by Lee Falk
"Make that three thousand!" said a deep, resonant voice, as a huge Arab entered the arena. Behind him came two servants wheeling barrows laden with leather sacks.
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CHAPTER 21
MYSTERY BIDDER
There was a murmur from the people in the audience and up on the balcony Prince Selim gasped as he leaned forward to grip the railings with his wrinkled hands. Saldan had stopped and blinked at the wealthy stranger who seemed to have so much money to throw about.
"Three thousand, five hundred!" called a fat man in a fez in the front row of the dealers. Saldan recognized him as the proprietor of the most successful restaurant in the city of Mucar.
"Come along, Mr. Auctioneer," called the big Arab cheerfully. "Is this an auction or isn't it? Four thousand!"
There was another gasp from the crowd as Saldan recovered his wits.
"Certainly, certainly," he mumbled. "Four thousand I'm bid."
"Four thousand, five hundred," said the first old man.
"Oh, don't let's play about," said the Arab calmly. "Let's make it ten thousand, shall we?"
There was a deep sigh from the crowd. In all their years of attending the slave auctions, they had never heard prices like this. It was beyond belief. Saldan stood as though he had been turned to stone. It was preposterous and he almost doubted his ears. Ten thousand was double the highest price he had ever received for a slave.
But others present had begun to get the idea. On the balcony Prince Selini, his Eastern mind amused at the notion, had a broad smile on his face. He stroked his beard as he spoke to the smiling Slingsby.
"He's buying the slaves back with Saldan's own gold."
"He thought that would appeal to you," Slingsby replied.
The bald-headed man too was smiling. He had now recognized the Phantom and knew that help was at hand.
Saldan recovered himself. After all, what did it matter if these people had more money than sense? Some oil-rich sheik who did not mind what he paid, he supposed.
"Sold to that bidder for ten thousand!" he said. He pointed to the bald-headed man.
"Take him away."
Zadok, standing at the edge of the arena, was frowning. He was nearer to the mystery bidder than Saldan.
As he moved, something flickered in Zadok's memory. When the bidder spoke he was certain.
"Remove the ball and chain from that purchase," said the Phantom in ringing tones. "Put him over there."
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Zadok fell back against the wall, his mind a confused mass of emotions. He felt that some advantage might yet be made of the situation.
On the rostrum as the dark-haired man was brought forward, Saldan felt excited. He noted that the big Arab with the barrows full of gold had stayed. If he remained throughout the sale and paid comparable prices, the slaver would have the biggest profit of his life from one single sale. He metaphorically rubbed his hands. This was the way to go out. Then his jaw sagged. He had glanced over at the next lot and had seen that the dark-haired man was smiling broadly. He must be an idiot, he told himself, pressing on with his sales talk.
The sale went on and each time one of the convicts came up the big Arab easily outbid everybody else. The piles of gold in the barrows steadily diminished and the group of freed convicts in the corner of the mart grew ever larger. Rumors spread round the auction hail; the newcomer seemed to be the most wealthy prince in the realm; money was no object.
Saldan was getting hoarse. He had the Nubian pour him a glass of cordial from a crystal beaker on the dais.
"These have been record prices this evening, gentlemen," he said.
"Surely you will not let all these fine specimens go to one man?"
He bowed with an insincere smile in the Phantom's direction.
"No offense, sir, but business is business."
The Phantom had his burnous across his face, hiding his mask, and he bowed in his turn.
"Run the bids up as much as you like, Mr. Auctioneer," he said. "No one present will out-bid me."
Only Zadok and the blond man with the shaved head remained. The crowd groaned. The prices being asked- and paid-were now almost triple what slaves had ever fetched at Mucar, even in times of grave shortages.
Old Prince Selim chuckled to himself as he watched the closing stages of the auction.
"Even with a gun in my back I find this amusing!" he told Slingsby. "I should like to see Saldan's face when he finds out!"
"I hate to agree with you, Prince, but I will this once," said the young officer.
Down on the floor the sale was over. Saldan was staggered at the haul. He went over to look at the heaped sacks, where the officials were checking and weighing the gold coins. He overheard an old sheik complaining bitterly, "I came over five hundred miles for this!"
He smiled to himself and then went over to the mystery purchaser. The Phantom drew himself up so that he towered over Saldan.
The slaver inclined his head.
"Sir, I thank you for your generosity," he said. "I need these barrows. May I buy them from you?"
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The Phantom bowed gravely.
"They are yours as a gift," he said.
He stood and watched as Saldan and his men started loading the barrows. Then he went to stand near the group of eleven slaves. His whisper was heard only by the group. "Wait here for me. Don't ruin it by trying to escape."
He looked round to where Saldan was loading the last sack on top of the second barrow. "Believe me, you can't leave this city alive without me," he added.
He glanced keenly at the bald-headed man. "And keep a sharp eye on Zadok."
The other grinned. The group parted slightly. The Phantom smiled as he saw that the bald-headed convict had his brawny arm round Zadok's neck; the treacherous Arab looked half-choked.
