The Sting of the Silver Manticore

by P. J. Lozito

  Fantomal had not been idle. He had defeated the handcuffs somehow, escaping them entirely. Now he whipped them around, bolo-style, and struck Allred in the head. Allred rolled with the blow, making sure to knock over the communication ball. It smashed with a satisfying chorus of breaking glass. But his grunt of pain was no act.

  The Frenchman spun away from him. Shakily, he got to his feet, all along trying to yank the silver mask off his face. Fantomal also frisked himself and found all of his hidden weapons gone. He didn’t understand what was happening. Fantomal ran for the door.

  A fist attached to William Mildin lifted him off his feet and he melted to the floor. Shouts, screams, feet running and things crashing could be heard outside the door.

  “You are all right, friend?” asked Mildin. He had the wherewithal not to address Allred by name in this place.

  “Uhh, how could getting beaned by swinging handcuffs possibly hurt?” He saw that the Englishman was in bare feet. Loafers were jammed into the pockets of the uniform blouse.

  “What’s the commotion and how’d you avoid becoming prime rib?” Allred asked as Mildin helped him to his feet.

  “I heard Hanoi Tsin talking to you. I have rather acute hearing and French was my first civilized language. That Capt. Furioli is here with a local undercover constable named Casey.”

  “Did you get Hanoi Tsin?”

  “I managed a punch. When I turned back after dealing with his assistants, the old boy was gone.”

  “Secret panel, I’ll bet,” guessed Allred.

  Before another word could be said, Chuck Charalambides stuck his head into the office. He had traded his ever-present cane for a crossbow.

  His weapon of choice was getting incredulous looks. “You did warn us about that anti-gun device,” he said. “Seems to disintegrate fast moving objects like bullets. This carries a five bolt clip,” Chuck said proudly.

  “A five-bolt crossbow?” questioned Mildin, in some admiration.

  “Your late cousin developed these for when we might have need of a silent gun. Levvy’s searching for the anti-gun device, acting on my orders, of course.”

  “Fine,” Allred said, “Now we can examine that device, see just how it works...”

  Mildin interrupted, “Gentlemen, may I suggest we discuss that later?”

  “Your Grace is right,” said Chuck. “We’ve got to try to pick up Hanoi Tsin’s trail.”

  Allred took charge, “First of all, let’s take care of Fantomal...” He turned to where the felon had fallen. But Fantomal was gone.

  “How?” Mildin asked. “Even that light blow I dealt him should have incapacitated him.”

  “You heard Hanoi Tsin call Fantomal a ‘super- man’? That’s what he meant,” said Allred. “To him, that was just a love tap.”

  Allred tucked the gas gun into its holster, picked up his automatic and handed Furioli’s weapon to Mildin. He passed it to Chuck, who pocketed it. The medical scalpel was a hunting knife in Mildin’s hands, the only weapon he needed.

  Shots rang out in the distance. The men ran towards the reports, joined by Levvy carrying a black doctor’s bag.

  “Outside,” declared Mildin.

  That same ambulance was fleeing the grounds, heading onto First Avenue. Fantomal, still in the silver mask, darted for it. The ambulance slowed for him. Chuck got on one knee and took careful aim with the crossbow, one eye screwed shut.

  Fantomal turned and saw his doom. Panic rose in his eyes. As the lawyer fired, Fantomal jerked open the ambulance door. Chuck’s bolt smashed harmlessly into it.

  “Nerts!” he exclaimed.

  “You missed, William Tell,” bellowed Levvy, coming up behind him. “Lemme show ya how it’s done. Arrow, my foot.”

  “That can be arranged,” drawled Chuck. “I’ve plenty of bolts left.”

  As Fantomal took the now moving ambulance, Levvy pulled a .45 from the doctor’s bag. Without wasting anymore time, he fired, biting his tongue with the effort of aiming. The bullet buried itself in the Frenchman’s back as he climbed into the ambulance.

  “You’ve clipped him,” exclaimed Mildin. “Jolly good!”

  “He was aiming for the head, Your Grace. You don’t know Levvy,” said Chuck, “or his spotty shooting.”

  “Never mind that,” exclaimed Allred. “Look.”

