by P. J. Lozito
“He didn’t mistreat you, doctor?” asked Trixie.
“No, Miss Wylie. Very cordial is him… excepts for the diet of daishpin.”
She wrinkled her nose, “What’s that?”
“Edibles paper, feds to prisoners in China,” the Frenchman exhaled smoke. “But he wish to, how you say? Pick my brains about alchemists and this Silver Manticore. You know this silver one, he fight some alchemist named Vlad Tepes to the draw in 1809? Hanoi Tsin want to know do I thinks the Silver Manticore is maybe a long-lived alchemist.”
“What did you tell him?” asked Allred.
“I tell him, it could be.”
“We have reason to believe he isn’t,” said Doc.
Allred eyed him.
“He is but a common bandit then, Richard,” said Le Grandon as he produced smoke. “This fellow who go all about in the silver mask, he mock the Templars,” exclaimed the Frenchman.
“Mock?” asked Allred.
“Ah, you don’t see how he makes jest on them? Let us not step off on the wrong feets. You see, one joins such an arcane society, the mysterious brotherhood, sworn to the big oaths, not to be parts of the everyday things. He likes to thinks him he has very important, priceless secrets. Better than the regular peoples,” pronounced Le Grandon, fingers cupped.
“I’m not so sure,” muttered Allred.
“Be sure, my friend. The Templars would never allow this, this, stunts with the masked man,” said Le Grandon. “Somehow this common bandit, he get a holds of the mask of the Templars’ protector. If he would appear in this room, Sacre Bleu, I would put the fears of God into hims.”
“Is that right?”
“This I swears at you,” exclaimed Le Grandon.
“We have reason to believe otherwise,” said Doc.
“In this case, he must be J.C. Clellen Lowe,” the Frenchman decided with a shrug.
“I’m afraid not,” declared Doc. Allred studied the room nervously.
“Just who you thinks it is he, Richard? Tell your old teach, I demands.”
Chuck stepped in, “As Doc’s lawyer, I have advised him about making any unsubstantiated claims, sir.”
Allred released a sigh of relief. Enough people knew his secret.
“Spoken like the true lawyer,” smiled Le Grandon.
“You mean he lied?” snorted Levvy.
“We might gain some clew to what Hanoi Tsin is up to if we knew everything that transpired between the two of you,” Doc continued.
“Ah, there I can helps. He is, besides askings about the Silver Manticore, gathering informations on other alchemists. He tracks a one such in your American city of Seattle.”
“Seattle, eh? Detective I employ on the Coast, Hammett, knows that town. I can get him to look into it,” said Allred, dragging a hand across his chin.
Chuck interjected: “You know Dash Hammett? Oh, sure, Frisco.”
Allred winced at the slaughter of his hometown’s name and said, “If you don’t mean Frisco, Texas, we met in Washington, D.C. Twenty-five years ago,” pointed out Allred.
“Let us discuss mutual friends later, brothers,” censured Doc Wylie. “Allow Dr. Le Grandon to tell his story. It seems he knows his stuff.”
“Ah, oui. To know is to be prepared. Last weeks, maybe two, I forgets, I am consulted by a man about all this. Says he read my Accelerated Evolution. Australian fellow; knows of Dr. Mirakle’s ape blood transfusions and my own encounter with Beneckendorff. Strike me not much as the scholarly type, I must add.”
“Holy cow, what put you wise?” asked Trixie.
“When he call our Nola a ‘twist and twill,’ I knows he is part of Aussie underworld. Named Eduard Kelly. No, I say wrong: Edward.”
Doc Wylie and Brent Allred exchanged glances.
“Yes, the very same ‘jackaroo’ that gets the bang-bang in the eye from the Silver Manticore while in the robot. I am glads to hear you ship them big boys to Avery Walker. Him and Anthony Dunn, them youngster make a goods study of the big toy.
“So, Kelly, he put the kidnaps on old Le Grandon at la metro,” the Frenchman continued. “My savate not so good against him, eh? My foots is all swollen from the kicks I give his metal suit. Ankle the size of the pamplemousse, even.”
“Let me check that before I leave,” put in Doc Wylie.
“As you wish. My sword cane, she go all cockeyed when I make the thrust. Useless.”
“I know what you mean,” commented Chuck. “I lost a cane last night, a standard one.”
