Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 12]

by The Vampires

  He visualized the place. He had visited it once, several years ago, remembering tales about it from his father. It had always been a Phantom hideout. No one knew why. The Hanta witch. It was one of the few hideouts in Europe. (There was another in a Roman crypt and another in a Paris tower.) These hideouts were homes away from home for the Phantoms when they traveled to that part of the world. Each generation or two had added such spots, and they were now scattered around the earth in the most unlikely places.

  During that visit, he had installed the spring and transmitter, and put a new lock on the door. He had used an antique lock that would not look out of place. He knew that the local people, for their own reasons, would not enter the ruins. But someone had. Now, coming after the newscasts about “the plague of vampires led by a witch in Koqania,” this seemed more than a coincidence. He needed more information. He sat at his radio transmitter, turned on his private X-band, and reached Jungle Patrol headquarters in Mawitaan, the capital city of Bangalla, some five hundred miles away.

  The patrolman operating the switchboard was shaken by the signal. The X-band was rarely used. When it flashed on, none of them knew where it came from, but they knew who it was: the unknown commander of the Jungle Patrol. For centuries, the commander at the top of the organization chart had always remained unknown. Nobody knew why. That is the way it was, one of the strongest and most treasured traditions of the Patrol.

  The phone rang at the bedside of Colonel Worobu. Worobu was the new C.O. of the Patrol, having come up through the ranks to succeed Colonel Randolph Weeks, retired. The colonel, awakened out of a sound sleep, opened one eye and looked at the clock at his bedside. He was enjoying his nap after a heavy meal. The patrol knew better than to disturb him at this hour. Only in emergencies or when ... it could be. He always called when Worobu was asleep. Didn’t he ever sleep (whoever he was)? He cleared |; his throat and grabbed the phone.

  “Colonel Worobu here.”

  The anticipated voice came through—big, deep, and resonant. (Where did he call from?)

  “Colonel, please do the following for me.” (He never ij wasted time with small talk such as “how are you.” He always got right to the point).

  “Please wire the police chief in Koqania. K-o-q-a-n-i-a. Ask him about the news reports concerning the vam-! pires—and the witch.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “The Mawitaan newscast had several stories about it. Did you hear them?”

  “As a matter of fact, now that you mention it, I did.”

  “Very good. Please let me know as soon as you have in-I formation. Thank you, Colonel.” Click.

  That was it. Like it always was. Quick. Right to the point. Vampires? It sounded silly. But the commander didn’t waste his time. If he wanted something, there was a reason. He phoned back to his headquarters switchboard.

  “Sergeant, this is Colonel Worobu. I want to send an overseas cable to the police chief in Koqania. K-o-q-a-n-i-a.”

  Chapter 4

  When the Phantom returned to his dinner in the chamber of the Skull Throne, Chief Guran and the boys were pestering Old Mozz with questions about the Hanta witch. But he sat smiling and unmoved, refusing to say a word. All turned to the Phantom.

  “What did Devil want?” asked Tomm.

  “Who was the Hanta witch?” said Guran.

  “Hey, how about the Gooley-Gooley witch?” said Rex, remembering the odd name. The Phantom smiled at them and began to eat.

  .. “So many questions. I will tell you about the Hanta witch quickly because I have my own question to ask Mozz.”

  He gave them a short summary of the story he had read, skimming over the violence and ending with the jump into the moat.

  “That’s where the chronicle stopped. What happened next, Mozz?”

  Mozz climbed laboriously to his feet. He preferred to stand when he told his tales. Of all the tellers of the jungle, he was the most admired, and as he began in his sing-song voice several dozen of the pygmy Bandar sat quietly in the shadows, listening.

  “Now when the Phantom leaped from the flaming castle with the beauteous witch of Hanta in his arms, it is told that the blood-drinking demons perished in the flames.”

  The boys sat up at that, and Miss Tagama clicked her tongue disapprovingly. The Phantom had not mentioned them.

  “Yet, it is possible that some survived the holocaust and roam the earth still, for, it is said, that species of demon does not perish.”

