The Sting of the Silver Manticore Read online

  Bako carried his own firearms, of course, including a copy of the gas gun. But rarely did he move beyond using his dangerously sharp fukumi-bari and tonki. Eyes darted to the mirror.

  “Another of Hanoi Tsin’s recruiting stations out of commission,” Bako mused.

  “And another hood will wake up with a little palladium statue on him,” declared the Silver Manticore. He turned to survey the streets.

  “When the authorities arrive they will surely recognize your calling card,” assayed Bako, “and the public enemies you have left.”

  “Think any of them know what a manticore is?”

  “Police behind us, sir,” Bako interjected, eyes returning to the mirror. He ignored the question. The big car turned at the first intersection, and again, heading for Lombard St. A good place for a skilled driver to lose pursuit, Bako knew.

  “They see the plate?” the man in the back queried.

  “Too far, sir, ah, boss. We challenge this engine?”

  “No,” decided the Silver Manticore. “They’d know for sure it was us. We’d get caught in a roadblock. Stow the equipment, roll the plates and shut Laughing Sal.”

  Off went the cackle. Bako thumbed another button, changing the license plates over to replicas of those of a sedan resting in a garage miles away. The previous set had been splattered with homemade mud. The Pegasus slowed as a prowl car pulled alongside. The man in the back the sedan coolly examined the radio patrol with his own tiny mirror. This was mounted on a ring on the little finger of his right hand.

  Bako’s goggles disappeared into the chauffeur’s outfit. He alighted from the auto, distracting the policemen’s attention from whatever damage that last bullet caused. Some is to be expected, even with bulletproofing.

  “Stop right there,” ordered one cop, exiting his own vehicle, .38 Special displayed. “Grab some air.”

  “Do you wish me to stop moving or to grab the air? I cannot do both at once,” Bako responded, dropping a deadly dart. It sank into the soft earth near a curbside tree. Drawing it had been second nature. He regretted his rash impulse. The Silver Manticore and his silent companion might tussle with the police, but not a respected member of the community and his chauffeur.

  “Oh, a wise egg?” pondered the other cop.

  Again, that term, thought Bako.

  The cop gave Bako a long, hard look. He sized up this character at five feet and two inches at a compact one hundred and twenty pounds.

  “Where’re you from, pal?”

  “I am from the southern island of Basilan,” stated Bako studiously. A streetlight gleamed on both gold incisors as he smiled, “in the Philippines.”

  A window in the back of the sedan rolled down quickly. This action hid a bullet-pocked spider web.

  “Am I glad to see you, patrolman,” called a firm voice from the back seat. Gone was the silver mask of gangland’s doom. A handsome aquiline face, looking younger than its forty-six years, poked out the window. Wavy, light brown hair was neatly combed. Blue-grey eyes sparkled in moonlight.

  “Holy Mother…! It’s Gary Cooper. We thought sure yous were the Manticore.”

  “Easy, Sam,” soothed the second cop, holstering his gun. “Don’t you recognize Mr. Brent Allred? Biggest crusader since Lincoln Steffans. ”

  The other cop looked puzzled, so his partner elaborated, “Owns the blab sheet with ‘Derby Dugan’ in it.”

  “… ‘And His Dog That Talks’?” asked the second cop, incredulously. “Gee, it musta been that shiny ascot you have on, sir.”

  “Got a call, shots fired. Manticore leaning on his competition,” continued the first cop, ignoring his partner. “See anything, Mr. Allred?”

  “Yes, man in a long coat and hat came running down the street, a big guy. Jumped into a dark green Cord and drove off in a hurry. That way,” Allred motioned off in the wrong direction. “Thought I might try to stop him, but he had the eyes of a killer. We were looking for a phone, of course.”

  “You stop this town’s biggest hoodlum?” That was one cop.

  “Shouldn’t a oughta do that,” advised the other.

  “I am a veteran,” insisted Allred. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Police work is best left to them that know,” censured the first cop wagging a finger.

  “Huh, Mills Field is back that way,” deduced the second. “Green, you say?”

  “Dark green, definitely,” Allred offered. “Why, I bet it’s stolen.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Allred,” said the second cop with a salute. “Appreciate it. But you can leave that kind of figuring to us.”

  “Forget it. Just keep buying the Examiner.”

  “Wish we had more solid citizens like you,” offered the first cop, getting back into the radio car.

