“One million,” he said.
“His Highness’s final offer,” said the aide sternly.
Helmsley shook his head. This would be giving it away. It went back and forth like this, bubbling, gurgling, sipping, un til they agreed on a figure: one million eight hundred thousand British pounds sterling (roughly four and a half million American dollars).
Helmley stood up, dizzy with success. He could hardly believe it had happened so fast. Sizable deals sometimes took weeks or months. This, the biggest deal of his life, had taken a half hour.
“This will be a cash transaction, naturally, your Highness.”
“Naturally,” said the aide as the Sheik nodded. “If after examination, there is any evidence of misrepresentation, the money will be returned,” he added, his smile fading, his eyes cold.
“That goes without saying.”
“In such an unlikely event, his Highness has the means to recover the money, no matter where it will have wandered.”
Helmsley glanced at the immobile giant guards, at the Sheik who sat impassively gurgling and bubbling on his water-pipe.
“You need have no fear. The object is genuine,” said Helmsley. The gurgling and bubbling stopped. Helmsley settled back to the floor when the Sheik spoke.
“The image must be here, in my possession within two hours. At that time, we depart for my country.”
“Two hours?”
“Two hours, precisely, or his Highness cannot purchase the object, Mr. Helmsley,” said the aide.
“All right, I’ll do it, I’ll be back,” he said, racing for the door. He caught himself, bowed to the seated ruler, then ran out. Sheik and aide smiled at each other. The ruler stared at the photo admiringly.
“From the Queen herself, it has returned. This will be the jewel of my crown.”
Helmsley was too rushed to wait for the stately, slow-moving elevator. He ran down the stairs three at a time. The sedate desk clerk lifted his eyebrows as the man dashed out. People did not dash at 7 Savile Place. There were no taxis in sight. He thought rapidly. A half hour to Bolt’s house, a half hour back. No, something he must do first. There might be some difficulty in that game room. His office was only a short distance. He started toward it, half running, clutching his bowler and umbrella, an impeccable Londoner. In the back of his top desk drawer was a small pearl-handled revolver. Both he and his partner Cunningham kept such a weapon
handy. Their showroom was filled with costly objects. There had been no robbery attempts yet, but you never knew. Now he might need the gun. He hoped not. He abhorred violence. Feared it. But one million eight hundred thousand was one million eight hundred thousand.
“Mr. Helmsley is not in. Can Mr. Cunningham help you?” said the woman behind the open glass panel. Diana stood in the foyer of the gallery.
“When will Mr. Helmsley be in?”
“Hard to say,” said the woman with a shadow of a grin. “He might be in any minute or—who knows?”
A man appeared behind the woman. “She’s here to see Mr. Helmsley,” she said, turning to him. He looked at Diana through the glass. Simply but expensively dressed, the fresh look of a young lady, not like what he often contemptuously referred to as “one of Helmsley’s bawds.” ,
“I’m Mr. Cunningham. Did you wish to see Mr. Helmsley personally”—he stressed that word lightly—“or may I help you?”
Diana thought quickly. She couldn’t pretend to be one of his friends, in case he walked in suddenly.
“Thank you. That would be very kind,” she said.
Mr. Cunningham smiled and disappeared, the door clicked open and he was waiting for her in the showroom.
“Anything particular in mind, or would you prefer to browse,” he said.
“Thanks. I’m fond of primitive pieces, pre-Columbian, African, Oriental.”
“This way please.” She followed him as he pointed out and explained a variety of small statues and artifacts.
“Do you know Helmsley?”
“No, not at all. Er, a mutual friend recommended the gallery.”
“Perhaps someone I might know?” He was only being polite.
“Perhaps. A Mr. Walker.” She had to smile when she said it. “Will Mr. Helmsley be back soon?”
“Back? He hasn’t been in yet today. Leads odd hours, though he manages to make the race track by the opening gun.” He smiled apologetically, as though he had said too much.
