The Sting of the Silver Manticore

By P.J. Lozito

He Hunts the Most Dangerous Prey Alive! His Mission: To fight Criminals and villains who are out ot destroy our society! Beware all Who Commit Evil! For You Shall Feel THE STING OF THE SILVER MANTICORE!

Created and written by P.J. Lozito, THE STING OF THE SILVER MANTICORE is an homage to classic Pulp masked heroes and other such archetypes that populate Pulpdom! Written with the fast pace and tommy gun delivery New Pulp is known for, THE STING OF THE SILVER MANTICORE is a tale of action, adventure, thrills, and suspense, all centered around a Hero For the Ages! Feel THE STING OF THE SILVER MANTICORE now from Pro Se Press! Puttin' The Monthly Back Into Pulp!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: May 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476059464

Book preview

PART ONE

HE HUNTS THE MOST

DANGEROUS PREY IMAGINABLE

CHAPTER ONE

THE SILVER MANTICORE STRIKES!

Near midnight, a figure in black approached a disreputable North Beach tavern. CASA DEL GATO, neon above the entrance flashed, served society’s worst elements. A number of such riff-raff had already collected there this evening. These gatherings discouraged most honest people from venturing out around the area after dark. This one was taking his chances on the foggiest night of 1942. He seemed unperturbed by night or fog, however.

The dive in question was as rough as any Barbary Coast saloon from the late 1800s. It had a reputation rivaling the old Golden Gate Casino for sheer mayhem. Local police knew about the place; in fact, they were planning a raid. At least, that was what one law enforcement official known to dine with The San Francisco Examiner‘s publisher had claimed. And that would be the end of Casa Del Gato. Until then, it was where strong arms, burglars, torpedoes, gun molls and the occasional fence or two congregated.

Down by the wharves, ships creaked carefully through the mist. Shouting broke the unearthly quiet; the walker’s slight one hundred-fifty pound frame wheeled. But the commotion was only man and wife hurling invective at each other. True love! Grim laughter erupted lowly from the lone pedestrian. Marriage was not for him, he knew. His calling took precedence.

A ring on his left index finger suddenly lit. That was the signal. It was duly acknowledged via the jewel’s crystal set. Black gloves were pulled on. Head down, hat tugged low, collar turned up, the man quickened his pace. He entered the squalid bar, the witching hour fast approaching. There was work to do. That is, if Emilio Luciferro’s papers were reliable.

Inside, the reek of stale beer and cheap cigars permeated the atmosphere. Revelers were too busy having fun, glad to be out of the damp, to take much notice of the latest arrival. Slithering in, the dark figure picked his way along a wall. He stepped to the pitted bar’s only free spot. The thing had absorbed enough alcohol over time to easily become a pyre. That was a distinct possibility.

Casa Del Gato wasn’t the sort of establishment where the bartender wore a uniform. In truth, that worthy seemed to have forgotten his tie this night. Trappist monks’ brew was not likely a featured item. Men’s hats stayed on while drinking, even if there was female companionship. And most of them appeared to be unescorted-- a low class joint.

Wiping a chipped mug with what may have once been a white rag, the bald bartender merely succeeded in redistributing grime more evenly. He casually glanced at his newest customer. Tobacco-stained teeth had, long ago, chomped out whatever life a thimble-sized stogie jammed into the corner of his mouth ever held.

What’ll you have? came out by rote, mustache buckling.

Head down, the newcomer beckoned his host closer, wiggling a crooked finger silently. Huh, the bartender thought, here we go again; another Square John wants something besides booze. Well, if he has the scratch, we can cure his itch. Bird is sure dressed like he wanted to kick a gong around on the sly, the barkeep observed.

Leaning forward, the proprietor automatically presented a cauliflower ear to his shy patron. This afforded a better view of a certain blonde dish at the end of the bar. Distracted, the barkeep was, thus, quite surprised when a gloved hand clamped tightly around his throat.

Instinctively, the bartender swung a fistful of mug straight at his attacker’s face. A second hand flashed, parrying this mug expertly. It dropped earthward. Glass shattered, signaling a beef. Everyone turned toward the confrontation, seeing the barkeep yanked into the air and dropped to the dirty floor in a heap. That does it; he thought in fury, I’m roastin’ this nut. There were a few guffaws. Perhaps sight of a man treated like a sack of laundry was not uncommon here. Someone muttered About time…

From his new vantage point on the floor, the victim saw the object of his rage was no more than five feet seven. I’m gonna enjoy this, the bartender thought to himself. Back turned, the attacker seemed to tug something around his own face. He secured it tightly and faced the bartender. Dappled snakeskin draped him, surgeon-style. The bartender couldn’t quite choke out speech. He managed a sputtering sound, pointing. Previously uninterested customers now zeroed in on the ruckus. A voice from the back sputtered: Silver, Silver Manticore!

