The Slave Market of Mucar (13 page)

The Phantom listened, his hand on Larsen's throat, recovering his breath. He felt the guard's blood run down his knuckles.

Then a red flame burst out of the darkness of the gorge below them; the dull roar of an explosion followed a second later, slapping back at the walls of the canyon. Then all was quiet.

Larsen was shuddering and retching with fear as the Phantom got up. He adjusted his mask and brushed himself. Apart from a few scratches, he was uninjured.

"I would have been killed in that car," said Larsen shakily.

"You're speaking the truth for once," said the Phantom with a tight smile.

His eyes never left Larsen's face as the guard got to his feet. He could hardly stand and had to support himself against a rock.

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He had lost his cap somewhere in the mad dive down the hillside and the whole right side of his face and jaw was a raw mass of caked blood. His uniform was torn and he was covered by dust from head to foot.

There was little trace of the immaculate figure which had driven the big car out of Masara Civil Airport only a quarter of an hour before. Even his revolver had gone; the belt had been torn off when they rolled over the rocks. Larsen felt sick; he tasted blood in his mouth and he passed a feeble hand across his forehead.

But he still retained some degree of awareness. He had mistaken the significance of the Phantom's mask.

"You sure do a holdup the hard way, you fool!" he said when he could find his voice. "I happen to be the chief of the guards at Masara Prison."

He got up at last and scowled at the big man with a look that was meant to inspire fear.

To his astonishment, the enormous figure in the mask laughed a hard laugh that went echoing round the lonely peaks. Larsen shivered. This man before him was more like a god or a spirit of the place than a normal human being. He felt a sudden stab of fear. He passed a tongue over dry lips.

"Do you think I don't know who you are?" said the Phantom mockingly. "When I have myself chosen you!"

He laughed again, more shortly and less humorously this time. He came closer to Larsen and looked into his eyes. Larsen flinched despite himself.

"You are the man I want!" said the Phantom quietly.

The big guard found himself sweating.

"I don't understand," he stammered. "You jumped me- knowing who I am?"

He stared, recovering something of his old manner. His eyes hardened with suspicion. Perhaps this man's outfit was some strange robber's disguise.

"Are you an ex-con?" he asked suddenly. "What is this? Revenge?"

The Phantom stood tall and menacing before him. Larsen was a big man, but the Phantom towered over him.

"No, you have never seen me," he said in the same quiet voice.

Larsen's nerve suddenly hardened. He whipped round, his hand shaking to where his revolver holster should have been.

"I'm going to shoot you like a dog!" he said in a choking voice.

The Phantom's voice cracked like a whiplash. "It isn't there, Larsen," he said. "You lost it on the way down."

Fear showed in Larsen's eyes again as his hand clawed air. Then he screamed as the implacable figure before him suddenly leaped forward. Before he could move, his body was enclosed in a grip like steel, his head turned back at an angle.

His neck muscles creaked, as the Phantom increased the pressure.

"I want a few straight answers from you, chief guard of Masara," his tormentor said.

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Larsen screamed again. Then he twisted in his adversary's grasp and lashed out with one meaty fist. His knuckles struck a chest like rock. He howled with pain again as the Phantom twisted his hand behind his back in an agonizing lock.

Sweat ran down his face as he struggled impotently. Then he gave a moaning cry and relaxed.

"Where did Warden Saldan go?" the Phantom asked.

The pressure on Larsen's neck suddenly increased again. Larsen gritted his teeth: sweat ran down into his eyes and blinded him. He saw with another stab of fear a curious ring on the Phantoms finger-the finger on the hand which was doing such merciless things to his windpipe.

"I shall lose my patience in a moment," the calm voice went on. "Where did Saldan go?"

Larsen tried to tear himself free and with a convulsive effort, found he could speak. A flash of realization came to him.

"Did you leave that mark on our killer dogs?" he asked, fear blurring the edges of his voice. "Did you win that fight with your teeth?"

The Phantom merely tightened his grip again. He held the struggling guard effortlessly.

"Stop chattering," said the Phantom. "I've asked you the same question several times. Where did Warden Saldan go?"

Larsen sobbed with impotent rage.

"I don't know!" he shouted.

He screamed for the third time, like an animal in pain as his neck was wrenched round.

"Please don't! Don't break my neck!"

"I won't ask you again," said the Phantom ominously.

He increased the pressure once more, his muscles flexing beneath his jerkin.

"You're a crook hiding behind your uniform and authority:" he told Larsen. "You framed that patrolman!"

"How did you know about him?" gasped Larsen, almost unconscious by this time.

He tried to twist round to look at his captor, but failed.

"Who are you?"

There came no reply, merely another question.

"You let those prisoners escape," said the Phantom. "Where are they now?"

And then again, the question the big guard dreaded most of all.

"Where did Warden Saldan go?"

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The distant ring of hills and beyond them the first flickerings of the tropical stars whirled and began to blur as Larsen's consciousness started to leave him. They trembled like an Arab lamp in the wind, an apt simile and a sight he had seen many times.

The quiet voice pierced the mist that surrounded his brain.

"You do not have much longer to tell the truth."

Larsen made a supreme effort. He sagged forward, feigning unconsciousness. The pressure slackened for a second.

"Warden Saldan flew off on a vacation . .." Larsen gasped. "I don't know where."

"That's your last lie," said the Phantom grimly.

The iron band around Larsen's neck tightened, stopped at the chief guard's involuntary shriek.

"I'll tell you," he said. Sweat flew in rivulets down his cheeks as he sagged in the Phantom's arms.

"I lied," Larsen said feebly. "He flew to Mucar. The slave market at Mucar."

