The Slave Market of Mucar (10 page)

He put down the rifle against the trunk of a tree. Larsen felt weak at the knees as he listened to the sickening sounds going on beyond the thick screen of foliage in front of them.

"Jungle Patrolman Slingsby caught by the dogs while attempting to escape," Saldan mused. "Well, well."

He smiled suddenly. It was an unlovely sight in the dawn light.

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"Too bad."

He paused again as the noises redoubled in volume and vigor. There was pain and distress in the screaming cries now and the mingled tones of despair.

"Listen to that," said Saldan exultantly. "The dogs must be tearing him apart!"

Larsen turned aside, sick to his stomach; he was unable to look at the warden's face. The noises slowly died to a feeble whimpering as the dawn light grew.

Over at the far side of the glade, Slingsby was reluctant to move forward as the Phantom started walking over toward the thick screen of bushes. It wasn't until the big man had turned and faced him calmly that the young officer was suddenly shamed; he pulled himself together. When he joined the Phantom he saw an astonishing sight. In an area of about ten square yards in front of them, the undergrowth and grass had been completely flattened, mute witness of the titanic struggle which had taken place there. Small saplings had been cut completely in half by snapping jaws, grass torn out by the roots. Dark blood stained the fronds for yards around.

Lying in the middle of this chaos were the bedraggled remains of what had been two fierce guard dogs.

They lay on their sides, cut and bruised, completely exhausted and whimpering for mercy. Over them the superb figure of Devil stood poised. The great beast, his yellow eyes glowing in triumph, licked his teeth and shot a glance at the Phantom as though for his approval. Then his eyes went back to his two beaten enemies and never left them.

"Well done, Devil!" said the Phantom softly.

Slingsby was staggered.

"Those two man-killers on their sides begging for mercy, sir!" he said. "It's incredible. What kind of a dog is this?"

The Phantom smiled a brief smile.

"No dog, Slingsby," he said. "Mountain wolf raised in the deep jungle. Devil fears nothing that walks, flies, or creeps!"

Slingsby's eyes opened wide with admiration.

"Great, sir!" he said. "We could do with a few of these in the Patrol!"

The Phantom nodded. Humor flickered at the back of his eyes.

"That will do, Devil," he said softly. "They're alive, but barely."

Devil raised himself from his haunches and took up station behind his master. There were one or two cuts under his rough fur, but otherwise he seemed no worse for the encounter.

The Phantom drew closer and bent over the recumbent forms of the dogs. He opened the casing of a ring on his finger. Slingsby stared as the big man impressed something from the ring on to the collar of each of the recumbent dogs. Then the three of them-the two men and Devil- disappeared back into the bushes on their way along the shoreline.

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The light was brighter now. Full dawn was at hand. Every ripple and eddy of the wrinkled sea's surface appeared engraved as in a line drawing. The mist had withdrawn from the shore and the first beams of the sun were sliding their slanting sword-points into the water. The sun burned dimly at the edge of the ocean.

The strengthening light made a rosy glow of Saldan's features, tinged his blond hair an even brighter gold.

He stood by the fringe of trees with Larsen smoking a cigar, his face exuding confidence. He finished his cigar in silence, then ground it out beneath his heel.

"Come on," he said to Larsen. "Time we got the carcass concealed."

The big chief guard seemed like a man broken by the events of the night. He made no move to follow, but stood aimlessly by the trees as Saldan strode toward the thicket. The warden turned back in annoyance, amazement shining in his eyes.

"What the hell's the matter with you, Larsen?" be said. He caught the other by the arm.

"That man," said Larsen, turning an ashen face to him. "Torn to pieces by the dogs. I can't face it now."

Anger flared in Saldan. He slapped Larsen's face until his teeth rattled.

"You'll do as you're told, you chicken liver," he grated. "We've got to get those dogs back on the leash."

He seized the big man's arm and dragged him along without ceremony. The two crept forward through the bushes until they thinned out into a large glade. They soon saw the flattened bushes, the trampled grass, and the blood. Then they turned a corner and came in sight of the dogs.

"Where's Slingsby?" gasped Saldan, his face turning even more purple in the light of dawn.

"What happened to the dogs?" Larsen replied. He seemed to have recovered some of his confidence now.

"Are they dead?"

He stooped over the nearest animal.

"Not dead," he said after a bit. "Badly beaten, chewed up a bit."

Saldan looked incredulous; he glanced round the lonely shoreline uneasily.

"Chewed up? You mean the patrolman did that?"

He walked out abruptly from the screen of bushes as though he feared something might be lurking behind them.

"What sort of man is he?" he said. "How could he fight those two killers?"

He was aroused by a sudden shout from Larsen. He strode rapidly back in among the bushes.

The big guard was kneeling at the side of one of the dogs, his face alight with excitement.

"Look at this, Warden?" he said. "What does it mean?" Saldan bent over him irritably.

"On the collar there," said Larsen. Saldan soon saw what he meant. "A skull mark!" he said.

Larsen stood up. He looked nervously round the glade.

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"The mark of a skull on the collar, sir. What's behind this?"

Saldan's face was a savage mask of mingled hatred and fear.

"I have no idea, Larsen," he said hoarsely, scarcely able to conceal the slight quiver in his own voice.

He turned back toward the edge of the glade.

"We'll send help for the dogs. Let's get out of here."

The two men trudged off through the growing light, both silent with their thoughts.

"How about the escaped patrolman?" said Larsen when they had retraced part of the way back to the cave entrance.

