by P. J. Lozito
“You seem to know all about Wylie and polar real estate,” commented Allred.
“Not as much as he does, I’ll wager,” he pointed to Rochester. “I been lookin’ into it. We oughta get Wylie here to put an end to this Manticore spaldeen. But, no, he has to travel the globe, rightin’ wrongs.”
“Michael, I thought you were going to nab the Manticore.”
“That I will. I’ll unmask him yet. Need help doin’ it is all.”
“That’s the easy part. You’ve got to make the charges stick. The masked man could be…anyone.”
“Even you? If you stopped makin’ with the humor and wrote to Wylie it would have some effect, I guarantee. You’re a big wheel now that you’ve got your pa’s job.”
Allred shrugged, “Maybe I will be talking to Wylie soon.”
“Grand. How is Old Man Allred doin’?”
“If you mean dad, and not me, he’s fine. Happily retired to his Xanadu in Del Rio, Texas,” admitted Brent.
“That’s good. I’ll never forget his kindness to this old rummy. He was there when I needed him. But I been thinkin’ about the Manticore,” Axelrod confessed.
“What else,” Allred chided.
“No, really, Brent. Just how do you figure the silvery boyo?”
Brent Allred considered: it was never too much trouble to mislead this bloodhound. “You mean his handiness with a gun and willingness to kill?”
Axelrod nodded.
“Obviously he’s a mob contract killer with a hankering to be management. While he ventilates other hoods, he still has his steady job as a gun-for-hire,” Allred bluffed.
“Could be. He sure is making the competition scarce,” Axelrod agreed.
“Figure something different, Michael?”
“Yeah, a disgruntled G.I., maybe he’s mad at the world for, oh, a battle scar what ruined his phizog.”
“So now he wears the mask?”
“Yup, say this scar’s sorta like that beaut you got on yer paw.”
Allred looked up sharply, “That? You know I got that when the geniuses running the Army thought I should learn to fly.”
“So you’ve told me. Flying aeroplanes cuts you up?”
“It does in a crash landing, Michael. I tell you this: you’ll never catch me in an airplane again. Think maybe Manticore’s a foreign agent?”
“Naw,” dismissed Axelrod with a wave of his hand. “He knows this town too good. Luciferro, he was a foreign agent.”
“How about a crooked cop?” Allred tried.
“Now that I don’t like, Brent. I was one for years. A copper, I mean. Not crooked. A few meals taken on the tin at the lunch counter was the worst I ever seen.”
“Saw that yourself?”
“Why, of course. I was right…” he broke it off.
“Well, you’re biased, Michael. Cops are only human.”
“Brent, this baby is a cold-blooded killer. Sometimes I think he hain’t human the way he disappears like a light bein’ switched off. And that gas gun, that could be an army invention,” Axelrod figured. “Where would a mob torpedo or a cop get something like that?”
“Just why should this killer use sleep gas, anyway, Michael?”
“I say there‘re some crumbs he wants to ice real slow,” the former flatfoot mused. “You never know when he’s gonna start with the mustard gas. And how ‘bout them ‘manticore’ callin’ cards he leaves? He must have access to a printin’ press.”
“Now where would he get a printing press?”
“It beats me like a drum.”
“Hmm, if some crook with a protection racket numbered a printer among his ‘clients,’ he could easily get cards made up,” supposed Allred.
“Hey, that’s smart thinkin,’ Brent. You should turn his job over to Bernstein and go back to bein’ a crime reporter.”
“Pay’s too low.”
“Low?” sputtered Axelrod. He slammed the bowler to the floor. “I’m takin’ home three thousand dollars a year!”
“You forget, I sign your checks. Now, any of this could be,” Allred continued before the crime reporter could protest. “I’m glad we kicked it around, Michael. Chase down all those angles: that’s you new assignment. Some of those are bound to leave a trail. Give us something we can put above the fold and a bonus goes with the raise. What brings it up?”
“Federal agent James Christopher Corrigan brings it up. Ever hear of him?” asked Axelrod, his own bushy eyebrows arched as he dusted off his hat on his sleeve.
“Name sounds familiar,” Allred lied. “But I can’t place it.”