  And I wish we had more gullible policemen like you, thought Allred. I played this pair like my violin. Allred and Bako both heard them distinctly: “You really thought he was the Manticore, Sam?”

  “All right, Pat. I stand corrected.”

  Allred and Bako regarded red taillights fading into the distance.

  “Another time you have come to my rescue, boss,” acknowledged Bako. Casually, his hand dipped down for the abandoned dart.

  “Think nothing of it,” stated Allred. “But I am glad I picked up ‘Dugan.’ ”

  “A bold decision, boss,” Bako said, returning to the car. He started up the engine. “Stopping, I mean, not your choice of funnies.”

  “Had to see if that would work,” explained Allred.

  “Obviously, we may not push it too often,” answered Bako wistfully.

  “You mean ‘pull it too often.’ No reason the publisher of San Francisco’s biggest paper wouldn’t be out for a drive,” offered Allred.

  “On business, boss. You must say that.”

  “Sure. I had advance word of a police raid on Casa Del Gato,” Allred quipped from the backseat. “We are strong on crime reporting at the Examiner.”

  “I know this very well. You have written many an editorial against this mysterious outlaw,” Bako grinned. The big machine again rolled silently through the night.

  “Ah, yes,” he remembered suddenly. “Mr. Burberry relayed a message from Mr. Colt on the two-way while you were inside.”

  “Oh?”

  “A Mr. James Christopher Corrigan phoned to, ah, rather rudely invite himself to your office tomorrow morning at 9 A.M.”

  “Corrigan? Bako, what was the exact message?”

  “’You be there,’ was the exact message, boss.”

  “Well, well. I worked with Corrigan back in, you know, 1916.” He didn’t add that they were like brothers then.

  “A most interesting puzzle,” considered Bako. “The year we first hear of Hanoi Tsin.”

  “Don’t forget his boo how doy.”

  “But Siam Khan you make dead,” Bako reminded. He paused, and then commented: “The past reaches out to the present.”

  “Is that Confucius?”

  “No, a lesser philosopher named Bako,” smiled the man at the wheel.

  But Allred was too busy wondering what Corrigan wanted to appreciate levity. This could be the day I’ve dreaded or it could be nothing, he thought stifling a yawn. Was I being given just enough rope? Oh, well, why worry? I’ll find out soon enough. Perhaps Corrigan only needed information.

  After tonight’s exertions Allred was ready for a warm bed. He could almost taste the Boudin sour dough bread Bako would have waiting for him in the morning: fresh, hot, slathered with margarine, butter being rationed. Bako interrupted his reverie with a question.

  “Boss, how might an egg gain wisdom?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  HANOI TSIN

  Dr. Hanoi Tsin, brow like Shakespeare, face like Satan, absently stroked the marmoset. Perhaps only the Neptune’s artificial lighting gave that hellish impression. Perhaps it was his large, shaven head. A pointed beard couldn’t have made him look more devilish, but his face, too, was closely-shaved. Hanoi Tsin was ov
er six feet tall, yet no more than one hundred and eighteen pounds in weight.

  Peko, as the monkey was named, rested on the doctor’s yellow-clad shoulder making whistling noises. The cabin was filled with the aroma of incense. The animal’s nose sniffed continually at the competing scents of lubricating, motor and cooking oils the florid incense attempted to cloak.

  The submarine purred throughout its four hundred and ninety feet, making thirty-five knots across the surface of the Atlantic Ocean, from a hidden base in Westport, County Mayo, Ireland. Hanoi Tsin hoped to be accosted by a German U-boat. So-called Wolf Packs were known to patrol Atlantic shipping lanes from the British Isles to the U.S., requiring a “dim out” of her East Coast cities. Few realized eight German marines had already been captured by the Americans, attempting sabotage in an operation codenamed “Pastorias.”

  Hanoi Tsin saw no need to destroy any of the Wehrmacht submarines he might encounter, though he could easily do that. Rather, he would prefer to test the Neptune’s speed. She was the fastest thing in the sea. Still, if a German sub should show aggression, he would retaliate.

  Aboard the Neptune one hundred and sixteen men served Hanoi Tsin.

  One of them now knocked upon his bulkhead. The man, who entered bowing, affected stylish Western garb. His hair was thinning. A droopy mustache attempted to compensate.

