“And does he know of this offer to us, and the subsequent events, the death of Helmsley, et cetera, et cetera?” Taras asked.
“He does not know about Helmsley or that Loka came here. Not yet. I intend to call him as soon as I have a moment.”
“A good idea. You know where this law enforcer is?”
“Mr. Walker,” said Diana.
“Where Mr. Walker can be reached?” he said, his voice kind.
“Not now. I’ll leave a message at my hotel for him that I am here,” she said.
“This Mr. Walker, he is someone special to you?” he said, smiling in a friendly way.
“He is my good friend.”
“Ah yes. Then he will be concerned about your safety. He is a man to be envied,” he added gallantly.
She nodded and smiled. The world was getting back to normal again. “May I use your phone now, please.”
“In a moment,” he smiled. “His Highness is busy with it now.”
He walked toward the door where the Sheik had exited.
“Will you excuse me for a moment. Please be seated,” he said, gesturing to the sofa. “You also, Loka,” he added.
Diana went to the sofa. Loka sat on an ottoman near the window. They sat in silence. She avoided his eyes.
“My brother,” he began. She glanced at him, then looked away. He was quiet for a moment, drumming up courage. “Please,” he said hesitantly, “if you see my brother ... if you see Lamanda, will you kindly, please, not tell him about this.”
She looked at him and felt a wave of sympathy. His voice had been anxious, sincere. He was wanted for three murders—for which he might have difficulty proving his innocence—and he was wanted for a robbery that made him an outcast among his people. Yet, his main concern, at least now, was that his brother should not know. She shook her head.
“He will not need me tt> tell him,” she said.
He lowered his head in his hands. They sat in silence, watched by one of the big guards. The other one had gone out a side door. He reappeared carrying a tray with a brass pot and small brass cups containing thick sweet Turkish coffee. Diana accepted a cup gratefully. She needed something. The giant tapped Loka on the shoulder. He looked up, shook his head, and covered his face with his hands again. The aide Taras returned.
“You wish coffee, Loka?” he said. Loka shook his head. Taras shrugged and the guard left the room. Diana sipped her coffee. It tasted good. She realized she was hungry and wondered if there were any cookies.
“May I call my hotel now?” she asked.
“In a moment,” he said. “We wish to thank you for your information. It has clarified many questions we had in this matter, and has enabled us to reach a satisfactory decision.”
Loka looked up. “You will give me the money, one million eight hundred thousand British pounds sterling, cash?” he said.
“We will discuss that in a moment. Miss Palmer, are you living here in London?”
“No, New York.”
“Ah yes. I should have known. Your accent. But you have relatives and friends here?” he continued, making conversation.
“Not really. Just my good friend,” she said, smiling.
“Ah, the man with the dog. Mr. Walker?”
Diana tittered. She was feeling lightheaded. “Everybody thinks it’s a dog. It’s really a wolf.”
Loka looked up at that. The word “wolf” rang a bell somewhere, but he couldn’t place it.
“How unusual,” said the polite man in the flowing blue burnoose.
“He’s an unusual man,” she said thickly. Her eyes were heavy. She suddenly realized how tired she was. It had been a dreadful day. She yawned and struggled to keep her eyes open. The room was spinning. The man in blue seemed to float before her and his voice came from a distance.
“You look tired, Miss Palmer. Close your eyes and rest.”
“Do you mind ... do you mind?” she tried to say, but the words wouldn’t come out right. Her tongue felt heavy, her eyes felt heavy, he said something else but he was too far away.
The cup fell from her hand, spilling a little coffee on her skirt. She toppled sideways onto the couch, her head hanging over the edge. At a signal, a guard came and straightened her out to a prone position. Loka watched in alarm. He was familiar with knockout drops. The coffee! He looked anxiously at the aide. The Sheik walked in. Over his creamy burnoose he wore a magnificent scarlet robe trimmed in gold braid. Instead of a hood, he now wore a golden turban, set off by an enormous ruby that twinkled like a headlight.
For the moment, Loka forgot the image. His mind was on the drugged girl who was a friend of his brother.
