“Nonsense,” growled the bald man. “It’s just your imagination.”
The one with the curly hair shook his head. “I have the same feeling.”
For a moment, Baldy contemplated the shadows behind him. Then he waved his arm impatiently.
“Let’s go. You’re just imagining things. No one follows us. We—the Assassins—follow others.”
Crewcut turned docilely and walked after Baldy. After a moment, Curly brought up the rear, still glancing back over his shoulder as the three of them continued down the alleyway.
The Phantom waited until they had turned the corner before he made his next move. He sped up to the end of the fence and peered around it. He was just in time. The three of them were turning in through a gateway. Behind a wooden wall there was a large warehouse.
Waiting until the door had creaked open and the three had vanished into the darkness of the building, the Phantom hurried after them. He stood against the door and pressed his ear to it. He could hear the sound of footsteps. When he could not distinguish the sound any longer, he tugged at the handle.
The door opened.
He found himself in a high-ceilinged structure. The floor was covered with crates and boxes at one end, and smaller bundles of cardboard boxes and piles of junk at the other. A way had been cleared through one side, and at the end of the passageway a door stood open. Beyond that there was a glow of light.
Quickly the Phantom made his way along the cleared sector of the warehouse and came to the open door. Stairs led down from the door into a cellar or basement of some kind. It was from that area that he could hear the muffled sound of voices.
The Phantom had always been blessed with perfect hearing—hearing a great deal more acute than the average person’s. He closed his eyes now to concentrate on the sounds from the room below the warehouse.
“Flip on that switch, will you?” Crewcut was saying.
“It’s on.” That was Curly.
“It’ll take a minute to warm up. You better write out what to say.”
“I’m doing that now, idiot,” Baldy said.
“How can we explain the Phantom?” Curly wondered.
“Let me handle that,” Baldy said. “The important thing is that we failed to get the ransom.”
“In a few seconds we’ll be ready to transmit,” Crewcut announced.
There was a short silence.
“Give me that note,” said Crewcut.
The Phantom could hear the rustle of paper.
“4XC3,” said Curly. “4XC3. Come in, 4XC3.”
“Any answer?” Baldy asked.
“Not yet. 4XC3, calling 4XC3—”
Suddenly there was a scratchy sound of static and a faint electronic voice responded distantly:
“4XC3 here. Can you hear me, 7FG3?”
“Yes. We have contact.”
“What is your message, 7FG3? Mention no names. Just tell me if the mission was a success.”
The Phantom moved swiftly, leaping down the steps soundlessly, drawing the Colt .45 out of his waterproof holster as he did so. A small room opened off to the left side of the steps. Behind a wooden railing the Phantom crouched. He could see the occupants of the room very clearly under the bright bulb hanging from the ceiling of the room.
A large radio transmitter-receiver stood against one of the cement-block walls of the room. A small table had been placed near it. At the table sat Crewcut, holding a microphone in his hand.
To one side of him stood Curly, watching.
Baldy, his head gleaming like a billiard ball in the light, was leaning on the table, close to Crewcut, prompting him by pointing to the slip of paper unfolded on the table top.
“Yes, 4XC3,” said Crewcut. “The mission was—”
The Phantom aimed the handgun at the microphone and fired just as Crewcut spoke the last three words. The sound of the explosion echoed loudly in the small room. Simultaneously the microphone exploded in Crewcut’s hand.
The Phantom moved then, jumping to the bottom of the steps, and advancing to cover all three men with the wenpon in his hand.
Baldy was the first to recover from the shock. He swung around and saw the Phantom there. His eyes widened.
Curly was slower. He fell back against the transmitter in surprise when he saw the Phantom. His mouth dropped open. “You!”
Crewcut was stunned and did not turn. He simply stared at the shattered remnant of the microphone in his hand.
“The Ghost Who Walks!” croaked Baldy.
“But—but you’re—dead—” stammered Curly.
