The Sting of the Silver Manticore

by P. J. Lozito

  “What about your column, sir? Have you considered running it more often?”

  “My pseudonymous scribbling isn’t getting the response I’m after. Now, if I could get a cartoonist like that Geisel at PM, well…”

  “How about picking up ‘Kup’s Column’ from Chi-town?”

  “No, there’s too much of that quipster stuff around. You know, I bought a copy of this month’s Smash Detective Cases. Hard to put down.”

  “Hmm, shouldn’t go that route, boss. After all, you got Headline. Keep it classy.”

  “Well, if Dorothy Schiff makes the Post tabloid--like I’ve heard-- it’ll leapfrog right over us.”

  “How about a crossword like the Times just started?”

  “I think a comic strip everybody reads, like ‘Derby Dugan,’ is the way to go.”

  “I read that one, too. Would a serious adventure strip be all right?”

  “That’s a better idea. What have you got?”

  The visitor considered the request as he nervously cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve been kicking a few things around. I found a dime novel about the Silver Manticore, the real one, from the old days, down on Fourth Avenue. You know, the Port of Ancient Books. It’s full of situations I can use.”

  Allred’s ears pricked up, “The Silver Manticore. Well, well. That wouldn’t be ‘Part Two’ of his story, would it?”

  “New, ‘Part One,’ but I still haunt the second-hand shops every weekend, just about.”

  “Really? Give me some names.” Allred reached for a small scratchpad.

  “You know, the Iliad, the Raven, the Arcadia, oh, and Ford Duane’s shop. What’s the interest, boss?”

  “I’d really like to see some of those old dime novels myself. Let me know if you ever finagle another Manticore.”

  “All right. Too bad Paddy’s Market is gone. You’d find ‘me there, sure. You might try Irving Richards’ place on the upper West Side, too.”

  “Richards? Do you happen to know if he has a brother named Maolcrum?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, boss. I look into it for you.”

  “Good. Be discreet about it. Now, how about that strip? Black and white, daily, and in color on Sundays?”

  Falk chewed his lip thoughtfully.

  Later that night, the Silver Manticore was busy creating new situations for Falk to use. Arriving at Yarrow Frost’s rooms at 445 West 45th St., he found it to be a refurbished new law tenement. He located a low-storey building around the next corner. Easy enough to scale, he gathered, contemplating the First, Second and Third degree felonies he’d be committing tonight. The Silver Manticore picked his way through backyards until he reached his target.

  At the foot of Frost’s fire escape he had cast his line. Doc Wylie’s amazing cache of inventions provided him with a small, strong, collapsible grapple.

  Pulling down the ladder would have caused a ruckus he’d rather avoid. Instead, the Silver Manticore shimmied up the line.

  As all wary New Yorkers know, you keep the window adjacent to the fire escape locked when leaving or at night to keep intruders out. This night they’d be wrong. The Silver Manticore flung line and grapple from the steps of the ladder into the support frame of the other window. Safely ensconced there by his grapple, he set to the task of breaking and entering Frost’s residence. A mere screen blocked his way. One sharp knife thrust made short work of that.

  Trixie Wylie had been instructed to strike up a fast friendship with Ruby Bishoff. She merely had one of her staff inform Miss Bishoff that she “won” a visit to the Park Avenue Beautician. There Trixie introduced herself to Miss Bishoff. Now Trixie was keeping her, Frost’s live-in associate, out late this night.

  Only the chef Fritz remained home. The Silver Manticore observed the pajama-clad chef, apparently going to bed. His bedroom light went out and only a hall light remained on. The pungent scent of Continental cuisine greeted him. This bird must’ve whipped up quite a midnight snack. Silently, the Manticore entered. He sought out the chef’s room.

  Doc Wylie had advised him that he could not vouch for Fritz’s loyalties. Caesar Fox had hired him as his own chef and then sent him into Frost’s undercover for Wylie. But Fox had left Wylie’s group to work full time for the State Department. Although Fox had promised him a job when he came back to civilian life, Fritz himself was a wild card. The Silver Manticore thought it easiest to just gas him.