“She is a lady—high-class type—you must not hurt her,” he said awkwardly.
“She is going with us. You are going with us,” said Taras.
“With you? You must pay me. I will not go with you. Pay me. Pay me one million eight—”
The black giant approached him and took his arm.
“I need you,” said the Sheik. “I respect the legend of your people. In my palace, none will be permitted to touch the sacred image, none but you. You will guard it day and night.” He said all this slowly, in measured tones, as though reading an official paper.
“Guard it night and day? Where?” said Loka, confused.
“In my palace,” said the aide.
The Sheik walked to the door, having finished his conversation. Loka started after him. The guard took his arm and held him.
“I will not go. You cannot take the image. It is mine. Mine!” he shouted.
The Sheik turned at the door arid glanced at the guard. The guard struck Loka across the cheek, a hard blow that shook him.
“You will learn to speak when you are spoken to,” said Taras. “Not before.”
The Sheik looked at the image. “The image was stolen from my family—from our Queen. It now returns to its rightful place—to me,” he said.
“You promised to pay,” said Loka frantically.
He was cuffed hard again.
“Pay for what is mine? Now silence, slave, or you will lose your tongue,” said the Sheik in a matter-of-fact voice. He walked into the corridor, followed by a guard.
“Slave?” said Loka, gasping for breath.
Taras nodded. “We are an ancient kingdom. We hold to the old ways. You are now the property-of his Highness.”
“Property?” said Loka. “Property.”
The aide ignored the question. A guard was pushing a wheelchair into the room. Diana was lifted from the couch. A black gown was slipped over her body, and she was placed in the wheelchair. A heavy veil was put over her head. She was completely covered. The guard wheeled her to the door. Through a side door, Loka saw a half-dozen bellboys carrying luggage into the corridor. Then he stared at the departing wheelchair.
“It was decided this way. We could not leave the girl to pass on information. That would be stupid, would it not, slave?”
The guard led him toward the door. Loka pulled back. “If you make trouble, he will break your back. We will say you were a robber—how do they say—a mugger.” He pronounced it “muggaire.”
Taras left the drawing room for a moment, then returned with a leather suitcase. He held it near the image. He nodded to Loka.
“Place it in there,” he said.
Loka did as he was told. He locked the case.
“You will carry it now. You will always carry it, guard it, care for it, as his Highness commanded,” said the aide as they walked to the door.
“How . . . how long?” said Loka, dazed, his mind reeling.
“Always means as long as you live. If you are a good slave, that will be a long time.”
The guard gripped his arm tightly. He clutched the case.
They left the suite and descended in a special back elevator used by royalty and other important guests.
“Always. As long as you live.”
CHAPTER 14
Bolt knocked sharply on the door, three times. Th
e Phantom stood near him, and just behind was the young man with the gun partially concealed in his coat. The gunman had not spoken during the ride. But he balanced this by chewing loudly and juicily on gum. The Phantom wondered if he was an imported American thug.
Since there was no answer, Bolt knocked again, louder. The Phantom waited expectantly. His long search was at an end. Now, the sacred image and Loka. So he thought “Open up,” shouted Bolt impatiently. “What in hell are they doing in there? It’s me, Bolt!”
There was a weak sound from inside, something like a groan, something like a cry for help. Bolt hurriedly pulled a ring of jangling keys from his pocket and unlocked the door.
The room had not changed since Diana fled. Gyp lay on the floor, breathing hard, staring at them. The twisted body of Helmsley was near the pool table. That was all. No girl, no Loka, no image. Bolt took it all in at a glance, then shouted at the gunman who stood in the doorway, his mouth wide open. “Shut the door!” He bent over Helmsley. “Dead,” he muttered. He whirled to Gyp.
“What in hell’s going on here?” he shouted, confused by this unexpected scene. Gyp gasped and tried to talk.
“The man’s wounded. You going to leave him there?” asked the Phantom.
“You pick him up,” shouted Bolt. “Ed, keep your gun on him. If he makes a funny move, shoot him.”
The gunman nodded, chewing his gum madly now, the gun pointed, as the Phantom knelt at Gyp’s side and quickly examined his wound.