Arabs with rifles guarded Saldan's haul as his men pushed the heavy barrows back to Selim's palace. There was only a skeleton guard on duty now, as it was nearly morning. After much effort, the group struggled up the stairs. Saldan led the way to the counting room. He was so excited his key trembled in the lock of the door.
An appalling sight met them as they opened up. The room was empty-coffers were opened and leather sacks were strewn about. The chest which had contained Saldan's own personal fortune was open; he staggered toward it but a quick glance showed him that not one coin remained.
His voice rose to a bellow as he glared about him. "My gold's all gone!" he shouted.
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CHAPTER 22
SHOWDOWN
There was a long silence as the echoes of his voice died away. Saldan's face was a mask of hatred as he raged about the accounting room, searching the drawers and chests. The Arabs fell back before the fury in his eyes.
"Half a million gone!" he screamed.
He plucked at his belt and pulled out the big revolver. The Arabs broke, thinking he was going to shoot them outright. But Saldan's thoughts were in other directions.
"That thieving old Prince!" he ranted. "He has the other key! If he thinks he can get away with this."
He choked and raised a trembling hand to his lips. He brushed by the Arabs and went down the corridor at a loping run. He burst open the door of the royal audience chamber without ceremony.
Prince Selim looked a frail figure on his elaborate sandalwood throne. He looked steadily at the menacing figure of his partner, though if the other had been in control of himself he would have seen that his face was white and drained of blood.
"Greetings, Saldan!" the Prince quavered.
"Greetings, hell, you miserable old skinflint!" Saldan shouted. "I want my gold."
"He didn't take your gold," a powerful and mocking voice sounded in the slaver's ear. "Just stop where you are and drop that gun!"
Saldan stiffened as the chilling barrel of a revolver pressed firmly against the flesh behind his left ear. Some of the strength seemed to go out of him. His gun barrel wavered and dropped toward the grou
nd. Prince Selim saw astonishment begin to replace the anger in his face. Despite the menace of the gun behind him, he walked on a few steps toward the Prince's throne. Then he slowly turned, His blurred eyes focused on the massive figure of the Phantom who was now dressed in his jerkin, hood, and mask once more. There was blank astonishment in his eyes.
"One of your men?" he asked the Prince.
"No indeed," said Scum, uneasily aware that he was in the direct line of fire.
"I said drop the gun." The implacable tones of the Phantom rang out again.
Saldan slowed, mouthing obscenities; his hand raked up with the pistol. The Phantom moved like lightning.
There was only a blur as his pistol came up in a shimmering arc. Flame lanced from the muzzle and smoke momentarily hid him from view. The boom of the explosion slapped across the room. Saldan spun stupidly, his heavy pistol slammed into a corner by the impact of the Phantom's bullet. His right hand hung uselessly by his side. Blood started oozing from his fingertips. Behind the Prince an ornamental mirror had starred
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into fragments. The noble ruler of Mucar was cowering ignominiously, like one of his own slaves, beneath the table.
"You can get up now, your Highness," said Slingsby, coming forward into the room. He had been concealed behind a curtain on the other side of the main door.
"Who are you?" said Saldan thickly. "And you, Slingsby. What's the Jungle Patrol doing here?"
The Phantom came quickly back into the center of the room and sheathed his revolver. He put his hands on his hips and stared at the cowering figure of the warden. He reached out and ripped the mask from his face.
"You won't be needing this any more," he said calmly. "I'll do the talking, Saldan. Your game is over."
He laughed. The echo sounded mockingly round the chamber.
"The Prince didn't steal your gold, Warden. I used it-and his-to buy all those slaves."
Saldan was stupefied. Rage grew in him as he realized how he had been duped.
"You were that spendthrift buyer and you were using my gold?" he gasped.
He turned on the old man, his fist clenched to punch the Prince.
"You old fool," he ranted. "You let him use our gold, to buy our slaves?"
The Prince had recovered from his fright by now and was again seated at the table. Reassured to some extent by the massive presence of the Phantom between him and his former partner, he spoke weakly.
"I couldn't prevent it," he said. "But I must say it was all rather amusing."
Saldan's rage was building again now.
"Amusing?" he boiled. He turned back to the Phantom.
"Why have you done this?"
The Phantom's eyes were stern behind the slits in the mask.
"I'm returning those slaves to your own prison, Saldan," he said.
He drew himself up to his full height.
"And I'm taking you back to face justice, Warden Saldan."
Saldan trembled and his face turned pale.
"Who are you?" he asked for the last time.
In answer, the Phantom opened the casing of a curious ring on his hand and held it out for Saldan to see. It bore on the front of it the grim symbol of a skull.
Saldan drew back, his jaws trembling. He passed his uninjured hand across a suddenly perspiring forehead.
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"That sign's haunted me from the beginning," he said. "I've seen it everywhere. In the jail cell, on the dogs, on the unconscious guards."
His eyes blazed and his jaw tightened.
"It's been you!" he shouted at the Phantom. "All the time-trying to ruin me!"
He rushed forward, fists flailing like windmills. But the Phantom was no longer there. He had side-stepped with all the skill and precision of a circus acrobat. As he turned, his massive forearm chopped backward into Saldan's beefy chest. The warden gasped, all the breath driven from his body. Before he could recover, the side of the Phantom's hand had smashed like a pile driver along the side of his neck. Flame ran through Saldan, seemed to burn all his body. He lost consciousness. The whole room lost perspective as he crashed to the ground.