  Long nailed hands pulled the slack Fantomal into the ambulance, as crimson spread on his back. Mildin drew back, winding up to sail the scalpel towards the ambulance. Casey appeared, gun leveled. And then he and the others had to dive for cover; Hanoi Tsin himself, left eye swollen shut, stood in the back of the ambulance, Thompson machine gun in hand. Within seconds, it was spitting lead.

  A look of pure hatred was on Hanoi Tsin’s face. Casey was safe behind a garbage can with discarded crutches jutting out from it. Mildin leaped for the cover of a tree, quickly ascending out of sight. Either Hanoi Tsin’s long fingernails or the injured eye interfered with his shooting because he struck no one. But the Thompson is notoriously difficult for the beginner to handle.

  The group returned fire but it was hopeless. The ambulance was picking up speed. Whoever was driving it had thought to hit the siren and lights. Traffic parted for it and quickly closed ranks. The ambulance roared off into the general direction of Chinatown.

  Furioli was directing pursuit over his box-like radio from the cover of a bullet-ridden parked car. He held a handkerchief to his scalp wound with his free hand. Casey jumped into an arriving unmarked police car with his driver Sgt. G.G. Gomez at the wheel.

  “Had fun, boys. I got me an ambulance fulla bad guy to catch now.”

  “Take Chuck with ya, he chases them dang things,” yelled Levvy.

  Casey got in one last, verbal parting shot, leaning out of the police car, “Furioli, I’ve always wanted to tell you to get your head examined.” He pointed a sausage-like finger to the hospital, “Now I can.”

  Then he was gone.

  Allred spotted Bako in his limo. He knew it was time to go before being recognized. That’s exactly when Speed Martin with Mike Axelrod drove up. The Sentry shutterbug was supposed to steer Axelrod away from the truth about his boss’ double life whenever possible. They should have been at the Page One drinking their lunch. Axelrod was out of the car and pushing toward for the group, momentarily slowed down by the curious that had gathered.

  “Saints preserve us. Brent Allred, what’re ye doin’ here with Wylie’s old gang of galoots? And a smokin’ gun in yer hand, no less. Do my eyes deceive me or did you just shoot the Silver Manticore?”

  “Who are you going to believe us, or your eyes?” taunted Chuck.

  “And was that Joe Casey?” Axelrod questioned, ignoring the lawyer. “I’ve been tryin’ to get the dope outta him on how Manticore stole my files.”

  “‘Dope’? Levvy, gentleman of the press is asking for you,” called Chuck.

  “And what in holy hell happened to your head, Brent? It’s bleedin’ to beat the band,” continued the reporter.

  Allred took Axelrod’s arm. “Michael, it’s high time I leveled with you.”

  END OF PART II

  PART THREE

  THE SILVER MANTICORE

  IS STILL AT LARGE!

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  NICK CHARTER

  Brent Allred, Jr. couldn’t quite place the name “Nick Charter.” Cousin Lenore Scott, who posed as Brent’s secretary, had put the call through his private line at The Daily Sentry. Brent was still getting used to his father having turned the paper over to him as 1966 had been rung in. At age twenty-four, young Allred tipped the scales at two hundred and ten pounds, all bone and muscle. A good lookin’ kid, Mike Axelrod had been known to comment.

  Scottie relayed that the caller’s original message had claimed that their “fathers were friends.” Could this Charter fellow have meant Brent’s real father, Doc Wylie? That Brent was the son of Wylie was not widely known. And he knew most of his legal father’s friends.

  Charter, Charter, he
pondered after listening to the message yet again on his Phillips telephone-answering cassette tape device, based on Doc Wylie’s old “phone robot” concept. Allred jotted down the appointment with his Lamy 2000 pen on the inside cover of the current Cue magazine.

  Brent wondered, was this Charter related to John Franklin Charter, who had done espionage work for the government under the cover of journalism? Scottie had suggested Rusterman’s for lunch but Charter said he preferred P. J. Clarke’s. Meeting him there, at 55th and Third, for lunch on such a hot, sweltering day didn’t seem like too much of an imposition. Besides, his interest was piqued now.

  Allred’s adoptive parents were away on business on the West Coast and were incommunicado. So much for asking their advice. Unfortunately, Brent didn’t know what alias his father was traveling under. He knew the initials were “L.C.” because they were the same as “Ling Chan,” who his father had once impersonated. Indeed, he had a fondness for those initials.

