by P. J. Lozito
The speaker was a mustached Chinese no older than he, hairline though already beginning to recede. Mr. Kyoto did not reply. He could not. What he would like to have done is, in fact, answer this fellow in one of the five Chinese dialects he knew.
Mr. Kyoto was not worried, however. He had been in tougher spots than this. His assistants would find him. They would know the source of that blast and trace him here, wherever here was. He had crumpled one of his calling cards into his fist as consciousness left him. It would be left at the scene.
“Your papers say you are Japanese Secret Police. Even the lowly Fi- San has heard of you, I.A. Kyoto. I, Siam Khan, am honored to meet you,” he bowed deeply.
Mr. Kyoto eyed this Siam Khan helplessly. He must have chosen a name such a one as that.
“You do not know me? ‘I am not concerned that a man does not know of me, I am concerned that I do not know of him:’ Kung-tzu, mangled by Western tongues as Confucius. I work for Dr. Hanoi Tsin. Him you know.” Siam Khan smiled as Mr. Kyoto’s eyes widened in horror.
“The doctor will want you alive,” Siam Khan sighed, “for now. He hates to spill blood needlessly. Anyway, he can build another foul engine of destruction to sell the Russian ninnies. But you must pay the price for destroying his property.
“My friend here is preparing to write ‘So end the enemies of Hanoi Tsin’ on your chest in caustic wax,” Siam Khan continued, with a wave of his hand. Mr. Kyoto focused on another Chinese he had missed before. That one bowed, now with a sardonic grin.
“It will be painful. I shall return to inspect this one’s penmanship,” Siam Khan left with a gesture to the torturer.
The torment began. Mr. Kyoto tried the trick of concentrating on the pain until it faded but this was too much. It was excruciating. Had Mr. Kyoto not been gagged, his people could have followed his cries. In point of fact, the Imperial Navy might have heard him in the South Seas. He passed out.
That was only for a short time. Then he hallucinated. Mr. Kyoto imagined he saw a black-clad Caucasian with a hat pulled down over his features, entering behind the craftsman. A blow to the back of his head with a well oiled, new .45 automatic sent the Chinese artisan sprawling.
No, it really happened, Mr. Kyoto realized. At least his guardian angel wasn’t the killer Kentov. Thank the gods.
In fluent Japanese the newcomer whispered, “Why was he doing that?”
Mr. Kyoto closed his eyes in relief, as a stiletto cut his bonds and his gag was slashed, “Please, you speak Japanese so very well,” Mr. Kyoto gasped when he could respond. “You shall be rewarded. My name is I.A. Kyoto. I represent Japanese business interests.”
Off came the wire jacket.
“Japanese Secret Police, you mean,” muttered the Caucasian, alighting on the bed. “I saw you drop your card.”
Mr. Kyoto smiled gamely. “Did not the Chinese philosopher say, ‘He who is solely manhood-at-its-best will know which men to like and which to hate’?”
The white man grinned. He knew he wouldn’t be stoically quoting Confucius if he had to endure what Kyoto had just gone through.
“How goes the Seventy Lingering Deaths?” a roar in Chinese came from outside the bedroom door. Siam Khan was back for his inspection. This increased in volume with, “Kentov!”
The man in black arose, bowing, “You have changed much from the humble Tibetan monk I once knew, Rinpoche.”
Siam Khan bowed in return, “Call me that no more.”
“Then you were calm in countenance and measured in speech,” continued Kentov.
In response, a shuriken flew through the air, striking Kentov’s right hand with an ugly sound. Blood spurted in a scarlet ribbon. The gun clattered to the floor.
“I have not seen you since your aeroplane crash,” mocked Siam Khan in Mandarin. “So you made it to Russia. How did you convince them to send you here?”
“Because you work for this Hanoi Tsin now,” spat Kentov, drawing a handkerchief around his wound with his teeth after plucking out the throwing star. Already the cloth was dyed red.
“Ever the observant one, I am his most honored cabal member.”
Suddenly, the shuriken was returned in a deadly vector. But Siam Khan had expected that. He dodged easily in a shoulder roll. Kentov feigned for the fallen gun. Siam Khan got there first, triumphantly. But his victory turned sour as he looked up to see Mr. Kyoto holding the cartridge of bullets.
