Glaze made a face. “Tough,” he said. ‘You’re a tough old man.”
‘You can bet your britches on that,” said Pop. “You’re only saying that to make a smart aleck crack, Glaze, but it’s a hell of a lot truer than you think.” He stuck the pistol in the waistband of his pants. “You need me a damned lot more than I need you, you and all the Swamp Rats put together.”
Glaze said, “Okay, so when are we going to get the diamond money?”
“When I get the deal concluded.”
Snorting, Glaze said, “So you got nothing for us?” “Didn’t say that, hothead,” Pop said. “Got two thousand from the goods you got out of the warehouse job.”
“Two? That stuff was worth at least ten thousand.” “Want to open a store and sell it retail?”
“Okay, okay,” said Glaze. “Give me the dough.”
“I got something to talk over with you.” He resumed his shuffling walk to the back room.
“What now?”
‘Young girl come in here this morning she and her guide.” Pop went over to a hot plate which was sitting on a card table. He lifted the sauce pan off it, just in time to save it from scalding.
“What about this girl?”
“Name of Miss Peg McWorth.”
“McWorth?”
“Name ring a bell?”
“We got a guy named McWorth in the gang,” said Glaze. “Don’t work as hard as he could, and always taking moral stands on things.”
“That explains it then.” Pop poured the hot milk into a white bowl. “This is goat’s milk, by the way. Real good for your...”
“Explains what?”
“Why Miss McWorth wants to be guided into the Great Swamp. This McWorth of yours must be her daddy or some kin.”
“We can’t have nobody nosing around.”
“There are several ways to stop them.”
“Well, the swamp will stop them, eventually.”
“That may not be fast enough,” said Pop. “Which is why I’m glad you came here tonight.”
CHAPTER 15
The walls were mostly white. A few mud-colored stains had streaked them, running down from the high oval ceiling to the thick, scarlet carpet. Three large, four-bladed fans hung down from the ceiling, two spinning out of sync with each other and the third not turning at all. Spiders had taken over the immobile fan, festooning it with an intricacy of webs. At the moment, a fat, black spider was winding a string of webbing around a struggling moth.
Eric lowered his eyes when he heard Peg approaching across the dining room. Grinning, he stood and pulled out a chair for her. “You decided to join me for dinner after all?”
“You’re very perceptive.” She sat down very slowly. “Ice water,” said the small, black waiter who appeared beside their table. “Except our ice machine is temporarily out of order. There is no ice, for which, I trust, you will forgive us and accept the most humble apologies of myself and the management of this hotel.” He placed a glass of water at Peg’s place. “Miss would care for a cocktail?”
“No, thanks.”
The waiter bowed and went away.
“Is this your usual eve-of-a-trip mood?” asked Eric. “It is when I’m being guided by a fake guide.” “Look,” he said, leaning on his elbows. “I did exaggerate my qualifications somewhat when I introduced myself to you, Peggy, but..
“Nobody calls me Peggy.”
“It fits you, though,” Eric told her. “Now then, I have worked as a guide here in Bangalla, and I have taken people into the jungle on safaris and hunting trips, and so on.”
“But?”
He leaned back. “Well, it’s just that I wasn’t on my own. I was working for somebody else as a ...”
“As an assistant great white hunter,”
“Until a month ago,” said Eric. “Then I decided to go out on my own.”
“Why?”
“My boss was a crook.”
“You just found that out a month ago?”
“No, I suspected over a year ago, but I hesitated some.”
“What kind of a crook?”
“Not a thief or bandit, merely a guy who choked too much out of our customers, faked too many expense accounts.”
“You sound very pure and noble, Eric.”
“Yes, don’t I? That’s why I didn’t want to mention it,” he said. “Sometimes it’s tougher to talk about positive things than it is about negative ones.”
Peg said, “I suppose so. If you told me it was you who cheated the people, maybe I’d be quicker to forgive you.”