  Although his Aunt Trixie and her husband, Brent Allred, had adopted him, Brent, Jr. always thought of them as his parents. He could barely remember Doc and Monja. It was safer for all that no one knew young Brent Wylie was still alive, now re-christened “Brent Allred, Jr.” He had been safe with his nanny, Susan Glaspall, when that Army plane had hit the Empire State Building.

  But with the elder Brent Allred personally tracking down a rumor that Maolcrum Richards had a family on the Coast, there was no one to consult with. The rumor had greatly interested the senior Allred. He wouldn’t put it past Richards to experiment with his own family members.

  Allred, Sr. pretended to be purchasing a floundering Seattle newspaper, The Daily Chronicle, as a cover to do his investigation. Burberry --good, old Burberry! -- had located a “Ben Richards” in the San Diego phonebook. That seemed a likely place to start looking.

  A young writer on the staff of the Chronicle, Jeffrey Rice, not much older than Brent, Jr., had put the older Brent wise to unexplained happenings on the West Coast. Rice was distantly related to a writer famed for his fictionalizing the true story of Okhugh of the Jungle into novels. Brent had read some of the kid’s writing and knew it wouldn’t be long before Rice was out from the shadow of his famous relation. However, Allred was more impressed that Jeff was grandson to a famous old time Western sheriff.

  ***

  Bako, crisp as new money, despite the crushing humidity, dropped Brent, Jr. off. The Liberty Cab he had for the day continued onto a Japanese-interest bookstore in midtown. Brent watched as the white-linen clad form in the taxi, seemingly obvious to the weather, shrank away.

  Immediately upon entering Clarke’s, as ceiling fans spun lazily, Brent was approached by a young man with steel gray eyes. He introduced himself as Nick Charter. But as soon as he saw him, Brent knew the man; this was Chuck Charalmbides’ boy, Nicky.

  Nick had become a private investigator Brent remembered. It was in his genes. John Franklin Charter was indeed related. That was his uncle. Like his uncle, Nick had shortened the family’s Greek name. So I was close, thought Brent.

  Nick had conceded, with a smile, that he “…had a background as a private detective, but now did government work exclusively.” In truth, being a private detective was his cover story. Charter was one of United Nations Defense Enforcement Reserves’ top operators. But he made no mention of his unofficial name, “the Axeman,” which his sister Sharon, a fellow agent, had given him. He didn’t want to scare Allred off. They claimed a booth in the back. Charter recommended the small bacon cheeseburger for both of them.

  “That is, if you’re not one of those freakish ‘vegetarians’ I’ve heard about,” Charter probed.

  “Not I,” assured young Allred.

  “Good.”

  “Vegetarianism isn’t all that new a concept, though. Childs, out on Coney Island, tried an all-vegetarian menu way back in 1929,” Allred pointed out.

  “To a resounding thud, if I recall. For me, it’s not a meal unless a dead animal is on the plate. So, I understand you trained in confidential investigative work yourself,” said Charter, lighting a Players.

  “That’s right, Randolph and Calhoun Special Services, down in New Orleans. It was, oh, 1959 and ’60. Back before I got drafted. Small operation, nothing like today, with Intertect and their computers.”

  “I bet. How’d you like it down there?” inquired Charter.

  “Loved it, but the best part was the music. That Al Hirt, he blows a mean horn.”

  “A fan of his, are you?”

  “The biggest,” replied Allred. “It’s gratifying to see someone besides longhaired, drug-addled, psychedelic rock ‘musicians’ have hits.”

  “Agent Gabe Jones is undercover as a jazzman there,” said Charter. “He’s on the trail of a drug ring, matter of fact. Knows all the jazz cats. He should be able to wrangle you a backstage pass next time the ‘The King’ comes to town.”

  “Well, thanks,” said Allred, happy that Charter knew Hirt’s jazz sobriquet.

  “A small bribe,” Charter admitted.

  “Listen to much jazz? We can both go.”

  “I’m partial to Dino Crocetti, myself. Very versatile man, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “He’s done a bit of work for us. Keep it under your hat. That reminds me, at U.N.D.E.R, they designate me ‘N-2.’ Use that if you ever have any contact with them regarding me. Colonel Furioli recruited me himself. New York District Attorney Tony Dent is on board, too.”

