The Sting of the Silver Manticore

by P. J. Lozito

  “So, Plan ‘B’?” asked Wylie.

  Allred nodded his agreement. Doc Wylie wished he had to time to stop and consult the Hilgard text on hypnotism. However, he might be needed in the next phase of this operation. Wylie set about dressing Allred’s arm slash. First he numbed the area.

  “What was that?”

  “Lidocaine, sold as Xylocaine. It has few side effects and not allergenic,” explained Wylie.

  “Good, I have to be at my best for tonight.”

  “We should be cooking up a plausible reason for Brent Allred to have such a wound. Perhaps tomorrow, Danny Colt in the guise of the Silver Manticore can fake an attack on you in front of reliable witnesses.”

  ***

  Siam Khan awoke. Someone had slipped him a hell of a Mickey Finn. He felt himself in motion, and heard the familiar traffic sounds of Manhattan. He knew was in a coffin. Siam Khan tried to move the lid but it wouldn’t budge.

  Up front, on the dashboard, a red light flashed. The driver, Longjohns, was signaled that Siam Khan was awake, trying the lid. The handcrafted hardwood Marcellus casket had been electrically rigged up by Longjohns to give the silent alarm. There was the squeal of brakes, a sickening thud and a yell: “It’s Wylie’s gang, lookout!”

  From inside the coffin, Siam Khan heard shots, glass breaking and body blows; never suspecting it was all a ruse. Something hit the vehicle he was in, hard, and he felt his casket move. It smacked pavement. The sounds of battle from seconds before where suddenly gone, except for that of a car roaring away. Siam Khan found he could move the lid now. Something must’ve been on top of it. Cautiously he peered out. Not a thing was about.

  He was in a deserted area he took to be on the west side of Manhattan. As he quit the box, Siam Khan noticed he was barefoot. Either he would have to steal shoes or a car. He crept up on the driver’s side. Just broken glass, blood stains and, ah, keys, Siam Khan saw. He unlocked his cuffs and noted that he had just enough chain slack on his ankles to drive this dented hearse.

  Blocks away, a fleet of Liberty Cabs pursued him. Passengers and drivers in the combined armies of Doc Wylie and the Silver Manticore studied Geiger counters. Ten clicks per minute was harmless background radiation: gamma, alpha, beta and X-rays. Anything else, in the form of a “spiked reading,” was the radium X flowing through Siam Khan’s bloodstream.

  Corrigan’s ring lit and he placed a call to Washington, D.C. Ten thousand soldiers stationed in nearby Green Point, Brooklyn, near the Vernon Avenue Bridge, were put on alert. The riflemen stationed in Central Park were to be ready to move. He might have to request the president revoke Posse Comitatus for this small war.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  SALLY BELL

  The group trailing Siam Khan found it unbelievable that he led them to the Sally Bell. The ocean liner was docked, waiting servicing after a long cruise. Had Hanoi Tsin somehow hijacked her at sea? How was it possible?

  Perhaps rumors of the sanitizing she underwent after an outbreak of a serious viral infection were true. After all, a ship is a perfect place for such incubation. Someone with Hanoi Tsin’s medical knowledge could accomplish that. And here was Hanoi Tsin’s top hatchet man running to her. Siam Khan abandoned the hearse a block away, sprang from within and walked to the ship. He didn’t suspect he was under observation. Bako, Colt, White, Sadie Berlinger and Louise Scott in a varied succession of vehicles kept watch.

  ***

  Back at the Norpen Lumber Company, Doc Wylie was preparing the submarine dubbed Albatross. This sleek modern craft was nothing like the old WWI sub Allred had seen on display down at Battery Park City, discovered through a handbill. Allred was to be brought in close to the luxury liner and then Albatross would lurk nearby. For all the grimness of their task, the mood was somewhat jovial. After all, Corrigan had found Le Grandon alive and well in the house on Mott St.

  “If we don’t run into any Daybreak Boys, we should be all right,” smiled Wylie in a rare moment of levity.

  The Coast Guard, alerted by Corrigan, was standing by. It was doubtful river pirates like the Daybreak Boys could stand up to the Guard and the Albatross.

  Wylie had equipped the sub with an early form of radio detecting-and-ranging gear that he had collaborated on with Isidor Rabi, Vern Hughes and Warren Henry. Wylie wished the white bigots in this country would acknowledge the contributions of a Negro scientist like Dr. Henry; racial prejudice would be this country’s undoing, he mused. Wylie headed for the phone to make one more attempt to reach Sir Dennis before they set off.

