by P. J. Lozito
“Going to be a rough ride all right,” mused Colt.
“Most of the way is barren of towns and people so Uncle Sam has paid for an ‘airway’ between California and New York,” intoned Corrigan. “It’s lit with 289 large beacons that flash covering the whole 2600 miles. Also, there are emergency landing fields near those beacons.”
“So, who’s this Barnes fellow, Chris?” asked Allred.
“Bill Barnes is a good patriot, an expert in aviation. If anyone can turn that plane into an autogiro, auto gyro, true gyro or whatever the hell it is, he can,” stated Corrigan.
“I have a question for you, Mr. Corrigan,” huge Evan “Jericho” White interjected in basso profundo. “Why exactly do we need you, sir? Seems to me we’re doing fine busting gangs on our own.”
“Good question. As someone familiar with the methods you use, I detected Brent’s hand in this,” he indicated the Silver Manticore operation with a gesture. “Typical fieldcraft we teach our operatives. What you’re doing is quite illegal, though, morally right.” He tapped the table top, “Put it this way: I need you.”
Corrigan paused for breath, “Moreover, if I could figure out your little set-up here, some other government lackey sure as hell can. However, I know and trust Brent.”
That’s more than we can say about you, fumed Burberry silently.
“It just so happens that an old associate of Mr. Allred’s and Mr. Martin’s, one Ralph ‘Nippy’ Weston, is a shoe-in to be New York’s next police commissioner. As a matter of fact, Weston put me wise to the Silver Manticore’s special shenanigans.”
His back to the group as he watched the switchboard, Burberry scowled. Maybe Brent and Speed trust this Corrigan but there was something he wasn’t telling them.
“All the way over in New York?” Louise snipped, eager to make Corrigan work.
“Weston’d read about him in the local papers. Some of the Manticore’s exploits have made the wire services. He thought he recognized Brent’s old traits. My boss, Z-7, authorized taking charge of your little group but knows no details.”
Speed Martin took this in soberly. He was pledged to do whatever he could to make up for the shame his father had brought to the Texas Rangers all those years before. He would follow Brent Allred to ends of the earth, if need be. He’d even work with that sawed-off runt Weston again.
Brent pondered aloud, “I had no idea old Nippy had become a cop, much less the chief in New York...”
“What?” Speed broke in. “Why, there’s a town in the Black Hills named after his lawman pa. It runs in the family.”
Corrigan turned to Martin in surprise, “You’re informed, Speed, terrifyingly so, for a photographer.”
The latter grinned, “It’s the newspaper, sir. I pick stuff up.”
Corrigan wondered just how much Martin had indeed “picked up” on Jim Weston, Grant’s confidential government operator of some seventy-five years ago. He knew both he and Burberry eavesdropped on every word that passed between himself and young Colt. Corrigan made a note to look into this Martin.
“Well, let’s pray Nippy’s given up the practical jokes,” Allred said hopefully.
“Amen to that, boss.” He looked at Allred, “Maybe he’s finally grown in size and sense. He was half my size when we were flyin’ with you.”
“But you’re a big one,” kidded Allred.
“I wanted to add that it’ll be good to have the top cop with us. Weston’ll be able to smooth things over with the rank and file that even I can’t,” pointed out Corrigan. “I’m sure they’ll resent government interference in local police matters.”
“Whatever would make you think that?” Louise stated icily.
You get him, Louise, cheered Burberry silently. Corrigan smiled at Louise, “New York City has one of the best, if not the best, detective bureau in the country. There’s bound to be some resentment when I show up.”
“And when you found out Mr. Allred was the Silver Manticore…?” Evan White prompted.
“We hatched a plan,” finished Corrigan, nodding. “It may seem like I’m chasing the Manticore but really I’ll be guiding this alliance between him, Doc Wylie, and an Englishman named Sir Dennis.”
“I understand your interest but why are they involved?” persisted Miss Scott.
“As you know, Dr. Hanoi Tsin has organized what he calls ‘best brains.’ Thanks to all of you, he now has a vacancy on his Cabal of Seven,” he continued. “Sir Dennis has fought Hanoi Tsin for years. But he ain’t no spring chicken.”
“Gang, Hanoi Tsin was the juice behind Emilo Luciferro-- Dr. Lucifer.”
