Killer's Town

by Lee Falk

  "Matthew Crumb, the guy we bought this place from," said Eagle.

  "Mr. Crumb, this is Mr. Koy, the new owner," said Eagle.

  Koy looked contemptuously at Crumb, the ragged pants and soiled shirt, dirt from head to foot, tobacco juice leaking from his mouth.

  "Pleased to meet you," said Crumb, putting out his hand.

  Koy chewed his cigar, looked stonily at Crumb, then spit out a wad of tobacco that hit Crumb's waist. Crumb pulled back his hand, and retreated a step from the menacing face of the new owner.

  "My money?" he said.

  "You'll get all that's coming to you," said Eagle.

  "My room, too. Don't forget my room," said Crumb anxiously.

  "What room?" demanded Koy.

  "Part of the deal," said Eagle apologetically. "He wanted a place to live. I promised him he could have a room in the new hotel."

  Koy looked at the anxious watery eyes, at the trembling tobacco-stained mouth of the barefoot derelict. Koy knew bums. He'd known them all his life.

  "Sure," he said, suddenly gentle. "Why not?"

  Then he looked around at the alien jungle, the big trees, the strange colors. "Let's get back to town," he said.

  Mawitaan's principle hotel, the Queen's Plaza—the name was a relic of the old colonial days—was in the center of town. It was a large sprawling comfortable place with huge rooms, high ceilings with revolving fans, broad colorful gardens. Koy felt more at home. Modern plumbing, wall-to- wall carpeting, room service. Liquor and ice were served, the men took off their coats and shoes, and were about to order lunch when Police Chief Togando knocked politely and entered. The Chief was black and his accent was strange, but he was a cop. Koy and his men were silent and wary.

  "What are you doing here, Mr. Koy?" said the Chief.

  "Passing through," said Koy.

  "You all have visitor's visas. They expire in three months."

  "We know that, Chief," said Eagle brightly.

  "We're private citizens, and we like privacy," said Koy, Blaring at the Chief.

  The jungle-bred Togando was not to be put down by a foreign hoodlum.

  "No funny business in this town, Mr. Koy. We obey the law here. We don't want any trouble from you," said the Chief quietly, his fingers idly playing with his gunbelt.

  Koy nodded. The chief looked coolly at the standing men —Eagle, Sport, the tall one called Slim, the fat one called Fats, the bald man called Baldy, the stocky one with curly hair called Spaghetti—a walking rogues gallery.

  "Good afternoon," said the Chief politely, and left. Koy spat on the carpet, smashed his burning cigar into the veneer finish of an end table, and swore.

  "That damned cop," he growled. "I'd like to let him have it."

  "Easy, Killer," said Eagle. "We're in his country."

  "Not for long," said Killer. "Where's my lunch?"

  Chief Togando's department policed the capital city of Mawitaan and its suburbs. Beyond that lay a thousand miles of jungle, bordered by seven nations. This was policed by the Jungle Patrol, an elite organization, two and a half centuries old, that was financially supported by all seven nations. This area of the world had been a haven for centuries for pirates, bandits, and escaped criminals. The Patrol's jurisdiction covered the long jungle borders and extended ten miles deep. A vast territory. The deep jungle, the land of the interior tribes, was beyond Patrol jurisdiction. It was ruled by the tribal chiefs and, it was whispered, by another whose name and person were lost in mystery. But more of him later.

  Chief Togando was troubled by the memory of the men he saw in the hotel suite. He was used to dealing with criminals, but these weren't like the usual run. He had sensed vicious brutality backed by money and a widespread powerful organization. He took his worries to his counterpart in the Patrol, Colonel Randolph Weeks, commanding officer (but not Commander) of the Jungle Patrol. Weeks was a cool, unflappable leader who had spent most of his adult life in this international patrol and had risen from the ranks to become its colonel.

