CHAPTER 8
When they reached their room, Loka hurriedly unpacked the sacred image to make certain it was as he had left it. It was. Duke laughed at that. “That clerk wasn’t about to break those teacups,” he said.
“Now what?” said Loka.
“You think that Helmsley’s the only fish in the sea? I got plenty of contacts in this town,” said Duke.
He made a few phone calls. None of his contacts was in. He went through the phone book, looking under “Antiques” and “Antiquarians.”
“See, dozens of them,” he said.
“Dozens, ready to give us a million pounds for it?”
“How do I know until I try?”
“When will that be?”
“Too late today. Stores closed,” said Duke, looking at his watch. “Start again tomorrow.”
“I don’t believe you’ve got any contacts. I don’t believe you know what you’re doing,” said Loka.
“What makes you so smart?” snapped Duke.
“I’m an ignorant jungle boy, like you say. But I know this. When you got a hot thing like this, and want a million for it, you don’t go looking in no phone book. You got to do better than that. You said you had contacts!”
“I have, you stupid jungle bunny,” said Duke. “Tomorrow.” Duke’s overdefensive tone told Loka he was lying. Both men were coming to realize that in this complicated game of art robbery, they were amateurs. The brief visit to Cunningham & Helmsley had made them aware of it, but neither would admit it. They stared angrily at each other, then tried to pass the time with newspapers and girlie magazines. Their glances would flit for a moment to each other, to the glittering image on the bureau, then back to their reading. Their minds were working furiously. What now? Duke turned on the radio and they listened to a panel discussion on sanitation and garbage disposal, then the news. After reports about a disastrous hurricane in Central America, a flood in Italy, and famine in Asia—none of which was of the slightest interest to them—a local item riveted them in their chairs. It had the impact of a bolt of lightning from the ceiling.
“The following is from Scotland Yard,” said the announcer in his condescending voice. “An art object valued at over a million pounds, stolen from its tribal owners in Bangalla, is believed to be in London. The art object, which has received considerable publicity recently, is known as the sacred image of the Llongo, a Bangalla people. It is described as a two-headed bull, made of jade, encrusted with enormous jewels— diamonds, rubies and emeralds. Legend has it that this object was given to the Biblical King Solomon by the Queen of Sheba. According to Scotland Yard, an eminent local art dealer whose name has been withheld was approached by two men who wished to sell the object. Their names are also withheld. They are described as follows: one white man, over six feet, dark hair, trim beard. The other one, black, clean-shaven, also about six feet tall, with a Bangalla accent. If anyone has knowledge of this pair, kindly report to Scotland Yard.”
Duke and Loka stared at each other, then at the radio. Both felt as though a searchlight had suddenly turned on them, exposing them to the world.
“That damn Helmsley. Knew I shouldn’t trust him,” said Duke.
“They don’t know our real names,” said Loka.
“I gave them phonies—Hanson and Murphy,” said Duke. “Then we’re safe,” said Loka.
“Safe, stupid? Hear that description? One white, one black. J3angalla accent! How many pairs like that in London?” “Many, maybe,” said Loka hopefully.
“None! We got to split up.”
“How do you mean, split up?”
“Separate. We’re too easy to spot together. Get that through your thick head. They’re looking for us. Courts are tough here. And there’s extradition. Could be a murder rap in Mawitaan. Old Murph.”
“We didn’t kill him.”
“Who’ll believe that? No good, Loka. As long as I stay with you, we’re in trouble. We got to split up. And you’ve got to hide out.”
“Me hide? Why me?” said Loka. “Why not you?”
“I’m one white man among millions. You’re black, stupid. You’ve got Bangalla written all over you. Every time you open your mouth. That accent. You’re too easy to spot.”
Duke put on his coat and hat and stood by the image. “Clear out of this hotel. Find another place. Tomorrow I’ll make contacts. We’ll have a meeting place. Tomorrow night, midnight, down by the wharfs, White Bear Lines.”