  Aboard Albatross, Brent Allred prepared suction cup climbing gear on his knees and elbows. This should be easy, he thought, at the submersible’s hatch. He could smell the Hudson. Siam Khan has no idea we tracked him. Nor would he suspect his capture and escape was all an elaborate ruse. And his gang would never guess a lone man was about to scale the side of their nautical hideout, scouting it. While this was strictly a scouting mission, the Silver Manticore was prepared for trouble.

  Albatross brought Silver Manticore out, almost touching the liner, and slinked away. Alone, the Manticore began his ascent of the Sally Bell’s hull. Silently he stepped over the railing. On deck, the Silver Manticore pushed the knee suction cups to his ankles, placing the elbow attachments in pockets of his suit jacket. He had left the long, black coat behind. The river’s wind whipping it around him would just slow him. Plus, he’d be flapping like a sail, alerting anyone on deck of his presence.

  Normally, scaling a building, the Silver Manticore would have one of his confederates create a distraction. Firecrackers were standard. Sometimes even Chinese “dragon tails” were used. But this was different. Silence was called for.

  The Silver Manticore spotted men in the white-jacketed, white-capped uniform of the line, as he expected. But these were hard-bitten, criminal types. He evaded them. Better to locate the big fish, rather than picking off a few who might give an alarm.

  From below decks, the Silver Manticore heard a low bass hum. He followed the sound. More officers were evaded. He came upon two more and caught: “I’m telling ya I heard somethin’ funny.”

  “Aw, it’s that assassin of youth you’re alla time smokin.’ Doctor finds out about that gage and you get a visit from his boo how doys,” said the other. “Gimme a gasper, will ya? A regular one, not wacky tabacky.”

  “Yeah, well the doctor don’t smoke Luckies. It’s ah-pen-yen.”

  “And yet Lucky Strikes are the cigarettes most doctors prefer,” chuckled his companion.

  No mistake, thought the Silver Manticore. He listened to them and then eased away, trying to find a clew to Hanoi Tsin’s whereabouts on board. He was just passing a cabin, door ajar, that revealed a new Hammond electric organ. As he rounded a corner, the Silver Manticore heard Chinese, each syllable given equal emphasis. It came from a nearby stateroom.

  “You say they were attacked by Wylie’s people?”

  “Yes, Marqui, very clearly; a battle ensued. I escaped in the confusion.”

  Well at least our ruse went off without a hitch, thought Silver Manticore. Then he kicked the door open, gun out. He aimed the .45 at a thin, green-eyed, bald, skull-capped Chinese attired in yellow. Lined up in his sight was Dr. Hanoi Tsin. He took a good look. Then he fired.

  Nothing happened.

  The devil doctor gazed up at the Silver Manticore triggering a useless gun, “Ah, you draw your beads.”

  Silver Manticore kept pulling the trigger.

  “Your beads fail you,” mocked Hanoi Tsin. “You find your bullets reduced, as they are, to their component molecules,” Hanoi Tsin added with a grin.

  Before the Manticore could consider this further, Siam Khan launched himself into the air with a raging scream of hatred. He had been cleaned up but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. However, Siam Khan’s recent ordeal made him sloppy in attack.

  The Silver Manticore stood stock still, seemingly too frightened to move. Then, at the last second, he merely pivoted. Manticore
lashed out at Siam Khan with the gun, connecting with the back of his head.

  Siam Khan could absorb that kind of punishment easily. But he didn’t land very gracefully. Siam Khan now awkwardly scrambled to his feet, trying to shake off the affects of the blow. Quickly, Manticore drew the gas gun and whipped that across the top of Siam Khan’s head. Little glass globules hanging on the outside of it shattered on impact with the already dazed man. Siam Khan disappeared in a cloud of green sleep fumes. For the second time that day, he was victim to the Silver Manticore’s gas.

  It was fast thinking on his part. If Hanoi Tsin claimed guns wouldn’t work around him, the Silver Manticore believed it. He now knew what was hidden within the shell of that Hammond electric organ. It was the device that kept guns from operating; a device that Hanoi Tsin boasted reduced bullets to molecules.

  Hanoi Tsin remained seated. He looked from the Silver Manticore to his prone henchman, hands in sleeves. He considered his fallen ally, “It would appear Siam Khan, like the mandarin Wanhu, has gone up in smoke.”

