The Sting of the Silver Manticore

by P. J. Lozito

  The Silver Manticore reached the landing and saw Ling Chan bounding down, three steps at a time. With grease coating his gum soles, the Manticore was disinclined to launch himself over the banister. Under different circumstances, such derring-do would be called for. He gave chase, in a more conventional manner, hoping yet not to break his neck.

  Down the two men raced, Ling Chan still recklessly eating up distance. On each landing, the Silver Manticore lost time as he stopped, leveling his gun. And on each landing he saw his intended target hurry out of range.

  Wood splattered silently as a round buried itself hopelessly into a wall. The Silver Manticore squeezed off another shot, silencer--as expected-- interfering with his usually on-target aim. On the ground floor, Ling Chan had one more advantage. A sharp turn left before the exit again meant there was nothing for the Silver Manticore to draw a bead on. He had lost his carefully planned advantage. Manticore crashed on through the door Ling Chan had just exited moments before, gun up and ready for anything.

  In the gloomy night, the Manticore spied Bako standing over a prone figure. He was freeing one of his deadly darts from the lifeless body of Ling Chan.

  “I have kept my eye on that door, boss,” he reported with pride. “This one charged from within, in the manner of a bat exiting Hades. I hear his gun bark, perhaps killing you.”

  “Too bad about this,” pondered the Silver Manticore. “I had hoped to get something out of him,” he declared glumly, then brightened: “Bako, we can capitalize on this death.”

  “How, boss?”

  “Remember? We can trust Corrigan to gag the cops about this...”

  Bako’s eye’s widened in horror. “Boss, you take this master-of-disguise bit too far,” he commented, alarmed.

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t do it.”

  “You will not fool an Asian,” offered Bako. “They will know stage make-up.”

  “Not people in New York who never saw Ling Chan,” Allred stated. “He was Eurasian. My disguise will be good enough to fool Occidentals. I’ll only go out at night and I’ll be using artificial aging.”

  “And sooner or later, Ling Chan will be offered a job with the Fi-San?” deduced Bako.

  “I’m banking on it.”

  “Luck already smiles upon us, boss. Observe, I have found a note this unfortunate one’s vest pocket,” Bako presented folded paper.

  “Good work. What’s it say?” questioned the Silver Manticore.

  Bako bowed in acknowledgment of the complement, “It is in kanji, boss.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, Bako. Your Chinese is better than mine.”

  “It seems he was to partake in a raid this evening.”

  “Of?” prompted the Silver Manticore. The pair headed for the Pegasus. Bako threw it into gear and she came back to life.

  “Of the police evidence depot containing the pair of Luciferro’s bunraku,” replied Bako. “The mechanical marionettes.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TSAR NICHOLAS II

  Brent Allred thought back as he rode in the Pegasus: Russia had been cold. But Allred had not thought of Russia for a long time; Russia and his friend Nicholas. Allred had been assigned to pose as the entirely real renegade Russian-American Alexander Kentov at the time…

  ***

  The mustachioed and bearded Nicholas II, czar of Russia, stood at the door of Kentov’s modest Moscow room, near the Kremlin, at 3 Tverskaya St. It was 1916. He did not know that the mercenary was really a member of America’s secret service, here to manipulate the crown until she chose to enter the war.

  “Do invite me in and close the door. If my staff finds out I have come to visit our hired American there will be much scandal,” Nicholas stated regally. “I can grant you five minutes. They will know by then I have evaded them.”

  “Dukhovnik,” began Allred, of course his surprise was genuine. “I thought you were in Petrograd, at the Tsarskoye Selo. I hardly know...”

  “I am to visit to the Central Military Department Store here. I could not resist meeting you. Alexandr, you are the man of the hour, the finest of the Seven Stars. You have prevented Russia from being involved in another foolish war. The gold medal you will receive shall carry the inscription ‘Order of Service to the Motherland, 1st Degree.’”

  Allred’s smile was genuine, too. “Uh, I was just making tea. May I offer you a cup?”

  He presented the cup he had just been steeping and washed out another for himself.

  “Thank you. I have reports this machine you destroyed was more devastating than anything Engineer Garin has yet devised,” Nicholas stated, placing a proffered sugar cube between his teeth as he sipped the brew.

