by P. J. Lozito
He had, all along, been studying Larry intently, memorizing the details his features. When Larry makes himself scarce, his guise might be a valuable one to assume. A little morticians wax could be used to suggest the scars on Larry’s hands. The Silver Manticore took the silencer, unattached to a gun, out of his pocket, and reached over to open the door for the addict.
“Keep your nose clean, if that is possible. Clear out.”
“Watch my smoke,” Larry the Rat copped heel. He knew a place he could find sanctuary. The taxi swung around back uptown to 36th Street.
“Keens, huh? Just a grenade’s throw away from Doc Wylie’s lofty roost,” commented White.
“Glad you’re learning the local geography,” noted Brent Allred, tugging off his silver mask.
“Been driving Mr. Colt,” White noted and held up a five-borough atlas. “What if the Rat warns someone we’re coming?”
“He won’t. I used one of Wylie’s trick rings to inject him with something that should induce terrible convulsions just about… now,” answered the Manticore. Several feet back on the sidewalk, Larry the Rat collapsed in pain. Ahead Keens loomed.
“Drop me off here.”
Approaching the restaurant on foot from across Sixth Avenue, mask now pocketed, Brent Allred was surprised to behold his old enemy and one-time friend Siam Khan exiting. Allred stopped dead and pulled the fedora lower on his head. He couldn’t afford to be spotted by this felon. So, he survived our encounter, the Manticore thought.
Siam Khan was, however, intent on putting flame to another loosie. Too late, for he now looked up from his task, eyes drawn to the shadowy figure across the avenue. Allred turned his back quickly, watching his man in a store window’s reflection. Calmly, he sauntered on as Siam Khan, in the glass, started crossing Sixth Avenue towards him. He was obviously intent on catching up with Allred. In the reflection, he saw Siam Khan look around as if checking his surroundings.
Luckily, a woody stopped for a red light and then crept uptown slowly as the light went green. Out of sight, Allred bent almost double and ran alongside it, hidden from Siam Khan’s view. The driver wheeled around, looking at his new companion with a startled “What the…?”
Siam Khan was, of course, expecting to still see the man on the corner. But now he was nowhere to be found. Rather, Allred was on the opposite side of West 37th St., calmly walking away from Sixth Avenue affecting a limp. Collar down, the hat slipped into the pouch that also held the Manticore’s guns.
Siam Khan turned away, spooked. A cop talking into a call box, however, on Sixth, saw the whole suspicious event. He flagged down a passing green, white and black prowl car. It rolled toward Allred, the cop giving forth from the running board with a, “Hey, you.”
Allred stared a jeopardy trot.
“HEY!”
Allred took off. The cops pursued. Allred knew he could lose them. He had to.
As he came abreast of a parked truck with the police car on his tail, Allred saw his chance. It was a slim one and it had to be timed just right. He, the parked truck and prowl car were almost exactly lined up now. The moment Allred was gone from the cops’ sight he hit the sidewalk in a roll.
The cops, zooming forward, sought out where their suspect, running, should be. Instead, they got a surprise. No suspect. Allred was heading back up 37th St.
Better to take my chances with Siam Khan, he thought.
That villain was long gone, however. As soon as the cops entered the picture, he drifted. Meanwhile, Evan White rounded the corner in his cab. Allred dived in.
“We’ve company,” he announced.
The taxi pulled away calmly. The cops had hit reverse and zoomed back along the street, knowing they had been hoodwinked. They flagged down Evan and alighted, encircling him.
“You see a guy run up this way, boy?”
“What color guy?”
“A white guy! How many colors do they come in?”
“Uh, red, yellow, brown and black. All right if I agitates the gravel?”
“You seem kinda nervous, boy. Got a fare hiding in the back?”
“Hiding? No, I’m late for a pick up, sir.”
“I think you oughta step outta that boiler, wise guy…”
The other cop ducked his head into the hack with a decisive “A-ha!” He snatched back a blanket on the floor.
Nothing. The cop was scratching his head, cap pushed back. He was sure he saw someone dive into a cab.
Evan White flashed his innocent look, “I gots my hack license right here, sir.”
Had the cop bothered to glance at it, he would have seen it was issued to a ‘Joshua Newton.’