“Thank you, Brent. Rumor has it that Hanoi Tsin was inspired to step up his operations when he lost a power struggle with an old crony of his,” Corrigan stated. “His ex-ally, Moriarty, responded in turn by forming the Circle of Life, though Moriarty himself is missing and his group seems to be waiting the war out.”
“Missing. Is that Hanoi Tsin’s doing?” Allred asked.
“We don’t believe so. He had many other enemies. The fact that the Circle of Life is still going full tilt, even without Moriarty, over some fifty years later, concerns us too.”
“So, Hanoi Tsin is fighting someone else?” Jericho asked, “This Circle of Light?”
“Circle of Life. Hanoi Tsin, too, has many enemies. The Circle is one of ‘em. Who knows? Maybe an alliance can be formed. Circle of Life is certainly the lesser of two evils. Right now, joining this group with Doc Wylie’s is a more reasonable response.”
“Hard to believe Wylie’s a real person; I’ve read his magazine once when I couldn’t find Buffalo Bill Stories,” Colt gushed. “It was good. No Western, but still pretty darn entertaining.”
“Yeah?” Speed Martin put in, incredulously. “I never had the pleasure.”
“Yes. See, there was this man in Indo-China with a thousand heads all over body …”
The group stared at Colt blankly.
“And…he, well, ah, just how do we fit in, sir?” Colt stumbled, bringing the discussion back to where it belonged.
“You better believe he exists. Wylie has four Purple Hearts and the Congressional Medal of Honor. Uncle Sammy doesn’t give those out to phantoms,” stated Corrigan. “I believe that an organization should be formed to fight menaces that threaten nations, all nations.”
“Interpol welded to the League of Nations?” tried Allred.
“That’s a good way to put,” responded Corrigan. “Hanoi Tsin’s Cabal of Seven and this Circle of Life represent only two examples of such menaces, even if they are at each other’s throats.”
“Be nice if we could simply take on the winner but we can just let them carry on a secret war,” stated Allred.
“Correct. What I’m doing here could sow the seeds for such an organization,” pointed out Corrigan. “This Interpol/League of Nations meld that Brent so succinctly suggests.”
“‘Cabal of Seven,’ ‘Circle of Life,’ it’s going to be murder to keep those names straight,” complained Louise. “Especially when we’re in the field, dodging bullets.”
“Rumor has it Moriarty named the Circle of Life so as to irritate Hanoi Tsin,” pointed out Corrigan, “Same cadence.”
“And you think this is tied in to the disappearance of my father, what, thirty years ago?” asked Colt.
“So far, we don’t know, but someone aware of your father’s extraordinary skills called him to Europe right when and where all this was starting. John Allred believed it was important enough to come out of retirement, even though he had a wife and a new baby: you,” Corrigan reasoned. “I believe that while he was there, he found traces of his old enemy, the Black Arrow Syndicate.”
Speed Martin’s jaw tightened.
“Mr. Corrigan,” Louise Scott began, setting down a pencil.
“’Chris,’” he insisted, with a smile.
“Mister Corrigan, I’ve been doing some arithmetic. Just how old is this Hanoi Tsin if he had a falling out with Mr. Moriarty fifty yea
rs ago?”
“That’s ‘Professor’ Moriarty, Miss Scott,” answered Corrigan, glad to correct her. He was beginning to find her a little irritating. “A real professor, just like your father here. But a cruel, awful man.”
“Did he have a first name?”
“James Moriarty, perhaps you haven’t heard of him. I’m sure your father has.”
Prof. Scott’s eyes widened, “Mr. Corrigan, you can’t mean the author of the famous treatise The Dynamics of an Asteroid?”
The government man turned to Prof. Scott, “That’s the one.”
“Well, never mind him if he’s missing, presumed dead. Just who is this Dr. Hanoi Tsin?” implored Miss Scott.
Corrigan held Miss Scott’s gaze. “I have no proof Moriarty is dead,” he stated firmly. “Now, Hanoi Tsin, he controls a cult of killers called the Fi-San and is the president of the Cabal of Seven, a collection of criminal masterminds from many countries.”
“We’re in the newspaper game, Mr. Corrigan,” reminded Louise. “Why don’t you tell us who these gangsters are: Lepke? Stalin? Hitler?”