  “Well, this thing, this ‘Darkness of Doom,’ stopped the function of motors, sire.” Allred put down the cup and carried over a chair, “Someone else destroyed…”

  Nicholas continued as if he hadn’t heard Allred’s reply, ascending the presented chair like a throne. “You simply must meet the children at the Nikoalevsky.”

  “They have heard of American aces, tsar?” Privately, he thought Nicholas’ comments inane. Let your five young children meet a hired killer?

  “Yes. You shall be quite a relief after that boorish Khlysty charlatan, that Rasputin. You remind me of a bold Yusupous scion I favor, however. He had promised to solve that problem for me but has as yet done nothing.”

  “Allow me to look into it, sire,” said Allred. This Yusupous must be conspiring to kill this Rasputin fellow.

  Nicholas looked around at the small, cramped, shabby flat, “You could do with better quarters. In the meantime, I want you to have this.” Putting down the cup, he slipped a ring off his finger, a magnificent girasol, unmatched in the world. “I feel we shall be great friends.”

  “Thank you, tsar. I will treasure it always,” Allred bowed.

  “And the others with you?” asked the monarch, offhandedly.

  “Kosloff and Kuryakin, sire.”

  “Good men, but I fear they will be content with somewhat more base rewards, though.”

  “No worse than an American, tsar?”

  “They are Georgian and Ukrainian. But you are of good Russian stock. Have you seen the pair today?”

  “No, tsar. I have heard they are out celebrating the successful mission.”

  “No matter. You will be attached to the Okhrana immediately.”

  Allred smiled. Objective accomplished.

  The monarch finished his tea and arose. “I must leave,” the tsar said abruptly. He pumped Allred’s hand vigorously. And with that the Nicholas II exited. This member of Romanov royalty would lay dead in the House of Special Purposes by July of 1918.

  It wasn’t ten minutes later that another knock fell upon Kentov’s door. Allred thought he couldn’t be surprised by anything at this point. His erstwhile partners in espionage, Kosloff and Kuryakin, stood before him. He greeted his visitors with a hardy “Na Zdorovye!”

  “You will never guess who you have just missed while you were imbibing,” added Allred, broad smile on his face.

  “I don’t care if it was your Woodrow Wilson collecting rubles for his pitiful League of Nations.”

  “My Woodrow Wilson? I didn’t vote for him.”

  “It is who you have not missed that concerns us,” Kosloff’s replied with the distinct odor of horseradish vodka on his breath. A third man appeared from behind the door. “Kentov meet Kentov.”

  Of course, Brent Allred recognized Colonel Alexander Kentov from photographs. This fellow is almost my twin, thought Brent Allred. I have the papers saying I’m Kentov. But that is to be expected. The real Kentov glared at Allred coldly and smiled. I had better decide quickly, Allred knew.

  “You are not taken in by this spy are you?” countered Allred.

  “Quite humorous. He said that about you,” pointed out Kuryakin, speaking for the first time.

  A tight spot, Allred pondered. How would the real Kentov act if a U.S. government man turned
up at his door? Allred studied Kentov again. Suddenly, Allred’s knee shot up as his hand brought Kentov’s head down to meet it in collision. A feral look of hatred was on Allred’s face. A stiletto appeared in his hand. Kentov staggered back.

  “You dare to come here, copper?” screamed Allred in English at the reeling Kentov. “I’ll cut your damn heart out! I’ll wring your lousy neck…!”

  A savage lunge with a knife missed Kentov. He was able to dislodge it from Allred’s hand. Kentov had learned that trick on the rough streets of Chicago and knew how to do it well.

  “Think I won’t kill you,” hissed Allred, “in front of witnesses?”

  His right hand throbbed but his left caught Kentov. Scarlet now dripped from Kentov’s nose. A vicious chop from Allred’s right hand quickly followed up. Kentov fell to his knees, dazed. He covered up his face. Both of Allred’s hands hurt now. But Kentov’s position was perfect for a leg thrust. Kentov hit the floor hard. A table crashed. A tumbler of Na Zdorovie Kvas went flying with a shatter of glass. Kuryakin stepped forward.

  “Let them,” muttered Kosloff.

