Killer's Town

by Lee Falk

  "A good decision, Moogar. When you are free, go back to your people of Oogann. They need good men."

  "Good men?" said Moogar bitterly. "I'm a criminal. I'll be an ex-con. Such are not welcome."

  "True. Your people will be suspicious. They have a right to be. You made them so. But you must earn your welcome. I know you to be a man of good heart. They must learn that, too."

  Dawn at the front gates of Jungle Patrol headquarters. The night guards stumbled sleepily back to their bunks. The yawning day guards took their stations. Then the Sergeant- in-Charge noticed two pair of feet sticking out from bushes on the drive just outside the gates. One pair of feet was bare and black. The other pair was booted and, on further inspection, turned out to be white. The owner of the white feet was unconscious, his jaw wrapped in a bandage. The owner of the black feet was propped up on his elbow, waiting for them.

  "I'm Moogar. This is Pretty. Youve been looking for us."

  The arrival of these two, the last missing fugitives from the notorious Killer's Town, was a mild sensation. No one ever knew how they really got there. A few had a good idea. Moogar, the petty criminal, had given himself up. But Pretty, the "mad dog" killer, was in no state to give himself up. He was in the hospital for two weeks before he could talk. When he could, he refused to answer any questions. In his own mind, he was not certain how it happened. He remembered looking for the bird. Then a smashing pain and blackout. How long ago had that been? Over two weeks? Wow!"

  As he regained his strength, he talked to a black lawyer provided by the court. America was trying to extradite him for the killings at the Jewelry Mart.

  "Can they get me?" he asked.

  "Bangalla has no extradition treaty with your country.

  "That means they can't get me. Good."

  "No. You will be tried here."

  "For what?"

  "The murder of Matthew Crumb."

  "Who? Oh, that old guy. I didn't do it."

  'They have eyewitnesses. Also verbal reports of Crumb's last words, accusing you."

  "Uh, what are my chances?"

  "Not good." "What'll happen to me? Life?"

  "We are an old-fashioned nation. We still have capital punishment. Execution by hanging."

  Pretty sat up in bed, his hands to his throat.

  "No," he said. "No! Let them—what do you call it—extradite me."

  "In America, you killed an old night watchman and a police officer."

  "Sure. But I'll get off. I got a mental history. You know —mental history? That means they send me to the bughouse."

  "Bughouse?"

  "Foolish factory, insane asylum, stupid! Know what happens then? Two years, three years, they give me a review. They let me out, cured."

  "Is that possible for a man like you?" said the black lawyer, genuinely shocked.

  "All the time." Pretty grinned. "So extradite me, Uncle Sam." It's going to be all right, he thought. I'll beat this, like I've always beaten everything. I'll come back, find that Moogar who was ready to bear witness against me, then find that masked guy, shoot first, enough to drop him, find out where he hid that stuff. It's going to be all right "I'll beat this," he told the black lawyer.

  "No. You will not be sent back to America. You will be tried here. The court has decided."

  "I'll be sent to a nut—to a mental place?"

  "We have none here; the mentally sick stay in the villages."

  "I got no village to stay in," said Pretty anxiously.

  "Correct. Also, you are a murderer. No village would be safe with you in it."

  "Wait a minute, are you my lawyer?"

  "I have been assigned. You will receive a fair trial."

  "Okay. But tell me . . .my lawyer . . . how will it come out?"

  "We are an old-fashioned country, as I have said. You will be hanged by the neck until you are dead."

  And that is what happened. Moogar received a three-year sentence with time off for good behavior.

  The former pesthole, Killer's Town, was a busy place now as Dr. Axel's Coast Hospital. The casino and bar had become modern clinics with the latest equipment most of it contributed by grateful donors of many lands whose stolen goods had been returned from Killer's Town. It was no longer a forbidden place. Traffic flowed through the jungle to this place, patients and visitors. The gates were no longer closed—and on the gate post was the familiar sign of crossed sabers ... or were they crossed P's—the good mark of the Phantom.

  Colonel Weeks sat in his office with Sandy, Tamos, Hill, and Morgan.

  "Colonel, that place, Killer's Town—who broke it up?" said Hill.

  "When we got in there, we found these skull marks painted all over the place. Some kind of voodoo? Who did that?" said Morgan.

  "Who brought in Trader Ed after that creep shot him?" said Sandy.

  "Maybe it's the same one who brought in Moogar and that 'creep,' as you call him." said Weeks.

  "And who would that be?" said the four patrolmen, almost in unison.

  Weeks was doodling with a pen on a scrap of paper—curious designs—a mask—a skull—and something that looked like crossed sabers—or crossed P's.

  "Who? That is the question. Perhaps you'll know someday. Excuse me now, gentlemen. I've work to do."

  Colonel Weeks knew. Dr. Axel knew. Moogar and Traded Ed knew. The old folks' town knew. To the rest it would remain a mystery.

  The killer was gone. The jungle breathed a sigh of relief.