The Sting of the Silver Manticore

by P. J. Lozito

  “Queens? Forget the whole thing,” grumbled Casey.

  “Hey, it’s great out there. You and the missus oughta hop the trolley for some grand shopping. There’s Gertz, they got Montgomery Ward...”

  “I don’t have the time for that,” interrupted Casey.

  Axelrod knew Casey was still smarting from the paste-up collages some nut artist had made out of the Joe Casey comic strip. What’s worse, that guy had proudly served in the Army Corps of Engineers.

  “How’ve you been making out, Mike?” he asked a little more gently. He hadn’t meant to bite Axelrod’s head off.

  “Well, these days, for a while now, after a hard day at the office, kowtowing to Gunnigan and Allred—no more bars. I go straight home and cook. Not just dinner, mind you. But stuff I can wrap up and take in for lunch. Snacks, too.”

  “Irish soda bread, that sort of thing?”

  “Naw, me sainted mother never give me the recipe for that, but I got a colleen up in Yorkville bakes it just fine.”

  “Well, they say the best chefs in the world are men,” suggested Casey, “sounds like your cooking’s therapeutic.”

  “’Tis,” replied Axelrod. “Don’t even want a drink these days. Mebbe a glass of beer now and again but that’s it. That and the writin’ really helps. So, how’s the young Miss Bonnie?”

  “Fine, she’s just fine, Mike. Loves school and doesn’t listen to that Alan Freed garbage. It won’t be long before she tries out for the All- American Girls Ball League. I tell you, she’s going to be the next Millie Deegan,” Casey beamed proudly.

  “What more could a father ask for?” Axelrod manage to get out in between slurps of hot coffee.

  “Funny you mention Gunnigan,” continued Casey. “I run into him at City Hall.”

  Axelrod managed a disinterested: “And?”

  “He was telling me 99% of the country’s newspapers are off-set now. Did you know that?”

  “Sure,” nodded Axelrod. “Staley McBrayer’s innovation. Sold old Dan Allred on that, too. Fellow Texan, y’ know.” He knotted two fingers together: “They’re like this.”

  “Well, Gunnigan’s boy, Peter, just put in for a private investigator’s license,” noted Casey.

  Axelrod snorted, “Listen, somethin’ weird is goin’ on with Brent Allred.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes. I remember a talk I had with him, one day, back in San Francisco. We had kicked around some possibilities as to who or what the Silver Manticore was.”

  “Go on,” said Casey, interested.

  “We had it narrowed down to the Manticore either being Mob, a cop or a G.I.”

  “He’s no cop,” affirmed Casey.

  Axelrod stirred more milk into coffee, “That’s good java. Places like this can’t make decent tea, but their coffee is tops. See, the water never gets a good rolling boil…”

  “More Silver Manticore, less silverware, Mike?” he grasped the reporter’s wrist.

  “As I was about to say, you’re right. There ain’t nothin’ cop about the Manticore, havin’ been one meself.”

  Casey tore into one of his donuts. The man prided himself on being a good listener.

  “Manticore first showed up givin’ Dr. Lucifer what for back in ’40 or so. Now this Luciferro --the underworld called him Dr. Lucifer-- was first in a breed what’s more common than a 3D movie nowadays: the master criminal. He had wired up henchmen and radio controlled robots, the works. He was all set to take over. The state, I mean. Once he became dictator of Californy, he could start workin’ on takin’ over the U.S. of A.”

  Casey stirred one more sugar into his own coffee.

  “Near as I can figure it, Manticore must’ve been one of his henchmen. But he turned on ‘im. As, in fact, the Manticore is wont to do. Tried to take the whole enchilada for hisself. Killed ol’ Luciferro. But in doin’ so, he queered the deal.”

  “I missed all this Luciferro stuff,” said Casey.

  “Well, the Manticore was the only one that got away scot-free in that whole business. He continued to operate all over Frisco. Whatever big ideas Luciferro had, Manticore ended up pert near being top hoodlum.”

  Casey chewed.

  “Now get this, Joe. It wasn’t long before the Silver Manticore, what’d ya call it, re-invented himself. More disciplined. Just like you ain’t the same wet-behind-the-ears rookie you started out as. Somethin’ happened that he got better. Like a soldier gettin’ better after a chewin’ out from the top brass.”

  “So he is a soldier.”

  “And I’m my own grandpa, bucko.”

