by The Vampires
The Phantom nodded. “We’re not to the bottom of all this business yet.”
“I was going to ask you what in damnation this is all about.”
“I’ve got some ideas, but not the entire answer. Let’s wait until we get more facts.”
Peta nodded. “I still don’t know who you are and why you’re here.”
“Does a name or a reason matter as long as we get the job done?”
During this talk, Malo had been recovering from the painful punches. The men had their backs to him. He suddenly leaped to his feet and dashed off. The Phantom turned and Devil started after him.
“Hold, Devil.”
“Hey, we can’t let him get away!” shouted Peta.
“I want to see where he goes. These cellars go on forever. Maybe he can show the way.”
“To what?”
“That’s the big question. Watch these men.” Gunda and another black-clad figure were still on the floor. “One of them had a gun. Here it is.” He picked it up and handed it to the chief. “If they try to get away—or if anyone comes—use it.”
“You want me to wait here?” said Peta in dismay.
“No. When they come to, take them to town. Put them behind bars. Then come back in daylight. Maybe we’ll have more customers for you.”
“There seem to be lots of them. You going to handle this alone!”
“Yes.”
The Phantom started off.
“Wait,” said Peta, suddenly anxious. “What good is this gun? I told you I fired five shots and didn’t hurt them.” “You think your third cousin Gunda is a vampire? Think the bullets would hurt him?”
“Yes, but—”
The Phantom took a slug from his pouch.
“I took this from your gun when I was in your office. It remained after you fired off the other five.” He tossed it to Peta.
“That’s a blank,” said Peta.
“So were the other five. That’s why they didn’t kill. Didn’t even tickle.”
“But how?”
“Your assistant, Sergeant Malo, fixed that. He’s been in on this thing since the beginning.”
Peta breathed deeply.
“Blanks? Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Okay now?”
Peta nodded. “If one of those mugs shows his ugly snout here, I’ll blank him!”
The Phantom smiled. “Good man. We’ll go now.”
“Say, Malo’s been in what thing since the beginning?” “That’s what we have to find out.”
“You let him get a big lead on you. How you going to find him?”
The Phantom picked up the hat and kerchief he’d taken from Malo and put them under Devil’s nose. Devil sniffed, then started off. The Phantom trotted after him. In a moment, they were gone in the dark corridor.
Peta examined the gun, which was loaded with real cartridges. Gunda and the other man were stirring. He pulled off the hat, kerchief, and fangs of the second man. He was a stranger. Both were grunting and coughing, waking up. The chief looked at them closely. Something on their jaws. Like a death’s head. Malo had one like that from that night in the office. Left there by the right fist of Mr. Walker. Peta had noticed the ring on that hand—a death’s head ring. Mr. Walker? He still didn’t know who he was, or why he was here. Did it matter? What had he said? “Does a name or a reason matter as long as we get the job done?”
“Hey, you two, get on your feet,” said Chief Ivor Peta.
Chapter 17
Now master and wolf moved through the maze of underground tunnels. Both traveled as silently as if they floated through the air, Devil on his footpads, the Phantom on his soft leather soles. Silence was necessary. There was no light in this area, but rather utter blackness. They could be ambushed at any moment. The tunnels dipped and rose, rising and falling to various levels. In some places, the ceilings were so low that he had to follow on hands and knees. In one place, he wriggled on his belly after the wolf. This was a distant area of the subterranean ruins that he had never visited. In places, they crawled through the icy water of underground streams. Often, Devil hesitated before a fork in their route, then his nose picked up the scent. This pursuit would have been impossible without his sharp hunter’s nose.
As they crawled on the rock or dirt floor, or edged along narrow, barely passable areas, soft hairy things crawled over his bare hands. Once a lizardlike creature, brushed from the low ceiling by the Phantom’s head, dropped to his shoulder and crawled around his neck before being swept to the ground. He could imagine the little animal born and bred in this place without light, blind like creatures of the caverns. He wished he could turn on his light to inspect the surroundings as they moved. Some of the walls and floors were as smooth as marble. On some, he felt intricate carvings while some were rough stone; all probably were the work of builders who lived centuries apart. No one knew the origin of this Hanta castle or its age. Some said it dated back to before The Flood.
