The Phantom reached Room 349 and listened at the door. No sounds. His keen, jungle-trained hearing could pick up the slightest movement. Nothing. He tried the door. It was locked. He leaned against it, then used his entire weight to spring the old lock. The door opened. He saw 1he body on the floor at once, entered quickly with Devil and shut the door behind him.
The man was dead. From the description he’d gotten on the Moru Benga, this must be Duke. He examined him quickly for the cause of death and found the twin wounds. Like Old Murph’s. For a moment, his mind reeled. The sacred image?
“One of them, the black, just left—with friends, I guess,” the clerk had said. One had left, and one had stayed here. The white one. The Phantom picked up the phone. The strained voice of the clerk answered.
“Get a doctor up here. A man’s dead. You’ll need a death certificate.”
The clerk gasped and hung up. The Phantom looked through the room. There was one duffel bag, the sort seamen use. Duke’s. One razor, one toothbrush in the bathroom. A can of powder spilled on the floor. One sock hanging out of a drawer. Someone had left in a hurry. Loka. There was a knock on the door. He opened it. A man wearing a white jacket was buttoning it with one hand. In his5 other hand was a black leather bag.
“I’m the house doctor. My office is downstairs,” he began. He saw the body on the floor, and quickly knelt by its side, using a stethoscope. He saw the blood and found the wounds.
“Still warm,” he said. “This man’s been dead less than an hour.” The Phantom nodded. “You see it happen?” The Phantom shook his head. The door opened. A policeman walked in followed by the wide-eyed clerk.
“That’s our doctor. That’s the man I told you about,” said the clerk.
“You reported this?” The Phantom nodded.
“He’s dead. Stabbed,” said the doctor.
“You see it happen,” asked the policeman.
“No. But I believe I know how it happened. Those two wounds on the chest—”
“Cause of death,” said the doctor.
“—made by the jade horns of the sacred image of the Llongo.”
“What?” said the policeman.
“It’s an ancient image. Only the Llongo people of Bangalla can touch it, or so they believe. This man, no Llongo, must have touched it. It’s an ancient curse,” he said, knowing how his words must sound to these men who stared at him.
“Crazy,” muttered the clerk.
“We’ll get into all that later,” .said the policeman as he wrote in his notebook. “Name, please?”
“Walker.”
“Residence?”
“Bangalla.”
The officer looked up from his writing at that. “That’s where the deceased and the other man, the black, came from?” The Phantom nodded. The clerk must have told the policeman about Loka.
“Did you know the black man, called Murphy?” The Phantom shook his head. He had never met Loka. “Or the deceased?” Negative, again.
“When you called downstairs, this man was dead?”
“Had to be,” said the doctor. “Had been dead an hour when I came, right after that.”
“I have to call the morgue. Then you come with me to the station,” said the policeman, walking to the phone.
“Sorry, I can’t go with you.”
The policeman turned and looked at him in surprise.
“I must find the other man—Murphy—and the image,” said the Phantom.
“Kind of you to do our job, sir. We’ll handle that.” The policeman looked at the clerk. “You call the morgue. I want to leave now with this witness.”
“Sorry, officer,” said the Phantom as he went toward the door. “But I haven’t time now.” The policeman moved quickly to block the door, held the Phantom’s arm, and gripped his night stick firmly.
“You’ll come with me. You’re a material witness. You may be more into this than you’ve said—coming from the same place as the deceased and the missing man,” said the policeman.
“I understand you bobbies carry no firearms. Correct?” “Correct.”
“I do,” said the Phantom, pulling away from the policeman’s grip and at the same time drawing a shining automatic from an inner pocket. “Stand over there. You too, Doctor.”
“Obey him,” said the doctor. “He is pathological.”
The Phantom smiled. “I know it sounds crazy—the sacred image—but it’s a complicated story, too long to tell now.” As he spoke, he ripped the telephone cord from the wall. “I’d prefer to let you and your colleagues take care of this, officer, but I must handle my part of it. It involves an ancient law of another people, not your law, not your people.” Then he grasped the clerk’s arm. The frail man trembled at his touch. “Come with me,” said the Phantom, pulling him to the door.