  Aiming the gas gun to hit Fritz’s headboard, he fired. He even swept up the broken glass in gloved hands, so this innocent would not get cut. The sleeping manservant would not be waking up while the Silver Manticore searched the house.

  Now, an idea was forming in his head: why not pass himself off, like Axelrod had done in San Francisco, as a handyman at police headquarters, only named “Fritz” this time? Could be used when Weston was unavailable, or unable, to feed him the straight dope, he realized. It was always better to impersonate a real, traceable person than to create one out of whole cloth. The police had a habit of checking on references. So, he’d say he was let go here and would even take work cleaning police headquarters.

  Now the Silver Manticore turned his attention back to the task at hand. It looked like Le Grandon was right. There was something unusual about Yarrow Frost. How did this mere bounty-hunter manage to own a beautiful townhouse in Manhattan and employ a chef? A search of Frost’s home was in order. The Silver Manticore made it thorough. He ended at with Yarrow Frost’s study. There, the Silver Manticore tapped walls, felt for secret latches and looked behind pictures until he found what he was looking for. Soon the masked man had located a safe imbedded in the floor under a throw rug. He set about to open it. Manticore checked his watch. There was time. Just be alert for the signal from Jericho, he reminded himself.

  This peter was an old Milner, made with quality, not like the tin used today. It would be a challenge. He would need all the skills that safecracking kid Alistair Mundy had taught him. Minutes later, the Silver Manticore succeeded in opening the box.

  He clawed through documents. Frost had recently bought this building from a Frederick Mertz. Hmm, with a name like that, Mertz could be a Bund sympathizer, Manticore mused. Other papers inside were revealing, especially about Fritz.

  The masked man sighed to find yet another issue of the old Silver Manticore dime novel, one he was already too familiar with. And among the other contents to be expected, was the unexpected: a manuscript. So, Frost had dreams of being a published author.

  But close reading showed this to be dynamite; apparently, it was to be unpublished until after Frost’s death. The manuscript outlined his extremely long life. Score a point for the “researchs” of Dr. Le Grandon. The book would make fascinating reading. It was interesting to see that “Michael Christy” had indeed been close to ace Raoul Lufbery, learning everything from him.

  The Silver Manticore read randomly: Maolcrum Richards is a monster. He murdered poor old Wu Chang before my eyes. At that point, I swore silently to avenge the old Celestial. Now, whatever serum Richards has run through my veins-- in the manner of a test animal-- is supposed to extend my life. We will see. That life will be dedicated to killing Richards.

  And: After taking over the identity of a dead minor politician, I insinuated myself into President Roosevelt’s inner circle. I have endeavored to get T.R. interested in the bizarre and unusual.

  And: Fascinated by flight, I learned to fly. I became good enough to hire myself out as a mercenary, flying for Villa against Pershing. I had determined to make myself a deadly man in preparation for the showdown with Richards that must, inevitably, come. Flying would be a valuable asset. He has been an immortal longer? Fine. I will be the better man with guns, with knives, with aerial combat, with hand-to-hand fighting. I will need every edge possible against Dr. Maolcrum Richards.

  A cloud passed over the Silver Manticore’s brow; apparently some fantastic concoction really could boost the life span. Curiosity got the best of him. He picked up from there, trying to find some
thread: I had come to New York City in 1936...

  The ring on the Silver Manticore’s left hand index finger flashed. The signal; Trixie and Miss Bishoff were approaching the house. Allred acknowledged the signal by pressing his ring in return but continued reading Frost’s manuscript. He had time for one more brief passage. Mention of Doc Wylie caught his eye: … Wylie has ignored my overtures to meet him. Word has gotten back to me that he considers me a show off. Wylie of all people! I probably interrupted his written application to the Vatican for sainthood.

  That produced a chuckled. But the Manticore knew after their fisticuffs, Wylie had made an effort be less officious and more down to earth. He continued to skip around the manuscript. Something else caught his eye in Frost’s outline of his bounty hunter cases in New York.

  Killers Frost had crossed paths with had had a weapon that worked on “sub-sonic” amplified sound. It made him think of the similar, unwieldy device Luciferro had equipped his robot with. Of course, the Silver Manticore’s people had taken it from Luciferro’s stores. To this day, Professor Scott had tried to miniaturize it. Longjohns was even taking a crack at it.

