by The Vampires
“And them?”
Greta looked about the chamber slowly, at Gerhart and Wolfgang, at the other five of the gang who were awake now, and finally at the colonel.
“Kill them,” she said quietly.
There was a sharp intake of breath from the men, all together like a chorus.
“Just like that?” said the Phantom.
“Of course. What choice have you? They’ll never let you get away with all this and me. They’ll come after us for as long as we live. You must see that,” she said quickly.
“None of you understand,” said the Phantom. “I’m taking Greta and these four paintings with me to Chief Ivor Peta at the stationhouse. The chief and his deputies will be back shortly to pick you all up.”
The men stared. Then the colonel laughed, a short bitter laugh. Greta’s eyes blazed. She screamed, then struck at the Phantom with her tiny fists, shrieking a string of obscenities. He grabbed her wrists in his powerful hand as Devil walked over to him, watching protectively.
“You will all have your day in court,” he said.
“There were no witnesses, no proof,” shouted Colonel Count Hermann Adolphus von der Kotthausen.
The Phantom released Greta and started toward the men. She turned and ran out of the room. The Phantom snapped his fingers and pointed. Devil bounded out after her. A moment later, her scream was heard as she was stopped and pulled back harmlessly to the doorway by the big gray wolf.
“You wanted him to kill us,” said the colonel grimly. “I hope they hang you, you little beast!”
The Phantom busied himself for a few moments, binding each man securely to a separate rack with bailing wire.
“You may all get hung,” he said as he took Greta’s arm. “There is trial by jury in this little place. But everyone in Koqania is related—jury, judges, lawyers—as you know, Greta. They’ll all be highly interested to know what happened here through the years to their relatives and friends, as well as to those rich foreign visitors.”
Chapter 23
The revelations at the ruins of Koqania created an international sensation. Through the news media, the world had heard the earlier reports of the plague of vampires and the witch. Now that the amazing truth was coming out, interest everywhere was enormous. Reporters and camera crews from every major country sped to tiny Koqania. Tourists flooded the place. Normally the little town of Koqania could only accommodate a score of visitors. The thousands who poured in were put up in private homes, on farms, in tents. The rickety railroad arranged a special daily round-trip excursion for one-day visitors. The ruins were cordoned off and guarded by the local equivalent of a National Guard under the leadership of Chief Ivor Peta. Accredited press representatives were admitted to limited areas, and guided tours were permitted twice a day.
The visitors were fascinated by the torture chamber and by the chamber where the paintings had been stored. They had all been removed by that time. (An easier access had been found to that area—easier than the route traveled by the Phantom and Devil.) A special Art Council had been appointed by the United Nations to catalogue the stolen treasures and return them to their owners. This took several years to complete and almost started two minor wars among rival claimants.
The amazing story of the art treasures and the thirty-year vigil of the “vampires” and later the “witch” who guarded them was revealed gradually in the long trial. The main focus of attention was there. The tiny courtroom in Koqania could not hold a tenth of the visiting press, officials, and celebrities. So the trial was moved to the only building large enough in Koqania, a huge drafty wooden building used for the annual horse fair. There was an attempt to clean and deodorize the place before the trial. This was only partially successful, and the aroma of horse manure remained during the entire proceedings.
Gradually, the whole story was pieced together. And as the defendants confessed bits and pieces, old graves were found. Many international mysteries of missing persons were solved. A well-known art dealer from Sao Paulo, Brazil; the Emir of a prominent oil-rich sheikdom; a Japanese tycoon; a German dealer from Cologne; an American gangster; and a half-dozen others. Still others were somewhere in the vast ruins, but they were never found.
The trial proceeded slowly. Because of the prominence of many of the victims, the finest legal talent of four continents rushed to the spot. But the local lawyers needed little advice. Their relatives were among the almost countless victims of this thirty-year plot.