“So sorry,” he offered.
Kentov was already covering Siam Khan with the gun’s twin. His face twisted into a devilish grin. In that instant, Siam Khan knew: he shouldn’t have taken his eyes off Kyoto while evading the Japanese weapon. Kentov fired, hitting Siam Khan in the same part of the hand where he himself was wounded. A follow-up gung fu kick delivered to Siam Khan was a killing blow. Kentov knew Siam Khan would trouble him no more. He bent to recover the gun’s mate.
The noise of battle brought down a contingent of armed Chinese. Kentov caught the magazine Mr. Kyoto tossed him and snapped it into place. He let loose with both automatics in a barrage of hot, lead hail. The Chinese fled, dragging their wounded and abandoning their casualties. Acrid gun smoke filled the dank basement’s air.
But it was not Kentov’s volley of shots that chased them away. Two more obviously Russian men, guns ablaze, appeared over Kentov’s shoulder, joining his attack. Both bore two guns apiece.
“I was wondering when you’d arrive,” Kentov deadpanned in perfect Great Russian. Mr. Kyoto understood every word.
“We cannot decide which are faster, your feet or your guns,” the first Russian looked over at Kyoto. “Who is the unfortunate Japanese dog, tovarish? The Chinese practice their ugly scribble on him.”
“Our competitor, Kosloff. He has destroyed our prize,” replied Kentov. “You and Kuryakin help him. I’ll cover you.”
“As you wish, Aleksandr,” said Kosloff. “My regard for you grows.”
“Though I’m more American than Russian?”
“Ha, yes. First, you tell the Chinese we arrive by boat. Then, you fly us here early. And we find this man dealing with the Chinese,” replied Kosloff.
“I’d hardly say he was ‘dealing’ with them. This man is a victim of Hanoi Tsin,” corrected Kentov. “The enemy of our enemy is our friend.”
“Nevertheless, you were right not to trust Hanoi Tsin.”
“No, not if we don’t want to end up prisoners on Sahkalin Island,” affirmed Kentov.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MIKE AXELROD
Louise Scott saw her boss peering out his office window. He seemed a million miles away. That gruff Mr. Corrigan had certainly looked smugly satisfied as he left. She was quite sure she didn’t like how the government man had eyed her.
“Miss Scott, I’m expecting a call from Burberry,” said Brent Allred softly, after a long time.
“Yes, I have him, Mr. Allred.”
On a phone line not listed in any directory, contact man Burberry was awaiting instructions.
Allred crossed to his desk. He spoke briefly, “Midnight, all the agents.” He hung up and called Miss Scott again, “Trouble, Louise.”
“I know, Brent. You left the intercom open,” Louise stated. “I thought Danny was the Manticore. Not you.”
“Dammit, Miss Scott, does everyone around here know my secret?” fumed Allred, rising.
“Please take it easy, Brent. You’re not super human, even if you like to give that impression,” Louise Scott said soothingly. She gently pushed him back into his chair.
“I’m sorry, Scottie. You’re right, of course,” Allred conceded as he massaged the bridge of his nose. “Corrigan threw me a curve ball. Forgive me?”
“It’s all right. I suspected you weren’t really spending your nights with rich yachtsmen friends patrolling for enemy subs.”
“I thought it was a good story. Germans have been seen in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“I don’t think they’ve coming this far. You could have told me.”
; “Old training, Louise: compartmentalization. You only pass on so much.”
“What kind of training is that?” she asked.
“Spy business; that’s where I learned all this stuff. Things are going to change, though,” Allred assured.
Just then former cop and current Examiner crime reporter, Mike Axelrod, pushed his way into the office before Allred could elaborate.
“What’s gonna change?” he called cheerily.
You can always tell cops, or in this case ex-cops, because of their fondness for separates. Axelrod shambled in, skin brick red, ever-present bow tie firmly affixed in place.
In all the excitement, Allred had forgotten that he has asked Axelrod to come in this morning. He wanted to personally give Axelrod the check reflecting his raise. Miss Scott smiled at him as she went back to her office, closing the door behind her.
“Hey, chief, what’s changin’?” he repeated, pushing back a bowler. “You look like you could use a drink.”
