The Slave Market of Mucar

by Lee Falk

  "That reminds me, have you sent men out to pick up the dogs?"

  "I've already given instructions," Larsen said.

  The warden nodded.

  He picked up the dog collar and held it close to his eyes, as though it had a message engraved on it for all to see.

  "This skull mark on the collar. What's it mean? It's weird."

  Larsen leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and took another swig at the whiskey. His uniform was stained with dust and sweat and he was tired. For the first time he was cursing himself for ever getting mixed up with Warden Saldan's enterprises. He didn't venture an opinion.

  He jerked upright as the warden banged a big hand on the desk.

  "It's too much!" said Saldan, getting to his feet. "I'm packing. I've got to get to the slave market of Mucar!"

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  CHAPTER 9

  VOICE FROM THE DARK

  There had been a large-scale inquest going on at Jungle Patrol Headquarters lasting well into mid-morning. Despite their tiredness, Colonel Weeks, Tim Ricketts, and Joe Coates had held a three-sided conference that had seemed to get nowhere. Bacon and eggs and coffee had been cleared away from the table in the colonel's big office before they again started to review the salient points. The colonel's pipe belched smoke and flame as he emphasized his thinking.

  "If that blasted warden thinks he can stop an inquiry into his crooked jail because he framed Slingsby, he's going to be rudely surprised," he told his junior officers grimly. "They'll laugh him out of court. Trying to pin a jailbreak on my undercover man."

  He snorted deep down in his throat and a rain of sparks fell on the desk surface as his pipe belched like a volcano in his indignation. Then he made up his mind. He spoke to the HQ building central telephonist.

  "Get me the governor," he said.

  There came a tapping at the door and Ricketts went to open it. The colonel's pipe almost slipped out of his mouth, but he managed to save it by strong jaw action. His eyes were wide and round over the bowl of the pipe as he stared toward the door.

  "Forget that call to the governor," he said slowly.

  He put the receiver back onto its cradle.

  Ricketts closed the door behind the bedraggled form of Slingsby. Neither of the two junior officers with Weeks looked as though they believed the evidence of their eyes, either. Slingsby walked slowly into the room, came to a halt, and saluted.

  Weeks was the first to recover himself.

  "What the hell are you doing out of jail, Slingsby?" he said. All the anger had long gone out of his voice. It was a calm voice that questioned the young officer.

  "Did they release you?" the colonel asked.

  Slingsby gulped and drew himself up.

  "Actually not, sir," he said in faltering tones. "I escaped."

  Colonel Weeks looked staggered. His face momentarily registered bewilderment. But he recovered himself masterfully and put his pipe down in a safe place.

  "You escaped from Masara Prison?" he said slowly and deliberately. No one in the room moved for a moment. The silence was heavy, unbroken except for the faint squeaking of the fan in the overhead ceiling.

  Ricketts and Coates's tanned faces turned toward Slingsby with solicitous interest,

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  "All right, Slingsby, sit down," said Colonel Weeks in a rough voice which deceived no one. "I expect you're hungry and tired, See about some breakfast for him, Tim."

  Ricketts lifted the phone on the colonel's desk and gave the order. Weeks waited until he had finished.

  "That was a bloody silly thing to do," he observed levelly. "Now you will look guilty."

  Slingsby took off his cap and ran a hand across his forehead.

  "I honestly didn't think about that, sir," he said. "I got out through a secret passage, the way all the prisoners escaped. You see, sir, the masked man was insistent."

  Colonel Week had a peculiar expression on his face and he dropped his hands on to the blotter in front of him.

  "What masked man?" he asked slowly.

  "He was under a cot in the common cell," said Slingsby. "He must have been there all the time."

  "Interesting," said Weeks. "Go on. What else was there about this man?"

  "He showed me the tunnel and brought me out," Slingsby said. "He had a big wolf with him."

  Colonel Weeks leaned forward and put both his hands together on the blotter.

  "Under a cot," he said. "And had a wolf with him? Just sit back and relax, Slingsby. Here's your breakfast.

