by The Vampires
The Phantom had placed the gun on the desk. And as Malo pointed his gun and tensed himself to fire, the Phantom made a slight clicking noise. Devil leaped from the side. At the same time, the Phantom dropped to one knee. The wolf caught Malo by the wrist. The gun fired into the ceiling, Devil dropped back as the Phantom moved in. His fist caught Malo on the jaw. It was a hard blow. Malo flipped backward and landed in the corner, where he lay still.
“That’s a bad one. You need a new helper,” said the Phantom. Even this violence had not sobered up the chief. He saw it all in a haze.
“Did you kill Malo?”
“No. Not yet. I can’t promise anything next time. He tried to kill me in cold blood. That needs looking into, as do your vampires. Be seeing you, Ivor Peta.”
The chief shook himself and stared. Malo was still in the corner. The window was open. But the stranger and the big dog were gone. Chief Peta staggered toward Malo and bent over him ... still breathing, jaw swelling, looked like a fracture. What a wallop! And what was that mark on the jaw? Looked like a skull, a death’s head. Hadn’t been there before. He staggered back to his desk and went frantically through the drawers, looking for a jug of brandy. It was all too much. He needed a drink. There were no more jugs. He grabbed the empty one out of the wastebasket and tilted it to his lips. There were a few drops left. Malo moaned in the comer. It would be several hours before he came to. Never threaten the Phantom.— an old jungle saying.
Chapter 10
The Phantom and Devil rested for several hours that night in a deserted barn. The police, boozy Chief Peta and nasty Sergeant Malo, would be after him now, so that his daylight movements would be restricted. As he lay on the clean straw, he considered what his detective work had turned up so far. Several murders had been committed by persons unknown, believed by these people to be vampires. (Descendants of the “blood-drinking demons” or the same eternal ones?) Several witnesses had either heard or seen these vampires, including Chief Peta himself. Five shots. The Phantom thought about this for a moment Curious, but an interesting lead.
And the witch. Everyone seemed afraid even to talk about her. The farmer, the cabby, and the chief all acted as though she could overhear them wherever they were. A man named Raimond had seen her and, because of that, had been killed by them (the vampires?), presumably at her command. And the children had seen her, the children of Piotr’s widow. Piotr had been the chief’s second cousin, the one killed on the road the night of the five shots. The children had seen her, but where? “Down there where she always was,” according to Chief Peta. And there was “Second Cousin Roko,” the stubborn one who refused to leave and bought farm animals for a song from fleeing relatives. What did he know about all this?
The Phantom sat up suddenly. The farmer, Raimond, had been murdered because he had seen her. How about the children of the late Piotr? If it was known that they had also seen her, were they not also in danger? There could be no more rest this night. Devil was up watching him.
As he brushed the straw from his skintight costume—he had removed his outer clothes—he thought fleetingly of his sweetheart Diana Palmer in distant America. She was never far from his thoughts. He pictured her smile if she could see him sleeping on straw in this barn. He was unused to mattresses. He had been raised in a cave, with only a fur skin between himself and the cold rocky ground. When he and Devil visited her in her palatial home in Westchester County, a special room was put aside for man and wolf. A room bare of all furniture except two straw mats on the floor that served as their beds. Diana’s mother never got used to that, or him!
Ah, Diana. He visualized her warm, beautiful eyes, her soft red lips, her cloud of chestnut hair. It had been a long time. It would be a long time, before he could see her again. He carefully folded his topcoat, trousers, scarf, hiding them with the hat under a pile of straw. He could travel easier and faster without these city clothes. He and Devil moved quietly out of the barn, so quietly that the only other occupants, field mice, did not even awaken.