  Allred had Kentov on the floor now, pummeling his victim. Kentov bellowed in English, like a little girl, forgetting his childhood Russian. Allred had switched to a chokehold that alternately lifted and slammed Kentov’s head into the floor. Unbeknownst to Allred, Kentov’s was trying to reverse their position, hooking his opponent with his legs.

  Suddenly, Allred felt himself lifted off Kentov, before the tactic could be completed. Strong hands, belonging to Kosloff, hoisted him up and back.

  “Enough.”

  The combatants were pried apart.

  “Some kazatsky! No lawman I ever saw tries to kill with such savagery,” exclaimed Kuryakin.

  “Kosloff, take this one away,” his kick indicated the real Kentov.

  “But I’m Kentov,” wailed the bloody victim of Allred’s attack. “That maniac is the spy!” he gasped.

  Allred was still a raging mass. Murder flashed in his eyes. It was an act, but a convincing one.

  “You are the real Kentov. This I know,” declared Kosloff to Allred.

  Allred composed himself. He held up his ring for Kosloff, “I’m glad you agree with the tsar.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DOC WYLIE

  “Yeah, I can whip you up some smokescreen,” declared Max Levnitz at the wheel of a Marathon Liberty Cab. His voice was high-pitched, like a child’s. “And I can brew you up some flares to load into that fancy gas gun a yours, while I’m at it. I do it for our super-machine pistols.”

  Even seated, Brent Allred had correctly estimated his driver to be five two and two-hundred sixty pounds. Half a man tall, two wide: the real life inspiration, perhaps, for Ella Mae Morse’s “Mr. Five by Five” record.

  The hack and the driver were carefully arranged to look real but Dr. Richard Wylie, Jr. owned and operated Liberty Cabs for his own purposes, certainly not for livery. Said cab was aimed west on 34th Street. They would be approaching, and passing, Wylie’s headquarters, the Empire State Building.

  Levnitz was one of Wylie’s assistants, part of his inner circle joining him on his adventuring around the globe. Wylie was a scientist, inventor and unofficial crime fighter. The monthly magazine devoted to those adventures claimed five such assistants. Allred wasn’t ready to believe that; Wylie could have five or he could have several dozen.

  Few outside of Wylie’s circle knew the facts, Levnitz boasted. Starting from the age of fourteen months old until twenty years, Wylie had been raised by scientists. This had the effect of making him, not only a physical marvel, but also an expert in many fields: medicine, nutrition, aviation, languages, scientific deduction, electricity, and chemistry among them. In the latter field, Wylie was not as good as himself, Levnitz pointed out. Close, but no cigar.

  “Not that Doc smokes,” he added. “There it is, Mr. Allred, our home.”

  Brent Allred rubber necked to take in the structure. It was damn tall. And very impressive; pictures couldn’t convey that. Wylie was indeed a big wheel if he owned the Empire State Building.

  Allred regarded the building with awe, “I’m used to everything being big in Texas. But I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Yeah, and it wasn’t even there last week,” kidded Levnitz.

  When the Great War broke out, Wylie at fifteen ran away to join the Army, in an effort to prove himself. The youth, big for his age, passed for seventeen. It was there he met the men who now aided him in his work, Levnitz elaborated.

  “And just why do the lot of you do this, righting wrongs?” asked Allred.

  “Doc and his father was all set to devote their lives to makin’ the world a better place.”

  “Tikkun olam?”

  Levnitz grinned, “We’re gonna get along fine, Mr. Allred. Yeah, then criminals killed the senior. When that happened, Doc called me and the rest of the bunch. We all met in Loki Camp in the Great War.”

  “Loki?”

  “Germans had it for real incorrigible escapees: me ‘n’ Doc, Longjohns Roberts, Caesar Fox, Illinois Smith, that rotten Chuck Charalambides, who, if I hadn’t a taken pity on, would still be there.”

  “But weren’t all of you different rank?”

  “Yeah, the Jerry made no bones about nationalities or rank there. Fox was Montenegro Intelligence, even.”

  “’Fox,’ eh? Doesn’t sound like he’s from Montenegro,” commented Allred.

  “It ain’t name he was borned with,” shrugged Levvy.