  You'll feel better after a cup of coffee."

  "But it's perfectly true, sir," stammered Slingsby, as the native trooper put the tray down in front of him and went out. "I know it sounds fantastic, but that was the way it happened. He came up from under the bunk and gripped me by the leg."

  He lifted his coffee cup and inhaled the steaming contents gratefully.

  "He frightened me out of my wits, actually. But that's not all, sir."

  The colonel cut him short.

  "Who was this masked man, a prisoner?" he said keenly.

  Slingsby shook his head. "He was no prisoner, sir." Weeks frowned. He motioned to the young officer to start his breakfast. When he was halfway through his meal, he resumed the interrogation.

  "By escaping you make yourself look guilty, Slingsby. Why did you follow him?"

  "He told me to," Slingsby said.

  The colonel's face looked stern.

  "Told you to!" he exploded. "You're a Jungle Patrolman! You give the orders! You don't take them-least of all, from some masked nobody."

  "This was no nobody, sir," Slingsby answered quietly, His eyes were serious as he faced his superior.

  "It's difficult to explain. His was a quiet voice; used to command. Like a general, maybe. Or even a king."

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  His eyes looked far away.

  "You don't say no to a man like that," he said quietly, "You obey."

  Colonel Weeks shook his head. "You'd better finish your breakfast and get off to bed, Slingsby," he said.

  "That spell in jail must have affected your nerves. You obviously need rest. I'm going ahead and smash that prison gang!"

  Deep in the underground chamber beneath the well shaft, the Phantom smiled. From a gray-metal grille on the wall in front of him, the colonel's conversation boomed and echoed.

  Weeks's instructions finally came to an end.

  "I don't think we'll move on Masara quite yet, Colonel," the Phantom muttered to himself. He leaned over toward the banked controls at the side of the room. He flipped a switch.

  Up in Colonel Weeks's office the conference was suddenly broken up. The CO of Number Eight Patrol was in great form. His eyes blazed as he seized Slingsby by the hand.

  "Why the hell didn't you tell me this sooner?" he said. He turned to the others.

  "Always leave the most important piece of news until last!" he told the filing cabinet.

  "With the escape tunnel, and what you've just told me about the warden and Larsen, we've got the goods on them!"

  He turned back to Tim Ricketts.

  "Get me the governor at once!" he said.

  Ricketts saluted and made to leave when there was a peremptory rap at the door.

  Another young patrolman with red hair appeared. He saluted crisply.

  "Sir! The emergency light is on!" he said.

  The colonel stared at him.

  "The hell it is!" he said. "I'll be right along."

  He looked over to Ricketts.

  "Cancel that call to the governor," he said. "But hold yourself in readiness. This could mean anything."

  He glanced briefly round the room.

  "And that goes for all of you."

  He stumped on out, his pipe leaving trails of smoke over his shoulder. Slingsby permitted himself a rueful smile as he finished off the last of the coffee.

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  Far below, in the Jungle Patrol HQ, Colonel Weeks's feet clattered on a metal spiral stairca
se as he ran to his secret destination. Above, in the central control room, he knew the light would still be winking on the big emergency board. It would not go out until he had cleared the message and he never wasted any time doing this. Presently he came to a steel door which had on it PRIVATE: COLONEL WEEKS ONLY in big black letters. He put a special magnetic key in the lock and it moved back electronically. The colonel moved on through and the door closed behind him.

  Dim lights burned here and air conditioning made it the coolest place in the building. The colonel sometimes wondered ruefully why they couldn't have their offices down here. But, of course, security demanded that it be the other way around. He went on down the short corridor and stopped in front of another steel door. This bore the legend: SUPREME COMMANDER: JUNGLE PATROL. NO ADMITTANCE, A big lamp was winking rapidly above the lintel.

