by Lee Falk
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CHAPTER 16
VALUABLE PROPERTY
Prince Selim's face looked grave. The light of the late afternoon sun stained his beard a pale rose as he stood on the terrace of his villa looking out over the golden roofs of Mucar to the distant fringe of the desert. The air of the roof garden was heavy with the perfume of many flowers, brightly coloured birds flew among the foliage, and the splashing of many fountains sounded coolly on the ear.
The Prince looked down thoughtfully at the fine pattern of red, blue, and green tiles which infinitely repeated themselves across the floor of the terrace. Behind him the golden cupolas of an ornamental pavilion caught the last of the sun's rays. Soon they would sink behind the taller buildings of the city. Down below the terrace steps, on the inner courtyard, two white horses pawed the dusty paving. Palm trees, sheltered by the courtyard walls, shivered slightly in the rising breeze.
The file of soldiers stood in line, facing outward from the bottom of the steps; the breeze fluttered their cloaks until it looked as though the whole line was suffering from the ague. Saldan's heavy face was enigmatic in the rosy evening light. He stood next to the Prince, smoking the inevitable cigar, drinking in the blessed quiet of the garden.
Selim turned away from the courtyard at last and made a small impatient movement of his hand. His eyes were troubled as he tried to probe beneath the big slaver's mask.
"Are you really going to put your assistant on the auction block?" he asked in a quiet voice.
Saldan sighed a heavy sigh as though he bitterly regretted the action.
"Yes," he told the Prince. "This is our last mart tonight."
The two men, as if by common consent, turned away from the balcony and started a slow pacing along the edge of the roof garden, savoring the coolness. Saldan's cigar smoke rose up above the balcony wall and was then dispersed by the rising breeze.
The Prince clicked his tongue with annoyance; loss of Saldan's supply of slaves would also mean a big drop in revenue for him.
"Is it really necessary?" he asked for the third time that evening.
Saldan shook his head impatiently.
"Zadok? Loose, he's dangerous. He can talk. Or he can blackmail me." He shot Selim a quizzical glance. "Or you, Prince."
The old ruler of Mucar shivered slightly, as though the breeze were a chill one, and drew his jeweled coat about him with one withered hand. He said nothing and as the two men continued their pacing, Saldan went on.
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"Look at it like this, Prince," he said. "The way I've organized things, Zadok is taken care of. He's safely out of the way, there's no danger to you and me and in addition there's the profit to consider."
He paused in his pacing and blew fragrant blue smoke out of his mouth. His face beneath the mask tried to assume a look of benevolence, but failed.
"He's worth five thousand to us, Prince."
The ruler of Mucar shook his head doubtfully. His eyes were still troubled. His gaze traveled over the cool beauty of the roof garden without seeing anything.
"You're a hard man, Saldan," he said.
Saldan turned on the Prince with an abrupt movement.
"No, practical, Excellence," he said.
And then he added, with another hard look, "And don't use my name in this town!"
Selim made a placatory movement of his hand.
"As you will," he said. "May Allah forgive you for what you do this night."
Saldan stepped forward to the balcony and looked once again down into the courtyard. Neither of the two men saw the tall figure in Arab robes who regarded them keenly from the dense foliage of the garden. The eyes of the figure were hard and watchful from behind the mask he wore. He flattened himself behind the basin of a fountain as the two men passed near the spot where he crouched, silent and unseen.
"I don't know about Allah, Prince," said Saldan, giving his companion a contemptuous look, "Or about forgiveness, come to that."
He paused again, until his cigar was drawing satisfactorily.
"But if He exists then I am sure He will."
"I do not care for blasphemy, Saldan," said the Prince in scandalized tones.
"I didn't know you were so devout, Excellence," said Saldan sardonically. "Do they have a mosque in Deauville?"
For a moment, he thought he had gone too far.
"That will do, Saldan!" said the Prince in a voice which echoed something of the man he had been in his youth. "Perhaps it is just as well this is the last auction." He put his hand significantly on the jeweled dagger in his belt. "Otherwise two old friends might fall out."
Zadok sat, a crumpled figure, among the dejected forms in the slave stalls of Mucar, a quarter where he had often supervised the wretched cargoes of merchandise before they went out to the auction block. His misery was such that he scarcely heard the slavers pass among the assembled convicts with their leg-irons and steaming pots of food. The biggest of the Arabs had a particular smile for Zadok as he passed him by.
"This is where we get rid of your handcuffs," he said in reasonably accurate and cheerful English.
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"What do you mean?" said the dark-haired convict. He stared as two Arabs approached; they held him as a third locked the leg shackle firmly about his ankle. He stared disbelievingly at the heavy iron ball at the end of the chain.
"What are you doing?" he cried anxiously.
There was a burst of laughter from the Arab slavers.
"Removing your handcuffs," said the slave leader. He bent over the dark-haired convict with metal shears and cut off the cuffs.
"You see, we keep our word!"