“Lucky, I have much the spares. You take one home with you, Charles.”
“Actually, sword canes are illegal back in New York,” Chuck pointed out.
“Ah, I don’t want the gendarmes to pursues you,” Le Grandon turned to the federal man. “But your flatfoots give me the escapes, eh, Corrigan? So, anyways, I do the much researches. Make big-distance calls to Washington the D.C. And I do more of it now I am home.”
Suddenly, Le Grandon slapped his forehead in a purely Gallic gesture. “Mon Dieu, the fines la bibliotheque will put against poor, old Le Grandon. I borrow the one-day books: Arminius Vambery’s famous text, plus Thunstone’s Darkness Out of the East, and The Whole of the Art of Detection by one well known to you, Richard.”
Doc smiled.
“Don’t worry about the money, doctor. We’ll make ‘em eat the bill,” said Corrigan. Mention of eating paper caused a shadow to fall across Le Grandon’s face, which Corrigan noticed.
“Uh, sorry, no offense. A call from my people and they’ll waive it all,” he added..
“Merci, Monsieur Corrigan.” Le Grandon continued. “But, see, this Dr. Hanoi Tsin he is making the searchs for a someones named J.C. Clellan Lowe, nee ‘Lowenstein.’ ”
“You mentioned him before. What’s the connection?” This was Doc Wylie.
“Ah, a good one when you take the handle of it. This man, he is a veteran,” Le Grandon paused for effect.
“So? Most of us are,” bellowed Levvy.
“I means of your War Betweens the States…”
“Blazes, not another Methuselah,” exclaimed Levvy, jumping up. “Maybe one guy is a well-preserved hunnert-year old, but two of ‘em? Naw.”
“It is true, Leviathan,” stated Le Grandon.
“Somethin’ ain’t kosher here, dang it!”
“Indeed, a Dr. Maolcrum Richards he treat this Lowe with somethings not so kosher while being a Union Army physician. And he do the work with the Army Medical Museum. In 1864, he find the perfect subject with ‘irritable heart.’ ”
“’Irritable heart’?” It was Corrigan.
“Later to be knowns as ‘soldier’s heart,’ ‘shell shock’ or what us now call ‘war neurosis.’ Pretends it is a cure. You see? Ol’ Le Grandon have the M.D., he not just a fancy copper. By 1866, Richards is across the river at New York’s Floating Hospital…”
“But what became of Lowe?” interjected Corrigan.
“I thinks he puts you in business. He take overs the identity of a man who died: Virgil Torrent. This fake Torrent, he get your Teddy Roosevelt interested in the ‘lunatic fringe.’ Urge him to make government investigate the, how you say, the weirds. But before too long, old T.R. become more interested in the League of Peace, the Nobel Prize for stoppings the Russo- Japanese War and forest fires controlling.”
“We could use Teddy today. The Japs’re starting forest fires in Oregon with floating incendiary bombs,” stated Corrigan. “Not only that, they injected fleas with plague onto China…”
Allred shot him one of those disapproving looks.
“Uh, the Japanese, that is,” Corrigan quickly added.
“Why, Teddy Roosevelt was always interested in innovating. When he was New York’s Police Commissioner, he started that bicycle patrol, the Scorcher Squad,” pointed out Trixie. “See, they’d scorch their tires when they suddenly braked...”
The men all stopped talking and swiveled their heads toward the girl. Doc admonished, “Not now, Trix.”
“If this Torrent was in Roosevelt’s, the other Roosevelt’s, administration, I can track him,” continued Corrigan.
“Thinks so? You will finds only trace of the real Torrent. He die in the trains wreck and Lowe he pull the old switcheroo.” Le Grandon stirred air with his finger, “Do you no goods to follow Torrent.” He shook his head and billowed smoke.
Corrigan considered this. At least he could check Army records for this Richards. Brent Allred was engaged in his own silent considerations. ‘Maolcrum Richards’ was the name Hanoi Tsin had blurted out last night as his guess for the Silver Manticore’s real identity.
“So, where did the imposter Torrent go?” inquired Trixie.
“Ha, ah ha, him I finds. He moves to Mexico. Only now he ‘Ben Turck,’ fly for Villa against Pershing. Them Mexicans, they shoots we Frenchs. I don’t go to there.”
