by P. J. Lozito
“Including this Silver Manticore chap?”
“Mebbe. He’s pretty serious about his head bustin’ operations. Probably, he’ll suspend that for one night to meet the famous Lord Galbraith. I sure would.”
“This masquerade of his seems more like a publicity stunt.”
“He finds it effective. Y’ see, once that silver hanky comes off, he’s just another clown walking down the street.”
“You will still have to satisfy my curiosity on this Ranger X.”
“All right, sir, your security clearance is A-1. There is somethin’ I wanted to clear up about you. We can trade info.”
Mildin knew the question that was coming. “Fair exchange,” he nodded.
“You don’t know it, but our boys were supremely unprepared for what they pulled off in the Big One. Their equipment stank, and most of ‘em were seventeen-year olds who thought nothin’ could hurt ‘em.”
“They were brave, Furioli.”
“They was stupid. Comin’ home minus an arm or…” Furioli choked on his words a second.
“Or an eye?” Mildin prompted quietly.
“Or an eye! If they came home at all. Well, I’m hopin’ this patch is temporary. Anyway, I didn’t know this at the time but I ended up in the O.S.S. and got the whole scoop. Uncle Sam had plans to jump start our boys with a little inspiration,” allowed Furioli, now composed again.
“With this Ranger X?”
“That’s right. However, ill-equipped our forces were the U.S. industrial might was formidable. We cranked out new alloys, new material, and new weapons like crazy with the war givin’ us a kick in the pants.”
“I’m sure the Canadians, the Free French and the ANZACS contributed a little,” observed Mildin.
“Yeah, and your own crumpet-chompin’ countrymen, too, but we weren’t gonna depend on ‘em. So, we were hoping to mass produce a serum to make a stronger, faster soldier.”
“From this Elixir Vitae?”
“Yup,” nodded Furioli. “Yarrow Frost was circulatin’ a better version of it round his corpuscles.”
“Find him, analyze his blood and create an army of super-men,” Mildin mused.
“He’d be testin’ out some of our best new stuff, too. Figure a super-hard helmet and, special .17 caliber silent gun with no muzzle flash, commando knife, maybe fatigues made outta Wylie’s bulletproofs. Oh, yeah, ‘X’ sewn over his shirt pocket where a last name would be. He’d be able to subsist on smaller K-rations,” Furioli sighed. “Get ‘im in to kill Uncle Adolph, no fuss, no muss.”
“Except without Frost, it was not to be?”
“You British bunch never forget that Shakespeare stuff, huh?”
“Very droll, Mr. Furioli.”
“Eh, now, there is one thing I wanted ta ask you, for tellin’ you that, Mr. Mildin…”
Mildin sighed, “I was raised in the jungle by Mangani. ‘Okhugh’ was their sound or signal for me. They have been mistaken for apes but they are more like…”
“Like beast men?”
“Primitive humans, I was going to say. But you won’t find these chimp-like gorillas in your text books.”
“My text books? I ain’t much for the science tomes. How about them movies?”
“Irritating. Mr. Burrows’ novels were closer to the truth.”
“Well, see, we got a theory about them Manganis.”
“I’m all ears, as you Yanks say,” smiled Milden.
“The Mangani was the results of Hanoi Tsin’s buddy Dr. Moreau playing ‘round with the elixir.”
“They were rejects,” concluded Mildin.
“Hanoi Tsin wouldn’t take no elixir himself until, and only until, it was proven safe. It wasn’t ‘till 1887 anyone ever heard of a yeti. Hanoi Tsin was well on his way to workin’ on that elixir by then. And he might just want a sample of your blood to be sure.”
Mildin was silent then he said, “Doc wired me something along those lines. Intriguing, so my old jungle family is yeti?”
“You betcha,” said Furioli. “Also ‘intriguing’ is the Studebaker following us. Standard Circle of Life tailing procedure, too.”
Mildin turned. “You’re certain?”
“It’s my specialty. Know it like you know treetops. Tagged us as soon as we got movin’.”
“I wonder how they found me,” Mildin mused.
“Couldn’t a traced you, sir...Nuts! They was followin’ me, knowin’ I’d drive up with some door prize!”
Ahead, Prospect Park loomed.
