“How much?”
“One million English pounds. At the current rate, about two and a half million dollars.”
“This article says two million English pounds,” said the Phantom, reading the newspaper.
“Prices have gone up.”
“But how could they put a price on it, without seeing it?”
“Oh, but they did see it. They drove out to the village and examined it closely—without touching, of course. One even had a jeweler’s eyeglass. You see, it’s not just the value of the thing itself. It’s the age. The experts say it is pre-Christian era, perhaps four thousand years old, a completely unique piece.”
The Phantom’s memory banks were clicking again, new1 data registering, surfacing, forming.
“There are no regular roads to the Llongo village. Two strangers, English tourists, would have a hard time driving there alone.”
Lamanda Luaga looked slightly annoyed at this digression.
“Obviously they had a guide.”
“Do you recall who the guide was?”
The President looked at him, perplexed. But he concentrated. The Phantom never wasted words, or questions.
“Yes, I do remember. In fact, they’d asked me about a guide. I only knew one who was honest, who knew the jungle, and would be well received by my people. Poor old chap died recentiy.”
“Old Murph?”
“Yes. How did you know? I remember telling them there was no point in making the long trip, since the image was not for sale. They said they were art lovers and only wanted to see it.”
“Lamanda, Old Murph didn’t just die. He was murdered. It now seems obvious that his death was involved with the missing image.”
“Murder?”
The Phantom nodded and told him the story of finding the old man offshore of Eden, the wounds, the dying words, the burial at sea. “It’s a bit clearer now, but not completely so. Old Murph guides those English art dealers' to the village. On the return he hears them discussing it, evaluating it. Perhaps later, in some bar, he talks. Maybe no one takes him seriously at first. A million English pounds for an old jungle idol! Then somebody takes him seriously. Another tour to the Llongo village—your brother Loka, his putzka”—the President laughed at that—“and a big white man, possibly the one called Duke.”
“It begins to make sense,” said Luaga. “The bar could have been the Blue Dragon, Loka’s hangout.”
“They heard a car drive off the night of the theft. Old Murph’s.”
Both men sat quietly for a moment. Luaga sighed deeply.
“You’ve helped me before. I need you now more than ever. This is a scandal that could rock my administration. The country’s greatest art treasure, stolen by my brother. The murder of Old Murph.”
“But you’ve had no part in any of this,” said the Phantom.
“We put down the counterrevolt by the army; you remember General Bababu. We established this democracy. But the old officer clique is still around, waiting for me to slip, waiting for a chance to smash our young legislature, our courts, our democracy, and take over with an iron hand. We have military dictatorships on both borders ready to help them, to move in. They hate our democracy. It might give their own people ideas.”
It was like sitting in a small room and suddenly seeing the roof and walls open up to a vast panorama.
“Is it that serious?” said the Phantom, knowing it was.
“You know this country as well as I do. Do you think I exaggerate?”
“No,” said the Phantom. “It could happen. We must not let it happen.”
“As soon as I received this news, my special unit checked out the airport, wharfs, bars, all Loka’s known crowd. The •one called Duke had disappeared. Loka’s girl, a Eurasian dancer at the Blue Dragon, was no help. We didn’t know she had been with Loka on that visit to the image. Understand, I couldn’t have too wide an investigation. That might expose everything, before we could solve it.”
The Phantom got up and put on his street clothes— trousers, coat, hat, sunglasses and scarf.
“You can’t touch this, Lamanda. You’re too vulnerable. This new country you put together is too fragile. Your fears for it are well founded. If you go out of power now, the nation might not survive. That means civil war, terror, all over again.”
“Fantastic, that this little incident could be the cause,” said Luaga, fingering the image.
“I must move fast now. If you are questioned about any of this, you know nothing.”
Lamanda nodded. “What now?”
“I’ve a few leads. What is the name of that girl, Loka’s friend?”
Lamanda riffled through his desk and found a small notebook.