Running like a thread through the entire trial was the mention now and then of the mysterious stranger, the masked man. It seemed this unknown person “had first blown the whistle on the entire deal” as an American journalist put it. But no one, including Chief Peta, or Roko the farmer, or the widow and children of dead Piotr, or the old cabdriver, or even the Lord Mayor himself, could tell much about him. The latter, pompous and officious during the entire trial, tried to impress everyone with his knowledge of the mysterious stranger, but finally had to admit he’d been in the dark the whole time.
To everyone’s satisfaction, except the defendants, the trial came to a close. There were no higher courts of appeal in Koqania. This was it. Those sentenced to death by hanging for twelve premeditated murders, “most vicious and cruel,” (twelve was all that could be proven) were Colonel Count Hermann Adolphus von der Kotthausen, Gerhart, Wolfgang, and a fourth man named Klotz. The colonel’s part in all this was sensational. His uncle, the general, was well remembered and loathed as the wartime occupation ruler of Koqania. The other ten conspirators, including the woman, received life sentences.
Greta, the beautiful “witch,” was a center of attraction throughout the trial. She was dazzling in her miniskirts, hotpants, sequin gowns, and furs. She was photographed a million times and her smiling face became as familiar as that of a film star. Even after her true identity was revealed, the Koqanians avoided her eyes, and, as many foreigners noted, treated her with some awe and fear. The legend of the witch of Hanta was deeply ingrained in these people, even the most educated, and it was hard to shake it off. When She was sentenced, she cried shrilly and shouted an amazing string of obscenities. The Koqanians present averted their eyes and put their hands over their ears to avoid the curse of this evil woman who (some believed) really was the witch.
Before the trial, shortly after the colonel and his men were hauled off to jail, the Phantom remained for a short time alone in the ruins with Devil. Using a flashlight, he retraced that long underground route that he and Devil had traveled in the dark. He stooped and he crawled as he had before. But now he could see the way. He paused to examine the ancient wall carvings. They were of people and animals. Some seemed to recount events, hunts, or battles, and seemed similar to such wall decorations in the Egyptian temples and pyramids. Others had a medieval look, knights in armor, battles with lances. Some were sensual, showing scenes of love. Here and there were mural paintings of animals, similar to ancient cave paintings. Archeologists were to have a field day in this place, and would find level upon level, subcellar beneath cellar, on and on, rivaling the seven levels of Troy.
He paused briefly at the torture chamber, and in a sudden fit of anger, rare for him, destroyed the ancient instrument called the Rack. He did this by tearing it from its metal moorings and smashing it repeatedly against the wall until it was a twisted mass of metal and kindling. No one would ever again be stretched on that horrible device. The rest would remain, when this chamber became a museum.
He made one more stop at the small cell that had served as a hideout for the Phantom through the generations. Here the eighth Phantom had been imprisoned by the real witch of Hanta. Here she had wept and pleaded with him—“I love you. I need you. I need you,” she said, her perfume wafted through the bars. Now, almost three hundred years later, the descendant of that man, thirteen times removed, sat in this cell, trying to visualize the scene—the tearful face framed by shining golden hair in that narrow barred opening. The face he saw was Greta as the young witch, a
nd he shook himself. No, not like that. But Greta’s mother was of Koqania. By some miracle, could she be descended from that long-dead beauty? It was a tremendous thought, but the odds against it were too high. Yet, anything was possible. He dismissed that idea and sniffed the air. Was any of that ancient fragrance, the perfume of the witch, still there? Devil looked at him and sniffed also. Nothing.
In his previous two visits to this place, always brief and on the run, he had never had time to examine it. He did that now. There was light from the outside air shaft. The room was almost bare, beyond the little cot, table, and chair. He examined the walls carefully. He wanted to see if any of his ancestors from the eighth Phantom on, and that would mean twelve more generations, had written anything here, left any messages. He was disappointed to find there were none. Evidently, the Phantom did not write on walls. But as he searched behind the cot, pulling it away from the wall for that purpose, he found a loose stone. Intrigued, he pried it out of the wall and shone his flashlight beam into the dark hole. There was something in there. A roll of what appeared to be paper, but proved to be vellum, parchment.
