by P. J. Lozito
Doc ran into the middle of the empty avenue, looking after the quickly disappearing cab, still incredulous his bullets had had no effect on the big guy. He pressed the crystal set built into his two-way radio watch, signaling the rest of the team to regroup. The Silver Manticore came up to him, panting. The latter knew that after tonight he would have to hand the mask over to the younger Danny Colt, full-time, and stop using the name Brent Allred. His secret would soon be out.
Bako screeched to a halt in a Liberty Cab. He had been circling the area. Chuck leaned out of the back, behind a realistic looking set of whiskers. His ever-present cane replaced by an umbrella. Levvy trotted up. Close behind him was a wheezing Corrigan, done up like a bum. The Silver Manticore recognized his own ruined jacket from his tussle with Doc Wylie.
“Dr. Wylie, shall I pursue?” called Bako.
“Go ahead,” Doc made no attempt to take his usual spot on the running board. Bako and Chuck roared away in the Liberty Cab. Evan White joined the group, dressed as a surveyor.
“Khan thinks he’s getting away. But his lung is punctured,” Doc said. “That thing at the wheel isn’t making it any smoother a ride.”
“Trixie let my name slip out,” said the Manticore. “I hope the rough ride finishes him off.”
“Don’t worry,” said Corrigan. “I recognized that cab from the raid in Chinatown. A small charge attached to the ignition is about to go off.”
Ahead they heard a small explosion as the Lotus Car swerved and turned over. Bako’s own cab skidded to a halt and tiny figures spilled out to inspect the wreckage. A crowd was gathering.
Doc spoke, “He won’t be talking.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SIR DENNIS
Brent Allred came upon Doc Wylie in his office at the Norpen Lumber Company. They stopped there after mopping up from their operation at the Flatiron Building and were getting set to take something called the “flea run” to the Empire State Building.
Wylie sat at his desk, writing. He was drafting a telegram to his British cousin Lord Galbraith, currently attached to the R.A.F. as a group captain. Wylie acknowledged Allred. He moved a violin-shaped case off a chair, allowing him to sit.
“A new kind of machine gun?” inquired Allred.
“My 1727 Stradivarius,” Wylie answered with pride.
“Oh? Ever make with the jazz on that thing?” he asked, smiling.
“Sometimes,” Wylie stated as he scribbled. “I expect one day ‘hot music’ will be considered classical canon. But I much prefer my other instrument, the Leon Aubert clarinet for jazz; violin for the classics.”
“Older the fiddle, the better the tune,” reminded Allred. He wondered what else Wylie was expert on.
“Do you play?” asked Wylie, putting down his pen.
“I do a bit of gut scraping,” Allred admitted, demurely.
“Not that corn-fed cowboy music your cousin favors, I hope,” exclaimed Wylie, alarmingly. “I remember him enthusing over one rustic named J.E. Mainer…”
Allred laughed, “Good Lord, no! I can’t take that stuff.”
“Despite FDR’s fondness for Elton Britt’s ‘There’s a Star Spangled Banner Waving Somewhere’?” kidded Doc Wylie. “Quite patriotic.”
“Texas is great for square dance music. That’s why I left. No, Kreisler’s Caprice Viennois was one of my best moments on the violin. Used to serenade Louise with it, in fact,” Allred added wistfully. “That was a long time ago.”
“Funny, it’s one of Trixie’s favorite pieces,” noted Wylie.
“How about that?” questioned Allred in wonderment. He’d be brushing up on it.
“Good, if this masked-avenger-of-the-night stuff doesn’t work out, you can always get a ‘steady gig’ as a musician,” pointed out Wylie humorously.
“Well, with the shellac shortage, those poor fellows can only make money performing.”
“You could double on pistol in Spike Jones’ City Slickers,” agreed Wylie.
“That’s my other instrument. I can fake my way through ‘Der Fuhrer’s Face’. When we get a free moment, we should ‘jam,’ as the jazz beaux say.”
“I look forward to it,” said Wylie.
“Miss Scott only was just telling me Danny took her dancing to a jump band last night. Suddenly a light flashed and the musos switched over to classical. A bunch of cops sauntered in, looked around and left,” relayed Allred.
“That must have been a nightspot with no license for dancing. The doorman threw a switch,” deduced Wylie, “warning the orchestra.”
