by The Vampires
The Phantom was in no great hurry to pursue him, not with the crates in the next room. If DV-1 was worth killing a fellow worker to save, how about all the rest? They would not go far. He was filled with curiosity about those crates, anxious to open at least one. What could they contain? Drags, weapons, jewels, military or industrial secrets? He would have to wait to find out.
He would also wait until they, whoever they were, returned. Doubtlessly, they were outside this room somewhere, preparing traps or ambushes, waiting for him to pursue them, knowing he would be armed now with his own gun. It amused him to sit in the swivel chair and put his feet on the desk like a proper executive. His gun was in his lap, ready as he watched both exit doors. Devil sat at his side.
As he sat, he thought of the beautiful young “witch.” Where was she? The villagers seemed to regard her as the leader of the “vampires.” His guess was that she was part of the group, and the real leader was the man with the commanding voice. So he sat and meditated, seemingly relaxed and idle, but his eyes were sharp and his body tense and ready. They would tire of their traps and ambushes soon, and come back to look for him. At this point, the Phantom was making only one mistake. This executive room was the trap.
“Don’t move, don’t turn, or you are a dead man,” said a now-familiar voice behind him. The Phantom obeyed. It was the same voice that had commanded, “Not here.”
“Now throw your gun across the room.”
He looked regretfully at his polished weapon. He had recovered it for such a short time.
“Do you mind if I don’t throw it, and risk breaking it?”
“You’ll not use it again,” said the voice with a touch of amusement in the tone. “I want it out of your reach.”
“Mind if I let my friend put it over there?”
“Your friend?”
The Phantom glanced at Devil.
“If that is possible, why not? I must warn you, there are two rifles aimed at your head.”
The Phantom clicked his tongue. Instantly, Devil was on his feet. The Phantom held the gun out by the barrel. Devil took it in his teeth. The Phantom pointed to the far wall. Devil walked slowly to the wall with the gun in his jaws, looking back at his master as he went.
“Place,” said the Phantom. Wish I’d taught him to shoot, he thought.
Devil lowered the gun to the floor, then trotted back happily to receive a pat.
There were several amused laughs from behind.
“Bravo,” said the speaker.
At the top of the far wall, near the ceiling, a small panel slid open. A face, then a gun barrel, appeared. A second panel opened, then another face and gun appeared. The Phantom looked behind him. There were two panels open. In one, another face and gun barrel. The second panel was empty. Had the speaker been in that one? After a moment of quiet, broken only by the heavy breathing of the faces in the panels, the outer door opened. A man carrying a pistol stepped in. Behind him were two husky black-clad men, each with rifles. The first man looked familiar. He was an elegant looking gray-haired man in expensive business clothes, and as he faced the desk and adjusted a monocle in his right eye, the Phantom remembered. The man had been with Sergeant Malo that night in the tavern.
“Stand up and face the wall,” he said sharply. Devil looked quickly at his master. He recognized the hostile tone. The Phantom shook his head. He did as he was ordered, standing up, facing the wall. One of the husky black-clad riflemen quickly frisked him, finding the knife, which he took.
“Turn around.”
He did so. The monocled man faced him with an arrogant look on his haughty face. A rifleman stood at either side. Above, in the wall, were the riflemen peering through the panels.
“You are still alive because we spent a good deal of time and money trying to find out who you are, and all we learned was confusing. Who are you? Why are you here?”
“May I ask you the same question?”
“Our time is short. We have no time for games. You will answer my questions.” His tone was sharp, a military commander giving orders in the field.
“Very well. I came to find the vampires and the witch. I found them. Or shall I say they found me?”
“You have not answered my question.”
“I came to find the vampires and the witch, to destroy them. Is that better?”
“Better. Is there any other reason?”
What other reason could he have? He thought for a moment, then tried a shot in the dark.
“To get DV-1 and perhaps R-2 and MA-2 and FH-4 as well.”
That was a bombshell. The monocle dropped from his eye. For a moment, he lost his sneering expression and gaped. The others looked at each other in astonishment.
“How do you know about these things,” the spokesman stammered.
“I was told.”
All three men took a step toward him, weapons raised.
“Who told you?”
This was almost farcical. He didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about, but obviously had touched raw nerves. Might as well play the game further, using someone who couldn’t be hurt by it now.
“Sergeant Malo told me.”
That really hit them. They stared at each other, then at him.
“He’s lying,” said one of the men.
“Ask him,” said the Phantom calmly.
“See if he can still talk,” said the spokesman coldly. Evidently, after the knife thrust, they hadn’t waited to see if it had finished him. A man left and returned quickly.
“No,” he said.
“I don’t put it past that little upstart,” snarled the elegant man, losing his smoothness for the moment. “Let’s say he told you—tell us what he told you.”
The Phantom looked at him quietly. The spokesman’s steely eyes became narrow and cold.
“We can make men talk,” he said.
“No doubt. I’ve already taken DV-1,” he said.
