The Veiled Lady

by Lee Falk

  "Seems to me, I heard the Phantom has lived in these forests and jungles for centuries," said Jan.

  "How true is that?"

  The flames made the dark shadow patterns on his face change constantly. Finally, the Phantom answered, "I've lived here most of my life."

  "Have you ever been to America?"

  "Yes."

  "You always come back to Bangalla?"

  "There's always a great deal to be done here." The masked man walked to a pile of firewood, selected two new pieces to add to the blaze. "Perhaps, it's time you turned in, Doctor."

  Jan stretched her arms straight up, then rose slowly to her feet. "Why do you do all this?" she asked him.

  The Phantom took her arm, leading her back to the helicopter. "Why are you a biologist?"

  Jan stepped up into the dark ship. "Yes, I see." The Phantom returned to sit beside the fire. There was a slight smile on his face.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When morning arrived in the volcanic valley, the Phantom was already miles from the helicopter

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  camp. Even though he could see nothing above the fog ceiling, his acute sense of direction told him where the bare spot lay. Since he knew the River of Fire came roaring out of the mountain near where the rough-hewn stairway began, he assumed he could find the river somewhere near where he had entered the valley and trace it back.

  The Phantom believed they might be able to use the river to travel across the valley, using some sort of raft. It would be much easier than biking, with Gabe's leg still only in fair shape.

  Directly ahead of the Phantom lay a vast field of bright scarlet. Some sort of wild poppies, giant in the gray morning light, swayed gently before him.

  The masked man worked his way quickly through the expanse of bright, waist-high flowers. A tangle of wild grass and prickly weeds met him next. Then came a stream, a chill muddy stream. This was not the River of Fire.

  Nearly across the knee-deep water, the Phantom felt something snap against his boot. Frowning at the greenish silty water, he saw something dead-white in color swirling beside his ankle. Another thump came against his leg, this time above the protective boot rim.

  The Phantom felt a sharp pain flash through his leg.

  He made out another large, fat deathly white shape wriggling in the water. "Leeches," he said. "Giant leeches."

  He jogged, splashing, to the edge of the stream. There he jabbed at the two enormous leeches with Guran's spear. The deadly tip still contained ample poison and it did its work swiftly. In a few seconds, the two ugly hungry-mouthed creatures let go, falling, shriveling, back into the dirty flow of water.

  Upondry ground, the Phantom stopped to remove his boot and treat his minor wound. The smell of fresh blood attracted a buzzing cluster of enormous flies. The masked man had a busy ten minutes fending them off before he could resume his journey.

  A few moments later, he halted again. Off to his right, he saw a grove of tough-vined flowers growing. These were the giant grail-like blossoms he had first seen outside when he began his ascent. "The river must he nearby."

  Soon, except for the giant white flowers, the vegetation became more sparse. The ground took on a yellowish gritty appearance. The Phantom paused, sniffing the air "Strong smell of sulphur," he observed.

  A quarter mile more and he came to a great billowing geyser. It shot hot steamy water up out of the rocky earth. The heated water went roaring and tumbling downhill to flow in a wide river away into the distance.

  "This is it then, the place where the River of Fire has its start," said the Phantom.

  He made his way downhill, walking along the rocky ground at the edge of the steaming river. He reached out to test the water with a fingertip. Boiling hot he thought after a very brief immersion of his forefinger. But it looks deep enough and wide enough for boat travel. We'll lust have to make sure nobody falls overboard.

  The Phantom carefully blazed his route back toward Doctor Love and the others. At mid-morning, he 46

  stopped by a pool of clear water for a drink. Twined through the brush to hereabouts, he noticed a familiar, though highly enlarged, vine. The leaves were pale yellow-green, sharp-pointed. These were grape vines.

  Catching hold of a low vine, the Phantom climbed up among the twists and curlicues and picked a grape. It was a smooth ripe green, about the size of a breakfast melon. The Phantom ate two grapes before dropping back to the ground. "No use stuffing myself," he said with a grin. Before he left the area he cut himself a length of tough vine.

  When he came once more to the leech-filled stream, he cast the vine up and around a sturdy branch several feet over the water. After testing the strength of the improvised rope and the branch, the masked man swung smoothly over the dangerous waters.

  That morning had seen another embarkation. As the dawn chill left the jungle air, Tinn, the tired looking Chinese, was standing in a dreary clearing near the rundown Llongo country outpost. "It's not what I'd call in mint condition," he observed while he lit a new homemade cigarette and blinked at the tan-colored helicopter before him.

  "It's in excellent shape," insisted Silvera. "This helicopter has served in several military operations in one of the neighboring emerging nations."

  "On the losing side?"

  "One hesitates to suggest you're complaining in order to postpone our departure, Tinn," said Silvera.

  He crossed the clearing and patted the ship. "Perhaps you'd like to radio Barber, so you can personally complain about this flying machine he's provided us with?"