There was loud laughter among the Arabs and curses and shouts from the convicts as the slavers passed among them, repeating the process until all of the eleven new arrivals had leg-irons substituted for their cuffs. Tin plates were passed out and an Arab went down the lines on the benches, ladling out the chicken and beans in a sticky mass onto each platter. The men were so hungry and so busy scraping up the food with their fingers that the next ten minutes passed in a silence broken only by the scraping noises of their fingers and the masticating sounds from their jaws.
There were murmurs of satisfaction and then the Arabs were among them again, passing out tin mugs of hot, sweet black coffee. Zadok cupped his mug and downed the black liquid, wondering when he would again taste such fare. It would be a rare treat indeed, unless he could escape before the auction commenced. And he had also to elude the vengeance of his former captives. He regretted bitterly the long course of actions which had led to the present situation. But his cunning brain was still turning over the possibilities, as he slumped his shoulders and looked as woebegone as possible.
"What are we doing here?" said the bald-headed convict, when his thirst was satisfied. He looked round the slave stalls bitterly.
"We escaped from Masara Prison for this?"
He glanced helplessly down at the big iron ball and from there to the heavy circlet which shackeled the chain firmly to his anide. Then his bitter glance found the dark-haired convict. He spat in his direction.
"Paper walls!" he said expressively. The younger man was silent.
The leader of the Arab slavers went down the lines, making sure the guards had gathered up the platters and mugs. He smiled, revealing broken yellow teeth.
"You see, we treat you good," he said. "We got orders to treat you good!"
He paused, savoring the effect.
"You're valuable," he added, grinning at the shackled men.
"Valuable to who?" said the bald-headed man sullenly. "What is this place?"
The big Arab smiled sardonically. He raked his glance over the dejected figure at the end of the bench.
"Zadok knows," he said. "You ask him."
He smiled again wolfishly.
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"Zadok knows everything about the slave runs!" he said.
He strode off, leaving four Arab guards to keep an eye on the assembled
men.
"What's all this about, Zadok?" said the bald-headed man. Rage was slowly mounting in him. The men had forgotten about the treacherous Arab with their earlier troubles, but now a gust of resentment and anger seemed to be fanning through the entire group.
Zadok shrank away, as the rancor in the men spread toward him in a tangible wave. For the first time he was beginning to realize what being a slave meant. It was a situation of peculiar horror and his quick brain also realized in a flash that he was in deadly danger from the men he had duped.
"Zadok!" said the dark-haired convict. "Who was the masked man who spoke to you at the city gate?"
Zadok turned away his head. All eyes were concentrated on him. Nobody noticed the huge Arab with the cartridge bandolier standing near the entrance to the slave quarters. He leaned on his rifle and kept his eyes on the ground as though he were tired. But his ears missed nothing of the babble of conversation going on within.
The bald-headed man was standing up now, moving down the bench toward the slumped figure of Zadok.
He pulled the iron ball after him. It made a heavy dragging sound on the floor as the chain tightened.
"You got us into this, Zadok," he shouted thickly. "Why?"
"Force the truth out of him!" said the big blond man, knotting his fists.
The bald-headed man had reached Zadok now. He hurled himself on the Arab and fastened two big hands round his throat. Zadok went over backward, the big man on top of him. He made choking noises and his eyes were starting out of his head.
One of the guards came forward brandishing his rifle, "Stop!" he called imperiously.
The rifle butt descended on the bald-headed man's shoulder. He staggered with a yelp of pain and released his hands from Zadok's throat. The Arab got up, looking yellow. His eyes spat hatred at the convict.
"You are all valuable property," said the guard who had used the rifle. He looked round him grimly.
"You must be in good shape for the sale tonight."
"What sale?" said the bald-headed man in slurred tones. He looked round the tense faces of his companions. "Valuable property?"
Anger thickened his voice again as be turned back to Zadok.
"What do they mean?" he shouted. "What are they talking about when they refer to valuable property?"
Zadok was hemmed in by a ring of hostile faces. The convicts were only kept from tearing him to pieces by the menacing barrels of the guards' rifles. He felt cornered and desperate.
"Here it is!" he shouted. "You asked for the truth and I'll give it to you. I brought you here to be sold like cattle-in a slave market!"
He saw a stupefied look pass across the convicts' faces, to be replaced with a dull and sullen rage.
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"Slaves," said the man with the shaven head stupidly.
"There's no such thing any more," said the dark-haired man.
Zadok cowered back, expecting the storm to break any moment. But it had not yet come.
The bald-headed man was openly derisive.
"Everybody knows that slavery was abolished years ago," he said.
"There's no such thing any more. Tell us the truth!"
Zadok's eyes were incredulous. He had told them the truth and they refused to believe him. They were still looking for some plausible reason for their presence in Mucar.
"I've got no more to say," he repeated, backing away until his back was up against the wall.
A group of five convicts gathered about him. Their faces were white and savage as they slowly and quietly looped the slack chain of their manacles round their Wrists.