He reached the sleeping little town and, avoiding the narrow streets, climbed up and moved over the rooftops. Devil remained in a secluded comer to wait for the return of his master. The Phantom paused on a tile roof higher than the rest and looked about. No light anywhere. No one on the street. Everyone in Koqania was either asleep or pretending to be. How to find the widow of Piotr and her children who had seen the witch? There were no handy telephone directories in this place. The police would know, but he couldn’t go to them. The cabdriver? Where to find him? He considered the house he was standing on. Bigger than the rest with a small front lawn and picket fcnce. He recognized it. The cabby had pointed it out as I he residence of the Lord Mayor of Koqania, a mighty-sounding title for this tiny place. His Honor might know.
He moved silently down the tile roof to the eaves, then lowered himself to a second-floor balcony. Perhaps His Honor addressed the people from this balcony. The trench doors were locked. He listened. Heavy snoring came from inside. In his endless battle against criminals, (he Phantom had learned all their tricks; he knew he had to be better than they were to defeat them. He knew how to open combination locks of safes and how to open locked windows and doors. He opened the French doors quickly and silently and moved into the room. There were heavy curtains on the windows and doors and the room was pitch-black—and filled with the tremendous snores of what must be a big man. The Phantom stood quietly for a moment as the noise reverberated through the room. Then he flashed his small light beam for an instant, illuminating the figure of a man with an enormous belly. The beam went on and off so quickly that the sleeper was undisturbed. This had to be the Lord Mayor. No one else could have such a huge belly, the Phantom thought with a grin. He moved to the bed, then lightly stroked the bald head. The man snorted and mumbled and rolled away. The light touch continued. The snoring suddenly stopped. He was awake.
“Your Honor, do not be afraid,” said the voice in the dark.
It is a scary thing to be awakened in a dark room by a strange voice. The Phantom knew that a man with a weak heart might have an attack. His voice was soft and reassuring.
“Relax. You are safe. Do not be afraid.”
After a moment, the Lord Mayor replied in a choked voice, “Who are you?”
He reached for a bedside lamp. This was one of the few houses in Koqania with electricity, supplied by its own generator. But the Phantom stopped the hand. The Lord Mayor withdrew his as though he had touched a snake.
“No light,” said the Phantom. “I have a question. Then you can sleep.”
“What?” The Lord Mayor replied hoarsely.
“A man named Piotr was killed. Where are his widow and children?”
The man in bed gasped and almost choked.
“Are you, are you a—?” he began frantically, trying to sit up. He trembled violently as the Phantom’s hand held him firmly.
“No, I am not a vampire,” said the Phantom sharply. “I have come to destroy them.”
The Lord Mayor digested the statement slowly.
“Destroy the vampires? Is this a trick?”
“No trick. Have you seen them?”
“No.”
“Have you seen the witch?”
A sharp intake of breath.
“Oh, no, n-n-not her.”
“Where is she?”
“With them.”
“Where are they?”
“Find them and you’ll find her.”
“Where is the widow of Piotx and her children?”
“Hidden away.”
“Why?”
“Afraid.”
“Hidden where?”
The Lord Mayor was silent, his eyes searching the blackness, trying to make out his visitor. The hand squeezed his arm. He would find black-and-blue marks on it the next day. (“Sometimes the Phantom forgets how strong he is”—an old jungle saying.)
“Tell me.”
“In the sanctuary of the church.”
The Lord May
or lay quietly, waiting for the next question. The pressure on his arm was gone. He tried to hear the breathing of the stranger. He heard nothing. Had the French doors opened and closed? He wasn’t certain. It had happened so quickly, and the night outside was almost as dark as the room. He waited.
“Are you there? I mean, are you here?”
No answer.
He reached cautiously toward his bedside lamp. No restraining hand. He quickly snapped on the light and stared around the room. It was like waking from a nightmare. Had it happened? Was he dreaming? He took a pistol from the bedside table drawer, then got up and turned on a few more lamps. No one else was in the room. He examined the closed French doors. They were unlocked. He often forgot to lock them. Had he locked them this night? I le wasn’t certain. He poured a small glass of brandy and lowned it in a single gulp. Then poured another and took it to bed with him, leaving the lights on. The pistol remained on the blankets, on top of the big mound made by liis stomach. Had there really been a visitor in the dark? The next morning, he would find a mark on the bedside table like a skull, or a death’s head.