That brought a jolt: the emissary from Hell was paying Casa Del Gato a visit. The joint suddenly erupted into a stampede as most of the patrons scattered without a backward glance. The bartender scrambled to join them. Undisturbed, a dance record from the time of the Peabody played on the jukebox in the background.

Now the veiled man held a different captive: the usual criminal type. This hood often boasted he wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. Grunting a short involuntary gasp, he grimaced, caught tight in a vise-like osae.

What’s Hanoi Tsin up to? demanded the mystery man applying the aikido hold. Talk! I know he’s planning something. His other hand dragged the victim by his shirt, up against the bar.

Man-a-core, I ain’t never heard a no Hanoi Tsin ‘fore tonight, sobbed the victim, forehead rimmed with sweat.

Is that why you pronounce his name perfectly but not mine…Marco?

H-how’d you know my ---?

That frightened man was flung away roughly as the false face spun on another adversary already upon him. The masquerader smacked the second man, hard, in the face with a queer-looking gun quickly drawn. His attacker tumbled backward, pawing a nose already purpling.

So, the local Whyos want to play, it was a challenge, not a question. The interloper had spotted this one in the mirror set above the back bar. Other men in the saloon drew backward a step, all eyes now on the invader. This crowd was choked full of booze and tobacco, not on their game. Intimidating them was easier than it looked.

A third hood took the invitation, brandishing his pool cue Louisville Slugger-style. While perfect for knocking a little ball around a felt-covered table, it didn’t make the best of bludgeons. He began his swing. Several things happened, almost at once. As the stick described an arc towards his head, the man in the cloth curled his right hand into a tightly packed fist and drove it into the pool cue’s weakest spot, just mid-way.

Crack!

The top half of the makeshift weapon clattered to the filthy floor. The wielder gaped. He’d never seen anybody manage that before. Heads, not fists, usually crack the damn things.

The man in black cocked his odd-looking pistol. This winched a cloudy glass bullet, formerly hanging amidst a row beneath, to its business end. Pulling the trigger snapped it towards his opponent’s chest. The bullet shattered on impact, green smoke billowing. Man three was enveloped in fumes, coughing his way into unconsciousness.

Sleep tight, Sticks Watson, was barely uttered before foeman number four, a mere stripling, sprang. His objective ducked, and straightening up, lifted. The youth flew over the bar, landing with a groan of pain, breaking glass.

The man incognito produced a big .45. This convinced the remainder of his opponents to run. Men more fleet of foot bunched together in the back, leaving a trail of hats, scarves, small weapons and their own upset liquors and drafts. Swell targets for when Bako made his move. What the hell was keeping him? B-girls abandoned watered-down versions of drinks, purses, gloves and wraps heading for the rear exit. The masked man ignored them, leveling his .45 between the eyes of one straggler he ensnared in a leg trip.

Why’s the Cabal of Seven on a recruiting binge? he demanded.

The Fi-San’ll kill me if I spill, the hood answered, scooting away.

I’ll kill you if you don’t, insisted the other. He added: Jack Phelan.

Phelan went pale. They’re lookin’ to a hire a Chink named Ling Chan, breathed the hood. Ow!

A clubbed automatic raised a lump on the tough’s skull, Need I tell you that word is offensive?

What, ‘Chink’?

There was another smack.

Ow! Okeh, okeh, whatever you say! He’s a half-breed gunman.

What do they want him for?

He’s the best. That’s all I know.

The intruder contemptuously pushed his latest victim aside. Noting the women were gone, he raised both guns. Covering the room with mismatched weapons, he fired. Good aim was not needed for the gas dispenser, but lead winged shoulders and took out knees expertly. He wanted these bums alive.

Someone here knows what Hanoi Tsin is up to, he called in a brief respite from triggering, who?

Yelps of pain mixed with sharp oaths from his victims were the only answers he received. Slowly, the man hidden under silvery cloth waded into the knots of bleeding, cursing men, unaffected by the noxious fumes. A strong watch chain discreetly anchored the gun to the disguise. Firing it had snapped on a hidden air supply through this arrangement. The scent of mimosa pervaded the air. Merry music continued to play.

Then the lights went out. Bako. A bone-chilling laugh echoed through the darkness.

CHAPTER TWO

BAKO

Behind Casa Del Gato, the man currently calling himself Gani Bako climbed back into a black Hudson. He wore the uniform of a chauffeur. Parked in the garbage-strewn alley behind the seedy tavern, he waited in smoked-glass goggles. Even these could not hide his firmly chiseled features, high cheekbones and narrow jaw.

Gloved hands, slender and graceful, returned wire cutters into a toolbox. Man and machine were cloaked in the chilling night’s shadows. He was most thankful for the Arvin car heater at his feet.

Panicked women had just dashed out of the speakeasy, he noted. Ears straining to identify the sounds from within, Bako heard the jukebox nonchalantly play the next record. Jazz wafted in from the bar. Swing, this type was called. Why was a style of music named after a child’s playground toy?