  "No." Tinn moved slowly toward the copter. "Why can't the guy who delivered this crate take it into the volcano?"

  "Because that's not his job." Silvera climbed into the ship. "He merely works for Barber. You and I, on the other hand, have been tentatively promised an actual share of the treasure."

  "When's the last time you flew one of these things?" The weary Tinn was beside the copter, looking up at Silvera.

  From the pilot's seat, Silvera answered, "I'm an excellent flyer, Tinn, never fear. In my younger days I quite frequently found employment as a mercenary in various African nations. You'll be flying with an experienced combat pilot this morning. Now get on in here."

  Grunting up into his seat, Tinn said, "You've never had to combat the Phantom, though. And lord knows what else is down in that hole."

  Silvera began going through the pre-takeoff procedures. "One would hope you can keep your negative talk to a minimum. Don't jinx this flight, Tinn."

  "It's jinxed already." Tinn buckled himself to the seat, leaving enough slack so he'd be able to slouch.

  After a moment, the rotor began to revolve slowly. "I want to get clear of here before any of those savages get too curious. As it is, some of them must have heard this machine land during the night."

  "You ought to be worrying about the Jungle Patrol," said Tinn. "They've been paying a lot of attention, in their own copters, to since the girl went in."

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  "Much too early in the day," said Silvera. "Those Jungle Patrol lads are still snug in their beds."

  The helicopter shook and hummed. Then it ascended, rising over the dawn jungle.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The mid-morning sun sent glaring streamers of light across the deep-blue waters of the bay of Mawitaan. A brandy-colored mare whinnied and snorted as she was lifted by a sling rig out of the hold of a cargo ship. A black stevedore, hefting an enormous bale, paused to grin up at the disoriented horse. A small Oriental man in a spotless white suit was making his way along the cluttered dock, leading a low-speed red bicycle. A consignment of crated doves was being trundled away on a hand truck by a tattooed old man with a scraggly beard.

  The morning air was thick with smells. Machine oil, sea life, ripening fruit, cramped livestock, exotic spices and herbs, and the sweat of hundreds of hard-working men.

  Sergeant Barnum, wearing casual civilian clothes, was leaning against a whitewashed stone building at wharfside. He wa
s finishing the last few bits of a native pastry he'd purchased in a side-street bakery, Licking glaze off his thumb and middle finger, the stocky sergeant turned his attention to the crowd around him. Barnum and Colonel Weeks had been unable to find the perpetually winking Lemos yesterday. The Jungle Patrol commander had to attend to other business this morning, but he had assigned his sergeant to continue the search for the man who'd paid the copter pilot to let Gabe McClennan take his place.

  The sergeant had been roaming the Mawitaan harbor area since early morning, watching, asking questions, applying a little pressure in the right places. Leaning now against the stone building, he absently tugged a rubber band and a chain of silver paper clips out of a pocket in his wrinkled slacks.

  He unlinked one clip, sent it sailing toward a nearby iron post. The clip hit the post with a ping sound and Barnum smiled.

  "Beautiful animals, horses." The small Oriental man with the red bike had stopped three feet in front of the sergeant and was watching the unloading of the cargo ship. He had his neat narrow white-coated back turned to Barnum. "Most beautiful."

  Sergeant Barnum shot off another clip. "You want to talk to me?"

  "Much more beautiful than a bicycle," continued the immaculate Oriental. "Though the bicycle is one of the aesthetic triumphs of our lamentable technological age. How much will you pay?"

  "What do you have to sell?"

  "You search for a certain Portuguese gentleman with an unfortunately afflicted eye," said the small Oriental, still not looking in the sergeant's direction.

  "Know where heis?"

  "He hides."

  "I figured that out myself and it didn't cost me a penny."

  "On our family plantation in Indochina we had fully one hundred horses," said the small Oriental as a struggling white stallion was lowered to the dock. "I can tell you where he hides. What is such 48

  information worth to you?"

  Sergeant Barnum hefted his handful of paper clips, rattling them. "Fifteen bucks."

  "Ha!" barked the small Oriental. He put his little hands tight on the handlebar grips. "You offer such a sum to a man who once owned a hundred fine horses?"

  "All you've got now is a bicycle," said Barnum. "Twenty."

  The small man's hands relaxed on the handlebars. "Twenty-five would be more satisfactory."

  "Twenty is tops."

  "Very well," agreed the Oriental. "I will tell you how to find him. When you leave here, please drop the money, most unobtrusively, at my feet."

  "Okay, it's a deal." Barnum reached into a side pocket, put his hand on a folded wad of cash. He peeled off two tens while his big knobby hand was still in the pocket. "Where is he?"

  "You are familiar with the shop of the herbologist Lee Bock?"

  Barnum nodded. "Yeah. Is he there?"

