The Phantom grinned at him. “I’m afraid I can’t take your advice.”
“I feared not.” The pygmy shook his head. “What is it you intend to do?”
“I’m going to investigate the swamp myself,” answered the Phantom. “Alone.”
“You might take Guran with you. I am used to evil places.”
“Not this time.” He stopped pacing. “And first I’ve got to tell Colonel Weeks not to send any more men into the swamp.”
The pygmy picked up his spear. “When do you leave, Phantom?”
“Now,” he said.
CHAPTER 11
“And one of those,” said Eric Haggard, pointing.
Peg, standing near him in the big Nyokaville general store, narrowed her left eye. “A guitar?”'
‘‘I haven’t played a guitar for a long time,” said Eric, grinning his lean grin. “This is coming out of my funds, ma’am.”
“You’re going to carry it, along with that rucksack full of supplies?”
“We may be able to hire a couple of men to go along with us.”
“Just to carry your guitar?”
“It won’t hurt to have some extra help,” Eric told her. Lips slightly pursed, he resumed wandering around the store.
“Here you are, young folks,” said the white-haired, old man who came shuffling toward them. He held a cup of steaming coffee in each hand. “Compliments of the management.”
“Thank you, Mr. Benfield,” said the blond girl as she took a cup.
“Shucks now, young lady, I can’t stand for folks to get all formal with me,” he said. He was a short and wide man. His white hair was feathery, and he wore rimless spectacles. “Everybody calls me Pop. And the funniest part of that is, I’m still a bachelor. Notice I say ‘still’, meaning I ain’t quite given up yet.”
After taking a sip of the coffee, Peg asked, “How long have you lived in Nyokaville, Pop?”
The old man was trailing the roaming Eric. He caught up with him, handed him the other cup. “When you come -into town you pass a tumbledown, stone building that the weeds and the jungle have got a good grip on,” he told the girl. “Well, I was bom right smack in that building some sixty-eight years ago. It was in better shape then, as I was. Folks herearound like to call that old ruin the Pop Benfield Memorial.”
Peg drank more of the coffee, noticing the old man was anxiously watching her. “Something wrong,” she asked.
“Like the coffee?”
“Yes, it’s fine.”
“Made it myself out of toasted barley and dry weeds,” Pop explained with a smile. The smile was so broad it showed the pink, plastic gums of his false teeth.
‘Tang,” said Eric. He set his cup on top of a flour barrel.
“Much better for you than real coffee,” the old man said.
“It’s really very good,” the girl assured him.
“Tastes like old doormats boiled in brine,” added Eric. He came across the wooden floor to join them.
“Takes some folks a spell to get used to it.” Pop scratched at his white hair, then asked, “What exactly are you young people up to? Seems like you’re outfitting for some kind of expedition or something.”
Peg hesitated, turning to Eric.
He said, “Maybe you can suggest a man or two we might hire. We’re planning a trek into the Great Swamp.”
Pop raised his spectacles up off his eyes. “Wish you hadn’t told me that.”
“Why?” asked the girl.
“Well, ’cause I’ve sort of taken a liking to you two,” replied Pop. “And I hate to think of you dying so young.”
Eric said, “It’s not that bad, Pop.”
“Never been in there before, have you?”
“No,” the young man admitted. “But I’ve been making a living as a guide and all-round troubleshooter for over five years. I’ve gotten in and out of some of the toughest spots in Bangalla.”
Nodding, Pop said, “No place on earth is quite like the Great Swamp. I’ve lived in Nyokaville all my life, like I told you, and that means I’ve been around these parts for more than half a century; heck, it ain’t far from being three quarters. Anyhow, I can tell you one thing for sure. Ain’t been many people go into that swamp and come out again.”
“Maybe it’s time for the record to be broken,” said Eric. “Because we’re going in, and we re coming out.” “Well, sir, there’s a first time for everything.” Pop slowly shook his head. “Why you so all-fired anxious to poke around out there in the swamp anyway?”
