Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 15]

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

  “Who was the man with the dog?” said Bolt. “Who else was with you?”

  “Nobody. Just me and Duke . . . and the image,” he said, clutching the box tighter.

  “You’re holding out. Who else is in on this,” said Bolt, getting up from his chair. Loka looked up at him with frightened eyes.

  “Nobody else. I know no man with a dog.”

  Bolt swung, hitting him with the back of his hand. The force of the blow toppled Loka off the stool onto the floor. He sat there, bent over the box.

  “No man, no dog, no man, no dog,” he wailed.

  Bolt kicked him hard in his side. Loka yelped. Helmsley took Bolt’s arm. The big man was in a fury.

  “Easy, Bolt,” he said. “We need this man.”

  “For what? He’s got the thing. We take it. Who needs him?”

  The big man looked angrily at Gyp. The dark-skinned man pulled a long knife from his belt.

  Helmsley trembled but clenched his fists.

  “I’m a businessman. I won’t be involved in any violence.” That amused Bolt. “Some businessman—owing me ten thousand quid.”

  “My business is art, not race horses. They are my pleasure, not my vocation.”

  “And not your profit,” said Bolt. “Give my one reason why we need this miserable scum?”

  “If we want a million pounds for what he has in that box,” he began.

  “You said two million,” said Bolt quickly.

  “Could be two million, even three. The object is intrinsically valuable, but not to that extent. Its antiquity and its authenticity are the factors that increase its value perhaps ten times. That’s why we need him. He is Llongo.”

  Helmsley’s upper-class tones soothed the cockney Bolt. Whatever his politics, the average Britisher has a mystical adoration for his superiors, and the accent of the high-born fills him with reverence and delight. So it was with Bolt. He vaguely understood such terms as antiquity and authenticity, but was too embarrassed to ask for further explanations. It was with such social graces that the British held one-quarter of the earth for so long.

  “Okay, he stays. Let’s see the thing,” said Bolt. Gyp regretfully sheathed his knife.

  “Yes, Loka, open the box,” said Helmsley, now in control. Loka got to his feet, casting aggrieved looks at Bolt and Gyp. He’d seen the Gypsy’s knife. He untied the cords binding the box, then carefully removed the image, placing it on the pool table. The men stared. Helmsley went to it quickly. He had a small jeweler’s glass. He put it to his eye and closely examined the glittering statue.

  “That’s it, that’s it,” he said excitedly.

  “Crazy thing. Are those real sparklers?” said Bolt “Real.”

  “Worth two million quid?”

  “To the right party, yes,” said Helmsley.

  “You can find the right party?” said Gyp.

  “That is my business.”

  “I want my share. Half,” said Loka.

  Bolt exploded with laughter.

  “Half? You are demented, man.”

  “That was the split for Duke and me. Half,” said Loka stubbornly.

  “There were only two of you,” said Helmsley. “Now there are four.”

  “I’ll see you get your share. All that you’ve got coming to you,” said Bolt with a wink at Gyp. “Let me see that thing,” he added, reaching for the image. Loka moved like a flash between him and the pool table.

  “No you cannot touch it,” he exclaimed. Bolt shoved him aside impatiently, but he grabbed his arm. “No, you cannot.” No one told Bolt what to do. His heavy fist landed on Loka’s jaw. Loka fell to his knees. “You fool, if you touch that, you will die, at once!”

  Bolt’s hard eyes narrowed. “What’s that black bastard trying to say to me, Helmsley?”

  “It's about the curse,” said Helmsley hesitantly.

  “What curse?” demanded, Bolt. Gyp’s eyes widened. He knew about curses.

  “Tell him, Loka,” said Helmsley.

  “Only one of my people, the Llongo, may touch. If anyone not of my people touches, he dies. It kill him.”

  Bolt rumbled with laughter, but his eyes remained narrowed.

  “It is the truth,” said Loka, getting to his feet. “On the ship, Old Murph tried to take it. It killed him. Duke tried to take it. It killed him. I saw both. It is the curse.”

  “Hogwash,” said Bolt. “Pure hogwash.”

