The Slave Market of Mucar (3 page)

The colonel only hoped he wouldn't overdo it.

The jeep shot through the white stone archway of Masara, Jungle Patrol post Number Eight, and skidded to a halt in front of the main building.

Ricketts got out and saluted the colonel. His eyes anxiously searched his superior officer's face.

"Next time try to keep a bigger percentage of the wheels on the ground," Weeks told the youngster gently.

He suppressed a grin as he ran up the steps, across the balcony, and into the first-floor suite where he had his office. Big rotary fans in the ceiling redistributed the stale air,

"I'd like a word with you, Tim," he said as the young officer paused on the landing. He ushered him into his office and closed the door. Ricketts sat down nervously opposite the colonel, who slumped at his desk looking in the center drawer for his pipe cleaner. The next three minutes were occupied in ferociously cleaning it out and relighting. When he had tamped the tobacco down to his satisfaction with a square, stubby finger, the colonel gave a sigh of satisfaction and sat back behind the desk. Wreaths of blue, fragrant smoke started fumigating the gnat population.

"It's all right, Tim" he told the somewhat apprehensive figure in front of him. "I'm not dissatisfied with your work. 1 called you up here for a purpose. I've got a job for you."

He stabbed with his pipe over his shoulder, down at the inner courtyard of the headquarters.

"Tell me what you see down there."

Ricketts crossed to his side and looked downward. He saw two tough-looking men, one squat and bald, the other dark-haired and about fifteen years younger. They sat manacled together on a bench on the bare stone floor. Opposite them, a member of the Jungle Patrol stood guard with a loaded rifle.

Ricketts frowned at the colonel, as though suspecting some double meaning in the question.

"It looks like another pair for Masara Prison, sir," he said. "Did you have some special reason for asking?"

The colonel's eyes flickered. He gave his pipe an impatient tap until it was burning properly again.

He had a strong, square face with a tough, good- natured look about it. A wide mouth seemed full of square teeth re-echoing the theme of his face. His thick blond hair was cut classically and brilliant green eyes looked keenly at his junior officer. A red silk scarf was tucked casually into the collar of his open Jungle Patrol khaki shirt which bore the pips of his rank on the shoulders. He wore a. Browning revolver in a Sam Browne belt at his waist and two frayed medal ribbons showed on his shirt Front, Immaculately creased

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khaki slacks descended to his mirror-like brown hoots. He stood up abruptly and joined Ricketts at the window,

"I certainly did. Tim," he said. He stood looking silently at the sullen figures of the two men in the yard below them.

"You know Masara Prison?" he continued. Ricketts shook his head.

"I've never been there," he said with a faint grin. "Either professionally or otherwise."

The tall figure of Weeks relaxed,

"You'd remember it if you had," he said, "It's a forbidding place."

He frowned again and made furious sucking noises with his pipe.

"It's supposed to be escape-proof. Come over here."

He led the way across the office to where a large-scale map of Number Eight Patrol's area of authority sprawled in scarlets, blues, and greens across the wall. He stabbed with the stem of his pipe at the intricate mass of lines at the fringe of the map.

"Here's Masara as you can see. Now here's Masara Prison. Look at the terrain."

Ricketts studied the map intently.

"It seems to be swamp on one side and sea on the other."

"Exactly," Weeks replied crisply. "The two remaining sides are rocky cliffs and one, in fact, is almost impassable without ropes. What's your opinion about that?"

Rickett's eyes gleamed.

"I'd say it was about impregnable, sir," he said.

The colonel nodded. They went back to the window. The older man's jaw tightened as he clenched the stem of the pipe.

"So would most people," he said. "That's why something's badly wrong up there,"

He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a folder. "Now look at this."

He thrust a large, glossy photograph into the junior officer's hand. It was a picture of Masara Prison, Grim walls rose frowning to colossal heights. The thick walls and the turreted towers were built in the Moorish style. The place seemed to be bristling with gates and watchtowers. Ricketts was puzzled.

"You obviously have a problem, sir, and I -take it you're going to get to it," he said dryly.

Weeks permitted himself an open smile.

"Well done, Tim," he said. "You're definitely improving."

He rubbed his hands with satisfaction, "You see those two down there?"

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He indicated the two men on the bench again. "Petty criminals who've been hanging around the waterfront for years. They got into a bar fight last week, smashed up a lot of property. They couldn't pay and they were violent when the Patrol arrested them."

He shrugged.

"So now they're en route to Masara. The judge gave them six months apiece."

He turned back to Ricketts who was still staring downward into the yard with a somewhat baffled expression.

"It may be news to you, Tim, but in addition to all the safeguards you've been studying, Masara has also got armed guards and fierce tracker dogs on constant patrol. Yet, despite this, the place has the worst escape record in the country. The underworld buzz is that the place has paper walls. Those were the exact words in their somewhat picturesque phraseology."

He turned moodily to his desk and sat down. Ricketts went slowly back and sat opposite. Colonel Weeks riffled about among the dossiers and took out another document.

"Item," he said. "Last month there was a break. The month before the same thing happened, and the month before that."

He turned the sheet impatiently.

"Great!" he said ironically. "Before that we had a two-month lull."

"It all sounds impossible, sir," said Ricketts.

"Precisely," said Weeks. "That's why I want you to go up there. I want you to take charge of the new prisoners and have a talk with the warden. Make it clear to him he's got to tighten his security. The place is becoming a joke."

Ricketts got up and put on his cap. He saluted the colonel with an excited expression on his face.