"We can't trail him without dogs, you idiot!" said Saldan. He seemed to have recovered his nerve by now.

He turned toward Larsen sardonically.

"You want to go after him?"

His eyes widened.

"A character who fights vicious man-killers with his teeth?"

The two men passed on and were lost among the bushes. Their voices drifted back.

"What kind of training do they give those men in the Jungle Patrol?" queried Larsen.

The Phantom smiled briefly, revealing strong, broad teeth. He gave an approving glance at Slingsby. The young patrolman, the Phantom, and Devil were crouched behind a thick layer of undergrowth. They waited until Saldan and Larsen had cleared the area before emerging. There was admiration on Slingsby's face as the two men got up from behind the bushes. They walked in silence along the shore for some distance until the Phantom started leading them inland.

"Who are you, sir?" asked Slingsby for perhaps the tenth time during that night. His gaze traveled curiously up and down his huge companion's striking costume. The eyes twinkled behind his mask as the Phantom replied.

"Never mind about that now, Slingsby," he said. "We have to get you back to Patrol Headquarters fast."

He stooped to pat Devil behind the ears, then bent to examine the wolf carefully. He appeared satisfied as he straightened up.

"More problems," he said in his deep resonant voice. "We now know who's behind the secret of the tunnel: the warden and the chief guard."

"But we've no proof," said the young Jungle Patrol officer aggrievedly.

"That's true," the Phantom observed calmly. "They'd merely say they found the tunnel as you did."

"But why would they help prisoners escape from jail?" said Slingsby, his face puzzled.

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"I said there were plenty of problems here," the Phantom replied. "We'll get to them."

"There's another thing," said Slingsby. "What happens to the prisoners? They're never seen again."

"Two excellent questions, Patrolman Slingsby," said the Phantom as the two men and the wolf halted on a bluff commanding an airy view of Masara Prison.

The Phantom stood brooding over the scene before him as though he were the spirit of the place.

"No good answers yet!"

Saldan's face was haggard and the strain of the night was beginning to show as he and Larsen once more regained the interior of Masara Prison. The big man's face was knotted with anxiety. When he had closed the door and was within the privacy of his office, he poured stiff whiskies for the chief guard and himself.

He slumped into the chair behind his desk and loosened his collar and tie.

He drew from his pocket one of the heavy leather collars which had encircled the throat of an injured dog.

The tiny skull motif seemed to wink up at him mockingly.

"There's a lot of things I don't like about this, Larsen," he said. "Or understand."

He reached in his desk for another cigar. "That patrolman fighting our dogs with his teeth."

He frowned, his heavy jaws clamped round the cigar as he lit up.

"That reminds me, have you sent men out to pick up the dogs?"

"I've already given instructions," Larsen said.

The warden nodded.

He picked up the dog collar and held it close to his eyes, as though it had a message engraved on it for all to see.

"This skull mark on the collar. What's it mean? It's weird."

Larsen leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and took another swig at the whiskey. His uniform was stained with dust and sweat and he was tired. For the first time he was cursing himself for ever getting mixed up with Warden Saldan's enterprises. He didn't venture an opinion.

He jerked upright as the warden banged a big hand on the desk.

"It's too much!" said Saldan, getting to his feet. "I'm packing. I've got to get to the slave market of Mucar!"

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CHAPTER 9

VOICE FROM THE DARK

There had been a large-scale inquest going on at Jungle Patrol Headquarters lasting well into mid-morning. Despite their tiredness, Colonel Weeks, Tim Ricketts, and Joe Coates had held a three-sided conference that had seemed to get nowhere. Bacon and eggs and coffee had been cleared away from the table in the colonel's big office before they again started to review the salient points. The colonel's pipe belched smoke and flame as he emphasized his thinking.

"If that blasted warden thinks he can stop an inquiry into his crooked jail because he framed Slingsby, he's going to be rudely surprised," he told his junior officers grimly. "They'll laugh him out of court. Trying to pin a jailbreak on my undercover man."

He snorted deep down in his throat and a rain of sparks fell on the desk surface as his pipe belched like a volcano in his indignation. Then he made up his mind. He spoke to the HQ building central telephonist.

"Get me the governor," he said.

There came a tapping at the door and Ricketts went to open it. The colonel's pipe almost slipped out of his mouth, but he managed to save it by strong jaw action. His eyes were wide and round over the bowl of the pipe as he stared toward the door.

"Forget that call to the governor," he said slowly.

He put the receiver back onto its cradle.

Ricketts closed the door behind the bedraggled form of Slingsby. Neither of the two junior officers with Weeks looked as though they believed the evidence of their eyes, either. Slingsby walked slowly into the room, came to a halt, and saluted.

Weeks was the first to recover himself.

"What the hell are you doing out of jail, Slingsby?" he said. All the anger had long gone out of his voice. It was a calm voice that questioned the young officer.

"Did they release you?" the colonel asked.

Slingsby gulped and drew himself up.

"Actually not, sir," he said in faltering tones. "I escaped."

Colonel Weeks looked staggered. His face momentarily registered bewilderment. But he recovered himself masterfully and put his pipe down in a safe place.

"You escaped from Masara Prison?" he said slowly and deliberately. No one in the room moved for a moment. The silence was heavy, unbroken except for the faint squeaking of the fan in the overhead ceiling.

Ricketts and Coates's tanned faces turned toward Slingsby with solicitous interest,

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"All right, Slingsby, sit down," said Colonel Weeks in a rough voice which deceived no one. "I expect you're hungry and tired, See about some breakfast for him, Tim."