by P. J. Lozito
“You mustn’t die an idiot; I am Fantomal. You are all my prisoners. ‘Reach,’ as your Western gunslingers so cleverly say.”
Automatically, Chuck, Levvy and Colt jockeyed in front of their wives.
“So, this is the enemy, eh?” he said. “Old men, women, a harmless little Jap, a lame Negro, a child; the one-eyed gendarme I leave behind fits right in. This beardless pup barely looks old enough to shave,” he said, indicating Vincey.
Mildin moved forward, “If you’ve harmed Trixie or the lad…”
The gun followed him. “That is quite enough, le roi,” cautioned Fantomal. “I have no interest in Mrs. Allred or her brat, just her husband. Or should I say, just his face,” He laughed.
“It’s me you want, villain. Let them go,” said Mildin.
“You are so very right,” agreed Fantomal. “Why waste bullets on them, eh?”
He scanned the group, “Where is Monsieur Manticore? Show yourself, coward.”
“Too late, Fantomal,” said Colt. “He’s gone.”
Somehow, the enemy had pieced together that Allred was part of Doc Wylie’s team, Colt supposed. But they didn’t suspect he was the Silver Manticore or Fantomal would have commented.
“Back, mon ami,” warned Fantomal as he waved the odd gun to and fro. “I have no particular argument with you, but I am a killer many times over. Hanoi Tsin wants the Briton alive and I have, how you say, the hair trigger gun. I have permission to kill those who stand in my way,” craning his neck for the Silver Manticore. “Perhaps I can persuade Le Yellow Manticore to present himself if I kill one or two of you, on second thought.”
“He’s knows we’d gladly die first,” said Vincey.
Fantomal considered this. “Your poor old mama back in le ville would miss you. No heroics and you live to flip the baseball cards in the banlieve with your little playmate here.”
Nola Charalambides clutched her son closer to herself.
“Into the amusing contraption, Lord of Monkeys,” directed Fantomal suddenly. He illustrated with the rifle. Mildin obeyed.
“You will strap yourself in, limey.”
Fantomal stepped on board. He started the flea run with the gun in the crook of his arm. He gripped a strap and sat as far from Mildin as possible. Mildin could strike fast but a ricochet in an enclosed space like this could prove deadly.
Again, there was a shock, a whining noise and a great vibration. Then they were gone. In the Norpen Lumber Co., the group bolted for Liberty Cabs.
“Longjohns, Jericho,” called Chuck, as the group dashed for cars. “Get the wives home safely. Call Trixie. Make sure she and the boy are all right!”
He headed toward a cab with Vincey. Colt was distributing guns. “Corrigan,” instructed Chuck. “Raise Casey!”
“Dammit, Charalambides, this is my play, I represent …”
Chuck swung his cane up to Corrigan’s throat, “I don’t have time to say this but once, Chris old boy. He broke into our headquarters, he threatened our families, and he’s got Doc’s cousin. I am giving the orders this time.”
Corrigan swallowed, not easy to do with the cane pressed against his Adam’s apple. “All right, I’m in,” claimed the government man.
“Very well. Bako, drive Mr. Corrigan in Brent’s sedan. Vincey, you and Colt better take separate cabs. Why the hell are you standing there gaping like a fool, you ape?”
Levvy grinned, “It’s that for once I agree with you, you ham. All I wanna know is: what the hell became of Brent?”
“Yes, what did become of him?” Chuck looked around.
***
In the flea run car, under the seats, the Silver Manticore braced himself for the jolt at the end of his ride. It clanged into the Empire State Building’s 79th floor dock.
“You will give me your trench coat, Lord Galbraith,” ordered Fantomal.
He covered Mildin’s still strapped in form with the odd rifle. Fantomal passed handcuffs to Mildin, “I think you know what to do.”
Mildin handcuffed himself.
“You will find those ‘cuffs will not be snapped even by one as strong as you,” Fantomal boasted. Then he motioned Mildin from the flea run chair. Fantomal draped the trench coat over Mildin’s shoulders. The pair walked through Doc Wylie’s old headquarters. The master criminal had found it child’s play to gain entrance. These days, Chuck used it mostly to run the affairs of Doc Wylie’s business empire. The group often still collected here.