“A trick worthy of you,” said Allred, his flung out arms indicating the Norpen Lumber Co.
Doc Wylie shrugged. It would be a long tine before he would have anything to do with dancing. All of his previous attempts at it had resulted in embarrassment. Abruptly, he changed the subject, “See what you think, Brent. Maybe there’s something I missed that your keen editor’s mind will catch,” he said handing his notepad to Allred. He read the neat handwriting with the practiced eye of an editor:
AM INVESTIGATING CASE INVOLVES MANGANI STOP SEND ALL YOU CAN ON YOUR FRIENDS IN GABON STOP WYLIE END IT.
“‘Mangani’?’ ”
“They are the, shall I say, ‘missing links’ that raised my cousin in Africa,” explained Wylie.
“Is that right? Beast-like missing links supposedly roam the wastes of the Himalayas, near the Rache Curan monastery,” Allred mused. “But I never saw any when I was there.”
“The hairy brute from the Flatiron Building could certainly be one. That’s why I’m wiring Lord Galbraith,” explained Wylie.
“Well, this is as cryptic as a Burma-Shave ad, but it looks like you’ve covered everything,” confirmed Allred, handing back the missive. They made preparations to leave.
“You know, Doc, I now have controlling interest in Street & Smith, the publisher of both our magazines.”
“Authorizing them has certainly been a double-edge sword. Half the people I meet don’t believe I’m who I say I am,” expounded Wylie.
“But it helps in our work if everyone believes we’re fictional. And, of course, station WXLI has the Manticore’s radio program. It’s on a hundred seventy-five stations, shilling for Blue Coal.”
“That many?” Wylie asked unenthusiastically.
“Audimeter people can give you the exact figure. But there’re over two-hundred thousand members in the Silver Manticore Club. Anyway, I put an old newspaper friend of mine in charge of writing the Manticore adventures, guy named Walter Gibson. Your man Levvy recommended I get a funny book writer he’s big on, kid named Alfie Bester, for the Manticore radio show.”
“I don’t take much interest in our magazines or radio shows, Brent,” replied Wylie, arms folded on chest.
“Sure, I don’t have time for them, either,” agreed Allred. “But our fanatics spend three-hundred thousand of their shiny new Mercury dimes on each of them.”
“Although yours is twice a month,” reminded Wylie.
“First and third Fridays,” Allred added with pride.
“You’ll have to hope this Gibson isn’t giving away too much,” said Wylie.
“I trust him completely. He’s in the Society of American Magicians and they never talk. But you ought to hear this: I was here when Levvy called up the Bester’s employers. ‘This is Mr. Maximilian Levnitz, the award-winning chemist. Perhaps you have heard of my dear friend Dr. Richard Wylie, Jr.? We are endeavoring to reach the author of your fine Genius Jones series. I believe we may have a lucrative freelance writing assignment for him.’ I never heard him talk like that before.”
“Levvy can speak with the best of them when he wants to. But if he needed a comic book writer, he could have gone right downstairs at the Empire State Building,” Doc Wylie said, head pointing east. “A company named Timely is headquartered there.”
“Really? You never cease to surprise me with the things you know,” admitted Allred.
“That’s only because some kid named Dav
id Berg, who works for them, approached me about a Doc Wylie comic.”
“Good idea. The more misinformation will confuse our enemies,” said Allred.
“Somehow, I don’t think Hanoi Tsin keeps up with pulp magazines or comics. Needless to say, I nixed the whole thing.”
Allred considered this. “They’ll find a way to just go ahead and do one anyway, with a different name. Make it really ridiculous, like my radio show that has me hypnotizing people so they can’t see me.”
“I’m not worried. Comic books will quickly go the way of the dodo bird,” assured Wylie.
“Well, Levvy would’ve scared them if he showed up down there. They would have thought the Carl Denham expedition had come back with another specimen of ape,” Allred smiled.
“If you’re big on roller coasters, ya gonna like this, Mr. Allred,” said Levvy, “I hate it, but.”
“Hate it? What is it?” asked Allred.
“Sort of our own private version of the High Line: the go-devil I calls it. We shoot right up ‘n over to headquarters in the Empty State Building,” Levvy nodded east.
“Oh, that. Doc said it was the flea run.”
“We call it that, too.”
