The Sting of the Silver Manticore

by P. J. Lozito

  “We’ll give you something to go home in. Chuck has plenty of perfectly good castoffs here,” she stepped back, appraising Allred.

  “Yes, I think I have just what you need. Doc‘ll take care of himself. Don’t you have something to go and invent, Doc?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” he considered naively. “I’m done for the week.”

  She gave him a look that told him to leave. With that, Doc excused himself to a washroom downstairs.

  “The boys wish I didn’t mix in their adventures,” Trixie stated. “But for all his vocal training, Doc can’t imitate a woman’s voice very well. There are times they need a gal to make a phone call or go undercover.”

  Allred knew from experience she was right. Louise Scott had proven to be an invaluable agent. But at least Miss Scott was used to danger, having been a reporter. What could this girl claim?

  Trixie Wylie busied herself working on Allred’s bruises, “Don’t worry. I’m a registered nurse. And a dietician,” she said, working on Allred’s battered face.

  “Anything else?”

  “Oh, I count my calories, I’m a darn good aviatrix and I’m a champion Criss Cross Words player.”

  “I’m a Hi Ho man myself. I take Doc has no time for games what with his inventing quota.”

  “It’s his goofy training. He’s Charles Atlas, Albert Schweitzer, Thomas Edison, Alan Pinkerton and Harry Houdini all rolled into one.”

  “I wondered about that,” said Allred. “Why was he given this … upbringing?”

  “Guilt. Father got himself involved in a murder back in England,” Trixie noted Allred’s eyebrows rise.

  “Oh, he didn’t kill anyone; accomplice after the fact. Father got off but was forced into devoting his life and his son’s to righting wrongs. The famous Dr. Joseph Bell was involved, even. That Doyle fellow turned it into ‘The Adventure of the Priory School.’”

  “Unusual,” muttered Allred. But he had heard that many of Bell and Doyle’s cases were based on true crimes, like the hound that killed Sir Richard Cabell.

  “If you ask me, that creepy Dr. Danner took much control of Doc as a tyke,” finished Trixie with a shudder.

  “But he still needs his sister around, eh?” commented Allred, breathing calmly, thanks to Hatha yoga.

  “Well, look who his friends are. Bill Barnes thinks about aeroplanes exclusively. Chuck is a social climber ashamed of his Greek heritage. Levvy wants to be seen as a buffoon. I swear he has thirteen halfwits and a wife at home, and I don’t know the last time Le Grandon had a date,” she implored. “He’s as old as dirt.”

  “What about that creepy Longjohns? Has he some mania for that article of clothing?”

  “Ha! John William Roberts, you mean? He developed a battery-powered insulated suit for use in cold climates and came up with a new galvanizing process for bulletproof clothes. Both happen to work best in long undies.”

  “Does he ever talk?”

  “Yes, but if there’s no electrical current involved he’s at a severe loss. Though he can whip his weight in wildcats, Mr. Allred, you bet,” affirmed Trixie. “Speaking of weight, you missed Caesar.”

  “‘Caesar Fox?’ They mentioned him,” Brent was pretty certain Trixe could hold her own with wildcats herself. “So you keep an eye on Doc with the “Pistol Packin’ Mama” routine? That’s very sisterly,” Allred flinched from the hydrogen peroxide the girl applied.

  “Well, not so much anymore, now that he’s got Monja.”

  “Doc has a girlfriend?” asked Allred incredulously. “I thought he’d just as soon examine an X-ray as a well-turned calf.”

  “Monja’s his wife,” stated Trixie. “So, I’ll be coming around less and less now.”

  “Oh, are all the Wylies married?”

  “That depends. Are you asking me out?”

  Allred considered, “Well, I hear Chick Webb has a hot combo. I see they’re playing. Would you like to go when he wrap this case up?”

  “Oh, Mr. Allred, I just adore jump,” Trixie laughed.

  Allred wondered just how quickly he’d got clobbered twice in one day; both times by Wylies. Doc re-entered, towel around his neck.

  “While we were doing Hanoi Tsin’s work for him, trying to kill each other, Le Grandon’s life is in great danger,” reminded Doc, gravely.

  “I realize that,” Allred rubbed his jaw. He paused. “Have you considered going a few rounds with Sugar Ray Robinson?”