It was bound with fine gold wire. He hurriedly unrolled it, and as he read the first lines by the light of his flashlight, he almost dropped both parchment and flashlight in surprise. It was the missing page, the final page from the Chronicle of the Eighth Phantom about the witch of Hanta.
He lit the candle on the little table at the side of the cot, and sitting there, read it by candlelight.
He recalled the last lines of this chronicle that he had read in the Skull Cave. Something about fire and towers crashing after the explosion of the castle, demons rushing about in the smoke, then the line that remained etched in his memory—“Then with the blonde witch of Hanta in my arms, I leaped from the wall to the moat far below.”
That had been as far as the story went. The following page had been torn out. This was it. Fascinated, he read it aloud, as if to make sure he-‘missed nothing. Devil sat on the floor of the cell, listening patiently.
“I will be brief now, and recount what followed and was most amazing. We survived the plunge and made our way down the slope to find shelter in a cave. For as the castle toppled and great sheets of flame lit the heavens, these heavens opened and a torrent of rain, thunder, and lightning assailed it. It was as if the very gods of this place were furious. The witch and I (perhaps by now, she reminds me, I should use her proper name, Heloise) stayed in this cave three days and nights until the storm abated.
In this time, let me confess, my world turned upside-down—if I may use such an expression—and I fell deeply in love with this wondrous woman, Heloise of Hanta, whom I had foolishly, stupidly, and clumsily believed to be a witch. She asks (watching me as I write this) that I add the adverb ‘childishly.’ So be it. I who had sought the love of a good woman over five continents and the seven seas, found it in this wind-swept cave in Koqania. One might ask, what did we eat during those three days? I will answer. There was fresh water in this cave, but for food there was love, and it sufficed.
“Now when the storm was over, the castle and the land about lay in waste and ruins. We hurriedly left that dismal place, and after a wondrous voyage made of minor adventure and major love, we reached the Deep Woods and this Skull Cave. Now with the Chiefs of the Jungle and the Lords of the Misty Mountains in attendance, not forget-ing his Majesty the Ottoman Sultan Abu Mahoud who came with a rich and mighty retinue, I married the beauteous Heloise of Hanta. It was a splendid wedding that left the entire jungle drunk for a week.
“Heloise, now the loyal wife of my bosom, has made one request—that we return to the ruined castle of Koqania to spend one night together in that cell where I had been incarcerated. There is also a casket of her finest jewels cached near this cell, which she believes might have survived the destruction of the castle. I must add she has no regrets on that score. She inherited it all from her father, a notorious buccaneer, and is happy to be rid of it.
“So we shall return for a last visit to Koqania, for a night of love, a delayed honeymoon, in that cell where I languished by order of the notorious witch of Hanta.”
The account, written in the fine hand on both sides of the vellum, ended there. Why had it been tom out of the chronicle? No Phantom would do it. Only one person could have. Heloise herself, wishing to leave this account of her marriage in that cell where she had pleaded and wept and protested her love, and now would celebrate it. A sentimental woman, he decided. No, not like Greta.
At a much later time, when telling Diana Palmer the entire story of the witches of Hanta, he said, “Diana, I knew that Heloise, that first witch of Hanta, was not really a witch all along.”
"And how, Oh mysterious stranger, did you know that?” asked Diana.
“Because in the chronicle, the part about her weeping at the bars of his cell. It is well known that real witches have no tears. They cannot cry.”
“I must remember that,” said Diana, with a bewitching smile.
Chapter 24
When Old Mozz finished telling his abridged version of the Hanta witch tales, both old and new, to Rex and Tomm, the boys thought about it for a time. The two ten-year-olds, white and black, were seated on the ground near the Skull Throne. Old Mozz sat on a stump, leaning on his ancient polished cane.
“Did you like the stories?” he asked, knowing the answer would be yes. It always was.
“Yes, but—” said Rex.
“Yes, but what?” said Old Mozz in surprise.
“The Hanta witches weren’t real witches. They were pretend witches,” said Rex, and Tomm nodded in agreement.
“So the Phantom would have us believe,” said Old Mozz with a wink.
