Lee Falk - [Story of the Phantom 13] Read online

  PROLOGUE

  HOW IT ALL BEGAN

  Over four hundred years ago, a large British merchantman was attacked by Singg pirates off the remote shores of Bangalla. The captain of the trading vessel was a famous seafarer who, in his youth, had served as cabin boy to Christopher Columbus on. his first voyage of discovery to the New World. With the captain was his son Kit, a strong young man who idolized his father and hoped to follow him as a seafarer. But the pirate attack was disastrous. In a furious battle, the entire crew of the merchantman was killed and the ship sank in flames. The sole survivor was young Kit who, as he fell off the burning ship, saw his father killed by a pirate. Kit was washed ashore, half dead. Friendly pygmies found him and nursed him to health.

  Walking on the beach one day, he found a dead pirate dressed in his father’s clothes. He realized this was the pirate who had killed his father. Grief-stricken, he waited until vultures had stripped the body clean. Then on the skull of his father’s murderer, he swore an oath by firelight as the friendly pygmies watched: “I swear to devote my life to the destruction of piracy, greed, cruelty, and injustice, and my sons and their sons shall follow me.”

  This was the Oath of the Skull that Kit and his descendants would live by. In time, the pygmies led him to their home in Deep Woods in the center of the jungle, where he found a large cave with many rocky chambers. The mouth of the cave, a natural formation carved by the water and wind of centuries, was curiously like a skull. This became his home, the Skull Cave. He soon adopted a mask and a strange costume. He found that the mystery and fear this inspired helped him in his endless battle against worldwide piracy. For he and his sons who followed became known as the nemesis of pirates everywhere, a mysterious man with a single identity whose face no one ever saw, whose name no one knew, who worked alone.

  As the years passed, he fought injustice wherever he found it. The first Phantom and the sons who followed found their wives in many places. One married a reigning queen; one a princess; one a beautiful red-haired barmaid. But whether queen or commoner, all followed their men back to the Deep Woods, to live the strange but happy life of the wife of the Phantom. And of all the world, only she, wife of the Phantom, and their children could see his face.

  Generation after generation of Phantoms was born, grew to manhood, and assumed the tasks of the father before him. Each wore the mask and costume. Folk of the jungle and the city and sea began to whisper that there was a man who could not die, a Phantom, a Ghost Who Walks. For they thought the Phantom was always the same man. A boy who saw the Phantom would see him again fifty years after; and he seemed the same. And he would tell his son and his grandson; and his son and grandson would see the Phantom fifty years after that. And he would seem the same. So the legend grew. The Man Who Cannot Die. The Ghost Who Walks. The Phantom.

  The Phantom did not discourage this belief in his immortality. Always working alone against tremendous—sometimes almost impossible—odds, he found that the awe and fear his legend inspired were a great help in his endless battle against evil. Only his friends the pygmies knew the truth. These tiny people, to compensate for their stature, mixed deadly poisons for use on their weapons in hunting or defense. But it was rare that they were forced to defend themselves. Their deadly poisons were known throughout the jungle, and they and their home, the Deep Woods, were dreaded and avoided. There was another reason to stay away from the Deep Woods—it soon became known that this was a home of the Phantom, and none wished to trespass there.

  Through the ages, the Phantoms created several more homes or hideouts in various parts of the world. Near the Deep Woods was the Isle of Eden, where the Phantom taught all animals to live in peace. In the southwest desert of the New World, the Phantoms created an aerie on a high sheer mesa that was thought by the Indians to be haunted by evil spirits and became known as Walker’s Table—for the Ghost Who Walks. In Europe, deep in the crumbling xii cellars of an ancient castle ruins, the Phantom had another hideout from which to strike against evildoers.

  But the Skull Cave in the quiet of the Deep Woods remained the true home of the Phantom. Here, in a rocky chamber, he kept his Chronicles, written records of all his adventures. Phantom after Phantom faithfully wrote his experiences in the large folio volumes. Another chamber contained the costumes of all the generations of Phantoms. Other chambers contained the vast treasures of the Phantom, acquired over centuries, used only in the endless battle against evil.