“Sala. At the Blue Dragon.”
CHAPTER 5
The Blue Dragon was the biggest, toughest, noisiest saloon in Mawitaan. It boasted the longest bar, the hottest gambling, and the best floor show on the coast. The last item was nothing much to write home about.. The so-called floor show was only a showcase for most of the aging “girls” who conducted their serious profession in rooms upstairs, but not for the star, Sala. Sala was something else, the Phantom decided as he stood watching at the crowded bar. She was doing her own version of an Oriental belly dance, and was driving the rough crowd—nine-tenths sailors and longshoremen—wild. Lean and exotic, she was as sinuous as a cobra, with a suggestion of that reptile’s danger in her flashing eyes and cruel smile.
He was jammed in among the boisterous gang at the bar. Devil, on a leash, sat at his feet A bartender finally reached him.
“What’ll it be?”
“Glass of milk. A saucer of water for my animal, please.” “Milk?” shouted the bartender. The men near the Phantom quieted and turned to look at him, this tall stranger in the dark wraparound sunglasses. “Are you kidding?”
“No, I want a glass of milk . . . and water for my ;animal,” said the Phantom quietly. He hadn’t wanted to attract this attention. He was thirsty, and since he never drank alcoholic beverages, and was unfamiliar with soft drinks, milk was all he could think of.
This bartender, and a half-dozen others working behind the bar, were used to all sorts in this place. Wise guys, tough guys, drunks, crazies. It was a busy place, and they wasted no time with nuisances. They were used to sizing up such types quickly. This one, the bartender quickly decided, was a wise guy.
“This is no dairy farm,” he said loudly, for the benefit of the appreciative audience on the other side of the bar. “And we got no time for flea hounds. Get lost, stupid.”
The listeners laughed at this, and others crowded around to hear the fun. This particular bartender’s blistering wit was well known.
The Phantom was not looking for a fight. He was here on business, and would have preferred to slip out of this argument quietly. The word “stupid” stung, but he held his temper.
“You have a public license. If I order a reasonable drink of milk, you are obliged to serve it,” he said quietly. “Asking water for my dog is also a reasonable request.”
The bartender was exasperated. A half-dozen customers were yelling orders, and this wise guy was going on and on.
“Listen, you want me to call the bouncer,” he shouted. “You—!” That was a mistake. The epithet he used could not be ignored. In one quick move, the Phantom grasped the two-hundred-pounder by the neck, dragged him bodily across the bar, then lifted him over his head and hurled him into the air. The big man flew ten feet, and landed with a crash on the dance floor where Sala was in the midst of her sexy gyrations. She froze, uttered a slight yelp, and ran off the floor. The crowd at the bar cheered and laughed, particularly one man standing near the Phantom. He was a head taller than the others, had a full dark beard, and wore a blue cap and pea jacket—a seaman. His laughter was a deep rumble and his heavy accent could be heard above the others.
“Goot, goot,” he said.
Two heavyset husky men in T-shirts moved rapidly to the bar. They were the Blue Dragon bou
ncers, veterans of trouble.
“What’s your trouble?” one of them said belligerently as he reached out to grab the Phantom’s arm.
“I gave him an order. He refused and swore at me. I don’t accept that kind of language.”
“Aren’t you the sweet fella,” said the bouncer, tightening his grip. “You want to get your tail outta here before you get hurt?”
“No, I don’t,” said the Phantom.
“Yeah?” said the bouncer. He pulled the arm, to drag the man out. But nothing happened. It was like pulling on the branch of a tree. The Phantom didn’t stir. The bouncer’s expression of amazement was ludicrous. His face turned red.
