Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 15]

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

“Never mind her. Our time’s running out. Gyp, I’ve got to meet that man in an hour—fifty minutes now!”

  “Bolt said wait.”

  “Come with me. You-can see for yourself the deal is good.”

  “The deal can wait!”

  Helmsley saw in Gyp one of those exasperating toadies who, once programmed, could not be diverted. Like a robot.

  “You stupid Gypsy!” he shouted and rushed to the image, taking it under one arm. Gyp moved two steps before the door and drew his long knife. “Loka, stop him,” he shouted. As Loka turned, Helmsley flashed his pearl-handled gun.

  “Get away from that door, Gyp,” he commanded.

  “Don’t touch that! Put it down!” screamed Loka, hysterical when he saw the image under Helmsley’s arm. He started toward him. Helmsley pointed the gun at him.

  “Stay where you are or I’ll blow your head off,” he said. Loka backed away, staring, frantic, sweat pouring from his face. Helmsley took a step toward the door. Gyp was crouched, the knife in his hand, his eyes like slits.

  “You haven’t got the guts to use that, you upper-class pig,” he snarled, then moved slowly toward the dealer. Diana stared, frozen by the violence and hate.

  “Put that gun down, before I slit your throat,” said Gyp in the same low, deadly voice, moving ever so slowly forward.

  The gun exploded like a cannon in the low-ceilinged room. Gyp had a surprised look on his face as he dropped the knife, clutched his stomach, and fell to the floor.

  “No man, wait,” said Loka. “You can’t take. You can’t touch. The curse!”

  “I have touched it—no curse,” said Helmsley hoarsely. “Don’t move.”

  “Let me go with you,” pleaded Loka. “I can help. Don’t leave me. They will kill me.”

  “I don’t need you. Stay where you are,” said Helmsley in the same hoarse tones. As he slowly backed toward the door, he looked at Diana, who stared at him, terrified, and amazed that so much brutality was in this innocuous-looking proper Englishman.

  As he backed up, a hand grasped his ankle. It was Gyp, lying on the floor. The sudden touch startled Helmsley, whose nerves were at the breaking point. He whirled about, but the grip clung, tripping him. He fell forward, hitting the floor, the image under him. He uttered a shriek, an agonized wrenching sound. Diana shuddered. She had once heu-d wounded buffalo shriek like that—almost a bellow.

  Still shrieking, he got to his knees and half-turned toward Diana and Loka. His hands clutched the image. The horns were driven deep into his chest. He was suddenly silent, staring at the image, at his chest, at the blood. His face drained white. Diana and Loka watched, transfixed. He opened his mouth, trying to talk, but only a noise came out. Then he collapsed limply, his head falling back. The body settled. No more movement. Diana covered her eyes. She was shaking with the horror of the scene.

  Loka walked slowly to the bar, poured himself a large whiskey and gulped it down, then bent over Helmsley. The man was dead. He tugged the horns free, then stood up with the image. There was blood on it. He took a bar towel and carefully wiped it clean. A thought suddenly came to him. That card. He went through the coat pockets and found it. He walked to Diana and shook her shoulder. The terrified girl uncovered her face. She looked up at him fearfully.

  “I do not read good. Read it to me,” he said. He was breathing hard, and sweat rolled from him. Diana stared at the card that swam before her eyes.

  “Read it,” he shouted, almost hysterical again.

  She clenched her fists and focused on the words written in ink.

  “Sheik of Suda-Kalara. Seven Savile Place,” she read.

  He murmured the words half aloud, to fix them in his memory, then dropped the card on the floor and ran to the door. He paused while he wrapped the towel around the image.

  “You are friend of my brother. I will not hurt you.” He opened the door and had another thought. “If you were not friend of my brother, I would not hurt you. I do not hurt ladies.” And he slammed the door.

  Diana jumped to her feet. Gyp was on the floor, staring at her, his eyes pleading for help. Helmsley was curled up near him. Someone called Bolt was coming. Avoiding the chatch-ing hands of Gyp, she rushed to the door and slammed it behind her, running into the open air, fleeing this house of horrors.