  “No such luck; I still see him,” answered the Silver Manticore.

  “‘The great man is completely at ease, petty man is always on edge’,” Hanoi Tsin quoted Confucius and arose. Silver Manticore noted he was tall.

  “Silver Manticore, I am honored to finally meet you. Your skills impress me. I need a doubot such as yourself on the Cabal of Seven.” Hanoi Tsin swept an arm in an encompassing gesture, “Perhaps you will replace Siam Khan. I begin to question his further value to me.”

  “Join a cold-blooded killer like you?”

  “Oh, come,” said Hanoi Tsin. “We share a common enemy.”

  “Who?”

  “We both of us hate the Communists. They killed your revered Tsar Nicholas II.”

  “Are you insane on top of everything else?” Silver Manticore was wary.

  Gone was inviting smile of Dr. Hanoi Tsin, “You kill for the elixir, Maolcrum Richards,” the response came.

  Kill for the elixir? He thinks I have the elixir, Silver Manticore thought. And that’s a name I’m supposed to have used? Good God, Hanoi Tsin thinks there’s only been one Silver Manticore over the years, not a succession of them. Quickly, he played a trump. “What gave me away?”

  So, he is hsien, Hanoi Tsin smiled to himself triumphantly, “I have an unquenchable thirst to know. Extending one’s life is a worthy goal, should one wish to know this world. I am a seeker after such knowledge.”

  “You tried to start yourself a second useless war between Russia and Japan,” accused the Silver Manticore. “Was that for knowledge? Or profit?”

  “Profit. Both sides would have been happy to pay me for the prototype Darkness of Doom,” conceded Hanoi Tsin. “My researches do not come cheaply.”

  “You ordered the torture of a Japanese who did nothing more than try to protect his country,” continued the Silver Manticore.

  Hanoi Tsin nodded, “Which you disrupted as ‘Kentov,’ or should I say G-9? How touching of you to avenge Mr. Kyoto. He has repaid his debt to you by being ever ready to drive your car. I trust he is…well.”

  So, it was definite: Hanoi Tsin knew he had been had with the substitution of the dead Filipino’s body.

  “Kentov? I disposed of him and I’ll dispose of you.”

  “Such as you disposed of Ling Chan and Edward Kelly?” Hanoi Tsin challenged. “Foolishly, you dismember the limbs but do not sever the head.”

  “My mistake, doctor. I’m here to correct that. You’ll be with your late friends soon,” promised the man in silver.

  “Join me and I will give you North America when I bring things nearer to the heart’s desire,” countered Hanoi Tsin.

  “That’s just a fancy way to say you want to rule the world,” insisted the Silver Manticore.

  “If a man goes on quietly and perseveringly working at the removal of resistances, success comes in the end. Truly, our kind is fated to rule over these cattle,” now Hanoi Tsin spread both arms, indicating the world in general.

  “Over my dead body, doctor, I mean to stop you.”

  “My task is great and full of responsibility. It is nothing less than that of leading the world out of confusion and back to order.” Hanoi Tsin looked grave, “If some ruler would employ me, in a month I should have my system working. In three years everything would be running smoothly.”

  “The only ruler employing you will be the warden of state prison. Sing Sing’s laundry is what you’ll be running.”

  Hanoi Tsin’s expression changed to one of pure hatred, “Perhaps you read too much Mrs. Pearl Buck. You have chosen poorly.”

  An alarm must have given. A group of white uniformed thugs now appeared at the stateroom’s entrance. To a man, they were armed with knives. The Silver Manticore turned; Hanoi Tsin was gone.

  Manticore looked back to the welcoming committee; a finger jab to the throat felled the first one in. He collapsed, gagging. Now the Silver Manticore drew a new Fairbairn-Sykes knife. While a second hood tried to evade the Manticore’s blade, a third received a slit over his eyes from the now useless .45’s razor sharp gun sight. Manticore parried other knife thrusts with the Fairbairn-Sykes.

  The bleeding slit distracted the third hood. Blood poured down his face, into his eyes, blinding him. Panicking, believing he was more seriously hurt, the wounded man backed into the knife of the man behind him. It was the last thing he ever did. The poor sap didn’t even have time to cry out. As the attackers froze momentarily in shock, the Silver Manticore seized the opportunity.

  “I’ll kill you all,” he hissed. For effect he added his theatrical laugh. Manticore grabbed the lifeless body, blocking the others. But he could not maintain this advantage. They would overwhelm him. His life depended on keeping the men lined up at the door.