“Oh, he likes racing? I didn’t know,” said Diana, glad to find some safe aspect of the missing man to talk about. What am I doing here, she asked herself, talking about a man I don’t know and care less about. Oh, it’s fun. Carry on, she told herself.
“Like the horses? He’s an addict. Out there every day he can get away from here—and-sometimes when he can’t,” said Mr. Cunningham, allowing himself a little joke. But there was a bitter edge to it. Helmsley’s habit was obviously a matter of contention between them.
“Is your Mr. Walker also a racing fan?” he went on, probing politely for the connection.
“Oh no,” she laughed. “I believe they knew each other in Bangalla.” The word seemed to have a peculiar effect on the white-haired man, and she regretted saying it. But why? After all, it was a big place. Many tourists.
“Oh, do you know Bangalla?” he said.
“In a way. I’ve been there. Oh, this is an interesting piece. What is it?” she said, changing the subject. He was about to answer when Helmsley walked in.
He walked rapidly to his desk in a far comer, took something from it and was heading back to the door when Cunningham called to him. “Oh, Mr. Helmsley, a moment please.”
“I’m in a terrible hurry. Appointment,” he said, coming toward thdn reluctantly.
“This is Miss . . . ?”
“Palmer,” said Diana.
“Miss Palmer had asked for you, Helmsley. She was sent here by a mutual friend, a Mr. Walker—correct?—of Bangalla.” He pronounced the last word softly. Helmsley’s impatience vanished. He looked sharply at her.
“Walker? Who is he?”
“A man, an official in Mawitaan,” she said slowly. “He said to see your gallery when I came here. That’s all.”
“Are you from Mawitaan?”
“No, New York.”
Helmsley glanced quickly at his pocket watch. “I must leave. Would you care to walk downstairs with me? I’d like to hear more about Walker.”
“Are you coming back?” said Cunningham. “We’ve a busy day, you know.”
“I’ll try.”
“The horses can live without you for a day,” said Cunningham awkwardly, trying to make a joke that didn’t ring true. Helmsley laughed without humor and nodded.
“No horses today. Shall we go?”
Why not? thought Diana. “Thank you, Mr. Cunningham. I’d like to come back and see more of your things.”
“Please, any time, Miss Palmer.”
As they walked down the stairs, Helmsley questioned her quickly. He seemed in a terrible hurry. Who was Walker? What did he do?
“He’s a peace officer” (Keeper of the Peace) “. .. a sort of guardian” (Guardian of the Eastern Dark). Diana could hardly keep from laughing. This was such fun, playing a game with this dapper little man with his waxed mustache, bowler, umbrella, such a proper Englishman.
“Peace officer, guardian, can’t seem to recall . . .” said Helmsley, perplexed. “Is he there now?”
“No, I believe not.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Here in London?”
She nodded. He stopped on the sidewalk and looked at her. Since his return from Bangalla two years before, he had never met anyone who’d been there. Hardly anyone had even heard of the backward little country. It was one of those nations that had suddenly evolved on the edge of the jungle. Now, here was a woman, and a man, both with connections in Bangalla. Today. A thought popped into his mind.
“Does he have a big dog?”
Diana w
as caught by surprise. “Yes,” she said.
“I’m trying to place him. Did he bring the dog with him?” Diana nodded, suddenly confused. Odd questions. “Have you heard of the Llongo?”
She nodded again. “Yes, a tribe in Bangalla.”
He looked at her without expression. “Not many people could answer that,” he said.
“Really?” she said. What’s he getting at? she wondered.
A cab stopped at the curb in response to his hand signal. He took her arm firmly.
“Come along,” he said. “I want to hear more about Mr. Walker.” She drew back, surprised.
“No, of course not. I-—I’m busy.”
The cab driver watched cynically as Helmsley whispered in her ear. Reluctant young women were not new to him. But Helmsley was not whispering romance.
“I have a gun in my pocket. It’s pointed at your stomach. Get in, or I’ll shoot. I mean it.”
His face was grim, his eyes desperate. She knew he meant it. Had he gone mad? She got into the cab. He kept hold of her arm and called an address to the driver, then closed the panel that separated him from the back seat.
