Killer's Town (15 page)

He went through the town once more, checking buildings and all other possible hiding places, satisfying himself that no one else remained. It was an eerie sight, these three blocks of renovated town, all the lights blazing, taped music still coming through the windows of the casino and bar. An empty town, all the people gone, as though stricken by a plague. In the distance, he could hear more gunshots, then quiet. The Patrol and police had evidently finished their work. He held the tiny watch-transmitter close to his mouth and spoke into it.

"Calling Colonel Weeks. Do you receive me, Colonel Weeks? Over."

A faint voice replied.

"Colonel Weeks here. Receiving you. Over."

"What is the situation outside the walls? Over."

"Under control, sir. Are you in the town?"

"I am. The town is empty. Two men escaped along the coast. My guess is they headed east through the swamp. One was called Pretty, as in pretty girl. A killer. Another from here went with him, a black. Check the records to identify them, then alert border guards. Over."

"Anything else, sir? Over."

"The body of Matthew Crumb is on the porch of the inn. Send in a detail in the morning. I suggest he be buried in front of the inn. Over."

"Sir, what will happen to this place now? Over."

"I have an idea about that. First, search the records tomorrow to see if Crumb had any heirs. Over."

"Right away. Anything else, sir?"

"One more thing, Colonel. In ten minutes, come into the town yourself with two men. Go to the big building with the sign, Killer Hilton."

"Killer Hilton?" said the Colonel, interrupting.

"Yes, Colonel. On the top floor, there is a large safe. Remove the contents. All stolen property. Understood? Over."

"Understood. Sir, may I ask? How did you do it all? Over."

"All what, Colonel? Over."

"Sorry. Silly question. Sir, I have no words, no words"— the faint voice paused for a moment—"to thank you for my daughter, Caroline. Over."

"Is she all right, Colonel? Over."

"Sleeping like a baby when I left. Over."

"Good."

"Sir, may I ask one more question? Will we ever meet? Sir, are you still receiving me? Over."

There was no answer.

The small Mawitaan jail and the few cells at Jungle Patrol headquarters were crowded with the former citizens of Killer's Town. The town rocked with excitement. Newsmen and TV crews from America and Europe poured into the tropical capital. Three dozen vicious criminals, some escapees from prisons, all of them on the "most wanted" lists in their home countries, all bagged together in one roundup, one of the biggest shootouts in the history of the perpetual battle between crime and law. Fingerprints flew around the world as the prisoners were identified and deported to authorities in their homelands. Some of these authorities were more annoyed than grateful, having hoped to be rid of them. When lists were finally complete, a few of the Killer's Town citizenry were not in hand. The bank robber, Frenchy, was found dead in the town. A few others had been downed in the battle. Among them, Killer Koy himself, said to have been shot in the back by one of his own men, a wild killer called "Pretty," wanted in the States for several especially vicious murders.

The town gave a collective sigh of relief when the last of the captured Killer's Town crowd, wearing handcuffs, was shipped out at the airport under the watchful eyes of Colonel Weeks and Chief Togando. The populace was advised to be on the lookout for two of the criminals who were still at large, a foreigner named Pretty (some name for a killer) and a local named Moogar, an Oogaan boy who had gone bad. Wanted signs for the two were posted, offering a large reward. Now that the criminals were gone, crowds went out to have a look at the fabulous Killer's Town. Though the warehouse and wharf had burned down, the remainder was intact. They could only peer through the gates, and from the high branches of trees outside the wall, as the Patrol permitted no one to enter. All wondered what was to become of the place?

Town Hall records at Mawitaan, including an old law-

suit, proved that Matthew Crumb had no living heirs. The authorities had been assured, by an unknown but unimpeachable source, that no one related to Killer Koy had any claim to the place. Then who had? That question was soon answered.

Several miles inside the jungle, there was a cluster of low buildings, the jungle hospital of Dr. Axel. The doctor had built this place thirty years before as a young man. It was the only modern medicine available to jungle folk, and they waited patiently, sometimes for days to see the beloved doctor. Though there were occasional bandits in the area and no guards in the hospital, no one dared attack or rob the complex. For on the gateposts on either side of the main gate was an odd symbol that looked like two crossed sabers. Or the symbol might have been crossed "P's." No one was. certain. But everyone in the jungle knew what it meant. This was the good mark of the Phantom. Wherever it appeared, it meant that place or person was under the protection of the Phantom. Only the most foolish, ignorant, or desperate of men would violate it.

This night, while Dr. Axel relaxed after his usual tiring day, reading Shakespeare by lamplight (the sonnets this time), there was a knock on his shuttered window. Most unusual. He opened the shutters and peered out. A figure loomed in the darkness. At first glance, it seemed gigantic. Then, as his eyes became more accustomed to the dark, he could make out a rider on a white horse. The horse moved slightly. Light from the kerosene lamp touched the figure. Dr. Axel gasped in surprise. He had not seen him in—how many years?

Their relationship had a long history. As a young man, Dr. Axel had first seen this awesome figure when he had been brought blindfolded by the pygmy poison people to a strange place in the Deep Woods. There he had assisted at the birth of a baby in a cave, the strange figure's son. Later, the strange figure had helped him build his first hospital. Still later, he had come to the hospital seriously wounded. Dr. Axel always believed those wounds were fatal. Yet, here was the man again, so many years later! Dr. Axel didn't know, hadn't guessed, that the baby he had helped to deliver in the cave was now the figure on the white horse. And the man he had first seen long ago was this man's father, now dead. All Dr. Axel knew was that this was the Phantom.