There was a long silence as the Phantom looked down at his fallen enemy.
The Prince was the first to break the silence.
"A neat dismissal of a brutal opponent, sir," he said calmly. "But I have a thousand soldiers around this palace."
A shrewd and calculating look was back on his face.
"Beyond that are nearly eight hundred miles of desert.
You have to cross that with eleven prisoners. Twelve if you count Saldan."
He smiled again as his long fingers caressed his silky beard.
"I would be deeply interested to learn how you intend to get out of here alive," he said.
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CHAPTER 23
TUNNEL OF NO ESCAPE
There was another long silence in the room. To the Prince's astonishment, his speech was greeted with a confident smile by the big man in the mask. Warden Saldan was conscious again now, groaning as he bled on the Prince's Bokhara carpet. Slingsby helped him up into a chair, where he sagged, moaning to himself.
The Prince went on preening his beard. He looked from the Phantom to Slingsby and back again.
"You know I am right, gentlemen," he said. "One call from me..."
He shrank back as the Phantom came swiftly to stand over him.
"Which you won't make, if you value your life, Prince," he said.
He bent down and Selim felt fear coursing through his body as the Phantom's stern eyes behind the mask seemed to bore through into his soul.
"I'll tell you what we'll do, Prince," the Phantom continued. "First, you will supply horses to all the prisoners. Your soldiers will escort them across the desert. You'll fly with me to insure performance."
The Phantom's eyes were again sparkling with humor.
The old Prince rested his head on his hands and regarded his two captors benevolently.
"You've planned it all neatly," he said. "Suppose I refuse to help you."
"This isn't a game, Prince," the Phantom retorted. "Too many lives are at stake."
His eyes were stern once more. Before the Prince could move he had drawn the pistol from his holster and put its cold muzzle up against Selim's ear. Sweat broke out on the brow of the ruler of Mucar as he saw the trigger go back slightly with the big man's finger pressure.
"Your life is on the firing line, Prince!" the Phantom whispered. "Do you wish to live or not?"
The Prince passed a tongue over suddenly dry lips.
"Yes," he quavered back.
The Phantom put the pistol back in the holster.
"Good," he said.
It was still dark when a strange procession left the ancient city of Mucar. First went Prince Selim, closely followed by the Phantom who held the pistol steadily in his back. The gold had been loaded into the saddlebags of the horses. The head of Selim's household troops had been summoned an hour before. He knew that his life depended on the gold safely reaching Masara. The Phantom knew he would not fail.
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The prisoners were heavily guarded by picked troops of the Prince's own cavalry. The prisoners' horses were sorry-looking mounts that were no match for the Arab stallions if they should try to make a break.
Behind the Prince and the Phantom came the handcuffed figure of Saldan, his head hanging dejectedly. He had to bear the triumphant laughter of Zadok as he was marched past the convicts. In the rear of Saldan was Slingsby, who carried an automatic rifle.
Selim's commander bowed as the procession formed up in the courtyard.
"As head of your cavalry I shall not fail," he told the Prince.
Selim smiled ironically.
"Try not to," he advised the head of his troops. "My life stands with yours on this issue."
The officer saluted, with a puzzled air. All the way to Masara he was trying to unravel the enigma. Only on his return to Mucar would he learn the tr
uth about the Prince's strange companions. And by then it was too late.
The great gates of the ancient desert city, the crescent of Islam proudly touched by the dawn light flying above them, slammed to behind the long cavalcade. Some miles out they came upon an oasis. A light aircraft was waiting there. The Phantom smiled at the expression on Saldan's face.
"You figured a rather different getaway than this," he chuckled. The big warden's reply was unprintable as he got up into the cabin, prodded on by Slingsby's automatic weapon. The stewardess looked puzzled and frightened.
"Nothing to worry about, miss," said Slingsby. "Government business. Returning to Masara with prisoner."
Slingsby turned to the Warden, once they were within the aircraft.
"No monkey business. It'll give me pleasure to blast you apart. You framed me, remember."
Saldan scowled as the plane lurched across the sand and took off into the dawn light. The Arabs and the convicts on their horses receded into the vastness of the desert.
Slingsby smiled as he looked ahead at the growing light on the horizon, over the pilot's shoulder.
"I'd love a cup of coffee," he told the pretty hostess.
Down below, the group of horsemen watched the light aircraft fade from sight before starting off across the desert. Another mile farther on, the Phantom and the Prince left the main body and made their own way. In the shadow of the rocks, there was a welcome growl and the great form of Devil was scampering across the sand toward them. The Prince's eyes were wide with astonish_ment as his huge companion dismounted and scratched the wolf's ears affectionately. He was even more astonished when he saw the Phantom untie the cramped figure of an Arab who was lying in the shadow of a rock.
"One of your colleagues," said the Phantom.
He handed over his horse to the Arab.
"You'll be at Mucar in an hour," he said. "Don't bother bringing troops back here. We shall be gone."
