by Lee Falk
The Story of THE PHANTOM
Co-published by Avon Books and King Features Syndicate
AVON
PUBLISHERS OF BARD, CAMELOT, DISCUS, EQUINOX AND FLARE BOOKS
PROLOGUE
HOW IT ALL BEGAN
Over four hundred years ago, a large British merchantman was attacked by Singg pirates off the remote shores of Bangalla. The captain of the trading vessel was a famous seafarer who, in his youth, had served as cabin boy to Christopher Columbus on his first voyage to discover the New World. With the captain was his son, Kit, a strong young man who idolized his father and hoped to follow him as a seafarer. But the pirate attack was disastrous. In a furious battle, the entire crew of the merchantman was killed and the ship sank in flames. The sole survivor was young Kit who, as he fell off the burning ship, saw his father killed by a pirate. Kit was washed ashore, half-dead. Friendly pygmies found him and nursed him to health.
One day, walking on the beach, he found a dead pirate dressed in his father's clothes. He realized this was the pirate who had killed his father. Grief-stricken, he waited until vultures had stripped the body clean. Then on the skull of his father's murderer, he swore an oath by firelight as the. friendly pygmies watched. "I swear to devote my life to the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty, and injustice, and my sons and their sons shall follow me."
This was the Oath of the Skull that Kit and his descent dants would live by. In time, the pygmies led him to their home in the Deep Woods in the center of the jungle, where he found a large cave with many rocky chambers. The mouth of the cave, a natural formation carved by the water and wind of centuries, was curiously like a skull. This became his home, the Skull Cave. He soon adopted a mask and a strange costume. He found that the mystery and fear this inspired helped him in his endless battle against worldwide piracy. For he and his sons who followed became known as the nemesis of pirates everywhere, a mysterious man whose face no one ever saw, whose name no one knew, who worked alone.
As the years passed, he fought injustice wherever he found it. The first Phantom and the sons who followed found their wives in many places. One married a reigning queen, one a princess, one a beautiful red-haired barmaid.
But whether queen or commoner, all followed their men back to the Deep Woods to live the strange but happy life of the wife of the Phantom. And of all the world, only she, wife of the Phantom, and their children could see his face.
Generation after generation was born, grew to manhood, and assumed the tasks of the father before him. Each wore the mask and costume. Folk of the jungle and the city and sea began to whisper that there was a man who could not die, a Phantom, a Ghost Who Walks. For they thought the Phantom was always the same man. A boy who saw the Phantom would see him again fifty years after, and he seemed the same. And he would tell his son and his grandson, and his son and grandson would see the Phantom fifty years after that. And he would seem the same. So the legend grew. The Man Who Cannot Die. The Ghost Who Walks. The Phantom.
The Phantom did not discourage this belief in his immortality. Always working alone against tremendous—sometimes almost impossible—odds, he found that the awe and fear the legend inspired was a great help in his endless battle against evil. Only his friends, the pygmies, knew the truth. To compensate for their stature, these tiny people mixed deadly poisons for use on their weapons in hunting or defense. But it was rare that they were forced to defend themselves. Their deadly poisons were known through the jungle, and they and their home, the Deep Woods, were dreaded and avoided. There was another reason to stay away from the Deep Woods—it soon became known that this was a home of the Phantom, and none wished to trespass.
Through the ages, the Phantoms created several more homes or hideouts in various parts of the world. Near the Deep Woods was the Isle of Eden, where the Phantom taught all animals to live in peace. In the southwest desert of the New World, the Phantoms created an aerie on a high steep mesa that was thought by the Indians to be haunted by evil spirits and became known as Walker's Table—for The Ghost Who Walks. In Europe, deep in the crumbling cellers of the ancient ruins of a castle, the Phantom had another hideout from which to strike against evildoers.
But the Skull Cave in the quiet of the Deep Woods remained the true home of the Phantom. Here, in a rocky chamber, he kept his chronicles, written records of all his adventures. Phantom after Phantom faithfully wrote his experiences in the large folio volumes. Another chamber contained the costumes of all the generations of Phantoms«
Other chambers contained the vast treasures of the Phantom, acquired over centuries, used only in the endless battle against evil.
Thus, twenty generations of Phantoms lived, fought, and died, usually violently, as they followed their oath. Jungle folk, sea folk, and city folk believed him the same man, the Man Who Cannot Die. Only the pygmies knew that, always, a day would come when their great friend would lie dying. Then, alone, a strong young son would carry his lather to the burial crypt of his ancestors where all Phantoms rested. As the pygmies waited outside, the young man would emerge from the cave wearing the mask, the costume, and the Skull Ring of the Phantom; his carefree happy days as the Phantom's son were over. And the pygmies would chant their age-old chant, "The Phantom is dead. Long Live the Phantom."
