by Lee Falk
"You are really certain that this will be your last sale tonight, my friend?"
Saldan nodded, perspiration glistening on his big, hard face. The scar stood out dead-white on his cheek as he turned his blond head beneath the lamps.
"I am, Prince," he said. "And thank you for not using my name."
The Prince smiled a thin smile.
"I thought, as this was your last evening," he said, "we should observe every courtesy. And make your stay a pleasant one."
Saldan inclined his head toward the old man. Selim shook his head regretfully.
"Nevertheless, my friend, it is a pity," he added, scratching his chin with one clawlike finger.
"Especially as we have done so well."
Saldan sighed. He picked another olive from a dish at his elbow.
"All good things come to an end, your Highness," he said. He puffed heavily on his cigar. "Always quit when you're ahead."
The Prince gazed in front of him to where an almost naked man was doing a complicated and dangerous dance with two razor-sharp scimitars.
"You have a Western proverb for every situation in life, my friend," he said.
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Saldan shrugged. "This one happens to fit very well," he said, reaching for another olive.
The Prince stroked his beard, absorbed in the gyrations of the man with the scimitars. He joined in the applause when the trick was over, rubbing his dry palms together as though he were making a fire from tinder.
"You may well be right, my friend," he sighed regretfully. "You may well be right."
Neither of them noticed the figures of two Arabs regarding them from a balcony which ran around three sides of the Prince's reception hall. But then there was no reason why they should have. The hall was, after all, full of robed figures and as there was no restriction on the use of the balcony, which was often packed with Selim's personal bodyguards, it was normal for the men to be there.
Slingsby felt a little tinge of excitement as he gazed down on the colorful scene below them.
"There's our corrupt Prince," the Phantom whispered close beside him. "And there's our equally corrupt Warden SaIdan."
The music began again and this time a soloist took his place beside the ornamental pool with its two tinkling fountains. The music seemed to go on for a long time; it was a tuneless Arab melody that made little sense to Saldan's ears and he eventually grew impatient. It would soon be time for his part in the auction. As befitted the trader with the richest wares to offer, he would be taking the position of honor this evening.
He came third and last, so he would not take the rostrum until about 1:00 A.M. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was only twelve-fifteen. There was plenty of time. But delectable as the Prince's entertainments were, he must not drink any more wine tonight, and he had eaten enough. He touched the Prince on the sleeve.
"I'd like to take a look at our mutual savings, Prince," he said. "If you don't mind."
The Prince got up. "Of course," he said.
The music had stopped and everyone in the hall had their eyes upon Selim. He clapped his hands again and ordered the music to continue.
Saldan had joined him at the back of the court now and the two men rapidly made their way along an ornate corridor guarded by sentries at three-yard intervals. They stopped before a massive oak-and-iron door.
"I have my key," Saldan said. "You will permit me?"
The Prince bowed. "Of course," he said.
Saldan unlocked the door and stood aside to allow the Prince to enter first.
The room was a counting house. There were scales and balances set out along the wooden surfaces and, most incongruous of all among the Oriental finery, a massive steel-fronted safe.
"Most of my money is in Switzerland, your Highness, as you know," said Saldan with satisfaction. "This hoard, garnered in the last two years, represents the petty cash."
He coughed harshly.
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"My life-line, as it were,"
He walked over to the safe and examined its heavy surface. His cigar smoke went straight up in the air.
"When things blow up-and blow up they must before very long-Warden Saldan will be the hottest property between here and Mecca. My share of the gold in this room will buy me the passage and immunity that only gold can ensure."
He looked round the chamber, busy with his own thoughts.
"This represents my passport to the West."
The Prince regarded him with a cynical look in his eye. He shrugged.
"When you disappear," he said, "one of my most cherished friendships will be lost."
"On the contrary, your Highness," Saldan said. "You will be a most welcome visitor to my home whenever you decide to come to Europe."
The Prince drew back his lips and smiled beneath the beard.
"In Deauville, my friend?" he asked. Saldan bowed with irony.
"Alas, no, your Excellency," he said. "Deauville will not be ... exactly suitable. It is too convenient for Interpol. Now Switzerland . . ."
"Or Buenos Aires!" the Prince interrupted calmly. Saldan blinked amiably.
"Who knows, your Excellence," he said. "I will find some way to get word to you. Now to business."
He rubbed his hands.
"Not bad for the last two year's work. What's your estimate, Prince?"
"About half a million each," said the Prince casually. "Give or take a thousand or two. But it's no estimate. I kept an accurate count."
"That's funny, Prince," said Saldan. "That's exactly what I make it. Give or take a hundred or two."
The two men bared their teeth at each other from opposite sides of the chamber.
The Prince passed his long fingers over his beard and sat down in an ornately carved chair at his desk.
"Did it ever occur to you, Saldan, that I might covet your share as well?"
A silence fell upon the room. Saldan ceased his pacing about. He turned to face the ruler of Mucar.
"It has indeed, partner," he said.