The sanctuary of the church. Of course. One place vampires could not go. He moved back over the rooftops toward the high church steeple. There was a high stone wall surrounding the church grounds, a small graveyard, the old stone church and a small attached building that must be the rectory. He dropped lightly to the ground and moved through the graveyard. There was a shuffling sound. He froze behind a gravestone and stared into the darkness. The night was dark and the overhanging trees made it darker. Even with his practiced night vision, he could see no movement. He glanced back at the wall. The area above it was open and lighter. He might have been seen coming over. A moment later, as he moved forward slowly, he realized he had been seen. There was a soft swishing sound. The speed of his jungle-trained reactions probably saved his life. In that split second, he ducked to one side as an iron bar struck a glancing blow on the side of his head. Had it hit him directly, it could have killed him. The blow was hard enough to knock him out for a moment. He fell to the ground. There was a quick indistinct whisper above him. Then the sound of feet running on the pebble path. He remained motionless. The iron bar might be poised over his head. He strained his ears. No sound of breathing nearby. He concentrated on his skull, “feeling” it without touching it. A slight drop of blood. A fracture? By this time, his head was clearing. Then in one quick move, he was on his knees with a gun in his hand. He was alone.
He remained motionless for another moment ... distant sounds of running feet on cobblestones. Who had hit him? He’d seen nothing. But there was a trace, a scent of alcohol, a mixture of beer and brandy. It might be anyone in the town. He got to his feet and moved unsteadily to the rectory wall. His head ached, but as he pressed the spot with his fingers he knew that the blow had done no harm.
The whole episode had lasted no more than a minute. What was going on in this sanctuary of the church? Was he too late? Perhaps. The door was ajar.
He flashed on the thin beam of his flashlight. A man was lying on the floor wearing a burlap robe tied at the waist with a rope. A monk or a priest? He lay very still. A victim of that same iron bar? The man was breathing slowly. Still alive. There was a sobbing sound from further down the corridor. He moved to it. Beyond a doorway, a single candle burned on a wooden table. Huddled in a corner of the room was a woman whose facc seemed frozen in horror. As her terrified eyes focused on him, her body jerked. She screamed. He reached her in one stride, and put his big hand on her mouth.
“Shh, I am your friend,” he whispered. And repeated that until the violent spasms of her body ended. Whatever she had been through, he knew that the sight of him in his mask and skintight costume was not reassuring.
“Are you Piotr’s widow?”
That name seemed to bring her back to reality. She looked at him tensely.
“Are you one of them?”
“I am not a vampire,” he said. “I have come to destroy them.” She looked at him blankly for a moment. It all seemed more than she could handle. She shook with another spasm, and she seized his hand so tightly that her fingernails dug into his skin.
“They took my children. We thought we were safe here. That’s what everybody said. We were safe here—safe here—safe here.” She kept repeating it as though repetition would make it so.
“Why did they want your children?”
Her voice sank to a whisper as her eyes darted about the room. “Because they saw her. They saw the old witch.”
“Where?”
“Oh, God, what have they done to my children?”
“Where did they see the old witch?”
“Get my children. Get them. Get themP’
“When did they take your children?”
“Get them. Get them. Get them.”
He could learn nothing more from her. She was in shock. Whatever had happened was still too fresh.
“I will find them. Listen to me: that priest out there 58
tried to stop them. He is hurt and needs help. Help him right away.” This appeal reached her and brought some sanity back into her eyes. She nodded and began to weep and rock back and forth.
“Right away,” he said. “Now.”
He rushed out of the room, paused to make sure the man was still breathing, then rushed on. Outside, he vaulted onto the low rectory roof and ran to the adjoining church roof. He reached the stone steeple and began to climb. Up there the darkness was less oppressive. The glow of eternal starlight faintly lit the scene. He could see the outlines of the roofs and gables of the town. As he reached the bell tower, he breathed a brief nonsectarian prayer for a break in the heavy cloud cover overhead. There was some light, but not enough. Perhaps his proximity on that church steeple helped. There was a brief break in the clouds, and the moonlight shone through. The ancient town was briefly lighted as if by a magic lantern. Then the opening closed and the darkness returned. But that moment had been enough.
