Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 12]

by The Vampires

  “You went there?”

  “I told you I did.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Rocks. Nothing more.”

  “Are you some kind of police?”

  “Umm. Yes, some kind,” said the Phantom. A little white lie might reassure this frightened couple.

  “He’s a foreign policeman,” said the man to his wife.

  “Oh, that’s good, that’s good,” she said sighing.

  “We were afraid you were one of them.”

  “Them?”

  “What you said.”

  “Vampires?”

  “Yes.” Again, the evident fear to even say the name. “Have you ever seen one?”

  “We heard some the last few nights, moaning outside the house,” said the man.

  “They moaned and they scratched on the walls and the shutters,” cried the woman. “I couldn’t stand one more night in that place.”

  “She wouldn’t stay the night," said the husband. “We spent all day packing. We sold our animals and fowl.”

  “To whom?”

  The man pointed to the one lighted house the Phantom had seen.

  “To that old stubborn fool. He won’t leave. He’ll stay until they kill him like they did Piotr and Raimond.” “What’s that stubborn fool’s name?”

  “Roko, my second cousin. Cheated me on my animals and fowl. But who else could I sell them to?”

  “Miron, let’s go. Pm cold,” called the wife.

  “Wait. Did you sell your farm too?”

  “Sell?” In spite of his fear, the man snorted angrily. “Practically gave it away.”

  “To your second cousin Roko?”

  “Miron, stop that talking. I want to go—right now!” “Sorry. Got to go. She’s upset, leaving everything we had and so late at night. But we couldn’t get packed sooner.”

  “What about the witch.”

  The man’s hand shook so that he almost dropped the lantern. “Shh—don’t talk about her—not here. She hears everything.”

  “Miron!”

  “Yes, we’re going. Come, Betta.”

  He clicked his tongue and the old mare started to move. Utensils and furniture clanked and creaked as the big old wagon rolled in the ruts.

  “Who did he say he was, Miron?”

  “Some kind of police.”

  “You know what I thought at first?”

  “I know.”

  The voices were fainter now as the wagon rolled around a curve, out of sight. He watched them go. He knew more now than before meeting them. The vampires and the witch were not a vague story to these people. They were something real that scared them enough to make them sacrifice their life’s savings and flee. He looked at the dimly lighted farmhouse. Second cousin Roko? Maybe he could tell more. But Roko could wait. Maybe there was more to be learned in town. He began to walk rapidly in the dark night, for the moon was completely covered by clouds now.

  Chapter 8

  The streets were deserted now and there were no streetlights. All the windows were shuttered. A little light came through the cracks. A pale-blue light shone over the entrance to one low building. Police. That was for later. As he walked, he saw light from an uncovered cellar window. He looked in. Men were seated about drinking. It was the local tavern and appeared to be the only nightspot in town. He went down three steps, opened the door, and entered. Devil moved in ahead of him. Every head in the place, a dozen or so in all, turned to look at him. Conversation stopped. A stout bald man wearing an apron faced him—the proprietor.

  “Can I get Water for my animal and milk for myself?” said the Phantom.

  Someone chuckled. There were a few whispers.

  “Water for your animal?” said the proprietor. He was big, with heavy arms, a thick neck, and large paunch. “This isn’t a stable.”

  Two men seated at the wall laughed aloud at that. One was Sergeant Malo, the dapper policeman. The other one was an elegant looking gray-haired man wearing an expensive suit and a smart gray derby. He took a monocle from a breast pocket and, placing it at his eye, examined the newcomer with amazement. The Phantom looked around thoughtfully. He didn’t want trouble. He wanted information.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m a stranger here. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “That’s the truth,” said a familiar voice. It was the old cabdriver sitting in a comer with a large mug of beer. “I drove him from the train to the castle.”

  That information produced a silence that was louder than words. All stared at the stranger. The castle was obviously no laughing matter. Sergeant Malo stood up.

  “You went to the castle?” he asked, his voice hard.