Crewcut finally turned around. When he saw the Phantom, he turned white and dropped the microphone holder as if it were on fire.
“The Phantom!”
“Sit very still,” the Phantom ordered calmly. “The three of you are coming with me. The police will be as anxious to question you as I am. We’d like particularly to know exactly where you were making your radio call to. That will be where Diana Palmer is.”
Baldy smiled faintly. “We’re sworn to silence. You won’t get anything out of us.”
“Won’t we?” the Phantom commented pleasantly. “I think we will. You haven’t a chance, you know. There’s no way for you to escape. And I doubt your mentor Kali will be coming to rescue you.”
“Possibly not Kali,” Crewcut said boldly, “but someone else will.”
“Our group is large and powerful,” said Baldy smugly.
“I know all about your sect of Assassins.” The Phantom straightened resolutely. “We’ll break it up, and you won’t have a prayer.”
“You’re only one man,” said Baldy. “How do you plan to take the three of us with you now?” His eyes were beginning to narrow.
“If you don’t believe I can do it, just try something.”
Crewcut rose from the table where he had been sitting and faced the Phantom. “I’ll go along quietly. I’ve heard about you.”
The Phantom smiled.
Baldy turned red with anger. “What is this? Mutiny?” He stepped toward Crewcut menacingly.
At that moment Curly was completely out of the line of fire, screened by his two companions. That was the moment he chose to throw a long thin cord at the Phantom’s gunhand. The end of the cord was fastened to a heavy lead weight.
The lead weight slid past the Phantom’s wrist, dropped, and swung back. Then, drawn tightly on the cord, it circled the Phantom’s wrist for three turns. Quickly Curly jerked hard on the Phantom’s wrist, jarring the weapon from his hand.
„ Too late the Phantom realized what had happened. The weighted cord was an ancient weapon which had been used in Biblical times to kill and retrieve game all in one motion.
Baldy projected himself toward the Phantom with Crewcut right after him. Too late, the Phantom thought, crouching and pulling aside, trying at the same time to retrieve his Colt which lay on the concrete floor.
But Curly pulled hard again and threw the Phantom off balance with the cord and weight still attached to his wrist. The Phantom was forced to twist frantically at the weight and cord which was cutting into his flesh most painfully.
Crewcut slashed at the Phantom’s neck with karate chops and Baldy pummeled him with blows to the chest and stomach. The Phantom was on the concrete floor then, with his two assailants on top of him.
Finally he succeeded in loosening the cord and weight. At that moment, Curly tugged hard on the empty cord, going over backwards and howling as his head hit the edge of the table.
Baldy smashed the Phantom’s jaw with his fist, and the Phantom fell back himself. A heavy weight plunged into him, and then he felt a blow in the solar plexus that forced all the breath out of his body.
He slumped there.
When he was able to rise, he saw with blurred vision that the room was deserted.
The light was still on.
Staggering and rubbing his sore body, he clutched the back of the chair in which Crewcut had been seated while he sent his radio message to Kali.<
br />
The Phantom’s vision began clearing.
He saw the scribbled note on the table in front of him. And then, to one side, he saw another piece of paper.
On it was written two words: tydore next.
CHAPTER TEN
In the office of Police Commissioner James Dolan, the Phantom sat quietly waiting for Dolan to finish reading the report on the incidents following his attempt to catch the kidnappers of Diana Palmer.
Adjusting his dark glasses and tightening the belt of his trench coat, the Phantom leaned forward and said, “I typed it myself to save you the trouble, Commissioner. I also wanted it to be accurate.”
Dolan nodded and glanced up. “Well, this seems very detailed and accurate.” He cleared his throat. “My men are going over that warehouse and basement radio station with a fine-toothed comb. As yet we haven’t discovered much of anything. The warehouse is owned by a group of businessmen who rented it out to a firm of importers. The importers subleased the basement to a third group, but there’s no record of them.”