“Well, he don’t use the ‘James.’ Anyways, Corrigan was down at Police H.Q. yesterday, claimin’ to the brass that the Manticore won’t be a problem to us for long,” reported Axelrod.
“How’d you hear that?”
“Oh, I’m real good pals with the custodian there. Let’s me throw on a set of his spare coveralls every once in a while an’ tidy up the joint.”
“He must have a price. I don’t recall getting too many petty cash slips from you,” pointed out Allred.
“I got plenty a bottles of scat I don’t have use for. Need I say more?”
“Don’t the old hands recognize you?”
“Nothing but kids there now that don’t know from nothin’.”
“Neat trick,” commented Allred. He filed that one for future reference and reminded himself Axelrod was no fool.
“Child’s play,” Axelrod dismissed. “But, here, take a look at this fine example of my investigatin’ skills,” he pulled out a copy of an ancient magazine devoted to the Silver Manticore from the lunch sack.
“Real old, Brent. Got it at a swap meet. At first, I says to meself I wouldn’t give two punts for it. Than I see it’s no CQ. This Silver Manticore went around the Old West with Pottawatomie injun.”
“We don’t say ‘injun,’ Michael,” Allred corrected as he looked over the dime novel.
“Okey, Okey. This Indian allus called him ‘Manitou.’
“’Manitou’?”
“That’s an Objibway spirit,” answered Axelrod.
“What kind of Pottawatomie knows Objibway lore?” inquired Allred.
“A smart one,” supplied Axelrod. “Name of ‘Gordo.’ ”
“Means ‘fat.’ ”
“I ain’t up on my Mex,” admitted Axelrod.
“Spanish,” noted Allred. “Mexicans speak Spanish. The Allreds have some Spanish blood, you know.”
“Yeah? Your Spanish lingo may come in handy. My diggin’ shows there was another Manticore before this one down Mexico way. We could send you and your smart brain there on assignment.”
“Not me, maybe it’ll be you,” advised Brent Allred.
“Well, this Gordo fella wudn’t too portly atall, I suspicion from this,” the ex-cop indicated the magazine. “And the Pottawatomie were known to range in what we call Michigan.”
“Pretty far afield. So, there was a late 1800s Silver Manticore who had an Indian pal named Gordo? Nice ring to it: ‘The Silver Manticore and Gordo.’ ”
“Odd for an Indian to have a Spanish name, ain’t it?”
“More so if he didn’t fit the description,” mused Allred.
“Must be some kinda Indian joke,” offered Axelrod.
Allred suddenly realized something. As soon as he could clear out his office, knew he’d be calling long distance. He turned his attention back to the dime novel. “‘My Story,’ By the Silver Manticore, as Told to Ned Buntline. First of Two Exciting Parts.’ Hmm,” Brent read again within a few minutes.
“Say, Michael, you don’t have ‘Part Two’ in there, do you?”
“I ain’t, Brent. But I got Thompson searchin’ for it. That reminds me—I’ll send ya up the latest Doc Wylie Magazine from the newsstand if ’n you’re so interested in him. On me.”
“Setting you back all of a dime. Big spender.”
“Hey, I could get two coffees for that dime, instead of treatin’ you to a read. Well, now I ca
n afford it,” he patted the pocket holding his bonus. “And what do I get for bein’ nice? This Chinaman’s tea…”
“Chinese tea, Michael. Anyway, Thompson’s good at digging things up,” agreed Allred. “Did you know his father started Tote’m?”
“Jaysus, Brent, sure, I knew that. If Thompson don’t find part two, I’m gonna have to bite me a dog instead of this,” said Axelrod, crunching a leftover gerkin. “According to the mush in this rag, the Silver Manticore from the 19th century was a well-meaning vigilante.”
“You suspect it’s piped?”
“I know it is. Now, some gonif has mulcted his mask,” declared Axelrod around bites of pickle. “If this current one is a good guy, why, I’ll hand in my thirty.”
Allred indicated the dime novel. “Wonder how all this ballyhoo got started…”
“Well, like the man say: ‘When legend becomes fact, print the legend,’” reminded Rochester, without looking up from his clipping.