“How fast does it go?”
“We get there in nothin’ flat.”
“Well, how does it operate?”
“Works on pneumatics. Got the idea when he heard they was gonna use ‘em for the Flatiron’s elevators.”
“Pneumatics?”
“Yeah, never did. Installin’ this on the Q.T. was the hardest part of getting that skyscraper up inside fourteen months.”
Levvy jabbed a button. The door to the tube-like interior of the go-devil opened in the manner of an elevator. A lever rose up from the middle, mimicking a steering column, but there was nothing to steer. Only buttons and gauges were to be found there. It was surrounded in semi-circular seating that was thickly padded. These tilted open like window boxes for storage. Straps hung down and seat belts were affixed to the seat cushions.
Levvy showed Allred how to strap himself in. Well, maybe he’s not such a lummox, thought Allred, talking like a real human, warning me about this ride and getting me buckled up.
“Our contact with the cops-- you know--Joe Casey, put us in touch with one of his buddies, ‘Buyit’ Smith,” Levvy beamed. “It uses Smith’s magnetism system for propulsion and brakes.”
“‘Buyit’ Smith?” repeated Allred.
“What’s the matter? Either you’re a parrot or there’s a dang echo in here,” Levvy scowled. “Yeah, the inventor who made, and lost, fortunes with his spendin’ sprees,” answered Levvy. “The nation that controls magnetism, controls the universe, he claims. Rich guy like you ain’t ever heard of him?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I bet you bump inna him chowin’ down on chicken hash at Jack and Charlie’s ‘21’ soon enough.”
“I usually luncheon at the Russian Tea Room,” stated Allred absently. “If I have a lunch date with Miss Wylie, that is.”
“Pay $15 for eats on a date? Not me. We get coffee and a sandwich at Chockfull O’ Nuts for a nickel. Half a buck, tops, at the Automat does me and my gals just fine,” boasted Levvy. “You know, Nedick’s has a ten cent coffee, donut an’ a orange breakfast special. Doc’s got me eatin’ the orange first, because it digests faster. Me, I‘d rather have Rice Krispies: they’re ‘right on the beam for wartime eating.’”
But Allred wasn’t listening. Rather he was thinking he should have Burberry run a check on this Smith fellow. Guy like that knowing the inner workings of Wylie’s circle could be susceptible to bribes, especially if he often goes broke.
Levvy had neglected to admit that he himself was wealthy, too. In fact, the generous contracts Chuck had labored on for him insured a nice stipend well into his golden years. His fizzy stomach relief itself had been in great danger of theft from an unscrupulous corporation until Chuck threatened legal action.
And, although Levvy was now wealthy, he still did not allow himself to set foot into places like the Russian Tea Room, the Stork Club or ’21.’ He claimed the white-jacketed rest room attendants and waiters who were always looking for a handout “bugged” him. Levvy preferred the worst chili joints and greasy spoons. Not by any means tight with his money, Levvy would often press five spots into the hands of bums he passed on the street with the stern warning that it was not to be used on drink.
Wylie, Chuck, Jericho and Corrigan arrived, filed into the go-devil and took seats. With a shock, a whining noise and a great vibration, they were gone from the riverside Norpen Lumber Co. Allred heard Levvy groaning, “Oy, I hate this blamed thing…”
Seconds later, the men were at the Empire State Building’s 79th floor, the home and nerve center of Wylie’s operation. They had traveled at a speed approaching one hundred miles an hour. Suddenly, they were among comfortable chairs, deep-piled Oriental rugs and a solid table inlaid with ivory.
“That was some ride. You could get rich selling tickets to it,” commented Allred, taking in the Streamline Moderne of Wylie’s headquarters.
“I already am rich, Brent,” Wylie reminded. For him, that was jovial. With another of their foes, Siam Khan, dead, he could afford to be.
“Let us prepare to meet Sir Dennis,” he continued. “He has fought Hanoi Tsin for years. But first, Brent, I have time to show you my phone robot,” he removed the violin case out of the flea run carefully.
“Phone robot? Is it a robot you call up to do your bidding?”
Wylie smiled, “Nothing like it. It merely makes a phonograph record of calls I miss. When I get back, I play them.”
Allred could see the business applications now that the old bulky five inch brown cylinders were no longer used. Yet, would people ever be quite prepared for this when they expected to reach a real, live party?