  This indicated more of those devices were out there. Frost’s manuscript made it pretty clear this one had ended up at the bottom of the East River. He had shot down the pair who used it, mounted on their seaplane, to extort airlines.

  Interesting stuff. Perhaps too interesting, for the next thing the Silver Manticore knew, a pleasant female voice was instructing him to raise his hands. Miss Bishoff had returned home while the masked man had allowed himself to be drawn into Frost’s story. And this was despite the warning on his ring.

  “Turn around so I can get a good look at you, chuckles,” said redheaded Ruby Bishoff, gun in hand. “And start talking. You better hope Fritz is just sleeping.”

  The girl was taken aback to see she had captured the Silver Manticore.

  “I wish to hell I knew what was going on around here. First, some guy claiming to work for Doc Wylie shows up asking about Yarrow, then Wylie himself calls saying that wasn’t one of his men, and then that first yob ends up strangled in an all-night movie, stamped by the Silver Manticore. Now I find you going through Yarrow’s papers. Come to think of it, I was out with Trixie Wylie. No wonder she wanted to make friends. Ooh, that …vixen!” She stamped a foot.

  “It was my idea to have Wylie girl mislead you, Miss Bishoff. She didn’t want to betray your trust.”

  “Shut up, you! She did it just the same. Get that silver hanky off before I shoot it off.”

  “Forgive me if I doubt your marksmanship.”

  “Think I can’t? Yarrow taught me how to use this thing.”

  “Did he also teach you about the safety?”

  “What?” The girl peered down at her revolver.

  That was all the Silver Manticore needed. He moved like lightning. His left hand shot out, knocking the gun away. A leg sweep put Miss Bishoff on the floor with a thump. The girl’s stockings obviously came from a spray can, seam traced by eyeliner.

  “Try anything, buster, and I scream my fool head off!” Miss Bishoff threatened from her new position.

  “If I give you back your gun, will you listen to my story and promise not to scream?” the Silver Manticore asked coolly.

  “You talked me into it. Give.”

  The Silver Manticore held up the revolver. He grasped the ejector rod and pulled. Six bullets cascaded to the floor. The empty gun was presented to Miss Bishoff with a bow.

  “Real funny. Start talking, buster,” she pulled out a Lucky Strike after she dropped the weapon into her handbag. The Silver Manticore leaned over and lit the cigarette with a lighter that, unknown to Miss Bishoff, hid the seal he stamped his victims with.

  “Fritz is unharmed. I merely put him to sleep. I have left money in his room that should cover any damage I caused getting in here.”

  “You ever hear of a front door, bub? It’s cheaper.”

  “Who would admit me, a wanted criminal, and then allow me to poke around in Mr. Frost’s papers?”

  “Okeh, you got a point. At risk of sounding like Margaret Dumont: what is the meaning of this?” Miss Bishoff puffed on her cigarette, attempting to answer her own question. “If you were a criminal you wouldn’t have given me back my gun, empty or otherwise.”

  “Yes. Pretending to be one is a convenient cover in my dealings with real criminals. I trust my secret is safe with you. Fritz’s shall be safe with me.”

  “Yeah, well, Nazis in Occupied France were gonna kill him for being a Swiss Jew.”

  “Is being loyal to the moledat an excuse to enter this country with forged papers?”

  “Millions of ‘em are being killed over there. No one believes it.”

  “Unfortunately, our government knows well about the Wannsee Conference. Aerial recon photographs of the death camps exist,” intoned the Silver Manticore.

  Ruby Bishoff blanched.

  “I shall forget about his connections to Avraham Stern. Our British allies would certainly like the opportunity to interview the kidon down the hall. They don’t care for Jews to be smuggling weapons into the underground in Palestine.”

  “By the time you tell me anything, Fritz’ll be making breakfast.”

  The Silver Manticore realized that in order to gain Miss Bishoff’s confidence, he’d have to share information with her. “Yarrow Frost’s longevity holds the key to the puzzle of a criminal I am fighting, Dr. Hanoi Tsin. Ever hear of him? Or recall Frost mentioning him?”

  “That Tong warlord? Only in the yarns that’re in Collier’s all the time.”

