by Lee Falk
"Always delighted to see the Jungle Patrol. If I can be of help, I will do what I can.
Ricketts uncrossed his legs awkwardly and put his khaki-clad body more at ease in the chair. It was obvious that Coates was going to let him to do the talking. The hoarse, guttural voice of the warden disturbed him.
He wondered if he had heard it somewhere before. Though the man before him looked benevolent enough in his immaculate gray lightweight suit with a blue bow tie floating crisply against his shirt-front, the face above the tie was harsh and lined by time and passion. Ricketts thought to himself that it would be no good putting a soft, easygoing man in charge of a prison full of convicts.
Ricketts coughed embarrassedly as the warden asked his question again, looking expectantly from one to the other, as he swiveled his chair.
"It's a question of security, Warden," Ricketts explained. "The authorities are becoming a little disturbed by the number of breakouts from Masara in recent months. Quite frankly, my colonel's more than disturbed by the situation."
Here Ricketts broke off to smile pleasantly at the burly form of the man opposite him. The response was not a good omen for the interview. Saldan continued to stare at the young officer bleakly, twirling a pencil restlessly between his strong, blunt hands, as though his suppressed fury would snap it at any moment.
Ricketts broke off his smile and plunged on.
"You know Colonel Weeks, I expect, Warden. He's a first-class officer, and if he's disturbed you can bet there's something to be disturbed about."
Saldan commanded silence with a wave of his hand.
"Come to the point, Lieutenant," he said softly.
Ricketts felt a little out of his depth, but he plunged on.
"Colonel Weeks has asked me to urge greater security here," he said.
He started hack in surprise as Saldan brought his clenched fist down with a tremendous crash upon the desk, sending papers billowing high in the air and causing the inkstand to jump a good two inches off the
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tooled red- leather surface. The man was in a towering rage. His eyes narrowed to slits and blood suffused his cheeks until he looked almost as dark as a native.
"He's disturbed!" he flared. "Your colonel! Do you know the problems here, young man? Has he any idea what I'm faced with daily, what we're all faced with? We're badly understaffed. We need more guards!
Those I have are underpaid. The equipment is a hundred years out of date and the communications are obsolete. Masara may look impregnable, but I can assure you it is a surface mirage only. Tell your colonel that."
He paused, gazing savagely from one officer to the other. Neither of them spoke. He started off again, emphasizing his points with jerking motions of his stubby fingers.
"Can your colonel get me more guards and bigger salaries? This is a problem for the national administration and they have already received my strongest possible protests."
Ricketts managed to break in at this point, interrupting the Warden's excited flow of words.
"But, sir, with these walls and the thickness of the doors, the place ought to be impregnable, even without extra guards. Just how do they escape?"
Saldan's face started to turn purple.
"There's no such thing as an escape-proof prison," he snapped. "How do I know how they escape? If I had the answer to that, I'd make sure it never happened."
He snorted to himself and looked them over menacingly again.
Ricketts stood up abruptly, Coates at his side. He felt a little more secure of himself as he looked down at the bulky figure of the warden.
"Perhaps, if, as you say, the guards are underpaid, there might be bribery involved. The Jungle Patrol could help in that instance. We could put in a few undercover men with instructions to report to you personally and no one else."
This time Warden Saldan seemed about to take off through the ceiling. He jumped excitedly from his chair, his face dark with anger and started pounding on the desk again.
"No!" he barked. "I am in sole charge of this prison! I am the arbiter of what goes on here. I'll run my prison and I promise not to tell Colonel Weeks how to run his side. This is no business of the Jungle Patrol. Take care of your own work!"
"We're getting nowhere like this, sir," Ricketts interjected. "The idea of our coming here was to be helpful."
Saldan paused as though the idea hadn't occurred to him before. The room was suddenly silent. A wintry smile broke out on his face. The effect was startling.
"Well, well, gentlemen," he said with an attempt at heartiness, "I mustn't let myself get carried away. The problem is a worrisome one, as you've pointed out. But I would like to emphasize that Masara Prison's record is no worse than that of other prisons in the country. There are breakouts from time to time in even the best-conducted penal establishments, as I'm sure you're aware."
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"Well, thank you, sir," said Ricketts when the other finished. "I don't think we can carry this any further for the moment. The colonel asked me to tell you that he intended to approach the governor on the matter.
You see, sir, it does concern the Patrol indirectly, as we then have to go chasing after these criminals, once they're out of your custody."
Saldan thrust his big hands behind his back and locked one set of stubby fingers through the other. He braced himself as he held his rising temper in check.
"Very well, gentlemen," he said. "Please tell your colonel that I am already in touch with the governor, He is unable to offer any suggestions of value at the moment. What your colonel might be able to achieve in speaking to him is beyond me."
He shrugged. Ricketts put on his pith helmet and saluted the warden. Coates, who hadn't spoken a word throughout the entire interview, followed suit.
He stepped forward to shake Saldan's hand as the two men prepared to leave.
"You understand, sir, we're merely passing on the message as we were instructed," Coates said placatingly, pausing at the door.
Saldan nodded briefly, shaking hands with Ricketts. He inclined his head toward the pair.