The story of Killer's Town is an adventure of the Phantom of our time—the twenty-first generation of his line. He has inherited the traditions and responsibilities created by four centuries of Phantom ancestors. One ancestor created the Jungle Patrol. Thus, today, our Phantom is the mysterious and unknown commander of this elite corps. In the jungle, he is known and loved as The Keeper of the Peace. On his right hand is the Skull Ring that leaves his mark— the Sign of the Skull—known and feared by evildoers everywhere. On his left hand—closer to the heart—is his "good mark" ring. Once given, the mark grants the lucky bearer protection by the Phantom, and it is equally known and respected. And to good people and criminals alike in the jungle, on the seven seas, and in the cities of the world he is the Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks, the Man Who Cannot Die.
Lee Falk
New York
1973
With the precision that comes from long practice, the governor-General of New Metropolis launched a squirt of tobacco juice that traveled the full length of his long skinny body to hit a wasp hovering near his bare, dirty big toe. The blast hit the insect broadside, dropping it onto a heap of trash and garbage just over the edge of the veranda. The Governor-General chuckled triumphantly, took a gulp of warm beer from a can, and with his free hand scratched several exposed parts of his body to relieve a chronic itch.
It was not only his big toe that was dirty. It is unlikely (hat there was a bar of soap in any of the forty-seven empty rooms of the mansion. The Governor-General, stretched out on a sagging chaise lounge, wore only ragged trousers and a torn shirt that were dirty as the skin beneath. His hair and beard were matted and scraggly. But as he reclined on the creaky chaise lounge, all the land that stretched before his bleary eyes was his.
Beyond the trash and weeds that covered what had been the front lawn of the Governor-General's mansion was a street with three blocks of stone and wood buildings. All the glass in the windows had long since been shattered. Broken doors and shutters banged and sagged on rusty hinges. Roofs and walls had collapsed. Grass and bushes grew on the street and sidewalk, uprooting the concrete slabs. There were butterflies in the grass, lizards in the weeds, spiders on webs in windows and doors, a hungry cat searching in the rubble, a bird pausing on the roof. Beyond that, no life stirred.
New Metropolis had been a ghost town for twenty-five years. Gold had been discovered nearby, creating the short-lived boom town. During its brief period of glory, New Metropolis burst with life—miners, their women, and
all the rest who came to find their fortunes. But the gold vein was shallow, quickly exhausted, and despite a frantic search there was no more gold. So the town died.
While it died, one man gradually acquired all the property for less and less, buying some, winning some at cards, stealing the rest. He finally owned the entire town, having some dim notion that the boom years might return. They never did.
A ghost town is not unusual. They are found all over the world, usually with histories similar to this one. But New Metropolis was unique in one way. The area, perhaps a thousand acres overall, was not under the sovereignty of any nation. It was a no-man's land—on the border of Bangalla and the neighboring Lower Gamma. Both nations had disputed the property and at one time sent troops who glared at each other from a safe distance, then withdrew* both deciding it was not worth fighting over.
The owner of New Metropolis, elected mayor and self- appointed Governor-General, Matthew Crumb, had watched the soldiers from the second-floor ballroom window of his forty-seven-room mansion. The mansion was in better shape in those days. A few of the rooms were still furnished, and one of the fifteen bathrooms still worked. He watched with some anxiety. He knew the politicians of both countries, and he also knew that, whichever country won, he would lose. It was with vast relief that he saw them withdraw, though he was furious when he learned the reason—neither country thought his town was worth firing one bullet to get.
The twenty-five years passed. The boom never returned. Matthew Crumb and New Metropolis sank together in apathy into the jungle. Time, moths, termites, rust, and alcohol did their slow destruction.
Governor-General Matthew Crumb blinked and stared, and listened alertly. Was it possible? There were remains of an old wall and a gaping gateway at the end of the street. An automobile was entering his domain. Butterflies, lizards, spiders, birds, and the cat scurried into hiding. This was an amazing event. No strangers had come here in years.
Two men got out of the car. They were well dressed in dark clothes and hats—city men—and from the sound of them not of Bangalla. They looked at the faded glories of New Metropolis.
"This is the place," said one of them.
"Phooey," said the other. "Are you sure?
"Sure."
The two men walked to the broken fence of the mansion and slowly approached the veranda, avoiding the trash, garbage, and animal offal. Matthew Crumb, remaining on his broken chaise lounge, watched them as they came near. He sipped the beer slowly, barely interested. Whatever they wanted, directions probably, they would ask. They didn't
matter to him, one way or another. The men stopped at the edge of the porch. One of them had soiled his highly polisged brown shoes, and muttered an obscenity.
"Are you Matthew Crumb?" he said.
"I am."
"We want to talk to you."
The Governor-General of New Metropolis lowered his beer can and wiped his mouth with a filthy sleeve.
"Go ahead and talk," he said.
