by Lin Carter
But it was the radiophones that the Omega men turned to now. While Zarkon called the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington, inquiring if any of the individuals thus far involved in the matter had criminal records, Doc Jenkins put through a call to the Geographical Society for more detailed information on the island of Rangatoa, including recent seismograph readings.
While these matters were being attended to, Nick Naldini contacted a Wall Street stockbroker friendly to the Omega organization and obtained from him a clean bill of health, financially speaking, on Pacific Mining & Minerals. He learned that the outfit had never been involved in anything shady, and was worth millions. Seated beside him, Scorchy was talking to the police chief in Mantilla. He hung up, having ascertained that Señor Valdez and the other citizens of Rangatoa had no local police records and that Valdez came from an old, long-established family whose history went back to the first Spanish sailors to discover the Luzon islands.
“Anything?” asked Zarkon as Scorchy hung up the receiver.
The little Irishman shook his head gloomily. “Nothin’,” he said. “Valdez is clean as clean can be, and nobody on th’ island so much as has a parking ticket on his record. Ain’t even been a major crime committed on Rangatoa for forty years, and then it was just two lovesick local Lotharios got in a fight over some island colleen, an’ one brained t’other with a warclub. How about you? Anythin’ from the feds?”
Zarkon indicated that there was not.
Menlo Parker, who had nothing in particular to do, fidgeted edgily. “How’s about me, chief?”
“Menlo, you can call the Luzon Ministry of Justice in Mantilla and apprise them of our impending arrival,” Zarkon instructed. “As we will be bringing firearms and other weapons into their country, to say nothing of explosives, we have to inform them. Give them our Interpol authority and the name and number of our sponsor at the Department of Justice in Washington, if you will. We don’t wish to get into any trouble with the local lawmen, who might take exception to our poaching on their preserves, so to speak.”
“Right, chief!” beamed Menlo, turning to one of the phones.
“Whatcha got for me t’ do next, chief?” inquired Scorchy.
“The headquarters of Pacific Mining. and Minerals is in San Francisco, I believe,” Zarkon murmured. “It might be a good idea for you to speak with them. I want to see the minerals survey report for Rangatoa, and the name of the man who signed it. They can send this over the photofax equipment. I suggest you go directly to the top with this request. The president of the company is a Mr. Braxton T. Crawley. If he isn’t in, ask where you can call him.”
“You got it, chief,” grinned the Pride of the Muldoons. A little while later he detached himself from the earphones long enough to report that Braxton T. Crawley was himself in the Luzon islands, having flown from the San Francisco airport the day before.
“Seems this Crawley character has a niece always running off to go deep-sea fishing, or lion-hunting on safari, or archaeological digs in Mexico, that sort of thing. Always ends up gettin’ into trouble,” grinned Scorchy. “This time the gal has sneaked off in her yacht to meet her boy-friend in the Luzons.”
“Where in the Luzons?”
Scorchy shrugged. “Dunno. This here boyfriend — he’s a guy name of John James Jones, by the way — used to work for PM and M but got chased off by his gal’s guardian. That’s Crawley; the guardian, I mean. The boyfriend’s out to make a fortune somewhere on his own, so that this Crawley character can’t cuss him out for bein’ a fortune-hunter! This here John James Jones took off in a huff months ago and hasn’t been heard of since, leastways not that Crawley knows anything about. I just talked to him in Mantilla, where he’s holed up in a big fancy resort hotel while the local maritime people are trying to track down his niece’s yacht. He’ll meet us at Rangatoa, if we like.”
“That will be fine,” Zarkon nodded. “What about the geosurvey report?”
“Crawley called his office and told ’em to feed it through to us. Should be coming through anytime,” Scorchy said, glancing over at the photofax machine which stood at the end of a row of news service tickers. Just then an attention light flashed on and the photofax rollers began whirling. Scorchy went over to peel off the facsimile papers as they came sliding through the slot.
“All through here, chief,” said Menlo. “Law enforcement ginks at Mantilla are welcoming us with bonbons and roses. Say we can fly anything into them islands up to an’ includin’ an atom bomb if we wanta. What now?”
