The Slave Market of Mucar Read online

  Saldan advanced over a floor of the blue and gold inlaid tiling of exquisite beauty as a dark-skinned body servant bowed deferentially before him.

  "Prince Selim will see you now, sir," he said softly. "I'll bet he will," Saldan said sardonically to himself as he jingled the money bags contemptuously, elbowing his way past the guard and down the room. It was a strange and exotic chamber, lit by small oil lamps of weird and bizarre shapes, suspended on chains from the slatted ceiling and which cast shimmering bars of light into every corner.

  Prince Selim was a man of about seventy who was reputed in Mucar to keep twenty or thirty young wives actively occupied. Saldan himself doubted this, but he knew it pleased the old man to have people think so.

  He bowed stiffly from the waist and came to a halt about three yards away from the ruler's carved sandalwood throne, waiting until he was bidden to come closer by an imperious gesture from Selim's clawlike hand.

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  Saldan smiled and took the leather backed armchair Selim indicated to him. But first he put down the bags on the ornately carved table at his elbow and bent once again over the emaciated fingers the Prince held out to him.

  "Some refreshment, my dear sir," said Selim in quavering tones. Saldan sat back in satisfaction as sweet Turkish coffee in small porcelain cups and plates of sweet-cakes with syrup and arid little biscuits were placed between them.

  Only when be had eaten did etiquette permit them to talk business. Prince Selim was a striking-looking man, despite his advanced years. He wore a richly embroidered tunic of slashed silk, on the front of which dully gleamed the golden disc of the Order of Allah, which he had instituted only a half-dozen years before.

  Though he and his son were the only people in the kingdom allowed to wear it, Saldan admired it a great deal. He could not help wondering how much it would fetch, deadweight in the market, every time he visited the Prince.

  Jewels blazed from the ornamental turban Selim wore on his head, in deference to the local people, for he was completely Westernized and paid little more than lip service to local custom. He wore an elaborately chased dagger with a gold hilt in his belt of doeskin and his trim beard was more often to be seen glinting in the sunshine of Deauville or Cannes than in Mucar-at least, when the slave routes were impassable and it was the closed season for the market, which happened briefly twice a year.

  Surprisingly well-preserved teeth-they were the Prince's own, Saldan had on good authority-smiled beneath the beard as Prince Selim swallowed the last of the coffee and returned the cup to the chased gold tray. But then an expression of displeasure passed across his features as he glanced across at the big man's mask.

  "Must we have this masquerade every time you visit me?" he said wearily.

  Saldan frowned. "Yes, your Highness," he said, "until we are alone." Selim shrugged.

  "As you will," he said. "Let us be alone now, then. There are others to come after you."

  He clapped his hands and his body servants took out the tray and the coffee service, leaving the two men alone in the brilliant flickering of the lamps.

  Saldan yawned again as he took off his mask.

  "A good night's work, your Highness." he said. "We sold forty slaves at two thousand a head."

  Prince Selim frowned in turn. He picked delicately at his teeth with a filigree-work toothpick.

  "I think not, Saldan," he said. "My steward tells me it was fifty slaves at three thousand a head!"

  Saldan shifted uneasily on his armchair, hut he did not seem at all put out. It was the expected thing, after all; a sort of protocol the two men observed whenever they met. Saldan did his best to cheat the Prince-he did cheat him in any event for his prices were never correctly reported to even the Scum's steward-and the old man always tried to get the better of him. In the end, they were both satisfied.

  "As you wish, Your Highness," he said easily. "But I would ask you to be kind enough not to use my real name here. Even the walls have ears."

  The Prince smiled a thin smile.

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  "Your real name is the only weapon I possess. Do not try to cheat me. Then perhaps we shall get on better."

  Saldan smiled a thin, insincere smile in his turn. "We are both slavers, after all."

  The Prince put a fine lace handkerchief to his nostrils. "I don't like that word either," he said. "It is not seemly that you use my city as an auction block."