“Why, what are you going to do?” said the man shrilly.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I want to talk to you. Have you got your passkey?”
The man nodded, taking a key on a chain from his pocket.
“Sir, you’re making a mistake. You can’t get away.
We’ll find you,” said the policeman.
‘‘Possible, but unlikely,” said the Phantom. He took the clerk out into the corridor and quickly locked the door, then moved down the hall with the man.
“Which room opens onto a fire escape?”
“All of them. Fire laws,” said the clerk weakly.
“Open this one,” he said, stopping at a door.
The clerk looked at him indignantly. “It’s occupied,” he said.
The Phantom shook his arm roughly. “Open it!”
The clerk gulped and quickly opened the door. A middle-aged woman, hair in curlers, sat up in bed and stared at the two men and a dog as they rushed through her room toward the window.
“How dare—how dare you!” she screamed. “I’ll report this to the clerk.” She reached frantically for her bedside phone.
“I am the clerk,” he said, as the Phantom shoved him through the window onto the fire escape.
“Mr. Phipps! What is the meaning .. . ?” she began.
“Sorry to disturb you, madam,” said the other man. A big furry animal leaped after him, and they were gone. She looked at the phone, then at the window. There was no one to call.
The Phantom re'ached the roof with the clerk.
“Talk fast,” he said to the frightened man. “When that black left, did he carry a package?”
“Yes ... yes ... a box. Tea set, I think.”
“Tea set?”
“This morning they left it in our safe. Said it was valuable tea cups and all.”
“Did you see the tea cups?”
“Oh no. We never pry into valuables left by guests.”
“You said the black man left with two friends. Who were they?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not friends. They didn’t know his name.”
“How do you know that?”
“They came to the desk, like you, asking about a black and a white man. Just then the black man came down with the package. They took him off in a cab.”
“Took him off? By force?”
“Oh, I couldn’t, say as to that, sir. It just seemed odd, not knowing his name. Then going off like that.”
“You watched?”
“Through the window.”
“Describe the two men.”
“Never saw them before. One was—a gentleman, I guess. Smallish. Neatly dressed. Bond Street, I’d say. Little mustache, bowler.”
“The other one.”
“More of a toff. Big. Flashy type. More like a gambler, race-track type, loud clothes, high color.”
“Anything else about that one?”
The clerk looked embarrassed. “A peculiarity. A steady sort of belching, you might say. Rather uncouth.”
The policeman broke open the door of 349. He rushed out with the doctor and saw an open door several rooms away. He looked in. The woman was still in bed.
; “Excuse us, madam. Did you see a man and a dog go by?”
“Did I see them? They came into my room. The man and Mr. Phipps.”
“Where did they go?”
She pointed to the open window. “Out the window, up the fire escape.”
The policeman rushed to the window. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he said, climbing out onto the fire escape.
“Not at all,” she said tartly. “Why don’t you stay and direct traffic?”
On the roof, Devil gave two warning barks. A moment later, the policeman’s head appeared over the ledge at the fire escape.
“You’re under arrest,” he shouted, waving his night stick as he climbed onto the roof.
While questioning the clerk, the Phantom had surveyed the surroundings. Now, with Devil at his heels, he turned, ran to the far edge of the roof and leaped over a twenty-foot gap to the roof of the building. Devil sailed over after him. He continued on without stopping, across the next roof, jumping to another level, then out of sight behind a water tank. The policeman and the clerk walked to the edge of the roof where he had jumped. An alley was three floors below.
“Going to jump after him?” said the clerk, relaxing after all the excitement, feeling safe enough now to grin.
“Me. I’m no blooming acrobat,” said the policeman. He returned down the fire escape, the clerk with him. They went through the same window they had used before. The lady was starting to get out of bed. She immediately got under the covers.
“Excuse me, please,” said Mr. Phipps, the clerk.
“Hope you don’t mind, ma’am,” said the policeman.