  "What's a big-time hood like Koy doing in our little town, I keep asking myself," said Chief Togando, as he sat in Weeks's office at Jungle Patrol headquarters. "But I get no answers."

  He described bis meeting with Koy and the gang. "A frightening crowd." Weeks nodded.

  "Here on a visitor's visa, all of them," said Weeks. "The question is, where do they go from here? We know practically every country on earth has refused them a visa. The Bangalla foreign office was generous enough—or foolish enough—to give them a temporary visa. Maybe that was a mistake."

  "Yes, what worries me is why did they pick this place? They went directly from the airport into the jungle along the Phantom trail. Why, or how far in, I don't know," said Togando.

  "Neither of us has any answers," said Weeks. "I'll get Koy over here. Maybe he can supply some." He talked into his phone.

  "Send Sergeant Hill in, please," he said.

  A husky young patrolman entered, walked smartly to the desk, and stood at attention. There is no saluting in the Patrol.

  "Sergeant, a man named Koy is at the Queen's Plaza. Will you bring him to my office? I want to see him," said Weeks.

  "Yes sir," said Sergeant Dave Hill.

  "He is the gangster."

  "Yes sir, I know."

  "Some of his men are with him. Perhaps you need help."

  "How many men, sir?" said Sergeant Hill.

  Weeks glanced inquiringly at Chief Togando.

  "Koy and six others," said the Chief.

  "I'll manage it, sir," said Sergeant Dave Hill, smiling. There was an old adage in the patrol: One patrolman can handle ten criminals. True or not, they believed it. It was a fact that the patrolmen were the most carefully selected elite corps on earth. A thousand young men applied for entrance each year from all over the world. After rigorous physical and mental tests, only the top ten were accepted.

  "Right away, Sergeant Hill," said Colonel Weeks.

  "Yes sir."

  Killer Koy was still grumbling about Chief Togando when Sergeant Dave Hill knocked politely, then entered. Koy was having his lunch. Eagle spoke to Dave Hill at the door, then asked him to wait in the anteroom and reported to Koy. Though the doors were closed, Dave could hear Koy's angry roar. Eagle returned, white-faced.

  "He says we've already seen the police chief," said Eagle.

  "We're not police. We're Jungle Patrol. Our Colonel Weeks. wants to see Mr. Koy."

  Sorry, not today. Mr. Koy is busy," said Eagle, blocking the inner door.

  Dave Hill brushed him aside. Koy was seated at the table, a chicken leg in his hand. Three other men seated on a no In got up as Dave entered. Koy stared at him, speechless for the moment.

  "Sorry to break in, but I have my orders. I'm Sergeant Hill of the Jungle Patrol. Our Colonel Weeks wants to see you, Mr. Koy."

  Koy glared at Dave Hill. Patrolmen wear khaki shorts, hn h socks and short boots, tan shirts, pith helmets. No Ktins, except during jungle duty. Dave Hill was unarmed.

  Koy glared and swore, a string of obscenities that ended with ". . . and I've got no time for tin colonels and Boy Scouts. Get lost before we throw you out!"

  Dave Hill moved forward swiftly. He kicked the table over, spilling dishes, glasses, and plates all' over Koy and the floor. The violence of the move threw Koy back in his chair so that he fell against the wall. Before the other men could move, Dave Hill had grabbed Koy by his collar and produced handcuffs from a back pocket.

  "On your feet, you miserable hood," barked Sergeant Hill. "Are you coming with me, or do I have to put on these bracelets?" The other men had started forward. The sight of the gleaming handcuffs made them pause. All had served time in jail and the handcuffs meant the law, authority. Then Eagle held up a restraining hand.

  "Of course we'll go along with you, Sergeant," he said. "We want no trouble here, do we, Mr. Koy?"

  Koy breathed deeply.

  "Right. We'll go along with you, Boy Scout."

  "Good thinkin
g," said Sergeant Dave Hill.