  Although the driver was addressing him, Brent Allred was carefully observing his surroundings. The Liberty Cab now approached a huge, smoke-stained, red brick warehouse on Manhattan’s waterfront. It had one huge corrugated metal door. Allred read a thoughtfully placed poster: “ENEMEY PLANES! WILL YOU BE SLEEPING OR HELPING YOUR NEIGHBORS? VOLUNTEER FOR VICTORY.”

  Odd-looking, rundown place for the very rich, Doc Wylie to be using, thought Allred, as they edged closer to the ramshackle building on West 34th Street and the Hudson River. Hard to believe they land planes in here, but he knew Danny and Corrigan had done just that. A sign out front claimed:

  NORPEN LUMBER COMPANY

  A breeze blew in. Across the river, Weehawken, New Jersey seemed close enough to just reach out and touch. Wylie merely use this for a hangar, Allred recalled Corrigan informing him as he looked over the warehouse. Why bother with a lumber company? He did not know that Wylie and his men, including Levnitz, were the Norpen Lumber Company.

  “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Levnitz,” Allred called as he pretended to pay his driver. Allred also passed him an ampoule of Mimosa 3 he had promised, “And thanks in advance for analyzing this for me.”

  “Shucks, I love to analyze stuff and I’m glad to do the Grover Whalen act. Nothing going on in this ‘burg ‘till opening day, anyway. Then Enos Slaughter’ll be knockin’ ‘em outta the park,” replied the rusty-haired, ursine driver, giving Allred back the same coins as change. “At least, accordin’ to my Yankee Sketch Book.”

  “Seems kind of quiet here,” allowed Allred, scanning around.

  “Yeah, we made good time. They must be still gettin’ ready for you.”

  Allred didn’t agree that driving like a maniac was “making good time,” but said nothing further about it. Levnitz took yellow lights as an invitation to floor it.

  “Oh, my friends call me ‘Levvy.’ If ya wanna stay one, you should, too.”

  Levvy drove off, made a few turns and then planned to leave the taxi at the quite legitimate Liberty Cab Company operation down the street. He would then slip back into the warehouse. Levvy intended to start analyzing that sample; chemistry was the love of his life besides sports, jump music, brawling, loud clothing, needling Chuck Charalambides, driving fast and, of course, “the ladies.”

  That Levvy was a world-renown master chemist, Allred knew well. In fact, the War Production Board had him working on a rubber substitute now that hostilities made the substance hard to get. But he
had never heard such poor diction from an educated man. Allred realized that was the editor in him, hard at work.

  There was a keen brain inside Levvy’s bullet-shaped head, replete with cauliflower ears. Because Levvy reminded him of actor William Bendix, Allred had difficulty picturing him intent on the operation of Bunsen burners and beakers.

  Levvy had picked up Allred at Grand Central Terminal, when the latter had alighted from the 20th Century Limited. The Terminal’s one hundred-twenty five feet ceilings, covering some forty nine acres of real estate, had momentarily awed Allred. He knew half a million people charged through there daily. All of them, seemingly, right at the moment he and Bako disembarked.

  While riding the cushions east, Allred was pretty sure he had spotted a low down trio of heels playing the run around game. But Allred had said nothing to the conductor. Why risk tipping his hand? He was just a passenger, not a vigilante. Still, the old habits die hard he had to admit.

  Now Bako, in the function of valet, was arranging Allred’s belongings at 1 Sutton Place South. The thirteen story Italian Renaissance building, near East River, dated from 1927. Morgans, Vanderbilts and Delanos lived there. This flat was for when Allred couldn’t make it back to his new Morristown, New Jersey home.

  Corrigan had been here for three weeks already. He was somewhere around, past city limits in Lake Success, setting up some international government project. At least the name of the place was a good omen. Corrigan allowed that the State Department had been cooking up some world organization for at least four years. FDR wasn’t going to let another League of Nations collapse.

  In the same span of weeks, Danny Colt had been putting in appearances as the Silver Manticore. Now Colt had to be ready to step into the persona of “Brent Allred” at a moment’s notice.

  Allred found the door to the Norpen Lumber Co., surprisingly, unlocked. He let himself into a small anteroom. The place had a hospital-like antiseptic smell. Figures, if Wylie is a surgeon. Allred knew the place was soundproof. Or as soundproof as could humanly be achieved, for there was no total soundproofing. He noted that the lighting system was shadow less.