  The Phantom observed his uniform. Police. He laughed. “Yes, and was that a mistake. I read about it in the guidebooks—a landmark. I never should have let you leave me there.”

  “Why not?” said Sergeant Malo. “What did you see?” “See? Nothing. It just looked spooky. I turned around and ran all the way back. I’m still out of breath.”

  Sergeant Malo looked at his elegant companion. Both laughed. He sat down. The others laughed. The proprietor shrugged, disappointed that the mood had changed. He had hoped for a fight, a chance to knock the stranger down. He had nothing against this particular stranger. He disliked all strangers and enjoyed knocking men down, strangers or not. He brought a bowl of water for Devil.

  “No milk,” he said flatly. The Phantom shrugged and sat next to the old cabdriver.

  “Ran all the way back,” the old man said, chuckling. “Didn’t I warn you?”

  “You did,” said the Phantom.

  Sergeant Malo and his elegant friend went to the door. The latter walked erectly with a ramrod spine that betrayed a military background. The policeman looked back at the Phantom.

  “Drop by the station tonight before you go to bed. We like to know what strangers are doing here.”

  “Thank you,” said the Phantom. “I will.” He had planned to go to the stationhouse from here. The two men left.

  “Did you go up to the ruins?” asked the cabby.

  The others stopped talking to listen.

  “Not me. It was too far, too scary.”

  Men around the room nodded and went back to their private conversations.

  “Why is everyone selling their farms?” the Phantom asked softly.

  The cabby looked about, then whispered, “You know.

  Out there.”

  The Phantom nodded. “But who’s buying them?”

  The proprietor went by in response to a shouted order and glared at the cabby. The old man busied himself with his drink. When he was gone, the Phantom repeated his question.

  “Shh,” said the cabby.

  “What about the witch? Ever seen her?” said the Phantom softly. The old man looked about fearfully.

  “Not me. Two kids did—the kids of poor Piotr’s widow. One day—” He stopped abruptly as the proprietor strode toward them.

  “We don’t like strangers coming around asking questions,” he said angrily. Others in the place stopped talking and watched. They did not appear surprised by their host’s sudden display of bad temper. Evidently, it was a common thing.

  “This is a public house,” said the Phantom quietly. “You are licensed to serve food and drink, not to monitor conversation.” The big man’s eyes blazed. No one talked back to him. He reached down and grabbed the Phantom by the coat collar to pull him up.

  “Get out!” he roared.

  The words were hardly out of his mouth, when the Phantom’s fist reached his jaw. It sounded like an ax hitting a tree trunk. The big man started to fall back. But the Phantom grabbed him before he fell. Then, to the amazement of the watchers, he lifted the huge man like a sack of potatoes and hurled him through the air. He crashed against the wall and fell to the floor, where he lay without moving. The Phantom started forward, the long-controlled jungle instincts in him blazing. But he stopped, trembling with the effort. The fat proprietor would
never know how close he came to death that night.

  The Phantom looked carefully about Men around the room avoided the gaze behind the sunglasses. Not trusting himself to speak, he strode out quickly. The big gray wolf trotted after him. On the floor, the fat man whimpered. The drinkers breathed their relief, then turned to the cabby. Who was his friend? The cabby shook his head. Just a tourist. Like the others, he had been stunned by the fantastic power of the stranger.

  Outside, the Phantom leaned against a wall to catch his breath. In his own way, he was ashamed of himself for almost losing control. As a twelve-year-old coming out of the jungle to civilization, he had had a hard lesson to learn. In his jungle, fights were rare. When you were forced into one, you fought for your life. You fought to the death. In this outer world of “civilized” men, fights were usually settled by less drastic means, except in the case of war when the jungle’s way of fighting to the death was acceptable.