  Saldan closed his eyes and squinted over his nose at the Prince.

  "I don't see you objecting to your half share, your Excellence," he observed.

  The Prince smiled again. "Touché. You are so right, my friend. We are merely playing with words. After all, as you intimate, this is a good arrangement."

  Saldan counted out the money in silence, then waited until the Prince's steward had checked it and put it in the safe behind the tapestries to the rear of the throne. He rose and put the remainder of the money in a big leather pouch at his waist, He lingered, one hand on the doorknob of the salon.

  "After all, if you're dissatisfied, Your Highness, I can always find another place for my auction block."

  The Prince was at his side in an instant. Humor shone in his eyes.

  "I do not think that will be necessary, my friend," he said. "And neither do you. This is too good an arrangement to consider terminating."

  Saldan bowed stiffly.

  "As Your Excellency says."

  He stood aside so that the old man could precede him. Despite his years the Prince had the erect carriage of a man thirty years younger. The two walked out through a side door into a courtyard lit by wall sconces and soothed by the splashing noises of many fountains.

  He slipped his arm through the big man's as they walked.

  "We all wonder how you obtain your merchandise in such an arid region," he said. "In the mountains and deserts and jungle, it must be difficult."

  Saldan disengaged his arm from the other's.

  "That's my business," he said shortly. "You'd better tell your men I'll have another shipment ready for you in a month's time-at the dark of the moon."

  Saldan paused and looked long into the Prince's eyes. He leaned forward slightly and the Prince recoiled, even his iron will subdued at the purpose in the other's gaze.

  "Remember, Your Highness," the big man said with great emphasis. "My business is my business. I want no one spying on me when I leave. No one knows who I am and where I go-and live. My identity and purpose in life are my business, too."

  "Certainly, my friend," said the Prince, glancing round thoughtfully in the early dawn light. "As you say."

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  He saluted Saldan in the Arab fashion. The big man bowed over his hand once more and was then gone like a shadow through the archway of the court. A few moments later the clatter of horses' hooves sounded in the outer courtyard. Scum walked to the arch and watched silently as Saldan and Zadok spurred their horses out into the growing dawn.

  An old man, a trusted confidant of the Prince, sidled up to his side.

  "Who is he, sire?" he whispered. "Where does he go and how does he obtain slaves in such quantity?"

  The Prince shrugged. He stood, still as the dawn itself, with his cloak wrapped around him to keep off the dew.

  "Who knows, Ali," he said. "As long as he brings us gold, who cares?"

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  CHAPTER 2

  JUNGLE PATROL

  A scarlet jeep bounced down the jungle trail and skidded dangerously on two wheels. Tim Ricketts, spinning the wheel, desperately hoping to keep the vehicle upright, inwardly winced. Colonel John Weeks, local commander of the Jungle Patrol, tightened his mouth round the stem of his pipe and grinned inwardly. Ricketts was one of his newest officers, but a likable youngster and one ever ready to show off.

  The colonel only hoped he wouldn't overdo it.

  The jeep shot through the white stone archway of Masara, Jungle Patrol post Number Eight, and skidded to a halt in front of the main building.

&
nbsp; Ricketts got out and saluted the colonel. His eyes anxiously searched his superior officer's face.

  "Next time try to keep a bigger percentage of the wheels on the ground," Weeks told the youngster gently.

  He suppressed a grin as he ran up the steps, across the balcony, and into the first-floor suite where he had his office. Big rotary fans in the ceiling redistributed the stale air,

  "I'd like a word with you, Tim," he said as the young officer paused on the landing. He ushered him into his office and closed the door. Ricketts sat down nervously opposite the colonel, who slumped at his desk looking in the center drawer for his pipe cleaner. The next three minutes were occupied in ferociously cleaning it out and relighting. When he had tamped the tobacco down to his satisfaction with a square, stubby finger, the colonel gave a sigh of satisfaction and sat back behind the desk. Wreaths of blue, fragrant smoke started fumigating the gnat population.