“I mean, I hoped they’d be real witches,” Rex said, and Tomm nodded. “They were just pretend, weren’t they?”
“So the Phantom would have you believe,” said the old man, winking again, but neither agreeing or disagreeing. “He asked that I tell you the tale of the Gooley-Gooley witch.”
“Is that another pretend witch?”
“That is a real witch,” said Old Mozz.
“How real?” said Tomm suspiciously.
“A real witch a thousand years old.”
“Really? A thousand years old?” said Rex excitedly.
The old man nodded solemnly.
“And did this happen to the sixth Phantom or the eighth Phantom, or one of those Phantoms way back there?” continued Rex.
“No, this is a tale of the Phantom you know as Uncle Walker, and as time flies, it was not long ago.”
Old Mozz looked at the two young faces, both eager and expectant. They were ready. He took a sip of spring water from the wooden bucket in the shade, then began in his singsong voice.
“The Gooley-Gooley witch lived in an old castle atop a peak in the Misty Mountains, which is eastward of here, where the sun rises,” began Old Mozz.
“Do all witches live in castles on top of peaks?” asked Rex.
“Those do who can afford it,” replied Old Mozz.
“Don’t interrupt,” said Tomm.
“She was very old, this witch, a thousand years old, and she lived with her familiar spirits, her demons and her monsters, and none in the jungle dared to voyage near this peak, for it was an evil place,” continued Old Mozz. “And all the sickness and bad luck of the people was known to be caused by the old witch, but none dared go near her, for she was an evil woman.
“Now as she neared her thousandth birthday, she felt lonely, for she was bored with her familiar spirits, her demons and her monsters. And she decided she would have a mate.”
“A mate?” said Tomm excitedly.
“A husband,” said Rex. “Shh, go on.”
“So the old witch sat before her long magic mirror, and she said to this mirror which could only show things as they really are, ‘Mirror, show to me the three most beautiful men in the world.’ And one after another, the mirror showed her these three men. The first was a strong man who could li
ft great weights and wrestle opponents to the earth. A mighty man was he, with arms like big tree boughs, and legs like the trunk of an oak. ‘He will not do,’ said she. The second was an actor, one who performed before the people. He had long flowing hair, smooth skin and the face and body of a young god. His was a beauty adored by countless women. ‘He will not do,’ said she. And the third was one with raven locks whose likeness was sought and copied by workers in stone, by painters, by men who made pictures in boxes. He was called a model, and was said by all to be the most prized. ‘He will not do,’ she said.
“ ‘Beauty is not enough,’ she told her mirror, her familiar spirits, her demons and her monsters; for all were crowded in the room to see what she would see. ‘For I would tire of that in a century or less. Mirror that shows things as they are, show me among all men of great achievement, those three who are best.’ And the mirror showed her three such men, one after the other.
“The first man was one who had discovered hidden secrets of the earth and the sky. He had flowing white hair and the wisdom of the ages in his eyes. He was called a scientist. ‘He will not do,’ she said. Next, the mirror brought the image of a small man wearing only a white robe and sandals, a shy and gentle man. Behind him in the mirror, one could see multitudes, for this religious leader had founded a new religion and millions hailed him as their savior. ‘He will not do,’ she said. The third man was tall and broad-shouldered. He had a stern face, and wore a uniform that glittered with many medals. This was a general who had won a war and subjugated an entire people, a man of power and decision. ‘He will not do,’ she said. ‘What could I talk about to such men?’ she asked her familiar spirits, her demons, and her monsters. ‘I care nothing for science, religion, or war. I would tire of such in far less than a century.’
“Now the witch asked her mirror to show other men— artists, inventors, athletes, millionaires, billionaires, barons, counts, princes, kings. With each, she found something that would not do for her. As she explained to the impatient creatures about her: ‘After a thousand years, one becomes hard to please.’ Then she said, ‘I have exhausted the various categories and still have not found the perfect man I seek. What shall I ask for now?’ And said her familiar spirit, in the shape of a cat, ‘Ask for the perfect man.’ The old witch clapped her hands for joy.