The Volcano Ogre

by Lin Carter

  CHAPTER 22 — The Gift of the Island

  The Luzon police came in a motor-launch to take custody of the body of the young geologist, to gather the statements of all concerned, and to collect Señor Luis Gonzalez. The dwarfish little detective made his effusive farewells to them all, and returned to the big island with his men, leaving Prince Zarkon and the Omega men with a few loose ends to tie up before they themselves returned home to Knickerbocker City in the Skyrocket.

  One of these loose ends was the final disposition of the radium meteorite. On this point, Braxton T. Crawley permitted himself to be talked into relinquishing his firm’s claim in the mineral rights to the island, in favor of the Rangatoa Islanders themselves. The fat, red-faced man with the enormous mustache puffed and cussed and wheezed, but finally let his niece sweet-talk him into tearing up the mineral-rights option Pacific Mining & Minerals had signed half a year ago.

  Under Zarkon’s watchful eye, the rotund industrialist drew up another agreement, with more liberal terms. Under the terms of this second document, Pacific Mining & Minerals would develop and market the radium deposit, but the islanders themselves retained complete ownership of their own mineral resources. They would very soon become incredibly wealthy, down to the last tiny toddler in the village.

  Zarkon himself arranged for the bank in Mantilla to oversee the island’s new wealth. It would be spent, carefully and intelligently and in small parcels, over the years, to build a church, a school, a medical clinic, and other facilities here on Rangatoa. And there would still be plenty of money to insure the higher education or business enterprises of any of the islanders who might wish to avail themselves of these opportunities. Señor Felipe Valdez expressed himself as being thoroughly satisfied with these arrangements.

  While his men were getting their gear together, taking their farewells of the islanders, and gathering some souvenirs of the adventure, Prince Zarkon strolled up the beach beside the lagoon to where Phoenicia Mulligan was sitting, kicking her heels moodily.

  The blond girl had been silent and depressed ever since the discovery of the identity of the murderous monster. Now she seemed to be coming out of her glum mood, more or less. A sensitive, emotional girl, Fooey Mulligan was also hardheaded and sensible. She was not at all the sort to moon and mope over what cannot be helped. On the other hand, it must have been pretty tough for her to adjust to the fact that the man she had been engaged to was a murdering fiend.

  Zarkon tactfully attempted to ease her gloomy mood.

  “You know, Miss Mulligan, Johnny Jones never intended trying to kill anyone. He didn’t even try to sear people by wearing that suit. Everything that happened was purely accidental and unpremeditated,” he said.

  The import of his words was astonishing. Phoenicia Mulligan paled to the lips, turning wide, amazed eyes upon him.

  “What —?”

  “It’s true.” He nodded. “When Tommy Kahua caught Jones in the act of emerging from the volcano crater, Jones only intended to quiet him. I am convinced of the fact. He grabbed the native boy for the purpose of silencing his yells. He would probably have bribed him to keep the secret. But he forgot, in the excitement of the moment, that he had just been down in the lake of lava at the crater’s floor, and that the gloves of his suit were covered with red-hot lava. His very touch burned the boy to death. But it was completely accidental.”

  Relief shone in the girl’s blue eyes.

  “Oh, Prince Zarkon, if only I could believe than” she breathed faintly.

  “You can,” he said quietly, “because it is true.”

  Privately, he himself was not at all convinced. But white lies hurt little. And the relief in the girl’s distraught face made it all worthwhile.

  A bit later his men joined him at the dock, just about ready to shove off. Ace was already in the big experimental rocket-plane, giving her a preflight checkover.

  “Chief, howcum you didn’t slap the bracelets on Johnny Jones the minute you figured as how he was th’ ogre?” demanded Scorchy, who had been chewing on this problem ever since it had occurred to him.

  “I had no evidence that Jones was the ogre, although it seemed a likely assumption,” explained the Ultimate Man. “At first, all I knew was that Jones had a serious case of radiation poisoning. That did not necessarily imply that he was mixed up in the murders. There were any number of ways he could have contacted radiation poisoning without being the guilty party. So I laid a little trap for him.”

  Scorchy blinked.

  “Trap? What trap?”

  “The heat-suit in the equipment case. Remember, just before we retired for the night, I announced my intention of using it to go down inside the crater the following morning?”

  “Yeah,” said Scorchy vaguely.

  “I was standing outside the room in which Jones had been put to bed when I made the remark,” explained Zarkon quietly. “I said it loudly enough for him to hear, in case he was still awake. I had given him a strong sedative, but, as I expected, he had only held it in his mouth until I left the room, then spat it out, into a handkerchief or a napkin. Then, once we were asleep — he climbed out of the window and entered the jungle, where he had concealed the suit just before he came staggering out to collapse at our feast.”

  “Go on, go on!” gasped Scorchy, to whom this came as complete surprise.