“Beat it,” the cop thumbed White away.
“Yessir,” replied Evan White.
As he guided the cab away White discretely pressed his ring, grinning. In the trunk, accessible by the hinged backseat cushions, Brent Allred’s laugh crackled over the dashboard-concealed intercom. He instructed White to keep an eye out for a Chinese dressed like a Keens waiter.
They’d be painting new numbers on the cab later tonight. And someone else would have to do the driving until the cops forgot Evan’s face.
Siam Khan had by now tossed away his cigarette and stalked to a late model Ford sedan, thinking black thoughts. Kentov better have a good excuse for not showing up. A very good one, if not, I will kill him, fumed Siam Khan silently. I’m sure that was G-9, he shivered.
Down the block, calmly driving past the Ford, Allred again sitting in the back said aloud, “So Siam Khan’s involved in this.”
“Some old friend, Mr. Allred?”
“Old fiend is more like it. He taught me gung fu at Rache Curan. Hanoi Tsin later corrupted him. A dangerous man,” conceded Allred.
“Because he knows your face?”
“He hasn’t seen it in twenty-five years,” Allred clarified.
”But he’s dangerous as long as he’s alive, huh?”
“Right,” Allred reached out for the handset of the two-way radio in the cab’s dashboard mocked up as a perfectly innocent Motorola.
White pressed the buttons for frequency modulation. In Mayan, Allred recited Siam Khan’s description and license plate number to Burberry. Then he gave the target time to move on. Within minutes, unbeknownst to Siam Khan, Liberty Cabs, all in radio contact, would soon be shadowing him.
***
Some time later, White and Allred had taken up the pursuit again. It was a forgone conclusion that their target was heading to Chinatown. The building he stopped behind had a “For Sale” sign on it. Their target walked back from the alley he had parked in and entered a house on Mott St.
A non-descript ’39 Chevy panel wagon marked “Joe’s Diaper Service” pulled up a block ahead. An even more non-descript man got out and walked away. Inside were certainly a telescope, Doc Wylie’s advanced see-in-the-dark apparatus, a two-way radio, perhaps his telegraph pictures equipment, and one of our people, presumed Allred.
Except they were calling telegraph pictures something new nowadays: was it tele-visor? Allred struggled to remember as he admitted to himself he sometimes couldn’t keep up with every new advancement. Besides, Allred doubted that telegraph pictures or tele-visors would ever have any bearing on the future of the Silver Manticore. The consoles for home use cost as much as a car.
He did know the vehicle was piloted there by capable people from Sadie Berlinger’s detective agency, graduates -- reformed criminals -- from Doc Wylie’s upstate “college,” where crooks were reeducated and put back into society as useful citizens. The slim-figured, blue-eyed strawberry blonde lady detective from Riverdale, Sadie Berlinger herself, remained in it, trading her usual blue coupe for this “eyeball van.”
With surveillance in place, Allred instructed Evan White to proceed to the Norpen Lumber Company. Plans for a raid on the house on Mott St. were made. Corrigan would be able to “clear the books” if all went well.
***
Burberry’s signal had caught Corrigan coming
out of the Crossroads Diner during the intermission for Oklahoma! on the “stem.” It was a preview and Agnes de Mille choreographed it. Diane Elliot, Corrigan’s girl, insisted a seat third row center would take his mind off the case for a little while. Besides, she wanted to see the great actor Victor Flintheart. He’d have been just as happy with the restored Chaplin picture, The Gold Rush. But Corrigan knew she was right; his mind always came up with a solution when he ignored the problem for a while. Le Grandon’s kidnapping investigation was in the capable hands of Wylie and Allred. However, Oklahoma! made him think of the territories the old Silver Manticore used to range and The Gold Rush would have reminded him of Hanoi Tsin’s gold transmutation. A gigantic electric Coke sign told him it was “the pause that refreshes.” He intended to buy one.
Not far from the Mutual Playhouse where The Silver Manticore radio program broadcast from, Corrigan found an unoccupied, working phone booth. He dialed a number not listed in any directory. Burberry relayed the instructions: Corrigan was to lead a contingent of cops. Highest priority, Allred had stressed. We may collar Siam Khan, rescue Le Grandon and maybe nab Hanoi Tsin himself.
