by P. J. Lozito
“It’s not booze, you ox. Merely cider,” replied Chuck, in insulted tones.
“Don’t take much to turn that into hooch,” protested Levvy. “Even an over-educated dope like you could figure it out.”
“I know Doc’s policy on booze when we’re working,” insisted the lawyer with dignity. “You forget I’ve passed the Bar.”
“Aw, I never seen a bar you could pass, lawyer man,” returned the chemist.
“And I’ve had your so-called coffee,” maintained Chuck. “It’d drive any man to drink.”
“Why, I oughta…”
“Brothers, please,” interrupted Wylie, with a chopping gesture, “We know Hanoi Tsin has used Luciferro’s old robot to kidnap Jacques Le Grandon. It would indicate that Le Grandon’s line was tapped and they knew he was to meet us.”
“What about Mayan?” asked Allred. “I thought we agreed that stumped Hanoi Tsin.”
“We overlooked some salient facts: English words, like ‘Empire State Building,’ ‘Hudson Tubes’ and ‘Harrisonville, New Jersey’ cannot be translated into it. An eavesdropper deduced Le Grandon’s itinerary from those words alone,” Wylie declared.
“What else do we know, sir?” White put in.
“Call me ‘Doc,’ he smiled.
“Well, Doc, you can call me ‘Jericho’.”
“Count on it. I’d say it’s an attempt to draw Mr. Allred’s other self out in the open. Longjohns has cobbled together radio directional finders. We’ll use them to track this robot to its lair.”
“Hopefully, we’ll find the Frenchman there unharmed,” offered Chuck.
“Definitely, unharmed if Hanoi Tsin has a use for him,” claimed Allred. “I don’t like this, not one little bit. At the very least, Le Grandon won’t be telling us what he knows about alchemists.”
“Lemme axe ya this,” began Levvy. “This Hanoi Tsin quack is some kinda Methuselah cause a alchemy? I thought them dang grifters were just trying to change base metal inna gold, ‘n’ look for the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“The lapis philosophorum refers to a process, not an object, Levvy,” Wylie pointed out gently.
“And they did discover phosphorus, you clod,” put in Chuck.
“I knew that,” protested Levvy.
“They also contributed more to bona fide chemistry than you ever will,” held Chuck.
“Be that as it might, don’t a lot of them Chinese swamis live a long time anyways, with alla that healthy slop they eat?”
Allred spoke up again, “Some Chinese are known to sleep two days and stay up two days.”
“Whatever for?” asked Chuck.
“For a longer life,” stated Wylie.
“While in Russia, I heard of many people there, and in China, who had a certain diet and did live a long time,” Allred clarified.
“Although, with no documentation of their birth. However, we have known for some time now that calorie restriction has a positive effect on the body,” Wylie clarified. “And sleeping two days would restrict the intact of calories. Now, Corrigan has information that Hanoi Tsin was born in 1840. He really must possess some fabulous elixir.”
“Blazes, it’s a hunnert ‘n two years,” blurted out Levvy.
“Kudos, Levvy, you didn’t even have to remove your shoes and socks to figure that out,” interjected Chuck mirthlessly. “Hurrah,” he rose and knighted Levvy with his cane. “I dub thee Sir Loin of Beef.”
“Knock it off, fancy pants, or in a minute I’ll dub you but good.”
Wylie halted the bickering with a gesture. “As far back as 1901, Elie Metchnikoff theorized that the human life span could be pushed up to the hundred-fifty year mark.”
“That just doesn’t seem possible,” countered Chuck.
“Sure, to a no good non-scientist, shyster the likes a you,” pointed out Levvy. “It’d put ya outta the wills racket.”
“Metchnikoff theorized that all we required was for the microorganisms of the intestines to maintain a healthful balance,” clarified Wylie. “Yoghurt could, in fact, be a contributing factor.”
“Howlin’ calamities, sign me up for that,” commented Levvy. “So, what’s ‘yoghurt’?”
Wylie, obviously used to the chemist’s desperate attempts at humor, continued, “This elixir Hanoi Tsin has, or some substance in it, probably activates the protein p53. My mentor, in fact, has had some success with queen bees’ royal jelly used to that end.”
“You mean Joseph Bell, Doc?” asked Chuck. “The world’s first consulting detective?”