  “He pried open the floor and lit an oil-lamp in order to search the equipment-cases and steal or damage the suit I had packed. But in his weak, exhausted condition, Jones was clumsy. He knocked over the lamp. That is what set fire to the trading-post. Seeing what he had done, he got out of there as quickly as possible, hid the suit in the jungle again, and intended returning to his room before his absence could be discovered. He didn’t make it in time, so he lay down outside the window to his room, which was full of smoke by that time, pretending to have dragged himself out.”

  “Cheez,” groaned Scorchy to himself. “I shoulda knowed you wuz settin’ ’im up! I remember thinkin’ as how it just weren’t like you t’ go blabbin’ yer plans all over th’ place.”

  “Precisely,” said Zarkon, with a rare smile. “In this particular case, I indeed acted uncharacteristically. I even deliberately lied about my intentions.”

  “Huh?” blurted Scorchy. incredulous. “You?”

  “I’m afraid so,” chuckled Zarkon dryly. “Because I had no intention of venturing down inside the volcano, next morning or any other time. And for very good reasons, too.”

  “What reasons is them?” asked Scorchy, ungrammatically.

  “There was never any protective insulated suit,” confessed Zarkon, “in the equipment-cases in the first place.”

  The Rangatoans gave Zarkon and his lieutenants a rousing send-off. Señor Felipe Valdez tried to offer the Prince a portion of the island’s new-found wealth in payment for his services, but Zarkon declined, politely but firmly. He suggested that if the people of Rangatoa wished to reward him in some manner, they would best please him by donating funds for a new wing to the Savage Memorial Hospital in Mantilla.

  Señor Valdez swore to do so; moreover, he vowed that the hospital addition would be named after Prince Zarkon, and that his magnanimity in coming to their assistance would forever be commemorated by a bronze plaque affixed to the new hospital wing. Zarkon expressed himself as being more than satisfied.

  Then the islanders did something which took the Man of Mysteries quite by surprise. They presented him with a carved wooden war-club. This signified him as a chieftain of the Rangatoan tribe. And more than that, it was a token which testified to the fact that he was an honorary citizen of Rangatoa, now and forever.

  Zarkon said nothing. He accepted the war-club with a peculiar expression on his usually immobile features. Nick Naldini, who stood nearby, smiled gently: the vaudevillian alone sensed how deeply Zarkon was touched by this heart-felt and simple gesture of friendly thanks.

  The Prince. was a visitor to our world and era, Nick knew. Deep within himself, Zarkon pe
rhaps never entirely felt at home here, but felt himself perpetually the stranger, the outsider. This little act of kindliness and gratitude, Nick recognized, meant more to Zarkon than the man from the future could say. He was more deeply moved by this than by anything that had happened to him within Nick’s memory.

  It meant that here, on this little island, at least, the Lord of the Unknown was no more a stranger. Here he was at home.

  The Skyrocket took off with a roar of her engines and soared into the sky. From the deck of the yacht, Phoenicia Mulligan and Braxton T. Crawley waved their farewells for as long as the huge rocket-plane was in sight. Then Phoenicia told her captain to weigh anchor and pick a course for Honolulu.

  “Honolulu, is it?” puffed her Uncle, mopping his scarlet brow. “Dang you, gal, but I thought you was comin’ back to Frisco with me! Or ain’t you got over yer dang foolishness yet?”

  Fooey Mulligan looked somber. It was true, she had not quite gotten over her attachment to Johnny Jones. The girl did not give her heart lightly or casually: it would take her some time to recover from this unfortunate love-affair. But then she brightened.

  “Uncle Braxton, you don’t need to worry about me,” said the girl determinedly. “You’re gonna have a nephew-in-law yet, and one you’ll be proud to acknowledge!”

  The fat man groaned. “Who’s the pore devil?” he grumbled in his humorous, long-suffering way. “One o’ them Omega guys, eh? Thet good-lookin’ aviator-feller, I’ll bet! How’s about it, Fooey? Tell yer ol’ Unk! Thet Harrigan feller, is he th’ pore soul yew done set yer sights on?”

  Fooey pressed her lips shut on a secret smile. Mischief danced in her eyes. But she refused to answer his question.

  “Just you wait and see,” she said mysteriously.

  She went down to her cabin to change into a frock. The fat man watched her go, bemusedly.

  Turning to the deck officer who stood nearby, smiling, he said fretfully, “Thet dang-fool niece o’ mine! No sooner gets outa one peck o’ trouble, then she heads straight fer another!”

  The officer shook his head admiringly.

  “Miss Mulligan usually gets what she goes after, Mr. Crawley, sir. I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. Whoever the lucky man is, he’s getting a real spitfire, with enough guts, spunk, pluck, and determination for three women!”

  Braxton T. Crawley shook his head wordlessly and went waddling off. “Dang thet Fooey, anyway,” muttered the fat man to himself as he negotiated the stairs to his cabin. “I wun’t even put it past thet gal t’ set her sights on Prince Zarkon, hisself!” Struck by the notion, he paused, rubbing his pudgy jaw with fat fingers.