“But it is me they want?”
“Right.”
Mildin considered for a moment and said: “Give me your eye patch, Furioli. The Circle of Life will find they have gotten more than they bargained for.”
***
Furioli’s car disappeared around a curve. The car in pursuit lost sight of them for mere seconds. When next the pursuers saw them, what appeared to be Furioli and the mackintosh-coated Mildin were standing outside their stopped car, hands raised.
A squeal of brakes accompanied the second car’s halt. Three hard-looking men alighted from the sedan, hands in pockets of their jackets. As the Circle of Life men came closer to their prey, the U.N.D.E.R. agent with the eye patch abruptly made a break for it into the park’s brush. They laughed and roughly grasped the other man. He cooperated, taking a seat in the back of the newcomer’s car.
The night was split by a bloodcurdling scream of “KREE-GAR!” Something hit the shoulder of the gang leader. He staggered, then dropped to his knees. A knife had suddenly appeared, jutting from his back. Then that something else crashed from the trees onto the three gunmen.
William Mildin, Lord Galbraith was transformed to Okhugh of the Jungle. Effortlessly, he lifted up the remaining Circle of Life agents high off the ground. They were still shocked by the falling of their comrade. Mildin had one in each hand, grasping throats. He banged their heads together and released them.
In the car, Furioli knew it was better to give Mildin room to move. But then he saw that the wounded Circle of Lifer was drawing a gun. Mildin was approaching the two men again, trying to put the fear of God into them. He grasped their shirtfronts, about to smack their still-aching heads together again. When they showed no signs of further resistance, he simply let them drop. The jungle lord threw his head back, stepped on the chest of one of his sprawled foes and gave forth with a blood-curdling victory cry while beating his own chest.
That was just the opening the third Circle of Life operative needed. Although bleeding from his knife wound, he leveled a Lugar at the now feral Mildin. Furioli--minus his eye patch-- swung open the car door. He smacked the wounded gunman in the head with it. His hand snaked out for the weapon, which he forced skyward. Furioli wrested the gun away from the would-be killer and finished the job with a jab to his face. He stepped from the car, brandishing the captured gun.
“I was beginning to feel like Frank Buck,” he grinned.
“’Bring ‘Em Back Alive’ Buck?” asked Mildin. “Pleasant fellow, never hurt the animals.”
***
The former Trixie Wylie was waiting for Colin Furioli and Lord Galbraith at the Empire State Building. Someone had to operate the go-devil and she wanted her adopted son, Brent, to meet Lord Galbraith. He was an uncle little Brent had never met. The two came only slightly tardy.
“Colin, you old dog, you’re late,” scolded Trixie Allred, attired in a Coco Chanel collarless cardigan jacket, Pop-it beads, nylons and a beret.
“Hurricane Trixie. I’m a well-preserved old dog. Bit o’ trouble,” proclaimed Furioli as he exited the only express elevator in the building. “But Mr. Mildin here took care of it without breakin’ a sweat.”
“Don’t say ‘sweat’ to a lady.”
“Awright, ‘perspiration,’ ” Furioli conceded. “You’re gettin’ to be like that hubby a yours with words he don’t like.”
Trixie turned to William Mildin, “Lord Galbraith, I am so happy to finally meet you,” said Trixie. She curt
sied. “I named one of cars after you,” she gushed.
“You named your car ‘William Mildin’? It must be an awful wreck.”
“’Okhugh,’” she laughed. “And it’s no junker. Oh, this is my son, Brent, Jr.”
“Trixie,” said Mildin warmly taking her hand and kissing it. He looked down and saw an intense twelve-year old, the very picture of his father, his real father, Richard Wylie, Jr. The boy did not suspect that the woman he called “Mother” was his aunt. Mildin squatted to shake the lad’s hand.
“How do you do, young man? Let me get a look at you.” Gently, he grasped the boy’s shoulders.
“Very well, Uncle William. And you?” little Brent, Jr. said, obviously having practiced.
Mildin smiled, “I am fine, Brent, quite fine.”
“Are you really a lord in England?” the lad asked excitedly.
“I try not to be,” laughed the Englishman. “But, yes, I am.”
“You look different than in your movies,” the boy observed. “You talk different, too.”