“What are you trying to do?” said Diana. That’s all she could think of to say.
“It’s no accident that you came to our gallery today. Did Mr. Walker, this man with the big gray dog, send you?”
How did he know Devil was big and gray? “No, it was my own idea.”
“Why?”
“I like art, primitives.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Mr. Helmsley, I don’t know what this is all about. Or what you’re up to. If you don’t stop this cab and let me out, I’ll start screaming.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” he said, glancing at the driver through the glass panel. The man was busy looking ahead at traffic. Helmsley swung, hitting her sharply on the jaw. She fell back. He put her head on his shoulder, his arm about her, and put his lips against her cheek. The driver glanced at his rear view mirror and saw what looked like lovebirds. He grinned. The bloke was a fast worker.
When they reached their destination, a small house in Soho, Diana was beginning to groan and move her head. Helmsley hurriedly thrust money into the driver’s hand, then half-lifted, half-dragged her out of the cab. The driver looked on in alarm.
“Is she sick? Can I help, sir?” he asked.
“Nothing. She’s just, you know, expecting.”
The driver grinned and watched until the man had carried his burden into a basement door. The man knocked on the door, it was opened, and he went inside. The cab went on. You get all kinds.
In the game room, Gyp and Loka stared at the girl.
“Who the hell is that?” demanded Gyp.
“Why you bring her here?” said Loka.
“Bolt’ll murder you,” said Gyp.
Helmsley shook his head impatiently as he carried Diana to an armchair. “I’ll explain. This is important. It’s about the other man.”
“What other man?”
“The man with the dog.”
The Phantom left Devil at a boarding kennel on the highway. He saw to it that the big animal had roomy quarters with a large open ran. For food, only raw meat. Yes, horse meat would do. For how long? A day or two. What kind of dog is that, mister? Looks like a wolf. Doesn’t it, though?
Even though he had changed his outer clothing, he was taking no chances on being picked up by the police for questioning. He had an uneasy feeling that time was extremely short. He drove on to the nearby race track, the one closest to town. Searching for a gambler at a race track, among twenty thousand gamblers? One who belched? Ten percent, or two thousand, might be similarly afflicted. But he’d worked on slimmer leads, against greater odds.
He went into the stands, and began talking to the touts, the men giving out tips for a fee. They’d know all the regulars. A race was on. The crowd was roaring.
“Big man. Wears a black bowler. Diamond pin in his tie. Red face. Fancy dresser. Belches a lot.”
He got a lot of odd glances from the busy touts, and no answers. “What do you want him for?” “He owes me some money.” “Nope, can’t help you.” “Belches? How do you mean?” “Like this—burrrrp.” “Nope, can’t help you.” “My cousin belches, drinks beer all day. That’s him over there.” A short fat man, in a sweatshirt, a beer bottle tilted to his lips. “No, that’s not the one.” “Well, he belches.” “Thanks.”
It went on like that, for an hour or two. He asked the clerks at the pari-mutuel windows, the men’s room attendants, the bartenders, the concessionaires who sold fish and chips. “What’s his name?” “I forgot it.” “Forgot? And he owes you money? Man!” Another race, more questions, no answers. It was late afternoon now. One more race. It began to look hopeless. But like the horse that had won the last one, it was a long shot. Twenty-to-one? More like a hundred-to-one. But long shots come in, now and then.
A deep voice rumbled behind him.
“You looking for somebody?” (Burp.)
The Phantom turned, and faced Bolt. The clerk’s description had been a good one. Florid complexion, cigar in his teeth, black derby, and diamond stickpin, loud shirt and suit. Also a firm jaw and hard eyes.
“Yes, I am. It might be you.”
“I don’t owe you any money. Never saw you before.” (Burp.)
“True. But we have a mutual friend.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Loka.”
