The Slave Market of Mucar Page 5

  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.

  He got out of the bucket, his boots echoing dully on the grillwork beneath him. Facing him was a massive brick archway. The Phantom walked straight down the corridor in front of him.

  Presently he located a light switch at the side of the tunnel. He flipped it over and the dim luminosity of a fluorescent tube trembled into life in the ceiling above him. He walked on a few more yards, his footsteps echoing eerily under the brick arch. At the end of the tunnel was a metal door. It was locked and the Phantom opened it by inserting a special magnetic key in the electronically controlled lock.

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  Inside, he tripped another switch and found himself in a circular metal chamber. Air filtering through grilles in the ceiling kept the air at an even temperature, neither too hot nor too cold. An envelope addressed to the Commander of the Patrol was lying on the floor.

  In front of him was a metal staircase ending in another metal door. This led up to Jungle Patrol Headquarters forty feet above him; here, in this secret chamber below the ground, Colonel Weeks contacted his unknown commander.

  The Phantom read Weeks's note, which said:

  MASARA PRISON BREAKS REMAIN A MYSTERY- SUPPOSEDLY ESCAPE-PROOF-YET, IN THE LAST SIX

  MONTHS, FOUR BREAKS TOTALING 48 ESCAPEES, NONE OF WHOM HAVE BEEN RECAPTURED, ARE EVER

  SEEN

  AGAIN-WARDEN SALDAN CLAIMS METHOD OF ALL BREAKS STILL UNKNOWN. HE IS HOSTILE TO JUNGLE

  PATROL AND REFUSES OUR COOPERATION-AWAIT YOUR ORDERS.

  Colonel Weeks signed his name after the message.

  The Phantom reread it thoughtfully. This was a problem which promised to exercise his talents to the full.

  He nodded with satisfaction.

  "Interesting," he told the unyielding metal walls around him.

  At about the same time as the Phantom sat deep in his underground chamber, Chief Officer Larsen hurried up the metal staircases of Masara Prison with a strange expression on his face. He tapped softly at the door of Warden Saldan's inner office. The warden's heavy face expressed satisfaction, as his eyes searched Larsen's face for confirmation of his thoughts.

  "All gone, sir," said Larsen. He could not resist smacking his lips. After all, his cut of tonight's shi
pment would not be negligible. And, unlike Saldan and Zadok, he ran no personal risks.

  Saldan's blond hair shone beneath the lamps and his scar seemed more vivid than ever as he rose from his desk.

  "Excellent, Larsen," he said. "We'll wait an hour and then sound the alarm."

  He permitted himself a rare smirk at this point.

  "Though what the hell good that will do, I don't know. You'd better turn in now. But don't undress as you'll be out again within the hour."

  He went to stare out into the darkness of the night.

  Two miles away, on the other side of the prison, a file of men stumbled down toward the beach. There was a heavy fog tonight and Zadok and his companions could see nothing but swirling whiteness in front of

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  them as they moved down a steep pathway between rocks. Only the faint, faraway pounding of the surf proclaimed that they were going in the right direction.

  "This is no joke," the bald-headed man swore as he stumbled and almost fell headlong. He stretched out his manacled hands to absorb the shock as he came up against a huge boulder.

  "We'll soon be there," Zadok assured him. "I know this path as well as I know the cell back there."

  The dark-haired convict was in front of Zadok. He in turn was keeping an eye on the youth who'd wanted to stay behind.

  "How about these handcuffs," the dark-haired con complained to the Arab. "We won't get far with them on."

  "Have patience, my friend," Zadok assured him. "All will be taken care of. They'll be off before tonight is over."

  He held up his hands and appealed for quiet. Over the noise of surf, which had been growing steadily louder, came a muffled thumping noise.

  "Oars!" said the bald-headed man. His uneven voice betrayed his excitement.

  "Exactly, gentlemen!" said Zadok quietly. "Oars in rowlocks. We shall be aboard the vessel and on our way to safety within the hour."

  The convicts almost ran down the last hundred yards to the beach. As the wind blowing off the sea cleared the mist away briefly, they saw they were in a dark, sandy cove. Keels grated on the sand in front of them and dim figures leapt ashore. Turbaned oarsmen waved at Zadok as they came closer.

  "Into the boats, quickly!" hissed Zadok imperatively. "This is the time of greatest danger. They could well have discovered our absence by now."

  The convicts scrambled over the gunwales of the two whalers which stood by in the shallow surf.

  Zadok made sure he was with the bald-headed man and his companion. The young man who had wanted to stay was also in this boat. Zadok didn't want him jumping ashore and making his way back through the tunnel into the cell again. Zadok fingered his knife and kept a sharp eye on his boatload. The other Arabs in the whaler alongside them, which was now pushing out from shore, would do the same.

  "Where are we going?" asked the bald-headed man suddenly.

  "To freedom, stupid!" Zadok replied crisply. "Or would you rather stay here and chance the swamps? Not to mention the dogs and guns?"

  He gazed around him grimly, but there was no reply. The muffled oars dipped into the water and the two boats started gliding out into the mist. They had gone about a half mile from the shore when a distant siren sounded through the fog.

  "They've found we've escaped!" said the dark-haired man, gripping Zadok by the shoulder in agitation.

  The Arab pushed him away with a snarl.

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  "So what, you fool!" he replied. "They can't get us now. We'll be booming out of this bay within a few minutes."

  The convicts exchanged glances, their faces indistinct in the mist, despair alternating with hope in their eyes.

