The Slave Market of Mucar (6 page)

He smiled again, holding the small plastic container in his hand. His eyes glowed beneath the mask as though he could already see the message contents.

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"This looks as though it might mean action, Devil!"

The big wolf, almost like an Alsatian dog, held its head on one side as though it could understand the conversation. Devil's attitude seemed to imply that he, too, would welcome an adventure. The Phantom was already unfolding Weeks's slip of paper. It was brief and to the point. Above his signature was the message~ NEED YOUR ADVICE ON MASARA PRISON BREAKS. DETAILS IN VAULT.

The Phantom went over to the bench and put the message in his files. His actions were rapid and precise.

He checked the ammunition on his belt, and then put food and equipment for a short journey into a saddle pack. Then he went down the sandy corridor of Skull Cave, snuffing out the lights as he went.

The great white stallion stirred in his stall as the Phantom approached the corral outside the cave. His wide nostrils sniffed the air appreciatively and he whinnied with delight as his master ran his hands along his silken flanks.

"We've work to do, Hero," the Phantom said softly. "We'll just saddle you up and be off."

Five minutes later the Phantom, mounted on Hero's back, rode through the soft sand, Devil loping excitedly at the horse's heels. Hero snorted as the Phantom urged him forward. As often as they had used the secret entrance to the Deep Woods, the great stallion always had a brief moment of uncertainty at this point. His master could not say that he entirely blamed him.

Rounding a sudden curve, they faced a white wall of water with the brilliant sunshine reflecting back from the cliff face through the curtain of falling jets. The shock of the descending water drowned everything as the group went on and then Hero was splashing hock-deep through a reed-fringed pool, Devil bounding behind, impatiently shaking the moisture from his eyes. Behind them there was nothing visible but the waterfall descending against dark rocks.

No one but the Phantom and the pygmy Bandar tribe knew the secret entrance. It had saved his life on innumerable occasions. Steam was rising from the horse's flanks and from the Phantom's clothing as they came out of the waterfall through the shallow, reedy fringes and onto dry ground. Monkeys chanted defiantly from the treetops at their audacity.

The Phantom reined the white stallion in as a little brown form darted out of the bushes before him. Small brown eyes from an even darker face regarded him anxiously.

"I must leave the jungle now, Guran," the Phantom told the pygmy chief. "I will return soon."

The tiny man, dressed only in a dark loin cloth and with bangles on his wrists, saluted gravely with his spear. He darted back into the green curtain of foliage.

Dust rose from the jungle trail as the Phantom urged Hero on. The great white horse flexed his limbs and galloped swiftly through the forest as Devil loped alongside. Soon they had settled down to a mile-consuming pace.

The shadows lengthened on the ground and threw the stenciled pattern of bars against the bleak stone walls. Zadok sat in a corner of the cell, his head on his hands and pretended to sleep. Night seemed to take longer in coming, no doubt because of the tension engendered by the visit of the Jungle Patrol. Far away, a

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flat, sour- sounding bugle seemed like a requiem for Masara Prison. As dusk fell, Zadok got up. He put his finger to his lips as he looked at the two new inmates.

"Time soon," he whispered. He went over to the rear wall of the big cell and tentatively tried the loose stone block. He wanted to ease it out an inch or two to make the job less difficult after dark. He was still thus engaged when the tramp of feet sounded in the corridor. Zadok was flat on his bunk when shadows stirred beyond the end of the corridor. Half-a-dozen guards appeared and went down the cells, unlocking them. Two remained outside, their automatic rifles at the ready.

Larsen, the senior prison officer, waved jovially as he strode into Zadok's cell.

"Line up, gentlemen," he called sarcastically. "We've got some little trinkets for you."

The ten men in the cell climbed down from their bunks, grumbling in low undertones. Zadok strode to the front, confronting Larsen.

"V/hat's the trouble?" he asked the big officer. Larsen raked him with his eyes.

"No trouble, sonny," he said easily. "We've been getting high-level complaints about the number of breaks in here, From now on, we're handcuffing you all for the night."

There was a chorus of protests from the prisoners as the guards came forward; chains clinked and the light shone on the metal cuffs as each man stepped forward, his wrists thrust out for the cold kiss of the metal.

"This is illegal," Zadok protested, as the cuffs locked round his wrists.

"Write the United Nations," said Larsen with a grin, standing by to supervise the operation.

There was laughter as the guards went off. The cell door clanged dully behind them. The night was alive with the noises of the guards' feet tramping the corridors; the metallic scream of hinges as doors were opened arid closed; the whole prison re-echoed with sound and movement. Zadok went back to his bunk and lay down, staring without emotion at his handcuffs. His face was expressionless.

"What a break!" said a tough-looking giant with a shaven head.

"How do we get out of here tonight, now?" said the dark-haired man, looking across at Zadok. The bars made a zebra pattern on his face.

Zadok laughed quietly in the gloom of his corner of the cell. He chinked the handcuff chain derisively.

"This won't make any difference," he said contemptuously.

There was a chorus of cries from his companions, silenced only when Zadok jumped up from the bunk.

"Quiet, you fools!" he hissed, his teeth drawn back in the lopsided grin the two newcomers were getting to know so well.

"Why don't you just go to the guards and tell them we're breaking out?"

When the muttering had died away and the last of the guards' feet had died away along the corridor, Zadok went back to sit on his bunk.

He tapped his forehead.

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"You've got to have it up here for this caper" he said significantly. "You obviously haven't got it. That's what makes leaders and followers."

