by Lee Falk
"Did he explain why-of all the dozens who've escaped from Masara in the past few months-not one has ever been seen again?"
Ricketts shook his head.
"He didn't go into any detail, sir," he said. "My impression was that he felt the criticism to be unanswerable and was trying to cover up by ranting."
Weeks smiled suddenly arid stopped his pacing about. He came to a halt in front of Ricketts and Coates.
"Aral I'm not helping by ranting in my turn," he said gently. "Point taken, gentlemen. Please sit down."
The two junior officers drew up their chairs as Weeks went back behind his desk. He picked up his pipe again, scraped the bowl, and busied himself in stuffing it with tobacco from an oilskin pouch. The fan cast fretted shadows across his face as it went tirelessly round on the ceiling. When he had lit up and the pipe was drawing to his satisfaction, he seemed relaxed.
"Well, now, Tim," he said, glancing across the desk. "Where were we?"
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"We were commenting on Warden Saldan's inefficient prison as I recollect," said Ricketts. "The problem is, where do we go from here? I'm afraid Joe and I didn't make much of an impression on the warden. He's a hard character."
Weeks's eyes flashed as he took the pipe out of his mouth. He discharged a noxious mouthful of blue fumes at a squadron of insects which hovered between floor and ceiling.
"Exactly," he said. "Which makes the record of his establishment entirely incomprehensible to me."
He sat smoking silently for a few minutes more, his eyes searching the young officers' faces. Eventually, he made up his mind.
"Well, from what you say we won't get much help from the governor either. There's only one thing for it.
Masara Prison is outside the Patrol's jurisdiction. I must go direct to the commander of the entire Patrol.
Dismissed!"
The two young men jumped to their feet, put on their helmets, saluted, and went out.
In the corridor, they paused.
Coates looked puzzled. He turned to his companion.
"What did the colonel mean by 'The Commander of the Patrol'?" he said. "I thought he was the commanding officer."
"So he is," Ricketts explained. "But we also have a supreme, overall Commander of the Patrol."
He smiled at the other's expression.
"You're new here, Joe; you'll get used to the setup eventually. No one knows the identity of the commander. And no one asks."
Back in the office, Weeks sat moodily smoking his pipe. Presently, he got up and went into a small inner office where he kept radio equipment and top-secret papers. He paused before a strong, steel wall-safe. He sat down at a Morse key and tapped energetically for several minutes. There was no reply. He sighed and got up again.
He left his office with a scribbled message on a sheet of notepaper. A sentry saluted as he went up the central staircase. On the flat roof the night breeze was welcome; it was even cooler in the great concrete shelter on the roof. The soft cooing of pigeons came from the cages within. Weeks tripped a light switch and stood blinking in the sudden glare. The soft murmur of the birds seemed to soothe his earlier anger.
"The pigeons are for emergency use only," he said to himself quietly. "Well, this is an emergency use."
He selected the small plastic container with its clip and inserted the message. He screwed on the top and walked past the racks of cages, looking for a particular bird. He stopped by a cage near the end, aware of the beady stare of the pigeon inside. He scratched the back of the bird's head. It arched its back and started shuffling along the cage. It looked like an old-fashioned vaudeville comedian playing for a laugh and Weeks couldn't repress a smile.
"Hullo, Samantha," he said absently. "I've got a little job for you."
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He reached inside and cupped the bird in his hand. He attached the plastic cylinder to its leg with the clip and took it outside. It cooed contentedly as he held it in both hands and gently stroked it. It exploded upward with a sudden beating of wings as he hurled it into the air. It soared into the evening sky, circled the roof three times, and was then a faint speck against the last of the sunset. Weeks stood, staring after it until there was nothing else to see, before making his way heavily downstairs to his long-delayed dinner.
It was before dawn in the Bangalla jungle. The Deep Woods were asleep. Hardly a palm frond stirred. The forest would be silent until the faint, dawn wind shivered the grass blades and sent ripples across the pool.
The tiger had ceased its nocturnal hunting and had returned to its hidden lair to sleep out the heat of the day while the kakar and the langur and all the more timid beasts of the forest briefly slept, conscious that the perils of the night were over.
The hush was broken by the solitary cry of a bird and the cry was taken up by another and then another.
Faint shapes flew against the dying starlight; wings flapped uneasily, beaks gaped open. It was time to eat.
Down by the pool, ripples indicated where big fish lay. The first pallid finger of daylight crept across the water, and slowly grew.
The red fiery disc of the sun appeared above the rim of the sea; light spread rapidly across the sky. The blackness of the impenetrable jungle grew less dense and changed to the pale green that would never grow any lighter, no matter how long the day.
With the light came the heat; mist started rising from the ground. Soon quivering heat would change the atmosphere, even in the deepest woods; farther out, toward the sea and the desert, the trees were less impenetrable and brilliant shafts of sunlight stippled the leaves, turning them to liquid fire. Animal noises joined those of the birds. The jungle was coming to life.