  “Wouldn’t thet just beat all,” he mused to himself. Then, with a hearty chuckle, he went on down the corridor.

  “Pore ol’ Prince, why, he wun’t stand a chance!” he grinned. “Not if Fooey Mulligan makes up ’er mind t’ marry ’im!”

  Changing into more comfortable clothing, the rotund industrialist continued to chuckle over the wild notion.

  “Jest imagine it.” He grinned, marveling to himself as he squeezed into the fresh garments. “A gen-yew-ine Prince in th’ fambly! Wun’t thet jest beat all!”

  The yacht Phoenicia drew up her anchor and got under way. Soon the volcanic island of Rangatoa faded on the horizon, and only the white plume of vapor rising eternally from her smoking mountain remained visible against the darkening sky.

  Phoenicia Mulligan had not explained to Braxton T. Crawley her reasons for going to Honolulu rather than to San Francisco. Those reasons, however, were simple. There, at Honolulu International Airport, she could catch a night plane nonstop to Knickerbocker City.

  And in Knickerbocker City she fully intended to beard in his den the man who had struck her fancy, and whom she was determined to wed. But whether it was Prince Zarkon or one of the Omega men remains her own secret, although my reader has permission to make a guess of his own.

  Postscript

  As the Skyrocket neared the outskirts of Knickerbocker City, Menlo Parker turned to Prince Zarkon with a question over which the frail physicist had been chewing thoughtfully for some time.

  “Hey, chief,” demanded the peevish scientist. “Howcum you figgered there was a secret door up on the ledge above Johnny James’ hut?”

  “There would have to be, Menlo,” replied the Man of Mysteries. “Remember the second native boy whom the volcano ogre killed with his burning hands? The first was probably accidental, but the second was deliberate. Jimmie Okawa’s body was found way up the slope, on the ledge which zigzagged up to the crest. But there was no reason for him to be up there: he should have gone directly to the hut. The fact that his body was found up on the ledge implied that he had seen something up there which aroused his curiosity, and which he had gone to investigate. That could only be the open door. It could not have been the monster. Jimmie Okawa would likely have climbed the slope to investigate an opening where none was known to be; but he would have run away from a sight of the monster.”

  “Um,” said Menlo glumly.

  “Okay, now I got a poser for ya, chief,” said Doc in his high voice, cheerfully. “How’d’ja figger the radium t’ be inside the mountain, when it coulda been anywhere on the island — in the swamp, say, or in the jungle, or anyplace.”

  “There was no vegetation growing anywhere on the mountain,” explained the Ultimate Man. “Volcanic rock quickly erodes into exceptionally fertile soil, as farmers have proven. They have been farming the slopes of Vesuvius since Roman times, despite its record of frequent eruptions. But nothing at all grew on Mount Rangatoa. The deadly radiation shed by the radium deposit could only explain this curious barrenness on an island otherwise thickly grown with lush, tropic vegetation.”

  “Oh,” said Doc thoughtfully.

  Nick was looking faintly puzzled, but asked no question. Scorchy gave his lanky compatriot a curious look.

  “Spit it out, you half-baked Houdini,” he suggested.

  “It’s nothing, really,” muttered Nick.

  “C’mon!”

  “Oh ... well, then. It’s just that this adventure isn’t running true to form.”

  “Howzzat?”

  “You know how it usually works: we got a good-looking gal in one of our cases, and you and I and Ace, say, all go ga-ga over her, but she always ends up giving us the cold shoulder while giving the chief the old glad-eye?”

  “Yeah,” mused Scorchy, “yer right! Wonder what’s wrong with old Fooey Mulligan, anyway! Usually they fall fer th’ chief like a ton a bricks!”

  Doc, sitting near enough to overhear these mutterings, chuckled.

  “You two goons don’t think maybe the young lady is still sorrowin’ over her boy-friend,” suggested the big man with the miracle brain, “even though he turned out to be a crook?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s it,” said Nick agreeably. But Scorchy wasn’t all that sure. A light danced in his eyes and he grinned.

  “I dunno, Doc,” said the little fighter, gleefully, “I think maybe the chief is losin’ his touch with the gals! And maybe Nick ’n me are in fer some luck in that direction, at last!”

  This notion, quite naturally, appealed to the lanky vaudevillian. He rubbed his palms together briskly. “It’s about time, too!” he drawled wickedly.

  “Yeah,” leered Scorchy. “I can hardly wait fer the next adventure t’ come along!”

  Busy with happy visions, the two said no more during the last leg of their flight to Knickerbocker City.

  Of course, they had no idea who would be ringing their doorbell tomorrow morning — a long-legged and very determined blond heiress, who always, but always, got her way.

  And her man!

  THE END

  But Zarkon, Lord of the Unknown, and the Omega men will return in

  “THE EARTH SHAKER”

  If you enjoyed this book, look for others like it at Thunderchild Publishing: https://ourworlds.net/thunderchild_cms/

 

  Lin Carter, The Volcano Ogre