  The colonel had to insert two magnetic keys in this door. He gained the interior. The lights came on automatically. It was a small and austere chamber, about the same size as the one the Phantom had just quitted and separated only by a short staircase from it. All the colonel had eyes for now was the huge steel safe set into the wall at one end. He took out a small electronic computer-unit from his shirt pocket. He had already looked up the day's combination in his handbook. It was placed against the chromed-steel surface of the safe door and a click sounded as the magnetized surface came within its field.

  He swiftly dialed the day's combination. The tiny machine hummed and buzzed to itself for a few seconds and then there was a loud click. Colonel Weeks leaned forward and removed the unit from the front of the safe. After laying it on a table at his elbow, he found himself sweating as he hauled open the big door.

  There was just one plain envelope inside, on the floor of the safe as usual, addressed to himself.

  The colonel sat down at the table and, in that solitary place, tore open the envelope. The ripping paper made an ugly sound in the silence. The message was brief and to the point. Beneath Weeks's rank and title there was merely the message, in block capitals: DO NOTHING ABOUT WARDEN SALDAN.

  The message was signed laconically, "Commander, Jungle Patrol." Weeks crumpled the piece of paper in his hard fist and slumped at the table. He felt utterly crushed. He was not disloyal to his unknown commander who had such power over so many square miles of jungle. It was just that he could not see the greater objective. He had the warden in his grasp; now he had apparently escaped again.

  "Damn!" said Weeks savagely to the steel wall. He thumped his fist on the table and felt better. He reached in his pocket for his still smouldering pipe, hauled it out gingerly, cursing at the smell of scorched uniform cloth.

  "How can the commander do this?" he said to himself grimly. "Just when I'd got the goods on the warden?"

  He was simmering for the remainder of the day and Ricketts and the others busied themselves elsewhere whenever they saw him about the corridors. Those officers who had been on duty all the previous night were excused except in case of an emergency. Weeks was tired and by nine o'clock he was exhausted. He had his own private quarters at the top of the building, where he got a little air after sunset. He had no sooner adjusted his mosquito net and turned out the bedside lamp, than he was asleep.

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  He was so consumed with the problem of Saldan, and the apparent pointlessness of the commander's orders, that he had not thought he would sleep. What had hurt most of all was the fact that the people at the jail had made the Patrol look like fools with their clumsy frame-up. The commander was suddenly awake again. He did not know at first whether he had ever slept; he seemed to have been grumbling to himself over the situation when he went to bed and a few moments later he was again sitting on the side of his bed, still grumbling. He reached for the switch at the end of the cord and put on the bedside lamp.

  He glanced at his watch. The time was 1:00 A.M. So he had slept.

  Something must have awakened him. Colonel Weeks knew his own reflexes and bodily limitations too well to permit him to doubt this. But what? Some sound, perhaps? Or the shrilling of his phone? But the bedside instrument remained obstinately silent. He ruffled his hair and started to walk across the room. Then he heard the signal which must have brought him awake. Tiny, insistent electronic bleeps coming from the darkness outside the pool of light in his bedroom.

  The colonel cleared his throat.

  "I'm here, sir," he said.

  A calm, masterly voice spoke out of the darkness.

  "Colonel Weeks, this is your commander speaking."

  The colonel wished he had been more formally dressed.

  "Yes, sir," he said. "May I see you, sir?"

  "You know that is forbidden, Colonel," the quiet, commanding voice went on. "Since the Patrol's founding two centuries ago, the overall commander has remained unknown even to the Patrol members."

  The colonel cleared his throat again.

  "Sir, will you identify yourself in some way?"

  There was a long silence and then a slip of paper fluttered into the pool of radiance cast by the lamp. The colonel picked it -up, carried it over to the lamp, and sat down.

  What the paper contained, in curlicue script was just three words: Justice and Peace.

  "Our secret password-yes, sir," said the colonel. "I await your instructions. But first, sir . . ."

  He hesitated.

  "Go on," the quiet voice said reassuringly.

  The commander of Number Eight Patrol's brow wrinkled.

  "It's not likely that anyone would question your decisions, sir, but I'm worried. I've been Jungle Patrol Commanding Officer here for ten years. I know our traditions. We take our oath to you. But these orders tonight."