“What about the radio transmitter? Couldn’t they make contact with Kali by simply using the same call letters?”
“We tried that.” Dolan stood up and paced back and forth. “One of the Assassins had taken the precaution of resetting the wavelength, and so even if we had made the call, no one there would have responded.”
The Phantom shook his head glumly. “It was stupidity on my part to be taken like that. Overconfidence. It won’t happen again.”
“Let’s not worry about it, Walker. After all, you did bring us this note about Tydore.”
“That’s what I wanted to check on.” The Phantom looked up eagerly. “Does that name ring any bell?”
“As a matter of fact, it does.” Dolan seated himself again and began swinging back and forth in his swivel chair.
“Tydore is the ruler of a small principality called Tydia. It was a French protectorate many years ago, but is now an independent little constitutional monarchy. Tydore is the king ' at present. His son is the prince—a man about forty-five. There is a royal line of Tydores. The present king is probably the twelfth or thirteenth.”
“But how does Tydore tie in with Kali’s piracies?”
Dolan steepled his fingers and leaned toward the Phantom. “The point is, Prince Tydore is in the city now after two visits to Washington.”
“Here?” The Phantom sat up.
“That’s right.”
“ ‘Tydore next,’ ” the Phantom repeated under his breath. “Do you think that means that the trio of Assassins is going to strike again right here in the city?”
“Why not?” Dolan responded. “With the ransom for Diana Palmer in the works, they could just as easily strike again.” “You feel they are going to kidnap the prince?”
“Possibly. However, there’s an even better chance they might go after the Prince’s daughter, Naji.”
“A princess?”
“Right.”
“How do you plan to guard the Prince and his daughter?” Dolan looked away. “Actually we can’t, Walker. We’re under strict budgetary surveillance at the moment. I simply can’t turn out two hundred and fifty patrolmen to keep watch on that parade.”
The Phantom blinked. “There is to be a parade?”
“This afternoon at two o’clock. They’re going from City Hall to the Hotel Majestic. It’s all very regal, and good public relations.”
“And you can’t post sharpshooters on the buildings to watch out for any funny business?”
“I told you. I’m on a tight budget. We’ll do all we can, of course, but I simply can’t part with any more men.”
“Can you get the Prince to call off the parade?”
The Commissioner sighed. “We’ve tried that, of course. But it simply won’t work. This is his big moment.”
The Phantom stood up and walked over to the window to look out. “Maybe I’d better try to help you.”
“I think you’ve done enough, Walker,” the Commissioner said. “After all, taking on those three Assassins by yourself like that—you could have gotten hurt.”
“Only my pride,” said the Phantom ruefully.
Dolan chuckled. “I wish I could say we were able to call off the parade, but I’m afraid we can’t.”
“Thanks, Commissioner. I appreciate your help.”
“Sorry I don’t have any good news about Diana Palmer."
The Phantom nodded grimly.
The five cars moved slowly as they made their way along the street toward the hotel where Prince Tydore and his daughter Naji were staying. In his belted trench coat, dark glasses, and hat, the Phantom stood inconspicuously alongside the street, watching the lead car drive by.
It was a convertible limousine with the top down. The two figures in the back seat beamed out at the crowd and waved their hands gaily.
The Phantom could see them clearly. The Prince was a middle-aged man with a rather round face, thinning black hair, and a pug nose that gave his face a look of continual bewilderment. He was dressed in Western clothes which seemed to be rather uncomfortable for him.
At his side sat a beautiful young woman in her early twenties. She had long brown hair, gray eyes, and a slender, well-formed body. She was wearing a simple dress, cut low in front. She was laughing gaily.
The crowds sent up a big cheer as the cortege came along. The mayor was in one car, the president of the city council in another, and a raft of politicians in a third. The parade continued past the Phantom toward the center of the city.
It turned away from the main street and went down a side street. The Phantom kept pace with it on foot. He did not have to walk very fast. The traffic signals caught the cars at every corner.