“Hanoi Tsin hates the Communits and the Nazis. Besides the late Dr. Lucifer, his cronies include Dr. Moreau, Dr. Maboose, and an Asiatic Indian called Prince Dakkar. There are others.”
“Really, Mr. Corrigan,” censured Louise Scott, looking around the table. “Those men couldn’t possibly still be alive. Do you realize how old they’d be?”
Corrigan hesitated, “Hanoi Tsin seems to be interested in someone in New York who knows about a thing called the Elixir Vitae.”
Colt put down a midget hamburger and spoke up, annoyed at his new friend, “But what has that to do with Miss Scott’s question?”
“It’s supposed to extend the lifespan. Our information says Hanoi Tsin was born in 1840.”
Even Burberry turned his wheelchair around to stare.
CHAPTER TEN
LING CHAN
The Silver Manticore, in the person of Brent Allred, had one more mission to complete before Danny Colt received the mask for use in New York City. Having Danny appear as the Silver Manticore before Allred arrived would allay suspicions that he, Allred, was really the masked mystery man. But it was only temporary.
Allred had always felt that young Danny had his whole life ahead of him. Even though we had him fake his own death as Bob Wynn, pondered Allred. Still, his cousin insisted on being part of the team and he had proven to be a valuable asset. Too bad he had been unmasked on that mission down in Mexico, Allred sighed.
Allred checked and re-checked equipment. All of it was in working order. It wouldn’t do to have some valuable tool fail while out in the field. Equipment lay hidden in the various pockets. The last point of business found Allred placing his wallet went into a hidden pouch in his suit jacket. Should the Silver Manticore ever be “rolled” while unconscious, no one would easily find out his real name.
The scent of motor oil filled Allred’s nostrils as he entered the garage. He and Bako lifted a white, Bakelite covering, formed exactly like Allred’s black Hudson, off the Pegasus. This easily snapped into place on the sedan. Hopefully, no one would soon guess how the Pegasus “disappeared.” Anyone thoughtful enough to feel the hood for warmth would find it cold. An ingenious turntable arrangement would make it seem like the white car had just pulled in and the black car, facing the wrong way, could not have. Bako’s skill in carpentry had certainly come in handy.
An observer outside would have noted Brent Allred and his chauffeur heading out for a drive. Peering into the garage, such an observer would have seen Allred’s other car, a white Hudson, resting there.
The Pegasus rolled out of the garage connected to Brent Allred’s garden apartment. Their walkway was camouflaged as a freestanding cedar closet in Bako’s room. On the closet side, the overwhelming smell of mothballs kept the garage’s odors at bay. The other side opened onto the garage’s walk-in tool chest. Grease-stained overalls, painter’s hats and work gloves hung on hooks inside.
Inside the Pegasus, masks and weapons were yet hidden under clothing. They never drove around with them in plain sight. Their cover was perfect; rich man and his chauffeur driving somewhere. Why risk blowing it? The big machine headed toward San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf through persistent fog.
“I note you say not a word of tonight’s mission, boss.”
“Tonight, we trap a rat, Bako,” Allred instructed. ”Gunman Ling Chan is sought by Hanoi Tsin.”
Bako knew his boss meant to reach Ling Chan first. “How shall we proceed?”
“He’s a wanted man. I’ll be wrapping him up for the cops. Corrigan has enough pull with them that they’ll keep it hush-hush in ‘the interests of national security.’ But first I ask him a few questions. ”
“He has ’pull’ with the police, boss?”
“Influence,” clarified Allred.
“I see. You have some idea of this Ling Chan’s current whereabouts?”
“One of our people reported him entering a vacant warehouse.”
“This is a cliché, boss,” pointed out Bako politely.
“So it is,” agreed Brent Allred, smiling, in the back seat. “The English lessons progress, I see.”
“I shall master this lingo in nothing flat, boss,” Bako confirmed with a snap of fingers, momentarily steering one-handed. “I shall have… pull.”
The black car cruised unobtrusively past a warehouse Allred indicated, “That’s the one. Okeh, position yourself so you can keep an eye on that front door.” Allred replaced a small telescope no larger than a shotgun shell back into its proper pouch. Apparently, he was satisfied with whatever view it revealed.