“Relax, sir. It’s been a long time since the French installed Ferdinand Maximilian as emperor of Mexico,” enunciated Chuck carefully. He never missed a chance to use Levvy’s hated first name.
“Blazes,” exclaimed Levvy. “Didn’t the Silver Manticore have connections to Mexico?” He turned to Allred.
“Well, don’t look at me. How should I know?”
“Right, right, how should you know? And, Mister Charalambides, ya don’t have to remind me of that moniker, dang it,” finished Levvy.
“If you say Turck is not Manticore, perhaps he is there searching for the bona fide one,” reasoned Le Grandon.
“Sounds likely to me,” Allred declared quickly.
“Ah, I know of your Eddie Heimberger observing Nazi activity there. Pretends to be in the circus there. He can finds,” proposed Le Grandon.
“Heimberger signed up with the Navy,” Corrigan shook his head.
“My, this is all quite fantastic,” put in Trixie. “But where did Lowenstein end up?”
“Lafayette Escadrille, in 1917. He joins us Frenchs as aviator ‘Michael Christy’ before America she enters the Great War.”
“Michael Christy?” an incredulous Brent Allred spread his hands. “That’s a name I know. Raoul Lufbery’s protégé.”
“Did you ever meet Christy when you flew?” asked Doc, turning to him. “I realize it was a long time ago.”
“No, I was re-assigned to Russia in ‘16. But he was a legend among the gang flying those ‘tomato crates’ ”
“‘Tomato crates?’ ” Levvy probed. “Ya had wimmen on board?”
“No more than your Infantry was comprised of babies. That was just what we called those Wright ‘B’ Flyers,” explained Allred.
“Actually,” pointed out Chuck, “Levvy’s unit was full of babies and he was their C. O., ‘crybaby officer.’ Well, Dr. Le Grandon, let’s skip to now,” Chuck switched to his best courtroom manner.
“Now he is ‘Yarrow Frost’ of Manhattan,” Le Grandon folded his arms on his chest.
“Doc, that’s the guy who wanted to meet you,” Chuck searched the ceiling. “About five years ago, wasn’t it, Levvy?”
“That’s right. Legal consul dismissed him as a glory hound bounty hunter, Doc,” reminded the hirsute chemist, glaring at Chuck.
“Yes,” remembered Doc. “Frost pestered us so much about meeting me, it aroused my suspicions. We planted Caesar’s chef -- Fritz -- in his residence.”
“With Caesar doin’ stuff for State he ain’t got no use for a chef. Fritz must be still workin’ there for real,” deduced Levvy. “We can get Caesar to call him for us.”
“He’s too involved in sensitive work,” admonished Chuck. He became a trial attorney again, “Do you have proof of these conjectures, Dr. Le Grandon?”
“On m’a vole! I did, but I carry them all to see you mens.” He bowed toward Trixie, “And lady. Those fiends relieve me of it all,” exclaimed Le Grandon. “Hanoi Tsin make sures nobodies get this story.”
“Yes, I remember this Frost very clearly now. We were too busy tracking the stolen the Cirrus X-3 and had to fly out to the Coast to recover it,” recalled Doc, rising.
“Our case with the Rocketnaut,” Chuck snapped his fingers, a prosecutor drawing a conclusion.
Doc nodded, and then said: “Dr. Le Grandon, may I see your directory?”
“Blazes, Doc,” exclaimed Levvy. “Frost’ll get wind we called Fritz. It’ll tip our hand.”
“Levvy, you know I prefer the direct approach. I intend to speak to Mr. Frost himself,” stated Doc.
“I got it, Doc,” declared Trixie. She swung a nearby Hanson lamp over. Her head bobbed down several lines. “Here it is: Yarrow Frost, 445 West 44th St., BUtterfield 8-5000.”
“Why do not I thinks of this ideas?” sputtered Le Grandon.
“You were under a lot of pressure, Dr. Le Grandon,” pointed out Doc.
“Ah, oui. My mind, it is crazy. The phone it is on the settee behind you, Richard.”
Chuck had already dialed. “It’s ringing,” he said, looking back at the crowd. Into the mouthpiece, he announced, “Please hold for Doc Wylie.” He handed the instrument to his chief.
“Hello, this is Dr. Richard Wylie, Jr. May I speak to Mr. Yarrow Frost?” Doc listened.
“I see.”
Silence as he listened again.