“Bullet wound . . . stomach . . . serious . . . could be worse . . . you’ll live,” he said to the Gypsy who stared at him. He lifted him carefully and placed him in the armchair (where Diana had been such a short time before). “You’d better call for an ambulance right away.”
“Sure, with a police escort,” snapped Bolt. He glared at Gyp. “What happened? Let’s have it, Gyp,” he commanded.
Gyp let him have it, in a hoarse whisper. How Helmsley had shot him and tried to take off with the thing . . . how Helmsley had fallen on the thing, and that did it. (The Phantom stiffened at that. Old Murph, Duke, now Helmsley. It seemed incredible—yet here it was. He could see the bloody stains on Helmsley’s shirt. However accidental it seemed each time, was this ancient curse for real? Who could deny it now, no matter how it was explained?)
“He fell on it?” said Bolt, interrupting Gyp’s story. “That’s what did it?”
Gyp nodded.
For a moment, Bolt stood stunned, recalling the scene when he’d almost touched the image. He looked toward the stranger, wide-eyed. “That curse—is it real?”
The stranger shrugged. “Who can say?”
Bolt rushed to the bar, poured a glass of whiskey and gulped it down. He breathed deeply. His panic subsided.
“Go on, Gyp,” he said. “What then? After he fell on the thing?”
Gyp continued his story. Black Loka had grabbed the image and run off with it. The American bird took off after him. There was a deal someplace that Helmsley had worked out—-one million eight hundred thousand. He stopped, exhausted from talking.
“One million eight? Deal? Where?” Bolt shouted, shaking Gyp by the shoulder. The gypsy groaned.
“Easy, man,” said the Phantom sharply. “He stopped bleeding. You’ll start it again.”
Bolt whirled on him, his face redder than usual. Events! and people were buzzing about him like hornets. He was used to running his own show. He’d lost control here.
“I’m asking you for the last time,” he shouted. The young gunman tightened his grip on the gun. “Who are you with the dog and . . . say, who’s that bird? You . . he said, suddenly putting them together.
“What bird?” said the Phantom with a foreboding.
“The American bird. Where do you two fit in this thing?” “How did she get here?”
“Him,” said Gyp, weakly pointing to the dead man.
The gambler whirled back to Gyp. “What deal? Where is it? Come on, man!”
His anxiety made him careless as he stepped in front of the Phantom. For a moment, he was in the line of fire, between the gunman and the Phantom. The moment was enough. The Phantom was behind him, powerful hands on his neck, using him as a shield.
“Tell him to drop the gun.”
“No,” yelled Bolt, twisting, trying to turn his body to one side. The startled gunman danced from one side to another, trying to find his target. But as he moved, the Phantom moved with his shield before him, the twisting, cursing, choking Bolt. The gambler was tall and wide and thick—big enough to shield even the Phantom. They went almost all the way around the pool table in a weird ballet—the Phantom holding and dragging Bolt, the gunman trying to dart around them, but not quickly enough.
“Tell him to put the gun on the pool table,” the Phantom told the sweating gambler. He applied more pressure. Bolt felt and heard his neck bones crackle. The power in those hands was capable pf tearing his head right off his shoulders, or so the terrified man imagined as he shrieked:
“Ed, put it down.”
The gunman hesitated and made another rush.
More pressure, more crackle.
“Ed, you idiot, do it,” choked Bolt as he was whirled around. “Now. Now!”
Bewildered, the gunman placed the gun on the green felt. A split second later, it was in the Phantom’s hand. He released Bolt, who slumped over the pool table.
“Put your coat on the table,” the Phantom ordered. The gunman obeyed. The Phantom took two guns from the pockets. His own. They had frisked, him in the car. “Sit on the floor.” The gunman obeyed. Gyp watched all this, as the Phantom returned his own guns to their holsters and pocketed the third gun.
“You the man with the dog?” Gyp asked weakly.
“Was the girl all right?” said the Phantom. Gyp nodded. “Where did she go?” Gyp shrugged. As long as he didn’t move, he seemed to have no pain. Another question from the man wearing the green sunglasses. “Where did Loka go?” Gyp clamped his lips together.