Allred waited for a shiny, late model Pierce-Arrow to turn the corner. Then he reached for silencer he brazenly kept in the car, mocked up like a flashlight.
A figure in black silently slipped out of the car and hurried to the back of the warehouse. From beneath his coat, he produced a pair of shuko. Slipping them onto his hands, it was the Silver Manticore who then adjusted the Japanese foot spikes around his shoes and began to climb. No sound betrayed his presence as he scurried up the side of the building like a spider.
Reaching the roof, Silver Manticore headed for its kiosk. The small, L-shaped flashlight clipped to his belt played upon the door’s lock there. He flicked open his belt buckle. By touch he felt for the proper tools from a selection of probes, feeler picks, lock picks, files, reamers, tension wrenches and rakes. Take your time, Brent, old boy, he thought: you have the advantage. Suddenly, he worried what Bako’s imperfect grasp of the American English vernacular would makes of the instruction to keep his ‘eye on that door.’ Oh, well, it’s too late now.
Door finagled open the Silver Manticore crept noiselessly downstairs, preventing creaks by keeping to the edges of the steps. The smell of a cooked chicken filled the air, pungent even through the filter of the snakeskin mask. That must be some well-done bird if I can smell it through this rig, he thought. The Silver Manticore needed only to follow the scent. Mixed in with it was the distinctive smoky flavor of brewed lapsang souchong tea. There was Ling Chan, in shirtsleeves, in a lit area, his back to the doorway. He seemed to be hunched over food, carving.
Manticore backed away, big .45 now eased out of the holster. A search of the floor’s other rooms revealed no one else to be present.
While a silencer affected a gun’s aim, the Silver Manticore knew, this was one time he could risk using it. If this play came to fatal fireworks, the weapon must be discarded down a nearby sewer and a fresh one selected from his armory of confiscated guns. Had it been “hot,” Luciferro’s hood, in whose possession he had found it, would not have been carrying it.
Manticore returned to Ling Chan’s makeshift kitchen, unseen, unheard. A tap on the left shoulder would alert the victim, letting him know retribution had arrived. The Silver Manticore intended to time that tap with a shift right, dodging whatever implement Ling Chan would try to thrust with. He crept up, trying to think of s
ome threat more effective than ‘Drop that chicken.’ Now he had one:
“Ling Chan, tonight you leave the Golden Mountain,” taunted Silver Manticore in Chinese, “in a shroud.”
Suddenly, the Silver Manticore felt his foot slide out beneath him. Chicken grease! Ling Chan turned abruptly, stabbing the air with a skewer where his nemesis had just stood. It deflected off the big automatic, lodging in the trigger guard.
The Silver Manticore had the presence of mind to continue his motion so that his right elbow smashed into Ling Chan’s jaw, driving him back. Due to poor footing, there wasn’t much behind the blow. Ling Chan rolled with it and snatched up another knife, attacking the Silver Manticore. It may as well been a kogai, thought the Manticore, the way he handled it. I don’t intend to end up like that chicken.
The Chinese danced forth, jabbing savagely. The Silver Manticore, on one knee, leaned back, out of range. Again, blade was parried by gun and was now pointed away from its intended target. For the moment, the firearm was otherwise useless. A stiletto appeared in the Manticore’s left hand. It flashed at Ling Chan’s follow-up knife thrust with far more skill than the criminal expected.
A slash, leaving a red trail along Ling Chan’s knife hand, disarmed him. The second knife clattered to the floor, with a yelp from the victim. Ling Chan must be familiar with that underworld adage: if they pull a gun, attack-- it might jam, but if they pull a knife-- run. Ling Chan saw the Silver Manticore free the skewer from his trigger guard. Then he took off.
Ling Chan re-appeared at the door, revolver in hand. He covered his retreat with a volley of shots. Silver Manticore dived behind a metal bench upended in their struggle. This deflected the bullets. He regained his feet with an oath, finally.
Manticore clutched the blade of his own knife and wound up, swinging his body with the left leg forward, in a smooth, circular movement, aimed at his target. Vital seconds were lost as he pressed the ring to alert Bako that Ling Chan was getting away. Now he flung the stiletto with deadly accuracy at Ling Chan. If the Manticore had wanted that door perforated, he succeeded beautifully.