  “Well, how does this fit in with Brent Allred?” asked Casey, exasperated.

  “Only like this: the Examiner was on the skids—until the Manticore showed up. I’m thinkin’ Allred junior may be the Manticore’s sugar daddy.”

  “What? Mike, you know how crazy that sounds?”

  Axelrod counted on coffee-stained fingers, “Item: Brent was an ace in the Great War. Item: all of a sudden here in the Big Apple, the Manticore shows up with one a them thingamabobs.”

  “A dirigible?”

  “No, no,” Axelrod waved the suggestion away.

  “You must mean…an ornithopter?”

  “No, dammit, Casey. Quit foolin.’ “

  “Oh, a flying Wing like Doc Wylie had.”

  “An autogiro, it is. Capable of takin’ off and landin’ vertically.”

  “So?”

  “That’s an easily traceable aeroplane. Or it oughta be.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I checked with the country’s foremost aviation expert: Bill Barnes. Ain’t none missing.’”

  “Quote the raven: ‘so’?”

  “So? So mebbe Brent Allred knew some nut in the Army Air Corps who made one a them thingamabobs outta spare parts after seein’ it in Popular Mechanics.”

  “That’s quite a leap.”

  “Oh? Did ya know this Silver Manticore magazine, Popular Mechanics and the Sentry are all part of the same publishing empire, which Brent controls?”

  “That’s circumstantial evidence,” pointed out Casey.

  “Another item: Brent don’t talk about his time in the service.”

  Casey rubbed his prestigious jaw, “Any chance Allred is the Manticore?”

  “Are ye balmy, Joe? I lived in his guest room as his bodyguard for a wee bit back in San Francisco. Every night the Manticore was prowlin,’ Brent was home.”

  “Every night? You’re sure.”

  “Ol’ Warner Lester himself dubbed me Bloodhound. Brent couldn’t have slipped out without me knowing. I heard ‘im with my own two eyes: talkin’ on the phone, pilin’ up Z’s, listenin’ to The Whisperer, torturing that blasted fiddle. Not one Irish song did he know, I might add.”

  “Okeh, you think Allred’s paying this creep to boost circulation? Come on, Mike. I thought you were off the poteen.”

  “’Tain’t funny, Casey,” said Axelrod petulantly. “Here’s one more little item: Brent never seemed too broken up about the death of his cousin Bob. Now what does that tell you, Mr. Plainclothes?”

  “Wasn’t Bob Wynn a long-lost cousin?” pointed out Casey. “Allred hardly knew him.”

  “Whose side are ye on, Joe?”

  “I’m the arm of the law. Innocent until proven guilty, remember?”

  “Hrrmp,” said Axelrod, with a swipe of his hand. “Load of blarney.” He turned back to his coffee.

  “If those two are thick as thieves, how do you explain-- what was it? -- in ’42, when the Manticore tried to carve his initials into Allred’s forearm, newshawk? Why Commissioner Weston witnessed the whole thing and even tried to make an arrest.”

  “Weston make an arrest now, is it?”

  Casey sighed, “I heard the incident was over The Manticore comic strip in the Sentry. Who wouldn’t be mad if his life was put into the funny papers?”

  “Now’s Allred’s hired that crumb Sidney Falco to promote a Manticore movie or a TV show based o
n the strip,” exclaimed Axelrod. “I say it’s some kinda snow job.”

  “I’ve heard it takes years for production to start on those things,” pointed out Casey.

  “Who cares? I’m talkin’ about the real t’ing not a blasted kiddie show! Maybe they should make a TV show outta you.”

  “Well, can you prove what you say?” Casey’s eyes narrowed to the size of caraway seeds.

  Axelrod tapped his pile of papers while pouring the balance of his coffee down his gullet.

  “All right, let me take these notes, Mike. I’ve to get back to the office. Patterson’ll be throwing a fit if he finds out I was having j.o. and sinkers with some louse of a scrivener.”

  “So, why’s Fred Patterson chief of operations and not you?”

  “It was offered to me, Mike. I didn’t want it,” shrugged Casey.

  With that, Axelrod handed over the untidy collection of papers and Manila envelopes over to Casey, “I’ll be wantin’ those back, Joe.”

  “I will personally see to it you get everything that’s coming to you, Mike. But what makes you want to pull the plug on Allred anyway? His father hired you in your worst hour of need,” reminded Casey. “Remember you’re old drinking days, getting drummed off the SFPD?”