Barely a block from the church wall, he saw several dark figures carrying unwieldy bundles that seemed to jerk and writhe in their arms. He moved down quickly, dropping the last twenty feet to land in a crouch on the lawn. He raced over the grass along the wall, and so light were his steps that he seemed to float. Then he stopped. On the other side of the wall there were heavy footsteps on the cobblestones, grunts and gasps from men carrying burdens, and small muffled sounds that were high little voices crying through gags. He vaulted onto the seven-foot wall, hesitated momentarily, then dropped on the dark figures below. Two men and their bundles collapsed under him with exclamations of pain and surprise. A third dark figure raised a heavy pipe. Busy with the squirming mass under him, the Phantom lashed out with one foot, catching the pipe wielder in the stomach. The man fell back; the pipe fell to the stones and with a clang. That was the man he wanted, the one with the iron pipe, but he scrambled away while the Phantom grappled with the two men under him. This all happened in a few seconds. The Phantom, conscious of the writhing bundles and trying to protect them, rolled to one side, dragging the cursing, fighting men with him. One of his hands reached a throat. He grasped it firmly and banged the head against the cobblestones. The owner of that head was instantly quiet. (“The Phantom is rough with roughnecks”—an old jungle saying.)
With his other hand, the Phantom was pushing the writhing bundles out of the way to avoid injuring them. During this quick action, the second man jumped to his feet and ran as though pursued by devils. He got away. The violent action was over almost as quickly as it had begun. The bundles whimpered softly. He stood up and quickly surveyed the surrounding area. The two men were out of sight, their feet clattering along in the distance. No time to get them now. He raised the bundles to a sitting position, then spoke to them quietly.
“I am your friend. Your mother sent me to bring you back to her,” he said.
The whimpering stopped. That magic word “mother” had done it. He untied the black sacks and peeled them off, revealing
the two children, a boy and a girl, hands and legs tied, mouths gagged. But their eyes were open wide.
“Shh, the bad men are near. We must be very quiet,” he said softly. They nodded. The girl was trembling. The older boy took her hand.
“Are you our friend?” he asked.
“I am your friend. Come. Your mother is waiting for you.” He slung the unconscious man over his shoulder, then led the two along the wall to a gate. But the gate was locked. He put the man down, and boosted each child to the top of the high wall. They waited while he slung the man on top of the wall, then vaulted up. He lowered the children to the ground inside, then dropped down with the man over his shoulder.
There was candlelight in the rectory hall. The children’s mother was sitting on the stone boor holding a candle near the fallen priest. She looked up with startled eyes. Then her face relaxed as the children rushed to her. There were hugs and kisses and cries of relief. The Phantom waited patiently. These people had had a terrible experience. When they had calmed down, the woman looked at the masked man, then at the priest.
“I tried to lift him to a cot, but he’s too heavy for me.”
The Phantom nodded, and carried the man to a cot in a sparsely furnished cell-like room.
“All you can do for him now is let him sleep. Get a doctor in the morning—is there a doctor?”
She nodded. The Phantom picked up the man he had brought into the rectory and they moved into a small chapel where several candles were burning in little red glasses, casting an eerie light.
Mother and children looked anxiously at the dark figure on the floor. The man wore a black suit and had lost his hat. He wore a black handkerchief for a mask. The Phantom pulled it off.
“Do you know him?”
They looked at him fearfully, then shook their heads. “Must be a stranger from out of town.”
He had a small sandy mustache, sandy hair, and a two-days’ growth of beard. He seemed familiar. The Phantom realized he had been among those at the tavern earlier in the evening, an inconspicuous fellow sitting in the back with a mug of beer.