Colin Furioli lie sprawled, facedown on the floor. He, too, was handcuffed. As he heard the pair exit, he raised his head. A one-eyed man could play dead more easily than most. He turned as he heard further movement behind him. The Silver Manticore stepped through the flea run doors, gas gun in hand.
The sound made Furioli risk moving his head; when he saw who was responsible he stage whispered, “Hey, Manny, get me outta these.”
The Silver Manticore motioned Furioli for silence as he came over. “Easy, Furioli, he parted your hair with a blunt instrument,” he countered, also in a whisper. Blood smeared the agent’s matted hair. “You’re hurt.”
“I heal fast,” Furioli snapped, and immediately regretted it.
The Silver Manticore worried the handcuffs with one of his lock picks, “Stay here. I have a plan and I can’t chance a woozy fed blowing it. Agree or I stop this now.”
“All right, just get me outta these bracelets, for pity’s sake. They’re ruinin’ my outfit.”
The Silver Manticore heard his prey leave but where were Trixie and little Brent? “Douse those Edisons,” he hissed to now free Furioli.
“Corrigan just relayed that Trix and the kid are A-OK at home,” called Furioli, putting away a tiny radio communicator. His box-like radio was meant to resemble a cigarette pack, aerial poking out like a ready smoke. It wouldn’t fool anyone who knew his fondness for cheroots.
“Good. There’s work to be done.” Lights out, he quickly padded to the door. There, he saw the two waiting for the elevator. Damn if Fantomal didn’t look exactly like Brent Allred himself, innocently holding flowers as he waited. When the car arrived, and the men stepped onto it, the Silver Manticore swung open the office door and, unseen, fired his gas gun.
Sprinting for the cage, he had only seconds to force his way in. His hidden air supply was on. Mildin was crumpled on the floor, chin on chest. Fantomal was prone, flower bouquet gun loose in his hand.
The cage descended and the Silver Manticore set to work. The first and most important thing was searching the Frenchman for hidden weapons. He had a few from the blade category.
Among the weapons, was what looked like a small radio transceiver, rivaling even Furioli’s own for compactness. Makes sense, his confederates would now which of the sixty-three elevators to expect Fantomal to exit. It was beeping now. He hadn’t heard it operating while in Wylie’s headquarters. Good. They probably aren’t aware—nor would they believe-- Fantomal had been whisked over to the Norpen Lumber Company on the Hudson River and back again.
Next, the Silver Manticore used the rifle butt to breach the emergency hatch. Opening it stopped the elevator. It also dissipated the sleep gas. Then, he peeled off his own black trench coat and dressed Fantomal in it. The continental also got the gloves and hat. His wrists were bound behind his back with the captured handcuffs.
Silver Manticore probed the waxy duplicate of his own face and pulled it off. Excellent quality, he thought. Fantomal had an unremarkable, if purely Gallic, face. The disguise went into a pocket intact. The Frenchman was gagged with a handkerchief. Last was the silver mask. It was Brent Allred who tore out the gas filter and small air supply affixed to it and pocketed that, too. With spirit gum from his small, flat disguise kit, he glued the mask to Fantomal’s face.
He stopped a moment to consider and then applied the rest of his of it to the gloves and rim of the hat. Anything that would slow down the disguise coming off would help.
By now, the gas was gone. Brent Allred reached up and closed the eme
rgency hatch. The elevator jolted back to life. They would have to transfer at a lower floor to another elevator. If they were smart, that’s where Fantomal’s confederates would be waiting. Now Allred turned to Mildin, breaking a capsule under his nose. It spewed a strong, sharp odor. Mildin came fully awake instantly, a trick the Maasai had imparted to him.
“I am the real Brent Allred, this is Fantomal,” Allred showed Mildin the duplicate of his face. He saw that Mildin wore no socks. He hadn’t noticed that before.
“That was you in the Silver Manticore mask,” smiled Mildin.
“What makes you so sure?”
“You have your own scent,” explained Mildin.
“No one’s nose is that sharp.”
“So-called civilized man ignores the very nose on his face,” Mildin explained. “I didn’t think the real Silver Manticore would be so…”
“Old?” supplied Allred.
“Mature,” smiled Mildin. “At my age, it is not for me to point fingers. Could I prevail upon you…?” He motioned his manacled hands toward Allred.
