Killer's Town (5 page)

Following the jailbreak, a Citizen's Council was formed by the black Lord Mayor of Mawitaan, Ito Togando, a cousin of Police Chief Togando. The Council included the Police Chief, Colonel Weeks of the Jungle Patrol, General Sago Togando who was commander of Bangalla's weak little army and a cousin of Ito, the publisher of the
Mawitaan Daily,
Gando Togando, cousin of Sago, Chief Justice Amy Togando, cousin of Gando, the chairman of the Bangalla Bank, Okan Togando, cousin of Amu, and several other civic leaders. They had a heated discussion.

What could they do about the pest hole on their border, known as Killer's Town? "Den of iniquity," "infested with criminals," "intolerable menace," "rats' nest," "vile cancer," were some of the printable expressions used. Much more was unprintable. "What are the police doing about this criminal haven?" demanded the Lord Mayor. The Chief spread his arms wide, indicating helplessness, and asked Colonel Weeks to explain the situation. He did. The Patrol's legal department had looked into it. Killer's Town, originally a royal grant from a king, long dead, was an independent sovereignty, an enclave like Monaco or Vatican City. One Matthew Crumb had owned it, until he sold it to Percival Koy.

"This is ridiculous," roared General Sago Togando. "My army can storm that place and wipe it off the map in a few hours."

"Quite possibly," said Colonel Weeks, "but that would be illegal."

"Who cares? We know what the place is. Nobody would miss it," said the Lord Mayor, and the cousins agreed.
^!
Weeks shook his head.

"Quite true, but we are faced with the ancient dilemma. Does the end justify the means? Shall we break the law to destroy lawbreakers? Shall we commit a crime to catch criminals?" he asked. The cousins looked to the Chief Justice. The sage man nodded.

"He is right. We are the law. We cannot break the law on the pretext of enforcing it."

"Then what can we do?" was the question, followed by a thoughtful silence.

"First, this is a matter of international law. We are not experts," said Colonel Weeks. "We can appeal to the World ' court or the United Nations for a ruling."

"That will take forever," said the Lord Mayor.

"It will take a long time," agreed Weeks. "In the meantime the Jungle Patrol will keep the place under round- the -clock surveillance. We will try to prevent more criminals from entering or leaving."

"A few sticks of dynamite would do the job quicker and better," growled General Sago Togando.

So it was decided. Let the Jungle Patrol handle it. For the time being, that would satisfy the press and public opin
ion.
As in all government matters, the important thing was (o give the impression that something was being done.

The Patrol began their round-the-clock watch, with four vehicles on four sides of the town, two patrolmen in each car, on eight-hour shifts. Twenty-four men in all, a drain on the small, tightly organized Patrol. They positioned themselves close enough to watch the walls and gate of Killer's Town. They were spotted at once. A loud voice from a megaphone warned them to take off. They remained. Standing on the roof of the Killer Hilton, Koy shouted a last warning. The patrolmen consulted each other by radio, then sat tight. The firing began. High-powered bullets hit within inches of the vehicles. The misses were deliberate. But they might not remain misses. The officer in charge, Sergeant Dave Hill, radioed headquarters.

"They're firing on us. Can we fire back?" he asked.

"No. Pull further back," ordered Colonel Weeks.

The vehicles retreated a quarter mile. The barrage confirmed. A few bullets nicked the cars. The vehicles retreated again out of gunshot range. But at this distance, their observation was also limited, as was their ability to stop men from entering and leaving. They continued to watch through binoculars, cursing that long-dead king who had created his free port in the first place.

Inside, Koy and his men were jubilant. In their first encounter with the law, they had made the Patrol back up and eat crow. With the hated memory of Colonel Weeks still fresh, Koy was especially glad it was the Patrol being humiliated.

A tattered figure wandered about during the barrage, at

first rushing for cover under a porch, then watching, puzzled.

