by Lee Falk
One of the men on guard inside manages to run, making his escape out a side window. His partner is killed inside the front entrance, near the statue of one of Santa Florenza's great liberators.
The men in black work quickly, fanning out through the domed rooms of the museum. Those without machine guns do most of the looting work. They use their knives to slash paintings from their frames, the butts of their pistols to smash in the glass of gem cases.
The entire raid takes under nineteen minutes. Then the trucks, loaded with the treasures of the museum, back up and wait for the landrover to turn around. They swing around after it and roar out of La Planta.
No one at the hospital tries to stop them. No one there says anything this time.
After a few moments, the last of the daylight
is gone. The bright birds come back to roost in the trees.
Captain Jose Silvera Miranda of the Federal Police was a tall muscular man of thirty-five. He had a small moustache and dark, curly hair. He was standing before a gilt-framed mirror in his temporary office in Lanza studying his hair. There was a power shortage and so the lamps didn't shine as brightly as they should. Even so, Miranda was certain he detected two grey hairs at his left temple.
He returned to the long carved dining table he was using as a desk to search for a pair of tweezers.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Come in," invited the captain.
"Any details?" asked the blond, young man in casual American clothes who came sauntering in.
"Details about what, Senor Sumter?"
Gig Sumter said, "The latest outrage."
Lowering himself into the padded, antique chair he was using as a desk chair, Miranda said, "There are a great many outrages going on in my country at present. Be more specific, Senor."
"I mean the scavenger raid on the La Planta museum."
The captain blinked. "They've struck at the museum?" He stood up. "How do you know this?"
Sumter perched on the edge of the long table. "My stringer in La Planta phoned me at my hotel over a half hour ago."
The captain snatched up the phone. "Put me
through to DaCosta in La Planta," he ordered. "How long ago did this happen?" he asked the blond, young man.
"Couple of hours," answered Sumter. "Right about sundown. The scavengers came into town in a half dozen big trucks, shot down anybody who moved and then walked right into the museum. Grabbed everything of value, including the Velasquez, the two Degas and that handsome Cellini teapot or whatever it is."
Miranda talked to Lt. DaCosta for a few minutes and hung up. "He was just going to call me," he told Sumter as he sat down again.
"You should have the kind of stringers NEWS MAGAZINE does."
"I should have your budget."
The young magazine reporter noticed a cablegram on the table and read it upside down. "Who's this guy Walker?"
"Who?"
Sumter tapped the upsidedown message with his forefinger. "It asks you to give every courtesy to a Mr. Walker, who's due to arrive in Santa Florenza tomorrow morning. I don't recognize the name. He's not a reporter, is he?"
"I'm not certain who he is," replied the captain. He ran a thumb over the brass buttons on the front of his green uniform jacket. "I do know, however, that he has some very influential friends."
"Oh, so?"
"Yes, so."
"Like who?" "You'll have to wait until Senor Walker arrives and ask him yourself."
"Is he coming down here because of this scavenger business?"
"That I don't know," said Miranda. "Perhaps he's a another representative of a United States charity organization."
"They would have said that in the message," Sumter pointed out. "No reason to be mysterious about the Red Cross or UNICEF." He slid off the table and wandered around the living room office. "What did DaCosta have to say about the raid?"
"What you already know."
"Got an estimate of the loss?"
"They seem to have taken everything of value that was portable," said the Captain of Police. "They left only the heavy marble and bronze statues behind."
"Several million dollars?"
"At least."
"And you still haven't any notion who they are?"
"Not yet. But we're working on it."
"You said that yesterday."
"We continue to work on it."
Sumter stretched one arm above his head. "I think I'll go get some dinner. I'll let you know if I hear anything else."
"I'll appreciate that." When the young reporter was gone, Miranda, locating the tweezers, returned to the mirror. He extracted both the grey hairs.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The helicopter came chuffing down out of the hazy morning. The Phantom, in dark glasses and trench coat, was standing at the edge of the government airfield. Devil and his, one suitcase sat beside him. Beyond the landing field stretched (hick forest, a hundred shades of green in the liltered morning sunlight.
A circle of dust danced below the descending copter. When it was on the ground, it's door popped open and a grinning blond, young man jumped out. "Mr. Walker, is it?"
"Yes," replied the Phantom as he shook hands. "And you're . . ."
"Overly curious, some people say." The young man winked at Devil and picked up the suitcase. "Name's Gig Sumter. I'm with NEWS MAGAZINE. Sent down from New York to do a yarn on the quakes."
"It's nice of you to take time off from your work to help with my luggage." The Phantom and his trained wolf followed Sumter to the helicopter.