"Any other special orders, sir?"

Weeks drew fiercely on his pipe, the red glow momentarily making his normally impassive features look quite militant.

"You start first thing in the morning," he said, "I shall want a full report"

He called Ricketts back as the youngster got near the door.

"Something else, Tim. if the warden can't handle it you have my full authority to tell him--direct from me--

that I'll take it straight to the governor! And that's a promise."

"Yes, sir!" said Ricketts, conscious that this was his first full-fledged independent assignment.

He clicked his heels and went out rapidly. Colonel Weeks grinned and drew on his pipe. He sighed heavily He got up again and went over to the window. He was still standing like a statue when one of the native troopers entered.

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The truck rumbled up the hill the next afternoon, thick red dust coating its entirety, Ricketts tooling the heavy vehicle over the rutted, poorly kept road. In the rear, the two prisoners for Masara were guarded by men of the Jungle Patrol. Ricketts had taken a short-cut, but he was beginning to regret it. He wondered what Weeks would say if he turned the truck over or wrecked the springs. He saw with relief that they were now turning out of the jungle and onto the paved road that ran across the rocky hillside and curved round to the prison.

Masara was an impressive sight viewed from below, and as it slowly drew closer, Ricketts became more and more incredulous of the prison's recent reputation. It seemed impossible that anyone could escape from the massive fortress, which towered high above them. There were three security checks before the truck ground to a stop in an inner courtyard, locked doors clanging shut behind them. As the two new men were hurried into the office, Ricketts and another junior officer, Sam Coates, went down a corridor to the administration block.

Here they had to fill in a card to see the warden and were eventually led to a tiled corridor bathed in the glare of artificial light. They were shown to a padded bench and left to their own devices. A senior prison officer came back presently with a deprecatory smile.

"I'm sorry for the delay, gentlemen, but the warden's extremely busy today. We won't keep you waiting longer than necessary."

In any event, it was nearly two hours before the inner door finally opened and a tall figure in a peaked cap beckoned to the two Jungle Patrol officers.

"This way, gentlemen. The warden expresses his regrets at the delay."

The two men passed an outer office, where typewriters were pecking busily, and were ushered through an oak door. A gray pile carpet seemed to stretch out for hundreds of feet in front of them. The warden sat behind a massive mahogany desk. There was a magnificent view of the distant desert with its fringe of jungle through the picture windows behind him. The blinds were down, diffusing the glare of the sun.

The warden was a big, hard-looking man with a strong, square face. His blond hair shone in the sunlight as he got up to greet them.

"Do sit down, gentlemen. What can I do for you?" said Warden Saldan.

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CHAPTER 3

PAPER WALLS

Ricketts and Coates sank into the two leather chairs indicated by the warden.

The sun made a shimmering halo of Saldan's head as it struck like a knife through the slats of the blinds.

Ricketts looked from the gold plaque on the desk-which said in curlicue script letters: WARDEN KARL

SALDAN- back to the hard, creased face of the man behind the desk. He hardly knew how to begin what he expected to be a difficult interview, but the warden solved it for him. He leaned back in his black-leather padded chair and threw out his big hands expansively.

"Always delighted to see the Jungle Patrol. If I can be of help, I will do what I can.

Ricketts uncrossed his legs awkwardly and put his khaki-clad body more at ease in the chair. It was obvious that Coates was going to let him to do the talking. The hoarse, guttural voice of the warden disturbed him.

He wondered if he had heard it somewhere before. Though the man before him looked benevolent enough in his immaculate gray lightweight suit with a blue bow tie floating crisply against his shirt-front, the face above the tie was harsh and lined by time and passion. Ricketts thought to himself that it would be no good putting a soft, easygoing man in charge of a prison full of convicts.

Ricketts coughed embarrassedly as the warden asked his question again, looking expectantly from one to the other, as he swiveled his chair.

"It's a question of security, Warden," Ricketts explained. "The authorities are becoming a little disturbed by the number of breakouts from Masara in recent months. Quite frankly, my colonel's more than disturbed by the situation."

Here Ricketts broke off to smile pleasantly at the burly form of the man opposite him. The response was not a good omen for the interview. Saldan continued to stare at the young officer bleakly, twirling a pencil restlessly between his strong, blunt hands, as though his suppressed fury would snap it at any moment.

Ricketts broke off his smile and plunged on.

"You know Colonel Weeks, I expect, Warden. He's a first-class officer, and if he's disturbed you can bet there's something to be disturbed about."

Saldan commanded silence with a wave of his hand.

"Come to the point, Lieutenant," he said softly.

Ricketts felt a little out of his depth, but he plunged on.

"Colonel Weeks has asked me to urge greater security here," he said.

He started hack in surprise as Saldan brought his clenched fist down with a tremendous crash upon the desk, sending papers billowing high in the air and causing the inkstand to jump a good two inches off the

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tooled red- leather surface. The man was in a towering rage. His eyes narrowed to slits and blood suffused his cheeks until he looked almost as dark as a native.

"He's disturbed!" he flared. "Your colonel! Do you know the problems here, young man? Has he any idea what I'm faced with daily, what we're all faced with? We're badly understaffed. We need more guards!

Those I have are underpaid. The equipment is a hundred years out of date and the communications are obsolete. Masara may look impregnable, but I can assure you it is a surface mirage only. Tell your colonel that."

He paused, gazing savagely from one officer to the other. Neither of them spoke. He started off again, emphasizing his points with jerking motions of his stubby fingers.