The Sting of the Silver Manticore

by P. J. Lozito

  Siam Khan reluctantly spoke up, “There are no sharks in these waters, Marqui.”

  “Correction, I have just released sharks into these waters,” assured Hanoi Tsin.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SIAM KHAN

  U-869 dived frantically in an attempt to avoid her own deadly volley. The sound of a muffled explosion carried to the Neptune. The Germans were now forgotten by those aboard the Neptune.

  Siam Khan relaxed. He knew his master hated the Nazis. They “exploit my methods,” Hanoi Tsin had declared. Further, his rivals in world domination, Moriarty’s Circle of Life, had made overtures to them. But Hanoi Tsin found Hitler to be wanting as a leader; he neither believed an “atomic” bomb possible nor was he interested in biological war. The Fuehrer would be wise to investigate what the British dubbed “Anthrax Island” off the coast of Scotland, Hanoi Tsin had repeated often.

  Calmly, Dr. Hanoi Tsin resumed his conversation as if he had merely swatted a hornet, “Kyoto fooled his former masters, but not me. He made it to, at the very least, Hawaii. From there, the mainland.”

  “Can we be sure of that, Marqui?”

  “The Black Dragon Gang informed me of this.”

  “Were they not assigned to learn of Japan’s Unit 731?”

  “That very assignment pointed to this Kyoto,” confirmed Hanoi Tsin. “His experience handling gas allows the Silver Manticore to deliver Mimosa 3 through the adapted needle gun.”

  “Some comrade-in-arms who Kyoto trusted, a pilot, helped him escape Japan,” recapped Siam Khan.

  “Kentov was a pilot,” reminded Hanoi Tsin.

  “This Silver Manticore fights you,” supplied Siam Khan, piecing the puzzle together, “Using your own inventions.”

  “And someone surely assists him. One who must feel indebted to him,” concluded Hanoi Tsin.

  “It could be this Kyoto if he yet lives,” Siam Khan theorized. “We can exhume the body; see if it bears the warning from your Ministry of Punishment artisan...”

  “Done, there were no markings.”

  “So, Kyoto yet lives.”

  “A trick of America’s Secret Service: switch cadavers. Thus a wanted person is found ‘dead’.”

  “Far more effective than John Dillinger’s plastic surgery,” commented Siam Khan.

  “Quite so. Nor was it an easy task to exhume the body. My estranged son has made sure Hawaii is no longer my stepping-stone in the Pacific.”

  “It is without a doubt, Kyoto assists the Silver Manticore. But why this childish masquerade?”

  “Here is why.” Hanoi Tsin produced a withered magazine from his great desk, “As interesting reading as Kyoto’s koseki, which told of his skills with carpentry.”

  “Carpentry?”

  “Useful should one need to build a hidden car-port.”

  More puzzled than ever, Siam Khan sputtered, “Hidden car-port, Marqui?”

  “An automobile used, and reused, in the commission of a crime must be kept somewhere. Kyoto is its waiting driver. Read,” he advised.

  “‘My Story. By the Silver Manticore, as told to Ned Buntline,’ ” read Siam Khan, “’First of Two Exciting Parts.’ Hmm, our enemy copies this penny dreadful,” he said. “How did you find this, may I ask?”

  “This entertainment was secured by my operative in Los Angeles, from a book shop called Geiger’s.”

  Los Angeles? That meant the Ingaleses were no longer a problem, Siam Khan realized.

  “Do you note the date of the publication?” queried Hanoi Tsin.

  Siam Khan did so, “Eighteen eighty-two.”

  “Fifty years ago, my to bid to gain control of the western United States through the Black Arrow Syndicate was disrupted by someone also called ‘The Silver Manticore.’ Fifty years ago. This leads me to believe he, too, has the formula.”

  “Could he not one have passed the mask to another, Marqui?” asked Siam Khan.

  “One might think that, if unaware of the catholicum. Further, I have found that in 1809, mark that date, an alchemist in Europe encountered a one named Silver Manticore. They fought to a draw. Can you guess over what?”

  “It could be only the concoction,” concluded Siam Khan. “You say they fought to a draw, Marqui. They joined forces?”

  “As I would have done with one I could not defeat. No. This other alchemist was eventually killed by a band of Dutch, British and Americans in the Carpathian Mountains almost eighty years later.”