Suddenly the Phantom moved over to the edge of the sidewalk against a building and peered ahead of him in the crowd. It was Crewcut! He recognized him, even though he was now wearing a pair of slacks, a shirt open at the collar, and a sports jacket over that. A telltale bulge in Crewcut’s jacket attracted the Phantom’s eye: it was a gun.
The Phantom was tom between pursuing Crewcut immedi-ately to prevent him from taking action against the Prince’s car and telephoning the Commissioner for help.
He knew it would take too long for help to arrive and" ' opted for the immediate pursuit of Crewcut. With that in mind, he forced his way through the crowd and tried to reach the Assassin.
Luck was against him. The signal changed at the very moment he started forward, and a crowd of humanity, released by the light, surged across the street and onto the sidewalk directly in front of the Phantom.
He was caught like a chip in a stream. Directly ahead of him, he could see the cortege of cars moving along slowly, but he could not push his way through to reach Crewcut, who was also following them.
“Watch it, buddy!” snapped a man as the Phantom pushed against him, trying to force his way ahead.
“Sorry, sorry,” said the Phantom.
“Hey, he must think he’s a movie actor,” a fat woman said as the Phantom pushed past her.
The Phantom was usually very polite, and he never offended anyone if it was at all possible to avoid doing so. But he was in a hurry now, and in no mood to apologize.
He pushed forward.
His attention had been momentarily diverted from Crewcut.
Suddenly he found himself face to face with the man!
Crewcut stared, his eyes widened, and he turned and broke through the crowd which had almost magically thinned, running back the way he had come.
“Stop that man!” shouted the Phantom.
“What’s with him?” someone growled.
“Stop him! He’s a killer!”
The crowd opened up.
Crewcut was running hard, heading for the open door of a shop. The Phantom began gaining on him.
The Assassin dashed in through the shop doors and ran pell mell down the aisle for the rear.
The Phantom was right behind him when a clerk stepped out from be
hind a cash register, directly in his path.
“Could I help you, sir?” he asked, staring in surprise at the Phantom’s belted trench coat and heavy dark glasses.
“Sorry. I’m trying to locate a friend of mine,” panted the Phantom.
“I assume he owes you money.” The clerk raised an eyebrow and turned to survey the store. “Where is he?”
The Phantom looked over the clerk’s shoulder. There was no one in the store.
“I—I swear I saw him come in.”
“It’s probably those dark glasses, mister,” suggested the clerk.
The Phantom was studying the back of the store very carefully. There were two rest rooms: one labeled men and the other, women.
“Could I use your rest room a moment?” he asked politely.
The clerk shrugged.
The Phantom ran down the aisle and plunged in through the door to the men’s room.
There was no one inside.
At the rear there was a window, pushed up high, wide open.
The Phantom ran over to it and peered out.
A narrow alleyway extended along the back of the store. There were packing crates and refuse cans out there, but no Crewcut.
Nevertheless the Phantom vaulted through the window and ran up the alleyway in the direction toward which the parade was heading.
It was when he reached the sidewalk that he heard the wild screams and the screeching brakes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Instantly the Phantom understood what had happened. While he had been neatly maneuvered into chasing Crewcut, Curly had suddenly leaped out of the crowd surrounding the parade on the sidewalk and grabbed the driver of Prince Tydore’s car.
As the Phantom ran through the crowd, he could see the driver struggling valiantly with the long-haired Assassin. The crowd remained panic-stricken along the side of the street. No one seemed willing to try to protect the Prince and Princess by fighting off the vicious Assassin.
The Phantom found himself unable to make his way through the tightly packed people on the side of the street.
Then he was free and able to see the car once again. Curly had by now thrown the driver out of the car. The front door hung open and Curly was pummeling the man on the sidewalk. The crowd drew back as the driver sank to the pavement unconscious.
Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 14] Page 6