He was still without his guns, but he carried his knife in one hand. That and his hard fists were a match for almost any weapon. He moved now with a growing sense of excitement, for he felt that the truth about this place was near. Several times they stopped, hearing the distant murmur of voices coming through layers of rock, then went on, ducking low overhangs, crawling, climbing, edging through narrow passes. Sergeant Malo must have known this route by heart. Perhaps as he fled, he had used a flashlight. Now they began to hear other sounds, sounds he had heard before, wheezing, whirring, rasping. Faint at first, then louder as they approached what must be the source of these sounds. Now they were especially loud at his right hand. He moved on. The sounds became fainter. He moved back. The sound increased. He paused where the sound was loudest and felt the wall with his hands. This was a smooth area, made of marble or a similar polished stone. In this utter darkness, his fingers found a vertical crack in the wall, a crack that rose about four feet above the ground. At the top of the crack, he felt a horizontal crack running off it for several feet, Excited, he got to his knees and found what he was hoping to find—a horizontal crack parallel to the one above, running along the base of the wall. It was a doorway flush in the stone wall.
Using his knife, he tried to pry it open. To his delight it yielded, and as the crack widened a pale light shone through from inside. Now he was able to get his fingers into the crack, and he slowly pulled it open. The low stone door, for that is what it was, swung open silently on well-oiled hinges. And through the open doorway came the pale light and the loud sounds of whirring, wheezing, and rasping. Whatever it meant, this was the place.
Before entering, he peered into it. It seemed to be a huge chamber carved out of a natural cave. Low-power lights were set in the ceiling which also held a network of pipes and wires. There were rows of slim crates of various sizes on platforms, all stacked on end, each separated from the others by uprights. And in the dim background, far beyond the rows of crates, there were several large metallic boxes. The sounds came from them. That was all he had time to take in, for as he crawled through the low entrance, Devil gave a soft warning growl.
The Phantom was instantly alert, trying to cover the entire cavern in a sweeping glance. He saw nothing, but there had to be something. Devil had sensed it. He looked up. Above his head, seated on a ledge, was a figure in black staring down at him—a “vampire” without the fangs and kerchief. There was a look of amazement on his brut-ish face as he stared at the masked kneeling a few feet below him.
The guard, if that was what he was, uttered a sharp cry, then picked up a long knife from the ledge and dove at the kneeling man. His action was intended to land him on the intruder’s back, following which he could plunge the knife into him. But the plan failed, because when he landed the intruder was no longer there. He had moved, with blinding speed, and the guard hit the rocky floor with a thump. There was a second thump—more of a crunch—as something that felt as hard as the stone floor crashed against his jaw. It might have been an iron bar or a boulder.
It was, in fact, the Phantom’s fist. The man collapsed. 'the entire action had lasted only a few seconds. The Phantom was still on his knees. Devil peered in at the low entrance. The whirring, wheezing, and rasping continued. The man had cried out. Had he been heard?
Suddenly, the whirring, wheezing, and rasping from those big metallic boxes stopped. The chamber was silent. He touched Devil’s jaws, and both man and animal held their breaths for a short time. This was a trick he had taught the wolf long before. They listened for sounds of any other breathing in the room. If there was any, it was inaudible. Then with a clank, the noise from the boxes started up again. He studied the sound, trying to guess the purpose of those boxes and the machinery in them causing the sounds. Something else to find out—but first, he wanted to look into the lines of wooden crates. What did they contain?
He crossed quietly to the first row for a closer look. There was nothing antique about them. Impossible to guess how long they’d been there, but they were modem crates. He lifted one slightly. It was about five feet square, a foot thick, and surprisingly light. There were letters and a number painted neatly on one side: DV-1. He lowered the crate back to its base. All the crates were on wooden platforms raised about a foot from the rocky floor. To protect them from flooding, rats, or what? He examined another oblong crate, also lightweight, also neatly numbered: R-l. Next to it, a larger one: MA-1. Glancing about the room, he estimated there must be several hundred crates in a variety of sizes. Most of them were tied with wire. What was inside?