"Tell us the truth or well pound you to pieces with these iron balls!" said the bald-headed man. He stooped and picked up the dead weight. The other convicts followed suit.
Zadok turned white under his dark complexion.
"I told you the truth!" he shouted, squirming away from his tormentors.
"The truth, Zadok," said the dark-haired convict. "We're not joking. We will smash you!"
The biggest of the five guards pushed his way through the throng. He had a rhinoceros-hide whip in his hand and he used the heavy butt of it to flail a passage. A second guard followed behind him. "Get back!"
said the first man. He whistled the thong of the whip viciously through the air.
"I warned you already. No fighting! No injuries!"
He glared about him.
"But I'll break that rule and crease a few skins if you don't stop this!"
The five convicts, in a menacing group, stood silent for a moment like a tableau in a museum. Then, before anyone could move, a blurred streak shot across the room. There were gasps and muffled shouts from the other three guards, who had remained near the entrance to the slave quarters. In a few seconds, two of them were groaning on the floor. As the other two guards with the whips turned, the big Arab who had burst among them whirled. His rifle butt cracked with a sickening impact on the side of one guard's jaw.
His whip flew from his hand, his eyes glazed, and he was already on his way to the ground when the other Arab turned.
The fifth guard had his whip raised when a fist with a peculiar ring crashed into his jaw; he was flung like a rag doll against the wall where his head came in contact with the stone. A thin smear of blood followed him down as he slumped to the floor.
The gigantic figure of the intruder strode to the center of the room, the two whips in his hand. The convicts recoiled from the blazing courage in those fantastic eyes beneath the mask.
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"And now, gentlemen, lets all sit down quietly and have a chat!" said the Phantom.
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CHAPTER 17
ZADOK IN DANGER
The convicts sat in an incredulous group on one side of the big slave room; behind them, in an untidy pile, were the five guards, dragged there by the Phantom. Zadok sat by himself against the far wall, behind a bench. His eyes never left the Phantom's face.
The Phantom sat on the edge of a table facing the group. He looked bigger than ever to the men on the floor and he dominated them all, savage as they were, by the sheer force of his personality. He had been silent for some minutes, looking the group over curiously. He had wasted no time with Zadok, but the loaded pistol at his right-hand side-where Zadok would have to pass on his way to the door-left no doubt that he would deal with the Arab summarily if he tried to escape.
Zadok realized he had no chance, and he sat silently where he was. He had survived many things by biding his time and remaining still; tonight might not be an exception. There still remained two hours until auction time. Darkness had long since fallen over the city. And darkness had always been his friend. The time remaining also meant that Saldan would not return to the slave quarters for more than two hours. He invariably spent the evening immediately before a sale in the cafés with his friends, the other dealers.
Zadok kept his own counsel and decided to play things by ear.
In the meantime he was intensely curious to hear what the big man with the mask had to say. Eventually, one of the convicts, bolder than the rest, licked dry lips and asked a question.
"Who are you ... sir?'
There was a stir among the assembled men. They shifted uneasily on the floor, and with the subtle movement, there came the clanking of chains.
"Are you for us-or against us?" said the bald-headed man, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder at the recumbent guards.
"I'm for you-up to a point!" said the Phantom, the deep, resonant tones echoed round the chamber.
He looked grimly at them.
"You men thought you'd made a jail break. Well, you didn't. It was arranged!"
There was a sudden outburst among the men. It was so loud that the Phantom went swiftly to the door of the room. The guards in the other sections were all busy with their own charges and no one had noticed what was going on in the area allotted to Saldan.
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The Phantom came back. He stood, legs slightly apart, towe
ring over the men. The pistol was in his hand.
He would not risk leaving it on the table, especially with Zadok sitting comparatively near.
The bald-headed man spoke again.
"You said the break was arranged. Why? What is the point of bringing us here. Where are we and what for?"
"This is the desert city of Mucar," the Phantom said. "Zadok told you the truth. You are to be sold as slaves."
There was another explosive outburst from the convicts and the Phantom had to hold up his hand to achieve silence.
"I have news for you men," he went on. "Remember the masked man who met you at the gate? He's your seller. He is also Saldan, the warden of your jail!"
There was an unnatural and ugly silence, in marked contrast to the babble which had gone before.
"Warden Saldan?" said the blond, shaven convict. "Impossible!"
"Quite possible," said the Phantom dryly. "And inevitable, as you would have found out if I hadn't intervened."
He walked along the group of seated men, trying to impress on them the truth of his words.
"Warden Saldan arranged your escape so that he could sell you all here as slaves. It's a racket he's grown rich on over the years. Your group was only the latest in a long line of 'consignments' of escaped prisoners."
"That rat Zadok!" burst out the bald-headed man. "I'll murder him!"
Zadok shrank back against the wall, but kept his eyes fixed impassively on the Phantom.
"Not yet," said the Phantom. He turned to look at Zadok, gave him a tight smile.
"Perhaps later," he added.
"There's something weird about this whole setup," said the dark-haired convict. "Who has slaves nowadays?"
