Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 10]

by The Goggle-Eyed Pirates (v0. 9) (epub)

  “They’ll be getting their robes elsewhere for this pending job, obviously.”

  “Yes, we’re looking into that,” said Kiwanda. “I have a man already checking on purchases of large quantities of goggles, robes, and so forth.”

  “Still nothing on the helicopter?”

  “No, not a sign of it. There are a good many stray unregistered helicopters and light planes in Bangalla. Mercenaries working for some of our neighboring countries store them here; some are the surplus of one small war or another.” He paused, tapping his desk with the pen tip. “Something else has come up, but at the moment I’m not sure how it ties in. You are not the only unorthodox investigator I have to contend with.”

  “Lumbard has turned up something?”

  The lieutenant nodded. “A dead man,” he said. “Stabbed.”

  “I had the idea these pirates didn’t go in for killing.”

  “This may not be their work,” said Kiwanda. “Lumbard called me early this morning to tell me of a murdered man he’d found in a room in a second-rate hotel near the harbor.”

  “Who was he?”

  Opening a drawer, Kiwanda took out a wallet. ‘He was registered as Gomes. He told Lumbard and Bockman his name was Serafim. His identification says he’s a Portuguese national named Joaquim Machado. I’m having a check run on his prints.”

  “How did Lumbard happen to stumble on him?”

  “All he told me over the phone was that the man had approached them last night and offered to sell them information about the pirates. They were to meet this morning to discuss a deal.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “That,” said Kiwanda, shaking his head, “Lumbard did not wait around to tell me. When I arrived at the hotel with two of my men he and his partner were not anywhere in sight. I haven’t heard from them since.”

  “So,” speculated the Phantom, “it’s possible they got some kind of information from the man, after all'?” “Since they haven’t seen fit to confide in me, I can’t say for sure,” said Kiwanda. “Soon, perhaps when we have our new computer, I may crack down on all the unorthodox people I have to deal with.” He held the

  wallet out to the Phantom. “Do you know this man, by the way?”

  The Phantom studied the photo in the wallet. “No, afraid not.” Standing, he tossed the wallet to the desktop. “When do you think you’ll have the list of ships?”

  “By this afternoon, hopefully. Call me then,” the lieutenant said. “And try to become more orthodox.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The gray Mercedes sedan climbed silently up the twisting street. Deep in the back seat, Brupp sat toying with the chromed lid of the ashtray. “I don’t like it,” he said.

  Brian was resting on his tailbone, knees higher than his head, hands locked behind his head. “Don’t like what, old fellow?”

  “Stop using that phony limey act on me,” said the pudgy pink man. “I don’t like anything. The way things are going. Nothing.”

  “Is that why you sent for me and dragged me along for this mobile conference?”

  “Everything that’s gone blooey is your fault.”

  “I had hoped the purpose of our talk was my reinstatement as a full partner in our next little seafaring adventure.”

  “We’re going to be using our alternative plan on the next caper.”

  Both Brian’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh, really? That’ll be jolly novel,” he said. “Same ship and departure date?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, you know best.”

  “Damn right I do,” agreed Brupp.

  The car came to the crest of a hill, turned into a small circular park, and stopped. The black chauffeur turned off the engine, removed his uniform cap, and began studying a thick book on public accounting.

  “We’ll take a little stroll,” Brupp told the young man.

  “Once around the park, eh?”

  After stepping free of the car, Brupp wandered over to the nearest stretch of lawn. He halted, taking in a large deep breath. “The alternate plan is going to be trickier.”

  “One would think so.”

  “But it should work. I got a feeling, despite a couple bum breaks lately, that luck is still running with us.” He commenced strolling toward a grove of tall palm trees. ‘What I want you to do—”

  “This is still for one percent of the next take?” “You’re damn lucky you’re getting even that” Brupp told him. “I might as well tell you that at least a couple of the others suggested passing the box on you.”

  “In anticipation of the old blackball?”

