Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 15]

by The Curse of the Two Headed Bull (v0. 9) (epub)

  “You made the arrangement?” he asked.

  She nodded and kept walking as fast as she could. They were on a wharf now where several coastal freighters were tied up. Each had swaying lights high on the masts, but there were no men on the dark dock. Probably all were at the Blue Dragon. Its tinny music, laughter, and shouts could be heard from here. Sala pointed to a gangplank that led up onto a deck. He glanced along the ship’s side to the bow. In the semidarkness, he made out the name lettered there: Moru Benga.

  Sala started to dart off. He grasped her wrist. She looked at him with large frightened eyes, her face wet in the rain, mascara smudged, makeup running.

  “Up there. Waiting. The arrangement,” she said.

  He started for the gangplank, pulling her along. She resisted.

  “No, that wasn’t it. You promised,” she began.

  “I promised nothing. Let’s see what kind of arrangement this is.”

  The deck was empty. The ship swayed slowly with the harbor swell. The wooden sides creaked, the wharf creaked, a ship at night. No lights from the cabins or the bridge.

  “Where?” he asked softly, still holding her wrist.

  She pointed to the first cabin. He approached it slowly and opened the door. Pitch black inside. His hand had loosened the grip on her wrist; he didn’t want to hurt her. Suddenly she jerked free and darted away. As he turned to reach for her, something hit him hard on the back of the head. He blacked out.

  CHAPTER 6

  The three looked at the figure sprawled on the deck. The short heavy man snapped on a flashlight beam.

  “Still got his hat and sunglasses on,” he said in a squeaky voice.

  “Is he dead?” asked Sala.

  ‘Ten pounds to five he is,” said the little man.

  “I’ll take that bet,” said the tall man in his deep rambling voice. “Turn off that light!” The light went off.

  “I hope he is,” said Sala.

  “Bloodthirsty little witch, aren’t you,” said the big matt, “Let’s get him off the deck.”

  He lifted the Phantom by the shoulders and dragged him toward a cabin door. The small man tried to pick up the legs.

  “Wow, weighs a ton,” said the big man. “Solid iron.”

  “See him take those guys in the Blue Dragon?” said the squeaky voice, breathing hard under the load.

  “Did I?” said Sala. “I was right in the middle of it.”

  The voices came through to the Phantom as he was being carried. He kept his eyes closed. His head was racked with pain. They placed him on a bunk. He heard the sound of a match struck, the sound of a glass chimney raised and lowered, a kerosene lamp being lit. A hand at his wrist, pressure against his chest-—someone’s head?

  * “I win the ten,” said the deep rambling voice. “He’s alive.”

  He’d heard that voice somewhere before, recently. At the bar. The big bearded seaman. His eyes remained closed, his head throbbing.

  “You sure?” The voice of Sala, the exotic dancer.

  “Sure as I stand here,”' began the deep voice. Then: “Sala!” The sound of brief scuffling and struggle, hard breathing.

  “You crazy witch,” roared the deep voice. “Give me that knife!”

  “He’s after Loka. He’ll get us all hung,” shouted the girl hysterically.

  “Sit down there and shut up,” said the deep voice angrily. Sound of girl sitting. Sound of girl crying, not little-gir! crying, but the racking sobs of a desperate woman.

  “And knock that off,” said the deep voice coldly. “Somebody’ll hear you on the wharf.” The sobbing stopped, reducing to sniffles.

  The Phantom opened .his eyes. The two men, standing near him, outlined in the pale light of the kerosene lamp. The big one was the bearded seaman. The ..other one was short and squat, with the wizened face of a monkey. He held a pistol in one hand, a flashlight in the other. Sala sat on a chest at the side, staring at him, still dressed as she was when he followed her onto the ship. How long ago had that been? In the weak light, she glistened, still wet. Not too long, he decided.

  “See? Alive,” said the big man. “Hand over the tenner.” Monkey-Face snapped on the flashlight. The beam was blinding. The Phantom closed his eyes.

  “Off with that damn light,” roared the big man. The bright beam snapped off.

  “Just wanted to make sure,” he squeaked. The Phantom moved one hand slowly toward his head, to feel where he had been hit. The hand was roughly grabbed.

  “Give me that rope,” the big seaman snapped, and in a moment he was tying the Phantom’s wrists together.