“White Bear Lines?” said Loka, becoming frantic.
“Some foreign ship line. Got a big white bear on the building. Ask anybody. Got that?”
Loka nodded dumbly, sweating and anxious.
“You won’t doublecross me, Duke. If you do, I find you, I kill you,” he shouted, suddenly furious.
“Right, right,” said Duke. “I’m going now.”
He was standing by the bureau. Loka grabbed his arm. “Duke, don’t leave me. I don’t know where to go. We got to stay together.”
Duke shoved him away so roughly Loka lost his balance and fell to one knee.
“No, black and white. Too easy to spot. I told you. I can’t trust you with this. You’re too dumb to live. I’m taking it with me.” And Duke grabbed the shining image.
Caught by surprise, Loka stared in amazement.
“No, Duke, no, you can’t,” he shouted as Duke headed for the door.
“I’m keeping this. You’d lose it, you stupid jungle bunny!” said Duke from near the door.
“No, that’s mine!” Loka shouted. He dove at Duke, tackling him at the knees. Duke crashed to the floor with the image in his arms. He yelled with pam, groaned, tried to get to his feet, collapsed. Sitting on the floor, Loka stared at his friend, then touched him. Duke wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing. The sharp horns of the sacred image were stuck in his chest.
Loka shook with fear as the full impact of this event became clear. Duke, an outsider, had touched the sacred image. He was dead. He had fallen on the horns. The image had killed him. It didn’t matter how it happened—he was dead because of the image.
With trembling hands, he pulled the image from Duke’s body. Blood was forming a pool on the faded carpet. Now Loka realized the gravity of the situation. He was alone in this room with a corpse. He could be held for murder. Nobody would believe his story. He had to move, get out, with his priceless image.
He hurriedly packed it into the carton, tossed his few personal effects into his bag and went to the door. Duke hadn’t moved. It was hard to believe he was dead. He had been so violently alive only minutes before. Loka looked about the room. The window shades were drawn. No one had seen. He listened carefully forx sounds of voices or running feet. All was quiet. He peered out into the dim corridor. Empty. Good. No one had heard. Without a backward look, he quickly locked the door, then went to the antique elevator. He pressed the button impatiently, then saw the elevator was already rising from the lobby floor, probably with passengers. He didn’t wait to be seen, but rushed down the broad staircase.
Two men were standing at the front desk, talking to the bored clerk. One was Helmsley. The other was heavyset, wearing a derby, a checkered suit, pink shirt, red tie with a large diamond stickpin. He removed a cigar from his lips to belch. As he spoke in a strong cockney accent, he belched several times. His florid complextion indicated he was a drinker. Probably the cause of the belch. They were inquiring about two guests in the hotel—a Mr. Hanson and a Mr. Murphy. The clerk shrugged. No such names were registered. “You must be mistaken,” said Helmsley.
“I am not mistaken,” said the clerk. “We have no Hanson, no Murphy.”
“Maybe we’ve got the names wrong,” Helmsley replied. “One is black and the other white.”
The clerk’s eyes flickered with recognition at that, but he shook his head.
“We can’t give out information unless you have the names of the parties. Rules,” he said.
The man with the derby took out a large bank note.
“W
e don’t care about the names. Just the room number,” he said, waving the money, The clerk looked at it with bright eyes. It was equal to a day’s wages for him. He smiled, took the money, and in the same moment, looked toward the stairs, attracted by the sound of footsteps.
“There’s one of them now,” he said, pocketing the money.
Breathing hard, his eyes glazed, Loka paid no attention to the men at the desk. His hands were full, the box under one arm, the bag in his other hand. He went out swiftly through the hotel doors. The two men followed immediately after him.
“Taxi, taxi,” Loka called loudly as he moved to the curb. Several cabs were parked nearby. As one of them started up, Loka’s arms were grasped. Helmsley on one side, the heavyset man on the other.
“We’re going your way, Mr. Murphy. We’ll give you a lift,” said Helmsley. Loka stared at him in recognition.