This entire mystery reminded him of those Chinese puzzle boxes. You manage to open one and there is another one inside. You open that to find a smaller one, and on and on. Solve one puzzle in Koqania and another appeared. From land-grabbing vampires (were they really interested in farming?) to a corrupt policeman, to a playacting witch (what was she up to?). And now these crates and the noisy machinery in the metal boxes. Chinese puzzles, indeed. The only solution was to open the boxes.
He selected the crate marked DV-1 and, without touching it, examined it. It was one of the few without wire tied about it. This would be no simple job. The crate was solid and well made, put together with dozens of screws and nails. As he was about to lift the crate, the big metallic boxes started up again with a clank. He walked over to them, curious about them. The machinery inside was completely enclosed. Several large ducts protruded from the back and were built up along the walls and across the ceiling. At regular intervals, there were grills in the ducts. He put his hand over one. Air flowed out. Of course. These contained some sort of air-conditioning machinery. The rest of the cellars were damp and cold. This room was dry and pleasant. Another Chinese puzzle box. Solving one mystery only revealed a new one. Why would anyone install elaborate and expensive air conditioning in the ancient ruins of Koqania? One didn’t have to be a genius to conclude it involved the crates.
He returned to the one he had selected and lifted it carefully out of its wooden cradle. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang. He stood motionless, listening, then quickly examined the cradle of the crate with his small flashlight. There was a fine wire running along the side. It was broken, one end dangling. Had he broken it in lifting the crate out? Had he set off that bell, a burglar alarm? He got the answer swiftly as all the lights in the chamber went off and he was in complete darkness.
He heard soft sounds in the dark, whispers and footsteps. He lowered himself into a crouch. Whoever had turned off the lights, unless the system was automatic, had probably observed him through a peephole and knew where he was. So it would be wise to move. As he took a step, Devil taking one step at his side, a powerful flashlight beam suddenly blazed out of the darkness, directed at his head, momentarily blinding him.
“Don’t move, Mr. Walker,” said a familiar voice.
It was the voice of Sergeant Malo. The Plinntom shaded his eyes with his hand. Near the air conditioning machines, he could make out the dark figure of the corrupt cop.
“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot you through the head," continued the cold, vicious voice. He is a nasty fellow, thought the Phantom.
“Don’t get so excited, Malo. You know I have no guns.”
“Yes, I know that. You might be interested to know I am holding one of them aimed at your head.”
Only one? Who had the other one, he wondered?
“You hit me twice, you—!” said Malo, using a vicious Koqania oath that stung the Phantom.
“I didn’t hit you hard enough, Malo. The third time I will.”
The man behind the flashlight laughed.
“There won’t be a third time, you—”
There was whispering in the darkness behind Malo. Evidently someone was hidden behind the air conditioners.
“I’m handling this,” snapped Malo, evidently answering the whisperer. “Now I want you to answer a question.”
“Nothing could make me happier,” said the Phantom.
“What?”
“What’s your question?”
“You hit me twice, once on each side of my jaw. That left two marks, is that not so?”
“It sounds possible.”
“Possible? You—! They look like death’s heads.”
“That’s what they are.”
“I can’t get them off. I’ve rubbed, I’ve scrubbed, I’ve used everything—even pumice stone. They don't come off.”
The Phantom chuckled. His mark was similar to a tattoo, but even more indelible.
“That’s tough, Malo,” he said.
“You think it’s funny! Answer me! How do I get it off?”
“Simple. Remove the skin.”
The flashlight wavered. The Phantom could estimate the man’s rage. Angry men didn’t shoot as straight as calm ones.
“You idiot! Say your prayers. I’m going to kill you,” said Malo, shouting. His voice echoed in this cave.
“No, Malo,” said another voice sharply. Tt was a new voice to the Phantom. From its tone, a voice used to command. “Not here.”