  Chapter 9

  Sergeant Malo looked up from his desk and was so startled his cigarette dropped from his lips. The big stranger with the sunglasses was standing at the desk looking at him. At his side was the big gray dog. It was about fifteen feet from the desk to the outside door. Malo hadn’t heard him come in. He smashed out the fallen cigarette and lit a fresh one to cover his surprise.

  “I came to see the chief,” said the stranger.

  “You came because I told you to,” said Malo with a sneer.

  “Have it your own way. I want to see the chief.”

  “What for?”

  “Information.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Name is Walker.”

  Malo sat back in his swivel chair. He wore a gunbelt with an automatic pistol in the leather holster. His fingers played with the holster.

  “They phoned me from the tavern. You started a fight there after I left.”

  “No. Self-defense. A dozen witnesses.”

  “We don’t like troublemakers in this town.”

  “That’s natural. No town does.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Tourist.”

  “Tourists don’t come here. You’re not welcome. There’s a train tomorrow. Be on it.”

  “I’ve broken no law.”

  “We don’t like nosy troublemakers.”

  “Nosy?”

  “Prowling around. What were you doing up at the castle?”

  “Sightseeing.”

  “You were trespassing. That’s private property.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “Absentee landlord.”

  The Phantom grinned. The old ruins were worthless, but had been the property of the Phantom for generations.

  “We’re wasting time. I’d like to talk to the chief.” He moved to an office door at the side on which was lettered: CHIEF OF POLICE. The door was slightly ajar. Inside, the chief could be seen seated at his desk, head on his arms, sleeping. Malo rushed to the door and slammed it shut.

  “He’s busy,” he snarled.

  “I’ll wait,” said the Phantom, walking to a bench. Sergeant Malo drew his gun. The Phantom looked at him in surprise. Devil watched tensely, his pale-blue eyes fixed on the weapon.

  “I told you to get out. Now you leave this town in one hour, or get locked up.”

  “On what charge, Sergeant?” said the Phantom quietly.

  “Creating a disturbance in a public place, attacking a local citizen, and trespassing on private property. We can think of a few more if necessary,” said Malo with a snarl.

  “I’m sure of that. Thank you, Sergeant Malo.”

  The Phantom turned and left the office with Devil. Malo watched him go, then grinned. He scared easily, he told himself. Forgot he wanted to see the chief, forgot fast. He returned to his desk, replaced his gun, and reached for the phone.

  The Phantom walked to the side of the building and looked in the lighted window. Inside, the chief could be seen, asleep as before. The window was closed and locked. The Phantom knocked softly on the glass pane. No reaction from the sleeping man. He knocked louder. Still no reaction. He looked closely at the window. It was locked midway up with an ordinary window latch. He put his fingers at the ledge beneath the latch and pushed up sharply, tearing the latch out of the wood frame. He hurriedly raised the window and leaped in.

  The noise awakened the sleeping chief and he stared at the figure climbing in through the window, an incredible sight! Who would break into a stationhouse, into the office of the chief of police, when the latter was at his desk? The chief hurriedly took a gun from his desk’s top drawer as the stranger walked to him. The chief belched and swayed as he spoke, half-drunk with brandy. The empty jug was visible in his wastebasket.

  “Who—what—?” he started to say.

  “Chief Ivor Peta, I’ve come to ask you about the vampires in this place,” said the stranger.

  The chief stared, his hand wavering. All he had heard about lately were vampires. This big figure in the dark glasses, was he one? The gun waved in his hand as he belched again. The stranger’s hand moved faster than the chief could see. His gun was knocked out of his grip into the air, where the stranger caught it. The chief collapsed in his chair, staring with frightened eyes at the big man.

  “Are you—are you—?” he stammered. The Phantom laughed.

  “I’m not a vampire. I’ve come to ask you about them. What’s the story, Chief? Do they exist or don’t they?”

  The stranger’s laughter reassured Ivor Peta. One didn’t expect a vampire to laugh, not pleasantly like that. His question was logical too. In the chief’s boozy condition, it seemed proper for a stranger to break into his office and ask such a question. Besides, he was anxious to tell someone.