  “I seen you in the Blue Dragon, bucko. Taking no chances,” he said, laughing as he tightened the rope. His laughter was a deep rumble.

  “Wanted to feel my head,” said the Phantom weakly.

  “See, he talks.”

  “Worse luck,” snapped Sala.

  “What did you hit me with?”

  “This,” said the seaman, holding up a short club.

  “Quite a sock,” said the Phantom.

  “Not the first time I’ve used it, or the last. I wasn’t about to kill you, bucko, till I found out what you’re about.”

  The Phantom remained quiet for a moment, concentrating on the back of his head. He felt no break of any great size. He could only hope there was no fracture or concussion. The scarf, wrapped around his neck, had absorbed part of the blow. And at the moment of impact, reaching out for Sala, he had been moving away from the blow. That may have saved him from serious injury. Without showing any outward movement, he flexed his muscles slightly, from jaw to toes. Everything checked out. All systems go, he told himself. Except for the aching head. He was astonished to realize that his two guns were still snug in their holsters beneath the outer clothing. Either it hadn’t occurred to his captors to frisk him, or they hadn’t gotten to that yet.

  “Who are you?” he said weakly. Though his strength was surging back, he would maintain the beaten, exhausted pretense.

  “I don’t mind answering that,” began the seaman.

  “None of his damn business,” snapped Sala. “Ask him who he is.”

  “Woman, would you shut that sweet little mouth before I give you a good one across the chops,” said the seaman angrily. She quieted immediately. Obviously, he had given her “one across the chops” in the past.

  “Everyone knows me,” said the big seaman, his accent heavier now—Germanic or Scandinavian. “I am Sven Ohls-son, owner unt captain of the Moru Benga.”

  “Is this the way you usually treat visitors on your ship, Captain?” said the Phantom.

  “Visitor? You are a trespasser, a prowler. Who could criticize if I shot you? I vould be vithin my rights.”

  “I came here at the invitation of Sala to meet someone.” Captain Sven Ohlsson laughed heartily at that, as if it was a big joke. Little Monkey-Face contributed a cackle.

  “She is not goot vitness for you. She tried to stab you’ he went on, slapping his leg. “All right. Who are you? What do you vant?”

  “First, I will tell you what I want, Captain Ohlsson.”

  “You are police?”

  “No. I am a friend of the Llongo people. I am on a; mission for them, to recover the sacred image.”

  From their expressions, he realized they knew what he was talking about and wouldn’t need further explanations.

  “I had no part in that damn thing,” said the captain angrily. “I only took them aboard as passengers, Duke and Loka and that old fool.”

  “Sven!” shouted Sala. “Don’t tell him!’ Sven raised his big band, and she recoiled.

  “I told you, keep that sweet mouth shut.” His accent was gone now. He evidently could turn it on and off when it pleased him.

  “Okay. Let’s say that’s the truth,” said the Phantom, Ms voice still weak.

  “Let’s say?” shouted Sven. “I tell the truth. You better believe.” His big hands grasped the Phantom’s throat. The pressure was intense. The Phantom held his b
reath and waited. The hands relaxed. Sven was breathing hard.

  “I can kill a man like that,” he said.

  “I believe that,” said the Phantom quietly. Probably, lie knew that from past experience. But this was no time to suggest that.

  “Where did you take Duke and Loka?”

  “Sven!” said the girl sharply. This time, the man swung at: her, openhanded. She ducked the blow and fell backwards! off the chest. Sven and Monkey-Face laughed. She was on her feet in, a split second, grabbing the handiest object, a heavy brass candlestick. She went at Sven, swinging it. Still laughing, he caught her arm and shook the candlestick out of her hand. It hit the floor with a bang. Laughing, he lifted her into the air and held her in a bearhug. She tried to scratch at his bearded face, but he held both of her slim hands in one big paw, and covered her scarlet face with his big beard, kissing her passionately. The fight evidently stirred him up. She relaxed. He placed her back on the chest, seating her lovingly and carefully as if she might break, then turned back to his captive.

  “Where were we?” he said. Monkey-Face cackled.

  “Duke and Loka, where did you take them? Ivory-Lana?” That was the next port up the line, one of the Moru Benga's, usual calls. Sven stopped smiling. His face hardened.