Mildin tousled the boy’s hair as he rose, “I auditioned for the role and lost. They use actors.”
“Circle of Life made us, out by Prospect Park,” Furioli continued. “Yeah, Mr. Mildin likes that nature boy stuff…”
Trixie’s face said she didn’t want Furioli recapping the trouble they had in front of her son. Instead, she led the two men to the go-devil. It was a fast and direct way for them to get the Norpen Lumber Company without being observed.
Trixie helped Lord Galbraith in but knew his mighty muscles rivaled Doc’s. Doc! Has it really been nine years you’re gone? A single tear wet Trixie’s eye. Mildin could probably just brace himself. It was Furioli who would need most of her attention.
“Hold tight and get ready for a jolt,” she said. “Hope to see again soon, Lord Galbraith.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Mrs. Allred,” the Englishman replied graciously. He winked at the little boy. With a shock, a whining noise and a great vibration, they were gone.
“Where are Uncle William and the old dog going, mommy?” inquired little Brent, Jr. “They just got here.”
“Don’t call Capt. Furioli an ‘old dog,’ scolded Trixie Allred. “There’re just taking a ride.”
“You called him that!” protested the boy.
“Never mind that, young man. We’ll see your uncle tomorrow,” reassured Trixie.
She gathered up her son and took the somewhat more prosaic express elevator to the ground floor. Trixie Allred hadn’t noticed another elevator arriving as she left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FANTOMAL
“When Lord Galbraith gets here I will greet him,” Chuck Charalambides instructed Levvy. “You stick to the rules I gave you for meeting a lord.”
“Do I have to kiss his ring?”
“That’s a pope, Levvy.”
“So now I gotta kiss his pope, too?” asked the hirsute chemist.
The dapper lawyer growled, “I warn you, don’t embarrass me, you Neanderthal.”
“Now, Chuck, how could I possibly embarrass you? You already wear spats.”
“This from a man who used to own a zoot suit,” Chuck rolled his eyes.
“I still got it, smart guy. Remember your wedding?”
Nola Charalambides and Monica Levnitz shook their heads. They would never get used to their husbands’ incessant bickering. Nola wanted to meet Lord Galbraith, as did Levvy’s wife, his former secretary. She had even brought along her son, Nicky. Colt and his wife, the former Louise Scott, along with Evan White, Bako, Corrigan, Longjohns and newest recruit Harris Vincey were also on hand for this council of war.
With a shock, a whining noise, and a great vibration, the bullet-like flea run car arrived at the Norpen Lumber Company. The group gathered around the bay doors. Furioli preceded Mildin. He thought it would be best to introduce Lord Galbraith. He was used to dealing with Washington-and-U.N. big wigs, so he knew he could rise to the occasion.
“Folks, William Mildin, Lord Galbraith,” announced Furioli. Then he stepped back onto the flea run, now aimed back at the Empire State Building, to get his car. His work here was done. He could still catch Gabriel Jones’ second set at the Village Gate. Wait’ll that joker saw him in the audience, Furioli grinned to himself; al them jazz cats play better in the second set, anyway.
Chuck stepped forward, “Your Grace.” He bowed deeply and took the Englishman’s outstretched hand, “I am Charles Charalambides. May I present my wife Nola? And this is my son Nicky.”
“Please, ‘William Mildin,’” the Englishman insisted as he shook hands. His grip was tremendous. Turning to the child, he said, “Do all American boys your age stay up to this hour?”
The boy peeked out from behind his mother. Like Trixie, Mrs. Charalmbides curtsied, “Oh, Mr. Mildin, I didn’t expect you to be so, uh, articulate.”
“I expect it’s those horrible movies they have made of my life. Believe me, they are a constant source of irritation to me,” confirmed the jungle lord.
“I know just what you mean. A friend of ours put Charles and I into one of his books,” reported Nola. “They made an accurate movie out of that, but all the sequels, the radio show, why, it was all made up.”
“Ah, you must mean Mr. Dashiell Hammett,” began Mildin. “It is quite the shame that senator of yours feels it fitting to torment one of your country’s great authors.”
“You’re so right, Your Grace. Mr. Hammett is nothing like that Burrows ruffian who wrote about you. He’s even married to a lady playwright.”