  "It's all right, Tim" he told the somewhat apprehensive figure in front of him. "I'm not dissatisfied with your work. 1 called you up here for a purpose. I've got a job for you."

  He stabbed with his pipe over his shoulder, down at the inner courtyard of the headquarters.

  "Tell me what you see down there."

  Ricketts crossed to his side and looked downward. He saw two tough-looking men, one squat and bald, the other dark-haired and about fifteen years younger. They sat manacled together on a bench on the bare stone floor. Opposite them, a member of the Jungle Patrol stood guard with a loaded rifle.

  Ricketts frowned at the colonel, as though suspecting some double meaning in the question.

  "It looks like another pair for Masara Prison, sir," he said. "Did you have some special reason for asking?"

  The colonel's eyes flickered. He gave his pipe an impatient tap until it was burning properly again.

  He had a strong, square face with a tough, good- natured look about it. A wide mouth seemed full of square teeth re-echoing the theme of his face. His thick blond hair was cut classically and brilliant green eyes looked keenly at his junior officer. A red silk scarf was tucked casually into the collar of his open Jungle Patrol khaki shirt which bore the pips of his rank on the shoulders. He wore a. Browning revolver in a Sam Browne belt at his waist and two frayed medal ribbons showed on his shirt Front, Immaculately creased

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  khaki slacks descended to his mirror-like brown hoots. He stood up abruptly and joined Ricketts at the window,

  "I certainly did. Tim," he said. He stood looking silently at the sullen figures of the two men in the yard below them.

  "You know Masara Prison?" he continued. Ricketts shook his head.

  "I've never been there," he said with a faint grin. "Either professionally or otherwise."

  The tall figure of Weeks relaxed,

  "You'd remember it if you had," he said, "It's a forbidding place."

  He frowned again and made furious sucking noises with his pipe.

  "It's supposed to be escape-proof. Come over here."

  He led the way across the office to where a large-scale map of Number Eight Patrol's area of authority sprawled in scarlets, blues, and greens across the wall. He stabbed with the stem of his pipe at the intricate mass of lines at the fringe of the map.

  "Here's Masara as you can see. Now here's Masara Prison. Look at the terrain."

  Ricketts studied the map intently.

  "It seems to be swamp on one side and sea on the other."

  "Exactly," Weeks replied crisply. "The two remaining sides are rocky cliffs and one, in fact, is almost impassable without ropes. What's your opinion about that?"

  Rickett's eyes gleamed.

  "I'd say it was about impregnable, sir," he said.

  The colonel nodded. They went back to the window. The older man's jaw tightened as he clenched the stem of the pipe.

  "So would most people," he said. "That's why something's badly wrong up there,"

  He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a folder. "Now look at this."

  He thrust a large, glossy photograph into the junior officer's hand. It was a picture of Masara Prison, Grim walls rose frowning to colossal heights. The thick walls and the turreted towers were built in the Moorish style. The place seemed to be bristling with gates and watchtowers. Ricketts was puzzled.

  "You obviously have a problem, sir, and I -take it you're going to get to it," he said dryly.

  Weeks permitted himself an open smile.

  "Well done, Tim," he said. "You're definitely improving."

  He rubbed his hands with satisfaction, "You see those two down there?"

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  He indicated the two men on the bench again. "Petty criminals who've been hanging around the waterfront for years. They got into a bar fight last week, smashed up a lot of property. They couldn't pay and they were violent when the Patrol arrested them."

  He shrugged.

  "So now they're en route to Masara. The judge gave them six months apiece."

  He turned back to Ricketts who was still staring downward into the yard with a somewhat baffled expression.

  "It may be news to you, Tim, but in addition to all the safeguards you've been studying, Masara has also got armed guards and fierce tracker dogs on constant patrol. Yet, despite this, the place has the worst escape record in the country. The underworld buzz is that the place has paper walls. Those were the exact words in their somewhat picturesque phraseology."