His smile was amiable enough, but his eyes beneath the mask were like tempered steel.
"But I have made sure you won't," he said quietly. The Prince's eyes sparkled.
"But we're in my own city, my friend," he said. "We are surrounded by a thousand men of my army. May I ask how you propose to carry off your money without my agreement?"
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Saldan blew smoke out of his mouth, jabbing with his cigar to emphasize his points.
"If you took my share of the gold and I disappeared, all sorts of drastic things would happen," he said.
"Like what?" the Prince replied.
Saldan stabbed the air with his cigar butt again.
"Like this, partner," he said. "A letter is in existence in a safe place. If anything happened to me, it would go straight to your king. Never mind how. You can take it from me that it would get there, delivered into his own hands."
He puffed at the cigar again, savoring his triumph.
"I need not tell you the contents of the letter," he said. "Slavery, as you know, has been outlawed by the United Nations. The letter gives all the dates and details of every sale held at Mucar with your connivance and it also lists every payment made to you as local ruler."
Saldan's jaw tightened.
"Do I make myself clear?" he said.
The ruler of Mucar had a strange look in his eye. His hand visibly trembled as he adjusted his jeweled coat around his thin frame.
"Perfectly, my friend," he said.
His lips opened in an unconvincing laugh. "You surely did not think I was implying a threat. Just a little joke
"Sure," said Saldan. But there was no humor in his eyes. He patted the Prince's thin shoulder.
"So long as we understand one another."
He walked over toward the balcony doors at one side of the big room.
"You'd better made sure my share is packed ready for departure."
He glanced at his wrist-watch again.
"It's unde
r an hour to auction time. I have to get my merchandise ready. Will you attend, your Highness?"
"I shall watch from my private balcony at the market as usual," said Selim.
"Naturally, you wouldn't want to be involved in such sordid dealings," said Saldan satirically.
The Prince shot him a quick glance of dislike, but said nothing. He let Saldan out through the door they'd come in through and locked it behind him. Then he came back into the room. He unlocked the balcony doors; the light of a magnificent moon streamed in. He walked out into the shadowy coolness.
"A scoundrel, but he's made me rich," he mused to himself. "A pity. I'll miss the excitement and the gold."
He went farther out and stood with his hand resting on the cold iron grillwork of the railing.
"But he's right," he told himself. "It's best to quit when we're ahead."
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His musings were interrupted by a slight noise from the darkness at his side. He turned and saw a gigantic figure in a mask step out of the gloom. He tried to scream, but found a hard hand clapped over his face. He lost consciousness as he fell backward.
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CHAPTER 20
GOLD BY THE BARROW LOAD
The ruler of Mucar coughed as he regained consciousness. Water was being thrown in his face. The outrage was so shocking that he struggled up on the cushions, spluttering with indignation. His anger changed to terror as he saw the huge figure in Arab costume looming over him. Another figure, not noticeably smaller, was at his side. Blue eyes flashed sardonically from behind the mask.
"Who are you?" said Selim, rage getting the better of his natural caution.
He looked wildly round him and saw that they were alone. The guards were in the corridor. As he opened his mouth to shout, the huge hand covered it again. Selim choked with mingled rage and mortification.
"Not a peep out of you or your noble line faces extinction," said the Phantom calmly.
"Thieves!" hissed the ruler of Mucar. His cheeks were flushed beneath his beard. "How did you get into my palace?"
"You are wrong. We are not thieves, your Highness," the big man said. "We have come to end the slave market."
The old man cowered back as the Phantom towered over him.
"Just keep calm, Prince," the big man said. "If you remain seated and don't make a noise, things will be just fine."
"But who are you?" the old man quavered.
The Phantom exchanged a glance with Slingsby.
"There's no time to go into that now," he said.
He took a turn around the room, looking at the scales, the leather sacks, the worn surfaces of the counters, and the big safe.
He turned back to the Prince.
"Saldan has gold stored here," he said. "I want it."
The Prince fumbled in his jeweled coat.
"This is the key to the gold store," be said.
He handed it to the Phantom.
"Go with my friend here to the slave market and watch from the usual balcony," the Phantom said to Slingsby.
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Slingsby stepped forward with his rifle.
"One false move and there'll be a large hole in your head," he said grimly.
The Prince flushed.
"Call a servant," the Phantom ordered him. "And be careful."
A thin, nervous-looking young man of about twenty-five answered the Prince's ring. He gaped at the two big men standing at Selim's elbow.
The Prince indicated the Phantom.
"Go with this gentleman, Petra, and do as he tells you," he said.
"First of all go and find two wheelbarrows," the Phantom ordered.
Petra raised his eyes to the ceiling and went out. The Phantom grinned as he watched the old Prince and Slingsby go off down the corridor. He picked up the key of the gold store and hurried along with his preparations.
The dark-haired convict gripped the bars and looked out across the courtyard.
"Hey, you guys, here comes Saldan!" he said. "What's happened to that character with the mask?"