“Mind? Might as well have my bed on the sidewalk. Mr. Phipps, prepare my account. I’m leaving.”
“Please don’t be hasty, Mrs. Murgatroyd. This is a police matter. There’s been a murder.”
“Oh my God,” said Mrs. Murgatroyd.
Downstairs at the front desk, the policeman made his report.
“White, armed, sunglasses when last seen, over six feet, fifteen stone . . . yes, a big one . . . gray hat, checkered topcoat, big gray dog, shaggy like a wolf. Still in vicinity. The black man, last seen wearing brown jacket, blue trousers, just under six feet, short hair, Bangalla accent . . . B-a-n-g-a-l-l-a. Where is that, who knows? Down there someplace.” He hung up.
“We’ll need a statement from you, Mr. Phipps.”
“I’m on duty here until midnight.”
“Come tomorrow. This is an odd one, for sure. We’ll want your description of the two the black man went out with.”
Mr. Phipps nodded. “As best I can remember,” he said.
A black truck pulled up at the curb. Two men in white coats climbed out and entered the hotel, one carrying a stretcher.
“Hello, boys. The body’s in three forty-nine.”
They nodded and went up the stairs without a word. Phipps shivered. “Will you find him?” he said.
“They’ll both be easy. Men from the districts are already surrounding this area. House-to-house search. He’s not likely to get away. He’ll help us find the others.”
As the policeman walked to the door, Phipps trotted at his side, excited and curious.
“If the man with the gun—if he is part of the ga'ng, why would he call down . . . you know, report it?”
“Mr. Phipps, if you?d apprehended as many perpetrators as'I have, in my time, you’d come to know that the criminal mind is hard to fathom. Why did he do it? A bluff? Playing innocent or . .- .” He paused and grinned. “You heard all that about the curse. A bit dotty, I’d say.”
“A lunatic?”
“More of them walking the streets than-you’d believe.”
Mr. Phipps shivered. It was all like a show on the telly. “What do you make of it all, officer?” he asked on the sidewalk.
“A falling-out among thieves. A quarrel over the loot. Happens every day.- Tea cups, indeed.” He chuckled.
“How would I know the contents of the box? We never pry into guests’ valuables,” said the clerk, flushing.
“A fine rule,” said the policeman, his blue eyes twinkling. “Good day, Mr. Phipps.”
He walked off chuckling. “Tea cups.”
The Phantom moved across a dozen roofs until he reached one that overlooked a side street. Peering over the edge, he saw a police car pull up at the curb. Several men, obviously plainclothesmen, stepped out. A uniformed policeman walked over to them. They conferred for a moment, then separated. Probably searching for him. He’d been in this situation before. Working outside the law to catch lawbreakers. He-would have preferred to let the law take over, drop out of it, and spend the weekend with Diana. But this was impossible. He had his duty to the Llongo and to Lamanda Luaga. He couldn’t go back on his word. And it would be difficult to explain his presence in London or to avoid being implicated in the murder in Room 349. The three there—policeman, doctor, and clerk—had thought his quick explanation crazy. Others would have the same reaction. He couldn’t blame them But it meant that he had to work alone and quickly. He had to find Loka, the “toff” who belched and the dapper Bond Street type. Not much to go on. He did have one more vague lead. An art dealer named Helmsley. That might lead to something.
He thought about Diana. The museum would be closing about now. He wouldn’t be there. She would go on to her hotel and wait. And wait alone. He couldn’t leave now. Had to wait until dark, wait for a chance to escape from this area that was being searched, and find a hiding place for Devil. Staying with the gray wolf made him too easily identifiable. He sat at the edge of the roof and waited. As soon as it was dark, he would move.
After hours of examining the costumes and furniture of the Victorian Age, and having tea and scones three times, and waiting in the front lobby until closing time, Diana left the museum and went to the hotel as planned. There she asked for a quiet first-floor room, preferably in the back of the hotel. She was given such a room in this quiet, well-run old hostelry. She showered, leaving the bathroom door open so as not to miss hearing the phone . . . which did not ring. Then she sat in a chair and tried to read. But she was nervous, worried about him.