“Not just yet, Your Grace. We are going to trick them.” Allred applied a waxy substance to Mildin’s bonds. “And, perhaps reach endgame tonight.”
“Ah, I begin to see,” said Mildin. “They think they have us. But we have them. You would do well in the jungle. What is the substance?”
“This stuff will weaken the chain; invention of your late cousin’s. Soon, you’ll be able to pull the handcuffs apart like so much taffy. But for now, play dead and be ready for anything,” Allred picked up the gun.
“Anything?”
“Anything. If I‘ve figured right, Fantomal’s confederates will be waiting for him. And his captive,” said Allred.
Allred would have to convince them he was Fantomas and managed to capture the Silver Manticore along with Milden.
“One more thing,” Allred produced a copy of his girasol ring and placed it on a finger of Mildin’s left hand.
“I’ll give you the signal for action. Press it to acknowledge the signal.”
As the cage slid to a halt, Allred signaled Lord Galbraith to fake unconsciousness again. “This is it,” Allred said. “We play this right and we may finally get Hanoi Tsin.”
As the doors opened, three huge uniformed ambulance attendants crowded the vast elevator.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
COLIN FURIOLI
Colin Furioli came dashing out of the 33rd St. exit of the Empire State Building into the calm, chilly night. First, he stopped off at the newsstand that “crime college” graduate Bob Castron ran for Doc’s men in the lobby. Castron himself was on duty this night and told him of the ambulance attendants.
Furioli used his U.N.D.E.R. communicator again to call over Channel ‘D’ for help. People going about their evening eyed him oddly. The U.N.D.E.R. agent was even more disheveled than usual and was talking into a small box. He didn’t see the ambulance anywhere. But Furioli spotted a familiar bulldog face. A cop named Joe Casey was angling towards him.
“Hey, Hathaway shirt man,” Casey shouted. “Wylie’s gang called me. This better be good. I’m missing Flintheart’s party. Trouble?”
“In spades, there’s trouble,” yelled Furioli testily. “Fantomal all done up like Brent Allred just snatched Galbraith.”
“Terrible! Who’s Galbraith?”
“You know, the English lord raised by apes.”
“That Galbraith?”
“Right, Okhugh of the Jungle.”
“Wow, talk about international incidents.”
“And he wasn’t the only thing in disguise—Frenchie had a burp gun mocked up like a buncha petunias. Manticore is after ‘em now. We think the rest of the gang was disguised as ambulance attendants.”
The pair ran for the lawman’s unmarked car. Casey snapped his fingers: “I just passed an ambulance booking out of here.”
“Well, don’t just sit there, Police-Liaison-With-U.N.D.E.R.,” admonished Furioli, as Casey turned on the ignition. “Let’s go!”
In the car, Furioli pulled out the communicator out once more, about to appraise headquarters of his movements. Casey eyed the box suspiciously, “No time for making with your transistor Regency, Colin.”
“Naw, Joe,” began Furioli. “It’s is my link to H.Q.”
“Yeah, huh? Pretty bulky,” accused Casey. “You’ll never top this,” he held out his wrist, steering car one-handed. His old two-way wrist radio still looked impressive.
“Aw, Cecil Green at Geophysical in Texas’ll be introducing new technology that’ll leave your watch in the proverbial dust,” scoffed Furioli. He’d seen the prototypes. The silicon transistor fountain pen-sized radios would change everything.
“Green? He related to the old radio actor, that Ray Green?”
“Doubt it. Ray Green changed it from somethin’ ethnic, like Agranovsky.”
“You should talk.”
“Hey, I was only comtemplatin’ shortin’ my name,” said Furioli defensively. “Durin’ the Big One, Mussolini didn’t make us Italians look too good,” Furioli replied, checking his gun. He did not know that the real Brent Allred had switched guises with Fantomal. And Allred did not know Furioli was eager to get him in his gun sights.
***
It took all three attendants to carry Lord Galbraith on a stretcher to the ambulance. Allred hefted Fantomal like he was a friend who had a bit too much to drink. They made sure his drooping head kept the silver mask from being seen. As the group sped off, Allred spoke in a harsh whisper while massaging his throat, “These ruffians try to hurt me. But Fantomal is no pushover. I get them both.”