  N-2, X-8, Z-7, G-9; the alphanumeric codes the government’s licensed assassins used were a confusing jumble in young Allred’s brain. At least the British had a simpler system for their’s.

  “Couldn’t the colonel make it today?” asked Brent.

  “He’s in Europe looking into this Fantomal guy bedeviling Scotland Yard. He had a high priority call from their top man, Gideon.”

  “So, Fantomal didn’t die from his gunshot wounds?” Allred asked between sips of draft Rheingold.

  “Another time that Hanoi Tsin and company slipped through the net,” admitted Charter.

  “No doubt, Furioli’s put his old buddy Lord Galbraith on Fantomal’s trail,” said Brent.

  “He’s on a mission for us now, too,” smiled Charter, “far south of here.”

  “I take it that’s not for publication?”

  “No, please don’t print it,” implored Charter. “We prefer if people think Galbraith, or rather, Okhugh, is just a story.”

  “He’s no story to Fantomal. I hear the jungle lord got to use him as a punching bag after he invaded the Empire State Building.”

  “Yeah, Furioli re-enacted that little visit of Fantomal’s, with me as guinea pig. After a ride in that ‘flea run,’ I couldn’t tell my elbow from my tailbone. So the warehouse location is secure,” the U.N.D.E.R. agent concluded.

  “Right, right, Fantomal had been gassed, pounded by my dad, shot by Levvy all on that night, besides being knocked out by Okhugh,” ticked off Allred. “Then, apparently underwent meatball surgery in an ambulance. I don’t think he was in any condition to give Hanoi Tsin too much info about the warehouse’s exact location.”

  Nick Charter nodded sagely.

  “And that night my father had to tell Mike Axelrod he was a member of Doc Wylie’s little group.”

  “That was a stroke of genius,” agreed Charter.

  “Well, Mike had a whole file on the rather suspicious activities of one Mr. Brent Allred, Sr.,” Brent Jr. chuckled. “Luckily, Joe Casey managed to convince Axelrod the Silver Manticore ‘stole’ it.”

  “At least, that’s how Furioli tells it,” added Charter.

  “Don’t let Axelrod’s gin blossoms fool you. There’s no moss growing on him. I’ve got to contend with him now.”

  “I don’t know, he must be awfully naïve if he really believed that Doc Wylie recruited Brent, Sr. to help catch the Silver Manticore,” said Charter.

  “Well, it threw him off the trail.”


  “Hey, if you dug those names from the past, see how you dig this: my father managed to secure paperback book reprint rights of the old magazine tall tales of both the Manticore and Doc. How does that grab you?”

  “We ran it on the Sentry’s business section. I don’t think they’re going to play quite the same way they did in the old days,” mused Brent.

  “Don’t be so sure. I’ve done a bit of writing myself, Westerns. There always seems to be a market for that kind of stuff: fairy tales for grown-ups.” He removed a paperback book from inside his breast pocket. Doc Wylie, the Man of Vengeance it read. “That’s for you. Dad gets promo copies,” said Charter.

  Brent Allred examined the tome. He expected it to come from that publisher, Lion, in the Empire State Building. But no, it was some other house, Rooster. The fellow on the cover in the shredded shirt didn’t look much like the man he remembered to be Doc. The Sentry didn’t review paperbacks but Brent promised to read it.

  “This reminds me they’ve edited the old Silver Manticore serial down and it runs on TV now as Dr. Lucifer’s Robot,” pointed out Allred.

  “I don’t see much TV in my line,” commented Charter.

  “Shocked me when I saw it in our listings,” smiled Allred.

  “So, what does this Axelrod really think of the current Manticore?” asked Charter. He imagined he could feel the axe tattoo on his arm throb. His glass of “The Good Beer” was already drained.

  “Like anyone else, he can’t really say if it’s the same Silver Manticore from the ‘40s or not. Think about it: if that one was, say, twenty then, he could still be operating today.”

  “If he was an ageless alchemist like Hanoi Tsin was so convinced of, he sure could be,” nodded Charter. “But Axelrod doesn’t know about that.”