“Those two are not about to help you, Gyp. Your gun wound and that body mean trouble for them. If you tell me, I’ll send for an ambulance before I go.” He did not say what he’d do if Gyp didn’t tell him. Gyp imagined the worst. (And wrongly. The Phantom would send for help in any case.) Instead of answering, Gyp pointed weakly to a white card on the floor. It had remained where Loka dropped it.
As the Phantom bent down to pick it up, Boh, still at the pool table, glanced at his gunman. Together, they charged at the stranger’s back. This, they quickly discovered, was a mistake. At the first sound of their movements, he whirled about. His iron fist moved in a blur, landing twice with distinct “clumps.” The two men dropped as if hit with a sledgehammer.
He glanced at the card. “Seven Savile Place. Is that where they went?” Gyp nodded, staring at his fallen friends, then at the stranger. He’d never seen anyone hit so fast and so hard. The Phantom went to the bar and picked up the phone. “What’s the address here?” Gyp’s lips tightened. “You want an ambulance, or do you- want to die here?” asked the Phantom quietly.
“Thirty-five forty-seven Shrewtonbury Court,” said Gyp. With the operator’s help, the Phantom reached the police. “A fight at thirty-five forty-seven Shrewtonbury,” he reported. “One dead, one wounded, two unconscious, thirty-five forty-seven Shrewtonbury.” And he hung up before they could ask any questions.
He started for the door. Gyp groaned.
“What’ll I tell them about him?” he said, pointing weakly to Helmsley. “We didn’t do it.”
“Tell them the truth.”
“Will they believe it?”
“Try to sound convincing.”
“Bolt’ll be sore. Mister, will I be all right?”
But he was gone. The door remained ajar, saving the police the trouble of breaking it open when they arrived ten minutes later.
He hailed a cab, then stopped at the first phone booth and called Diana’s hotel. Out. She’d left no message. He went on, blaming himself for having let D
iana anywhere near this affair. He shuddered at the thought of her in that room, in the hands of those men. Where was she now? Safe somewhere, having tea, he hoped, but somehow, he knew that possibility was remote.
“His Highness is no longer here. His party checked out,” the supercilious clerk with the white carnation told him.
“When?”
“Recently.”
“Did a young woman, a Miss Palmer, come here?”
The clerk looked at him in annoyance. He was not at liberty to answer questions about guests.
“This is a police matter,” said the Phantom to the bored man. “Did she come here? Did she leave?”
“Without proper identification, we can’t reveal such matters, sir. What branch are you?” he asked loftily.
The Phantom grasped him by his well-pressed lapels.
“Talk, man. Was she here? And a man named Loka, a black man?”
“Both,” gasped the startled clerk. “They left—airport— not her.”
“What do you mean, not her?” he said, shaking him.
“Didn’t see her leave. Perhaps back stairs.”
“What room?”
“Suite forty-nine ...”
The doorman, noticing the argument, rushed in. But the Phantom had already left and galloped up the stairs. The clerk reached weakly for the phone and shouted into it, “Police!” The Phantom climbed rapidly to the third floor. He regretted his rough tactics with the clerk, but the statement that Diana had entered but had not been seen to leave shook him. He refused to speculate on what might have happened. He just had to get to that suite fast. The door of 49 was closed and locked. He looked about anxiously for a housemaid, someone to unlock the door. There was no one. He broke it open with a single powerful shove, and burst into the suite calling “Diana ... Diana.”
He ran through the drawing room. The occupants had left recently, and the place had not been cleaned or straightened yet. There were little brass coffee cups, newspapers, trash in the wastebaskets. He raced through the four bedrooms that comprised the suite. All the rooms showed evidence of recent departure—spilled powder and towels on the bathroom floors, a comb forgotten or abandoned, plates with halfeaten food, an empty wine bottle, rumpled beds. He looked in every closet and under beds. No Diana anywhere. He looked out the windows. All opened on the busy street. If she’d been pushed out, it would be no secret.
Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 15] Page 12