They sped away. Allred was used to checking for tails and he immediately tagged Casey’s dark blue, antenna-bearing Impala that lacked only a neon sign that flashing “cop.” To draw attention to away from that, Allred kept up a spirited account of a phantom battle between him and his prisoners.
“The doctor will be very pleased,” commented one of the fake attendants. He held a small device; Allred recognized it as mate to the one Fantomal had. “I unmask him now.”
“No! That honor is for Hanoi Tsin himself,” affirmed Allred.
“Of course,” the phony attendant apologized, drawing back his hand.
They zoomed off, a few short blocks downtown and east. Allred recognized Bellevue Hospital. He wasn’t too surprised. Why shouldn’t one of the world’s great physicians use a hospital for a hideout? The ultimate irony: he saw they were headed for Richard Wylie, Jr. Memorial Hall.
“I have reached Hanoi Tsin,” said the attendant who spoke before. “He wants to commend you personally.”
“I will take this apache to him,” answered Allred.
This time, he asked for help. The other man brought them down all the right corridors. Together, the pair carried Fantomal to an office, with the other knowing the way. Then what? If Hanoi Tsin tries to tug off that mask, I’m done for, thought Allred. I’ll have about two seconds in lag time to come up with something.
And for certain the devil doctor will have another one of those devices operating that can disintegrate bullets. Somehow, I have to get close to Hanoi Tsin and kill him with my bare hands, Allred mused. It won’t be easy. He had no doubt in his mind that Hanoi Tsin had training in Asia’s fighting arts as good as his own. The moment of truth was almost upon him. The other man left.
But Dr. Hanoi Tsin was not seated behind the room’s desk. Nobody was. Instead, a crystal sphere sitting on the desk flickered to life. The face of Hanoi Tsin appeared in it. Allred saw he was dressed in green operating room scrubs.
“Old friend, you have succeeded beyond my expectations,” he began, in French. “I should have known all along never to send an ordinary man to do a super-man’s job. Wisdom is fleeting. You, however, seem unwell.”
A “super-man,” is it? Then what Chris Corrigan had been researching was true; Hanoi Tsin and takers of the elixir had the strength of several men. Those sharpened nails of Hanoi Tsin’s weren’t t
oo comforting, either. In all, it was a nasty combination for a physical confrontation.
“They fought like demons, doctor. I have made you a trophy of these,” Allred croaked, presenting his two guns to Hanoi Tsin, placing them on the desk the crystal sat upon. Keep them handy.
“The gas gun started life as mine,” smiled Hanoi Tsin in the globe. “It formerly shot poison needles. Keep it, you may find it useful.”
“Thank you.”If Fantomal wakes up unexpectedly, I gas him again, thought Allred.
“I shall be with you presently. But I will not be taking your thoughtful suggestion,” continued Hanoi Tsin.
“My suggestion?”
“You have been hurt. Do you not remember, Fantomal? You voted for keeping Galbraith alive, under my hypnotic command.”
“What have you decided instead?” Allred not one to miss a cue, grasped his head in pain. He staggered, acting.
“I will take a blood sample for analysis. Then, I vivisect him. He is too dangerous to try to keep and control. I shall examine you first.”
Good, that might present an opportunity to strangle the doctor. Casually, Allred reached for his ring. Before he could do that, a powerful blow caught him on the side of his head. Fantomal was awake and up.
The criminal knew the trick of stepping through handcuffs. Now he laced his fingers and battered Allred again. Muffled curses in two languages came from the mask. But Allred knew what was coming next. He caught the follow-up savate kick under his own right arm. Further, he knew Fantomal would then try, with one leg captured, to spin a kick with the other, falling and catching himself on his hands. Allred moved quickly. He deflected the second kick on his upraised shoulder.
Quickly, he used his right upper arm to lock Fantomal’s left ankle under his armpit. He grabbed Fantomal’s right ankle with his left arm and pushed it to his right, grabbing pant leg. Now, with his right arm, Allred reached under the right ankle to grab the left pant leg. He pulled them together. The ankles touched.
Here, Allred stepped over Fantomal’s left leg and body with his bent right leg. He hugged the straight legs together in his left. They wrapped around his opponent’s ankles, grabbing his own right wrist. He was going to break the legs of this killer using the Samoan martial art kapu kuialua. But he never completed the maneuver.