“Scorchy, give Menlo the name of Crawley’s niece and her fiancé’s name as well. Menlo, check them out with Justice in Washington and with the police in Mantilla, just for the sake of thoroughness.”
His voice broke off and an expression of calm thoughtfulness crossed his usually immobile features. He was studying the fax copy of the geological survey report from Pacific Mining & Minerals.
“Somethin’ innerestin’, chief?” demanded Scorchy keenly.
“Hard to say,” said Zarkon noncommittally.
“Why the weighty expression, then?” Muldoon asked.
“The name of the geologist who conducted the survey,” said Zarkon, handing the papers back. Scorchy peered through them puzzledly. Then he stopped short and uttered an exclamation.
“What’s up, Short Stuff?” cracked Nick Naldini.
“The name o’ the gink did the looksee job on the island,” mumbled the bantamweight redhead.
Nick ambled over to look at the copies. “So? ‘John James Jones.’ Outside of the fact that, with his set of initials, he’ll never be likely to pick up the wrong luggage at the airport, what about it?”
“That’s the name,” announced Scorchy portentously, “of the guy Crawley’s niece wants to marry. Interesting!”
As things turned out, Braxton T. Crawley changed his mind, and called the Skyrocket on the radiophone to say he would meet them at the Luzon National Airport, on the outskirts of Mantilla. It was Prince Zarkon himself who took the call; when he returned the receiver to its cradle, a thoughtful expression made his normally impassive features somber. He reported the change in plans without comment. Scorchy, however, was inquisitive.
“So how come, chief?” demanded the feisty little bantamweight. “How come Mantilla instead of Rangatoa?”
“Mr. Crawley’s annoyed,” replied the Ultimate Man musingly. “When he attempted to rent a boat for the trip to the island, none of the locals would ferry him for any price. They seem to feel there is a jinx on the place. I gather that word of the volcano monster has begun to spread.”
Ace Harrigan, taking a brief respite from the controls while the automatic pilot flew the aircraft, cocked one eyebrow quizzically.
“Oh yeah?” He whistled. “I thought this Braxton was a pretty big gun out in the islands. Pacific Mining and Minerals is the largest corporation working in the Luzon group, according to our walking encyclopedia over there,” he said, obviously referring to Doc Jenkins. “If the local Rockefeller can’t swing a boat rental, things must be getting mighty tense out there!”
“Hrmph,” sniffed Menlo Parker suspiciously. “Why can’t he use one of his own company’s boats, chief? Doesn’t sound quite kosher to me….”
Zarkon shook his head. “Come now, Menlo, be reasonable. Pacific Mining and Minerals doesn’t keep a resident fleet out there in the islands, you know. The ore boats themselves are huge cargo craft; to divert one to use as a private ferry would cost the company thousands of dollars. It’s quite likely that the firm owns a few light skiffs and motorboats, but those channels are tricky, I understand; and Rangatoa is probably beyond their safety range. It doesn’t matter: we can as easily land at Mantilla, to pick up Crawley, as at Rangatoa.”
So they did just that. It was dawn when the Skyrocket came down in Mantilla Bay and taxied in toward shore. Zarkon had called ahead to apprise Crawley to come out in a skiff, as they would be landing on the retractable seaplane landing gear rat
her than on the airport landing strip, in order to save time. The Omega men peered out at palm-fringed shoreline and the glistening white towers of luxury resort hotels which lined the bay. Soon a small motorboat put out to meet them. Its ensign, fluttering in the breeze, marked it as property of Pacific Mining & Minerals. The little craft carved a white half-circle against the rich blue-green of the bay as it slowed to approach the open door in the flanks of the rocketplane. In a few moments Crawley and his luggage were lifted aboard — both of them requiring considerable assistance in this, as it happened.
Scorchy’s eyes popped and his lips framed a silent whistle. “Good thing we didn’t take aboard any ballast,” he wisecracked to Nick Naldini. “If we had, we’d’a hadta dump it over th’ side!”
Braxton T. Crawley turned out to be the fattest man any of them had ever seen, this side of a circus sideshow. He was, almost literally, as wide as he was tall. In fact, as skinny Menlo Parker later remarked, he was wider, since he was so lacking in height as to hardly come up to Menlo’s own armpit.