A faint speck appeared in the western sky, grew larger. The beat of wings sounded; a tiger looked up curiously, while pausing to drink at a forest pool. On the pigeon flew, farther and farther into the Deep Woods, where only the stoutest-hearted ever ventured. Soon Samantha was flying over the territory of the dreaded Bandar, the pygmy tribe whose noxious poisons and lethal blowpipes were among the most feared aspects of the jungle. Samantha was on the way to the unknown Commander of the Jungle Patrol.
The pigeon was soon circling above a place where outcrops of rock thrust up out of the green of the jungle.
Here there was a sheltered glade, one end of which led to sweeping uplands and then to a sandy valley blocked with tall cliffs. The pigeon settled on a branch and looked about. Opposite was a towering rock face and from it stared the delineation of a massive skull, created by the natural formation of the tumbled stone.
Two caves in the crumbling cliff above formed eye- sockets; below, a fall of rock in some earlier time had left a ruined gash which looked uncannily like the remains of the nose; the entrance below, black within, slashed with bars of sunlight without, made an enormous, open mouth.
The pigeon took off again with a flutter of wings, its flight describing a curving arc against the golden light of the cliffs. Samantha flew beneath the cave entrance and over fine white sand into the dim interior.
A few seconds later, it had traversed the length of the natural rock tunnel into an enclosed area where light from burning torches showed the way. At the end of the tunnel was a massive circular cave which was
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ablaze with light. Modern radio equipment, looking incongruous against the rough stone walls, was in this cave.
The pigeon had obviously been here many times before, for it never hesitated, but flew straight to a nest of metal homing boxes, which were lined with straw. Metal troughs set along the front of the cages contained seed and trays of water. The pigeon cooed contentedly as it thrust its beak forward to drink the cold, clear water.
The beating of its wings had aroused the attention of a massive figure who sat brooding like the spirit of Skull Cave on a huge, throne-like carved chair at one side of this strange apartment. He was an extraordinary sight. His powerful form was well over six feet in height when he was standing erect. The face was
craggy, broad, and good-looking. Strong, square white teeth flashed as he smiled on noticing Samantha's arrival. His eyes were covered with a small black mask, and his massive torso with a close-fitting jerkin of some thin material under which his pectoral muscles stood out sharply.
Whenever he moved, the iron-hard muscles of his upper arms rippled under the light-colored material. The jerkin was in one piece and rose to a close-fitting hood fitting tightly to his head so that it was impossible to see the color of his hair.
His legs and thighs were encased in similar material and his feet in thick black riding boots. Two revolvers in black-leather holsters dangled at his hips. Around his middle, he wore close-fitting shorts of a thick striped cloth and over that a massive black leather belt. On the front of this was a triangular motif which bore a tiny skulk symbol in the center. The effect should have been bizarre and sinister, but it wasn't.
This was the Phantom, the man superstition whispered could never die, of whom a thousand legends were circulated over as many miles of jungle. He was the very spirit of these Deep Woods of the Bengalla jungle, a man of tradition, whose life was dedicated to overthrowing evil. Men said he had lived for hundreds of years; that he could never be killed, and the sight of him in this strange place would have convinced any watcher that the legends were true, so durable and eternal did he look, sitting at ease on the lofty throne, as though carved of bronze.
But there was no one to see other than the pigeon and the equally striking figure at the Phantom's elbow.
This was Devil, the mountain wolf, the Phantom's constant companion in the Deep Woods and one of his most loyal friends. Devil's yellow eyes blinked sleepily beneath the lights of the cave and his red tongue lolled over his white, razor-sharp teeth as his master's hand scratched roughly but affectionately in the fur behind his ears.
"We have a visitor, Devil," said the Phantom, getting to his feet. His voice was deep, resonant, and commanding and it seemed to stir the echoes beneath the high, domed roof of the cave.
"It would appear that the Jungle Patrol has an emergency for our attention."
Electric energy seemed to emanate from his tremendous form as he crossed the cave to where the row of boxes stood. Devil sat licking his fur for a moment longer and then strolled languidly over to the Phantom's side to see what the fuss was about. The Phantom gently lifted Samantha from the perch and deftly undid the clip from the pigeon's leg with his strong, capable fingers.
"It's the first message from them in a long while," he said.
He smiled again, holding the small plastic container in his hand. His eyes glowed beneath the mask as though he could already see the message contents.
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"This looks as though it might mean action, Devil!"
The big wolf, almost like an Alsatian dog, held its head on one side as though it could understand the conversation. Devil's attitude seemed to imply that he, too, would welcome an adventure. The Phantom was already unfolding Weeks's slip of paper. It was brief and to the point. Above his signature was the message~ NEED YOUR ADVICE ON MASARA PRISON BREAKS. DETAILS IN VAULT.
The Phantom went over to the bench and put the message in his files. His actions were rapid and precise.
He checked the ammunition on his belt, and then put food and equipment for a short journey into a saddle pack. Then he went down the sandy corridor of Skull Cave, snuffing out the lights as he went.
The great white stallion stirred in his stall as the Phantom approached the corral outside the cave. His wide nostrils sniffed the air appreciatively and he whinnied with delight as his master ran his hands along his silken flanks.
"We've work to do, Hero," the Phantom said softly. "We'll just saddle you up and be off."