“It’s my...”
“Scientific curiosity,” cut in Eric.
“Well, remember what curiosity did to that poor old tomcat.”
“What about men,” asked Peg, “can you help us?” “You got about as much chance of . . .” Pop let the sentence fade. “Wait a minute, though.”
“You’ve thought of someone?”
“There’s a couple of pretty good boys who just came to my mind,” the old man said. "They might do, if you could see your way clear to paying top dollar.”
“Yes, if they’re good dependable men.”
‘Til vouch for them,” said Pop. “Where you young folks staying?”
“We both have rooms at the Nyokaville Central Hotel,” answered Eric. “How soon can you let us know about these fellows? We’d like to start in the morning.”
Pop rolled his tongue around the inside of his cheek. “I should be able to have at least one of them drop over to talk things over with you tonight, sometime. That be okay?”
“Yes, fine,” said Peg.
After they’d made all their purchases and loaded everything in their rented truck, the girl said to Eric, “I thought you told me you’de only been in Bangalla three years.”
“Five years sounds more substantial when you’re trying to impress the older generation.” He climbed up behind the wheel.
“But you thought three was enough to impress me,” said Peg, still standing outside the truck. “And what’s the truth?”
“The truth is I’m just about the only man in Bangalla fool enough to take on this job of yours,” he said. “Now get in.”
She got in.
CHAPTER 12
“You got a choice,” said Otter, laughing. “You got a choice about what you’re going to do.”
Ted Sills was sitting on the plank floor of one of the Swamp Rat huts. He’d been here ever since they’d pulled Mm free of the quicksand. He’d been fed, and a canteen of water had been left with him, “What choice?”
“You’re on the run, ain’t you?” The big man squatted in the doorway of the unfurnished room.
“Why else would I have come into this lousy swamp?”
“Maybe you was looking for us,” said Otter. “Maybe that’s what you’re up to.”
“I don’t even know who in the hell you guys are. When I came into the Great Swamp it wasn’t to find anybody. I wanted to get away from somebody.” “Cops?”
“I suppose by now, yeah.”
“What’d you do?”
Ted didn’t look at the other man. “I think ... I think I killed somebody.”
Otter laughed. “That’s a good start,” he said. “A
good start for what I got in mind. How’d you happen to kill somebody?”
“I was hungry and so I broke into a store, a grocery store in Nyokaville, and, well, the guy who owned it caught me,” said Ted. “It was all so stupid. There was no need to kill him, but...”
“Listen, kid, it don’t matter. Kill them or not, it don’t matter,” said the leader of the Swamp Rats. “Most people ain’t worth a whole hell of a lot, ’specially if they’re standing between you and something you want.”
Ted didn’t reply to that. He turned away, shrugging. “You got some kind of proposition for me?” he asked finally.
“Yeah, we been talking about you. Been talking about how you might be useful to us.”
“Who are you guys exactly?”
“Ain’t you heard of t
he Swamp Rats?”
Ted said, “Something. You hijack and rob, is that it?” “You bet that’s it,” said the laughing Otter. “We been doing damn good, too. Making a pile and not one chance in a million of us ever getting caught.” “Everybody gets caught eventually.”
“Schoolboy stuff,” Otter told him. “The Swamp Rats ain’t never going to be caught. See, to catch us they got to come into the swamp. The swamp is our turf, nobody knows it like we do.”
“You want me to join up, be a Swamp Rat,” said Ted. “That’s what you’re getting at?”
“That’s what I’m getting at, kid.”
Ted asked, “How much do you guys take in?” “Plenty.”
“Would I get an equal share of the take?”
“Not right off. You got to kind of be on probation for a while. But you’ll eat regular and all that. We’ll take care of you.” Otter leaned closer to him. “You’ll never see the inside of a cell neither.”
“You said there was a choice,” said Ted.
“Come on over here,” Otter grunted, beckoning Ted to join him on the threshold. “If you ain’t with us, then you’re one of the help.”