  “Really!” said Miss Tagama, a trim black figure in her bright sarong.

  “Shh,” said Rex and Tomm.

  “It is said that soon after the destruction of the evil castle, there was a violent storm, as though the gods of that place were showing their wrath. And the great rains put out the fires, but after the storm there was nothing left of that place but ruins, heaps upon heaps of rock. Now the Phantom and the witch had taken shelter in a cave until the storm passed. And though she tried to ply her magic and her spells upon him”—old Mozz permitted himself to grin at that—“he was too strong and did not succumb, for she was evil, this witch of Hanta. And though she wept and pleaded, he knew what he must do. He carried her back into the ruins of that old castle, down into the caverns and chambers that remained beneath the heaps of rubble and stone. And there, deep in the earth, where none could see her, he chained her securely to a pillar of stone, for she was evil, this witch of Hanta.”

  “Awful,” muttered Miss Tagama, who’d had some contact with Women’s Lib groups in Paris.

  “Shh,” said the boys.

  “And then”—Old Mozz paused dramatically—“something strange and curious took place in that vault beneath the earth.” He paused to take a dipper of cold spring water from a jug at his feet. He drank it slowly, looking slyly at the eager, impatient faces around him.

  “What?” said Rex.

  “This young witch, whose beauty had been compared to the sunrise and the flowers of the field, this beauteous young creature turned into a shriveled old hag before Ms very eyes.”

  “Because she was really old,” said Tonm.

  “And she shrieked and she wailed. And this withered old crone begged him to kiss her before he departed, but he wisely refused. For if he kissed her, he would restore her youth and beauty—and free her from the chains. And so he left her, shrieking and moaning. And to this day she shrieks and moans, but nothing can free her and nothing can return her to youth and beauty, nothing save the kiss of the Phantom. But that she will never receive, for she is evil, this witch of Hanta.”

  Rex stared at the old man, who had suddenly become silent and motionless like a movie film that suddenly stops.

  “She’s still alive?” said Rex. Old Mozz did not answer. He stood like a polished statue.

  “The story is over. Off to bed,” said the Phantom. The boys left, after a quick kiss for Uncle Walker, then ran off chattering about the story.

  “Mozz, is that the story as you heard it?” asked the Phantom.

  “As it was told me.”

  “Who told it to you?”

  “The teller who was my grandsire.”

  “Is there no more to the story?”

  “Nothing more.”

  “Thank you. That was well told.”

  “Thank you, O Ghost Who Walks.”

  The Phantom was shaken by Mozz’s story.

  Coming after the chronicle, it sounded so real. Yet it was obviously legend, myth. Not real, of course. Of course not

  Chapter 5

  The little town huddled in the narrow valley between two mountain ranges. It was as old as the castle ruins on the nearest peak, and was made of the same gray granite. The narrow cobblestone streets had known the tread of the Crusaders a millennium earlier. Through the centuries, a dozen armies had marched through this valley and town, looting and pillaging the crops and farms, raping the women, often forcing the men into service or slavery. It is no wonder that the inhabitants were still hostile and suspicious toward strangers. In t
he middle of the town, a small stone building with heavy bars on some of its little windows bore a sign over the front entrance: POLICE.

  The cable was delivered there. The police force in this small place consisted of two men, Chief Peta and his assistant, Sergeant Malo. Malo read the telegram and grinned. He was slim, with an olive complexion, shining black hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He entered the chief’s office without knocking. As usual, the chief was dozing at his desk, his head resting on his arms as he snored. When Malo slammed the office door, the chief awoke with a start and much snorting to clear his head. He had a round face with big handlebar mustaches, shaggy gray hair, a ruddy complexion from high blood pressure, and a red nose from heavy consumption of the local schnapps. His collar was open at the throat, his jacket unbuttoned and covered with ashes from chain-smoking. He hurriedly lit a fresh cigarette and looked at Malo with bleary eyes that were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

  “I told you a dozen times to knock before you come in here,” he said peevishly.