  “Go a few rounds? He trained me.”

  Allred eyed Trixie. Who trained her, he wondered. Allred now knew what that look she gave Doc meant.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EDWARD KELLY

  A clean-up and recovered Brent Allred debuted his Ling Chan disguise. Make-up covered his bruises, which still stung. He had wanted to try a different tack than Wylie and his men. Allred visited Chinese saloon after Chinese restaurant after Chinese shop. Exiting teahouse Quong Yuen Shing and Co., he got the “call in” signal over his ring’s crystal set.

  Allred abandoned his half cup of keemun, the burgundy of teas. He bee-lined to the Nom Wah Tea Parlor’s phone booth, dialing a number not listed in any directory. Burberry, at the other end of the line, relayed he could expect Evan White presently.

  Allred thought he had a good lead at Ting’s Gift Shop, but this took priority. He rushed out of the place and found White pulling up in a Liberty Cab. Of course, Burberry had given Allred’s location to White over the radio. Climbing in, White briefed Allred. The mechanical man had struck again, he reported.

  “Yeah, he’s in another bank,” stated White matter-of-factly. “Oh, I got the stuff Mr. Levnitz mixed for you, too. And Mr. Corrigan thinks White can stall the cops,” he added, handing his chief a package.

  “Thanks, Jericho. How?”

  “He convinced ‘em the tin soldier’s a present for your other self. Cops happily agreed to move in after you’re dead.”

  “Nice fellows.”

  Allred remembered that Bob Wynn had been almost flattened by the mechanical monster back in San Francisco. But he had been armed only with his fists and a gun. Allred was loaded for bear. He took out the gas gun and removed the ampoules of knockout gas, replacing them with a new concoction from Levvy’s lab. He was a fast worker when not matching wit with Chuck.

  White guided the car past the First National Bank in the Beaux-Arts Singer Tower on Church St. It was torn open like a tin can. Church St. again, where Le Grandon had been kidnapped. Was there a connection?

  Allred had White leave him off half a block away, instructing him to circle, watching for anything like a delivery truck or an ambulance. It was his best guess as to how the robot was transported. But White had to be ready to pick up Allred when he got the signal.

  Meanwhile, I’ll give the puppet masters something to think about, Allred smiled grimly as he holstered the gas gun. He pulled the silvery mask over his Ling Chan make-up and dashed into the bank.

  Inside, a man-sized, gleaming robot was stiffly carting sacks of money out of the vault. It was like something from Terror Stories, come to unholy life. The metal behemoth stopped as the Silver Manticore ran into visual range. Immediately, loot was dropped. The metallic mockery of a man took the counter easily and righted itself landing.

  The Silver Manticore ran closer, guns drawn. The robot lumbered toward him. Suddenly, the Manticore slipped and fell over a bit of debris scattered on the floor. The automaton raised its metallic foot to stomp its helpless enemy. Silver Manticore acted quickly, eyes tightly squeezed shut. A shot from the gas gun, loaded with Levvy’s flash charges, temporarily blinded the camera eyes of whoever was guiding the metallic killer. The Manticore had faked the stumble.

  Springing up, the Manticore seized the still uplifted leg. He pulled upward and backward with all of his might. Back the robot went, off balance, blind, unable to feel or see anything amiss. It came crashing to earth with a mighty boom, still striding. Unlike a person falling over, its arms did not instinctively seek to counte
r-balance.

  Whoever was controlling this creature was not aware of what had happened. One second, the operator saw a helpless Silver Manticore on the floor, and the next a brilliant sun. Now the masked man straddled the iron beast’s chest. His .45 was aimed at the right camera eye of the thing. Ka-chee, sneezed the gun.

  The report echoed through the bank and that “eye” was no more. Quickly, he turned his gun to the other. One more squeeze of the trigger and he jumped off the now blind robot. The shot must’ve been effective because metallic arms and legs ceased flailing.

  The Silver Manticore hoped it was wired for sound, and that somewhere ears were only momentarily deafened, for he had a further surprise planned. He smiled, picturing someone tearing off a radio operator headset in pain. Perhaps it was Hanoi Tsin himself, about to broadcast some threat through a soaped-up ‘30s-era Voice Coder.