He sagged slowly to the ground as the Phantom released him. He lay panting on the sand, breathing the night air greedily into his aching lungs.

The Phantom stood over him, the light of the rising moon etching his shadow lengthily along the canyon wall.

He tapped significantly on the holster in his belt.

"Another lie?" he asked softly.

Larsen's legs kicked convulsively.

"No ..." he whispered. "Mucar is the market. Saldan auctions his slaves there. The escaped prisoners are the slaves."

The Phantom moved away. He went to stand looking out over the canyon at the rising moon. He marveled at the audacity of Saldan's plan. Who could have suspected a scheme enacted in such a setting as a supposedly impregnable prison? He listened to Larsen's gasping cries of pain, his mind busy with other things. He feared nothing from the big guard. He was a broken man. Larsen was sitting up now, massaging his swollen throat with lacerated hands. He looked a terrible sight. The Phantom turned back to him.

"It's an incredible story, Larsen," he said. "Escaped prisoners taken to the desert city of Mucar and sold as slaves. You're sure you haven't been embellishing things again?"

"You can't prove I said it," Larsen said in a beaten voice. He tried to stand and found he couldn't, "You can't prove anything. By tomorrow night they'll all be gone. Sold as slaves!"

The Phantom had an enigmatic smile on his face which sent another stab of fear through Larsen. The Phantom didn't look like a human being at all. His strength was godlike; he had already proved that and Larsen did not wish to tangle with him again. He winced as the Phantom let out a high, piercing whistle.

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The guard opened his eyes with amazement as he heard the thud of hooves on the rough grass and saw the big stallion galloping toward them. Holding the reins in his mouth was the dark form of Devil.

"Well done!" the Phantom called out in his powerful voice. He turned back to Larsen. The big horse was already standing before them, blowing impatiently through his nostrils. Larsen winced as the Phantom lifted him and threw him over the pommel. He lay like a sack of potatoes while the powerful stallion curvetted beneath him.

"Tomorrow night!" the Phantom mused. "Then I'd better get there before them!"

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CHAPTER 12

NO SLEEP FOR COLONEL WEEKS

Colonel Weeks was enjoying his first deep sleep of the night. He had tossed for hours, debating the extraordinary events of the previous evening and had at last fallen asleep a little before 2:00 A.M. It was a cool, windless night and he was not at first aroused when the shutters of his room were quietly slid aside. A shadowy figure surveyed the room, making sure that the Jungle Patrol Commander was unaware that he was observed.

Then there was a crash and a low moan and something tumbled forward in a heap into the room. Weeks was awakened in a second by the noise which shook the entire bedroom; he bolted upright in bed, fumbling for the light switch, his bewilderment changing into rage.

"What's going on here?" he bellowed, blinking in the radiance of his bedside lamp. A low moan was the only answer. Colonel Weeks swiveled his gaze over toward the window. His jaw momentarily sagged with surprise as he took in the limp and groaning form, dressed in a tattered, blood-stained uniform with its arms tied behind its back.

He bounded to the floor and crossed to the prostrate form. He had not at first noticed the ropes which bound the groaning Larsen.

"What the blazes is this?" he grunted. His eyes widened as he recognized the big guard.

"The chief officer from Masara Prison!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"

Larsen had dragged himself painfully upright now and sagged against the wall below the window.

"Doing?" he mumbled, his eyes blinking up at the pajama-clad figure of the colonel, who was none too pleased at being disturbed for the second consecutive night.

"I've been assaulted-savagely attacked, mauled, and dragged here. I demand you get in touch with the prison."

"Colonel Weeks!"

The commanding, incisive voice Weeks was beginning to know so well echoed throughout the room.

"The Commander," he said to himself, looking round keenly. He hurried to the window, but, as on the previous evening, there was nothing but the moonlight silvering the palm fronds.

"Keep this man locked up until further notice!" came the Phantom's voice again.

"Yes, sir!" said Colonel Weeks.

He glanced down curiously at the cowering form of Larsen. The big guard raised his head.

"That's illegal!" he complained. "I demand you call my attorney ..

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"You can have twenty attorneys," the calm voice of the Phantom went on. "You're going to need them.

Now, Colonel Weeks, I want you to listen carefully."

Colonel Weeks went to sit in a chair near the window as Larsen sagged back against the wall.

"This man Larsen, the chief of guards at Masara, framed Patrolman Slingsby. Need I say more, Colonel Weeks?"

"No, sir!" said Weeks, gazing sternly at Larsen.

"It's a lie!" the chief officer gasped. "You can't prove that."

"You'll have your day in court, Larsen," the Phantom's voice went inexorably on. "Listen carefully, Colonel. I need the Patrol helicoper at once. I also want Patrolman Slingsby. Tell him only to report to Mr. Walker at the helicopter. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly, sir," said Weeks, his mind turning over the exciting possibilities raised by this strange conversation.

"Slingsby will take further orders from Mr. Walker," the Phantom said.

The voice died away again and once more the night was still. Weeks stood up and put on his dressing gown. He picked up the phone. Three minutes later one of the night-duty patrolmen rapped at the door. He gaped at the sprawled form of Larsen on the floor.

"See to this man's wounds, give him some food and drink, and then lock him up until further notice," said the colonel coolly. "Also tell Patrolman Slingsby to report to me at once."

"Yes, sir."

The big patrolman saluted and then dragged Larsen to his feet.

"I want my lawyer!" Larsen muttered as he was led away. Weeks grinned at his retreating back. He rubbed his hands, and rummaged on his bedside table for his pipe. This was more like it.