  Gradually, the Manticore drove them back with a final burst of strength. Their own numbers created a bottleneck. As they spilled out, backwards, the Manticore reached under his suit jacket. A grenade appeared in his gloved hand.

  He jerked the pin and threw the bomb with enough force to make it skip and then bounce. He didn’t want anyone throwing it back. The device clattered to the ship’s floor. Men scrambled, scattering with yells of “grenade!” and “…a crazy man!”

  Perhaps out of bravado, perhaps out of the fear of failure, one tough dived for it; exactly what the Silver Manticore didn’t want. White-faced, the man quickly scooped up the explosive and whipped it back to the cabin. The Silver Manticore’s eyes widened as the bomb was returned to him. Normally, he would shoot his gun to graze the grenade, deflecting it. That was not an option now. Quickly, he slammed the bulkhead door, as the grenade bounced off of it.

  The explosion, seconds later, was a muffled one. Mimosa 3, mixed with black smoke, filled the corridor, but not as far down as he wanted. While coughing, blinded men retrieved their nerve, the Silver Manticore had spent the time coolly examining the wall Hanoi Tsin had disappeared through.

  He turned to examine the desk. Yes, here, just underneath, were two buttons. Red must be for alarm, with green for the release of the escape panel. Manticore pressed it, hopping he chose the right one. Back slid a panel. A plan was forming in his mind. Stepping over Siam Khan, Manticore took with him the first, still-unconscious white-jacketed foe.

  Silver Manticore found himself in the reverse of the cabin he just left, emerging through the panel in the bulkhead. Hanoi Tsin was not there. But here was the source of the bass rumble he had noted before. The Hammond electric organ sat there. Only it was no organ.

  How could this device cause fast moving, and only fast moving objects, like bullets, to disintegrate? No matter. The Silver Manticore knew what to do. Small, collapsible scissors, sharp enough to cut wire, appeared in his hand. Quickly, Manticore set to work.

  He heard men attempting to batter down the door of the cabin he had just vacated. It was a cinch they were not aware of to the sliding panel trick; Hanoi Tsin must not wholly trust them. Otherwise they would have come
around here to attempt to outflank him. Good.

  The Silver Manticore stripped off the uniform jacket of the man he carried through the passageway. Then, he gagged and bound that man with a set of handcuffs taken hidden pockets and set him in a closet.

  With hat and mask off and wearing the officer’s cap mashed down far as possible, white jacket over his own, Brent Allred, not the Silver Manticore, left the locked room that held the mysterious device. He was confident he could pass for a crewman. And now his bullets would hold together. Allred stuffed the fedora under arm. He knew no amount of blocking would ever make it wearable again. Second hat he ruined tonight, Allred realized.

  Pandemonium raged all through that part of the liner. Men were still trying to batter down the door of the first room. Allred caught sight of Hanoi Tsin hurrying along a corridor, moving with the grace of a cat, while an officer in white followed with two suitcases.

  As Allred hid himself, Siam Khan staggered to join the devil doctor, supported by another officer. He was castigated in Chinese, told that the hired killers would succeed where he had failed.

  With the party headed for the deck, Allred depressed his girasol ring. Aboard the Albatross, Doc Wylie received the signal on his wristwatch. Longjohns had made the necessary electrical modifications, linking the communication devices. Under the waves, Albatross approached the Sally Bell. Allred snuck up on the suitcase-bearing officer, hands out.

  When the group emerged topside, it was a white-jacketed Brent Allred who tossed a bundled up hat overboard. He picked up the suitcases again and watched as the two Chinese stood on the deck looking out to the black, choppy sea. Something just below the surface was approaching, too soon to be Wylie’s sub.

  Approaching the Sally Bell, aboard the Albatross, Wylie had instructed Chuck, Levvy and Longjohns to change into their flexible, mail-armored underwater suits as soon as Allred signaled. These suits were experimental, a year away from being widely available, at least so according to Cousteau, the Frenchman that Wylie had consulted with on them. These models, however, required no aqualungs. Oxygen, supplied in the form of pills, took care of that need. Wylie was not ready to share that development with the world yet. A small tank on the back resembled an air supply but sucked in and compressed water. This would allow the wearer to speed away on a jet of the stuff in an emergency. Cousteau, meanwhile, had reported to Wylie that he was secretly in the Resistance, covering his operations by pretending to work on undersea experiments.