  Thus, twenty generations of Phantoms lived, fought, and died, usually violently, as they followed their oath. Jungle folk, sea folk, and city folk believed him the same man, the Man Who Cannot Die. Only the pygmies knew that, always, a day would come when their great friend would lie dying. Then, alone, a strong young son would carry his father to the burial crypt of his ancestors where all Phantoms rested. As the pygmies waited outside, the young man would emerge from the cave, wearing the mask, the costume, and the Skull Ring of the Phantom; his carefree happy days as the Phantom’s son were over. And the pygmies would chant their age-old chant, “The Phantom is dead. Long live the Phantom.”

  This story of the Island of Dogs is an adventure of the Phantom of our time—the twenty-first generation of his line. He has inherited the traditions and responsibilities created by four centuries of Phantom ancestors. One ancestor created the Jungle Patrol. Thus, today, our Phantom is the mysterious and unknown commander of this elite corps. In the jungle he is known and loved as the Keeper of the Peace. On his right hand is the Skull Ring that leaves his mark—the Sign of the Skull—known and feared by evildoers everywhere. On his left hand—closer to the heart—-is his “good mark” ring. Once given, the mark grants the lucky bearer protection by the Phantom, and it is equally known and respected. And to good people and criminals alike—in the jungle, on the seven seas, and in the cities of the world—he is the Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks, the Man Who Cannot Die.

  —Lee Falk

  New York, 1974

  CHAPTER ONE

  The charter yacht, Scotty’s Pride, moved smoothly through the sea, bow nodding into the easy swell, its powerful engines purring as comfortably as a milk-full kitten. The sun was warm, the breeze was cool, and it was as ideal and pleasant a day as any honeymoon couple could wish.

  Phyllis and Jim Landon were on the flying bridge, seated in high turntable chairs fastened to the deck on each side of the veteran skipper-owner, Angus MacPherson, standing at the wheel. They were swaying with the yacht’s motion, lulled to lassitude, eyeing the brightly lit waters in hypnotized fashion. Even Angus MacPherson’s movements were lizard-slow; he’d glance at the compass, then shift the wheel a spoke’s span, counteracting the tide and the torque of his propellers, holding to the magnetic coruse he had charted the night before.

  Off to starboard, a height of land appeared on the horizon. Jim Landon blinked at it, pushing a shock of blond hair off his square forehead.

  “Bangalla?” he queried.

  “Aye.” The single-word answer came out in a puff of smoke from the curved pipe that seemed to hang permanently from the skipper’s lips. The pipe was more permanent than his teeth, he occasionally remarked.

  Phyllis, the beautiful brunette bride, sat up straighter in her chair, and pointed toward the land. “Isn’t that what they used to call Skull Peak?”

  “They still do,” MacPherson answered in his rich Scottish burr, “but you’ll notice there’s no resemblance to a skull.”

  Jim Landon studied it. “I can see where once it might have looked like a skull. But growing vegetation—perhaps a rockfall.”

  MacPherson nodded and turned the wheel another spoke. Speculation and theory didn’t inter
est him. He was a practical man.

  Phyllis and Jim were fascinated by the jutting rock rising mysteriously out of the sea, dwarfing everything around it, giant trees growing on it appearing no bigger than grass. Phyllis, wearing a bathing suit, unconsciously pulled her cotton twill jacket tighter over her bare shoulders, protecting them from the sun. It was an unthinking gesture. Her fair skin had acquired a tan on the voyage.

  She said, “Perhaps that is where all the stories of the Phantom originated.”

  The skipper scratched the back of his weathered neck with his pipe stem. “Oh, aye. Stories. That’s all they be.” “Yet,” Jim turned to him, “I’ve seen men with a skull mark on their jaws. Those men were shunned, avoided as though they were carriers of evil. I’ve seen them in European cities, although I suspect most men bearing the skull mark try to hide in obscure places. But those I’ve seen—a check of their available records proves you do well to avoid them.”

