Killer's Town (11 page)

Caroline was still trying to catch her breath.

"Let me rest for a minute," she said.

Weeks nodded to the patrolmen. They left the room, closing the door, leaving father and daughter together. Then slowly, Caroline told him the whole story right to the dash for the plane.

"Did you know who the masked man was?" he said.

She laughed and shook her head.

"He said he was a friend of yours. I must say he was charming, though rough. But he was masked. You know, like a crook. I thought he must have been one of them, who'd fallen out with the rest and decided to get away."

Weeks nodded. That would all make sense to her.

"But where is he now?"

"Oh," she said, looking perplexed, "he said he was going back there. To that awful place. If he had a fight with them, why would he go back?"

"Caroline, how did you get to my office?"

"The plane landed at the Patrol wharf. The guard there brought me here in his car."

"Did anyone back there hurt you?"

"Not really. They said some awful things. But I don't know what would have happened to me if he hadn't come," she said. And she suddenly burst into tears. He put his arm •around her.

"Have a good cry. You've been a brave girl, but you've earned a good cry," he said softly.

"Excuse me. I just suddenly ■" she said, still sobbing.

She took a tiny kerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

"Daddy, who was that masked man?"

"Are you certain he was masked?"

"Oh, yes. And some kind of odd costume."

"Odd. How?"

"Unusual."

"Caroline you've seen a man I've wondered about for forty years," he said.

"Forty years? He's a young man," she said.

"How young?" he asked, suddenly inquisitive.

"I don't know. Twenty-five. Maybe thirty but no more."

"Tell me more about him."

"I've told you all I know. Who is he?"

"Caroline, for two hundred fifty years, jungle patrolmen have been asking the same question. In all that time, you're the only one who has knowingly seen him."

"Two hundred fifty years? What are you talking about, daddy?"

He led her to the wall, to the organization chart of the Jungle Patrol, and pointed to the name at the top. Commander.

"Caroline, you've been with the unknown leader—our Commander."

In the amphibian plane, Pilot glared at the Phantom.

"Who in hell are you?" he asked angrily.

"That doesn't matter," said the Phantom.

Pilot was at the controls as they flew over the dark sea near the coast.

"Are you out of your mind, wanting to go back to that place?" he said, watching closely as his masked captor put the gun back in his holster.

"What's your part in all this dirty business at Killer's Town?" said the Phantom.

"Nothing. I'm a pilot—a truck driver. I bring them in and take them out. Who they are or what they do is none of my business."

"Just an innocent chauffeur, you might say."

"Yeah. Innocent. Say, this crate is loaded with gas. We can make Naples or Lisbon. We can sell her for a quarter million, maybe a half million, easy. What do you say?"

The Phantom smiled.

"Innocent pilot? Would you risk stealing from Killer

Koy?"

"He'd have to find me first," continued Pilot casually, noting they were near their destination, the wharf of Killer's Town. With his free left hand, he casually took hold of a heavy monkey wrench that was concealed next to his seat.

"Look, mister, don't you want to change your mind? Killer will finish you for sure. Probably me too for letting that girl get away."

"If you choose to work for hoods, you have to take your chances."

"I've been taking chances all my life. This is one I don't want. Have you seen Killer when he gets sore? He goes crazy, berserk. He uses a knife. What do you say, pal, do we turn around and blow?" t ,

"We do not. Keep on course."

"You're the boss, pal," said Pilot, suddenly swinging the heavy monkey wrench at the back of the hooded head.

In Killer's Town, the sound of the approaching plane was heard. Koy rushed out of the inn with Eagle and his escort of armed men. (Koy no longer moved without Fats and Sport or other riflemen with him at all times. There was no safety in this den of thieves.) Koy stared unbelievingly into the dark. Could that be his million-dollar beauty? Impossible. Who would bring it back? Not Pilot. Then who? Maybe it was another plane, a military plane. He waited behind a corner of the warehouse with his men, just to make sure. Then it came out of the darkness, white and gleaming in the reflected wharf lights and hit the water with a big splash. It was the amphibian. Shouting, they rushed to the wharf.

A minute before, inside the plane, Pilot had swung at the hooded figure. He never quite knew what happened next. The figure moved so fast the action was blurred. Pilot's swinging arm was halted in midair by a grip of iron. The impact was as though he'd hit a stone wall. At the same moment, a fist crashed on his jaw and the scene ended in darkness for Pilot. He slumped over the controls. The Phantom quickly threw him to one side, grabbed the controls, and guided the plane safely onto the water near the wharf. Then while the plane was still moving slowly, he opened the door on the seaside and slid into the dark water.

The plane floated about fifty yards from the wharf, rock-

ing slowly on the gentle waves that rolled into this protected harbor. Searchlights from the land shone on the white surface. The interior was unlighted, dark. Koy and his men stood on the wharf staring at it. The others—boarders, workers, waiters, cooks—watched from the background. There was silence, broken only by the sound of water lapping at the wharf posts. All seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Nothing did.

"Hello out there," shouted Koy.

The plane did not answer.

"Maybe it's empty," said Fats.

"You lunkhead. Can a plane land by itself?" said Koy.

"I dunno. Maybe it can," said Fats defensively.

"Can it, Eagle?" demanded Koy.

"Possible. Not probable," said Eagle.

"What kind of an answer is that? Can it, or can't it?" shouted Koy.

