Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 15]

by The Curse of the Two Headed Bull (v0. 9) (epub)

  “Old Murph, running, fell on the deck with the statue in his arms. This statue had long sharp horns and Old Murph fell on them, and that’s what killed him. No man touched him,” said Muggs in his squeaky voice.

  “That’s the way it was,” said Sala.

  The Phantom shivered. That Llongo curse again . . .

  “I was asleep,” Sven broke in. “Muggs came in and woke me up. When I got on deck, Duke was standing there with Loka and Sala. She was crying her eyes out. Old Murph was gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Duke threw him overboard. Said he was dead. Had to get rid of the body, or we’d be blamed.”

  “That’s all true,” said Sala.

  “Was he wearing a life vest?” asked the Phantom.

  Muggs stared at him. How could he know that?

  “He had one over his arm when he was running. Maybe he figured to swim ashore with the statue.”

  The Phantom meditated for a moment. That’s how it was. It rang true. He’d seen the ship at dawn, about the time Old Murph had gone overboard.

  “You didn’t report this to the port authorities?” he said to Sven. The big man flushed.

  “I’m a respectable sea captain. I got respectable business. I carry mail for Bangalla. Freight. Passengers. Back and forth. I want no trouble. None of this was my business. Not my fault.”

  This could be big trouble for all of them. The theft of a sacred religious image was bad enough. Murder was worse. In more civilized communities to the north and west, capital punishment was banned, frowned upon. Bangalla was an old-fashione'd country. The ancient code was still in force. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Murder was punished by hanging. There was no plea bargaining, no time off for good behavior, no pardons, when murder was involved. In Bangalla, the killer was hung. In Ivory-Lana, the killer was beheaded with an old-fashioned guillotine.

  So, being charged with the murder of Old Murph could be fatal for any or all of them.

  “Where did Duke and Loka leave ship?”

  “Ivory-Lana.”

  “That is true,” said Sala. “I wanted to go with them. Loka wanted me to go. Duke wouldn’t let me. He said I would be in the way. He made me come back on the ship.”

  In spite of his aching jaw, Sven grinned at that. He had evidently taken full advantage of the situation. The image had brought him luck—Sala.

  “Wanted to go where? Where did they go?”

  Sven and Sala hesitated. They looked at each other stubbornly. Sven folded his arms on his chest, signifying that he’d finished talking. The Phantom took one step toward him. His arms fell to his sides.

  “London,” he shouted.

  “Where in London?”

  Sven clenched his big fists and gritted his teeth, but he had to answer this masked figure who stood over him.

  “I’m not sure where they went, exactly. Neither one knew London. I been there many a time. Duke asked me for a hotel. Not a sailor’s dump, he said. He wanted something with class. I knew one pretty good one. Beresford Arms.”

  The Phantom gathered up his outer garments and walked to the door. The three watched him fixedly, like birds caught in the hypnotic stare of a serpent. He stopped at the door.

  “If any of you have lied about any of this, I will come back. You will all be charged with the murder of Old Murph. You understand what that means.”

  All tried to protest at once. Sven’s big voice carried over the others. “We told you what happened. We didn’t kill him. He fell on that damn thing.”

  “I believe that he fell. But when Duke threw him overboard, he was not dead.” They gasped. Their careful alibi— accidental death—was suddenly threatened.

  “Impossible,” said Sven. “He died. We were all witnesses.” “No,” said the masked figure. “He died in my arms. I buried him at sea.”

  They looked at him dizzily. This was all weird. Where . . . how . . . ? But he wasn’t answering any questions. Standing in the. doorway, he said his final words to them.

  “Perhaps, after he fell, he might have lived if he’d had immediate medical care. It’s a question the judge would look into.”

  There were no juries in Bangalla, only hard-nosed judges.