  "I know and understand your feelings, Colonel Weeks," the quiet voice went on. "I've no time to explain now about Warden Saldan."

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  Weeks rose to the opportunity.

  "Sir, we now have the evidence against him through Slingsby," he said. "If you'd just let me go ahead."

  "Be patient, Colonel Weeks," the quiet voice went on. "There's no proof. Worse, dozens of prisoners have escaped, a dozen times over. None have ever been seen again. Have you any explanation or answer to that, Colonel Weeks?"

  The colonel was silent for some moments.

  "No, sir," he said eventually. "I begin to see your meaning."

  "These are not ordinary breaks. Prisoners are never seen again. I must find out why," the quiet voice continued,

  "We can help, sir," said Weeks eagerly.

  "When I need the Jungle Patrol, you'll be told, Colonel Weeks."

  The voice echoed throughout the room for the last time.

  "Take no action for the moment. Keep Slingsby here."

  There was a metallic click and then silence. Weeks crossed to the window and raised the blind. A bland and beneficent moon bent down upon him, stippling the shadows of palm fronds on his face. Weeks shook his head and pressed his hands to his brow. He still felt like he was dreaming.

  "I was actually speaking to the commander!" he told himself. He went over and switched on the light over his wash basin. He rinsed a glass and poured himself a long draught of cold, clear water. Then he wetted a towel and passed it over his forehead and the back of his neck. He picked up the bedside phone. He was wide awake now and master of himself.

  When he had given his instructions he sat down again in his dressing gown on the side of the bed and filled his pipe. Five minutes later there was a deferential tap at the door.

  Slingsby looked just as tired as the colonel. He had a blue windbreaker on over his pajamas and had obviously just left his bed. He sank down gratefully into the easy chair the colonel indicated.

  "Would you like me to send for some coffee?" Weeks asked.

  Slingsby shook his head.

  "No thank you, sir," he said. "It'll only prevent me from getting back to sleep."

  He paused and then went on. "That is, assuming I do get back to bed tonight."

  Colonel Weeks smiled quie
tly to himself, the glowing bowl of his pipe making an amber mask of his face in the gloom of the room.

  "Sorry to disturb you, Slingsby," he said. "But it's the same for all of us when the heat's on. What I really wanted was for you to tell me more about that masked man you say you saw."

  Slingsby looked at his superior quizzically.

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  "Certainly, sir," he said. "I'll try to remember. He had a tremendously powerful build."

  Colonel Weeks nodded but said nothing and the young officer went on.

  "I'm afraid I couldn't see his face because of the mask, sir. Sorry I goofed in escaping but I trusted him."

  "You were quite right, Slingsby," said Weeks unexpectedly. He stared hard at the young man's puzzled expression.

  "We're all entitled to change our minds," he added.

  "Even the commander of Number Eight Patrol."

  He chuckled. "Anything else? What about the voice?"

  Slingsby coughed as an acrid whiff of Weeks's pungent tobacco caught his throat.

  "As I said, sir, quiet but with tremendous authority. And when he raised his voice, it reflected his strength!"

  Weeks nodded.

  "Thank you, Slingsby. That will be all for tonight."

  He strode toward the door and held it open for the young officer.

  "Dismissed!"

  Back inside the room he struggled with the recalcitrant pipe, filling the quiet bedroom with clouds of reeking fumes. He paced the floor for a long time after Slingsby had gone, shoveling plumes of smoke over his shoulder.

  Then he paused by the window, listening to the quiet tapping of the night wind at the blinds. He smiled to himself.

  "I heard that quiet voice too, Slingsby," he said aloud. "That masked man is our commander!"

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  CHAPTER 10

  HASTY FLIGHT

  Saldan was driving out of Masara Town, away from the coast and up into the winding hills. The big car lurched over the rocky road, its springs protesting as Larsen turned the wheel. Despite the power steering the surface was so atrocious that he was at times having difficulty in keeping the limousine on the road.