“No,” he said. “No.”
“Yes,” said the man with the derby, whose name was Bolt. He had a gun in his coat pocket, and he pressed against Loka. “Get in and shut up,” said Bolt.
Loka stared at the florid face, at the hard gray eyes of the stranger, and he knew without being told. This was a killer. Loka did as he was told. He shut up, and got in. The two men sat on either side of him as he clutched his box on his lap, and the cab drove off.
CHAPTER 9
As the Phantom boarded the plane at the Mawitaan airport, -it was with more than the usual excitement he felt when starting on a mission. This London-bound plane would have a stopover at Orly Airport in Paris. He cabled this to Diana in Paris, asking her to meet him at the airport for a quick visit during the stopover. He wasn’t certain he would see her, but he had high hopes. There was a brief argument as he started up the plane stairs with Devil on a leash.
“You can’t take that dog aboard, sir,” said the stewardess, a pretty blond girl in a miniskirt.
“He’s not a dog,” said the Phantom. He’d been through this before. “He’s a wolf.”
The girl stared at the long teeth and pale blue eyes. She turned away and came back with a man in trim uniform, an airline official.
“What seems to be the difficulty,” he said brightly.
“No difficulty. I’ve bought a seat for my animal. I’d like him with me.”
“A wolf?” said the official with a toothy grin. “Wild animals are not permitted aboard, and must be crated, with special permission, as freight.” He opened a pamphlet and showed the Phantom the regulation.
“There it is, in black and white. No wild animals,” he said triumphantly while two stewardesses looked on.
The Phantom sighed. It was always the same routine.
“He’s not a wild animal. He’s tame and trained, perfectly. Does your regulation say anything about that?” he said patiently.
The official grinned at the two stewardesses, who smiled. Then he turned to this troublesome passenger, and spoke as to a child.
“Sir, I read the rules. You cannot go on the plane with the animal,” he added firmly.
“You’ve shown me no rule pertaining to a tame, trained wolf,” said the Phantom quietly. “I would have no objection to your freight section, if you had modern facilities there like other airlines. But I know that neither the air pressure nor temperature are properly controlled in there. At thirty-live thousand feet, this would kill or severely injure my animal. I refuse to let this happen.” The Phantom took a step toward the official, and his voice was cold and deep. “I have paid his passage. He will not bother other passengers, he will board with me.”
The man looked into the dark sunglasses that revealed nothing of the eyes behind them. The deep cold voice seemed to come out of a well or a tomb. His knees trembled. His voice quavered.
“I cannot take any responsibility for this,” he said shrilly.
“I will take all responsibility. Thank you.”
He walked up the stairs with the wolf on its leash. The stewardesses stared at the official. He flushed, shrugged his shoulders, washing his hands of the business, and walked away. The stewardesses looked at his retreating figure in amazement. Throughout the company, this man was known as C.S. He lived by the rules, and was a petty tyrant to his underlings, or any confused passenger who broke petty rules.
“C.S. was scared to death,” said the blonde.
“So was I,” said the redhead. “That one is something!”
During the flight, “that one” continued to be “something.” For one thing, he refused to remove his hat and coat, wearing them throughout the flight. His wolf sat next to him, its gray head rising as high as a man’s. Other passengers craned their necks and made special trips to the washroom to observe this pair. When lunch was served, he ordered and obtained raw hamburger for the animal. “He usually catches his own meat,” the passenger, a Mr. Walker, informed the enchanted stewardesses who vied with" each other to serve him. A few people approached the seat to chat and satisfy their curiosity. But he pulled his hat over his forehead and pretended to sleep. He was daydreaming about Diana and wondering if she would meet him at Orly. She would. She did.
She was waiting at the gate as he strolled from the plane with Devil on a leash. She leaped up, threw, her arms about his neck, delivered a quick kiss, then was on her knees, embracing Devil. The wolf knew her at once and licked her flushed cheek.