This caused exclamations from all of them. A man ran into the big room where the crates were, and returned after a moment, breathless.
“Not there. It’s gone,” he shouted.
The men looked at the spokesman. It was clear that he was their leader. Now his face was grim and cruel.
“Remember the torture room? The Rack. And there are other refinements. Shall we use them?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” said the Phantom casually, his mind working fast. “DV-1 is not only hidden. It is prepared.”
“Meaning what?”
“A small time-bomb attachment. If it’s not turned off, it will destroy it and whatever else is within a hundred feet of it.”
The leader turned pale.
“When? When?” he shouted, his aplomb gone.
The Phantom smiled and remained silent.
“Do you have any idea what DV-1 is worth?” the man cried.
The Phantom nodded. He didn’t have the slightest notion, but it was obviously worth a great deal to these men. “Did you come here to cut in on this—to hijack us.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“What would you say? You want a piece of this deal?” “If I were in your position, that’s what I would think.” “You’ve got a time bomb ticking, we can’t stand here chatting. What’s your deal?”
“Why get so excited. If DV-1 goes, there’s always R-2 or MA-1.”
“You bloody fool. Are you mad? Or trying to joke with me? Name your deal. Name your cut!”
Cut was a good word for these cutthroats, he told himself.
“Where is she?” he said.
The change in subject confused them. “She?”
“The witch of Hanta.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Ah, but it is. The lady tried to kill me.”
“Nonsense. She was playing a game.”
“She played it well. I found her quite beautiful. She is part of the deal.”
The spokesman stared at him. One of the other men grinned.
“Deal!”
“She will be part of my ‘cut.’ I want her,” said the Phantom.
The spokesman’s face became livid. He clenched his fist and he raised his pistol.
“Hey, Colonel, easy. Remember DV-1,” said the man at his right. The leader, the colonel, glared at him, then at the Phantom.
“Leave her out of this, understood?”
The Phantom nodded. He had learned what he wanted to know. The girl was part of the gang and was the leader’s wife or sweetheart. And the leader had the title or rank of colonel. His military bearing was real.
“Let’s get down to business,” said the colonel.
“Not with guns in my face.”
The colonel put his pistol in a shoulder holster. At his nod, the other two leaned their rifles against the wall.
“And them,” said the Phantom pointing to the two riflemen watching from the wall panels.
“They stay as they are,” said the colonel sharply. “Now talk.”
The Phantom’s head was buzzing with all the questions about these men and their secrets. But since he was presumed to know the answers, he couldn’t ask the questions, at least not yet.
“How much time on that timer for the bomb?” said the colonel.
“Enough,” said the Phantom.
“He could be lying about that,” said one of the men, a husky who looked like an ex-prizefighter—smashed nose, cauliflower ears, and all.
“Lying?” said the Phantom, smiling “You want to wait and see?”
“No!” shouted the colonel. “Get on with it.”
He stood by the edge of the desk and considered his next move. Two barrels were pointed at him from high up on the wall. The room was lighted by a single large bulb that hung over the front of the desk, a foot or so above his head. His plan of action formed in a flash. (In the jungle, quick decisions mean life or death.) He began to talk, a rambling chat that skirted the edge of the secrets.
“I cannot make an overall arrangement. It is necessary to get down to cases—to crates—to be more specific in each case as to value. After all, DV-1 and the others are not easily disposable.” The colonel nodded. That was an easy guess. If they were easily disposable, why go to all the trouble to hide them here, whatever they were?
As he spoke, he gestured with his hands. This was not his usual behavior, but he had observed tradesmen doing this when they bargained with each other in the town markets. So he waved his hands and arms in small movements at first, then broader ones as he seemed to warm to his subject. “And the very difficulty of disposability increases our mutual risk and makes the return more subject to other obligations which might be costly, but at the same time necessary to effectuate a reasonable return on our efforts.”
As he spoke, he saw that they watched closely, trying to make sense out of his rambling discourse but mainly remaining patient until he got to the point. The main question he knew, was not how much of a cut he wanted. It was DV-1, the missing crate. They hadn’t looked very hard. Obviously, it was so valuable that they assumed if one hid it, one would hide it in a very secret place—not only a few feet away on the other side of the wall behind the air conditioner. He also knew they would agree to any terms he suggested for his share. And once they had DV-1 safely in their hands, they would kill him.
As he rambled, their eyes became slightly glazed with boredom, waiting for him to get to the point and shut up. The men above in the wall panels yawned, letting their rifles droop.’ Meanwhile, his hands waving and gesticulating, and as the colonel glanced away, indicating boredom, the Phantom’s hand flew up and smashed the light bulb. The room was suddenly in pitch darkness.
The sleepy atmosphere of the room was suddenly charged with shouts and cries. Then two shots exploded from the watching riflemen, aimed at where the masked man had been. But he was no longer there. In one step, he had flattened the colonel, who fell to the floor with a grunt. Then he moved to the other two who, after their surprise, had time only to make a step toward their rifles at the wall. They never got there. An iron fist, lashing out of the darkness, dropped one, then the other, as effectively as if they had been hit with baseball bats. They dropped without a sound.