“I’m sure His Grace understands, dear. Your Grace, I’d like you to meet…” Chuck began. Levvy suddenly shouldered him out of the way. He let loose with an apelike roar, beating his chest.
“Bill, old boy, consider yerself one of the family. Max Levnitz of the Brooklyn Levntzes: ‘Levvy’ to friend and foe alike.” He presented a hairy paw.
Mildin caught Chuck, saving him from completely falling over and laughed at Levvy. The lawyer looked like he wanted to rip Levvy’s throat out with his teeth. But the wives were present. He silently contented himself in the irony that if anyone here was part of Milden’s family it was ape-like Levvy.
“My good fellow, you have made me quite happy. Everyone I meet seems to think I’m the Prince of Wales. Thank you,” he vigorously pumped Levvy’s offered hand. “Your singing has made me feel right at home. Though, to be honest, it won’t make me forget Bing Crosby.”
“Whales? I thought it was apes,” exclaimed Levvy.
“He said ‘w-a-l-e-s,’ you lummox,” interrupted Chuck.
“From Brooklyn, eh? You should be quite pleased with that park you have there called ‘Prospect.’ I just had a fine, close up look at it. I had no idea they prospected in the East,” declarded Milden.
“Yeah, but not for no gold, pal,” claimed Levvy. “Other precious metals.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, like the kind you find in shivs and gats. Speakin’ a whales, I’m takin’ ya out to the big stuffed whale next to Nathan’s, on Coney Island, lordship. Betcha never seen many whales inna jungle.”
“He didn’t say w-h-a-le-s…”
“Chuck, no need to spell in front of your kid,” Levvy annoucnced, “he got the wife’s brains.”
“I would enjoy that, Levvy,” affirmed Mildin, somewhat confused by the pair. “Nathan’s ‘hot-dogs’ are quite famous. We are still rationing meat in England you know,” he added.
“Good, hope you got time to see the goyum Mardi Gras Parade, too,” added Levvy.
In turn, Colt, Vincey, Jericho, Longjohns, Bako, Louise, Corrigan and Monica were all introduced. Mildin seemed pleased to meet his late cousin’s associates. The party repaired to a round conference table. Some jungle-bred sixth sense made Mildin suddenly look up to a catwalk.
A figure peered down at him. It was rare for anyone from outside the group to see the Silver Manticore in quite so much light. Brent Allred had reverted to being th
e Silver Manticore this one, special night. The better to be able to answer questions Lord Galbraith might have. Surely, any such questions would be about his time under the hood, even though Colt had taken over the mask in recent years. Mildin studied the masked figure gingerly descend the stairs, moving with an easy grace. He immediately recognized this man as a hunter.
“Silver Manticore,” he affirmed softly. Mildin was slightly taken aback. It was his experience that only the criminal hid behind a mask. But he knew that the Silver Manticore merely found it convenient to play the part of a criminal in his relentless war against crime. At least, according to what Furioli had told him.
A gloved hand sought the jungle lord’s. Its owner could not help but size up the giant. The sound of the flea run could be heard whooshing back to the warehouse terminal.
“Must be Trixie,” said Colt, turning.
“Naw, it’s Furioli,” joshed Levvy. “Probably he left his cigars here.”
Brent Allred, in the guise of the Silver Manticore, knew something was wrong. If it was Trixie, she had left their son unattended in the Empire State Building or subjected him to the dangerous, high-speed effects of the flea run. Neither was good. And although she had been taught boxing and jujitsu long before he married her, Allred didn’t think it was too dignified for a woman of forty to still be indulging in adventures.
All eyes turned to the opening doors. They were surprised to see ‘Brent Allred’ covering the group with a bouquet of flowers, holding them like it was a rifle. In fact, it was an automatic rifle, as the sound of the cocking of an automatic weapon proved. Yet, Brent Allred was here in his Silver Manticore guise. All eyes except those of William Mildin were surprised. He had not yet met Allred. Or so he thought.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Colt.
“Tell your friends Killroy was here,” the interloper smirked. A perfect mask, modeled on the features of Brent Allred, sat upon his face.
“A wise guy,” exclaimed Levvy.