“Oh, I am so glad to see you, both of you,” she shouted happily. Diana was a quiet girl and did not usually shout. This was a special moment. He lifted her to her feet.
“Let me look at you.”
She faced him, smiling happily. She was even more beautiful than he had remembered. As usual, she was dressed to perfection, perhaps even more than usual for this meeting. She wore a trim suit, high-style French couture, a bright yellow scarf that set off her wavy mane of black hair.
“I’ve only a short time here before the plane leaves. Let’s have coffee,” he said.
Diana smiled and glanced at a suitcase at her side.
“I’m taking the weekend off. I’m going with you,” she said.
For a moment, he was delighted, overwhelmed. A whole weekend together! Then a sober second thought.
“Diana, I’m on a serious mission. It might be dangerous. It involves men who may be killers.”
“But I told them at the office I would be in London for the weekend. It’s all arranged,” she said.
“I have to move fast. It might be dangerous,” he said.
“If it is, I don’t want you involved.”
“No reason for me to get involved,” she said, smiling. “London is a big place. While you are doing what you must do, I can go to some museums or matinees. They’re having a wonderful season in London.”
“Well, I suppose it’d be all right,” he said doubtfully.
“Then it’s settled. Tell me you think it’s wonderful.”
“It’s marvelous,” he said,, laughing and put his arm around her shoulder. “Why try to argue with you? I knew you’d win.”
Back on the plane, she sat next to him while Devil curled up at their feet. When the two stewardesses passed by to offer them cocktails or tea (they took tea) the girls looked at Diana with unconcealed envy.
He told her about Rex and Guran and Hero and all her friends in the Deep Woods, where she had visited several times. He also told her about the sacred image of the Llongo. She had read about its disappearance and was fascinated that this was his mission. Diana was an old friend of Laman-da Luaga and had served as nurse on a UN medical team that he headed before he became President of Bangalla. The fact that this disappearance, engineered by his brother, might affect his career angered her. She shared the Phantom’s admiration for their friend.
An hour later, they left Heathrow Airport and were in a taxi headed for London.
“I’ve got one lead I must look into now. I’ll drop you at this museum. If I’m not at the front doors at closing time, check in at the Waldorf. I’ll get in touch with you there.”
The taxi stopped
at an old building, the Victoria and Albert Museum. He kissed her quickly. She pressed his hand. .She was no longer smiling. “You said this could be dangerous. Please be careful.” She kissed him, then taking her Miitcase, left quickly.
“To the Beresford Arms Hotel,” he told the driver.
As his taxi reached the place, he could not know that another taxi, carrying Loka and the two men, had left only a few minutes before. He entered the lobby with Devil on the leash and went to the front desk. The bored clerk was deep In a racing form and finished his reading before looking up. He saw the big man in sunglasses, and as he stood up, he saw the animal.
“We don’t allow pets here,” he said.
“I don’t want a room. I’m looking for two men staying here.”
“Names?”
“Would Duke and Loka help?”
“None such registered here.”
“One is black, one is white.”
The clerk studied that for a moment. He’d just had that question a short time earlier, and had been well paid for his answer. Why all the interest in those two?
“Can’t release information about guests unless you have the name,” he said stiffly, the image of another generous tip forming in his mind.
The stranger put a heavy hand on his frail shoulder.
“This is a criminal matter. It’s best you do not obstruct justice,” he said flatly.
The clerk stared, his vision of money dissolving at once. “Oh, I didn’t know. Are you ... ?”
“Yes, I am. What room?”
“Hanson and Murphy. Three forty-nine. One of them, the black, just left—with friends, I guess.”
“I’ll want to know more about those friends later.”
“Listen,” said the clerk, leaning over the counter as the man started off. “We don’t want any trouble. This is a decent law-abiding place.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
The man did not wait for the elevator. He and the big shaggy dog bounded up the stairs. The clerk wondered if he should call his boss, the proprietor. No, better wait to see if it amounted to anything. The boss didn’t like to be bothered.
Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 15] Page 7