There was a chorus of groans and whistles as the burly form of Saldan strode into the slave quarters.
Several Arabs followed behind him. Saldan's jaw dropped as he took in the unconscious forms of the five guards.
"What happened to these men?" he barked.
"They took sick," said the bald-headed man.
"Yeah, they complained of headaches," said the blond giant with the shaven head.
Saldan bent suspiciously over the tangled pile of unconscious guards. They were breathing torturously through their noses. He started back as he saw the familiar motif of a skull stamped on to the right hand cheek of the first man he looked at.
He glanced about him nervously. The skull mark was the same as the one on the dogs at the prison.
Outwardly he was master of his nerves. He stood impassively as the convicts started to shout at him.
"We know you're Saldan," they chanted. "Hiya, Warden! Some warden!"
Saldan smiled grimly beneath the mask.
"If Zadok told you that it makes no difference now," he said. "By tomorrow your destinies will be settled."
He turned back to the Arab guards.
"March them out!" he ordered.
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The whips sang through the air as the convicts dragged the heavy iron balls behind them over the floor.
They shot glances of hatred at Saldan as they passed. The slaver's face was impassive as he stood with the biggest of the Arab guards, checking the prisoners off as they went by. He remained unimpressed by Zadok's viciously twisted face as his former assistant passed him. When the shuffling footsteps had died away, he turned his attention to the groaning guards.
The remaining Arabs were already throwing buckets of water over them as they lay on the floor.
"When those men come to, find out what happened to them," he ordered.
He hurried out of the room, bound for the slave mart, his head full of disquieting thoughts. That skull mark means trouble, he told himself. I don't like it. I shall be glad when the night is over.
Back at the Prince's villa, the Phantom, eyes smiling grimly behind his mask, had taken up his station beside the door of the counting house. Petra and another palace servant were filling the two wheelbarrows with heavy leather sacks. The sacks were sealed at the mouths with stoutly laced eyelets, but Petra at least was in no doubt as to their contents. His eyes were wide with greed as they completed filling the two barrows.
"Who is he, Petra?" the other servant whispered.
"A friend of Prince Selim," Petra whispered back nervously, casting an uneasy glance at the big man by the door.
They bowed as they finished and walked over to the Phantom for instructions.
"Take the barrows," the Phantom ordered, "and go straight ahead and out of the palace."
The two men sweated as they eased the wheelbarrows inch by inch down the staircase and across the courtyard.
The second servant, who was a dull-witted fellow, grumbled.
He nudged Petra as they trundled their burdens across the court.
"What's in these sacks-lead?"
Petra shook his head and didn't reply.
The old Prince was mounted on his white horse at the far side of the courtyard, waiting for the main gate to be opened. Slingsby was just behind him, mounted on a similar horse with his revolver invisible under his cloak, pointed straight at the Prince's back.
"So you are thieves after all?" said the old man bitterly. "It's a fine distinction coming from a slaver like yourself, Your Excellency!" said Slingsby ironically.
The old Prince seemed as though he were choking on his beard as the horses clattered through the gate into the night air of the city.
At the slave market, the proceedings were in full swing. There were an enormous number of buyers present for this time of the year. The earlier lots had sold fast and, contrary to the dealers' expectations, prices had been high and had maintained their l
evel throughout the evening.
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So when Saldan's eleven specimens appeared behind the block, expectations were high among the buyers who had come from a wide area. The slaver's reputation for fine merchandise was known throughout the desert lands and the jungle beyond. A slave mart at which he was represented was always worth attending.
There was a murmur of expectation as the big man in his pith-helmet with the mask, stepped out onto the rostrum, holding his rhinoceros-hide whip in his hand.
The prisoners started marching in, as the bald-headed man turned bitterly to Zadok and grumbled, "That stranger said he would help us. Where is he now?"
Up above, in an unlit house facing on the market complex, Prince Selim and Slingsby were taking their places on the balcony. From there they would have an excellent view of the whole proceeding. For Slingsby, too, it was a good location. With the rifle he held, he could dominate the area and help the Phantom if necessary. He smiled wryly to himself. It was not often that such a man needed help.
The Prince went to stand with his hand on the metal railing and looked down at the milling people and the busy scene below him.
"Has this whole thing been a setup?" he asked Slingsby. "By that masked friend of yours? Just a new trick, so that you could steal the gold?"
Slingsby's reply was interrupted by a loud crash as the gigantic Nubian at the auction block below them smashed his hammer down on a block of ebony.
"A sale of fine merchandise is about to start!" Saldan shouted, stepping forward onto the rostrum under the glare of the arc lights.
"Prepare to make your bids!"
He whistled his whip through the air menacingly as the Convicts marched in, trailing their chains behind them.
One of the Arabs pushed the bald-headed man forward so that he stood alone in front of the rostrum, surrounded by a sea of silent faces.
"Our first parcel," shouted Saldan. "What am I bid for this strong, healthy specimen, gentlemen?"
"I bid two thousand," an old man at the edge of the crowd quavered.