  “You guessed it, buster.” Brupp thrust his hands in his pants pockets. “But I said nix to that, for now. I don’t want any more killing.”

  “Any more? Has someone been killed?”

  “Guy named Gomes or something. He tried to get money out of the guy who owns the copter we used this last time,” Brupp said, “Asked for ten thousand bucks.”

  “What did he know?”

  By some fluke, this Gomes was nosing around

  Ngoma when our chopper came down the other night.”

  “Very unsettling, quite nerve-racking.”

  “Copter guy told Gomes to come back in the morning for his payoff. Then he called us. That was the end of Gomes.”

  “In it alone was he, this Gomes chap?”

  “Yeah, we made sure of that.”

  “Then there’s nothing to fret about.”

  “There’s plenty to fret about, buster. For one thing, the loot has got to be moved sooner than planned. Just in case somebody else does know about it.” Brupp slapped a hand at the bole of a palm tree as he passed it. “And I had to ship that nitwit countess out of town.”

  “What’s the purpose of that?”

  “Somehow, buster, your old buddy Walker found out who made the robes we used on our most recent job,” said the pudgy pink man, slapping at another tree. “He broke into Napoleon’s shop last night, knocked out that skinny blonde who works for Napoleon, and then went through the files.”

  “A bloody shame,” said Brian. “Then the coppers must know about the countess as well.”

  “A safe bet.” Brupp halted abruptly, resting his back against a tree. “We got to put a stop to Walker. Either he’s damn smart or damn lucky. Either way, he’s trouble.”

  “Has Truex been able to learn where the lad has his digs?”

  “Walker finally came calling on that Palmer dame this morning. The two of them had breakfast in some joint near her hotel.”

  “Top hole,” said Brian. “Truex was able to follow him from there.”

  “No, Walker caught a cab in front of the hotel,” said Brupp. “When Truex ran up to get the next one, the doorman held him back while some old coot in a wheelchair got in. So Walker s trail is just as cold as it ever was.”

  “Truex must learn patience.”

  “No time for that,” said Brupp. “I want Walker out of the picture before the next job gets going.”

  “Going to be ruddy tough to do if you have to wait until the chappy decides to dine with Diana again.” “Were not going to wait.” Leaning forward from the tree, Brupp reached up and caught hold of Brian’s shoulder. “You, buster, are going to get Walker to walk right into our parlor.”

  “And how am I going to do that?”

  Brupp told him.

  CHAPTER 19

  Ngoma was a ramshackle, swayback town which looked as though it had been out too long in the rain and sun. It was spread, in an illogical and disorderly fashion, over a level stretch of countryside which bordered on foothills and mountains. Slowly and patiently, the jungle was closing in on Ngoma. Thick, shaggy vines, spiky brush, and an interlacing of foliage were already working their way along the dusty backroads and side streets of the small town.

  Lumbard and Bockman approached it at midday. They saw it ahead of them, at the end of the shadowy tunnel of a road they were following through the jungle forest, glaring a hazy yellow.

>   “Nice place to visit,” said Lumbard, “but I wouldn’t want to live here.”

  Bockman reached into the glove compartment again for the stick of insect repellent. He rubbed it on his arms and face. “This trip’s been very educational. I’ve learned about at least two dozen new kinds of bugs.”

  Their jeep bounced along the dusty road, leaving the jungle and entering the town. Several stray dogs took notice of their arrival by barking and growling, but none of them bothered to leave their patches of shade beneath buildings and porches.

  “How do you figure to go about locating the helicopter?” asked Bockman. “Providing it’s even here?”

  “We’ll ask questions.”

  “Don’t you think maybe a more subtle approach is called for?”

  “Pretty tough to arrive in a place like this and go nosing around without attracting attention.” Lumbard aimed their bouncing vehicle toward the edge of the street. “So we’ll be brash, or partially so anyway. We’ll be asking about the late Serafim-Gomes-Machado in relation to an insurance claim we have to settle. See what results.”

  ‘We may get knifed.”