Axelrod dropped the greasy paper sack he habitually brought his lunch in, and re-used until it disintegrated, onto a chair. He had learned that packing a lunch was far better that eating whatever free food was available at the local bar and grill. Allred caught a whiff of Axelrod’s fish sandwich from yesterday’s lunch.
“A welcome suggestion,” admitted Allred walking to the bar for a scotch. “And you?”
“Not me. Never touch the giggle water anymore,” stressed Axelrod.
“I forgot. Sorry.”
Years of hard living had taken its toll on Axelrod; he looked older than his thirty-six years. Cheap food, drink and all-nighters had aged the Hibernian prematurely. These days Mike would drink anything but his old favorite, Irish whiskey: coffee, tea, milk, Kooba, claim juice but nothing stronger than the occasional beer. Right now he was reluctantly helping himself to lapsang souchong tea at Brent Allred’s electric hot plate. A tentative sip produced a wince, but Axelrod downed half the stuff with an inelegant gulp.
“You still haven’t said what’s changin’,” he protested. “Bet its how you can never get a nice Earl Grey in this joint.”
“Very perceptive,” improvised Allred. “I’m afraid I may have scolded Miss Scott too hard about that. It’s overwork, Michael. The Silver Manticore struck again last night. I swear, when he’s roving around I don’t sleep. What cooks?” Allred forced himself to chirp happily.
“Say, is that one a them there remarks ‘bout my hobby?” demanded Axelrod.
“It just slipped out, Michael,” smiled Allred, sipping.
“Well, here’s copy on Manticore’s little party last night,” he said tossing a sheaf of papers onto Allred’s desk. “Yeah, things ain’t been the same since O’Brien and his monkey made it big. ‘Overwork’ is right— I’m runnin’ ragged, in jig time yet.”
“Jig time?” asked Allred.
“An Irish dance you do real fast,” explained Axelrod. He half-heartedly attempted to demonstrate but ended up grumbling, “Forget it.”
“Oh, well, curse of the shoe leather newsman, Michael,” said Allred. “Your police background makes you uniquely suited for this. We wasted you as my bodyguard.”
Nodding, the former cop moved his paper bag carefully and plopped into the chair. “You got the little Filipino now. He’ll punch anyone bothers you right in the kneecap. Thanks to that raise you give this shoe leather newsman, I’ll be able to afford an outside office.”
“So you can work in peace?”
“Exactly.”
“No one to interrupt?”
“Precisely.”
“No bothersome bosses breathing down your neck?”
“That’s… Aw, I mean I don’t want no one goin’ through my files onna Manticore here and I don’t wanna keep ‘em at home, neither,” scowled Axelrod. “My book‘ll win me a Pulitzer. You know, I’m sharing office space now with a private license named Dash Hammett,” he added proudly.
“‘Dash’?” questioned Allred. “Have you introduced him to Speed?”
“After that raise, I better start laughin’ at your jokes, boss. You’re liable to put Bob Hope outta work. It’s short for ‘Dashiell.’ He don’t do nothin’ in a hurry,” replied Axelrod.
Allred was well aware of that. In fact, he knew the former Sgt. Hammett, who looked like a blond Satan, from the Army Air Corps. Miss Scott had told Allred that Axelrod was looking to share an office. Allred instructed Miss Scott to steer the crime reporter to Hammett. She claimed to have had contact with him in her reporting days. Hammett had a vacancy in his office since his partner was murdered. A deal was struck.
Under Allred’s instructions, Hammett had finessed open Axelrod’s locks and habitually scanned his files. Now Allred could keep tabs on everything Axelrod knew about the Silver Manticore.
Allred’s intercom buzzed. “Mr. Rochester himself,” announced Louise Scott. In bounded a white-jacketed Negro barber, there to trim Allred’s hair.
“Getting to be like the Golden Gate in here,” remarked Axelrod. He nodded at Rochester, who set about preparing to work on the publisher. The barber acknowledged with a wide smile. Rochester cut Axelrod’s red locks, too. But Mike had to visit the barbershop like a regular person. Not like junior here, he thought, eyeing Allred.
“This is what you came for, Michael.” Allred handed the reporter a check. He settled back as the barber unfurled and slung a freshly starched white shawl around him.
“Ah, took almost as long comin’ as Grace Cathedral, it did,” Axelrod commented, as he eagerly accepted his prize. His bank would be open tomorrow, Saturday, until noon. “Nicest thing I seen since the forty hour work week.”