CHAPTER NINE
AGENT BURBERRY
Jonas Burberry wasn’t used to seeing the whole crowd gathered together. Nor was he particularly thrilled with them invading his headquarters. Sure, he liked them all well enough. But now they all knew his sanctum sanctorum was located in the sub-basement of the Examiner. At least any noise they make would be covered by the printing presses. And they made a load of noise. Right now the presses were running off a set of manticore cards.
Oh, well, it all comes out someday. Burberry carefully adjusted the magnifier, light, earpiece, microphone combination he wore on his balding head. The sounds of the city above were muted. He had been on duty since 6 P.M. and was almost through with his shift.
Moments before, Brent Allred and Bako had shown up with hamburgers from the White Castle. The group chomped on those eagerly. Buy them by the sack is right, he knew. The group tore into them like a pack of hungry piranha. Burberry was well-acquainted with the pleasant aroma. The burger joint claimed they had flipped fifty million of them. Quite a few had been consumed by him. Coffee was produced from a Thermos, although he noted that Allred and Bako, as always, sipped tea. Jasmine, his nose told him. The place would soon have the comforting smell of a greasy spoon on the interstate.
As the group collected around a conference table, beefy Speed Martin pushed aside his Kodak Retina 1, Argus Photoflash, a selection of Dejur-Amsco accessories and a small Minox of a few years vintage, to better see the portly Professor Scott. They were chatting about Edwin Land’s newfangled methods for developing photos. Chocolate-hued Evan White was teaching Louise Scott a blues song his girlfriend, Electricity Buncamper, sang in her act. The gentle giant of a jeweler/metal smith had just turned in a supply of little manticores, signal rings and a new gasmask that would function underwater.
Can’t just hang the phone up on these chatterboxes, Burberry reflected sourly. Maybe they make this place a bit homier but they sure are a noisy bunch, as new agent Corrigan seemed to be learning. He and young Colt were so intent on their own chin music, though, they probably didn’t hear the rest of this gang.
But something about Corrigan’s bearing worried Burberry. He sure wasn’t acting like no “new agent,” he mused. Minding the switchboard, Burberry knew that Corrigan and Colt stood by the cooler of Hetch Hetchy Reservoir water, no doubt clutching paper cups with pointed bottoms. He could make out what they were saying, despite the noise quotient.
“I’ve made some headway based on what you provided me on your father,” Corrigan began emphatically.
“Well, please tell me, Mr. Corrigan,” Colt enthused. He was an intense, athletic young man, standing five feet, eight inches, perhaps one hundred seventy pounds, with brown hair and eyes. You could see how he was able to pass for his cousin Brent Allred. Those in the room knew he was once Bob Wynn.
“Passport records--yes, they had ‘em back then-- going back to the time your father disappeared show he went to Paris. But he never seems to have come back. I suspect foul play,” Corrigan said soberly. “I’m sorry, Danny.”
“I was prepared for that possibility. You’ve been thorough. Did that letter from Quincey Morris lead anywhere?”
“Another Texan; he died somewhere in the Borgo Pass up in the Carpathian Mountains.”
“That’s a long way from home,” considered Colt.
“Your father arrived too late. Morris was taking some vigilante action against a count or duke.”
“How does Paris figure in to it?” Colt asked.
“I got the word from a journalist there, Jerome Fandor…”
“Fandor?” affirmed Colt.
“Yeah, he’s sort of the French Mike Axelrod. He says your father knocked around Europe and eventually went to France. He was born in 1850, correct?”
“It is.”
“There wasn’t much of a chance of his still being alive.”
“Well, it’s something. Thanks very much, Mr. Corrigan,” said Colt shaking the government man’s hand.
“Oh, and thank you for showing me that other letter, the one from President Grant. He started my department. Now I want you to lock it away for your grandkids.”
“I suppose it shouldn’t be publicized that Grant had a pair of secret service men accountable only to him, let alone allowed a masked vigilante to operate.”
“I agree,” said Corrigan.
“Looks like Brent is ready to talk,” pointed out Colt.
Brent Allred commanded the attention of everyone in the room except for Burberry. He was listening but he had his back to the group, watching his all-important switchboard.
“Gang, I’ll be brief. You all met Mr. Corrigan on the way in before. First off, I’ll be handing over the running of our group to him from now on.”