  “There’s hardly any job you can get these days that doesn’t involve some risk.” He parked their jeep and jumped down to the wooden sidewalk. “This looks like as good a place as any to begin.”

  Rising on his right was a dismal wooden building, thin and lopsided. On its weathered front hung, held up by two chains of unequal length, a faded sign which said “Miners’ Rest Hotel.”

  They climbed the warped steps and went inside to start asking questions.

  Afternoon shadows fell across the veranda of the abandoned house. Bockman eased down into the ghost of a rattan chair near the doorless doorway. “For a guy with such a nice friendly smile,” he said, “you’d think Serafim would have made a few friends in town.”

  Lumbard tested the veranda rail with a push. It made a crackling sound and a three-foot section fell over and down into the weeds and passion vines below. He moved to the front of the house, gave that a push. Then he leaned against it. After wiping his forehead, he took out his notebook from the hip pocket of his khaki trousers. “So far, twenty-six people, including hotel clerks, bartenders, shopkeepers, and hangers-on have admitted to not knowing him at all”

  “Could be they’re covering up.”

  “Sure, but I can’t quite see how we’re going to get anybody to admit that. Nobody even showed much interest in my hints of a cash payment for some news about Serafim and his activities.”

  “We still don’t know if he was even staying in this town, where he was living, what he was doing.”

  ‘Well, there are a few more shops and bistros to check out,” said Lumbard. “If we still draw a blank after that I’m going to haul out those maps of Ngoma and environs I bought this morning.”

  “It’s going to take awhile to locate a hidden landing field around here. You don’t need much space to land a copter, anyway.”

  “I remain optimistic. We’ve gotten this far and I think we’ll find out more.”

  “Maybe the maid threw that railroad ticket in Serafim’s wastebasket, found it out in the hall someplace, and—”

  “Hsst!”

  Bockman turned, causing his fragmentary chair to tilt far to one side. “Hey.”

  Inside the ruined house stood a man, decorated with stripes of sunlight and shade. “Act very natural,

  gentlemen,” he whispered. “I can tell you about Joaquim Machado, but I must not be seen doing so.” “We’ll come in there with you,” suggested Lumbard.

  “No, it would not be safe. Do you know Ngozi Street?”

  “We can find it.”

  “Do not ask anyone to direct you. It is three streets above this one,” whispered the man inside the empty house. “Meet me in ten minutes at 116 Ngozi Street. It is a small abandoned store; use the back entrance.” “What do you know about Machado?”

  “Much,” answered the man. “I know what he found.”

  “Then you—?”

  “Be prepared to pay me for what I have to tell.”

  A board creaked once, then there was only silence inside the house.

  Lumbard moved to the doorway, glanced in. “Departed,” he said.

  “Let’s get us over to Ngozi Street.” Bockman stood and his chair fell over.

  The store was made of wood, with a slanting bamboo roof. Next to it was a lot which had been taken over by the jungle. The cracked foundation of a vanished building showed through the tangle of growth.

  Lumbard led the way to the rear door. He looked up into the hot yellow sky just before reaching for the knob. “Those look like vultures circling way up there.” “More likely crows.”

  Lumbard turned the doorknob and pulled the door open. He and his partner entered the storeroom of the deserted food shop. There was a damp smell; smears of dust and black mildew were on the walls. A still.

  connected faucet in one of the walls was dripping water down on an abandoned sack of com meal.

  “These bugs, I recognize,” said Bockman, looking down at the scurrying cockroaches underfoot.

  “Gentlemen, your hands,” said the thickset man who stepped in from the other room.

  “Oops,” said Lumbard.

  Another big man followed the first. Both of them held revolvers.

  CHAPTER 20

  Forty-one beach unbrellas dotted the vast terrace of Diana’s hotel. Each umbrella sheltered a round metal table. The dark-haired girl’s table was near the imitation marble railing of the terrace. She had a descending view of tile roofs, white stucco buildings, mosaic fagades and then bright blue water.