“The caller hears me on this record first,” said Wylie, pointing under the tone arm of the Odeon gramophone. Doc Wylie’s voice issued forth from it, leaving instructions. As it ended, another record fell into place. The phone in Wylie’s headquarters was connected to a loudspeaker and microphone instead of the conventional instrument. They listened to the latest disk to be cut. Doc’s voice stated: “Listening.”
“Hello? Hello? Dr. Richard Wylie, Jr.? I was requested by Mr. Caesar Fox of the State Department to ring you up. You’ve left several messages. Are you there? Hello?” spoke a distinctly British voice. “Damnedest thing…” The phone clicked.
“Doc, this’ll never catch on,” protested Allred.
“Well, most of the usual callers like Trixie and the boys expect it,” he claimed.
“I think I’d rather face one of Luciferro’s robots again than that,” declared Allred.
“At least he didn’t send a note. Corrigan says Sir Dennis’ script in unreadable,” considered Wylie. “You like this don’t you, Levvy?”
“For playing my stash o’ hot Bird lacquer crackers on it, when no ones around,” chimed in Levvy.
So that’s why he’s always volunteering for telephone duty, Doc Wylie realized. Levvy always claimed he was tuning into Rambling with Gambling on the radio.
***
Gaunt, steely-eyed Sir Dennis Nayland Jones, formerly a commissioner in Burma, sat in an easy chair in Doc Wylie’s headquarters. Even seated, it was obvious he had a long, lean frame. The sun-baked Englishman’s gray eyes twinkled. He had virile curling black hair shot through with gray.
Sir Dennis asked for and received permission to fill a battered old, cracked briar with tobacco. A sweet cherry aroma filled the room, accompanied by the sound of his frequent tapping out of the pipe. Although a British subject who had received honors, he had been attached to America’s Secret Service in the past.
“Good to finally meet, doctor,” he intoned in a clipped, dry manner. In person, the British accent was thicker than on the phone robot. “Beer-swilling State department chap finally caught up with me. Odd fellow.”
“Caesar Fox? Luckil
y for us he lives nearby,” said Wylie. “He used to run with us. I was deeply grieved when he left us.”
“Oh?”
“My aides gave him a hard time because of his girth. I’m sure that’s why he opted for a sedentary life with his orchids over ours.”
“Speaking of sedentary, you come with highest marks from a certain Mycroft,” pointed out Sir Dennis.
“Well, I can’t hope to do better than be recommended by my father’s government,” smiled Wylie.
“Yes,” he drawled. “Quite often Mycroft is the British government. But is getting on in years. Don’t know how much longer he’ll be with us. Ninety-five, don’t you know.”
“Yes, I know,” nodded Wylie. He was quite familiar with Mycroft and his brother.
“Who are the assembled, Dr. Wylie?” Sir Dennis arose and began a restless promenade.
“Call me ‘Doc,’ ” said Wylie. “You already know Corrigan. Here is my sister, Miss Patricia Wylie—‘Trixie.’ My lawyer, Charles Nicholas Charalambides; we all call him ‘Chuck.’ Maximillain Esau Levnitz, over there, prefers to be known as ‘Levvy.’ This is Evan White, who we call ‘Jericho.’ John William Roberts, ‘Longjohns’ is, unfortunately, on the disabled list. Holding hands with Trixie is my newest recruit, Brent Allred, publisher of The Daily Sentry.”
“Oh, and what do they call you, Allred?” asked Sir Dennis. “Seem to lack a nickname.”
“We call him ‘Silver,’” Levvy snickered. “Notice the remnants of his formerly brown hair.”
Allred gave Levvy an exceptionally long and hard look. “Ignore that ape, sir. They just call me ‘Brent.’ Feel free. My friend from the Philippines, Bako here, is play acting the part of my chauffeur and houseboy.”
Sir Dennis could see that this Bako was, in fact, play acting the part of a Filipino, if anything. He was, to Sir Dennis’ trained eye, Japanese. But he said nothing. They must have their reasons.
Bako and Trixie had driven over in a Liberty Cab, arriving later than the others. As always, Bako fought the tendency to bow. Sir Dennis shook hands all around. He took this all in, puffing away contentedly. Sir Dennis tugged his left ear with his free hand.