  Sven looked at Sala. Muggs stared at Sven. When they looked at the door, he was gone. Sven and Muggs rushed out on the deck. The ship rocked gently against the wharf. The ropes strained on the posts. Music and laughter tinkled from the nearby Blue Dragon. They peered into the fog. There was no one. Both men shivered and hurried back into the cabin. '

  CHAPTER 7

  In its day, the Beresford Arms Hotel undoubtedly had had what Sven Ohlsson called “class.” But that day was long past, though some faded, pre-World War I grandeur was still evident in the huge, dusty chandeliers that hung from the stained-glass ceilings over the large lobby. A broad marble staircase, soiled and cracked, with elaborate tarnished iron railings, swept up to the second floor. An ancient cagelike elevator slowly creaked up and down, shaking and groaning as though each trip was its last. All the metalwork was rusted. The carpeting in the wide, poorly lit halls was frayed. After countless coats of paint, the walls were dirty and cracked. A musty odor pervaded the halls and rooms, as though years had passed since fresh air had entered. A seasoned traveler knew even before getting beyond the front desk and the bored clerk that the beds would be lumpy, the linen soiled, the plumbing out of order. But even in this era of inflation and tight money, it was cheap. So travelers put up with it.

  That’s how Duke explained it to Loka, as the black man paced restlessly in their room. On the bureau, glowing like a jewel even in this sordid place, was the brilliant sacred image of the Llongo.

  “How long do we stay in a miserable place like this?” said Loka. Like all Llongo males, he was tall, broad-shouldered, muscular. He had a family resemblance to his handsome brother, Lamanda Luaga, but years of dissipation and disap pointment had left their mark. His face was scarred and his mouth was mean.

  Duke snorted and downed a shot of whiskey, then glared at his partner. “You kidding? You spent your life in mud huts. How old were you before you saw a real bed and inside plumbing?”

  Duke was white, slim and tough. He’d gotten his nickname because of his smooth, aristocratic appearance. His hair was wavy and black, lightly flecked with gray. He’d shipped as a first mate and fought as a mercenary—an expert machine gunner. But he’d always preferred less violent activites, such as smuggling, drugs and jewels, con games involving fake gold and oil stocks and, when things were tough, a holdup or break-in robbery. Thus far, except for a brief stretch in Venezuela, he’d avoided arrest. He preferred what he called the “brainy jobs”—like this one.

  Loka ignored the insults. Duke was too smart for him. Also, too quick with a knife.

  “We got two, three million sitting there, and we sit in this dump. The beds are full of bugs.”

  “Listen, bucko, that thing is worth two, three million if and when we get a buyer. Right now we can’t eat it. Not worth a red cent,” said Duke, pouring another whiskey neat.

  “We been here a week. You’re the wise one. You know all about selling. That’s what you been telling me,” said Loka. “Where is this great buyer?”

  Duke picked up the newspaper on the table and tossed it at Loka. On the back page there was a large picture of the image, and a news story about it. “It’s hot, bucko. Hotter than a pistol. I got to pick my shots. By now, every dealer in town knows about this thing.”

  “Then why did we come here, to London? There are other places,” said Loka.

  “Because the dude I’ve picked is right here in London, bucko.”

  “You got a buyer? Who? Why didn’t you say something?” said Loka excitedly.

  “Remember the guys Old Murph told us about—the experts? I remembered one name. Helmsley. I been looking around. I found him.”

  “You talked to him?”

  Duke took another shot of whiskey and reached for his hat. “I’m going now,�
� he said, heading for the door.

  “I’m going with you. I want to hear. No doublecross.”

  “And leave the thing sitting here for anybody to walk in and take? You crazy?” said Duke, meaning it.

  “They got a safe downstairs. I saw the sign. We leave it in the safe,” said Loka.

  Duke nodded, anxious to get started. Loka placed the image in a carton, wrapped and tied it securely, then started for the door.

  “Let me carry it,” said Duke. Loka glared at him.

  “Look, it can’t get me, not while it’s in the box,” said Duke, grinning, obviously not believing in the curse.

  “We go,” said Loka grimly. The curse was no joke to him. _ /

  The bored clerk behind the front desk lifted his eyebrows at the sight of the package.

  “Awfully big,” he said. “What are the contents?”

  “Old china, teacups and like that,” said Duke quickly. “Worth plenty, and breakable, bucko.”