“You get outta here, or we’ll throw you out on your keis-ter,” he shouted, angered by the snickers of the watching crowd. Another man in the Phantom’s position might have decided that retreat was the smartest move, considering the mission. But the Phantom wasn’t another man. He had a deep stubborn streak that resented injustice of any kind, and he felt this treatment was unjust. He was the innocent party. And when the second bouncer reached for him, he knew the time for action had come again. He lashed out twice with his iron fists—not hard enough to kill (which he could do), but hard enough to end the problem of these bouncers. The two blows, one on each jaw, did the job. The two big men hit the floor solidly, bounced, then lay still. There were gasps from those nearby. Nobody had ever taken one of these bouncers, much less two. The big saloon was quiet for a moment. People at tables turned toward the bar. Even the distant players at the card and dice tables peered through the smoke to see what had happened. Then the big bearded seaman added his deep rumbling laughter. “Goot job, man,” he said, and reached over to pound the Phantom on the back.
A small fat Oriental in a white suit, sweat on his bald head and a glittering diamond stickpin in his tie, rushed up. “Whasa matta, whasa matta here?” he asked excitedly.
“I asked for milk and water for my dog. The bartender refused. Your bouncers tried to throw me out,” said the Phantom patiently.
“And a goot job he did,” boomed the bearded seaman.
“For goonasake, give man milk, give dog wata, start music,” the Oriental shouted shrilly. He was the proprietor of the Blue Dragon, and this pause in the drinking was costing him money. The three-piece band started up again, the people at the bar laughed, and the card and dice players went back to their games. Six waiters, staggering under the weight of the bartender and the bouncers, cleared the dance floor. The crowd cheered, couples began to dance, drinks were served, the dice clicked, and the fight was forgotten. Such fracases were a nightly happening at the Blue Dragon. The only difference was that this time the bouncers were on the receiving end. As for the Phantom, he got his glass of milk, Devil got his saucer -of water, and after a few slaps on the back and offers of drinks by the bearded seaman, which were politely refused, the gang at the bar went back to their glasses. The big guy in the sunglasses was obviously a tough customer, but such types were not rare in the Blue Dragon.
The Phantom was annoyed with himself. He had come here to talk to Sala and learn what he could about Loka. The fracas could have spoiled everything. He promised himself to hold his temper and turn the other cheek in the future, or at least until this baffling situation was solved. Sala had not returned. He moved slowly through the crowd, Devil following closely. He walked between the intense, grim players at the card tables (where Loma, son of High Chief Llionto, had played and lost), among the shouting dice players, and went through the beaded curtain where he had seen Sala exit. An angry argument was going on in a room down the hall. It was Sala’s ressing room. The Oriental proprietor was trying to get her back on the dance floor. She was refusing. The fight had upset her.
“That guy, flying through the air, he almost hit me. Could have killed me,” she shouted.
“Did not kill, did not hurt. All finish. All quiet. You go back now, Sala. Crowd wants.”
“Sala doesn’t want. Leave me, Wong. I’m finished for tonight.”
“Finished for tonight?” screamed Mr. Wong. “You crazy?”
“You heard me. No more tonight. Get lost,” she screamed. Then both quieted suddenly as they noticed the tall stranger in the doorway. Both recognized him—the man in sunglasses.
“I want to talk to you, Sala,” he said.
“I don’t allow men in my dressing room,” she said, staring at the dark glasses.
“She gotta dance. She gotta work, mister,” said Mr. Wong. “You heard her. She said she’s finished for the night. That’s it, Mr. Wong.”
Mr. Wong stared up at the big man and licked his lips. People who have heard the deep voice of the Phantom have often tried to describe it. One, a poet, said that “it seemed to come from a deep pit, with all the tremendous authority of the law of gravity.” In the jungle it is said, “the voice of the angry Phantom can freeze the tiger’s blood.” However it was, Mr. Wong heard. Sala also heard it. She clenched her fist as the door closed.
“Leave that open,” she said sharply.
“No, Sala. You’ve nothing to fear from me. I want a private talk with you—about Loka.”
That name seemed to jolt her. She sat at her dressing table and waited.