  Her mind was racing. Call the police? Go back to the hotel and wait? She saw Loka jumping into a cab a half block away. He had the image. Anger replaced her fear. The Phantom was risking his life to find that image. So close, yet so far now, as the cab sped off. She must follow, not let him get away. She hailed a cab and followed.

  “Seven Savile Place,” she told the driver.

  As her mind cleared in the cab, the scene she had just witnessed fell into place. One man wounded. Fatally? One man dead, accidentally. Accidentally? The swarthy man had tripped him, but the image had killed him. The curse? She shivered. The Sheik, whoever that was, must be told. Anyone could afford that fortune for an art object must be one of high rank, position, prestige—like her friends at the UN. He would not want to be associated with the crimes involved in this affair. He would flee from it like the,plague. He would thank her. He would call the police, she told herself.

  The cab reached the address. She recognized it, an exclusive place where she had once attended a most elegant tea. Then she reached for her purse. It wasn’t there. She panicked. She must have lost it during the cab ride with Helmsley or in that house. She couldn’t go back there.

  “I forgot my purse. I’ll send money down from upstairs. Will you wait, please,” she said as the doorman opened the cab door. He heard her.

  “Are you a guest here, Miss? I can advance the fare,” he said.

  “I—I am a guest of the Sheik of Suda-Kalara,” she said quickly, thinking* he’d be glad to pay this fare when I tell him what I know.

  “Oh yes,” said the doorman, grinning knowingly. “I’ll take care of it, Miss.”

  As she entered the lobby, she wondered about that knowing grin. Perhaps the Sheik had many “ladies” visiting him. She smiled. Did she look like one of those? At the front desk, she gave her name to the supercilious clerk who "was adjusting the white carnation in his lapel. “Mention the name Loka —L-O-K-A,” she added. He raised an eyebrow and gave her the same knowing grin as he took the phone to call the suite. He turned from her as he spoke, so she could hear nothing but the last words. “Very good,” he said.

  “They request that you wait for a few moments, Miss Palmer,” he said, smirking. “There is a lounge through that arch." She nodded and followed directions. She hoped there was a ladies’ room. There was. And a kindly old white-haired attendant. Diana stared into the mirror. Her hair and the little makeup she used were a mess. And that jawl No wonder the grins and smirks. She had no comb, no makeup. But the kindly attendant, an angel in disguise, lent her comb and lipstick after she had washed her face. Her jaw showed a slight swelling. It was tender to the touch. It could have been worse. It might have been broken, teeth loosened. But everything was in place. Poor Helmsley was a slight, if desperate, man.

  She thanked the old lady, apologized for lack of a tip and returned to the lounge proper where she sank gratefully into a deep sofa. What was Kit doing? Had he found his belcher? It might be a good idea to leave a message at her hotel, telling where she was in case he tried to reach her. There was a phone at her side, a hotel extension. As she reached for it, the phone rang. She looked about. No one was in sight. She picked up the receiver.

  “Miss Palmer?” It was the condescending voice of the desk clerk.

  “Yes?”

  ‘They will see you now. At once,” he said. It was an order. No time for a call now. Later. She walked quickly to the elevator, going over in her mind what she would tell the Sheik. If Loka was already there, all the better.

  Loka was already there. He had been received by the same supercilious clerk who looked askance at this roughly dressed black man clutching some ungainly object wrapped in a dirty towel. T
he doorman had entered with him and stood just behind him in case of trouble.

  “I am here to see the Sheik,” he said, forgetting the rest of it. The clerk looked at him stonily. “Deliveries are made at the service entrance,” he said coldly. Loka’s nerves were already frayed. He didn’t need this arrogant white to put him down.

  “I am no servant. The Sheik awaits this. Kindly announce,” he said firmly. “Say, the object from Mr. Helmsley is here.”

  The clerk shrugged. Seven Savile was accustomed to rich eccentrics. He phoned and was told to send the man up. He waved Loka to the elevator, then exchanged a look of disgust with the doorman. All sorts were coming here these days. Clutching the towel-wrapped object to his chest like a baby, he was ushered into the drawing room of the suite by one of the giant black guards. The Sheik was no longer on the floor with his waterpipe. He was seated at a Sheraton desk closing a briefcase. He looked at Loka in surprise.