  "No, but Lee Bock will see that you reach his place of temporary concealment," explained the small Oriental, his narrow back still aimed at the sergeant. "You will tell him you have come to inquire about the new shipment of ginseng."

  "And what's he going to soak me?"

  "Nothing, nothing at all," the little man assured the Jungle Patrol sergeant.

  "Okay, thanks." Sergeant Barnum squared his shoulders, and left his place against the whitewashed wall. He strolled by the cyclist, dropping the two rolled tens.

  High above them another dangling horse cried out in protest.

  The dirt-blurred windows of the Lee Bock Herb Emporium were filled with piles of dusty packets of roots and herbs. A large gnarled ginger root sat on a piece of patterned silk. Stuck up on all the available wall space inside the small shop were calendars, the kind of big decorative calendars shipping lines and insurance companies give away at Christmas. These calendars were from all over the world, most of them years out of date and each one showing its January page.

  Lee Bock was a fat old man in a gaudy native dashiki and black-silk trousers. He had a ropy scar running along his neck and jaw; he spoke in a broken, raspy voice. "How's that again?"

  "I said I'm curious about the new shipment of ginseng," repeated Sergeant Barnum, one palm resting on the narrow wooden counter which separated him from the old herb dealer.

  Lee Bock frowned. "All out of ginseng, sir. I can suggest plenty of other rejuvenating herbs if that's your-"

  "I was told to ask for ginseng by the man with the bicycle."

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  "Twenty-five bucks," said Lee Bock in his crackly voice.

  "Twenty," countered Barnum.

  "Absolutely not."

  "Okay." The stocky sergeant gave in, dropping the cash on the worn top of the counter. He then stood jingling his handful of paper clips. "Now lead on."

  "I have a bad knee. I cannot walk."

  "I hear there's a herb that'll fix that."

  Lee Bock gave an annoyed smile. "I will show you how to find Lemos. It is not difficult to get there, especially for one of your acuity. Look here now." He tore a length of green wrapping paper from the roll at his elbow and drew the sergeant a rough map. "That is how to reach this ancient unused warehouse. Within the building a comfortable apartment has been built. It is not a choice location perhaps, but it offers the indisputable advantage of privacy. Those, like Lemos, who wish to avoid the authorities for a time have found it an admirable place. You go through the warehouse proper, then behind this stack of mock crates you will find a concealed door. Before you go in, you must press this brick here, the fifth from the ground. Remember, the fifth up. Otherwise an alarm will sound within, alerting your quarry. Is all this clear to you?"

  "Yeah," replied Barnum as he was handed the rough map.

  The Jungle Patrol sergeant followed Lee Bock's instructions, and in fifteen minutes he was in the old warehouse, standing before the door behind the stack of large wooden boxes.

  He counted bricks and leaned down to tap the correct one. He drew his pistol from beneath his shirt and nudged the door open. The door swung inward to reveal a corridor lit only by the light which made its way down through a grimy skylight.

  There was another door at the corridor's end. Pistol in hand, the sergeant charged that door. He kicked it open, dived through.

  He landed, however, not in a hideout apartment, but at the bottom of a black pit.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The helicopter was coming erratically down, bobbing and drifting like a feather in the wind.

  Tinn was sitting upright in his seat, his cigarette unlit between his lips. "What's the matter?" he asked once again.

  "I told you, the air currents are crazy inside this damn volcano." Silvera's dark face was speckled with perspiration; his hair had an extra curl to it.

  "This is what killed Gabe," said Tinn.

  "Be quiet," Silvera told him, struggling to keep the helicopter under his control.

  They had reached the rim of nearly twenty minutes ago and entered the hollow mountain with little trouble. Now, with the heavy mist rubbing at their ship and the great gusts of hot 50

  air wooshing up from below, the copter was growing more and more difficult to control.

  "Whyis it making that noise?" asked Tinn.

  "What noise?"

  "That noise."

  The copter was giving off a loud chattering sound as it swayed unevenly on the odd air currents within the volcano. Then it suddenly dropped, with a plummeting abruptness, several hundred feet straight down.

  When Silvera got control of the ship again, his head began swinging rapidly from side to side as he checked all the instruments spread out before him. "Our radar setup isn't working," he said.

  "You told me this crate was in A-I shape," reminded the Chinese.

  "Quiet."

  The copter rocked, jerking down unevenly through the thick mist.

  Silvera muttered to himself in his mother tongue. "It feels as though were taking over control of the ship," he said.

  The helicopter swung sharply to the left. The rotating blades all at once gave off a terrific rackety noise. Then a huff
ing, puffing sound.

  Tinn's head was tilted far back. "You ran into something."

  The propellers ceased turning. The sway and drift ended as the helicopter began falling earthward.

  "Some kind of bird you hit," gasped the Chinese. Abruptly the ground met them. There was a gigantic slam.

  Tinn's teeth clacked together. His handmade cigarette exploded and sent flecks of tobacco spinning through the still-vibrating cabin.