***
It wasn’t more than an hour later that found the Silver Manticore climbing the back of the Mott St. hideout. Danny and Louise were still playing footsie with New York’s “400,” sitting at the big tables of Keens, but Trixie was aloft in the autogiro, heading that way.
In Keens’ private Lillie Langtry room, amid wood paneling and etched glass, Bako had just delivered a seemingly unintelligible note to Danny Colt. The latter had had a full evening of playing the part of Brent Allred.
Now there was no Texas in his speech. Bako caught part of what he was saying, “…head of the American Federation of Musicians has said that members who made records were ‘playing their own funerals.’”
Colt looked up and saw Bako approaching. He accepted the note from “his” chauffeur wordlessly and quickly ran a swizzle stick, taken from an untouched single malt Scotch, over it. He didn’t care for the stuff himself but it was known to be Brent Allred’s drink of choice. Precise writing took shape on the paper:
TAKE YOUR PARTY TO N.L.C. AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS THERE. TRAILING A “SIAM KHAN.” COUSIN KNOWS HIM, DANGEROUS! YOUR AID MAY BE MORE IMPORTANT THAN ALIBI. WYLIE.
***
The Silver Manticore used his glasscutter to admit himself to the house via a second floor window. Silently, he slipped into a bedroom there. A dozen men working on bowls of jook got a whiff of green sleep gas.
Siam Khan was not among them. That must be him moving around downstairs, Silver Manticore realized. He didn’t sincerely believe Hanoi Tsin would stay with the hired help but he was certain Le Grandon was here. Freeing him and capturing Siam Khan would put a crimp in Hanoi Tsin’s style. The Silver Manticore pressed his girasol. A similar one on the finger of Corrigan lit. He, in turn, signaled his group of policemen.
Then, when all hell broke loose downstairs, the Silver Manticore was ready, waiting in the dark. His gloved hands had unscrewed every light bulb on that floor. He heard Corrigan’s distant voice bark, “Give the place the broom, boys!”
The Silver Manticore knew, in the event of a raid, Siam Khan would head for the second floor and make like Kid Twist. The difference was Siam Khan could land correctly. An easy enough jump, for one schooled in gung fu, thought the Silver Manticore. After all, he had learned the very technique from Siam Khan.
In a hurry, someone burst into the bedroom. Siam Khan was silhouetted at the door momentarily. The Silver Manticore clunked him hard in the face with his big .45. He did not see the dagger his enemy held until it was already in motion. Siam Khan let out a yelp of pain, but slashed.
Manticore grunted. He could tell his right arm came away wet, sticky and red. The gun dropped.
Manticore had been overconfident. Now there was no way to find the weapon in the dark. The gas gun was empty, exhausting its full load on the troops up here. He hadn’t expected quite so many of them. Badly bleeding, Manticore had no time to bend down for the tiny, nineteenth century Mortimer screw-barrel pocket pistol in his ankle holster.
He had no choice but to make for the exit to the roof, hopping he could trick Siam Khan into following. For there, the Silver Manticore knew he could use Siam Khan’s blind hatred for him to his own advantage. He thought furiously.
Siam Khan saw a figure in a long coat and hat lit by moonlight as the roof door opened. “You!” seethed Siam Khan, feeling for the gun where he had heard it land. “I knew it! I knew I saw you tonight!”
His hatred hadn’t abated any over the years. He distinctly heard his former student thump onto the roof of the kiosk. Ambush, eh? Siam Khan stuck a chair under the doorknob to the bedroom and charged up the steps, the now-found gun and dagger in hand. Killing his enemy with his own weapon was very appealing. Kicking the roof door open, Siam Khan turned and leveled the .45 where he expected its owner to be.
Then he got the surprise of his life as the door slammed against him with brutal force. The enemy had not been on the kiosk roof. He had been hiding behind it. Gun and the knife clattered to the rooftop.
Siam Khan found himself entangled in a crushing full nelson, pulled back and crashed face first into the door jamb again. He fought to clear his head. One more time did he kiss wood.
Feet stepped over his; with no support the weight on his back brought him to the roof, hard. The dazed Siam Khan was able to turn his head. But that was all he was able to do.