“Make a more interesting story, too,” Eric said. “At any rate, Peggy, don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.” “You looked me up because you’d heard the others had turned me down?”
“When you’re in a new business, you sometimes have to go out and grab customers off the street,” said Eric. “Now that I’m on my own there’s a lot less work.” “Ice,” said the returning waiter. “It develops that we have ice after all.” He showed them the fistful of ice cubes he was carrying. Bowing in Peg’s direction, he dropped five of the cubes into her water glass. The remaining three went splashing into Eric’s water. “Miss is perhaps ready to order?”
“Not quite yet,” she said.
“I will return at a more opportune moment.” He left them.
The girl rubbed her forefinger over the spots of water on the nearly-white tablecloth. “Do you think Pop Benfield will come up with any men for us?” “He sounded fairly confident.”
“I know we’ve discussed this before,” said Peg, ‘Taut are you certain we need extra help? It’s not as though we were going hundreds of miles into the wilderness. Well be close to civilization all the time.”
“Once we’re in the Great Swamp, Peggy, we might as well be a hundred miles from anyplace,” he said. “We’ll have to be completely self-sufficient.”
“I have returned in case there is a desire to order dinner at this time,” announced the waiter.
Peg glanced down at the table top. “I don’t seem to have a menu.”
“Through no fault of myself nor the management of this hotel, miss,” the small waiter told her. “Rather, it is the fault of the printer who promised the menu to us a fortnight ago. I will, therefore, tell you what we have available for your dining pleasure this evening.”
“All right,” she said, “do that.”
“The ‘special’ this evening is Chak-chouka,” he be gan. “And there is also Mechoui and some very good Kuku-siki.”
Before Peg could speak, Eric said, “We’ll both have the Mechoui.”
“Will we?” said the girl.
Eric grinned. “It’s roast lamb,” he said. “There’s less chance of fouling it up.”
“Sir,” said the waiter, “while it is undoubtedly true that the ice machine has been working at less than its best and that the menu printer is an undependable scoundrel, it does not detract from the skill of the chef.”
“We’ll still have the Mechoui.”
The waiter looked at the girl and she nodded in agreement with Eric. The small man sighed and turned back to the hotel kitchen.
“I have a hunch he’s the chef as well as the waiter,” said Eric.
“About the extra men,” resumed Peg, “are they absolutely necessary? Because if Pop doesn’t round up anyone, I still want to go into the swamp myself."
Eric said, “So far, we’ve mostly been discussing the dangers of the swamp itself, Peggy. But from what you’ve told me, well, your uncle may be in there with a dozen other men. All guys who were sentenced to life for murder.” He raised a hand to prevent her from interrupting. “Okay, granted your uncle isn’t really a murderer. But most of those other guys sure are. Finding your uncle is only the first part of our problem. After that we’ve still go to get him away from those Swamp Rats.”
“I still don’t believe my uncle is a member of that gang,” she said. “Not willingly.”
“You better hope he is,” said Eric. “Otherw
ise, he's not likely to be alive.”
“I know he’s alive.”
“The Swamp Rats aren’t noted for their kindness. If your uncle’s alive, then he must be cooperating with them, or they’d have gotten rid of him long ago.”
Peg placed her palms flat on the table, nodded her head slowly. “Okay, then we’ll need men to help us.” Eric watched her for a moment. “I think you’d better start thinking about something else, too, Peggy,” he said. “Your uncle may be perfectly happy living in the Great Swamp.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Okay, you think he’s somehow being forced to run with the Swamp Rats,” Eric said. “Maybe so. But maybe he likes the work and doesn’t want to leave the Great Swamp.”
“I don’t believe ...”
A blond man, smiling broadly, was coming across the dining room, straight toward their table. “Good evening,” he said. “You’re Miss McWorth, aren’t you?” “Yes, and you are. . . ?”