“And Arthur Conan Doyle’s chemistry teacher,” pointed out Levvy smugly.
Wylie nodded, “Bell outlined this in his Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations on the Segregation of the Queen, published 1913, Sussex, England. And a monk named Brother Adam has had amazing results with bee experiments,” he pointed out.
“Did you say a monk?” was all Levvy could muster.
Wylie nodded again, “I have also read about vitamin E used in such a manner.”
“And for years, Chinese have taken the substance fo-ti to slow the aging process,” Allred added. “But such a centenarian should be feeble, not vital like Hanoi Tsin reportedly is.”
“This has to be some kind of hoax,” protested Chuck, rising. “No one in this room has ever seen Hanoi Tsin. If he really exists, if he is alive at a hundred and two, he must be a withered old fossil.”
“Save it. You ain’t in court now,” commented Levvy.
“Sir Dennis Nayland Jones, who has had many encounters with Hanoi Tsin, reports he appears about to be seventy,” said Wylie. “The Englishman is currently here in New York, incidentally. We must contact him.”
Doc Wylie continued, “There have also been recent discoveries like Adolf Butenandt’s isolation of dehydroepianrosterone. Similarly, there’s Dr. Robert Good’s work on immunology, which shouldn’t be overlooked.”
“How reliable is your information, Doc?” Allred interjected.
“I am a medical doctor, a physical culture enthusiast, and do keep up on such developments. Dr. Butenandt’s discovery was made as recently as 1931. However, I have also been privy to the true nature of a series of crimes in England going back some sixty years. They indicate research was being done on this subject for some sort of elixir of vitality. Hanoi Tsin was, of course, alive at that time.”
Sixty years ago, right as Uncle John was called to Europe, thought Allred.
“Doc, you don’t believe that patent medicine story,” pleaded White, also wanting to be reassured by a scientist.
“Believe it, if Corrigan confirmed it,” answered Wylie.
“He’s made a career out of rooting out the strange,” said Allred.
“And we have seen some odd things in our time, haven’t we, brothers?” Wylie turned to his men, “Remember old Dan Thunden? This oil of life may contain silphium.”
His men nodded sagely in agreement. Levvy broke the silence with, “Well, you can bet this stuff sure don’t conform to the Food, Drug and Cosmetic Act of ’38.”
“At any rate, Dr. Bell investigated these crimes half a century ago. He saw first hand that researchers, scientists and, most importantly, medical doctors were involved,” stressed Wylie.
He let that sink in.
“Some game is afoot,” he added. “Hanoi Tsin has somehow hit upon the right combination with his brew. And I spoke to our erstwhile member, Caesar. Because of his interest in orchards, he keeps up on everything related to plants. He reminded me of the unsolved death of botanist Dr. Edward Bach, too, about six years ago.”
“Oh?” ventured Allred.
“Yes, he relayed that Bach had been studying the supposed curative powers of the posy. Don’t forget the deadly disease scurvy was obliterated by mere fruit,” said Wylie.
“Huh,” began Levvy. “Kid named Jasper Kane at Charles Pfizer and Company out in Brooklyn is planning deep-tank mold fermentation with molasses for makin’ wonder drugs.”
“I’m n
ot from around here,” commented Allred. “What is this?”
“There’re suppliers of chemicals to the food industry,” clarified Wylie.
“Yeah,” Levvy explained. “They bought a local ice-making plant for the process.”
“Our soldiers are dying from infection. They require penicillin and streptomycin in large amounts,” put in Wylie. “Desperately. The government has Joe Koepfli developing antimalarials.”
“Middlesex U. up in Waltham is doin’ good work on that, too,” noted Levvy.
A thought occurred to Wylie. “Chuck, see if your friend at Debevoise, Stevenson, Plympton and Page, the fellow from the Office of Scientific Research and Development, has heard anything similar.”
“Oscar Ruebhausen? Sure, I’ll get right on it,” the lawyer responded. “Those jokers are looking at everything from an ‘atomic’ bomb to antimalaria drugs.”
“I wonder just who Hanoi Tsin tested his stuff on?” muttered Levvy, rubbing his jaw. “No scientist worth his salt ever goes ahead on somethin’ without a guinea pig of some kind.”