Siam Khan saw stars and felt thumb cuffs snap onto him behind his back. His feet were also shackled. The attacker was gone for a second. Then a cloud of green gas sent Siam Khan to dreamland. The Silver Manticore had reloaded the gas gun.
“‘A sleeping fool may pass as a wise man,’ ” taunted the Silver Manticore. Then he let loose with his theatrical laugh.
The sound of an airplane coming in for a landing reached Siam Khan’s ears as he drifted off. Too close for a plane, too close, no airport here...no airport anywhere here…
Corrigan came through the kiosk as the plane neared. He looked up and saw the autogiro hovering as only a true gyro could. Useful in a city, yet it could still make long trips. He had come to New York in the same craft. Further, Corrigan knew Trixie Wylie was at the controls. No doubt she was bearing one of Doc’s compact backpack-type parachutes that were no more uncomfortable than wearing a coat. Of course, Corrigan didn’t approve of women piloting those things. If a dame wanted to be an aviatrix she should join the WASPs, testing planes for Uncle Sam. But he admitted to himself Miss Wylie was a regular Evelyn Trout. And her devotion to the American Woman’s Voluntary Service proved she was tops.
The Silver Manticore ignored Corrigan and was ascending a rope ladder, burden slung over one shoulder. Corrigan crouched and took careful aim with his gun. Then he waited for the policemen from the 87th Precinct he led here to bolt through the door. One would knock Corrigan over as he was about to “shoot” the Manticore. It’d probably be that dumb MacPherson, who was right on his heels as they broke down the bedroom door. Good, he needed a chewing out, all the time muttering about some broad named Laura.
The autogiro ate up altitude and headed uptown.
***
Alongside a stalled Packard hearse on 79th St. in Central Park, a driver hunched over the open hood. He fiddled with various engine components, purposely achieving nothing. He looked up, hearing the distinctive sound of an autogiro. Cars whizzed by. He returned to his busy work.
“Need help, buddy?”
Speed Martin, done up like a hearse driver, banged his head on the raised hood. A policeman had pulled up in a patrol car and now stood offering assistance.
“Sorry, fella. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Jaysus! I thought sure you was the stiff come back to life to drink my blood as a nightcap. Ha ha ha,” exclaimed the hearse driver, trying hard to talk slowly. “Glad to see you,” he lied. “Would you try it? Keys in the ignit
ion.”
The cop was eager to help, especially after making the undertaker bang his noodle like that. He turned over the ignition. It caught.
“Thanks a lot, patrolman,” said the hearse driver with a smile as the machine rumbled. “You got the touch. Guess I can deliver the meat now while it’s still fresh. Ha ha ha!”
The policeman wanted to get away from this grinning ghoul. He bade him good night with a touch to his cap, warning him to be careful stopping in the park at night. He and his partner drove off.
Seconds later, the autogiro appeared over Central Park’s treetops, hovering like a great bee. A figure in black scampered down the rope ladder with someone in a fireman’s carry. The Silver Manticore made for the rear of the hearse, pulling the door closed behind him. As motorists gaped at the weird plane, the hearse fled the scene.
Little did those cops suspect the balling out they’d soon be getting from Inspector Queen. Commissioner Weston would, in turn, bawl him out. Yes, we want the Silver Manticore alive but we do goddam want him. Do try to apprehend him when he lands his autogiro aeroplane in the middle of Central Park, was how it would go. Then Weston would report in to Burberry for further instructions.
***
At a legitimate East Side funeral home on 116th St., the hearse discharged a coffin. In a basement room painted and lit entirely blue, Brent Allred considered an unconscious Siam Khan.
“Hypnosis doesn’t work, nor does your sodium amytal,” he stated to Doc Wylie, while replacing earphones linked directly to Burberry.
“I’d wager he’s been given a post-hypnotic suggestion to prevent him from talking,” Wylie squinted as he gave the insensate man another shot of some other substance, “If I wagered. Hanoi Tsin studied under one of the world’s finest hypnotists, Dr. Nikola, according to Corrigan, who heard it from Sir Dennis.”
“We won’t get to Siam Khan this way,” decided Allred.