“No, Miss Bishoff. Kentov didn’t work for me,” Doc answered loud enough for the whole room to hear. The group exchanged astonished looks. “I’m glad you were armed.”
Another round of listening, then: “Yes, I see. Very well. Sorry to have disturbed you.”
He hung up.
“Well?” probed Levvy.
“Frost enlisted in the Army Air Corps.”
“So, nu?” Levvy again.
“He transferred to Jan Prohaska’s unit, the Grayhawks.”
“Then, we can’t get to him,” noted White. “Nobody can.”
“Grayhawks, huh? My old friend in Hawaii, Chang Apana, has a son flying with them,” pointed out Allred. “I can get him to put a message through his boy, Weng. Will that do?”
“Sufferin’ calamities,” bellowed Levvy. “You really do have friends everywhere.”
“Most gentlemen do, Levvy,” admonished Chuck. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“How would you like to understand my fist?” Levvy growled.
“Your solution may not be necessary, Brent. According to Miss Bishop, Frost was flying missions over Italy. He had one more mission before being rotated back home. As soon as we talk to him, we can wrap this up,” clarified Doc.
Corrigan’s brow had been furrowed for the past few minutes. He knew the name “Yarrow Frost” but he hadn’t realized Frost was Lowe. Corrigan had a feeling this wouldn’t be wrapped up quickly. As soon as Le Grandon was out of earshot, he was going to order Allred to gain entrance to the Frost residence. But in a manner only the Silver Manticore could.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MISS RUBY BISHOFF
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Allred?” asked Clyde Falk, meekly peering into the boss’ office. Falk, a former stringer for The San Francisco Examiner, was now on staff of the Sentry. He made extra dough as a spot illustrator.
“Come in, Falk, come on in,” invited Brent Allred cheerfully. There was time to kill before sundown and tonight’s mission.
Allred had made it back from New Jersey in one piece. Miss Scott, of course, had kept things running smoothly in his absence. Danny Colt had sat at the desk and pretended to work. After Scottie set up the Coffeemaster, Colt had managed to kill a pot of the black stuff, this month’s Dime Western and a couple of mice.
The staff artist took a seat. He carried a sketchpad, a small steel case of Milton Bradley Crayprints and a handful of number two Eversharp pencils, the tools of his trade, with him. He aimed to look ready to work. Before he could say or do anything else, Miss Scott was in the room. Falk didn’t mind that.
“You wanted to look at that Gimbels ad, Mr. Allred?” the secretary reminded.
“Oh, yes, Scottie.”
She presented a paste-up to Allred who re
ad aloud, “‘…Venetian blinds in cream with cream tape or in white with duck tape. Get them for the dim out!’ Checks out all right.”
He saw Falk looking confused, “Mayor La Guardia has convinced me to reject any ads not in line with Civil Defense,” explained Allred.
“‘The Little Flower’ ought to stick to being a fire buff,” Falk chuckled. “And readin’ the funnies on the squawk box.”
“I’ll have you know the mayor puts great emphasis on the Office of Civil Defense,” Allred stressed, leaning back and folding his arms. “He’s already recruited forty thousand New York citizens to spot aircraft and be air raid wardens.”
“Why, sure, I didn’t mean anything by it. He has my utmost respect,” Falk stated.
“He should. He flew combat missions in the Great War,” Allred gently reminded. “There’s more to La Guardia than putting his foot down on ‘spicy’ pulps.”
“And he did take all those pinball machines swimming,” added Miss Scott. “Now those factories can be used for making shells.”
Falk wondered what was up, pushing eyeglasses higher on his nose. You don’t get an audience with the publisher every day, not when he was busy with personally overseeing the content of the paper. Allred handed the ad back to his secretary.
“This just came in by pneumatic,” Miss Scott presented an envelope.
“Open it and tell me what it says,” Allred suggested as he arranged his desk.
Paper tore. “Helen Meyer plans to stay with Dell,” reported the secretary.
“Too bad,” Allred sighed.
Scottie exited. The easy-on-the-eyes secretary was the kind of distraction Falk could get used to.
“We need something to boost circulation,” Allred began.
The little newsman wasn’t sure how much more New York’s top English-language newspaper, out of a dozen, could improve circulation. The inclusion of Parade in the Sunday edition couldn’t compete with Life. But this was the boss. Better be tactful, especially after knocking the mayor, a fellow WWI flyer.