  “Oh, tain’t nothing’ like that. I’ve got to follow every lead, Joe.”

  “You know I’d like to be the cop that finally cuffs the Silver Manticore. Well, I have to dash. Flintheart’s throwing a big to-do for his son getting out of the Navy and I got the chief’s O.K. to knock off early.”

  “Oh, yeah, that thing Falco put together. He sure gets around. Have fun.”

  Axelrod muttered a goodbye as Casey reached for his hat and put down enough money to cover their repast. “It’s on me,” Casey explained.

  “As is most of yer powdered donut. Don’t break the bank now, Joe,” smiled the reporter as he graciously finished Casey’s abandoned second donut for him. He made better ones himself, Axelrod decided.

  “Give you a lift up to 97th St.?” offered the cop.

  “Naw, I ain’t heading back Royal York ways just yet,” answered the reporter. “Third Avenue El will be my fifteen cent chariot home. Thanks, anyways.”

  As long as he was downtown, Axelrod figured he would do some snooping. Might as well powwow with Patrolman Bolton; those stooges at Langdon Florist the beat cop had introduced him to always had something, Axelrod knew. Besides, he was curious about locale of the sixty storey “trade mart” David Rockefeller planned to build nearby, along Radio Row.

  That night at his home, while Axelrod was cooking up something for tomorrow’s lunch, Casey sat before the blue glow of a new Philco tuned to an unwatched episode of The Alan Brady Show. Tess was getting ready for the party.

  He read Axelrod’s notes, examined documentation fished out of Brent Allred’s wastepaper basket, and clips from other dailies. Axelrod also had conjectures, gut feelings, discrepancies he couldn’t explain, and theories yet to be tested. He had really outdone himself.

  When the girasol ring on his finger flashed that he was needed, Casey grunted, acknowledged it and tossed everything into the fire. This stuff can’t get out. After all, Brent Allred was one of the Silver Manticore’s top agents.

  And it looked like Casey would be missing Derek Flintheart’s party.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  OKHUGH OF THE JUNGLE

  William Charles Mildin, Lord Galbraith, skin bronzed by a thousand tropical suns, had booked passage on an Italian Airways plane. It was scheduled to land at Idlewild, the world’s largest commercial airport. But he did not board the flight. Instead, he hitched a ride with an R.A.F. transport making a stop at Brooklyn’s Floyd Bennett Field on New York’s Barren Island.

  Lord Galbraith knew that Bennett was a New Yorker who had flown over the North Pole. Pleasant enough way to honor him, he thought. Further, he was aware that famed aviators like Amelia Earhart, Italo Balbo, his own cousin Doc Wylie and Douglas “Wrong Way” Corrigan had used this field. He made a mental note to find out if the unfortunate Wrong Way was related to the American Special Federal Operator James Christopher Corrigan.

  Mildin arrived in his old R.A.F. uniform, long-ish black mane stuffed into the cap. The uniform still fit, considering the passing of years. He left with the crew upon landing on American soil, blending in perfectly with them. Outside, a brown London Fog mackintosh was thrown over the uniform.

  At the airport, Mildin was met by his contact. This was an unkempt man of six feet, one inch and about one hundred-ninety pounds who needed a shave, a haircut, a suit pressing and a tie clip. An unlit cigar stub was jammed into the man’s mouth. Unlit perhaps out of deference to the royal he was meeting. He wore a patch over his left eye, but the other one was brown, like his hair. Mildin felt such a disguise was not needed. The U.N.D.E.R. identification he produced revealed his name to be Captain Colin Furioli. The photo showed it was no disguise.

  “Glad to see ya, Your Lordship,” said Furioli, shaking hands. Up close, Mildin’s face bore innumerable, fine scars. Furioli noted that his hair was pulled back and bound with a barely perceptible black string.

  “Let us dispense with that. Please call me William Mildin.”

  “O.K. by me, Mr. Mildin, but I still wanna say: ‘Your coach awaits.’”

  “No clicking of heels?” Mildin smiled, being a good sport.

  “Naw, reminds me too much of them damn goosestepers,” responded Furioli.

  Mildin looked over Furioli’s dark blue Ferrari 330/P4 Berlinetta appreciatively as he entered it, his questions momentarily forgotten. The man from U.N.D.E.R. started the machine. Furioli noted that the Englishman seemed impressed by it as they were climbing in. The car purred to life.