Malo actually growled at that. Devil, crouched behind the Phantom, answered with a soft growl of his own. The Phantom had considered launching Devil at the gunman, but didn’t want to risk the animal’s getting shot.
Not there. Why not here? Obviously, because of the crates. The mysterious crates. Afraid of damaging them?
“Not here, Malo,” repeated the commanding voice, and Malo grunted acquiescence, a Koqania equivalent of okay. There was another whispered exchange, probably about where to take him.
“Stand up and come toward me slowly,” said Malo, and the Phantom could imagine him talking between clenched teeth. “No tricks, Walker, or whoever you are, or you die right here.”
No, indeed, thought the Phantom. Nobody’s going to start shooting here. Not here.
The crate that he had removed was leaning against an upright at his side. As he arose, he suddenly grabbed it and placed it in front of him as a shield. Without pausing, he rushed toward the flashlight and Malo.
As the Phantom moved behind his lightweight wooden shield, he sensed that Malo was about to shoot despite orders.
The shot never came. The commanding voice cried out, “No, Malo! It’s DV-1.” Malo answered that with another oath, then screamed. The light fell from his hand and broke on the hard floor, throwing the room into darkness. Somewhere behind the silent machines, an iron door clanked shut. As if on cue, the air conditioners whirred on. Still holding the crate as a shield, the Phantom stopped short. Malo was lying only a few feet ahead in the darkness. He groaned and choked and was silent.
The Phantom listened for the sound of his breathing, but the machines just behind him were loud enough to drown it out. Then the machines stopped, evidently operated by thermostats. Now the chamber was silent.
He touched Devil’s nose and once more the man and animal held their breaths and listened. No one in the chamber was breathing. He flipped on his flashlight. In its narrow beam, he saw Malo. He was lying on his side of the floor, still dressed in his blac
k vampire outfit. A long knife protruded from his back. Koqania police department’s Sergeant Malo was dead.
Chapter 18
The Phantom was shocked and angered by the sight. Death is never pretty; murder is always ugly. Nothing could be more brutal than stabbing a colleague in the back. What had caused this vicious action? There had been whispered advice, consultations, then a command, then the decision—death. Malo had been about to shoot through the crate, through DV-1. That cost him his life. Who had wielded the long knife? The owner of the commanding voice? So it seemed. Why? What could DV-1 contain to cause such an instant decision to murder in cold blood? And in a way despised throughout history as cowardly and repugnant—stabbing a man in the back?
All these thoughts flashed through his mind as he examined Malo quickly to see if anything could be done for him. Lying next to the slain man was a gun, the Phantom’s. He quickly took it and ran to the iron door. It had an ordinary lock which snapped into place when the door was shut. He took a quick look back at the crate standing against the upright. On a hunch he ran back, took the crate, and hid it behind the air conditioners. Then he returned to the iron door. He held his gun close to the lock and shattered it with a shot.
The room on the other side of the door, a small cellar, was softly lit. There was no one in it. It was furnished with a desk, chairs, couch, a small wooden cabinet, and a green metal file cabinet. He looked quickly through the desk, searching for information. The drawers were empty. He turned to the file cabinet. It was locked. He was tempted to blow it open, but it could wait. The little wooden cabinet contained bottles and several glasses. Whiskey, gin, vodka, and the local brandy. The furniture was the kind seen in modern offices. This could be the private office of an executive. In that case, it should have a private bathroom. He opened a side door and smiled. It did.
Almost as incredible as the vampires, the torture devices, the witch before and after, DV-1, and the murder of Sergeant Malo was this office. So ordinary, so everyday, so like countless other little offices in cities all over the world to be found here in the ancient ruins of Koqania, and the modem bathroom—much more out of place in this setting than the medieval torture chamber. There was another door at the side, evidently the exit. It was closed and locked with a lock similar to the first. He guessed that one key opened both doors. The wielder of the knife had gone through this room, and out that door. Perhaps he had not been alone; others could have gone With him.