  “I’ve told you all I’m gonna tell you. Time you start talking now. I got you figured, man.”

  “How?”

  “You’re after that thing—that statue. Friend of the Lion go are you? Gukaka,” he snapped, using an unprintable jungle epithet. “You’re after that bloody thing yourself. You know it’s worth mucho dinero, Sven.”

  “Any idea how mucho?”

  “No, and I don’t give a damn. I want nothing more to do with it—or them! And that goes for you, too,” he snapped at Sala. She did not answer. He turned back to the Phantom. “Okay. Spill it, mein freund. Who are you? You’ll never catch up with those two buckos. They’re far gone.” .

  “So is Old Murph,” said the Phantom softly.

  Both men reacted to that. Monkey-Face raised his pistol. Sven clenched his big fists.

  “Never heard of him,” he shouted.

  “He was killed on your ship,” said the Phantom softly.

  “I had nothing to do with that,” roared Sven.

  “Who did?” Again, the soft voice.

  “Nobody!” Sven was shouting as though into a storm.

  “Sven, leeme finish the gukaka,” said Monkey-Face, moving closer with his gun. “No,” roared Sven, pushing him away with a sweep of his arm. “What do you know about that, about Old Murph?”

  “All I know is, he was murdered on your Moru Benga, Sven.”

  Sven’s eyes popped with rage. His big hands reached for his captive’s throat. It was the moment the Phantom was waiting for, when the captain’s body would be between him and Monkey-Face’s gun. As Sven bent over him, he brought his knees up sharply, catching Sven’s chin. As the captain staggered back, the Phantom kicked up hard, kicking him in the jaw. Sven fell back toward Monkey-Face, who scrambled unsuccessfully to get out of the way. The big falling body hit him, and Monkey-Face was knocked off his feet. Within the same split second, the Phantom was up, scooping up Sala’s knife from the floor only a few feet away. In the confusion, Sala started for the cabin door. Before she could reach it, the Phantom had sliced his ropes and reached her, pulling her back into the cabin.

  By now, Monkey-Face was climbing out from under Sven and reaching for his gun, which had fallen to the floor. As his hand sought it, the Phantom’s foot stamped on the hand. Monkey-Face howled. The Phantom picked up the pistol and pocketed it. Then he pushed Sala gently to the chest. All this had happened in a few seconds. He still had his hat on. He decided it was time to take it off.

  As Sala stared in amazement, he removed his outer garments. The hooded, masked figure emerged. Her amazement turned to unreasoning terror. Who . . . what . . . was this? Monkey-Face sat against the wall, nursing his injured hand. He, too, stared uncomprehendingly. Sven groaned and mumbled. He had been knocked out briefly. He opened his eyes, rubbed his jaw, then sat up, to see the grim masked figure. His eyes widened. His big hands clutched together and sweat broke out on his forehead. Was it possible?

  Captain Sven Ohlsson had never seen the Phantom. But he was a seaman. He had sailed all the seven seas, and wherever he went, he had always heard the tales . . . hundreds of stories told at the railing at night on a calm sea, told in the fo’c’sles of a dozen ships, told at sailors’ bars. The legend every seaman knew and believed—the nemesis of pirates, the Ghost Who Walks, the Phantom.

  As Sven stared, it all made sense to him. This stranger, who had handled those tough bouncers so easily. This man (man?) who could recover so quickly from the hard head-blow (had it hurt him at all?). This man who moved with inhuman swiftness, like the wind.

  “You know me, Sven?” said the deep voice,' no longer soft and weak.

  Sven nodded in confusion. “You are ... Phantom . . . ?”

  Sala and Monkey-Face reacted to that. They too knew the legend, as did all who lived in this coastal world.

  “Phantom?” said Sala softly. “Are you ... real?” she added, confused by the nighttime tales of her childhood.

  “Captain Sven Ohlsson, you will tell me where Loka and Duke are. You will tell me about the murder of Old Murph. You will tell me this at once. My time is short. I am in a hurry. Is that clear?”

  Sven nodded. His head was clearing. Whoever, whatever this man was, he was a real man. No ghost had kicked him in the jaw. He looked about casually. Sala’s knife was close, on the little end table. The man was standing casually, hands on his hips. His eyes couldn’t be seen behind the mask.