Sumter stood aside to allow them to climb into the airship. He laughed. "Purely selfish motives. When I heard you were arriving, I finagled myself
onto this chopper." He got in, taking the seat next to the pilot. "This is Sgt. Romero of the Federal Police, Mr. Walker."
"Good morning," said the plump, moustached pilot.
"Good morning." When the copter was in the air, the Phantom asked the young reporter, "How'd you know I was due in Santa Florenza?"
"Reporters don't have to reveal their sources. But, in this case, it's no big secret. I was in Captain Miranda's office in Lanza and I sneaked a look at a cablegram on his desk. Who are you with, Mr. Walker?"
"I'm a freelance, Mr. Sumter."
"Okay, a freelance what?"
"No comment," replied the Phantom, grinning.
"Up in Frisco you were working with the police, weren't you?"
"Did you learn that from Captain Miranda, too?"
"Nope," said Sumter. "But the message about you said you were coming from Frisco. So I wired our NEWS office there."
"For a man here to write about earthquakes," the Phantom told the young reporter, "you're awfully interested in a lone tourist."
"Believe me, Walker," said Sumter, "there's a bigger story here in Santa Florenza."
The helicopter was high above the field and swinging southward.
"That sounds interesting," said the Phantom.
"These scavengers who've been looting the pities," continued the newsman. "I've heard vague
reports about them before, from Europe and Asia. They've turned up there, too, in the wake of riots and natural disasters. This is the first time I've been on the spot. I want to find out what's behind the, whole business."
"How long have you been hearing about them?"
"Couple months. They're a relatively new phenomenon. Which means my piece on them will lie the first in-depth study." He twisted in his seat, watching the Phantom's face. "You are curious about them, aren't you?"
"You tell an interesting story," said the Phantom. "Who wouldn't be curious?"
"Are you trying to tell me you didn't come down here to look into this scavenger gang's activities?"
"I'm trying to tell you as little as possible," said the Phantom. "Why do you assume my visit has anything to do with these looters?"
"You're not connected with any of the aid organizations, you're not a writer," said Sumter. "Interpol had somet
hing to do with arranging your visit. And Miranda doesn't send a special chopper to meet every visitor."
The Phantom said nothing, turning his attention to the landscape below. They were over a populated area and signs of the quake's passage showed. Toppled buildings, cracked roadways, a bridge which had fallen in on itself. Sooty smoke rose up from fires which were only now being brought under control. On the roads, hundreds of people were moving away from the quake area, moving on foot, by cycle, horsecart and auto.
The roads were a scrambled jigsaw of clogged movement.
"We could cooperate," suggested the young reporter after a moment. "You give me an exclusive interview, and I'll share whatever I dig up on these scavengers with you. A deal?"
Shaking his head, the Phantom answered, "Why I'm in Santa Florenza, what I intend to do here, has to remain my business for a while."
"Okay. Within a couple days, 111 know what you're up to anyway." He nodded at the drowsing Devil. "That dog of yours is as big as a wolf."
"He is a wolf."
"Oh." Sumter turned and faced forward.
The morgue was warm.
"We're having trouble with the power supply," apologized Captain Miranda. "Nothing in Lanza is working at full capacity." He lifted the tan sheet off the upper part of the body.
The Phantom studied the corpse of the captured scavenger who'd taken poison after being caught. "There's the V sure enough," he said. The letter was about two inches high, tattooed in black ink toward the front of the dead man's scalp.
"We really must bury this body today," said the Captain of Police. "We kept it this long for you to see it. With insufficient cooling . . ."
"You learned nothing from his fingerprints?" The Phantom had noticed the dead man's fingers still bore traces of ink.
"This man appears to have not only no criminal record, but no history at all."
The Phantom moved back from the morgue I able. Miranda let the sheet fall.
Outside this mortuary room was a small, walled courtyard with a dry fountain in its center. The captain led the Phantom out there. "What can you tell me about these marauders, senor?"
"I believe that man in there is part of a gang of looters who call themselves the Vultures," he answered.
"Ah, that would explain the V." The captain seated himself on a wrought iron bench. "But who are they?"
"Right now, I don't know. This Vulture opera- lion is only part of a much larger organization. The larger group is called Hydra, after the mythical monster."
"The monster with the unlimited supply of heads, yes?" Miranda touched his temple, at the spot where the two grey hairs had been. "What else can you tell me about Hydra and the Vultures?"
"The original Hydra organization goes back hundreds of years. I thought they'd been crashed for good in the last century. They seem, though, to have sprang up again," the Phantom explained. "They're absolutely ruthless, and involved in every kind of criminal activity. From what I've been able to find out so far, I'd say they've been back in business only a short time, a matter of a few years at most."