  “She’s driven by V-12 4.4 liter engine, twin Mareli distributors, an’ a five speed gearbox,” he recited. “They was all outta candy apple red.”

  “Smooth ride.”

  “Yeah, but nothing like them sleek aircraft you flew during the big one in the E.T.O., huh?” asked Furioli.

  “Yes, I loved flying. Tell me, are you a native Brooklynite, Captain Furioli?”

  Furioli hit the brakes, “Whoa, let us dispense with that. Please don’t remind me I’m brass. ‘Colin’ or ‘Furioli,’ pick one of ‘em.” He started the car anew, “Naw, I’m a proud product a Hell’s Kitchen over to the city. Ever hear tell of it?”

  “I have. It isn’t quite as world famous as Brooklyn, however.”

  “Not like I been back since the Highlanders become the Yankees,” Furioli paused, eye darting to the rearview mirror. He caught Mildin’s blank look.

  “Means it’s been a long time. Well, we got somethin’ more pressin’ to discuss besides which part a town is more better.”

  Mildin looked Furioli over, “Such as?”

  “Such as: didja know that plane you didn’t take crashed on landing at Idlewild?” inquired Furioli.

  William Mildin goggled, “Were there fatalities?”

  “Coupla dozen.”

  Milden’s lips pulled back in an uncontrollable ape-like snarl. A scar on his forehead stood out in red as blood rushed to his face in anger.

  “Caused by the man that killed my cousin?”

  “That’s right. Hanoi Tsin wants you bad and he’ll wreck a whole plane to get you.”

  Furioli weaved in and out of traffic expertly. Manhattan appeared in the distance.

  “The monster,” muttered Mildin softy, self-control now regained.

  “Guilty as charged. It’s ‘cause of whatever is slowin’ down your aging. You were born in 1888, izzat right, Mr. Mildin?”

  “November 12, 1888, yes.”

  “You sure don’t look it, sir.”

  “Thank you, I even have a grown son,” responded Mildin. “He’s to be married.”

  “Yeah? Congrats. Now your youthful appearance fits in with a case of mine.”

  “How so?”

  “Hanoi Tsin has had somethin’ called the Elixir Vitae for twenty-fiv
e years. He’s been working on it longer. But he wants to make sure he’s the only guy with it. He’s especially interested in a fella named Yarrow Frost. Frost lived right here in New York but went missing after flying a glider out of a German P.O.W. camp in ’42.”

  “Is he in hiding? After Doc wired me about Hanoi Tsin, I have been living quietly as an African naturalist named ‘Jungle Jack’ Bradley.”

  “Not hiding, missing. In fact, we was wonderin’ if you ever met him when you were flyin.’ After all, his unit, the Grayhawks, was headquartered in your Merry Olde England.”

  “No,” confirmed Mildin. “I would remember that name, ‘Yarrow Frost’. What is the interest?”

  “He was supposed to take part in a top-secret experiment but got himself shot down over Italy. A project called ‘Ranger X.’ He ain’t exactly the kind to shirk his duties.”

  “‘Ranger X’ and that is…?” asked Mildin.

  “Not at liberty to say,” Furioli answered. “Even at this late date. In fact, I shouldn’t a mentioned it.”

  The U.N.D.E.R. agent cursed himself for letting that slip. After all, the brass still had plans to implement the Ranger X project. Such an operative would prove valuable in the Cold War. Although Doc Wylie and Levvy Levnitz had been far too busy with their global crime-fighting to have had added their chemistry genius to the project, team leader Barton J. Reed had found a suitable replacement in Rex Tyler. And it wasn’t like he could fight crime while Wylie and his assistant clacked test tubes.

  “All this cloak and dagger routine is quite out of my league, Furioli.”

  “I dunno, yer lordship, that was pretty sharp thinkin,’ deadheadin’ a ride on a military bird at the last minute,” appraised Furioli. “Wish I had more agents used their noggins like that.”

  “I understood Hanoi Tsin to be resourceful. Where are we going? Or are you not at liberty to say?”

  “You must have ‘em in stitches back at the House of Lords. I’m takin’ you to Wylie’s old H.Q. in the Empire State Building. We go right into the parking garage and up to the 79th floor. No one’ll see us. From there, Wylie’s bunch maintains a secret chute that goes to their warehouse on the river. You’ll meet the rest of ‘em there later.”