  The immaculate Malo looked scornfully at him. “I did,” he replied, lying. “But you didn’t hear me.”

  “Well, what is it?” The chief was obviously in a nervous state.

  “A cable from overseas, from Bangalla.”

  The chief fumbled for his glasses, but had forgotten where he left them.

  “Read it,” he said brusquely.

  “It says, ‘Advise about accuracy of reports about vampires in your district.’ ”

  “It says what?” stammered the chief.

  “I’ll read it again. ‘Advise about accuracy of reports about vampires in your district.’ Sighed Colonel Worobu, C.O. Jungle Patrol, Mawitaan, Bangalla.”

  “Bangalla?” said the chief. “Where in hell is that?” Malo grinned and waved his hand to the south.

  “In the tropics, a few thousand miles that way.”

  “Jungle Patrol, Colonel—what is all that?” said the chief thickly, his head still dizzy from the last glass of brandy.

  “That’s all there is,” said Malo, watching the chief with scarcely concealed contempt.

  “What’s it to him? Tell that colonel a million miles from here that it’s none of his damned business!” he blustered.

  “You sure that’s what I should answer, Chief?” said Malo.

  “No, wait a minute.”

  The chief got up and walked unsteadily to a sink in the corner. He let the water run until it was cold, then drank a glassful. He stared at his bloodshot eyes in the cracked, dirty mirror, then washed his face in the cold water.

  There were no towels so he dried his hands and face on a shirttail. His sleek assistant watched without comment.

  “No, Malo. Tell that colonel this: the reports about the vampire, and the witch, are sheer nonsense. Got that? Sheer nonsense.”

  “He didn’t ask about a witch,” said Malo with a poker face.

  The chief shook himself.

  “He didn’t? I thought he said—?”

  “Nothing about a witch. He just asked about vampires. Evidently, the international press has sent out stupid rumors.” He said the last two words slowly.

  “Stupid is right, the damn busybodies. Look, I gave you the reply, didn’t I?”

  “The reports about vampires are sheer nonsense. Anything else?”

  “No, that’s enough. Go on and send it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Malo stressed the last word more than necessary, then did a smart military about face and left the office. The chief stared after him. That Malo was efficient, but he lacked respect. The sergeant’s contemptuous manner was not lost on him. Why shouldn’t he be like that? the chief thought. I’m not worth respecting. I’m a coward. He went to the window, one of the few without bars in this stationhouse that also served as a jail. Outside, daylight was fading, the shadows deepening. He shuddered, shut the window, and returned to his desk.

  “Sheer nonsense. Sheer nonsense,” he muttered to himself. “How I wish it was.”

  He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out the jug of brandy, filled the water glass, and gulped it down.

  Chapter 6

  Nighttime had become frightening in Koqania, because of the rumors and the stories and the strange sounds in the dark, and not many left their houses after sunset. But daytime was like any other country place, with flowers and birds, men working in the fields, and children singing and gathering flowers on their way to school. There weren’t as many children now, because some families had moved away, and on this dirt road there were deserted farms. The girls were skipping and the boys playing leapfrog, when they found the man lying in the ditch. At first, j| they thought he was asleep or drunk. He was neither. He wouldn’t wake up. They began to scream and ran across the field where two men were mowing hay. The men came to the ditch while the children kept a safe distance. One of the girls was hysterical. She had seen the fallen man’s face.

  The dead man was a local farmer both men knew. They were not unfamiliar with death. In this remote place, people prepared their own dead for burial. But the sight of this corpse terrified them. They did not scream as the children had, but they ran as fast as they could toward the town and the police station. The dead man’s throat had j been tom.

  In the Skull Cave, a bell rang in the radio panel. The Phantom was nearby in his major treasure room where he had been polishing Excalibur, earlier known as Caled-woolch, the sword of King Arthur. He put on the earphones.

  “Colonel Worobu here. Do you receive me?” said the voice.

  “I receive you, Colonel.”

  “I have the reply from Koqania which reads as follows. Quote: ‘The news reports of Vampires here are sheer nonsense. Repeat sheer nonsense.’ End quote. Signed Ivor Peta, Police Chief, Koqania. Sounds like he means it,” added Worobu with a chuckle.