The group looked shocked.
“I’m moving to New York City. I’ve begun negotiating the purchase of an ailing paper there, The Daily Sentry, from old friend Frank Havens. I expect to be there in six weeks or so, as soon as I finalize the sale of the Examiner to Mr. Orson Kane. Any of you who feel he or she can’t go, well, it’s copasetic. If you can make the trip, great. Be there in two weeks time. You’ll have jobs waiting for you.”
Allred’s down turned palms indicated he wanted questions held.
“Now I’ll still need eyes and ears here. Certain private detectives I put in the clues business, all up and down the coast, can provide any muscle you may need if you’re staying and find yourself in a tight spot. Details, as we say in the tabloid racket, T.K.,” Allred added. “Questions?”
Professor Scott raised his hand politely. Brent nodded. Scott brushed a neatly trimmed mustache and had gone gray a long time ago.
“I don’t think I can manage the move, Brent, at my age. But from what I hear, you’ll have a fine scientist on the team there.”
“I wonder which daughter of yours in this room babbled that,” Allred smiled. “At least you’ll have use of your garage again.”
At mention of the word “garage,” Bako arose, bowing slightly, “I would assume we cannot risk taking the Pegasus across country, Mr. Brent?”
“We pretty much ran her into the ground, Bako,” replied Allred. “She’s headed for the glue factory.”
Bako briefly wondered who was driving the Pegasus to get glue from a subterranean manufacturer with all the agents here. He soon got the drift: “Ah, it is curtains for her.”
Speed Martin jumped in, living up to his moniker. It was an improvement over his old Army Air Corps nickname. He was called “Bull” back then.
“Speaking of the Pegasus, we got the Alfa Romero engine into that flivver in a little over four hours. It was just a matter of having the materials and place to do the surgery. We can do a repeat performance over to the Big Apple. I don’t know where we can lay our mitts on anything as smooth as that ’36, though.”
“I think we’re going to have a Pegasus in New York that looks like a taxicab. There are twenty-one thousand on the streets there, according to Mr. Corrigan,” Allred gestured toward him.
“I don’t know if we’ll need a race car engine, though. Our new friend there, the ‘fine scientist,’ has controlling interest in a cab company,” added Corrigan. “That’s a cover for his own fleet of ones that are bulletproof, gas proof and pretty souped up already.”
“That reminds me. What about the plane the city fathers gave you, Danny?” called Allred.
Speed spoke before Danny Colt could, “Stolen by us. It’s hidden in the prof’s garage. Mr. Barnes is turning it into one a them there autogiros right now. Just like you wanted. Nobody’ll ever know it’s the same ’37 de Haviland biplane they give Bob.” He went back to his two coffees.
“Speed, how do you expect to sleep tonight after all that java?” laughed Louise.
“Aw, Miss Scott, everybody knows coffee helps you sleep.”
“I know,” she laughed. “‘…If you can’t sleep, it’s not the coffee, it’s the bunk.’ ”
“If I might,” Corrigan spoke up.
Louise Scott turned to him: “‘It’s the bunk.’ You get it, don’t you?”
“Eh, yes. Now, the important thing is for Danny and myself to get to New York under strictest cover. Transcontinental and Western Air won’t do.”
“He doesn’t get it,” Louise sighed, exasperated.
Corrigan ignored the girl and continued, “Danny will fly me to New York in the remodeled de Haviland. We’ll have to stop to refuel fairly often. I’m going to show my federal agent I.D. It’s a secret mission; can’t risk a commercial flight, anonymous pilot, that sort of thing. Everyone we encounter will think it’s me trying to get to New York quietly, but it’s really Danny.”
“That flight will tax her five-cylinder Lambert, all right. She’s only ninety horsepower,” commented Colt.
“We have a scheduled tune up in Cincinnati. The route is set to be from here to Sacremento, Reno, Elko, Salt Lake City, Rock Springs, Rawlins, Cheyenne, North Platte, Des Moines, Iowa City, Chicago, Cleveland, Bellafonte and, finally, New York. Specifically, Doc Wylie’s riverside hanger. No questions asked and, Brent, you’ll have an autogiro and an agent in place.”