Killer's Town (12 page)

"JP 12C. Here I am. What's your hurry?" said the operator.

In the plane, the Phantom sighed with relief. If he'd been a man who used profanity, he would have used it then. But he didn't.

"This is the Commander."

The radio operator jolted with surprise, stiffened in his chair, his eyes popped, and he gasped. The unknown Commander and he had said, "What's your hurry?"

"Sir, excuse me. I didn't know who " he began.

The deep voice interrupted.

"Quiet. Listen. I can only say this once. Are you receiving me? Over."

"Yes sir. Over."

"Message to Colonel Weeks. Exactly as I give it to you. Bring Patrol and police at once to Killer's Town. Surround the place. Be ready to pick up the mob. Wait for my signal. Commander. Repeat. Over."

"Bring the patrol and police at once to Killer's Town. Surround the place. Be ready to pick up mob. Wait for my signal. Commander," said the operator in a quavering voice.

"Good. Out," replied the deep voice. There was a click, and the transmission had stopped. The patrolman stared at the message. The pencil was trembling in his hand. Wow! he thought, then reached for the phone that was a direct line to the Colonel's bedroom. No answer. He tried the private office. A patrolman on duty there said the Colonel was on his way home with his daughter. The operator began to ring the Colonel's home again, impatiently, then suddenly remembered Weeks had a radio-telephone in his car. He reached him as the Colonel was entering his own driveway. He delivered the message, and had to repeat it for the amazed Weeks. The Colonel uttered a happy (and unprintable) expletive, apologized to Caroline at his side, then barked back an order.

"Alert Sergeants Hill and Morgan. I want a task force of fifteen men, fully armed, ready to leave in thirty minutes. Now, get me Chief Togando at once."

He awoke Togando out of a deep sleep with the news, and quickly arranged with the startled Chief to have a police detachment join the task force.

"But what happened?" asked Togando. Like all others outside the Patrol, he had .no knowledge of the existence of an unknown Commander. Weeks didn't explain, merely telling him there was a possible breakthrough at Killer's Town, that they must move now—and fast.

The Phantom slipped back into the dark water leaving scarcely a ripple, swam underwater back to the wharf, and climbed out. In the background, lights blazed from every window of the big inn. All the other restored buildings on the three blocks of the main street, containing the casino, a bar, barbershop, a small movie house (featuring hardcore pornography), and a little dance hall with a tireless brass- lunged piano player, were brightly lit.
Strong men like children afraid of the dark.
The area at the wharf and warehouse remained dark, only because no one had remained to turn on the lights there. Grateful for the darkness, the Phantom slipped into the warehouse. Using a tiny but powerful flashlight that he carried in his belt, he prowled through the huge dark rooms filled with century-old musty dampness. The place was piled high with recently arrived supplies of all sorts, including a variety of ammunition, weapons, and explosives—enough to supply a small army. In his search, he was pleased to find a power megaphone. He carried it along for future use.

Then he worked quietly over a pile of boxes containing explosives: dynamite, shells, grenades, fuses, detonators. He carefully wired a detonator into the mass of explosives, then recovered the crates, concealing the detonator and leaving no evidence of his work. He took a small watch from a pouch on his belt. The specially made mechanism was impervious to heat, water, or pressure; it also contained a tiny radio transmitter, a submicro solid-state marvel with a range of a half mile. It now showed eleven o'clock on the pale illuminated dial. He'd made his radio call at ten-thirty. The Patrol should be on the move by now. They'd need an hour and a half to reach this place and take positions. That would give him time to do what needed to be done.

The main bar next to the inn was doing overflow business. Bottles were pouring, cash registers chiming, glasses clinking. A dozen men were crowded around a table where Koy sat with Moogar, Eagle, and some of his inner group, Sport, Fats, and Spaghetti. The attention was on Moogar, the lone black in the crowd.