“At last,” drawled Nick Naldini sardonically, “we meet somebody smaller than Pint Size, here. Cheer up, Muldoon! Eat your spinach and there’s hope for you yet!”
Braxton T. Crawley heard none of this comic byplay, for he was puffing and blowing like a beached walrus while the men in the boat heaved and shoved and pushed to get him into the airplane. Once in, he wrung Zarkon’s hand limply, then collapsed in a seat while mopping his round red face vigorously with a bandanna handkerchief only a shade or two darker than his own scarlet visage.
“Guy’s got a head like a tomato,” grinned Ace Harrigan to Doc Jenkins. “Got about as much hair on it, too.”
“Hush up, he’ll hear you,” chuckled Doc in a whisper. But, if a bit impolite, Ace Harrigan’s remark was not far from the truth. For the wealthy industrialist was as bald as an egg, and his bright china-blue eyes lacked eyebrows and even eyelashes, and his cheeks were clean-shaven. When he removed the bandanna from his perspiring face, however, something unexpected in the way of hirsute adornment came into view. It was a walrus mustache so huge and whiskery you would hardly have believed that even a bandanna could have concealed it.
“Wow!” breathed Scorchy Muldoon in awe. “Wax that set of lip-ornaments up and you could rent yerself to a bicycle as a set o’ spare handlebars!”
Nick Naldini, whose own carefully waxed and pointed mustachios and trim little Mephisto-type Imperial were a point of personal pride, and often earned him a crack from Scorchy Muldoon, was too impressed to respond.
“Holy Houdini,” the ex-magician gasped feebly. “It’s like all the hair on his head had migrated to his upper lip!”
“Yeah, sure is,” swore Muldoon feelingly. “If the mining business ever gives out, fatso over there can lease out his upper lip for a soup-strainer.”
“Please strap yourself in, Mr. Crawley,” said Zarkon as he and Doc Jenkins closed and sealed the cabin door. “My pilot will be taking off immediately.”
“Can’t take off any too soon t’ please me, Prince!” boomed Braxton T. Crawley in a surprising foghorn voice. “Guess you fellers ain’t heard the latest? Thet dang-fool niece o’ mine! Cuss her cantankerous ways! Thet fortune-huntin’ college boy she went and got herself engaged to — against her uncle’s own wishes, too! — seems he’s right smack in the middle of all thet trouble out on Rangatoa — got himself vanished somehow, too!”
“What’s that?” demanded Zarkon sharply. “I gather that you refer to your former survey geologist, John James Jones —”
“Thet’s the guy,” roared the fat man in his bass-fiddle voice. “Dang-fool name, I always said! —”
“You say the young man has vanished?” continued Zarkon. The red-faced man nodded vigorously, full cheeks flapping like a pair of scarlet and well-inflated bladders.
“Into thin air!” he boomed heartily. “Not that I mind if the young idiot wants to git himself into a peck o’ trouble — once he’s off the payroll, let’m do anything he dang-fool wants, I always say! — But Fooey, well sir, thet’s another kettle o’ fish —”
“ ‘Fooey?’ ” repeated Zarkon questioningly.
“My niece — short for ‘Phoenicia’ — her baby name for herself — also her favorite cussword, if you can call thet a cussword,” rumbled the little fat man in his scowling, belligerent way, walrus mustache bristling.
“I don’t understand,” murmured Prince Zarkon. “You say your niece went to Rangatoa to meet her fiancé —?”
“Right!” roared Crawley, blue eyes ablaze with indignation. “Serves her right; thet fortune-huntin’ young pup she thinks she’s in love with got carried off by thet dang-fool murdering monster, or whatever it is — but thet’s not the worst of it: now my niece has up and disappeared, too!”
CHAPTER 6 — A Scream in the Night
After picking up their new passenger, Braxton T. Crawley, the Omega men set out on the last leg of their trip to the island of Rangatoa. Once the fat, red-faced man with the enormous walrus mustache was safely aboard and his luggage was stowed away, Ace Harrigan swung the big rocketplane around and taxied out of Mantilla Bay. The silvery nose of the Skyrocket pointed into the depthless blue of a Pacific morning, and the experimental aircraft rose into the sky, folding its pontoons.