"Message noted," he said curtly. "Good day, gentlemen."
The door closed behind them and they were once more in the outer office, escorted by the senior prison officer.
"We achieved a lot there," said Coates sardonically as the two men got in the truck. The heat struck them like a sword as the heavy vehicle lurched through the prison gateway and back onto the mountain road.
"More to the point," Ricketts said, spinning the wheel to avoid a boulder that had fallen from the hillside,
"What do we tell the colonel?"
Coates looked at him quizzically.
"Good question," he said.
Warden Saldan sat in silence for at least ten minutes after his visitors had left. The glare of reflected light from the windows made a bronze mask of his features. Then he made up his mind. He leaned forward and pressed one of the push buttons set in a panel on his desk.
In Number Four Cellblock, three floors below the Warden's office, a bell rang sharply in a glass-fronted cubicle. A squat, bald-headed man in gray convict's clothes looked sullenly across to the cubicle, his heavy hands grasping the bars.
"1 thought you said Masara had paper walls!" he said bitterly to his companion, a younger, dark-haired man.
The other grinned, his face twisting sardonically in the cool dimness of the cell.
"Just have patience, Pat," he said. "You'll see."
One of the prison officers appeared at the end of the corridor.
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"Zadok!" he shouted. "You're wanted upstairs."
A thin man in a turban, and wearing a ragged shirt and trousers held up by a tattered scarf, shuffled down the corridor. His narrow face smiled ingratiatingly, giving his features a lopsided effect, His pencil mustache twisted as though the guard had given him exciting news,
"No hurry!" he said. "I'm on my way."
"Who the hell's that?" said the bald-headed man
incuriously. "They employing local labor in the prison service now? If that's the standard of the guards, it shouldn't be too hard to get out."
A gigantic Nubian, with a polished torso gleaming in the few bars of light which came in through a cell window opposite, laughed hoarsely.
"Zadok's one of the cons," he said. "He's a trustee now. He's been here so long he's taken out a mortgage on the building."
He tittered at his own joke.
"What's he done?" said the dark-haired man.
"Murder in spades," said the Nubian laconically. "Gun- running, slavery, cathouses; you name it, Zadok's had a hand in it. He's been here twenty years. Nobody knows how many more he's got to go."
The bald-headed man whistled, impressed despite himself.
In the corridor above Zadok walked easily, like a free man. He knocked deferentially at the outer office door and was escorted into the warden's office by the senior prison officer. Saldan nodded and the other withdrew. Zadok waited until the door had closed behind the officer and then he crossed over and threw the catch. He sat down insolently on the edge of the warden's desk and leaned over and helped himself from Saldan's silver cigarette box. Saldan sat and watched him unwinkingly. He didn't seem to take offense. He merely reached in his pocket, dug around for a gold lighter, and lit the cigarette for the Arab.
Zadok sat for a moment or two, idly swinging his leg and feathering blue smoke at the ceiling. It went straight up until the fans caught it and dispersed the pattern into the four corners of the room.
"Well?" he asked, with narrowed eyes. "As the genie said in The Arabian Nights, you have called, master, and I am here."
Saldan sat back with an abrupt movement of his heavy body. The white scar shone dully against the brown of his face.
"You can save the jokes," he said curtly. "You won't laugh when you hear what I've got to tell you."
He opened a drawer of his desk and reached for a cigar case. When he had cut and trimmed it to his satisfaction, he lit up and puffed with visible pleasure.
"You might go and sit in the chair," he said to his companion. "You're not in the camp now."
Zadok shrugged and lowered his rangy body into the leather armchair recently vacated by Ricketts.
"What's the trouble?" he said.
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"Plenty," Saldan answered. "Two officers from the Jungle Patrol were just here. They want to know why there are so many breaks."
The Arab's narrow face wrinkled in fury.
"Are they on to us?" he said. "If I thought that, there'd be a few throats cut."
Even Saldan was momentarily alarmed by the savagery on Zadok's face.
"Take it easy," he said. "I don't think that for a moment. The record at Masara isn't exactly calculated to inspire confidence in the authorities."
He remained seated, looking down broodingly at the surface of his desk, as though he could see the answer to his problems written on its placid leather surface. The smoke from his cigar rose to join that from Zadok's cigarette, until it, too, met the agitated air near the ceiling.
"There are a number of ways to look at this," he said. "And the trade is too good to give up."
Zadok glanced at him anxiously.
"Do you think we ought to go through with the break tomorrow?" he asked.
Saldan drummed with his heavy fingers on the desk. He laid his cigar down on the edge of a massive earthenware tray in front of him.
"We must go ahead, Zadok," he said at length. "Everything is arranged, though it may be the last for a while. Circumstances would appear to indicate prudence."
He went over to the window and, narrowing his eyes against the glare, looked across to where the arid waste of the desert began.
"The patrol may try to sneak a stoolie in," he said. "We shall have to watch for that."
Down below in the exercise yard, men were beginning to form up into gray lines and shuffle along the sand; only thin beams of sunlight filtered through, but the coolness was welcome. Here and there, others, tired of walking, rested against the walls or gathered for conversation in aimless groups. There were shouts and bursts of laughter as Zadok reappeared, walking with a swagger among the long lines of shuffling cons.