Through the years, Dr. Axel had heard a good deal about this Phantom from his jungle patients. The Ghost

Who Walks—the Man Who Cannot Die. With the strength of ten tigers, and the wisdom of the ages. The fabulous Skull Throne. The Skull Cave with its fantastic treasures. Feared by evildoers, loved by good people, the Keeper of the Peace. What does one say in the middle of the night to a man of mystery, to a legend?

"Hello," said Dr. Axel. "How are you?"

It was a question that appeared to need no answer. The man radiated health and power. The question was not answered. Instead. . . .

"Dr. Axel, the coastal tribes, the Mori, the Llongo, and others have always lacked good medical care. This hospital is too far for them."

"True," said Dr. Axel, feeling slightly confused. Had this man of mystery ridden out of the night to tell him this?

"There is a place called Killer's Town, formerly New Metropolis, about forty miles south of Mawitaan. It has three city blocks of new one-story buildings, perfect for staff rooms, clinics, and schools. It has a four-story, forty- seven-room modern inn, perfect for a branch hospital.
All
the utilities are in—electric power, water. It is well furnished with beds, modern plumbing. You might even call it luxurious. Do you want it for a branch hospital?"

Dr. Axel's head reeled. As the Phantom had described it, he had visualized it and was thinking, What a place for a hospital complex!

"Do I want it? Is this possible?" he stammered.

"I would not be here otherwise. This is the best possible use of that place for the jungle people."

In his years of daily emergencies and makeshift equipment, Dr. Axel had learned to make quick decisions.

•Yes," he said.

"The place is in the custody of the Jungle Patrol. Go to Colonel Weeks's office tomorrow to sign the papers. He is expecting you."

The meeting was over. The big white stallion wheeled about to go.

"I read about that place. Did they get all those men?" asked Dr. Axel.

"All except two. A black and a white. Killers. Their pictures are posted. If any of your people see them, report to the Patrol at once."

The Phantom looked back over his shoulder. His white teeth gleamed in the pale light as he smiled.

"By
the
way, Dr.
Axel.
I
feel
fine."

"Another swamp!"

"The last one, Pretty. We're almost out."

"Out where? Where you taking us, you jungle bunny?"

Moogar grinned as they sloshed on through the muck, not knowing he was being insulted.

"We've been going in a big circle. The law saw us head- in* north on the coast. Now we've moved south, then east."

"Sounds okay," Pretty grunted. They sloshed on. The muck was calf-deep, knee-deep in some places. There was always danger of quicksand. It was hard going. Both men were heavily armed, a rifle, two pistols, and ammunition they'd taken from Killer's Town. The swamp was hot, fetid, filled with mosquitoes and worrisome gnats. An occasional big snake coiled on a branch, startling city-boy Pretty. He shot the first one he saw, a fifteen-foot boa as thick as his thigh. Moogar shouted at him for that.

"You fool," he shouted. "That noise goes for miles. You want the Patrol to find us?"

Pretty grumbled. He made no reply, knowing Moogar was right. But he was ashamed to admit that wild life, especially a big snake, scared him.

Finally, they walked on dry grass and sank down beside a tree, covered with sticky mud to their knees. Both were exhausted.

"That was rough. But we made it. No more swamps," said Moogar.

Pretty nodded. He grumbled for a few minutes about the lost treasures in Koy's safe—as he did every few hours. Then they both fell asleep. They were awakened a few hours after dawn by a pounding sound.

"What's that?" mumbled Pretty. "Some damn animal?"

"Shh," said Moogar quickly, sitting up and listening alertly.

"Yes, some damn animal. A man," he chuckled. He had his own sense of humor.

Both men checked their rifles, then moved toward the pounding noise. Moogar grasped Pretty's arm, motioning him to the ground. They crawled on hands and knees to a thick clump of bushes and cautiously peered over them.

There was a clearing ahead, a dirt road. On it, the well- known small open vehicle with large letters painted on the side: Jungle Patrol. Near the car, a uniformed patrolman was nailing a placard on a big tree.

"Is that a cop?" said Pretty, looking at the pith helmet and shorts.

"More like ten cops," whispered Moogar. "Patrol. Tough."

Pretty nodded, grinned, and, before Moogar realized it, raised his rifle and fired. But in the split second before firing, Moogar grabbed Pretty's arm, jolting him. The patrolman fell with a surprised cry, shot in the back. Pretty turned to Moogar, his eyes blazing.

"You bastard," he swore. "Almost made me miss."

Moogar glared back at him. "You crazy, shooting a jungle patrolman? Those guys are murder."

They watched for a moment. The fallen man did not move. There was no one else there. They walked into the clearing. The man lay quietly, a red blotch showing through his shirt. It wasn't apparent whether he was breathing or not. They looked at the sign on the tree. Moogar gasped. Pretty laughed. The placard was about them. It had prison photos of both of them full face and profile, height, weight, coloring, distinguishing marks, with the remarks: "Known to be armed. Both are killers. Reward."

"How about that? Only a ten-grand reward for each of us? Are they kidding? Cheapskates," said Pretty, laughing.

Moogar pulled the placard from the tree and tore it into pieces. He had the jungleman's superstitious fear of photographs of himself. There was a loud buzzing from the car. They rushed over to it.

"It's the radio," said Pretty, grinning as he lifted the radio-telephone from the hook on the dashboard. A voice came out of the loudspeaker.

"Calling JP 604. Calling JP 604. Come in—" The voice dissolved into static. Pretty pointed to the hood. The number 604 was marked there. Pretty grinned and uttered a string of obscenities into the receiver not knowing if his words were being transmitted, but enjoying the gesture. Then Moogar looked at the sky in alarm. His jungle-trained ears had heard something.

"What?" asked Pretty.

Moogar pointed to a cloud. At that moment, a craft, like some gigantic mosquito, sailed out of the clouds—a helicopter. The two men stared up at it.