“Where is he?”
She shrugged. “Who knows.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“You are his friend?”
“Was.” '
It went on like that for a while, words-of-one-syllable answers, communicating nothing.
“Sala, about two months or more ago, you took a trip into the jungle with Loka and his friend Duke, You were driven there by Old Murph.”
She reacted to that last name. Her long artificial eyelashes waved up and down like wings. She finally put a sentence together.
“Are you a cop?”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m a friend of the Llongo people. They want that image back where it belongs.”
“That’s all you want?”
“Old Murph was murdered. Did you see it happen?”
She sat quietly for a moment, not answering. He studied her. In repose, she was beautiful, as vividly sensuous as some rare wild orchid. In her turn, she was also studying him, this massive figure that had handled those men out there like bean bags. Sala knew men. But she couldn’t see his eyes behind those dark glasses, and his face was like granite. Men usually melted before her, especially when she was in this gauzy belly-dancer outfit that revealed more than it covered. But he seemed unmoved by these highly visible and undeniable charms. Then there was the animal ... a dog? Bigger than any dog she’d ever seen . . . with pale blue eyes and fangs an inch long. What a pair they were!
“I can’t tell you anything about all that,” she said finally. “About the thing, or about Old what’s-his-name.”
“I would guess that you’re a liar, Sala,” he said quietly.
She thought for a long moment. ‘There’s no point in you calling me names if you expect me to help you,” she said, and smiled a warm, alluring smile. Part of it was genuine. Sala had always been attracted by men of strength. This one radiated power.
“Do you want to help me?”
“Perhaps. Girls like myself have to do the best they can. If I help, what’s in it for me?” she said brightly, becoming chatty.
“It might keep you out of prison.”
“Are you kidding? I haven’t done anything wrong,” she shouted, surprised by his answer.
“You’ll have your day in court to prove that.”
“Yon said you weren’t a cop.”
“Correct.”
“You talk like one.”
He walked toward her, then stood over her. He loomed above her like a mountain peak. His deep voice seemed to come from a vast distance.
“Sala, a terrible crime has been committed, worse than you can realize. It may have disastrous consequences. If you help me now, things will be easier for you later on.”
“I’
ve done nothing wrong.”
“You said that before.”
A long silence while Sala meditated. There was no melting, no softness in this man. Like talking to a stone wall.
“I have done nothing wrong,” she repeated, and as he clenched a big fist in exasperation, she held up her slim hand. “But I know a man who may be able to help.”
“Who?”
“Let him tell you who. If I arrange a meeting, isn’t that enough.”
“It may be.”
“I will go and arrange it. Promise to wait here ... or in the bar . . . for one hour. Until I return. If you try to follow me now, I will know. I will not arrange it.”
“Should I trust you to come back?”
“Can you?”
“For your own sake, Sala, I hope you do not deceive me. You understand . . . for your own sake?”
Once more the deep voice rumbled, like distant storm clouds. She shivered.
“I will come back, honest.”
She threw a cloak over her shoulders and darted out. The bells on her ankles, part of her costume, tinkled as she ran down the hall. Wherever she is going, whatever she has in mind, at least the first step has been taken, be told himself. The dressing room air was stuffy, heavy with cheap perfume, powder, stale tobacco smoke. He told Devil to stay in the hall and strolled back through the beaded curtains to watch some of the action, the frantic dice players, the grim poker players. And he waited for Sala.
She was almost as good as her word. An hour and a half later, she waved to him impatiently from the beaded curtain. He was standing among the crowd at the dice table, watching a young black make seven points in a row, doubling his bet each time, letting it pile up, and losing it all on the eighth roll, then shrug and grin and move off to the bar.
The Phantom followed Sala into the back hall where Devil sat waiting. Her head was wrapped in a shawl and she was wet. There was a light warm rain falling as they went through the dark alley and headed for the docks. She hadn’t spoken.
Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 15] Page 4