Though she had known him ever since they were children during his school years in Clarksville, and though she had visited his shadowy jungle many times, his amazing background and unique life were still a tantalizing mystery to her. What other girl on earth had a Phantom lover like this one —a man known and loved and believed immortal by millions? A sweetheart who was at once the Keeper of the Peace, the Guardian of the Eastern Dark (whatever that meant—he’d told her, but she had forgotten) and the Ghost Who Walks. That was the name that thrilled her. The Ghost Who Walks. She whispered it softly.
This wasn’t the weekend she’d hoped for. Danger, killers. She felt a sudden panic. What if something had happened to him? Then she pictured the powerful hands, the firm jaw, the force that radiated from that steely body—no, no one could hurt him. He would take care of himself. The Ghost Who Walks. She dozed off. The phone rang.
CHAPTER 10
Loka sat tensely clutching the box and staring defiantly at the three men. They were in the basement game room of a small house. There was a pool table and a bar loaded with bottles. Bolt straddled a chair, leaning on the back of it as he alternately gulped straight whiskey and puffed and relit and puffed a cigar. Helmsley sat at the side sipping a scotch and soda. The third man, Gyp, drank wine from a water glass. He was short, muscular, olive-complexioned, a gold ring in his ear. He was a Gypsy, hence the name. Between a gulp and a puff, Bolt laughed derisively.
“That’s your story? The thing in the box killed your partner?”
“It was not in the box. He tried to take it,” said Loka for the fifth time.
“We heard you,” said Bolt. “He fried to take it, and you stabbed him and left him dead.”
Loka’s eyes almost popped with rage.
“I did not kill Duke! The image killed him. The curse!” he shouted at the top of his voice.
Helmsley got
up in alarm.
“Keep your voice down, for God’s sake,” he said anxiously“Let him yell,” said Bolt. “Nobody’ll hear him. The place is soundproof.” He pointed to the walls and ceiling. They were covered with acoustical panels. “It’s not the first time somebody yelled down here. Louder than that. Much louder. Won’t be the last,” he said lazily. The implication of torture was clear. Gyp grinned knowingly, revealing a set of gold teeth, while Helmsley looked uncomfortable. He was obviously unused to such company.
“Okay, Loco, let’s have it straight,” Bolt began.
“Loka!” said Loka angrily.
“Loco, Loka, so you didn’t kill your buddy. The thing did. Right?” Loka nodded vigorously. “Let's say we buy that. Do the coppers buy that, Gyp?”
The Gypsy snorted. “Never.”
“You’re not in your lousy bush now, wherever it is. You’re in England. A black kills a white—we don’t like that here.”
“I didn’t, I didn’t!” shouted Loka.
Helmsley shuddered at the loud voice, at the threatened violence. He snapped on the small radio at his side. “News time,” he said. “Let’s see if they have anything on it yet.”
The announcer was talking about the weather. Rain, for a change. Loka looked angrily at Helmsley.
“How did the radio, the papers, know the image was here —with a black man and a white man?” he finished, mimicking the broadcaster.
“My senior partner, Cunningham, reported to the police as soon as you and your buddy left our showrooms,” said Helmsley.
“Shh,” said Gyp. “Listen.”
It was an item about the Beresford Arms. Murder was still news in London.
“. . . a visitor, said to be a seaman, one Fred Hanson, was stabbed to death in the venerable Beresford Arms Hotel. Police believe the name is an alias. His roommate, a Bangallan black man named Murphy”—the announcer chuckled, Loka sat up rigidly—“also believed to be an alias, is sought by the police as the alleged killer. There was a bizarre chase over the rooftops as police pursued an alleged accomplice and a big shaggy dog. A manhunt is on in the area for the alleged killer and the unnamed alleged accomplice, and the alleged shaggy dog. Robbery was the motive, police state, and—” Helmsley snapped off the radio.
Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 15] Page 8