Matthew Crumb, with his inevitable can of beer, was tolerated by Killer's Town as a sort of village idiot. He went from building to building at will, watching construction, watching the strange violent men arrive. None seemed to leave. He hung around the bars, cadging drinks, watching the gambling in the day and night casino, marveling at the scantily dressed, highly decorated "ladies" who had become a permanent fixture, and wondering occasionally, dimly, what he had done on that day when he had so casually sold New Metropolis. He'd been granted a cot in the cellar of the hotel, but he still hadn't been paid. Eagle, now a busy man, was hard to find, harder to talk to. He would dismiss Matthew with a pat on the back, a chit for a free beer at; the bar, or a kick when he was in a hurry. Matthew was a law-abiding man, more or less, and he was disturbed when he began to realize what kind of people these were. He was more disturbed when he saw the Jungle Patrol fired on. He had always admired those brisk young men, and in his youth had once tried to join them, but failed to qualify. Ah, well, he thought as he shambled back to his cot in the cellar for a nap, what's done is done.

The Patrol continued to observe from a distance, attempting to quarantine the town. But they were spread too thin, too far apart. An army would be needed to surround the place properly. Men were able to enter or leave at night without trouble, knowing the positions of the vehicles. And there was nothing to be done about the big amphibian planes that roared in and out during the night several times a week to and from parts unknown. So the population swelled, and Koy's safe bulged, but the presence of those Patrolmen out there still annoyed him. From the roof of his hotel, he would occasionally fire a rifle bullet, just to annoy them. The patrolmen ducked, gritted their teeth, and waited. This assignment was the most hated of all. To watch that crowd of gangsters and killers, to hear their laughter, shouts, curses, fights; to hear the shrill voices of their "ladies"—so close, yet unable to do anything about it. It was frustrating, aggravating, irritating, monstrous!

Colonel Weeks suffered in silence with his men. The Jungle Patrol is an elite corps, proud of two hundred fifty years of tradition, dedicated to incorruptible service, jealous of its unblemished reputation. To be mocked and derided by these vicious criminals was almost more than these proud young men and their Colonel could bear. More than once, law or no law, they were ready to charge into that snake pit, Killer's Town, with guns blazing. After all, one patrolman can handle ten criminals. But they restrained themselves, hung on, and, like their Colonel, suffered in silence. Someday, they told themselves. Someday.

Caroline Weeks, the Colonel's beautiful, red-haired, eighteen-year-old daughter, stepped off the big plane at Ma- witaan airport and ran into her father's waiting arms. He had not seen her for four years. A widower, Weeks had sent her to England to live with his sister and go to school there. Her trips to Bangalla were not frequent, because it was a long distance and expensive, and jungle patrolmen, even the Colonel, receive a great deal of respect, honor, and glory, but not much money. At Caroline's age, four years make a huge difference. She had left him, a gangling, freckled, awkward child. It took him a moment to realize that the red-haired beauty who leaped into his arms was his little Caroline. Now she would spend the entire summer vacation with him before returning to the university. They would have a chance to become reacquainted.

Caroline, in those years away, remembered her father as a sharp but gentle and authoritative figure, the heroic leader of a band of heroes. Returning, she wondered if her memory was false. She was afraid of disappointment in seeing him with older eyes. But she was delighted to find that her father was as alert, gentle, and strong as she had remembered. And after the first few days, he found that the red- haired young beauty called Caroline was still half-tomboy, still produced freckles after an hour in the sun, still laughed and rolled on the lawn with her old dog Shep, still loved horseback riding and tennis, still loved to sit on his lap occasionally and hear about her mother and the old days of the Patrol. It was a happy reunion, and half the Jungle Patrol fell madly in love with her. They were all dismayed to learn that she had a young man back in England.

Weeks had put his daughter on a horse for the first time when she was five years old. She had ridden ever since. She was an expert horsewoman, excelling at jumping, racing, and the difficult art of dressage. As soon as she had caught her breath, unpacked, said hello to everyone, and spent a few days reviving old memories of the town where she had spent her childhood, she went to the stables.