  “Where is Mr. Helmsley?”

  “He sent me, sir.”

  “Highness,” corrected the aide, watching with a puzzled look.

  “Highness,” said Loka, bowing.

  “Is that the image?” said the Sheik. Loka nodded. “Let me see it.”

  “You must give me one million eight hundred thousand British pounds sterling,” said Loka carefully, making sure to get it right.

  The Sheik looked at him with annoyance. “Let me see it,” he repeated sharply. One of the giant blacks started toward Loka. Loka nodded, quickly moved to the coffee table, unwrapped the towel, and placed the glittering image on the glass surface. All the others, the Sheik, his aide and the two giant blacks, showed amazement, at the stunning sight, each in his own way.

  The Sheik moved toward it, hands extended, like a child reaching for a bright new toy.

  “No,” said Loka sharply. “Do not touch it.”

  The Sheik turned on him angrily.

  “The curse,” he said quickly. “If one not of Llongo, touches it, he dies.”

  “He dies?” repeated the aide named Taras.

  “It kills him,” said Loka. “Believe my words. I have seen it happen, thrice!”

  The Sheik looked at the image intently, then at Loka.

  “You are of Llongo?”

  “I am.”

  “Your name?”

  “Loka.”

  The Sheik looked at his aide, who nodded.

  “Nephew of the High Chief. He stole it,” said Taras.

  Loka reacted angrily. “I did not steal. I am Llongo. It is mine, as much as any other’s.”

  “We understand,” said the Sheik, smiling. He seemed not displeased. To the contrary. This was the guarantee of authenticity.

  “And where is Mr. Helmsley?” said the aide.

  “He sent me,” said Loka shortly.

  “That was not the question,” said the aide sharply.

  Loka considered a moment. Where would Helmsley be? He recalled the endless discussion between Helmsley and Bolt.

  “He went to the track. Race horse.”

  The Sheik looked incredulously at Taras.

  “At this time, with such money awaiting him, he would go to the track?” said the Sheik.

  “He sent me,” said Loka firmly. “I am to bring him the money. One million eight hundred thousand pounds British sterling. Cash,” he added. The Sheik smiled at this childlike recitation.

  Taras picked up the towel and held it before the Sheik.

  “That’s blood,” he said, pointing to the damp, reddish-brown stains. The Sheik’s smile was gone. The black giants looked on impassively, understanding not a word.

  “Where is Mr. Helmsley?” said the aide sternly. “Did you kill him?”

  “Kill him?” said Loka with genuine anguish. “No, never.”

  The Sheik said something to the aide in their language.

  Taras nodded.

  “We have no time to pursue this matter thoroughly. It is important that we know if Helmsley is alive or dead.”

  “I . . . I . . . alive. Why should he be dead?” said Loka anxiously.

  “Who else knows about this image? His partner Mr. Cunningham?”

  “No, not him.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Certain.”

  The phone rang. Taras answered, muttered something to the Sheik, who shook his head. The aide looked at Loka.

  “Do you know a woman named Palmer?” he said.

  Loka looked bewildered. “Palmer? No. Never,” he said.

  “She said to mention your name.”

  “Me?” His eyes widened. The picture came to him of the girl, dazed and terrified, sitting in the chair. “It might be her.”

  “Her?” said the aide sharply.

  “She ... she knows about the image,” he said weakly.

  Taras talked into the phone and hung up.

  “Who is she? Quickly, man.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” said Loka honestly, confused by this complicated web that tightened with every move. “I never saw her before an hour ago. She knows the man with the dog.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The soft sound of the bell and the entrance of the girl interrupted the questioning of Loka. Diana looked with amazement at the two giant black guards who bowed solemnly and escorted her in. The men and their costumes had to be out of an old operetta. In the long drawing room, a man in a flowing blue burnoose bowed his head slightly. Loka, looking terrified, stood rigidly near the glittering image on the coffee ’ table. But the man seated on the sofa, clad in a creamy white robe and a dazzling necklace of enormous jewels, had to be the Sheik. His lean handsome face was without expression as his glance traveled from her head to her feet and back up again. He glanced at the man in blue, who spoke.