"Tell us about this guy who took off with Pilot," said Koy, chewing his inevitable cigar. He chewed more than he smoked, and he had the habit of spitting out chewed tobacco straight ahead regardless of who or what was there. Everyone got into the habit of staying to one side to avoid the deluge. "Like I said, he is the Phantom," said Moogar.

The men looked at each other. What was this jungle boy talking about?

"We got to know who we're fighting," said Koy patiently. He was only patient when he was dealing with something he didn't understand, or was frightened of. "Tell us about him."

"All in the jungle know. He is the Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks—the Man Who Cannot Die;" said Moogar defiantly, looking at the hard cynical faces around him.

"You mean, he's some kind of spook?" asked Sport sarcastically. Pretty was standing behind Moogar's chair. Though he shared the general disbelief, it annoyed him to see his new pal baited.

"You asked him. Let him tell you," Pretty snarled.

Koy looked at him stolidly for a moment. This mad dog would have to be taken care of soon. He turned to Eagle.

"What about Pilot? Has he come to, yet?"

"No, still out. Whoever hit him really let him have it."

"Like Ossie and Pug. Both those guys out cold. Still not talking," said Fats.

"Okay, Moogar," said Koy. "This spook, or whatever he is, what about him?"

"I told you," said Moogar. "He is the ruler of the Deep Woods—he has the strength of ten tigers—he has the wisdom of ages—he is many centuries old—he is the Man Who Cannot Die."

Koy slammed the table with his big fist.

"WTiat is all this ignorant jungle jabber?" he shouted, losing patience and exploding a foul string of four-letter words. "Whoever hit Ossie and Pug and Pilot was no ghost, no spook!"

"You saw the Skull Marks yourself. Skull Mark on Ossie. Skull mark on Pug. Skull Mark on Pilot," shouted Moogar in return. "All the jungle knows, that is the mark of the Phantom. He is here—somewhere
here!"

At that moment, all lights in the place went out. The big room was in darkness. The suddenness, the completeness of it, caused a stunned silence for moments. Then someone yelled, "Hey, the lights." Others took it up. Hearing their own voice made them feel better. "What happened to the lights? Where's the fuse box? Somebody get the lights." Men began to move and a few started to reach for matches when a big voice boomed out of the blackness.

"QUIET!"

There was a hush. Everyone froze in place.

"KILLER, A GUN IS AIMED AT YOUR FOREHEAD, ONE INCH ABOVE YOUR EYES. IF ANYONE MOVES, THE GUN GOES OFF."

Killer's voice was heard in the dark, shrill, half-choked.

"Don't nobody—don't anybody move," he said.

"Who are you?" said a tough Brooklyn voice (Pretty).

"Phantom. Ghost Who Walks," said another voice (Moogar).

"He's near the window," said another softly (Eagle).

As if in answer, the voice boomed out again, but from another direction.

"THIS TOWN IS AN ABOMINATION. IT WILL BE DESTROYED. ALL OF YOU HERE NOW MUST LEAVE, OR BE DESTROYED WITH IT."

The crowd listened in the dark. The dark was scary, so was the voice coming out of nowhere. But it was a man's voice.

"Who are you?" said Koy faintly.

"MOOGAR TOLD YOU." The voice came from still another direction.

The men listened carefully. The man behind the voice was moving from place to place. But they could hear no footsteps. "The Phantom moves on cats' feet" was an old jungle saying.

"KILLER, YOU AND YOUR MEN ARE FINISHED. YOU WILL SURRENDER TO THE JUNGLE PATROL FOR THE ABDUCTION OF CAROLINE WEEKS."

There were startled exclamations from the men near Koy.

"Shh," said Koy, moving slowly to his knees on the floor.

"THE REST OF YOU WILL BE DEPORTED TO YOUR OWN COUNTRIES, TO FACE THE JUSTICE YOU RAN AWAY FROM."

There was a low angry murmur from the men.

"Don't move, anybody," shouted Koy, a gun in one hand, his other hand over his forehead as he slowly backed under the table.

"What. . . what if nobody wants to go?" he said.