"History and folklore," commented Captain Miranda, "are always vastly fascinating, senor. I'm afraid, however, they won't help me capture these Vultures as you call them. So far they've been able to bring off eight successful raids since the quakes visited us. They are indeed ruthless, striking down anyone who stands in their way."
"It may be possible to anticipate where . . the Phantom stopped. A look of stunned surprise had come over the Police Captain's face.
Miranda leaped up, reaching toward his holster.
"Don't!" ordered a crisp voice.
The Phantom turned to see nine, black-clad men climbing over the wall of the mortuary courtyard. Each had a cold, detached look, each wore black riding pants, black boots and black tunic, with a high-crowned black sombrero.
They came leaping down into the garden courtyard. Four of them carried submachine guns.
"The body," said the gaunt-faced Vulture who'd spoken before.
"Surely you don't . . ." began Miranda,
The Vulture slapped his open hand twice across the captain's face. "Our comrade's body. We've come for it."
Miranda's nostrils flared. He pointed at the glass-paneled doors behind him. "In there."
Three of the Vultures pushed inside.
The man nearest the Phantom was holding his machine gun cradled in his arms. When his glance strayed for an instant toward the mortuary doors, the Phantom jumped.
He gripped the man's weapon and at the same time thrust a booted foot between his legs. The Vulture let go of the weapon as he toppled awkwardly backwards.
The Phantom was turning toward the gaunt 1.1 rod-leader when he was hit from behind. Three sharp blows with a metal object.
The machine gun seemed to fly slowly away f rom him. He stumbled, swayed and plunged head first into a rose bush.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The walls were white. The floor was white, too, and it was bouncing. The Phantom opened his eyes wider. There was a dead man on the floor beside him.
When the Phantom tried to move, he discovered his hands and feet were tied, tightly, with wire. The bouncing continued.
He was on the floor of some kind of truck, an ambulance from the look of the interior. The windows were all curtained with a thick, white material which prevented him from seeing out. The Phantom guessed he'd been unconscious for at least a half hour. His neck and the back of his head ached.
Up in the front of the ambulance compartment were two Vultures. One sitting on a white, metal chair, the other leaning against the wall with a thin, black cigar between his lips.
"V2 will be happy," said the seated Vulture.
"Nothing makes him happy," said the one with the cigar.
"This will. We've got V202's body back and, for good measure, this Walker guy."
Blowing out smoke, the other Vulture shrugged. "I don't see any sense in taking prisoners. It's a hell of a lot of trouble and for what?"
"Walker's down here to nose around. V2 will want to question him, find out how much he's found out so far and exactly who he is."
"He's Walker, he probably doesn't know much of anything. We should have killed him and Miranda both."
"You don't want to kill a guy like Captain Miranda," said the seated Vulture. "Even in a chaotic setup like they've got around here right now, you knock off the big honcho of the police and they're going to go all out to get you."
"The law in Santa Florenza couldn't find an elephant in a zoo."
"You haven't been at this as long as I have. It never pays to underestimate the cops. I remember one time in Belgium..."
"Oops, little Sleeping Beauty is awake," said the cigar smoker. "Getting a cheerful earful, Walker?"
"I've heard it all before," said the Phantom. "Hoods who think they're smarter than the law."
The man with the cigar walked over to look down at him. "Pretty soon you won't be in a position to hear anything. So enjoy it while you can." He sucked the thin cigar until the end glowed.
Squatting, he pushed the glowing end toward the Phantom's face.
"Knock it off, V306," warned his companion. "V2 won't like that."
"Walker won't much like it either." V306 laughed, stood up and returned the cigar to his mouth. He gave the Phantom one sharp kick in the ribs before turning away.
Devil, the great, grey wolf, had been left on I he front steps of the mortuary to await his master. After he had been sitting there for some time, he suddenly sat up, fur bristling, nose sniffing the air. Once again, he sensed something Was wrong.
The big animal trotted up to the oaken front door, rose and pushed against it with his fore- paws. Nothing happened. Devil scratched hard at the wood. The door did not open, no one came to admit him.
Devil ran down the marble stairs of the morgue building, a rumbling growl starting up in his chest. He went down an alley, emerging at the rear of the building.
The grey wolf was in time to see his ma
ster, unconscious, being thrown into the back of a white ambulance. He snarled, went running for the vehicle.
A black panel truck started up, swung into the road and sideswiped Devil. He yelped, went tumbling across cobblestones and into the gutter.
The ambulance was pulling away, following the black truck.