“No need to worry, Levvy. Run-of-the-mill pigs like you are safe,” quipped Chuck, from the phone.
“We don’t have the time to ponder that right now. There’s more bad news,” put in Allred.
“Yes, our police contact, Joe Casey, reports that one of those perfectly restored robot broke into a downtown bank. Mobilize with those scanners, track the people controlling these mechanical men and, hopefully, rescue Le Grandon,” instructed Wylie.
“Wait a while, Doc,” said Levvy. “You’d need to know the right frequency for that.”
“From what Casey told Longjohns about the interference he was getting on his wrist radio on Church St., we were able to pick up a thread. Commissioner Weston has arranged that we get first crack at the robots. The San Francisco police couldn’t stop them. Maybe some of the wonders Longjohns has can do the trick. Dismissed, brothers,” said Wylie.
The men filed out to begin their task, all but Allred. He remained in Wylie’s office.
“Something else, Brent?” asked Wylie, looking up.
“That was quite a funny stunt you pulled with the cab doors, Wylie,” began Allred. “You must be a load of laughs at fires.”
“I was merely trying to protect your secret, Brent, and our arrangement. I informed you of my position on us not being seen together in public.”
“Yes, you’ve told me quite a few things. Didn’t you notice those people on Church St. gaping at me after you arrived there you perched on the taxi?”
“Common people do tend to gape when they learn who I am, so rarely do I make public appearances,” offered Wylie.
“Yeah? Well, I don’t care for your superior attitude.”
“Perhaps we can discuss this after we find Dr. Le Grandon and stop these mechanical monsters,” affirmed Wylie as he turned to note something on a pad.
“No, I have something to get off my chest-- you,” Allred declared adamantly, spinning Wylie’s office chair around to face him. “I’m not one of your playmates. Corrigan made it pretty plain you would be assisting me.”
“That’s absurd, Allred. You’re assisting me. Legally, you are a criminal. Only Corrigan’s good reputation prevents me from squashing you like an insect, or turning you in. Being ‘The Scarlet Manatee’ or whatever you call yourself, is no mandate to execute whom you judge to be a criminal.”
“You know damn well what my name is. And I consider that my wartime duty never ended. I’m still serving my country. But you’re just an amateur who hightails it to an Antarctic hideout when it gets too hot in the kitchen,” alleged Allred.
“That is not true,” Wylie said, rising. “For your information, Meta Incognita is merely a retreat. You hide behind a mask because you’re afraid of this Hanoi Tsin. I don’t do that. And at least I have a police commission.”
“Honorary.”
“The experimental two-way wrist radios I gave Casey to field test have proven invaluable,” began Wylie. “Sure, they earned me an honorary commission, but the police appreciate my help on baffling cases…”
“I happen to know you’ve also been hunted by the police, Wylie. Just remember, Weston is my old friend. Corrigan is my old boss. You’re a physician, an explorer, a modern Da Vinci and a health nut, but you sure aren’t a detective.”
“Is that what you think? It just so happens I was trained by the world’s first consulting detective. Even in retirement, he provided me with information on this case of yours,” Wylie reached down and waved at Allred a Trans-Atlantic telegram that was on his desk.
“All the training in the world won’t make you as good as your famous British tutor,” dismissed Allred.
“Allred, you are beginning to weary me. Perhaps this arrangement of Corrigan’s was not to be.”
“That suits me, you pompous windbag. If I never have to listen to one of your college lectures again I’d be happy. I already have a degree.”
“In journalism, unnecessary for that scandal sheet you run. Perhaps you’d like a lesson in the manly art of boxing, Allred. Your studies in gung fu and sinanju, whatever that is, do not impress me,” Wylie said rising.
“I doubt a dabbler like you is up to the task. Everyone knows bodybuilders look impressive but can’t fight,” countered Allred.
With that insult, Doc Wylie thought it best to settle this with the application of one of his pressure point holds. He flicked this hand towards Allred’s neck. But nothing was there.
Allred snapped his head like a boxer. He caught Wylie’s well-muscled arm in a perfect kata-gurama and pivoted. Allred assumed the iron leg stance, lowered his center of gravity and bent his knees. Then he threw.