  “The Silver Manticore, if he is hsien, must have been among them,” concluded Siam Khan.

  “Indeed, the American was from Texas, where the Silver Manticore was known to roam. I suspect he used the name ‘Quincey Morris.’ He seeks to keep secret his own longevity by wearing the mask,” concluded Hanoi Tsin.

  Understanding broke on the face of Siam Khan, “He merely pantomimes a brotherhood of masked phantoms.”

  “Correct; the fewer who know the truth the better. It is one point upon which I agree with my foe precisely.”

  “Perhaps we can trace him,” suggested Siam Khan. “Do you know where this encounter happened?”

  “In Spain and many Spaniards immigrated to Mexico. Many Mexican vaqueros went to the Hawaiian Islands.”

  Siam Khan’s eyes widened, “Again, those islands. But, Marqui, this story paper…” He waved it.

  “…Was engineered with the Silver Manticore’s approval; to make him seem a mere fabrication, a legend. Read this product of America’s own version of Grub St. It mentions Wu Chang,” Hanoi Tsin said, tapping the dime novel with a sharpened fingernail. “He was no fabrication.”

  “The sage who conducted your ma huang experiments? He abandoned even his family,” noted Siam Khan, “fleeing you.”

  “Family for which honor demanded I take responsibility. Including that ungrateful Chang Apana, now a respected member of, take note again, the Honolulu Police. He knows I would never raise my hand against a kinsman, even an adopted one. His father divined the true nature of my experiments,” Hanoi Tsin hesitated.

  “Perhaps Wu Chang never intended to share with you,” speculated Siam Khan. “He planned to observe your own knowledge and disappear.”

  “Thus, setting my researches back by a number of years,” admitted Hanoi Tsin with a sigh.

  “No one else in Asia, perhaps the world, knew more about lien tan than he,” recalled Siam Khan. Of course he remembered; Siam Khan was eager for the treatment himself.

  “What you suggest may be true. I believe that Wu Chang took up with another alchemist. For he was, as you say, deeply interested in the art of combine-and-dissolve,” added Hanoi Tsin.

  “This rival alchemist must be Quincey Morris, the Silver Manticore,” finally concluded Siam Khan.

  Hanoi Tsin nodded, “That is my guess. However, there is more. Fi-San operatives have followed the trail of murders in the American city called Seattle. Strangulations centered on the section named Pioneer Square coincide with the twenty-one year cycle of need.”

  “That city is not too far from San Francisco, is it not?” asked Siam Khan.

  “Far, but it lies on the same coast,” answered Hanoi Tsin, unraveling a Chinese hand scroll containing a large map of the United States. “Travel between the two is not difficult. I believe that this alchemist killed Wu Chang after securing his vast knowledge.

  “The Fi-San reports a government man known only as ‘X-8’ has been dispatched to San Francisco,” continued Hanoi Tsin. “They seek to use the Silver Manticore to find me. Set an alchemist to catch an alchemist, as it were.”

  “Would they do such a thing?” asked a disbelieving Siam Khan.

  “This X-8 works for an agency started by the American president named Grant. There exists secret doctrinary signed by he authorizing all American law enforcement officials to render assistance to this Silver Manticcore. President Theodore Roosevelt was influenced by… someone… to increase the funding of the same organization,” reeled off Hanoi Tsin.

  “A relative of his now holds t
he office of president,” confirmed Siam Khan.

  “These men all understood they rule a rich land, ripe for invasion. Should you desire the nectar, you will nullify the threat of the Silver Manticore,” Hanoi Tsin finished.

  That will inspire Siam Khan, decided Hanoi Tsin. After all, Dakkar had turned the Neptune over to him in exchange for his treatment. Fantomal had certainly deserved his own allotment for opening up Paris to him, after he, Hanoi Tsin, was driven from Limehouse by Moriarty. Yet why should foreign allies receive it when Siam Khan, who was like a son, could easily earn it? And until the day he should be so blessed, rather than cursed with a daughter like Fah Lo Su, Hanoi Tsin would think of this valuable man as such.

  “I have let it be known to the Black Dragon Gang my next destination is New York City,” Hanoi Tsin continued, “I do not wholly trust them.”

  “They sample their own wares and talk too much, Marqui,” affirmed Siam Khan.