The headline tells the story:
Killer Koy Loses Appeal Ganglord and top aides to be Deported
Killer Koy was proud of his nickname. He had earned it. During his violent career up to that point, it was alleged that he had committed four murders himself and ordered a dozen more. He was indicted four times but was never found guilty. The cases were dismissed for lack of evidence —witnesses against him forgot, or disappeared. In those years, Koy was involved in almost every major crime known to man. Robbery, arson, extortion, bribery, assault, drugs, prostitution, and, of course, murder. He was finally nailed down and sentenced to ten years in a federal penitentiary for income-tax evasion, just like his idol, the late A1 Capone. He served the sentence with three years off for good behavior. He came out, arrogant and roaring mad, determined never to spend another hour in jail.
But he was promptly hauled before the Immigration Service to face deportation. It seems that Koy, an immigrant, had never taken the time to become a citizen. He hired a battery of lawyers and fought the deportation from court to court, but finally lost—to the relief of practically everybody in the fifty states of the Union.
This created a new problem. Nobody wanted him. His native Rumania took one horrified look at his record and said no I Thirty other nations on both sides of the Atlantic also said no. Koy was livid.
"Find me a place," he roared at his hard working-aides —a polite name for thugs.
"We're trying," said one aide. "So far, thirty places said no."
"There are a lot more countries," said another aide hopefully. "We'll find one."
"Not a big one, a little one," said Koy. "A place where I can operate—without law."
"No law? Like where—the North Pole?"
"No North Pole. A warm place," shouted Koy. The aides 18
left him in his, cell; he was now being detained by the Immigration Service.
"Make it fast I've had enough of bars," he called after them.
When Koy said fast, he meant fast. His thugs worked frantically. They contacted every criminal gang in the west- iTii world. They tried South America, - Asia, and Africa. They tried Bangalla. They found New Metropolis.
Eagle and Sport were the two Koy aides who found the place. Eagle was a disbarred lawyer; Sport was a former professional wrestler and dance-hall bouncer. Brains and brawn.
"You own this place?" said Eagle.
"Lock, stock, and barrel," said Matthew Crumb, adding a belch for emphasis.
"Want to sell it?"
"What part?"
"All of it."
Matthew chuckled and had another gulp.
"This rubbish heap? You're either crazy or pulling my leg."
Sport growled, "Want me to work him over?"
"No, stupid. We're serious. We want the whole place. How much?"
"Hell, I'd settle for a case of booze," said the Governor- General.
"You got a deal," said Eagle.
Matthew's eyes opened wide for the first time. He sat up.
"Wait a minute. I got a thousand acres. I want a good price."
"Don't worry. You got a good deal," said Eagle.
"Bangalla? Where in hell's that?" asked Koy.
They showed it to him on the map, which meant nothing to him.
"It's in the jungle," explained Eagle.
"How about the law."
"No law."
"How come no law?"
"The whole place is yours. You're the law."
"Me?" said Koy, excited for the first time. "You sure, Eagle?"
"Sure," said Eagle, holding up his briefcase. "I've got the papers."
"What do they call this place?" said Koy. "New Metropolis." "That's a lousy name."
"It's your place. You can give it a new name." "Yeah, I've got to get a good new name for my town, said Killer Koy, grinning.
The departure of Killer Koy and his entourage did not p> unnoticed. Reporters and TV cameras were at the airport, as well as immigration officials to make sure Koy ac- tunlly left.
"Where you going, Killer?" a TV reporter asked, shoving ii microphone at Koy.
"None of your damned business," said Koy, snarling a few choice epithets into the live microphone, which •hocked a mid-afternoon housewives' audience from coast to coast.
Koy's arrival at the Bangalla airport also did not go unnoticed. Black Police Chief Togando watched the six toughs who came down the plane's stairs with Koy. All carried heavy-looking hand luggage. They left the airport with two dozen trunks and boxes. Four taxis carried them through I he town and into its outskirts. Chief Togando followed in a squad car as far as the jungle's edge and watched with surprise as the cars turned into the jungle, onto a dirt road known as the Phantom Trail. What would these men do in the jungle, he wondered. Perhaps they carried camping equipment, though they didn't look like campers. He left a man to see if they returned. The jungle was not in his jurisdiction.
"That's the place," said Eagle proudly.
Koy stared at the ghost town. It was
already being transformed as a small army of workmen moved among the ruined buildings.
"That's my town?" said Koy in disbelief. "That dump heap?" He turned angrily on Eagle. "Is this your great idea?"
"Patience, Killer," said Eagle, retreating a step. "They're fixing it up. Wait till they finish it."
"Yeah, meantime, am I supposed to sleep under a bush?" shouted Koy.
"Now take it easy, boss," said Sport in his deep rumbling voice. "Eagle got you a fancy suite at the hotel in town."
"Yeah. We stay there till this is ready. You'll love it."
A barefoot man tottered toward them. He tottered because he was drunk.
"Mr. Eagle," he called. "Where's my money?"
"Who's that bum?" growled Koy.