  He turned moodily to his desk and sat down. Ricketts went slowly back and sat opposite. Colonel Weeks riffled about among the dossiers and took out another document.

  "Item," he said. "Last month there was a break. The month before the same thing happened, and the month before that."

  He turned the sheet impatiently.

  "Great!" he said ironically. "Before that we had a two-month lull."

  "It all sounds impossible, sir," said Ricketts.

  "Precisely," said Weeks. "That's why I want you to go up there. I want you to take charge of the new prisoners and have a talk with the warden. Make it clear to him he's got to tighten his security. The place is becoming a joke."

  Ricketts got up and put on his cap. He saluted the colonel with an excited expression on his face.

  "Any other special orders, sir?"

  Weeks drew fiercely on his pipe, the red glow momentarily making his normally impassive features look quite militant.

  "You start first thing in the morning," he said, "I shall want a full report"

  He called Ricketts back as the youngster got near the door.

  "Something else, Tim. if the warden can't handle it you have my full authority to tell him--direct from me--

  that I'll take it straight to the governor! And that's a promise."

  "Yes, sir!" said Ricketts, conscious that this was his first full-fledged independent assignment.

  He clicked his heels and went out rapidly. Colonel Weeks grinned and drew on his pipe. He sighed heavily He got up again and went over to the window. He was still standing like a statue when one of the native troopers entered.

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  The truck rumbled up the hill the next afternoon, thick red dust coating its entirety, Ricketts tooling the heavy vehicle over the rutted, poorly kept road. In the rear, the two prisoners for Masara were guarded by men of the Jungle Patrol. Ricketts had taken a short-cut, but he was beginning to regret it. He wondered what Weeks would say if he turned the truck over or wrecked the springs. He saw with relief that they were now turning out of the jungle and onto the paved road that ran across the rocky hillside and curved round to the prison.

  Masara was an impressive sight viewed from below, and as it slowly drew closer, Ricketts became more and more incredulous of the prison's recent reputation. It seemed impossible that anyone could escape from the massive fortress, which towered high above them. There were three security checks before the truck ground to a stop in an inner courtyard, locked doors clanging shut behind them. As the two new men were hurried into the o
ffice, Ricketts and another junior officer, Sam Coates, went down a corridor to the administration block.

  Here they had to fill in a card to see the warden and were eventually led to a tiled corridor bathed in the glare of artificial light. They were shown to a padded bench and left to their own devices. A senior prison officer came back presently with a deprecatory smile.

  "I'm sorry for the delay, gentlemen, but the warden's extremely busy today. We won't keep you waiting longer than necessary."

  In any event, it was nearly two hours before the inner door finally opened and a tall figure in a peaked cap beckoned to the two Jungle Patrol officers.

  "This way, gentlemen. The warden expresses his regrets at the delay."

  The two men passed an outer office, where typewriters were pecking busily, and were ushered through an oak door. A gray pile carpet seemed to stretch out for hundreds of feet in front of them. The warden sat behind a massive mahogany desk. There was a magnificent view of the distant desert with its fringe of jungle through the picture windows behind him. The blinds were down, diffusing the glare of the sun.

  The warden was a big, hard-looking man with a strong, square face. His blond hair shone in the sunlight as he got up to greet them.

  "Do sit down, gentlemen. What can I do for you?" said Warden Saldan.

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  CHAPTER 3

  PAPER WALLS

  Ricketts and Coates sank into the two leather chairs indicated by the warden.

  The sun made a shimmering halo of Saldan's head as it struck like a knife through the slats of the blinds.

  Ricketts looked from the gold plaque on the desk-which said in curlicue script letters: WARDEN KARL

  SALDAN- back to the hard, creased face of the man behind the desk. He hardly knew how to begin what he expected to be a difficult interview, but the warden solved it for him. He leaned back in his black-leather padded chair and threw out his big hands expansively.