  MacPherson nodded. “I’ve also seen men with the skull mark. All you say is true. Once I thought it was an initiation symbol, they belonged to a brotherhood of crime you might say. Now I believe they were caught committing a crime and were branded for their efforts by some sort of . . . uh,” he searched for the proper words, “a society that believes in good. A group that is anti-criminal, antievil.”

  Jim laughed. “That sounds like the Jungle Patrol.”

  “This is Jungle Patrol country, right enough. They’re headquartered in Mawitaan. We’ll be there tomorrow past noon . . . providing the weather holds,” he added with his usual caution.

  Phyllis looked back at the headland, and said regretfully, “Then there is no Phantom?”

  MacPherson’s eyes were in a perpetual squint from staring into sunlit waters. He checked his compass, turned the wheel, fractionally, glanced at Dongalo, and his crew. Don-galo was a true seaman, one of the Mori fisherfolk, and had the interminable patience of his people. Now he was sprawled motionless with his head on a coil of line. But let there be a hiccup in the engines, or a slight change in the roll of the ship to show the waters were shallowing, and he was up instantly. Whether he was asleep or awake was debatable. That he was alert was certain.

  MacPherson tried to answer with care Phyllis Landon’s question: Then there is no Phantom? “Let me put it this way,” his Scottish burr was becoming more pronounced, “I hae lived my Biblical three score and ten, and a bit more. I’m in reasonable good health. I possess most of my faculties, and I’ve seen many strange things there’s nae explaining. I believe because I hae seen them, and I’m a man with a good deal of skepticism.”

  “You believe the skull marks on the jaw?” Jim interrupted.

  “Aye. I said I hae seen them.”

  “The few criminals arrested who were bearing the skull mark had those marks subjected to scientific analysis. I should say the police did it, not the criminals. The marks are permanent, correct?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “The examining scientists are baffled. They say the marks are applied with tremendous force, much more than one man could exert, even a professional boxer. Yet each of the criminals—every one of them—said they were struck on the jaw by the Phantom. They saw the Phantom.”

  “Or thought they saw the Phantom. I dare say they were in a bit of a shock at the time. Being caught red-handed at doing whatever they were doing.”

  Jim, usually good-natured, was very intent now. “Shock and trauma were taken into account. These criminals were questioned separately. We asked them to give descriptions to a police artist. In every case, the details were the same.” Angus had a slight smile on his lips. “Perchance would these descriptions also match those of a crime-fighter in Europe, and another in the United States?”

  Jim was a bit disgruntled. “Well . . . yes.”

  “So, laddie,” MacPherson exhaled a column of smoke, “we come back to the group theory again. No one man is strong enough to leave the mark of the Phantom. Your own scientists state that. You, yourself, admit the Phantom is on three continents. The rest is legend, laddie, only legend.” The old skipper turned to Phyllis. “There you have it, bonny lass. It’s all a romantic story. Show me a man who’s four hundred years old, who’s strong, fit, active. Show me a Man Who Cannot Die. Show me a man who can do more than mortal man. Then I’ll believe in the Phantom.”

  “The Phantom lives.” Dongalo was standing below the flying bridge, staring up at them. “The Phantom is,” he assured them, and stalked to the bow.

  Jim laughed. “There’s your answer for you, Mr. MacPherson.”

  “Nay,” Angus shook his head. “That’s no answer. That’s faith.”

  “Then you think the Jungle Patrol implants the skull mark?”

  “I would say no to that, too. I never heard of the skull mark in connection with them.”

  “Then who does it?”

  “A group. A society.” He nodded at the Bangalla coast. “There’s a lot of jungle that’s barely explored. A lot behind it few men have seen. I cannot guess at all the wonders of the world.”

  “A group,” Jim mused, then added, “it would have to be a worldwide group, an international society.”

  “Then there is no Phantom?” Phyllis’s tone plainly expressed her regret.

  “The facts speak against it,” Angus MacPherson said kindly.