  Location’s different, she was thinking, but this still reminds me of my last vacation. That one she had spent in San Francisco, waiting while the Phantom tracked down a gang of criminals.

  “Miss will be having lunch alone?” A chubby black waiter in a sky-blue jacket had stopped beside her table.

  “Yes, I—”

  “Not at all, old girl,” said a familiar voice. "We’ll be having a splendid tete-a-tete. Waiter, fetch the wine list.”

  Diana felt a sudden tightness in her chest. She swallowed once, then managed to speak in a

  relatively normal voice. “Well, Brian Folkestone. How are you?”

  “Splendid, Miss Palmer, absolutely top hole.” He took the chair opposite her, resting his sharp elbows on the table.

  The waiter went hurrying away.

  “I’m glad to ”

  “Actually,” said Brian, in a lower voice, “I’m not feeling too very well at all, Miss Palmer. I’m in a bit of a jam, got the wind up and all that. But I’m hoping you can lend a hand.”

  Diana asked, “What sort of trouble?”

  “It’s this bloody pirate mess.”

  “You lost a great deal to them?”

  “That’s not the ruddy problem at all,” said the lanky young man. He rubbed at his temple with his fingers, gazing across at her. “Never mind the reasons, but I found myself recendy needing a spot of cash. Quite a large spot. I’d exhausted all the usual sources and I was starting to think it was debtor’s prison for the Folkestone heir when I ran into a lad who was recruiting for this gang of pirates. Seems they were very keen to have upper-class and presentable-type fellows such as myself. It all sounded like something of a lark, travel around the world to all the posh spots, going first class all the way. The fact that one was a pirate really didn’t seem too important.”

  “How long have you been with them?”

  “Only a matter of a few weeks, Miss Palmer, but it seems like a bloody age,” said Brian. “Ah, but here’s our list of the vintner’s best.” He took the silver-covered list from the hovering waiter. “Let’s see now ... I think today is definitely a day for a good Chablis.” He poked a long finger at an item on the list. “We’ll have a bottle of this, waiter.”

  “I don’t really think,” began Diana.

  “You must, Miss Palmer,” the lanky young man insisted.
“I won’t feel launched on my new career unless you join me in a toast.”

  ‘'Well, all right then.”

  When the waiter had left them, Brian said, “You see, I’ve made up my mind to part company with the whole lot of them.”

  “And why have you come to tell me about it?”

  He grinned at her. “For one thing, I’ve had the feeling you were on to me, Miss Palmer, and suspected I was one of these pirate beggars,” he explained. “But, there’s another reason. I have the distinct impression your chum Walker is some kind of high mucky-muck with the law, a regular police walla. I’m prepared, as they say in the penny press, to tell all. I hope . . . well, that it may go a bit easier with me if I make a clean breast of things and tell everything I know.”

  “Have you considered simply going to the Mawitaan police?”

  “Ah, here comes our wine.”

  The chubby waiter held the label side of the chill bottle toward Brian. “Here you are, sir.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, grinning. “An excellent little vineyard and a very good year for them.”

  The waiter set the bottle on the table, fished a copper-plated corkscrew out of a pocket in his sky-blue coat. He uncorked the white wine and poured a sample in Brian’s glass.

  After a thoughtful sip, Brian said, “Excellent, absolutely wizard.”

  The waiter moved to fill Diane’s glass.

  “Here, let me do all that,” offered Brian. ‘1 feel

  more like a host, more in the Dickensian mood, if I handle all these details myself.” He left his chair.

  The waiter grinned back at him, handed over the bottle, “As you wish, sir.”

  Brian poured a glass of Chablis for Diana, then held it up to the sunlight. “Do I detect a speck of cork?” He tapped a finger against the edge of the glass. “No, I think not.”

  “It does not seem possible, sir,” said the waiter, who was standing by.

  “Just to be on the safe side,” said Brian. He walked around to his place, put Diana’s glass down, took up his own and filled it. “There.”

  After the girl had accepted the new glass, she lifted it in his direction. “Well, here’s to a new leaf.”