  “Yes?” was all he said.

  “Your Highness, I must tell you about that object,” she said, gesturing at the image.

  “Do not listen. She will lie,” said Loka anxiously.

  The Sheik looked at him coldly. The glance was like a whiplash. Then he looked toward the man in blue.

  “We are about to depart. State your business quickly,” said the man in blue.

  “I am here because it’s my understanding you are about to buy, or have bought, that image,” she said.

  “Continue,” said Taras.

  “I must know. If you are not buying it, there’s no point to my continuing,” she said, not knowing if the Sheik understood a word she was saying. He understood.

  “Do as you are told. Continue,” he said, in the flat quiet tone of a man whose words have always been obeyed.

  “To begin with,” she went on nervously, disconcerted by the complete lack of expression on his face (as if he were made of wax, she told herself), “that image was stolen from the Llongo tribe by this and another man.” If she expected that announcement to create a sensation, she was wrong. No change of expression from either man. “Do you understand what I said? Am I making myself clear?” No expression. The Sheik made a slight movement. He looked at his gold wristwatch. “One of the men involved, an old guide, was killed before they left Bangalla.”

  “The image killed him,” Loka blurted out.

  The Sheik barely glanced at him, then back to Diana. The man in blue watched her intently. Didn’t death matter to these men?

  “The man called Duke who came here with Loka and the image was also killed, twenty-four hours ago, here in London.”

  “The image . . .” began Loka. A look from the man in blue silenced him.

  “Do you know the art dealer Helmsley?” she went on. That struck something. They both looked at her sharply. The man in blue nodded ever so slightly.

  “A half hour ago1—a half hour ago,” she began. Her voice became choked. The scene was still vivid in her mind. She got hold of herself and went on. ‘tAbout a half hour ago, Helmsley was killed.”

  That woke them up. The Sheik glared at Loka and uttered a harsh foreign word. The man in blue spoke through clenched teeth.

&n
bsp; “You lied. You told us he was alive.” His voice was cold and angry, a frightening combination. Loka clasped his hands together in anguish, sweating profusely, his eyes rolling.

  “She’s lying. She’s lying,” he began.

  “I can take you there. I’m sure he hasn’t been moved,” said Diana, feeling sorry for the wretched man. The man in blue glanced at one of the big guards and muttered something. The guard moved to Loka, towering a full head over him, and held his arm.

  “You will tell the truth, completely, Loka,” the man in blue said coolly. “Or he will break your back.” He muttered another word and the giant put a hand on Loka’s neck and applied pressure. Loka bent and screamed. Diana shuddered. This wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted police.

  “He’s dead . . . dead. I didn’t do it . . . ask her . . . she saw,” said Loka, his voice cracking under the pain.

  The man in blue muttered again and the giant released Loka, who straightened up painfully. Then they looked at Diana. She nodded and told them exactly what happened . . . Helmsley and the gun, Gyp and the knife, the fall on the image, the death. The Sheik and Taras stared at the image.

  “It was that way?” asked Taras quietly.

  “Exactly,” said Diana.

  The two continued to stare. They were no longer looking at a precious object. They were looking at a legend, looking with awe at the legend of the curse. These were not modem Western men. In their feudal fifteenth-century world, they lived with djinns and demons. They knew about the power of a curse. The Sheik did not conceal his excitement. He was not only acquiring a fabulous treasure. He was acquiring . .. magic! He muttered to his aide, and contemplated the image through half-lowered eyelids. Then he arose and left the room without a word.

  “Miss Palmer,” said Taras, suddenly polite, “who else knows of this offer of sale to his Highness?”

  An odd question. She thought for a moment.

  “Only Loka and I—yes, and the wounded Gypsy.”

  “Loka spoke of a man with a dog. A friend of yours?”

  “He is a law enforcer from Bangalla.”

  “He searches for the image?”

  “Yes, and for Loka.”

  “Who . . . who is he?” asked Loka desperately. “Jungle Patrol?” Loka would never know that he had made a lucky guess. The Phantom was the unknown commander of the Patrol, but he was not conducting this mission for them. Diana did not answer him.