  “Yes it does, Colonel. Thank you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not now. Good night.”

  In his office, Worobu stared at his telephone which was hooked up to the Patrol transmitter.

  “Now what was that all about?” he asked aloud. He hung up the receiver and looked quickly about the room.

  He was alone. It wouldn’t do to be seen talking to one’s self. Might look peculiar. But what was that all about?

  Moments later, the Phantom tuned in the Mawitaan news broadcast to hear the following: “Here’s another odd report from that faraway place called Koqania that seems Id continue to live in the sixteenth century. A murder r ise. A man was found dead; the farmers say he was killed by a vampire. No mention of a witch this time. Maybe it was her night off. Sounds like a nice little spot, Koqania, in case you’re looking for a quiet vacation.” The announcer, Seguno Togando, had made a reputation as a wit, and people enjoyed his humorous newscasts.

  The news reports went on in a more serious vein. Trouble in the Orient. Oil shortages. Strikes everywhere. The Phantom half-listened, wondering about what he had heard. At that moment, the little red pilot light flicked on and the soft buzzer sounded. Once again, something had opened the iron door to the castle ruins in Koqania.

  He stared at the tiny flickering light. This time the coincidence of the report from Worobu, the newscast, and this signal was too meaningful to ignore. He sat for a moment as motionless as a statue. Then he turned off the radio panel and strode out of the cave. For the Phantom, to think was to act. His life had often depended on split-second decisions. It had become a habit. As he passed the rocky chamber of the Phantom Chronicles, he glanced at the volume still on the podium, the volume with the missing last page. Something was going on in Koqania, something that somehow, someway, involved that three-hundred-year-old tale.

  As he reached the cave mouth, Rex and Tomm were sitting with Devil and Miss Tagama. The boy sprang up, jumping into the Phantom’s arms.

  “I must go away for a while, Rex.”

  “Is it about the vampires?” asked the boy excitedly.

  “How did you know that?”

  “I could hear the
radio.”

  “Yes, it’s about that.”

  “But you said vampires are not real.”

  “So I did, and so they are not. They are imaginary like fairies or goblins.”

  “But I saw a goblin the other day.”

  “Now, Rex,” said the Phantom, laughing.

  “Didn’t we see a goblin by the stream, Tomm? Didn’t we?”

  Rex’s black friend nodded solemnly.

  The Phantom laughed and moved with his friends to the corral where he hurriedly saddled his great white stallion, Hero. Sharing the corral with Hero were two of Rex’s pets, Kateena, the lioness, and Joomba, the elephant. Rex sat on Kateena’s back, watching the saddling of Hero.

  “Uncle Walker, please take me along.”

  “And have you miss school? How about that, Miss Tagama?”

  The pretty tutor in her flaming sarong laughed and shook her head. “He has enough trouble keeping up when he’s here.”

  “Sorry, Rex.”

  The boy ran to him excitedly. “I’ll take my books. I’ll study every day. I’ll do my homework. Honest I will.” The Phantom lifted him in his arms and kissed him, then put him down. “No, Rex. There might be some problems on this trip.”

  “You mean danger?”

  “Problems. Good-bye all.”

  “Uncle Walker, you forgot. You promised to tell us about that other witch—the Gooley-Gooley witch,” said Rex, trying to delay the inevitable departure.

  “I promised no such thing.”

  “Didn’t he? Didn’t he?” persisted Rex to Tomm. Tomm grinned and shrugged. The Phantom motioned to Old Mozz who stood near with Chief Guran.

  “Ask Old Mozz to tell you.”

  He swung into the saddle and, with a wave of his hand, sped off with Devil in pursuit. Rex, Tomm, Miss Tagama, Old Mozz, and Guran waved and called their good-byes. He always left like this—no luggage, no preparation. He just went. He might be gone a day or a month. Horse, rider, and wolf raced into the waterfall, one of the secret entrances to the Deep Woods, and were gone.