  “Can’t you leave it in your room?”

  “And have one of those oxes you call chambermaids drop St? No thanks, bucko.”

  The clerk led them to a small room just off the front desk. He opened a large wall safe.

  “Give it to me,” he said.

  Loka stared, looking dumbly at Duke.

  “I said, breakable. Worth plenty. A couple months* wages, bucko, if you crack one little cup.”

  “You put it in. I want nothing to do with it,” said the clerk quickly.

  “Smart lad,” said Duke, nodding to Loka. Loka placed the box inside the vault and they watched the clerk lock it.

  “If anything’s broken when we come back, you’re responsible. Got that, bucko?” said Duke.

  “Nobody’s going to touch your precious teacups,” the clerk said peevishly.

  “What if he opens it?” said Loka as they walked outside. “I think I fixed that,” said Duke. “But, you never know. We got to take risks. We can’t lug it through town.”

  They reached a small building that had a bank on the ground floor. Windows on the second floor were partly covered with brown velvet curtains.

  “That’s the place,” said Duke.

  “What kind of place? No name up there.”

  “This is no butcher shop, bucko. It’s posh. Class.”

  In a small foyer, a neat sign on the wall read:

  Cunningham & Helmsley Antiquarians They climbed the stairs and entered a small waiting room with paneled walls covered with paintings that, judged by their frames alone, looked expensive, and a thick red rug on the floor.

  “Class,” said Duke softly.

  A woman seated behind a window opened the glass panel and looked inquiringly at them.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “We want to see Mr. Helmsley, please.”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “He doesn’t know us. Just tell him two gentlemen from Bangalla.”

  “How do you spell that?”

  Duke patiently spelled it. She closed the panel and reached for a phone. Loka looked admiringly at his partner. Duke looked and sounded like a gentleman. He was smooth. Brainy. In a moment, a small man with a neat dark mustache peered over the woman’s shoulder, then opened the panel.

  “You wish to see me? What about?”

  He had the elegant upper-class-British accent that always impressed both Duke and Loka.

  “We have something to sell, something you might be interested in seeing,” said Duke, smooth and brainy. “Something rare, from Bangalla.”

  The man called Helmsley looked at him sharply. “Come in,” he said.

  There was a clicking sound as the door to the office unlocked. Duke opened it and they walked in.

  They were in a large showroom. There were glass-enclosed shelves on the walls and rows of glass-topped cases. All the shelves and cases were locked. They contained various glittering objects: jeweled boxes, small statuary, framed paintings and drawings; all expensive-looking. They had only the briefest glimpse of all this as Mr. Helmsley led them quickly into an inner office. Duke, who was keenly observant, saw a small open panel on one wall from which eyes were watching. He had no doubt that the owner of the eyes also held a gun. Helmsley led them into the inner office, where a white-haired man sat behind a broad polished table. The man, like Helmsley, was immaculately dressed and looked like a banker.

  “This is Mr. Cunningham, and you are .. . ?” said Helmsley.

  “My name is Hanson, Fred Hanson. And this is Mr. Murphy,” he said, indicating Loka.

  “You’ve brought something to sell?” said Mr. Cunningham. “Can we speak in confidence?” said Duke.

  The white-haired man glanced at his partner.

  “That depends,” he said.

  “We have something of great value,” said Duke, becoming uneasy with these stolid Englishmen. He thought quickly. He had nothing to lose here. He had broken no British laws. He took a newspaper from his pocket and displayed the picture story about the image. He tossed the paper on the polished table.

  “This,” he said.

  Helmsley, the younger partner, reacted visibly. Cunningham, puzzled, picked up the paper and glanced at the story. Then he looked at Duke and Loka for a moment, his face remaining impassive.

  “Are you saying that you have that object?” he said quietly.

  “Let’s say we know where it is,” said Duke.

  “Do you know that every police bureau in Europe has been alerted about that piece?” said Helmsley.

  Loka looked at Duke in alarm, but Duke shrugged.