  “He is the Ghost Who Walks,” Dongalo stated from the bow. “The Phantom lives.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  They anchored overnight. They were approaching shoal waters, largely uncharted, too dangerous to run in the dark. All the warning lights were much farther out to sea, where the oceangoing vessels could see them and steer clear. This close to Bangalla, coast lights were not considered necessary and the expense not warranted.

  The next morning Skipper MacPherson was navigating the channel. The Landons came from below, from the galley where their huge breakfasts had been prepared by Dongalo, who proudly exhibited another of his skills. They took their usual seats on the flying bridge. Angus MacPherson was puffing the initial pipe of the day.

  Phyllis saw it first, demonstrating her extraordinary eyesight. “Is that an island?” she called attention to what appeared as a low cloud on the horizon.

  “It could be,” MacPherson nodded. “There is one at that approximate position.”

  “What is it called?”

  “The Island of Dogs.”

  “How peculiar. Why is it named that? Shaped like a dog?”

  “No, nothing of the kind,” Angus turned the wheel and started the story.

  Many generations ago, the natives always captured stray dogs, not wanting them to turn wild and become yet another menace in the hostile jungle. Because these men killed only for food, they had to dispose of the dogs humanely; therefore, they took them out to the nameless island and turned them free. Unwittingly, they were creating a horror, a sort of Frankenstein monster.

  Beyond the beach, the island was largely barren rock, a few palm trees here and there struggling for survival. There was no source of fresh water; the rains were not frequent and the pools collecting in natural hollows tended to evaporate quickly. This lack of water was one of the basic causes for what happened later. The other was lack of food.

  A man could have survived on the Island of Dogs, as it came to be known among the natives. He could have found a method of conserving water. The sea would have fed him.

  The dogs, with limited intelligence, completely lacking toolmaking abilities, had little chance for survival. The first few abandoned on the island nearly starved before they learned to eat crustaceans down near the beach. Seaweed added to their diet. With this heavy intake of salt, the first battles occurred over water. Water was life, so these were battles to the death. There were few survivors; rangy muscular dogs, tough-jawed, sharp-fanged, and smart. There was water and food enough for these few, and there was peace among them.

  Then canoeloads of new dogs were dumped onto the island. In general, they were better fed and in much better
physical condition than the survivors of the first war, but they lacked the others’ ruthless battle conditioning. As soon as the second group went to look for drinking water, they met the gaunt survivors.

  Again, there were snarling, raging battles in which bodies rolled on sand and rock, and each ended with only one survivor. Those who had lived through the first war—and the second—had not eaten well in a long time; therefore, they devoured the dead, and were attacked by other starving dogs during their act of cannibalism.

  Packs formed and dissolved. Allegiances changed as leaders fought and died. There was internecine warfare among the groups to determine the pecking order, and the savage battles always ended in death, for the strong devoured the weak. Whenever two packs met, the battle began immediately without any of the preliminaries usual to canines. Numbers diminished daily, hourly. Through the night, the pack battles raged and howls of defiance were raised to the moon.

  It was inevitable that only a few would be left, limping, torn, craftier for having lived through such terror. There were no alliances here, no pack formation for self-protection. These survivors, barely self-sufficient, trusted no one, and there was a kind of peace founded upon fear.

  Again, a load of dogs was dumped on the island and again the horror began. Again there were only a few who lived, and the cycle was repeated time and time again.

  Generations of men had been bringing stray dogs to the Island of Dogs and it became something of a ritual. These men had heard on the wind the terrible baying and the vicious fighting, and while they would never have tolerated such cruelty on the mainland, habit had attained a religious significance, and now they believed stray dogs “belonged” to the island; it was their duty to bring them there.

  They were not ignorant men, nor were they unkind. It was just that their only means of interpreting the supernatural was through natural means. Inevitably they were enlightened.

  A number of canoes brought over yet another load of strays who shivered and yipped fearfully as they sensed what awaited them on this terrible island. Shark fins circled close, for often the sharks fed when fighting dogs came rolling over the cliffs still snapping at each other. None of the men liked this trip either, but it was important it be made, or more significantly, they believed it was important.