  Koy stood before Colonel Weeks, lighting a cigar. He threw the burning match on Weeks's polished desk. Weeks put it out, and tossed it into an ashtray. Eagle, at the side of the room, watched Koy nervously.

  "We already saw the police chief. He runs this town. Why do I have to see you?" said Koy.

  "This is not the police department. This is the Jungle Patrol. We cover the jungle borders. You and your men were seen entering the jungle on the Phantom trail. That makes you our business."

  Koy glanced at Eagle.

  "We took a ride. Do we need your permission?" said Eagle.

  "Not ordinarily," said Colonel Weeks. "In the case of known criminals, we ask questions."

  "You can't talk to me like that. I did my time. I'm a free man," shouted Koy.

  Colonel Weeks looked at him quietly.

  "No need to shout, Mr. Koy. My hearing is quite adequate for normal conversation."

  Koy held back his anger. The quiet manner and aristocratic British accent of this smooth, gray-haired soldier infuriated him.

  "What is your business in the jungle? Why did you drive directly there upon your arrival at the airport?"

  Koy looked at Eagle, his mouthpiece.

  "We'd been in the air a long time. We wanted a ride. We wanted to see the jungle. That's all," said Eagle.

  "Yeah, that's it," said Koy.

  The Colonel studied the two men for a moment.

  "That's it, for now," he said softly. "Remember, this is our country. There's no room for your mob here."

  "Who needs a jungle?" snorted Koy. "I'm a city boy.*"

  'Your visa expires in three months. There will be no extension. Not an hour. Good day," said Colonel Weeks. Koy left the office muttering. Back in the hotel suite, he exploded.

  "That idiot! If I ever get my hands on him!" he roared.

  "Easy, Killer," said Eagle. "He's the law."

  Koy turned on him.

  "The law?" he shouted. "I said I wanted a place with no law. Jungle patrol, police chief—here they've got two laws."

  He swung his heavy fist, hitting Eagle in the face. The slim lawyer fell back onto the couch, then onto the floor. Koy was boiling with anger. He pulled a switch-blade knife from his pocket and snapped open the long blade. His eyes were wild as he glared at the fallen Eagle.

  "Two laws—that policeman—that idiot Colonel!" he shouted.

  Eagle stared at him, paralyzed with fear. He'd seen this murderous rage in this boss before.

  "Jeez, Killer, take it easy," he managed to choke out. 'You're getting your own town. You'll be the law, the only law."

  "Yeah," rumbled big Sport, coming forward to protect Eagle, "your own town, Killer. Call it Killer's Town." "Yes, Killer's Town," said Eagle quickly, and the other Watching men picked it up, making laughing sounds, but their eyes remained hard, watching Killer's big knife.

  "Yeah, Killer's Town," said Koy. "That's good. Killer's

  Town."

  He breathed deeply, and walked to the window, closing the knife as he tried to recover from his maniacal rage.

  Eagle got slowly to his feet with Sport's help, and felt his throat. That had been a close one.

  In Jungle Patrol Headquarters, Colonel Weeks and .Sergeant Hill discussed their visitors.

  "Murderous hoods, all armed. How do you figure them, sir?" asked Sergeant Dave Hill.

  "Don't know yet, Dave," Weeks replied. It was rarely that he called a patrolman by his first name. "I was wrong to send you alone into that snake pit."

  "I managed, sir," said Dave Hill. "For a minute there, it didn't look good."

  "That Koy deserves his nickname. He's a bad one. We'll keep an eye on them."

  "Yes sir."

  27

  The work at New Metropolis went on at a furious rate around the clock. Construction, remodeling, demolition. Big fires burned night and day, consuming the almost endless trash, rotten timbers, and junk. Tracks rumbled in at all hours loaded with materials. Some deliveries were made by boat. A finger of salt water from Bangalla Bay reached in to touch the property. There were old crumbling wharfs and a deep-water anchorage where the ore-carrying boats had been loaded in the old days. Workmen were housed in a small city of tents. There were no union rules to delay matters here. They worked night and day with time out for meals and sleep. The work was supervised by two of Koy's specialists, Slim and Spaghetti, both of whom he had met in prison.