  The two shots left cylindrical holes in the head of the robot. The Manticore had plans to wreck this mechanical monster once and for all. He worked quickly. One empty shaft was now stuffed with a stick of dynamite. He did the same to the other eye socket. Packing them in as tightly as he could, the Silver Manticore lit the fuse with a Zippo. This was, in fact, the very same cigarette lighter that held the manticore stamp. Then the masked man bounded over the marble counter the robot had cleared getting to him.

  A terrific concussion followed. Bits of both bank and robot showered down, but the man in black had rolled himself into a ball, covering his ears, well within the vault. The Silver Manticore peeked over the counter, .45 ready. The hunk of metal was unmoving. It no longer had a head, or most of its chest. This behemoth was now good only for the local scrap metal drive.

  The Silver Manticore’s ring lit the pre-arranged warning from White of approaching police. This had taken longer than planned. There was no other exit from the bank. He had to vacate now. Not wanting to be trapped, he played a trump. Holstering both guns, he rushed out into the street, right into a squad of cops. Led by Det. Joe Casey with Chris Corrigan tagging along, cops filled the entrance.

  “That robot’s in there,” the Silver Manticore yelled. “He’ll kill us all!”

  “Don’t let that fiend get away,” bellowed Casey.

  “I got him, Joe,” exclaimed Corrigan, hands clamped on the Silver Manticore’s shoulders. “Let’s hear him out.”

  “Cuff him, dammit!” ordered Casey.

  “Listen to me: I couldn’t stop him with TNT!” Manticore disentangled himself from Corrigan’s grasp with a shrug that knocked the government man over. Then he took off around the corner. The lawmen were momentarily stunned.

  “So that’s what we heard,” pondered Casey.

  “Manticore’s my jurisdiction. Take cover,” shouted Corrigan, drawing a revolver. “No one makes a monkey out of me.”

  “Like hell we take cover. We’re the law, not the damn Camp Fire Girls. You men get in there,” commanded Casey. “Feds like the easy jobs.”

  But he was addressing no one. Corrigan was off and after the masked outlaw. The cops stormed the bank, guns nervously drawn.

  Corrigan dashed around the corner in pursuit of the masked vigilante, but it was just for show. He nodded to Corrigan, out of sight of the cops and continued down the block in a trot. Corrigan turned back and called, “I don’t get it. He’s gone,” to the cop posted at the bank entrance.

  Corrigan hurried inside after to his compatriots in blue. Knowing the Silver Manticore would not let those cops walk into peril, Corrigan was eager to see how he had handled the robot. He knew the warning had been a distraction, to escape unseen.

  But the Silver Manticore was not gone. He pressed the ring to let Evan White know he was ready for pick-up. Then he saw something that startled him. A second mechanical man clanked towards him.

  This one moved much faster than the other one. Reloading while running, the doctored Mauser now bore a different set of Levvy’s new ampoules. Manticore fired; careful aim was unnecessary. Whoever was controlling this robot might now be expecting a flare. This time, smoke foamed around the beast. The mechanical man staggered for a second.

  The Silver Manticore had exhausted his supply of explosives but he still could take this two-legged tank off its feet and permanently blind it. He thought with alarm: how could there be two of these things? He sped up and launched himself into the air like Dutch Warmerdam. “I’ll come up with something,” Manticore spoke out loud to nobody.

  He had the momentum needed. Mid-air, the Silver Manticore drew his knees up toward his chest. Feet made contact with an iron ribcage that felt like a solid wall, but down it went. Manticore landed in a crouch, fists and knees together underneath him. His steely opponent was on its back, this one kicking like a beetle. Odd, he thought.

  With speed borne of repetition, the Silver Manticore was upon his foe. He brought out the gun. It kissed the lens gently and went off. As he was about to get the second camera, his attention was distracted. Was that blood pouring forth from the robot? It was! Manticore had certainly seen enough of it in his life to know the red fluid.

  The mechanical man stopped kicking. Only there was more “man” than “mechanical” here. Shocked, the Manticore used precious escape time to wrench the “head” off his erstwhile foe. Off it came, like a helmet. Beneath it was an Australian gunsel he recognized from “Wanted” posters: Edward Kelly.