  “Ah, Siam Khan, have you eaten today?” asked Hanoi Tsin in sibilant English, giving every syllable equal emphasis.

  “Yes, Marqui, a local delicacy called ‘corned beef and cabbage’ as I waited for this vessel.”

  “Very well, report,” ordered Hanoi Tsin. The sub was remarkably stable. As Hanoi Tsin treaded catlike around the cabin, Siam Khan respectfully followed.

  “This Wilfred Glendin matter is taken care of, Marqui. You held back some of the sukpa you shipped to Moreau. I have dispatched one after the botanist.”

  “He is dead?” asked Hanoi Tsin, hopefully, green eyes half-lidded. The secret of the Himalayan Marifasa lupine plant was for himself and none other.

  “Not yet. But Glendin was wounded by our beast in Tibet. Unfortunately, he was well enough to return to London. I was to finish the assignment myself when I received your summons. I have sent Yogami.”

  “The mentoh-kangmi? Very good. Glendin somehow recovered Jekyll’s notes,” Hanoi Tsin expounded. “I require a high silence regarding the potion.”

  “But, Marqui, do you not have his notes?” interjected Siam Khan.

  “Jekyll made duplicates of everything,” the Chinese doctor replied. “Glendin will soon be dead or Dr. Yogami will pay with his life.

  “The Silver Manticore is becoming more than a nuisance,” continued Hanoi Tsin, abruptly changing the subject. “At first, I thought him a mere insect compared to Sir Dennis, but he harasses my every move in San Francisco.”

  “So you relocate to New York to further avoid him?” probed Siam Khan.

  “No. I must attend to other business in Haiti,” answered Hanoi Tsin.

  Siam Khan supposed this business was with their ally General Trujillo, perhaps in some exchange of gold for Cuba’s diamonds. Or “gold,” smirked Siam Khan. Trujillo was merely useful but not a cabal member.

  “I summon you for a reason. I have come to the conclusion that the Silver Manticore is former American secret agent code-named G-9. He once posed as Alexander Kentov.”

  “Posed as Kentov,” rattled Siam Khan. “You are sure, Marqui?”

  “Let our thoughts be correct. In 1916, mercenary Alexander Kentov escaped a Royal Canadian Mountie named Frank Preston during extradition. He could not have simultaneously been serving Tsar Nicholas II.”

  Understanding broke on Siam Khan’s face. “So, I encountered an imposter,” he put together.

  “And will you recall his predilection for carrying two guns as the Silver Manticore does?”

  “I will never forget, Marqui,” Siam Khan rubbed the scar on his hand, “But one of the Silver Manticore’s pistols is an accursed gas-dispenser.”

  “A modified version of a prototype I personally gave to Emilio Luciferro. Intended to fire poisoned needles,” stated Hanoi Tsin. “It is unaccounted for.”

  “But Silver Manticore is a killer,” claimed Siam Khan. “Why use harmless gas?”

  “True,” agreed Hanoi Tsin. “This is merely to incapacitate those he requires information from. That gas is, in fact, my own Mimosa 3.”

  “But how…?”

  Hanoi Tsin held up a lacquered, long-nailed hand that shone like ivory. “Note: he will kill, but he does not poison the blood as Luciferro did. I had shipped the Italian a quantity of the gas,” Hanoi Tsin continued. “Such would be used up by now.”

  “Someone has made him more,” concluded Siam Khan.

  “It is an organized conspiracy against me,” announced Hanoi Tsin. He let that sink in.

  “Recall, Luciferro’s operation for me was broken up by the Silver Manticore,” Hanoi Tsin picked up the thread. “He must have learned Luciferro sat upon the Cabal of Seven. Files containing details of my recruiting stations, through which the esteemed doctor acquired men, are likewise missing.” Again, Hanoi Tsin paused for effect. “These are the same underworld taverns the Silver Manticore disrupts now.”

  “The fighting skills he posses could have been learned at Rache Curan,” reasoned Siam Khan, stroking his jaw in thought. “Kentov was a good student; his stealth could shame tigers.”

  “Be aware: ‘Kentov’ did not crash his plane into the Tsangpo River through pilot error.”

  “Often did he express knowledge of every bolt on his precious Auro Avian,” agreed Siam Khan. “Yes, I see now. Kentov blundered into the testing range of your device while flying to Russia.”