"Never mind the self-testimonials, Zadok," said the bald-headed man bitterly. "You haven't explained these cuffs away yet. Neither will your Arab tricks spirit them off."

There was a soft snigger in the cell and Zadok felt a sudden gust of anger.

But there was patience in his voice as he answered

"We can still make it," he said. "We've only got to slide the slab out as we arranged. We can replace it from the other side without anybody knowing. The cuffs don't stop us walking, do they? Once we're on the boat we can get them filed off. Simple."

He lay back on the bunk, contempt creeping into his voice as he finished speaking.

There was an approving murmur among his cellmates.

"We've only got to relax until midnight," said Zadok. "Then we break out. Every last one of us!"

The bald-headed man looked at his dark-haired colleague approvingly.

"This is more like it," he said.

The other spat.

"Paper walls!" he said laconically.

The cell settled down for the night. Apart from the supper break with its welcome march to and from the dining halls, the time passed with aching slowness. Even Zadok, normally steel-nerved was unable to relax.

Saldan's words about the Jungle Patrol kept coming back to his mind. The big clock in the turret over the main block of Masara Prison had tolled a quarter to twelve before he started his move. The guards had made their midnight round early that night. They were not due to pass by the cell again until 1:00 A.M, at the earliest. Sometimes, in the small hours, they skipped the rounds and it might even be two o'clock before they again passed the cell. By which time the ten men would be at sea. Zadok's eyes gleamed at the prospect.

This was the first time he had made a break personally for some while. He came back into the prison the same way. The guards worked with Saldan, of course, and his own name was never listed as among those missing. He stretched himself and got up from his bunk. The lights had gone off as usual at ten and only dim blue night lights burned in the corridor outside the cells. It did not penetrate to the back wall of their own cell so they could not be observed, even if anyone did come along.

None of the men was asleep, of course, and they crowded round Zadok while he carefully eased the stone out from the wall. One man hung back, sitting on his bunk. He was a young, weak-faced character with sandy hair. Zadok went over to him.

"Come on," he said impatiently, "we're taking off."

The other swallowed and shook his head.

"I'm not coming!" he said.

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"What do you mean, you're not coming?" flared Zadok, momentarily forgetting his caution. He saw the pale ovals of his companions' faces turning toward them. He forced himself to be calm.

"You're making the break with us," he hissed.

The young man shook his head.

"I've only got two more weeks to go," he said. "Why should I take a chance?"

A knife blade glittered dully in the dimness of the cell. The convict recoiled in terror as Zadok held the broad bladed knife against his throat.

"You'll only have two minutes to go if you don't come with us now," he promised grimly.

"No one stays behind to give away the secret of our escape route."

He put the point of the blade against the man's throat.

The young convict's face turned ashen-white. He drew back from ~the menace of Zadok's knife.

"All right!" he gasped. "I'm coming."

"You bet you are," said Zadok, pushing him toward the dark, square hole which now gaped in the back wall of the cell. He fingered his knife meaningfully as the man wriggled through.

He went over to the bars and peered out. He came back, sheathing his knife. "Get moving," he hissed.

"There'll never be a better time. The guard in the next block is fast asleep."

The convicts slipped silently through the opening in the wall like so many ghosts. In less than a minute the cell was empty. A hand came through the tunnel and grasped the block. It was slowly inched back into position. Ten minutes later the wall was restored to its former state.

Silence reigned unbroken over Masara Prison.

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CHAPTER 5

DOOMED CARGO

It had long been dark and the moon was riding high, silvering the palm fronds and the boles of trees, when the Phantom astride Hero galloped out of the forest and came at last to an old ruined building set far from human habitation on the outskirts of Mawitaan. Devil wagged his tail furiously, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, as he looked inquiringly at his master. The Phantom tethered the horse in the shadow of the trees.

"Wait, boy," he told the wolf in a whisper. Devil went to sit near Hero, his head down on his forepaws, squinting at the Phantom with his glowing yellow eyes.

"I won't be long," said his master reassuringly. Hero tossed his head disdainfully as the Phantom strode away across the rocky ground. In the rear of the building, which looked like a deserted mining headquarters, there was a tumble-down roof, sagging on heavy oaken pillars. The roof was the canopy of an old well. The moonlight glinted on the rusted ironwork at the well-head and on the handle of the winding gear. A big board, faded with time and weather, had written on it in black lettering: WELL

CONDEMNED. EXTREME DANGER. NO TRESPASSING.

Underneath was the name of Colonel Weeks of the Jungle Patrol.

The Phantom, glancing keenly about him in the moonlight, chuckled at the notice, and not for the first time. The well-head was hardly inviting at the best of times, even without the notice.

When he was satisfied that there was no one near, the big man vaulted nimbly onto the coping of the well.

There was a huge iron bucket suspended about two feet below the parapet. It rocked slightly with the Phantom's weight as he got in. The winding gear was a dummy mechanism and the Phantom disengaged it swiftly with a ratchet.

Thick steel cables passed on either side of the iron bucket. They were heavily greased and performed the same function as those in a lift shaft. The Phantom donned a pair of heavy gloves, also taken from his pack, and started pulling on the cables. The bucket and the Phantom began to sink noiselessly into the depths of the well shaft.

The Phantom had a pencil flashlight with him and every now and then he stopped the bucket to shine the torch on the sides of the well. There were metal figures screwed to the brickwork every ten feet. When he had reached forty feet, he ceased pulling; the bucket gently swayed as it dipped another two or three feet and then stopped on the top of a heavy iron grille. Warm, dry air blew upward in the darkness. Farther down, still water gleamed in the light of the Phantom's flashlight. The well was very old and very deep.