Out in the murky day, Ted saw Sgt. Bamum and Corporal Mchanga working on the building of the large house. A Swamp Rat with a pistol in his belt and a club in his hand was overseer. It was obvious that Mchanga was not in very good shape, but the black man kept on working. As Ted watched, the overseer jabbed Mchanga hard in the ribs with his club, ordering him to speed up.
Ted stepped back into the hut. “I’ll join you,” he said.
CHAPTER 13
Colonel Weeks was out of the JP helicopter a second after it touched down. He cut across the landing area, heading toward the low building which housed his office.
There was a new man behind Barnum’s desk, Sgt. Geiss, a tall, sandy-haired man. “No sign of them, sir?” he asked, reading the defeated look on the commanding officer s face.
“We flew over that blasted swamp for hours,” said the Colonel as he rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. “Didn’t see a thing. The damned place is so thick with trees and vines, you can’t get a good look at anything from the air. And there’s that infernal mist which is always hanging over everything.” He took his pipe out of his pocket and stuck it between his teeth. “We’re just not going to be able to learn anything from the air.”
“That sounds like you’re planning to search on foot,” said Geiss.
“We’ve got to find Barnum and Mchanga,” said Weeks, his teeth biting down hard on the stem of his pipe. “The only way to do it is to scour the Great Swamp. I’m going to send a hundred men in there first thing tomorrow morning if we haven’t heard from Barnum and Mchanga by then.”
Could be they’re simply lost.”
"It could, yes,” said Colonel Weeks. “I have a feeling, though, something more serious has happened.”
“What about the place where they left their jeep?” asked Sgt. Geiss. “Any sign of a struggle, any kind of clue as to where they might be?”
Weeks shook his head. “Not so much as a broken twig, Geiss. If they went into the Great Swamp at that point, they didn’t even leave one footprint.”
“Maybe somebody wiped out their trail.”
“It’s occurred to me the Swamp Rats might have done something like that,” said the Colonel. “That’s why . . .” He had been looking toward the half-open door of his office. “Light’s flashing.” He broke into a trot.
He quickly crossed the room and got to work opening the safe. He reached inside and found a new message there.
The note said: “Colonel Weeks: Make no further moves against the Swamp Rats until you hear from me again. Commander, Jungle Patrol.”
Weeks was angry for a moment. He crumpled the note. “Damn it, I don’t want to abandon those two,” he said aloud.
In the doorway, Sgt. Geiss coughed.
Smoothing out the message, Colonel Weeks said, “We’ve been ordered off the case.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“The Commander says we’re to have nothing more to do with the Swamp Rats.” He dropped the note to the top of his desk, sank down into his swivel chair. “Well, there’s nothing I can do but follow orders.” The Colonel knew that their mysterious commander had done a good many incredible things over the years, had accomplished feats single-handed which seemed impossible. Yet this time he wondered if one man could do anything against the Swamp Rats and the Great Swamp itself.
The Phantom went into the Great Swamp at nightfall, alone and on foot. He had ridden Hero to the edge of the swamp, then ordered the white stallion to return home to the Deep Woods.
The masked man moved through the misty swamp in complete silence, watching, listening. Not even the Phantom could progress as rapidly as he wished, here. The swamp was too tricky, requiring caution and patience. But he had no fear that it would defeat him or entrap him. The Phantom had grown up in the jungle, taken his first steps not on the artificial surfaces of civilization but on the rough ground of the Deep Woods. There was no stretch of wilderness, anywhere on earth, where he did not feel at home.
The swamp was filled with foggy darkness, but the Phantom’s eyes missed not even the smallest detail. He had entered the swamp at the same spot as the missing Jungle Patrol. In a few moments he’d said to himself, “Someone’s worked very hard to obliterate their trail.”
However, not all traces of the passage of Bamum and Mchanga had been wiped away. Even though to the professional eyes of Colonel Weeks, no trace had been evident. The masked man was able to follow, to find his way to the place where Sgt. Bamum and the Corporal had plunged into the pit.