  “Can I get up?” said Sven. The masked man nodded.

  Sven got up slowly, as if in pain, then made a sudden quick move for the knjfe. His hand never reached it. Something hit him on the side of the jaw, like the kick of a mule (which he had once experienced). He crashed into the end table, and fell against the wall. He gasped, almost sobbed. He felt like his head had almost been knocked off his neck. He opened his mouth slowly. Jaw broken? Felt like it. No, (Still worked .. . barely.

  “If you try that once more, I’ll hit you hard,” said the masked man. He was standing again, hands on hips as before. Had he actually moved? The others had seen him move— almost faster than the eye could follow. They also saw something else as Sven sat up against the wall and took his hand from his aching jaw..

  “Sven! On your jaw!” said Sala. “Look in the mirror!”

  There was a long mirror on the closet door at his side. He turned and stared at his face. On the jaw was a mark that had not been there before. It was a skull mark—a death’s head. He rubbed at it. It wouldn’t come off. Now he stared at the masked figure with unconcealed fear. He knew about that mark. He’d heard about it more than once. This was the proof of the pudding. This was it. He began to blubber. It was a' strange sight, this big powerful bearded man, rubbing his jaw, trying to hold back his tears.

  “It won’t come off. Won’t come off,” he said, choking, sobbing.

  The fabled death’s head ring of the Phantom, always worn on his right fist, left its mark like a tattoo and was as-difficult to remove. The sight of it not only frightened Sven. It seemed to stun him.

  Monkey-Face sat equally fearful, his puckered countenance twitching, his eyes staring, spittle drooling from his mouth. Sala, less familiar with the legend, was shaken by the men’s fear. Had she dared to trick the mysterious figure who now loomed like a giant before her. What would he do to her?

  “I asked you to talk. Must I repeat my questions, Captain Sven Ohlsson?”

  The bearded man shook his head and, rubbing his jaw, began to talk. First slowly, then rapidly.

  Duke was an old buddy of his. They had shipped together more than once, fought together as mercenaries in more than one bush war. Drinking buddies, fighting buddies. Duke told him about this deal. Some old jungle statue could be sold for mucho dinero. How
much? Plenty, Duke told him. He could trust his old buddy. Problem was to get it out of Bangalla fast, because police and Jungle Patrol were on the lookout for it. Why so much fuss? Because, Duke told him, the wogs (Duke’s term for all dark-skinned people) being heathens, they worshipped the bloody thing.

  Anyhow, Duke promised him twenty-five percent of the deal, if he’d get them up to a port where they could get a plane. This was a lot of trouble for Sven because he wasn’t due to sail for another week. But he took off early for oP Duke. Ol’ Duke had a wog buddy, Loka. Sven knew Loka. A high flier, big gambler, liked the girls. Sven glanced at Sala at that point. She looked away. (The Phantom sensed here that Sven had taken Loka’s girl away from him. Had this been part of the trouble? No, that turned out to be wrong.)

  They came aboard at night, Duke, Loka, Sala, and Old Murph. Sven knew Old Murph from the Mawitaan bars. Everybody in Mawitaan knew Old Murph. The ship had barely gotten started when the wrangling started. It seems that though Old Murph had been with Duke when he snatched the statue, he hadn’t realized it. This was easy to believe. Old Murph was always three sheets to the wind. He had been tipsy when he came up the gangplank, and he’d continued to drink. But the sight of the statue had upset him. He seemed to know a lot about it, and was insisting that they return it.

  Sala nodded. That’s the way it was.

  After much arguing, Duke shut Old Murph in a cabin. But after an hour or two, the old man got out. By this time, most of the ship’s crew and passengers were asleep, including the captain. Only the man at the wheel and the first mate (Monkey-Face) were awake.

  “Tell him what happened, Muggs,” said Sven.

  “I seen it,” said Muggs, for that was Monkey-Face’s name.

  “Old Murph got into Loka’s cabin, got the statue, and started running with it on deck.”

  Sven explained: The old drunk was trying to get ashore. Loka ran out after him, yelling something about no man except a Llongo could touch it. “Right?” said Muggs Sala nodded.

  “That was afterwards,” she said, correcting him.

  “After what?” said the Phantom, his scalp beginning to tighten. Muggs went on.