A young man wearing a cap and a dark turtleneck jersey under a topcoat had been standing idly at the side, seeming to pay no attention. Bolt glanced at him and he was behind the Phantom in one step. The Phantom felt a hard object pressed against his spine. A familiar object. The barrel of a gun. The crowd was roaring as the horses came into the stretch.
“He’s got a silencer. If he shoots, no one could hear,” said Bolt.
“Not necessary. I’ve got a big deal—for you and Loka,”
“What deal?” (Burp.)
“Can’t talk here. I have to talk with you and Loka, but I must be sure you have the image.”
Bolt clamped down on his cigar at that.
“You know about that?” The Phantom nodded. Bolt studied him. “You that other guy, the guy with the dog?” The Phantom nodded. “So Loka was lying, said he didn’t know you.”
“No, he didn’t lie. He doesn’t know me.”
“Who are you?”
“Can’t talk here.”
Bolt nodded and walked at his side toward the exit. The man with the gun followed closely. Outside, they reached a large car with curtained windows. The Phantom was waved to the front seat next to the driver—the man with the gun. Bolt sat in back, a gun in his hand.
“Ready to talk now?”
“Not until we get there.”
“Get where?”
“Where Loka is, and the image.”
Bolt’s voice rumbled. He laughed. “Okay, laddy, you better have good answers.” They drove on in silence.
CHAPTER 12
Diana was aware of men’s voices arguing. One was sharp, cockney. Another foreign, musical. The third, well-bred English—Helmsley! She opened her eyes with a start. They didn’t notice her at first. They were yelling at each other. Something glittered near her. It came into focus. The sacred image. She’d seen a black-and-white newsprint photo of it.
The reality was startling. Vivid, shining, brilliant gold, reds, greens, shimmering whites, almost blinding.
“She’s come to,” said Gyp. He was a swarthy little man, with greasy, slicked-back hair. “Talk to her. Ask her who the guy is. The guy with the dog.”
“I’ve no time for that. I tell you I’ve got to go,” said Helmsley.
“Not until Bolt gets back. You heard him,” said Gyp.
“You do not go without me,” said the black man.
That must be Loka, nephew of the High Chief, Lamanda’s brother. She recognized the eminent brother in this weaker face. They were arguing, but not about her. She felt her jaw, and the
scene in the cab came back to her. Helmsley had hit Hero. He didn’t seem the sort who was capable of that. You never could tell about men.
“I’m wasting time. I tell you I’ve got to be back in an hour or the deal’s off,” said Helmsley.
“Bolt said wait here,” said Gyp. “You wait.”
“I think you lie. You want to steal image,” said Loka.
Helmsley stamped his foot in exasperation.
“I tell you, the deal is made. One million eight hundred thousand quid. If I get back by three!” he shouted.
“Oh sure,” said Gyp. “What you been smoking, man?”
“For such an amount, why would anyone be in that big a hurry?” said Loka sarcastically.
Helmsley took a card from his pocket and waved it angrily. “Here it is, in black and white. The Sheik of Suda-Kalara. Seven Savile Place. Waiting to give us, give me one million eight hundred thousand British pounds sterling cash for that object—if I get it there by three,” he shouted.
“You said that before,” said Gyp calmly. “Bolt will be back by five. You can wait.”
“Lady,” said Loka. “Who is the man with the dog?”
“His name is Walker. Nobody anybody ever heard of,” shouted Helmsley, reaching the end of his patience.
“Did he see you kill that Duke?” said Gyp.
“I never heard of no man called Walker,” said Loka. “Why do the police want him, lady?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her head spinning.
“You better know when Bolt gets here. He likes answers, lady,” said Gyp, pronouncing the last word sarcastically.
“What is your part in this, lady?” said Loka.
She looked at him steadily, suddenly angry with him for what he was and what he had done.
“I am a friend of Lamanda Luaga,” she said, staring into his bloodshot eyes. He reacted as though he had been hit with a whip. He recoiled, his body trembled, he threw up his hands as though avoiding a blow.
“Who?” said Gyp.
Loka shook his head and turned away, too upset to talk. She had touched a vital, tender spot.
Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 15] Page 10