They all seemed to be playing for time, waiting for something to happen. The white plane, rocking on the water, seemed ominous, mysterious. Koy finally made the decision.

"Three of you guys—Sport, Slim, Banana—row out there. Pull it in."

The three big men, holding rifles, looked reluctantly at Koy, then climbed into the small dingy which sank almost to the gunwhales under their weight. Banana rowed, and all watched as they approached the plane.

"Can you see in there?" yelled Koy. "Stand up, you fathead."

Sport stood up with difficulty, almost capsizing the little craft as he grasped the heads of his companions to keep his balance. They squirmed as his fingers dug into their scalps. He peered at the plane quickly, then sat down.

"Too dark," he called. "What'll we do now?"

"Tie on a line, pull her in, you idiot," shouted Koy, using a corrosive blast of profanity that startled even this hardened crowd. There was a line in the dingy. They tied it to a strut on the plane and headed back to shore. The big plane dwarfed the dingy and its occupants, but it floated lightly on the water in their wake. The three men climbed onto the dock and tied the line to a post. Koy and his men formed a semi-circle facing the plane. The other inhabitants of Killer's Town watched intently. This was better than a movie.

"What are you waiting for, Koy?" shouted Pretty. "Go in and have a look." He was standing with Moogar.

Koy glared at him. That mad dog, he'll get it one of these days. Then he turned to his riflemen.

"Sport, Fats, Spaghetti, look in there."

The swarthy Spaghetti, veteran of many a street fight in his native Brooklyn, hesitated,

"Maybe they got a bomb planted, Killer. You know, you open the door, it goes up."

"You yellow dogs, what's there to be afraid of? Give me that flashlight," said Koy, pulling a gun out of his shoulder holster.

He turned on the light and stepped to the plane.

"Open that door, Spaghetti."

Spaghetti opened the plane door. Koy peered in, shining his beam.

"Pilot?" he said. "Pilot!"

He stepped in and shook the body lying over the controls. He touched the face. Still warm—not dead.

"Pull him out of there. It's Pilot, knocked cold." Fats and Sport pulled him out and stretched him out on the dock.

"Man, whoever hit him wasn't fooling," said Sport.

"How could he land that plane, out cold like that?" asked a voice.

"Anybody else in there?"

"No, empty."

There was a sharp gasp from Moogar.

"Look. On his jaw. Like Greasy and Gutsy. The Death's Head!"

There it was, the inch-high mark, blue, like a tattoo or a bruise. As skulls appear to do, the small mark seemed to grin derisively.

"We saw that plane land. There was nobody else in it."

"The Phantom was in it. He did that. I tell you, the Phantom is here!"

"Who's he talking about?" said London's Ossie to Pug.

"Phantom. Some kinda jungle hoodoo."

"A spook?"

"Like that."

The words spread through the crowd—Phantom, hoodoo, spook. All had seen or knew about the skull marks. All had seen the dark plane land. Some of the men shivered in the cool night air.

"Get him back to the inn," said Koy. "You guards," he called to men on the walls and near the warehouse, "keep your eyes open. If anybody looks suspicious or strange, shoot first, then ask questions."

Sport and Fats picked up Pilot and moved quickly to the inn. Others trotted behind them after a backward look at the empty plane.

"Moogar, is all this malarkey about a hoodoo for real?" said Pretty.

"Phantom, ghost who walks. No malarkey. He's real!" said Moogar, running off after the others.

Pretty watched them go. He sneered. All of them, yellow, afraid of everything, Koy most of all. Then he looked around the empty wharf. Deep shadows, waves lapping under the wood, the distant howl of a wolf. Realizing he was alone and unarmed, he started to walk rapidly toward the lighted inn where the last of the men were entering, then he broke into a run.

"Hey, Moogar," he called. "Wait for me."

There is an old jungle saying, told around campfires:
The Phantom's ways are so mysterious, even strong men become like children afraid of the dark.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Phantom remained hidden under the wharf until the last man was gone. Then he swam underwater to the far side of the plane. He stayed there for a moment in the dark, only his eyes and nose above the surface of the water, and carefully inspected the wharf area. No one was visible. Even the guard at the nearby warehouse, shaken by the general hysteria, had left his dark post for a more brightly lighted place. Satisfied that he was not being observed, the Phantom quietly climbed into the amphibian. He crouched on the floor near the controls, keeping his head below the level of the glass windows. Then he switched on the radio transmitter and made a hurried call.

"Calling JP 12C. Calling JP 12C," he repeated several times. At Jungle Patrol headquarters, the patrolman operator had stepped out of the radio room to get a drink of water at the cooler in the hall. At this time of night, the air waves were usually silent.

The Phantom persisted, almost angrily. Where was the man? He didn't have much time; he couldn't remain too long in the plane and risk being seen.

"Calling JP 12C. Come in JP 12C," he repeated intensely. In the hall, the operator was lazily drinking from a paper cup, when he heard the buzzing from the radio room. Probably a routine call from one of the far-ranging Patrol cars. When on a mission, they reported periodically. No rush. They could wait. He finished his drink leisurely, stared at his reflection appreciatively in a hall mirror. "You really are good-looking, like that girl said the other night," he said aloud. Then he strolled back to the radio room. The receiver panel was buzzing.

"Hold your horses," he said as he lazily took his seat, put on his earphones, and turned up the receiver.

"Calling JP 12C," were the words he heard. "Where are you JP 12C?"