  Helmsley smiled. “Go ahead and prove it’s hogwash, Bolt. Pick it up.”

  Bolt was a gambler. Luck, good and bad, was part of his life. He looked at the intense face of Loka. Then at Gyp, whose lips wore tight and who shook his head. Then at Helmsley, who smiled but whose eyes were too bright. Then at the weird glittering object.

  “Yeah, who cares about such kid stuff? Not me,” he rumbled and walked to the bar for another whiskey. The men exchanged glances. None dared to comment. “Who’ll you sell this to, Helmsley?” said Bolt gruffly from the bar.

  “I’ve many clients. I’ll go over my list today and make a few calls,” said Helmsley.

  “Does your partner, what’s-his-name, know about this?”

  “Of course not,” said Helmsley quickly. “He’d kill the deal. He’s not going to know about it.”

  “Okay. I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to the track,”

  said Bolt. “You stay here, bushman. Gyp, don’t let him or it out of this room. Got it?”

  “Got it,” said Gyp, showing his gold teeth.

  Helmsley and Bolt walked to the door together. Loka followed them.

  “I want my share,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, boy. You’ll get what’s coming to you,” said Bolt. They closed the door. Gyp took a key from his pocket und locked it.

  “Sit down. Have a drink,” he said.

  Loka remembered the knife. He turned away without answering but kept Gyp in his field of vision. He’d faced knife lighters before. If this gypsy tried anything, he’d be ready for him.

  Outside, Helmsley walked with Bolt for the short distance it took them to find cabs.

  “I brought you into this because I needed . . . shall we say, your aid ... in this arrangement,” said Helmsley, twirling his tightly wrapped umbrella.

  “Arrangement? You mean hijack,” said Bolt.

  Helmsley winced at the word. “Whatever you call it, I want no more violence. From here on, it is a legitimate business proposition.”

  “Legitimate?” laughed Bolt. “With a stolen hunk of sparklers?”

  “Foreign art is often obtained through such channels as the tribesman, Loka. It is the way many rare objects have found their way into our leading museums and private collections.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with you, laddy.”

  “Anything irregular from here on would only complicate matters—involve the police.”

  “The coppers are already onto this black. And what about the other guy with the dog, whoever he is?”

  “Not our affair. After we sell the piece, Loka can be shipped out quietly, and that ends the matter.”

  “Right,” said Bolt, stepping into his cab. Later, as he neared the race track for his daily visit, he told himself, “Shipped out quietly—that’s a nice way of putting it.”

  Diana was dreaming. A delightful dream. She was riding through a leafy glen with him. They were both on great white horses that seemed to float through the air. There were huge bright flowers and giant hummingbirds flickering in the dappled sunlight. He smiled and bent toward her. There was a persistent buzzing—no, a ringing. She woke up in the chair where she had dozed off. Her phone was ringing. Her room was dark. For a moment, she was in a panic, forgetting where she was, then wondering where the light switch was, or a lamp. The phone rang again, and she stumbled across the room trying to reach it in the dark. She ran into the bed, fell across it, frantically found a lamp at the bedside table and snapped it on. The phone was on the other side of the bedrShe slipped over and grasped it, put the receiver to her ear.
>
  “Hello, hello?”

  No one was there. Anxiously, she signalled the operator. It must have been him, trying to reach her from somewhere. From where? If she missed him now ... The operator’s voice came in.

  “Oh, Miss Palmer, we rang your room. The party is still on the line, leaving a message.”

  “Put him on, please!”

  His voice came on, deep, reassuring. “Diana?”

  “Oh, darling. I was asleep. I was afraid I missed your call. Are you all right? Where are you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m calling from a phone booth in the park. Hyde Park. I’ve found a place here to hide Devil.”

  “Hide him? Why?”

  “You haven’t heard the news?”

  “I was asleep. What happened?” she asked anxiously. “Nothing I can tell you about now. I want you to do me a favor. Find a men’s shop. There are some still open at this hour. Please buy me a tan trench coat and a cap, also a pair of green sunglasses. Dark ones.”

  “Why ...” she began.

  “I’ll explain later. Then wait in your room for my call.” “What size—the coat and hat?”