  “So?” he said. “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t matter?” said Cunningham. “No respectable dealer, museum or collector will touch it . . . not with a ten-foot pole.”

  “You’re crazy, Cunningham,” said Duke, suddenly angry. “It’s worth millions.”

  “Granted, if it’s genuine.”

  “It is genuine!”

  “You have it?”

  “We know where it is.”

  “You wish to sell that information?”

  “Sell information. We wish to sell the image,” said Duke heatedly.

  “We are not interested. Good day, Mr. . . . Hanson.” “Now just a minute, Cunningham. Helmsley, you know the thing, don’t you. Tell him.” Helmsley stared at him.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Duke started to say, you saw it, you appraised it, but that involved Old Murph. That would complicate things.

  “If you’d like to see it...” said Duke.

  “No interest at all. Mr. Helmsley, will you see the . . . ah ... gentlemen out?”

  They followed Helmsley to the outer door.

  “Can’t you talk to him?” said Duke.

  “Talk to him?” said Helmsley.

  “You saw it. You know,” said Duke.

  “I beg your pardon. Saw it? Not likely. Good day, gentlemen.”

  They left confused, angry. Loka berated Duke all the way back to the hotel.

  “Relax,” said Duke. “He’s not the only fish in the sea.” Helmsley returned to his partner.

  “What did you think?” he asked.

  “Phonies, con men, both of them,” said Cunningham.

  “You don’t think they have the image?”

  “The chances are a million to one against. They may have whipped up some imitation. Easy to do. I rather suspect they were trying to sell informatipn which would turn out to be false.”

  “No doubt,” said Helmsley, starting for the office door. “Supposing—just supposing—they did smuggle the object out of Bangalla,” Cunningham, went on, glancing again at the newspaper on his desk. “Can you imagine the brouhaha in Parliament, in the Foreign Office, in Scotland Yard, if we or any other established outfit obtained it. I needn’t remind you that foreign art treasures have become a risky matter.”

  “No question,” said Helmsley, waiting impatiently at the door. Through the window, above the velvet cafe curtains,, he could see the two men standi
ng on the street corner, talking. As he started out of the office, his partner looked up from the paper.

  “Odd they should come to us with this notion. When you were down there last year, didn’t you see that object?”

  “I was in Bangalla two years ago,” said Helmsley carefully. “I saw several such idols. I may have seen that one.”

  “It seems to me I recall your talking about that odd curse. Sheba, Solomon, all that,” said Cunningham, lighting a briar pipeHelmsley managed to chuckle.

  “Quite possible. Every village has an idol that goes back to Adam and Eye.” He started out the door.

  “Helmsley, old boy, you didn’t take those two seriously?” “Hardly.” He began to exit again.

  “Will you call the police, or should I?”

  He stopped.

  “Police?”

  “It should be reported, just as a matter of form. The Yard or Foreign Office might want to look into it.”

  “Right,” said Helmsley, and closed the door.

  He ran through the elaborate showroom, grabbed his bowler from a wall rack, muttered to the secretary about an appointment, and rushed down the stairs to the street. He saw the two men ahead, black and white, arguing as they walked. He sighed with relief and followed them at a safe distance, until they reached the Beresford Arms Hotel. He Walked across the street and watched through the dirty lobby windows. He saw them stop at the front desk. The white remained there for a time while the black went out of sight. He returned with a large package and the two disappeared into the gloomy interior of the lobby.

  A large package. Helmsley was breathing hard. The image —memories of a bumpy, dusty ride in Bangalla, that tipsy old guide (they had to take over the wheel), the glittering object, the visit to the President—it all came back in a flood. He bit his nails anxiously, plans racing through his mind. He rushed into a nearby phone booth, dialed, waited impatiently, then when a heavy voice answered, spoke excitedly into the mouthpiece, cupping it with his hand, meanwhile keeping watch on" the front doors of the Beresford Arms Hotel across the street.

  Completing the call, he went to a nearby pub and took a seat at the window where he could enjoy a pint of beer and keep his eye on the hotel. He wasn’t going to let those two slip away. Not with that priceless thing.