The two riflemen up on a ledge outside the room dared not shoot into the darkness again. Even that first shot had been risky. They might have hit their own men. They stared into the darkness, trying to see something. They heard crunching sounds (the Phantom’s fist) and the noise of bodies hitting the floor. Then they hurriedly started down the ladders that stood against the ledge, when suddenly they fell headlong into the air.
Racing out of the office, the Phantom kicked the ladders out from under them. They fell hard on the rocky floor. One landed on his head and stayed there. The other one started to his feet, but was bowled over by a hard fist that put him back on the floor with his companion. The Phantom was taking no chances against these odds. He was hitting hard. They would remain as they were for quite a while.
He returned to the office. There was no light there as he crossed to the crate-chamber door. He’d noticed a switch on the wall. He pulled it down and opened the door. The soft light filled the crate room once again. Light from the doorway entered the office. The two huskies were on their backs, knocked out. The colonel was on his knees, crawling weakly toward the rifles at the wall. The Phantom grabbed him by the collar of his expensive jacket and pulled him to his feet. He had been hit with less force and had regained consciousness. He was swearing softly in a foreign tongue. The Phantom half-led, half-dragged him toward the lighted crate chamber.
“Come, Colonel. We’re going to open a few crates and get some answers,” he said.
The colonel mumbled and struggled ineffectually. They got inside the big chamber, near the air-conditioning machines which were quiet for the moment. The colonel slumped to his knees.
“No, no,” he said. “Don’t kill me.”
“You wanted to see DV-1? Here it is, Colonel.”
The man was sitting on the floor by now, and the Phantom dragged him toward the air-conditioner box, then leaned behind it and pulled out the crate.
“Here it is, safe and sound. Now, open it.”
“Don’t kill me,” repeated the colonel, terrified, barely hearing the masked man’s words.
“It’s DV-1. Open it, Colonel.”
“Don’t kill me. Take it. Take them all,” he said. Again, still sitting on the ground.
“Are you kidding?” said a soft voice.
The Phantom’s hand darted to his gun, but it wasn’t there.
It was still in the office on the floor. There was a sudden shot, almost deafening in this cavern, and a bullet came within inches of his head. It ricocheted against the wall and hit an overhead pipe with a clang.
“I tried to miss. Next time, I won’t miss,” said the soft voice.
He knew the sound of that shot. It had come from his second, missing gun. And without seeing her, he knew who held it: the witch of Hanta-Hunda.
Chapter 19
“Turn this way. Put down that crate. Then put up your hands,” commanded the soft voice. He did as he was told, placing the crate on the floor so that it rested against his leg. In the shadows cast by the pale light, he could see the outline of a head between a row of crates. As he put his hands in the air above his head, she stepped out into full view.
She was no longer the witch of Hanta with the shimmering gown and the long flowing blonde hair. Now her hair was red and stylishly short. In a tight knit shirt of deep green and the shortest possible miniskirt that revealed long legs like those of a ballerina, she was a striking figure. Brilliant jewels of green and white—emeralds and diamonds?—glittered in her earrings, in a doublestrand necklace, and in a dozen rings on her fingers. She wore high, tight, black boots that matched a wide black belt glittering with jewels about her waist—striking and beautiful, but with the beauty of the tiger or the cobra before it strikes. Her red lips were not smiling now, and her | gray eyes were hard.
“Hermann, get up and stop whimpering,” she snapped. The colonel, still sitting on the floor, flushed and climbed to his feet.
“I wasn’t whimpering,” he whined.
The Phantom looked at him in surprise. This commanding figure, this military leader, was suddenly reduced in size. He turned to the Phantom and started for him.
“This—!” he said, using a string of foreign obscenities. “Don’t get in my way, Hermann,” she shouted. “I don’t want to shoot through you!”
The colonel jumped back quickly.
“Go ahead, shoot. Shoot the idiot!” he snarled.
“Not yet. We must learn more about this mysterious I Mr. Walker from Bangalla. This Phantom.”
“That was quite a performance you put on,” said the Phantom.
“I thought I did it all quite well, didn’t you, Hermann?” she said with a short humorless laugh.
“Why not, after all the rehearsals?” said Hermann.
“You never give me credit for anything,” she said angrily. “How about you after all those rehearsals? Late with the thunder. And all you had to do was press a little button.”
“It stuck. I’m not an engineer,” he said loftily.
Thunder? The Phantom remembered that sound when he kissed the old witch. A sound tape. He listened to them curiously. Was she his wife, mistress, or boss? With his gun in her hand, pointing at him, he wanted to prolong the conversation.
“What was that gas out there in the corridor? It almost knocked me out,” he said.
“Yes, Hermann, what about that gas? You said it was fatal,” she said.
“It usually is, at least it was in experiments. It doesn’t affect everyone the same way,” he said irritably.