  Hanoi Tsin nodded, “When his engine cut out, only his great piloting skill saved him.”

  “Finding out just how deadly your Darkness of Doom truly was,” put in Siam Khan.

  Hanoi Tsin nodded, “When I approached the Russians with it some months later, Kentov was already ‘working’ for them.”

  “Kentov convinced them he should oversee the sale of it,” deduced Siam Khan.

  “Your own report confirmed he was going to Russia for work. Little did the Russians suspect this Kentov merely posed as a soldier-of-fortune. The Americans sought the Darkness of Doom for themselves.”

  “Yes. What simpler plan? Place a ‘Russian-American’ mercenary in Nicholas’ court to abscond with the weapon,” Siam Khan concluded.

  “Not just any weapon, young one, a super-weapon.” Hanoi Tsin pointed out, “But that Japanese destroyed it first. ‘Kentov’ then fought the Communists alongside the twelve thousand American troops sent to Soviet Russia in 1918. But do you know what became of this Japanese?”

  Siam Khan combed his memory. Showing no sign of knowing, the doctor smiled, “Ah, ‘The great man seeks to be slow of speech but quick of action,’ quote the Philosopher. Years later, after a brilliant career, this Mr. Kyoto turned up dead.”

  “Good,” opined Siam Khan.

  “On the erstwhile Sandwich Islands.”

  “The Sandwich Islands? Marqui, you allude to Hawaii. Your son…”

  “Mention that xian pangzi no more,” warned Hanoi Tsin. “However, he would have been in an ideal position to switch identification papers with a corpse. I.A. Kyoto was a marked man. Japan was most displeased he failed to secure my device.”

  “It would have been a devastating engine in their war-like hands,” stated Siam Khan.

  “Agreed,” said Hanoi Tsin. “And I would have profited greatly by selling it to both they and the Russians. The more bellicose members of the Japanese government coveted it. For having failed to secure it, the Tokko, the Kempai Tai and Organization ‘F’ all sought Kyoto’s death. Knowing secret execution awaited him, Kyoto disappeared, as did a small plane.”

  “Do you know to where he flew it, Marqui?”

  “Despite being one of the finest secret agents of the Showa era, a pilot’s skills did not numbe
r among his many talents.”

  Enlightenment dawned on Siam Khan’s face. “This false Kentov flew Kyoto out?” he reasoned, incredulously.

  “It seems to fit, does it not? Japan was not at the time hostile to America.”

  “A well-trained secret agent could live there under many a cover,” assured Siam Khan. “Journalist, salary man. Those two were of birds of a feather…”

  A Klaxon suddenly exploded to life in shrill alarm.

  “A thousand pardons, Marqui,” crackled a voice from the recessed speaker.

  “Pray continue, Dakkar,” said Hanoi Tsin. “Word from the captain of my treasure fleet is never an interruption.”

  “Radio location sweeps reveal probable German submarine bearing down on our position starboard,” relayed the captain.

  “Increase speed,” ordered the doctor. If the Germans intend to fire upon them, this would force their hand. Hanoi Tsin turned to Siam Khan, “There is an Americanism, is there not?”

  “They attempt to ‘draw a bead’ on us, Marqui,” clarified Siam Khan.

  “Ah, such inventiveness with language...”

  “Torpedo launched, Marqui,” Dakkar announced.

  “Proceed with Routine Seven. Let the Germans… draw beads.”

  “Aye, Marqui,” Dakkar came again.

  Such tactics would wear down the boat’s batteries. Siam Khan looked ashen but held his tongue. The Neptune dived some three thousand feet, heading into an arc. This brought her under and behind U-869.

  A torpedo pierced ocean the Neptune once occupied. That meant the Germans were just under the waves, as they must be to fire. Then the Neptune ascended. An invisible force from her parted water in a line, straight to the torpedo, disintegrating its gyroscope.

  “Direct hit, Marqui,” Dakkar’s voice buzzed over the intercom.

  Guidance gone, the torpedo turned.

  “Shall I move in for the kill now?”

  “No need, lascar,” said Hanoi Tsin with glee, pulling a lever. “They shall see the torpedo returning to them. Allow the Germans to contemplate their fate. Perhaps America’s counterpart to England’s Coastal Command will arrive first. Perhaps sharks shall feast upon the survivors.”