"Did the warden apologize for keeping you here?" shouted the bald-headed man. Another burst of laughter greeted his sally.
Zadok grinned his lopsided smile.
"He knocked off fifty years for good behavior," he said. "I only got sixty to go."
There was silence instead of the expected laughter at his reply. These hard-bitten men looked at Zadok with approving respect. He saw the expression in their eyes and laughed again. He wandered over to a group which contained the new men. He glanced at them, measuring them carefully in his mind's eye.
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He approached the dark-haired, younger man first. He leaned casually against the wall, squinting up at the frowning battlements above them.
"How would you characters like to blow out of here?" he asked.
The dark man blinked. He grinned.
"Great." he said. "But how? The place is like a fortress. We've only got six months to do, anyway."
Zadok shrugged.
"All right," he said. "I thought I was doing a favor. If you can really afford to spend six months in this stinking hole, it's all right with me."
He made as though to move away but the bald-headed man was in front of him, blocking his path.
"I'm interested, if our friend isn't," he said, with a glance at the dark-haired man.
The other shifted his ground.
"I didn't mean I wasn't interested," he said. "But look at Masara. The sea on one side, swamps and dogs on the other, and rocky cliffs on the remaining two flanks. It's impossible."
He flung up his arms in exasperation.
The bald man looked suspicious for a moment.
"Yes," he said. "What are we gonna do, swim across the ocean? And if you've got so long to do here, why don't you blow, too."
Zadok smiled one of his lopsided smiles.
"All in good time, my friend," he said, laying his hand on the bald-headed man's arm. "I come and go as I please. Are you interested? That's all I want to know."
The bald-headed man glanced at his friend and nodded.
"We're interested," he said briefly.
"That's fine," said Zadok. "Then we make a deal. I've got a friend with a boat. I'll explain the rest when we get back to the cell."
Ten minutes later, their break over, the prisoners marched back inside again to allow another group of men to occupy the exercise yard. The two new arrivals were in a large cell in Number Four Cellblock, which had bunks for ten men. One of those men was Zadok. After supper that evening, Zadok drew the two men aside. The others lay on their bunks and looked on incuriously. The bald-headed man, Pat, seemed uneasy,
"What about these guys?" he said. "If it's all so easy, why aren't they outside as well?"
Zadok looked at him, his eyes smouldering.
"First, you've got to be asked," he said. "Second, it's no good going out unless you've got an escape organization waiting for you. And you don't get that without me. Third, there is a payment. Either in money or in kind."
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"We're flat broke!" said the dark-haired man, alarm showing in his eyes.
Zadok smiled.
"You've got muscle and talent we can use," he said.
"Don't worry. We won't ask you to pay in money!"
The dark man drew back. He grinned.
"That's all right, then," he said.
He bent down as Zadok motioned them to a corner in the back of the cell. To their amazement, Zadok scratched with his fingernails in the darkest corner. Presently, a seemingly solid block of stone slid back out of the wall.
"We go out here," he said. "But not tonight. A friend of mine once told me about this passage."
The two new prisoners exchanged triumphant glances.
"I told you this place had paper walls!" the dark-h
aired man exclaimed.
In the warden's office, Saldan stood looking at the dying sun staining the rim of the desert with bands of blood-red and gold.
The senior prison officer, a hard-faced individual with a square jaw, stood at his elbow.
Saldan was the first to break the silence, clearing his throat ponderously.
"Tomorrow at this time they'll be out," the officer said, "The last for some while, Larsen, unfortunately."
Larsen smiled sardonically.
He went over to join the warden at the window.
The two men stood watching the daylight die over the desert.
Larsen smiled again.
"More merchandise for Mucar," he said.
The two men silent and both engrossed in their own marched back inside again to allow another group of men to thoughts, watched the last of the light disappear across the rim of sand.
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CHAPTER 4
ENTER THE PHANTOM
Colonel Weeks's normally impassive face had a fiery flush on it. He sat back in his armchair at Jungle Patrol Headquarters and stared stiffly at Ricketts and Coates as they stood before him.
"What do you mean, nothing?" he said angrily. He felt in the drawer for his pipe and scrabbled about for the metal scraper. His eyes regarded the two men steadily.
"I'm waiting. The warden can't have just said nothing. What did he tell you about the escapes? And his ideas for preventing future breaks?"
"He just talked a lot of hot air," said Ricketts. He felt aggrieved at the colonel's attitude as he stepped forward to explain in greater detail.
"He didn't want any interference. He just kept repeating that his prison was understaffed, the men underpaid, and the security system obsolete."
"He said his prison record was no worse than others," Coates broke in, glad to take the heat off his brother officer.
Weeks put the pipe in his mouth so violently that he almost speared his throat. He bit on it so savagely that the two men in front of him thought that the stem would snap between his strong yellow teeth. Weeks took the pipe from out of his mouth as though it were choking him. He glared at it and put it down on the desk. Then he got up and started walking about the office, deliberately keeping his temper under control.