  No reply for a moment. Then his voice. “I looked in my coat and hat. It says extra large on the coat. Cap is seven and three quarters.”

  “I have a back room on the first floor. Two windows. I’ll leave a shade up, light on,” said Diana. “Dear, did you lose your—no, you have them.”

  “They’re looking for me. I need a change. I’ll call back in an hour.” Click.

  She stared at the phone. She was lying across the bed on her stomach. In her rush to reach the phone, she’d knocked a lamp on the floor. “Looking for him? Why?” She hurriedly dressed, adjusted her makeup and went out to look for a man’s shop. One tan trench coat, extra large; one cap, seven and three quarters. Dark green sunglasses. Why?

  The butcher had taken off his apron and was about to call it a day when the tall man came in and bought six pounds of beef. “The missus and the kiddies are going to eat well tonight,” he said cheerfully as he wrapped the order. “Enjoy while you can, sir. The price of beef is going out of sight. Who can afford it anymore except the bloody millionaires?” The big man nodded, paid him and left without a words. The butcher wondered if he’d said something wrong. The big man didn’t look like a millionaire.

  The Phantom walked through the dark park with his package. It amused him to think of the butcher’s shock if he’d known the beef was going to be gobbled by a mountain wolf. The beef was costly,- even though he had asked for an inexpensive cut. He knew nothing of dog foods. Devil required raw meat. The big animal was curled under thick bushes at the side of a lake. The Phantom dropped half the meat before him and watched as he attacked it. He placed the rest of the package behind a bench where it could not be seen. This was a good hideout for Devil. He was concealed on all sides, and had water that he could reach by barely moving his long head. When the wolf had finished his dinner, he was patted, told to stay—which he would do until doomsday if necessary. His master walked off. Lovers sat on the benches, a policeman strolled by. The park lamps were on, reflecting in the lake, and the lights of the city shone behind the dark trees.

  Diana returned breathlessly to her room. She had found a store, made the purchases, and run all the way back. She raised a window, pulled up a shade and sat in the chair, waiting. Her name was whispered in the dark alley. She leaped to her feet as the big figure moved silently through the window into the room. She jumped into his arms. After their greeting was satisfactorily accomplished, she sat beside him as he told her the story of Loka and Duke. Also that the police were looking for him, but with the slight change of costume she had bought, they’d have no way of spotting him.

  After putting on the new coat, cap and substituting green sunglasses for the brown ones he had worn, they went out to dinner without fear of detection and made plans for the following morning. Loka rqust be found before the police found him. They’d never believe his story about Duke’s death. Worse, his identity as the brother of Bangalla’s President Lamanda Luaga would be discovered by newspapers all over the world as well as by Luaga’s enemies at home. Either Loka had gone off with friends (friends who didn’t know his name?) or, more likely, had been found by mobsters. Two leads, he told her. An art dealer named Helmsley —a vague lead at best, it seemed—and a gambler type who belched. Diana thought that was funny. She wanted to be the one who found him.

  “Please let me help you. I feel so useless doing nothing. After all, Lamanda Luaga is a friend of mine, too.”

  “I’d rather have you useless and safe. There’s a dangerous game going on here, Diana. Such high stakes always attract mobsters.”

  “Helmsley, the art dealer, doesn’t sound like a mobster.” “Seems unlikely,” he admitted. He pressed her hand. “Diana, there must be a wonderful matinee—opera, ballet, or play. Please keep out of this.”

  She smiled, ate her sherbet, and made no promises.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was a rare autumn day in London, sunny and dry. Nannies wheeled prams in the park. Oldsters sat on benches reading or enjoying the sun. The Phantom led Diana to Devil’s hideout. The wolf had remained where he had been left. He greeted them happily but did not move, so perfect was his training.

  “You wanted to help me. You can, now,” he said. “I located a kennel on the outskirts of town near the race track. Take Devil out of the park, hail a taxi, put him in, and wait for me.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “You’re going to the track to find the gambling belcher ... or is it the belching gambler? Please let me go with you,” she pleaded.

