patiently—partly at the French commander’s orders, partly because he really didn’t want to be caught up in a gunfight. He needed to arrive at that beach in Mexico unscathed.

“All right, detective,” the commander’s lieutenant said, signaling him toward the front door of the white stone mansion.

Caplin entered a splendid wide hall, where the plush oriental carpet was somewhat askew and an expensive-looking vase lay in shards where it had hit the marble floor. On their stomachs, lying in a row were nine handcuffed men—some clothed only in their undershorts, some wearing nothing, all with sleep-rumpled hair.

“A couple of them woke in time to take shots at us,” one of the SWAT team said to the commander. “Most were in their beds when we pulled them out.”

“Sir, I’m afraid one of them got away,” said another officer as he came down the staircase to Caplin’s right. “I’ve got men searching the grounds.”

The American detective looked closely at the faces but none was Frank Morrell. A wave of disappointment rose in him. Was Morrell right now running through the forest below? Or had he never been with the Tigers in the first place?