  Slim, an architect, had served time for embezzlement. Spaghetti, a former construction foreman, had been sentenced after he tried to settle a labor dispute with a sledge hammer. The union delegate, en the receiving end of the sledge hammer, spent six months in a hospital; Sphagetti got six years in jail. Sport, the ex-bouncer, moved among the workmen with a club, discouraging any cigarette or coffee breaks. Koy was not seen during this time, remaining in seclusion in his hotel suite, entertained with endless sessions of poker, which he always won, and occasional visits from "ladies" of the town.

  Matthew Crumb watched all this activity in dazed amazement. He had rescued his sagging chaise lounge from a pile of trash just as workmen were about to burn it. He dragged it into a clear space among the weeds and settled himself there with a case of beer. The never-ending cases of beer, appearing at his side as if by a miracle, were supplied by the indulgent Eagle. In answer to Crumb's repeated question of "where's my money?" Eagle would nod and wink and send over another case of beer. From this happy vantage point, Crumb watched the turmoil that was transforming the ghost town.

  All this activity could not be kept secret, nor was there any attempt to do so. Word reached town of the construction work going on in the jungle. There was speculation

  Hint the attempt was being made to reopen the old gold mines. Others said that timber interests were at work. Hut since the area was far beyond the city of Mawitaan and its suburbs, none of the official bureaus was involved.

  A casual watch had been kept on Koy at the hotel, both by the police and the Jungle Patrol. Some of his henchmen were no longer observed there. It was assumed they had left the country. But it was obvious that Koy himself remained m seclusion in the hotel. As long as he behaved himself, there was no reason to interfere with him. Besides, his time in Bangalla would soon be up.

  The morning before that final day, Colonel Weeks, Chief Togando, and the Immigration Department discussed the matter by phone. It was agreed they would jointly escort Koy to the airport and make sure he took off. All were relieved that the ganglord's stay in Mawitaan had caused no trouble. But the next day, when a patrolman inquired at the front desk for Koy, the clerk told him Koy and his party had checked out during the night, leaving no forwarding address. They'd left in three big limousines, with all their luggage and a few "ladies" of the town who had joined the group.

  Koy had not disappeared. The Patrol quickly learned where he had gone. To that old ghost town, New Metropolis.

  "What's he trying to prove?" said Colonel Weeks on the telephone to Chief Togando. "That place is still Bangalla." He was wrong about that, as he was to learn. He called in Sergeant Dave Hill.

  "Our man skipped into the woods, to that old town," said the Colonel. "Who is that old man out there?"

  "Matthew Crumb, sir. I just looked it up. He calls himself the Governor-General," he added, grinning.

  "Go out there and escort Koy and his crowd back to the airport. Take eight men, with automatic weapons. If Koy resists, use whatever force is necessary."

  "Yes sir."

  The three Patrol vehicles sped along the bumpy jungle road known as the Phantom trail. (Nobody in town seemed to know where that name had come from. Arvbody in the jungle could have told them.) The road seemed bumpier than ever. As the Patrol cars reached the last turn, they stopped to examine a large new sign at the side of the road.

  KILLER'S TOWN Private—No Admittance

  That was good for a laugh among the patrolmen, and they rode on. What they saw next was no laughing matter. They were amazed. />
  A new little town was growing behind high new walls, topped with spikes and broken glass. A gate of heavy iron bars was closed and locked. A man armed with an automatic rifle peered at them from the gate. Behind him, on the newly paved street, there was much activity. Towering over the smaller new buildings was the remodeled forty-seven- room mansion, now bearing a large neon sign—The Killer Hilton.

  Sergeant Hill went to the gate, gun in hand.

  "Jungle Patrol," he said. "Open up."