Having delivered himself of the news that both John James Jones and his headstrong niece, Fooey Mulligan, had now mysteriously vanished, the fat millionaire sat by the cabin window, peering moodily down on the islands of the Luzon Group as they swept by beneath the rocketplane.
“Lot’s o’ history down there,” the red-faced man rumbled through his walrus mustache to Menlo Parker, who had taken the seat next to him. Neither happened to think about what an amusing picture they provided, contrasted with each another: Braxton T. Crawley, who was nearly about as wide as he was tall, and frail little Menlo Parker, with his spindly arms, bony chest, and skinny shanks.
Indeed, the oddly mismatched duo resembled two of the standard human oddities often found in circus sideshows — the World’s Fattest Man and the Human Skeleton.
“Hmph? History?” grumbled Menlo, who was thinking about something mathematical and was barely listening to his neighbor.
“Shore!” boomed Crawley heartily, cocking one pudgy thumb at the island passing directly astern at the moment. “Thet there is Shark Head Island, for instance. Ever hear tell of it?”
“Can’t say that I have,” murmured Menlo indifferently.
“Oh yeah? Famous pirate stronghold, once upon a time,” said Braxton T. Crawley, with much the same proprietary air as that of a resident pointing out the sights of local interest to a visitor “Notorious Chinese pirate, name of Tom Too, used to have his main hangout down thar. A real hellion, thet boy! Like to nearabouts take over all these here islands, he did! Came to a real sticky end, though....”
Menlo was working energy-transference equations in his head — his favorite form of mental relaxation, when bored — so he merely nodded without listening. Braxton T. Crawley seemed to take it for granted that Menlo’s silence was due to his rapt fascination with Crawley’s words. He continued pointing out and discussing the local points of interest, making verbal commentary on each, while Menlo, no longer even pretending to listen, politely nodded from time to time.
Ace brought the big rocketplane down in the waters offshore Rangatoa and the Omega men and Braxton T. Crawley went ashore by means of inflatable rubber rafts. Señor Valdez met them on the beach, at the head of a native delegation of the island’s leading citizens.
The courtly hidalgo was sufficiently impressed just at meeting the celebrated Prince Zarkon and his famous team of adventurers; when he realized the identity of the seventh member of their party, none other than Braxton T. Crawley, head of Pacific Mining & Minerals, he was flabbergasted. But the blood of ancient Spanish Dons flowed in his aristocratic veins. Mastering his emotions, Señor Valdez greeted them with the exquisite manners and gracious hospitality of his race.
&
nbsp; Never before in its history, Señor Valdez assured them as he ushered them to seats on the veranda of the trading post, had the unimportant little island of Rangatoa played host to such distinguished celebrities. The day of their arrival would be long remembered.
Zarkon politely sipped the tea poured for them by Señor Valdez’ housekeeper. The amenities out of the way, the Man from Tomorrow got directly to the point, inquiring into the disappearance of Braxton T. Crawley’s niece, and her fiancé.
The Spaniard shrugged helplessly.
“But it is most regrettable, señor; alas, the señorita has not yet been found,” he said in his native tongue, which language Zarkon spoke and understood as easily as he did English. “The first we knew that aught was amiss was the screams in the night —”
“Screams?”
“But yes, Señor! From the mountain, or so it seemed to us. We could see nothing, it being night and the moon shining in such-and-such a manner that the side of the mountain which faces our village was completely hidden in darkness. But there were shots, first, as I recollect —”
“What kind of shots?” inquired Zarkon.
Again Señor Valdez shrugged. “I, who know but little of such matters, cannot say. But not the shots of a rifle; no; had such been the firearm employed, the explosions would surely have been louder and more resonant. The sounds were that of the firing, I believe, of a small weapon, a little gun, a — what is the word? — oh, yes: a peestol. The kind of weapon which a well-bred young señorita might well have carried.”
“Dang-fool niece of mine packed a little teeny-weeny pearl-handled revolver in her handbag,” rumbled Braxton T. Crawley in his grumpy, bullfrog voice.
“That is it, Señor Crawley.” Valdez nodded quickly. “That is the sort of gun it sounded like to me!”