Though the Patrol was motorized, they still kept a dozen fine riding horses, plus a gentle little mare that the older wives could ride. They brought out the mare for Caroline. She laughed and petted the gentle beast, then picked a spirited brown stallion. The stablemaster wasn't sure about letting her have Dynamite. Too much to handle. But Caroline put Dynamite through his paces, jumped him over a few fences, raced him around the field, and returned to the applause of the stablemaster, stableboys, and half the watching Patrol, including the Colonel. After that, Caroline rode every day on trails she had known since she was a child. It never occurred to anyone that she would ride as far out as the Phantom Trail. No one told her about Killer's Town. Maybe they forgot because of wanting to forget that frustrating place.

It was a beautiful morning and Dynamite moved like the wind. People stared and waved as the Colonel's daughter raced by in jodhpurs, riding boots, and an orange-red shirt that matched her own red mane flowing behind her. Soon she had left the dirt road at the edge of town and moved onto the loamy shadowy path that led into the jungle. This, for some reason, had always been called the Phantom Trail. She wondered about the name, telling herself to ask about the origins of it when she got home.

In England, she had dreamed about this jungle. The path Neemed wider and bumpier and more used than she remembered. Trees were occasionally scarred and bushes bent back and broken, as though a large truck had passed. She noticed a tire track in the dust. Like everywhere else, she supposed things had progressed a bit there, too. But beyond these few signs, it seemed unchanged. As she rode deeper into the jungle, there were monkeys in the trees chattering at her, the whirr of wings as brightly colored birds took off, bright eyes gleaming from the bushes, then a soft scampering as small furry animals hurried away, all startled by the hooves of Dynamite. She went on like this, walking, trotting, galloping, stopping, then walking again, for two or three hours. She suddenly realized that she was far from home, that she was hungry, and would never get back in time for lunch with her father. There was a road sign ahead. She approached it and paused for a moment. "
Killer's Town
—Private—No Admittance."

Some sort of joke? What else could it be? There had never been a town out here. Caroline had a wild sense of humor, and she enjoyed it in other people. She wondered who had made that official-looking sign. Some mad person she'd love to meet, she thought. She rode on, around the bend, again feeling her hunger, thinking she should have brought

a sandwich, thinking she should turn back now, but in trigued by the sign, and not wanting to stop. Then miracu lously, high walls appeared before her, shining white buildings behind them, gleaming glass, paved streets seen through the tall iron-barred fence. Wonderful! New sub urbs were springing up everywhere. This one had been built while she was away.

She rode up to the closed gate. A man had seen her coming. As she approached and he saw her clearly, he put his rifle aside and unlocked the gate.

"Do you have a restaurant or cafe here? I'd love tea and a sandwich," she said.

He grinned at her. Another "lady" for the town.

"Sure thing," he said. "Come right in."

As she entered the gateway, she was aware of the distant autohorns honking. She noticed that the man made a face toward the direction of that sound, wondered about that, then rode on. The gates closed behind her. The man watched her appreciatively. Not like the others who came here. This one was young and looked like a real lady . . . hard to tell them these days. He wondered what lucky man would get this one. Why wonder? Koy, naturally. And a mile away on a shaded hill, the watching patrolmen lowered their binoculars and stared at each other in amazement

"Could that be Caroline Weeks? Or was it someone who looked like her?"

"Someone who looked like her. What would Caroline be doing out here?"

"Right. She must be"—he looked at his watch—"having lunch with the old man right now."

"Right. But ■"

"But what?"

"That horse. It looked like Dynamite."

"Lots of brown horses look like Dynamite."

"Let's call in anyhow, to make sure."

"Right."

They reached the Patrol headquarters radio room.

"Everything lousy as usual out there?" said the cheery voice of the H. Q. operator.