  Kelly had been a member of the Aussie Archie battery that maintained they, not Canadian Captain Arthur Royal Brown, had downed the Red Baron. Few gave the unit credit. Kelly’s life had gone from bad to worse, leading to a slow slide into the underworld. So, Hanoi Tsin had somehow recruited him. Why not? Sydney had a Chinatown. Now Kelly was a bloody mess.

  The Silver Manticore racked his brain. Why in the holy hell was Kelly inside that “robot”? True, he’d be bulletproof inside the thing. But it was a lot of trouble to go to for something a vest could have easily accomplished. He could move faster than the real robot and there’d be no need for a remote control device, though. Perhaps there had only been enough working parts between the two robots to make one go, as Doc Wylie suspected.

  White’s cab skidded onto the scene, scattering the Manticore’s thoughts. The back door on the right of the taxi popped open.

  “Jump, man, we got to make tracks,” White yelled. Why is the boss just standing there like a damn fool? The bulls were on the prowl. Sweat, like diamonds on black velvet, appeared on his brow.

  As the Silver Manticore dived into the cab, White floored it, executing a quite illegal U-turn. Moving violations paled next to executing criminals in the street, however. Allred pulled off the mask, deep in thought. In his rear view mirror, Evan White found Brent Allred’s, even beneath the Ling Chan make-up, drained.

  “Mr. Colt says talk to a guy named Larry the Rat in Chinatown. Knows everything dirty goes on in this town. And Doc’s men, they traced the radio signal to a phony refrigerator truck quarter mile from here,” he began. “Got away down by the Paramount Diamond Exchange. But at least you got those robots.”

  “Robot,” Allred corrected, in a stunned voice.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ALEXANDER KENTOV

  When Siam Khan got back to the house on Mott St., Alexander Kentov was in the living room. He and some of the naljorpas were playing poker. All were smoking “loosies,” a variety of cigarette Kentov bought when he couldn’t get his claimed favorite: O.P.’s. Siam Khan had never heard of that brand, although smoking was now among his vices.

  “Hiya, Khan,” chirped Kentov uncharacteristically. “How’d it go?” He was hoping Siam Khan would report a major chewing out from that creep Hanoi Tsin.

  “My ears still ring, and from fei-i-ho-chien, not anything Hanoi Tsin said. He applauded my efforts with the robot.”

  “Oh, yeah?” enthused Kentov.

  “Yes, we face a dangerous and resourceful enemy.”

  Kentov was suddenly intent on his poker game, now that there was going to be no report of a tongue lashing. So, Khan t
hinks Hanoi Tsin’s hideout is safe, smiled Kentov. But he had followed Siam Khan there last night. He didn’t trust these mugs. They act just like they want to knock me off when they don’t need me anymore, Kentov grinned. And I bet I could make big money off knowing where that hideout is, from, say the likes of the Silver Manticore. But how do you find that guy when he don’t wanna be found? You can’t just luck into him, Kentov had to admit. Suddenly, Siam Khan interrupted Kentov’s plotting; he had noticed the game.

  “Were they not teaching you mah-jongg as I was leaving?”

  “I think that’s what these bottom dealers called that monkeyshine,” answered Kentov.

  “You are winning, huh?”

  “Now I am,” he smiled knowingly. “I got a feeling I’m going to be hitting the jackpot real soon.”

  “A likely story,” Siam Khan dismissed his assistants with a Yi Chinese word.

  “Never mind that, examine this,” Siam Khan unfolded the morning edition of The Daily Sentry. He indicated a photograph, “This one resembles the man who impersonated you.”

  “Lemme see that,” Kentov said, gathering up his fresh banknotes.

  “‘New owner Brent Allred… to throw gala party…Keens Chop House…’ It does look like him. Man, that was a long time ago.”

  “We will be sure,” said Siam Khan.

  “How we gonna do that?”

  “Simplicity itself; we go this party tonight at Keens.”

  “And just how are we supposed to crash this shindig?”

  “We dress as waiters. Get a better look at him than this voiceless poem can indicate. And he won’t be looking out for us.”

  “Oh, no, no, nix on that. I ain’t dressing up like no damn waiter in one a them red monkey suits,” whined Kentov, waving a finger.

  “You want me to tell Hanoi Tsin that?” Siam Khan reached for the candlestick phone. “Besides, red indicates luck.”

  “All right, all right, I’ll be there,” conceded Kentov.