  "You've trusted me this far," said Zadok simply. "We'll be safe soon."

  He turned to look back in the direction of the shore, but all had long been blotted out by a curtain of pallid whiteness. The cons wondered how the steersman knew where they were going. A moment or two later there was a hail from the blanket of darkness ahead of them and the whaler had scraped alongside a large vessel.

  On the cliffs far away, the Phantom had reined in Hero as the siren split the night; he could see down toward the squat mass of the prison, high on its point overlooking the sea. The ocean itself was invisible beneath the pale canopy of fog, but the frowning walls of Masara stood out clearly from the whiteness beyond.

  "Another break!" said the Phantom grimly. "I'd better get over there and sample their efficiency at firsthand."

  Zadok turned toward the shore again as the prison siren died in the night. They were nearly all aboard the big Arab dhow now and there came the slatting of ropes and the creak of cordage through pulley-blocks as the five-man crew set sail. The last of the convicts was hauled over the side by the seat of his trousers. The whalers were being hauled aboard as the anchor came up with a rattle, and the bowsprit was already beginning to lean into the slight swell. Zadok had to admit they had an efficient organization. These crewmen in particular were expertly trained.

  He could picture the pandemonium in Masara Prison; the aimless running about, the guards dashing up and down the stairs. He smiled to himself as he imagined Saldan's reactions. Zadok rocked with inner laughter as he visualized the warden's pompous outrage at the flagrancy of the latest break-all designed to impress the civil authorities and those guards not in on the secret, of course.

  He walked over to the rail and watched the crew hauling on the ropes. All the sails were set now and the big dhow was moving down the bay, white foam hissing from her bow. The last strands of mist were being dispersed by the sea breeze and the moonlight was gilding the wavelets with a soft glow.

  He was aware with renewed annoyance that the convicts were milling about amidships. He wished they would keep quiet or go below. He found the bald man at his elbow again.

  "They'll never get us now," he said exultantly. "Well, Zadok, you kept your bargain. How about these handcuffs?"

  He held out his manacled wrists to the Arab imploringly as he spoke.

  Down on the shore, guards with dogs wandered in the swirling whiteness, whistles splitting the silence as they signaled to one another. Now and again the noise of a rifle shot boomed and echoed among the mournful trees. The dogs yelped, eager to be off their leashes, but there was no sign of the fugitives.

  Hoarse cries sounded from crag to crag on the other two sides of the prison. Lanterns and torches bobbed in the gloom.

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  Down in the dismal swamps, guards in thigh-length boots splashed about despondently in the slime-encrusted pools, wary of alligators, while the dogs whimpered to themselves, as though in fear.

  "They always choose a vile night like this for a break," one guard complained to another. "And it's always cold water."

  "I'll arrange the next one on a sunny afternoon when you can get some sea-bathing in at the same time,"

  said his companion sardonically.

  Beyond the dhow the last of the mist had cleared and she was now running out to sea, all sails set and the canvas straining in the rising breeze.

  The convicts stood or sat about the deck, still dazed at the sudden turn of events.

  "How about these handcuffs, Zadok?" said one for the third time in half an hour.

  "We've got no keys," said Zadok amiably.

  "As soon as we reach a blacksmith on shore, they'll be off."

  He went and stood by the rail, the wind cool on his face, now oblivious of the beauty of the night.

  "They have good blacksmiths in the slave market of Mucar for these poor fools!" he told the unfeeling sea.

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  CHAPTER 6

  WITHOUT TRACE

  The clanging of footsteps on metal stairs, the excited shouts of guards, and the shrilling of whistles re-echoed throughout Masara Prison. It was 3:00 A.M. and the strain of the night was beginning to show on Warden Saldan's face.

  Larsen came up to him as he negotiated one of the main corridors.

  "No sign of a break!" he said in a good
simulation of surprise.

  "How did they escape, Warden?"

  "How in blazes do I know?" said Saldan, his face dark with anger. "This demands a full investigation."

  He turned as the clatter of footsteps sounded behind him. It was a new guard, Slingsby, who had only been with them a month or two.

  "Any news from the search parties?" the Warden demanded curtly.

  Slingsby looked tired and there was dried mud on his boots. He shook his head, thrusting his flashlight back into his belt, as he spoke.

  "Not yet, sir," he replied.

  He went off back down the corridor as the warden and Larsen turned away. Something prompted Saldan to linger as they reached the bend in the passage. Looking back, he and Larsen saw that Slingsby had stopped by the cell which had recently contained Zadok and his companions. He was gripping the bars and peering through into the back of the cell.

  Saldan drew Larsen round the corner, where they couldn't be seen or heard.

  "Keep an eye on that new boy," he growled. "He's too nosy."

  Larsen's tough face broke into a grim smile. He touched the peak of his cap briefly with his forefingers.

  "Leave him to me, Warden," he said eagerly. "I'll see he doesn't give us any trouble."

  He tapped his belt significantly, before hurrying away. A few minutes later, Larsen sauntered back in the direction of the cell. He found the door open. Inching forward until he could see inside, he saw Slingsby down on his hands and knees at the rear of the chamber, examining the stones in the wall with a flashlight.

  Back at Jungle Patrol Headquarters, Colonel Weeks was up in pajamas and at his desk. A rumpled Ricketts burst in after the curt response to his hurried knock.

  "There's been another break at Masara," he told the young officer.

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  "Only one day after we warned the warden about tighter security precautions," said Ricketts.