Doc Wylie found himself sailing through the air. He was surprised but had enough experience and acrobatic skill to gather his feet beneath him. Landing, Wylie used his momentum to continue into a roll forward, hands out. A metal waste paper basket crunched under him. Wylie came to a stop. He did a handstand and quickly launched himself back at Allred. But Allred was ready. He arched his back, ducking under flying feet, and caught Wylie’s torso.
Wylie’s trajectory was spoiled. He flipped over and hit the office floor, head first with a bang. Allred sprung from his own prone position with speed that would have made Jimmy Londos jealous. Charging forward, he grasped Wylie’s ankles, lifting him in what wrestlers call a Boston crab.
Doc Wylie’s face was ground into the floor. Seconds crept by in what seemed like an eternity. Then Wylie’s mighty muscles flexed. A spring uncoiling, he exploded free of Allred’s hold. Wylie’s custom-made oxfords found Allred’s face, connecting solidly.
With Allred momentarily stunned, Wylie scrambled to a standing position, planting himself on the floor. He feigned with a left. Wylie caught his opponent with a fine copy of Kid Gavilan’s bolo punch: part hook, part uppercut, supposedly derived from cutting cane with a machete in Cuba.
Allred staggered back, then down, smashing an office chair to toothpicks. He struggled to retain consciousness. As Allred’s eyes began to focus again, two Doc Wylies leapt at him.
Allred’s hand reached out and felt what formerly a chair leg. Wylie was already in the air, unable to change direction. Allred swung like a Basie sideman. The chair leg, now a club, caught Wylie across his upraised forearm. But there was no deflecting the man’s entire weight.
As the chair leg connected, a sudden jolt crept up Wylie’s arm, numbing it. His right arm was uninjured, however. One of the Doc Wylies, the solid one it turned out, landed on Allred. Wylie fought pain and attempted to grasp Allred’s throat in a classic thugee hold, designed to produce instant unconsciousness.
Allred still grasped his bludgeon. He brought it sideways into Wylie’s temple. Wylie turned, the hardest part of the skull now absorbing the punishing blows, left arm still useless.
Allred froze. The click of a gun being cocked close to his ear was responsible. One of Wylie’s men must’ve come back. I’ve faced worse odds, he reminded
himself.
Moving only his eyes, Allred looked up at a beautiful brunette of five seven. She was pointing the business end of an enormous, much-worn, single-action six-shooter from the time of Jesse James at his head. Looking to weight four pounds, it had neither trigger, nor sight. A fanning spur was welded to the hammer.
“So, you must be Brent Allred. Doc has told me so much about you,” sang the woman merrily. Allred detected a slight Canadian accent. She was neatly attired in what would become the fashionable suit for Fall, 1943.
“Trixie,” groaned Wylie. “Brent Allred, meet Patricia Wylie. Seems she has a Pippi Longstockings complex.”
He released his clamp-like hold. Doc Wylie pushed himself to a standing position from his knuckles and reached down to lift a bloodied Allred on unsteady feet.
“You’ve got moxie, Brent,” he confided. “I like that.”
“How do you hide bricks in your bare hands, Wylie?”
Trixie rolled light brown eyes, “If you boys are quite finished making fools of yourselves perhaps I can trade grandpa’s squirrel gun for the first aid kit?”
“Not quite, I mean, this is not finished, Wylie,” fumed Allred, breathing heavily. Usually, no one got through Allred’s guard. He was unnerved by Miss Wylie’s beauty, if “miss” it was. She was a peach, a just ripened, dew-dropped peach. But he didn’t like the idea of the lady seeing him a disheveled mess, either.
“Yes, it is finished, Allred. If I couldn’t beat you, you have won and it is over.”
“Holy cow, Doc, you don’t ever get tossed around like that,” said Trixie. “Serves you right, to be taken down a peg or two.”
Already Brent liked this girl. He hadn’t been involved with anyone since Louise got more interested in Danny. Now if only he could determine the exact relationship.
“Take off what’s left of your jacket and tie, Mr. Allred,” instructed Trixie. “That stuff goes in the disguise locker for the next time one of us has to dress up like a bum.”
“It won’t be you, Trix. Try not to sound so hopeful,” Doc Wylie warned.
Allred did as he was told. He was about to ask what he was supposed to wear out of there when Trixie spoke again.