“My name is J. Randolph Cox, Miss,” replied Glaze, smiling at her and then at Eric. “As I understand it, you’re looking for two able-bodied lads to go along on a trip into the Great Swamp.”
“We are,” said Eric.
“Well then,” Glaze assured them, “your troubles are over.”
CHAPTER 16
Sgt. Barnum blew his breath out over his upper lip. “Can you see what this is walking on my nose?”
A few feet from him, Corporal Mchanga was sitting on the floor, his back against the unpainted wall of the unfinished room. “Cant quite make it out,” he answered. “It’s got a whole lot of legs though.”
“Yeah, I can feel those.” The squat Sergeant was sitting upright, his hands tied behind his back with tough vines. He blew out his breath again, then asked his partner, “You sure you’re feeling better?”
“Don’t worry,” answered the black Corporal. “I’ve gone through rougher times than this. The work isn’t all that tough.”
“But not after taking a fall like you took.”
“I’ll make it. I’m still a little off kilter today, but by tomorrow, I’ll be okay, and then they’ll have to watch out.”
Some kind of faintly-glowing insect fluttered down through the incomplete ceiling, circled Barnum’s head and went away into the darkness outside. “What I’m wondering,” the Sergeant said in a low voice, “is why nothing’s happened.”
“What do you mean? You’re wondering why the Swamp Rats haven’t killed us?”
“No, I understand that,” said Sgt. Barnum. “They need workers, and we make good ones, besides, we’re also good hostages. You never know when you’re going to need a hostage.” He shook his head from side to side, trying to discourage a droning mosquito. “What I can’t figure is why the patrol hasn’t done anything.” Mchanga said, “Maybe they have. It’s possible Colonel Weeks has already sent in a search party.” “We’ve been here a couple days now,” Barnum reminded him. “Something should have happened by now.”
“Well, maybe the Commander himself is up to something. You never can—owl”
“What’s wrong? You feel worse or something?”
“No, I moved and got jabbed by something sharp,” said Mchanga. “It’s a good thing they’ve got us to finish this house for them, because they’re pretty sloppy workmen. Leaving nail ends sticking . . .” The Corporal didn’t complete the sentence. A few seconds later, he said, “I think I can use this nail.”
Nodding, Bamum began to feel at the wall behind him with his bound hands. “Yeah, they are sloppy,” he said. “I just found a nice sharp nail over here.” “Maybe we won’t have to wait for the patrol to save us.”
The two men began quietly and patiently working at cutting through their bonds.
“Maybe I can trust you,” said the bearded old man in his high, raspy voice.
“That would be a good idea,” said the Phantom.
“You can let me up.”
The Phantom obliged. He had been bent over the stretched-out old man, keeping his narrow shoulders pinned to the ground with his powerful arms.
The old man’s beard was long, reaching down to his chest, and tangled. His clothes looked almost as ancient as he was. They were tattered, dirty and stained. Sitting up, he scratched himself and eyed the masked man. “That’s a skull there on your belt, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“I remember hearing about you. But, lord, that was thirty or forty years ago,” the old man said. “You’re the Phantom, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Kind of funny, though. You don’t look no older than thirty.” He shook his head, rising creakingly to his feet. “Anyhow, I’m sorry I took a potshot at you.”
The Phantom had thrown himself aside as the shotgun went off. The pellets had whizzed through the empty air where he had been. Rolling into the brush, he had leaped up and caught a low tree branch and swinging on it, had planted both feet hard against the old man’s chest. He’d knocked him down, then taken his weapon away before he had a chance to reload. “Who are you?” the Phantom asked him.
“Don’t have a name anymore,” the old man replied. “Back a long time ago they used to call me Diamond Jack. Maybe you’ve heard tell of me.”
“Yes, I’ve heard stories,” said the masked man. “Stories about all my money,” said Diamond Jack. “Well, most of the stories are true. I came into the Great Swamp thirty, forty years ago. It’s hard to keep good track of time in here. Made quite a few trips in, back then, all on the sly. I’d done some trapping in these parts when I was a boy, knew my way around. I picked me a good place to live, then started carrying in supplies. Tools, guns, ammunition. Haven’t been out of the swamp since.”