“That log over there was across here then,” said the Phantom. “And beneath this innocent-looking patch of grass there is a deep hole.”
He got to his knees. “Nobody down there now,” he said after momentarily moving some of the covering and carefully shining his flash beam down. “But they were, and at least one of them got hurt.”
Skirting the trap, he picked up the trail again on the other side. “Somebody, a couple of people, pulled the Jungle Patrol men out of that hole,” he said. “Then it looks like they carried them off in that direction.” The Phantom continued on. “If the Swamp Rats took Bamum and Mchanga back to their camp with them,” he mused, “I should be able to find both the missing patrolmen and the bandits’ base.”
The man who suddenly stepped out on the trail a few yards ahead of him had been moving almost as silently as the Phantom. “None of you going to get my money!” he cried in a strange and terrible voice. He leveled his shotgun at the Phantom and fired.
CHAPTER 14
The man in the white suit lit a cigar. “We’ll meet again in an hour, my lad,” he said to his companion.
The small, old man walking down the Nyokaville street beside him was dressed in a conservative, grey suit. He straightened his tie with both knobby hands. “Okay,” he said, “but don’t blab and blab in there. I don’t like this dressing up and I don’t like to spend no more time in town than we have to.”
“Oh now, Kling, my lad, don’t chastise me because of my gift of gab.” Glaze chuckled, exhaling smoke. “It’s one of my most endearing qualities.”
“Not to me.” They passed under a street light and the old man unconsciously ducked his head, turning his face toward the shadow of the walk. “Okay, I’ll leave you here. Meet me at the usual place in an hour. That’s one hour, Glaze.”
“Fear not, Kling.” The blond man gave him an encouraging pat on the back.
Kling hurried off around the corner, head tucked in. Glancing up at the hazy sky, Glaze smiled. “A lovely night,” he observed.
In the middle of the next block, he walked up to the doorway of a general store. The place was closed, with only a night-light burning inside. Glaze rapped out two short tunes on the door with his fist.
After a moment, a pink face showed in one of the windows, floating over a display of kerosene stoves
.
Glaze held his arms straight out at his sides, made a small mock curtsey.
The door was opened. “You’re maybe a bit too brazen, young fellow,” said Pop Benfield. He had on a frayed kimono over his shirt and trousers.
“Well,” Glaze told him as he entered. “I like my act a hell of a lot better than yours. You remind me of a great uncle of mine who ran a greeting card store in Johannesburg.”
Pop shut the door. “I was just fixing myself a bowl of bread and milk. Care to join me?”
“Heaven forbid.”
Far across the vast store, a doorway glowed yellow. “Glad you dropped in tonight, Glaze.” Pop was shuffling slowly in the direction of the lighted back room.
“I hope your kindly old heart is glad because you have our dough for us, Pop.”
“I told you to tell Otter it’s going to take time to fence those diamonds. They can’t be sold in the settings they’re in now and . . .”
Glaze caught the old man s left arm. “Don’t give me no more wind, Pop,” he said. “And don’t you try to cross Otter. I came for the dough tonight. Tonight!” Pop said, “Ain’t a chance of getting it tonight. ’Cause I simply ain’t got it.”
“You better have it, Pop.” Glaze pulled the old man around, grabbing hold of his shirt front with one hand. He slapped him hard across the face. “I want the damned money. I want it now!”
The old man’s spectacles flew from his face, landed in an open barrel of biscuits. Pop pulled away from the other man. He reached down into the barrel to retrieve his glasses. Then he bent over again beside a display of garbage pails. When he straightened up there was a .38 revolver in his hand. “I got me weapons hid all around the store,” he explained. “Now, I’m going to tell you something, Glaze. You better get back to acting like a clown. ’Cause if you ever so much as touch me again you’ll be dead faster than you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’ You tell Otter that if it wasn’t for me supplying you punks and fencing your loot you’d still be living off weeds and pond water.”
Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 11] Page 4