  “Indeed, their incompetence led me to think this Kyoto dead. Foolishly, I believed them. However, I shall use them to my advantage. Word will leak out. The Silver Manticore will follow us.”

  “Obviously, such a man has built up a fortune over the years. He can afford to trail us,” nodded Siam Khan.

  “But by changing the field of play, we shall have the advantage,” smiled Dr. Hanoi Tsin. “He does not suspect we lie in wait for him.”

  “And Sir Dennis?” asked Siam Khan. “Do we not spread ourselves too thin?”

  “I shall deal with him myself. The longer the Silver Manticore takes to come to me, the better for us. However, he must be dealt with. That is your assignment.”

  Siam Khan considered, now convinced, “Perhaps I can pierce his veil by noting who moves between San Francisco and New York City?”

  “I leave that to you. You know his face. As does one other who will assist you.”

  “So long ago,” mused Siam Khan. “Who else knows this jackal’s face?”

  “Presently I shall introduce you to the real Kentov.”

  “The Marqui stuns me.”

  “You have one other task: stay alert for more of these,” Hanoi Tsin indicated the dime novel. “It may well prove to be the hardest part of your assignment.”

  Glancing again at the magazine, Siam Khan plotted, “I can perpetrate a series of crimes that will draw out our silver friend. We can re-activate Luciferro’s infernal men for this.”

  “The metal homunculi? You prove yourself my most valued cabal member. Note, however, getting both to work may well prove impossible. ”

  Siam Khan considered that and asked, “Is the Silver Manticore to be swayed to our side, or…?”

  “You are given permission to kill him. Perhaps Kentov will do it for you. His zeal to trace the man who impersonated him should prove valuable.”

  Siam Khan paid close attention.

  “Do remember, you could have killed the Silver Manticore many years ago,” stressed Hanoi Tsin. “Fate has brought him near me again.”

  “I will not fail you now,” swore Siam Khan.

  “Very well. Kill the real Kentov when he has outlived his usefulness.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CORRIGAN

  James Christopher Corrigan stalked like a wolf through the early morning bustle of The San Francisco Examiner’s lobby. Only in his forties, the chiseled face had more than its share of worry lines. But there was confidence in his bearing, adding stature to his years.

  Premature gray shot through Corrigan’s receding black hair. Eyes, the color of robin’s eggs, flashed with the alertness of youth. His gray box suit was freshly pressed.

  Outside, cable cars clanged as people boarded and disembarked. The aroma of coffee, sausages, bacon, toast and eggs wafted in from the lobby’s corner café. It was a warm day and early morning diners lingered, some smoking, over breakfast until the last possible moment before trudging off to their jobs.

  Elevators groaned. Building workers stopped off for the Examiner’s bulldog edition. Men came and went from Rochester’s Barber Shoppe. Uniformed doormen were kept busy opening glass portals for smartly dressed ladies. Corrigan absorbed every sight like a sponge.

  Designated Operator X-8, Corrigan answered to no one less than the president of the United States. This gave Corrigan a free hand to work as he saw fit. But a sedentary management post had added girth to his frame. He longed for action again. Perhaps this new project would bring some. Still, Corrigan didn’t like what he going to pull on an old colleague.

  G-9 had done well since leaving the service, Corrigan mused appreciatively. It helps to have a rich father like Daniel Henry Allred. Corrigan stepped onto an elevator. There, the wartime-employed female elevator operator gave the once over to the skull-and-crossbones fob on Corrigan’s watch chain. Unknown to her, should suicide ever be necessary, Corrigan would swallow the lethal poison it held. Further observation revealed Corrigan to be wearing a tiny skull ring. She would be surprised to learn it held a powerful explosive. The indoor aviatrix eyed Corrigan nervously, like she could see the gun he wore at his armpit.

  “Top floor,” growled Corrigan. “And I have a shield for it,” he added, patting the gun’s outline.

  The kid grinned sheepishly; she knew what a “shield” was. Looked like the type that read too many murder books, Corrigan decided. Come to think of it that colored cable car conductress had eyed him suspiciously, too. But she seemed more the scholarly type. At least neither caught on to the small rapier Corrigan had concealed within his belt. He was an accomplished swordsman.

  Corrigan found himself in front of a door marked: BRENT ALLRED, PUBLISHER. He switched the hand that carried a Gladstone bag so he could knock. A bee-like buzz released the lock.