  “No.” There was a finality in his tone that ended further discussion. “Take in a matinee. If I don’t find the belcher, which is most likely, I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

  “And if you find him?”

  “Then we will see.” That was the end of that. She led Devil as he asked, and waited at the curb with a taxi. He joined her swiftly, a quick kiss, and he was gone. She returned to the park, sat on a bench and watched the swans.

  He was right, of course, she told herself. She mustn’t interfere. He was not playing games. This was serious business. But Diana was not your average girl-next-door. Olympic diving champion, pilot, explorer, now a UN medical administrator—a job that had taken her to many remote and often dangerous places. She was a daring girl and liked adventure. Otherwise, she would have remained a socialite in Westchester and would hardly be the sweetheart of a masked man who lived in a cave surrounded by pygmies. She wouldn’t even be on this bench now, she told herself. She wouldn’t get involved. But she wanted a taste of this adventure, a little harmless excitement.

  She went to a phone booth, and after searching through “Antiques” and “Art Dealers” found a listing for the only familiar name in the business—Cunningham & Helmsley. As she strolled toward the nearby gallery, she told herself she didn’t want to see actors in a stage play when this real-life drama was so close to her. She wanted to see one of the real-life actors, even if he had a minor, unimportant role. Helmsley.

  Number 7 Savile Place was the discreet address of the most expensive hotel in London. It was small, luxurious, and discriminating. Its stupendous rates could be afforded by only the richest of American, German and Japanese industrialists; by superstars of film and rock; and by the new billionaires of the Middle East, the oil potentates. It was into the lavish suite of one of the latter that Helmsley was ushered. Two giant black guards, figures from feudal times, were in the foyer. They wore gold turbans, crimson silk shirts and baggy pants, and gleaming jeweled scimitars in their golden belts.

  The Sheik of Suda-Kalara sat on a large pillow, puffing on a huge waterpipe ornamented with silver and jewels. The apparatus gurgled and bubbled as he drew on it. The Sheik was a lean man with piercing eyes under heavy brows. He wore a short trim black beard and was simply dressed in his desert outfit. His only adornment was a necklace of chunks of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. Helmsley gasped when he
saw it and, as he bowed before the seated ruler, made a quick estimate as to its value. Colossal! A shrewd older man wearing a turban and robe stood near the Sheik, obviously an advisor.

  Helmsley had had some dealings with this Sheik before, selling him paintings and objets d’art, and knew him for a hard bargainer. As for Suda-Kalara, he knew only that it was one of the smallest and most backward of the Gulf kingdoms—with one of the largest reserves of oil. He launched into his sales talk immediately. One did not indulge in small talk with the Sheik. He produced a photo of the sacred image of the Llongo—one that he had taken himself during his visit to Bangalla—and told the story of the image, beginning with King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.

  That was a good beginning since the Sheik, like a dozen other Middle Eastern potentates, claimed the glamorous queen as an ancestor, a fact that Helmsley knew. It was for this reason that he had picked the Sheik for his first attempt. Strong family interest plus adequate cash—an unfailing combination. He had guessed correctly. The Sheik was fascinated. He studied the photo intently.' His aide gave him a magnifying glass for a closer inspection. He was also fascinated by the legend of the curse. It soon appeared that the Sheik knew about this object. He had read the newspaper stories about the valuable image that had once been the property of his illustrious ancestress.

  Helmsley assured him as to its authenticity. He had personally obtained the object from the nephew of the Llongo High Chief. On this fact he pledged his honor as a reputable art dealer. The Sheik nodded. He knew Cunningham & Helmsley. He also knew how much ancient art reached the marketplace, stolen and smuggled from its place of origin. It was not the first time the Sheik had considered such art. He and his ilk were among the few who could afford such costly works.

  As to price? Helmsley mentioned three million pounds sterling. The Sheik lifted his eyebrows and glanced at his aide, who threw up his hands in mock horror. The Sheik shook his head and offered a half million. Helmsley accepted the small cup of Turkish coffee offered by one of the giant blacks and shook hie head. The Sheik bubbled and gurgled on his pipe and studied the photo. It was obvious that he was itching to own this ancient masterpiece.