“Michael, you know anything about this ‘Doc’ Wylie in New York?”
“Do I? He’s famous. Helps the cops, freelance and uninvited,” Axelrod looked up from the check suddenly. “Now don’t go jumpin’ to conclusions, thinkin’ the Manticore is doin’ the same t’ing here.” Axelrod’s Irish brogue was apparent now when excited.
“Well, what do the Big Apple bulls make of this fellow anyway?”
“They put up with him. Wee radios for the wrist Wylie give ‘em earned him an honorary police commission,” remembered Axelrod, closely examining the check again.
“That’s pretty advanced radio.”
“Sure ‘n’ he got the idea from a gang he whupped. Seems crooks were communicatin’ in Morse code heat signals through them watches. Wylie topped ‘em. So, he and his buddies gab through their wrists now on a different frequency than the police use.”
“So the cops just let him… operate?”
“Fine choice of word for the man. Didja know he’s also a surgeon, besides?”
“That’s what I heard. Made me curious.”
“Cops got one of their own workin’ with him: Joe Casey.”
“How is it you know a New York cop’s name?”
“Why, everyone knows Casey. Got the first a them watch radios.”
“Unusual,” muttered Allred.
“Brent, my boy, do ye peruse your own paper, by any chance?” Axelrod scooped up today’s edition from the desk and presented it to him.
“What’s the gag, Michael?”
“Lookie here,” Axelrod flipped pages. A sausage-like finger tapped one comic strip in particular.
“‘Joe Casey,’” recited Allred. “How about that? Well, the only strip I read is ‘Derby Dugan.’”
“’…And His Dog That Talks’? Yeah, I like that one meself.”
“So, Casey allows this?”
“You bet. Makes ‘im seem unbeatable. Those New York cops need alla help they can get. Now, I don’t go for this vigilante folderol Wylie gets involved in.”
“That goes without saying, Michael. Police work is best left to the professionals,” Allred automatically quoting the radio patrol from last night.
“Thing is the U.S. government vouches for him.”
“Why?”
“It’s his bein’ a decorated flyer and all.”
&nb
sp; “Flyer, too, eh?”
“Ace in the Great War, just like you. He holds Army rank of general. Unlike him, they won’t be callin’ you back into service at your advanced age. They know him and where he lives. Who wouldn’t want a ‘miracle’ man lendin’ a hand?”
“And where does a guy like that live? It must be a fortress.”
“He has some Antarctic hideaway called…oh, Meta Incognita.”
“Latin?”
“Yeah, for ‘me—I don’t know.’”
“Naw,” interjected Rochester without looking up. “Means ‘land unknown’ in Latin.”
Axelrod momentarily scowled at the barber, “When he ain’t there, Wylie hangs his many hats in the Empire State Building.”
Allred’s newly trimmed eyebrows shot up, “I’ve heard of that place.”
“Yeah, but he took a likin’ to the Antarctic years ago on for some reason.”
“What goes on at the South Pole?” mused Allred.
“That I don’t know. But I do know the place is more stable than up North Pole way. That’s been warming since the ‘30s. Shiftin’ ice there can’t support permanent construction, lad.”
“Antarctica is an exclusive neighborhood, anyway.”
“Well, that was his original plan. Word about havin’ a secret place leaked out. He claims ‘tis in the North Pole. South, it is.”
“Why sure,” said Rochester. “That’s what they used to call the South Pole, ‘Meta Incognita.’”
Axelrod looked at Rochester, “Am I leavin’ anyt’ing out, my good man?”
“You doing fine Mr. Axlerod,” confirmed the barber.
“But even down there, after twenty years any building on the surface is under twenty foot of ice and snow. ‘Sides the Russkies been at the North for half a dozen years,” continued Axelrod.
“I presume you mean our allies the Soviets?” queried Allred, from under foam.
“Yeah, that’s what I meant.”
“Don’t worry, Michael. I have no love for the Communists. They killed the legitimate ruler of Russia.”
“Well, anyway, Wylie likes his privacy and don’t need no Soviets around. Its summer there is from November to February, with a pleasant average of minus fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Terrain is jagged mountains and it’s mighty windy.”