  Corrigan proceeded through the door. He saw an attractive young lady. She was quite busy, reading Street & Smith’s new magazine, Mademoiselle, at her reception desk. Corrigan recognized it. He had to in order to do his job right. In fact, the same company published magazines devoted to the highly fictionalized adventures of some very real people; he smiled and glanced at his Gladstone bag.

  A nameplate identified the girl: LOUISE SCOTT. Corrigan recognized that, too. Light brown hair touched her shoulders. Clear, brown eyes twinkled. She looked to be in her late twenties. Corrigan mentally tallied it all up like the federal cop he was. A tomato: a real cute tomato.

  “Good morning,” he forced himself to chime pleasantly. “I have an appointment with Mr. Allred. Name’s Corrigan.”

  His own girlfriend, Diane Elliot, was a reporter and would never go back to being a secretary. That’s the way most women are today, Corrigan realized. He wondered what would make a reporter like Miss Scott do so.

  “Say, didn’t I used to read your by-line in this paper, ma’am?” Corrigan added.

  “Yes,” she affirmed in a pleasant Middle West twang. “After the awful business with Dr. Lucifer, I began to question that kind of life,” she lied. “Go right in. You’re expected.”

  I’d like to hold you for questioning, the lawman grinned. Corrigan tagged her by speech as being from Colorado. However, he allowed only a pensive “Hmm” to escape his lips. Corrigan stepped into Brent Allred’s businesslike, but tasteful, office. The man he came to see was finishing up a phone call. A dark-suited Allred waved him in, pointing to a seat.

  Not many people take calls when I'm around, Corrigan thought; not anyone who knows my line. He noticed the new book, Of Ants and Men by that damned egghead author lying open on Allred's desk. Corrigan, still standing, heard “...a lamb chop will be fine, Bako.”

  Call done, Allred cradled the modern-looking instrument. He came around the desk to shake Corrigan's hand.

  “Filipino houseboy,” Allred explained needlessly, nodding to the phone. “Takes excellent care of his, ah, boss,” Allred declaimed proudly. “Siddown, why don’t you?”

  Corrigan grunted.

  Allred beamed, “Been a long time. What brings you to San Francisco, Chris?”

  The government man
inspected his seat and sank into it. Corrigan didn’t know it, but Allred kept his excited breathing in check with Hatha yoga. The federal agent was one of the few men he feared.

  “I sure didn't come here to make with the palaver or to play no damn Hi Ho, Brent,” Corrigan replied with his usual gruffness, spotting the game on Allred’s cluttered desk. ”I’m with the Scientific Bureau of Investigation these days. You bring me here. I take it a man with your background has a secure office?” His eyes trailed to the entrance.

  “Why, yes, of course, Chris. What did you have in mind? Going to give me a government exclusive? One of FDR’s many secrets, perhaps,” Allred teased earnestly. He strode to the office door and shut it.

  “And what can I get you? War-time pressure’s got me forgetting my manners. Coffee light is your drink, if I remember. We’re a little short on sugar, as you probably know,” Allred added.

  Corrigan waved the offer off with a grunt. “Brent…”

  “I was just taking tea; slows down my routine if I drink it at home,” Allred shook a tin of evaporated milk bearing Elsie the Cow’s likeness and frowned, finding it empty. He toggled the intercom, playing the cheerful Boniface. “Scottie, one coffee,” he began. “And another armored cow…”

  “Brent,” he repeated, crossing his legs, “I know you're the Silver Manticore.”

  Allred, looking back put down this morning’s second cup of tea, brewed in the manner of wallachs, learned in the Himalayas. The intercom was forgotten. He hadn’t expected bluntness. Then the old espionage reflexes sprang into play. He was sparring with a pro now.

  Operator X-8 lit a cigarette, uninvited. Allred pushed an ashtray his way, angrily. Rehearsal time is over--we’re on the air. The fed dropped his expired match into the tray after waving it to death.

  “Chris, you kill me,” Allred began in tones that would have made his friends at the Mercury Theatre of the Air proud. “Not only have I written editorials against that hoodlum, I pay an ex-cop to turn in copy on him. I even let Bernstein -- my managing editor-- talk me into offering a $60,000 reward for the capture of that crumb.”