“Why?”
Diamond Jack rubbed at his eye with a gnarled hand. “Why’d I come to live in the Great Swamp?” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Back then I got tired of everybody, from my wife on down, always being after me to give them some of my money. That was a long time ago, though, and now I just live here because I like it. You get used to a way of life, you know.” “Something’s upset your pattern lately, though,” said the masked man.
“Dam right,” agreed Diamond Jack, nodding his head so vigorously that his beard flapped. “Bunch of bandits moved in five, six months back. All my peace and solitude is gone. I’m pretty sure they’re going to make a try for my money before long. So I decided to get them before they got me. Had me a little luck so far. I knocked off one of them a few weeks back, sunk him in the quicksand. But there’s still a whole bunch of them left.”
“You know where they’re based?”
“Well, sure I do. Wouldn’t be likely a dozen of them could come stomping into the Great Swamp without my knowing it. I know exactly where they’re holed up.” He tugged at his beard, leaning toward the Phantom. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?” “They call themselves the Swamp Rats,” he answered. “I’ve come to take them in.”
“I figured as much, you being the Phantom and all.” “I’m also trying to find two members of the Jungle Patrol. Have you seen them?”
“Yep,” said Diamond Jack, “I expect I have.” “Where are they?”
“Swamp Rats have ’em.”
“Then they’re still alive?”
“They were this morning,” said the old man. “The bandits got ’em working for ’em, building one of their shacks.” He tugged at his beard. “I don’t figure they’ll kill ’em until the building’s finished.”
“Can you lead me to where they are?”
Diamond Jack nodded. “I can, but you really don’t need me, do you? You been following their trail pretty well on your own.”
“I have, yes,” said the Phantom. “But I can make better time if you lead me.”
“All right, I’ll take you to within hailing distance of the place.”
The Phantom picked the old man’s shotgun off the swampy ground and returned it to him. “Let’s go then.”
The night was its deep
est black. The mist, chill and milky white, swirled close to the ground. Insects made muffled clacking sounds off in the brush. Distant night birds called forlornly.
The old man’s forefinger pointed. “There she is,” he whispered.
The Phantom looked at the cluster of wooden huts, spotted the larger unfinished one. “I’m going to work my way closer.”
“I’ll stay put here.”
The Phantom eased quietly down through the trees, moving as silently as the drifting mist. He was a few yards from the nearest hut when he heard someone coming out of the swamp. It was a frail, old man, carrying a bundle tied with string under his arm.
As the Phantom watched, hidden by a huge, feathery bush, a man came out of the hut. He was big and stocky.
“Where the hell is Glaze?” Otter asked, approaching Kling.
“Ask Pop Benfield,” answered the old man.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Glaze is staying in Nyokaville,” said Kling as he stopped a few feet from the other man. “Seems like him and Pop cooked up some new scheme.”
“Pop’s not running the Swamp Rats; I’m running the Swamp Rats.”
“Glaze says this is an emergency,” replied Kling. “And he says he gotta send him another man to Nyokaville right away.”
“He does, huh?”
Kling moved to Otter’s side. “Let’s go into your place. I got more to tell you, but I don’t want nobody overhearing.”
The Phantom waited until the two had entered the shack. Then he went up to the side of the hut, crouching beneath the half-open window. He listened.
CHAPTER 18
Glaze took another turn around the lobby of the Nyokaville Central Hotel. He paused to stamp his foot on a scurrying cockroach, then went outside to look up and down the early morning street again. “Don’t tell me that old nitwit, Kling, fell in a hole or something,” he said to himself. “Otter should have got somebody to me by now.”
A dirty white dog trotted by, paused to snarl at Glaze, and then moved on.
Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 11] Page 5