Five minutes later the Phantom, mounted on Hero's back, rode through the soft sand, Devil loping excitedly at the horse's heels. Hero snorted as the Phantom urged him forward. As often as they had used the secret entrance to the Deep Woods, the great stallion always had a brief moment of uncertainty at this point. His master could not say that he entirely blamed him.
Rounding a sudden curve, they faced a white wall of water with the brilliant sunshine reflecting back from the cliff face through the curtain of falling jets. The shock of the descending water drowned everything as the group went on and then Hero was splashing hock-deep through a reed-fringed pool, Devil bounding behind, impatiently shaking the moisture from his eyes. Behind them there was nothing visible but the waterfall descending against dark rocks.
No one but the Phantom and the pygmy Bandar tribe knew the secret entrance. It had saved his life on innumerable occasions. Steam was rising from the horse's flanks and from the Phantom's clothing as they came out of the waterfall through the shallow, reedy fringes and onto dry ground. Monkeys chanted defiantly from the treetops at their audacity.
The Phantom reined the white stallion in as a little brown form darted out of the bushes before him. Small brown eyes from an even darker face regarded him anxiously.
"I must leave the jungle now, Guran," the Phantom told the pygmy chief. "I will return soon."
The tiny man, dressed only in a dark loin cloth and with bangles on his wrists, saluted gravely with his spear. He darted back into the green curtain of foliage.
Dust rose from the jungle trail as the Phantom urged Hero on. The great white horse flexed his limbs and galloped swiftly through the forest as Devil loped alongside. Soon they had settled down to a mile-consuming pace.
The shadows lengthened on the ground and threw the stenciled pattern of bars against the bleak stone walls. Zadok sat in a corner of the cell, his head on his hands and pretended to sleep. Night seemed to take longer in coming, no doubt because of the tension engendered by the visit of the Jungle Patrol. Far away, a
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flat, sour- sounding bugle seemed like a requiem for Masara Prison. As dusk fell, Zadok got up. He put his finger to his lips as he looked at the two new inmates.
"Time soon," he whispered. He went over to the rear wall of the big cell and tentatively tried the loose stone block. He wanted to ease it out an inch or two to make the job less difficult after dark. He was still thus engaged when the tramp of feet sounded in the corridor. Zadok was flat on his bunk when shadows stirred beyond the end of the corridor. Half-a-dozen guards appeared and went down the cells, unlocking them. Two remained outside, their automatic rifles at the ready.
Larsen, the senior prison officer, waved jovially as he strode into Zadok's cell.
"Line up, gentlemen," he called sarcastically. "We've got some little trinkets for you."
The ten men in the cell climbed down from their bunks, grumbling in low undertones. Zadok strode to the front, confronting Larsen.
"V/hat's the trouble?" he asked the big officer. Larsen raked him with his eyes.
"No trouble, sonny," he said easily. "We've been getting high-level complaints about the number of breaks in here, From now on, we're handcuffing you all for the night."
There was a chorus of protests from the prisoners as the guards came forward; chains clinked and the light shone on the metal cuffs as each man stepped forward, his wrists thrust out for the cold kiss of the metal.
"This is illegal," Zadok protested, as the cuffs locked round his wrists.
"Write the United Nations," said Larsen with a grin, standing by to supervise the operation.
There was laughter as the guards went off. The cell door clanged dully behind them. The night was alive with the noises of the guards' feet tramping the corridors; the metallic scream of hinges as doors were opened arid closed; the whole prison re-echoed with sound and movement. Zadok went back to his bunk and lay down, staring without emotion at his handcuffs. His face was expressionless.
"What a break!" said a tough-looking giant with a shaven head.
"How do we get out of here tonight, now?" said the dark-haired man, looking across at Zadok. The bars made a zebra pattern on his face.
Zadok laughed quietly in the gloom of his
corner of the cell. He chinked the handcuff chain derisively.
"This won't make any difference," he said contemptuously.
There was a chorus of cries from his companions, silenced only when Zadok jumped up from the bunk.
"Quiet, you fools!" he hissed, his teeth drawn back in the lopsided grin the two newcomers were getting to know so well.
"Why don't you just go to the guards and tell them we're breaking out?"
When the muttering had died away and the last of the guards' feet had died away along the corridor, Zadok went back to sit on his bunk.
He tapped his forehead.
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"You've got to have it up here for this caper" he said significantly. "You obviously haven't got it. That's what makes leaders and followers."
"Never mind the self-testimonials, Zadok," said the bald-headed man bitterly. "You haven't explained these cuffs away yet. Neither will your Arab tricks spirit them off."
There was a soft snigger in the cell and Zadok felt a sudden gust of anger.
But there was patience in his voice as he answered
"We can still make it," he said. "We've only got to slide the slab out as we arranged. We can replace it from the other side without anybody knowing. The cuffs don't stop us walking, do they? Once we're on the boat we can get them filed off. Simple."
He lay back on the bunk, contempt creeping into his voice as he finished speaking.
There was an approving murmur among his cellmates.
"We've only got to relax until midnight," said Zadok. "Then we break out. Every last one of us!"
The bald-headed man looked at his dark-haired colleague approvingly.
"This is more like it," he said.