  “It’s true,” said Peta. “Every word. I saw them.”

  The stranger sat on the edge of the desk with the gun.

  “Tell me about it.”

  In the outer office, Sergeant Malo heard the window latch break. He drew his gun and started to rush into the inner office, then paused instead to listen at the door.

  “What did you want to know?” said the chief after a moment.

  “About the vampires—the plague of vampires we’ve heard about in the news. Are they real?”

  “Are they real?” said the chief, his eyes staring. “You can believe me they’re real. I saw them two nights ago.”

  “Tell me,” said the Phantom.

  “There are real vampires and bullets can’t kill them,” said Ivor Peta, rocking nervously in his swivel chair.

  “How do you know bullets can’t kill them?”

  “Because I shot one, five times, with that gun!” said the chief pointing at the pistol in the Phantom’s hand.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Two nights ago—no, three nights ago, Wednesday—I was driving on the old castle road. It was dark, at night. I saw someone ahead in my carlights, a man kneeling over something in the road. I stopped. The man was all in black with a big black hat. He was bent over a farmer. I couldn’t see who it was, but I did see the muddy boots. The one in black turned to me, and I saw his face in my headlights. I had stepped out of the car by then. I saw his face.”

  The chief rocked in his chair at the memory and reached for a jug. But it was empty, in the wastebasket.

  “Go on, Chief. You saw his face. What did it look like?”

  Awful, Horrible. Very white, as white as this paper. With long, long teeth and blood on his mouth. He had a black cloth over his eyes—like a mask and had a long knife in one hand. He started to come for me. I fired at him. He laughed. I fired again. He laughed again and kept coming. I fired five shots. I know because I counted them later. Only one bullet was left in that gun. It’s still there.” The Phantom turned the cylinder and examined the bullet. He studied it a moment, then looked at the chief.

  “Go on. Then what?”

  “Where was I?”

  “You fired five shots.”

  “The thing kept laughing—horrible sou
nds!—and kept coming at me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What would you do? I turned around and ran. I left my car there, just ran as fast as I could. I can still hear it laughing.”

  Ivor Peta sat back, exhausted by his tale.

  “Did you go back the next day?”

  “Yes. My car was still there. Some school children found the body. He was a cousin of mine, Piotr.” The chief’s voice faded. He seemed beaten, hopeless.

  “What about the witch?”

  The chief gasped. That question seemed more than he could handle. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. “The witch? Did you ever see her?”

  The chief looked around nervously, then answered in a whisper, as if fearing to be overheard.

  “Not me. Raimond did.”

  “Raimond? Where is he?”

  “Dead. They did it because he saw her.”

  “Saw her. Where?”

  “Where she’s always been—down there,” he whispered.

  “Down where?”

  At that moment, Sergeant Malo burst in, gun in hand, shouting, “I told you to get out of town!”

  Chief, tell this nuisance to get lost,” said the Phantom.

  The chief looked at them in bewilderment.

  “He’s a troublemaker, a trespasser,” insisted Sergeant Malo.

  “Chief, I’ve broken no lav/s.”

  “Malo knows the law,” mumbled the chief, confused.

  “Broke no laws?” shouted Malo. “I charge you with breaking and entering the office of the chief of police. Look, that lock is broken.”

  Malo was in a rage. He quivered and his eyes were wild as he pointed the gun at the Phantom.

  “We hate to shoot strangers in this town, but sometimes it is necessary for the public good!” he shouted.

  “You intend to shoot me like this in cold blood?” said the Phantom slowly and clearly so the chief would hear.

  “Aren’t you overreacting, Sergeant Malo?”

  The chief half-rose in his chair, his face ashen. “No, Malo,” he cried.

  “I warned you,” continued Malo ignoring the chief. “Breaking in here, assaulting our chief.”

  “No, he didn’t Malo!” shouted the chief.

  “No? He’s got your gun.”