"IF YOU REFUSE TO LEAVE, TAKE YOUR CHANCES ON SURVIVAL. THIS TOWN IS DOOMED. YOU HAVE ONE HOUR TO GET OUT. ALL OF YOU. ONE HOUR."

"Wait! We need time to think," said Koy, peering out from under his table. All waited in silence. But there was no answer. At the side, a door squeaked open, then closed.

"There he goes. Get him!" shouted Koy. "He's gone. Lights!"

A few matches were struck, a kerosene lamp lighted.

"Where is he? Where? Where?"

"There's Koy," said Pretty, holding up the kerosene

lamp, as Koy crawled under the table. It was funny, but no one laughed.

"Killer," shouted Moogar. "Look! On your glass!"

The kerosene lamp was held close to the table. There was a Skull Mark on the glass at Koy's place at the table. All stared at it.

"He was right here!" said Moogar, his eyes wide in the pale lamplight.

A voice called from the hall—Spaghetti's.

"We found it, Killer. Somebody cut the cable."

And the lights were suddenly on. The men and women looked at each other. All were touched by strain as though they'd been through a bad storm. Spaghetti ran into the room. He was sweating and pale like the others.

"The lights went out because the cable was cut. And know what we found on the wall where it was cut?" he said.

"Like this?" said Moogar, holding up the glass with the Skull Mark on it. Spaghetti stared at it and nodded. Koy waved his gun angrily, his confidence returning.

"A ghost can't cut wires. Spread out everybody. We'll catch this joker. Nobody's making a fool out of Killer Koy."

"Killer, look on your gun," said Moogar, standing at his side.

Killer looked at his gun and almost swallowed his cigar. The Skull Mark was on the barrel of his shining automatic. He rubbed at it weakly and for a moment was speechless. He remembered as he crouched under the table, the gun held out, something had brushed by, something as light as a butterfly. Was that it? Had it been that close? Close enough to kill him in the dark? He rubbed at the mark on the gun. Whatever it was, it wouldn't rub off.

"Killer, he said we have one hour to get out of town. We better get out," said Moogar.

"Yeah," agreed a few of the watching men.

Koy breathed deeply. He'd been through too much in his tough life to let this get him.

"You guys crazy? Afraid of a spook? Look, a spook can't knock guys cold, cut wires, make marks on glasses and wood."

"How do you know?" said Moogar quietly.

"You started all this spook stuff with your idiotic jungle tripe," said Koy, trying to work up a rage. "No more of it, hear me, or as you stand there, I'll shoot you deader than a cold herring. Got it?"

Moogar nodded, clenched his fists, but did not answer. In the background, Pretty watched, his eyes blazing.

"Now, I want all you guys to spread out, to search this town from top to bottom," he said to the crowded room. "You guys got no choice. You've got no place to go."

"You talk big with that gun in your hand," said Pretty. "If we look for this spook, you going to give us back our guns?"

Koy started to react angrily, to say no, but the crowd was with Pretty.

"Guns," said a half dozen at once. The others grunted their agreement. Someone shouted from outside the door. Fats.

"Hey, Killer," he yelled. "Come out here and look at

this."

On the wall, just outside the swinging barroom doors
_p
was a big skull mark and above it in big crude letters—« ONE HOUR. All in dripping, wet black paint. Killer chewed savagely on his cigar, then spit out a wad. Fats ducked just in time.

"That joker's not going to bluff us. Know what? I figure It's one of the guys in this place, somebody trying to take over."

"Ghost Who Walks," said Moogar solemnly.

"Whoever, whatever. Move. Find him!" shouted Koy.

"Guns first," said Pretty, and a dozen others grunted in agreement.

"Okay, you guys. Fats, take them to the cellar. Give them guns, bullets. No more excuses. Find this joker," he yelled, spitting a wad of tobacco at the Skull Mark. As the men started after Fats, one of them remained standing at the wall, arms folded, a stubborn look on his face—Dutch, one of the bank robbers. His partner, Frenchy, stood near him.