  “Believe me, Miss Bishoff; were he a fictional creation, I wouldn’t be here. Tongs are merely fraternal organizations and do not engage in criminal activity.”

  She sighed, “I guess you’re right. I thought you were a fictional creation up until five minutes ago. You saw Yarrow’s class paper.”

  “It doesn’t tell me all I wish to know.”

  “Yarrow’s honing his skills to go after a fink named Maolcrum Richards at his own time and place,” Ruby stated.

  “Richards,” the Silver Manticore breathed, pushing up his hat. “A search of government records, by someone I trust, showed that he retired under a cloud of suspicion.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of robbing a shipment of Union Army gold.”

  “Golly, Yarrow was in the Union Army. Well, I guess you know that, too. What put you wise? ” questioned Ruby Bishoff.

  “Hanoi Tsin cavalierly gave most of the story to a man he held prisoner, Jacques Le Grandon. My people freed him.”

  “Your people, huh? That fish wrap of Brent Allred’s said it was a hot shot government boy named Corrigan.”

  “I have low friends in high places,” said the Silver Manticore, ignoring her insult to the Sentry.

  “So, this Hanoi Tsin is working with Richards?”

  “No, we don’t think Richards is in league with Hanoi Tsin. Richards is the subject of inquiry by him.”

  “Then he must have something Hanoi Tsin wants,” figured Miss Bishoff, astutely.

  “Richards collaborated with Hanoi Tsin’s old teacher, Wu Chang. I’m beginning to see what it is.”

  “So tell me. I’m in this now.”

  Silver Manticore hesitated—how much does she get to know? “They came up with a better version of the elixir. A wounded Frost was the guinea pig while under Richards’ care during the Civil War. And as an alchemist he knew he needed some gold to make more gold.”

  “That explains the Union Army robbery,” Ruby Bishoff reasoned. “But how can you possibly improve on eternal youth?”

  “That I don’t know,” conceded the Silver Manticore. “Richards killed Wu Chang soon after they tested the stuff. That revolted Frost. Something caused Wu Chang to flee from Hanoi Tsin years before, but he still carried on the works of his old collaborator.”

  “Huh, find out what made Wu Chang bolt and, mister, you got the answer.”

  “Ha
noi Tsin was hoping Frost would lead him to Richards.”

  “Because whatever discovery he and Wu Chang made and put into Yarrow, Hanoi Tsin considers his,” Ruby deducted.

  “He can still squeeze it out of Frost,” pointed out the Silver Manticore. “With no concern for his well-being, I might add.”

  “But no one gets to Yarrow now. He got himself shot down. Jeez!”

  “Shot down?”

  “I just got word …” began Ruby.

  “You don’t seem too worried.”

  “Yarrow’s been in tougher spots in his long life than this.”

  “So he’s alive. P.O.W.?” prompted the Silver Manticore.

  “He ain’t,” confirmed Ruby Bishoff puffing smoke, “no prisoner.”

  “Are you saying he escaped? Or…?”

  “Yarrow escaped in one of their own gliders,” stated Ruby proudly.

  “Has he contacted you?”

  “Heavens, no,” she said. “He’s always doing things like this.”

  “Miss Bishoff, how do you come to know this?”

  “Red Cross told me.”

  “This is very important. Do you know where he came down?” The girl seemed to be more informed than Corrigan. Possibly she was listed as next-of-kin and was told ahead of any contact the Corrigan might have.

  “He doesn’t seem to have come down yet,” sighed Miss Bishoff. “Hey, you think this has something to do with the Project Ultra Soldier he wasn’t supposed to discuss?”

  “Miss Bishoff, I think you had better tell me everything,” declared the Silver Manticore, pulling up a chair.

  ***

  A few minutes later, the Silver Manticore left the Frost place by the front door, unclasping his mask as did so, stuffing into a pocket. With his back to the house, nobody there would see his face. Bako drove up in response to his call over the girasol ring.

  “Two-way radio,” Brent Allred requested grimly. Bako complied. Allred spoke Mayan into the handset, “Burberry, raise Corrigan. Wake him if you have to. Imperative I see him tonight.”

  The communication minister’s voice was tinny and distorted, “Understood.”