Truly, the world went quite mad, Bako thought. Never did he think the war-like elements of his government would actually attack Pearl Harbor. Bako remembered his short time on Hawaii fondly, where his new life was made possible.

But perhaps this dangerous way of living, which attracted Bako, was too risky. Capture by the police would mean immediate internment or worse. Might it not be time to suggest that Mr. Evan White drive? A genuine Negro cabbie would make a very fine chauffeur, he reasoned.

Still, Bako felt the need to watch his uchi deshi. His benefactor could land in just as heated water as he himself. Bako was surprised at how routine this nocturnal task had become. But this was no time for memories.

At any second gunshots would echo out from the saloon. There, now, shouts, too. But he couldn’t make out the words through the sound of scuffling and breaking glass.

Another moment and miscreants would appear at the rear exit. Bako saw the first of them. Some regrouped, huddling together with plans to go back in and counter-attack. He caught a furtive …just one guy…

That was Bako’s cue. Up went his window. Down went the button operating the auto’s spotlight. Occidental men, and Chinese, but no Japanese like himself, staggered as if struck by a physical blow. The better part of valor was clearly indicated. Trapped like rats, men squeezed through the smallest openings scattering.

No, no Japanese, Bako saw. America’s President Roosevelt had signed Executive Order 9066 sending over one hundred thousand of them to the camps in an effort to protect against espionage and sabotage. All Japanese- Americans were classified 4C: enemy aliens. Yes, some Black Dragon had been rounded up that way. But most Nisei were law-abiding patriots, loyal to Uncle Sam. And I am the one they would seek, Bako considered sadly. Often did he have to pretend not to hear a muttered variation on … stinkin’ Jap in the streets. Documents of Bako’s held he was Filipino.

Green mist spat out of the car’s hidden gas nozzles, causing fleeing men to gag and collapse. Automatically Bako thought, I am so very sorry. These men were guilty, at most, of listening to uncouth jitterbug music. Some were criminals, though. Petty ones, not the big game we hunt, Bako had to admit. A handful swarmed around the car like water splashing over a rock, blinded and disoriented, willy-nilly, down the alley.

Bako, behind the high-powered beam, watched carefully as a second wave started in earnest. More men and a couple of ladies poured out of the tavern. Perhaps not ladies, strictly speaking –- gun molls.

The group spilled into the alley, followed by a long-coated figure, confidently striding out, a gun in each hand. The underworld knew him as the Silver Manticore. The police had warrants out for him. Few, if any, suspected that the shiny cloth concealed a tiny gaspirator, not merely his features.

Men still littering the alley were dealt knockout blows from the Silver Manticore’s armaments. Pistol-whipping, Bako had learned this was called. A garbage can and its attendant vermin went flying as a body upset it. Bako noted Silver Manticore’s black hat still perched on his head, kept secure by an almost invisible string. Just like that down-on-his-luck silent picture comedian’s hat. Buddy Keaton? He had taught us much about tumbling and misdirection, Bako allowed.

Bako observed his chief turn and empty his pistols, first the .45, through the door he just exited. A loud, theatrical laugh followed. He further noted the action of the second weapon, the gas-dispensing gun, carefully. This revealed Bako’s own doctoring, of which he was justly proud. Empty, both guns disappeared within his chief’s long coat. There a flat, leather briefcase was strapped and served as holster to the pair. This could be undone easily and innocently held in the hand.

The scent of both cordite and the sleep fumes the car had expelled crept in as the Silver Manticore flung open a backseat door. In the distance, the banshee shriek of sirens wailed. They respond so very much faster than before, Bako thought, starting the engine.

How did it go, sir? he asked in a high voice, his boss hopping in.

There’s always some wise egg needs convincing, was the muffled reply. Why?

I ask only because violence is a last resort.

Nobody in there’s innocent. I want them to fear me.

In that case, one must go straight forward and crush the enemy. That is, if they did not give you what you sought.

Oh, I didn’t leave empty-handed, Silver Manticore answered, pondering this Ling Chan. The word will go out to all the agents as soon as Burberry could relay it.

Bako piloted the machine down the alley, out onto the street, wondering how an egg could be wise. This was some jargon that eluded his grasp, Bako knew, gunning the motor. The aerodynamic, low to the ground Hudson handled well at any speed.

As he drove, Bako activated a wire recording of the Silver Manticore’s same weird, shrill laugh as before. It came from a hidden loudspeaker, and used vocal trickery learned at Rache Curan. If needed, the realistic sound of gunshots or ersatz police sirens could be selected, good for spooking opponents. The same works also housed a public address system.

Cut that ‘sir’ malarkey when we’re alone, ordered Silver Manticore, getting comfortable in the back. The sounds of a fresh magazine of ammo being slammed into the pistol reached Bako’s ears.

I find ‘The Silver Manticore’ too long, protested Bako, cheerfully. And I dare not call you by your other name when we do night work.

Well, think of something else, was the reply between refreshing gulps of Chinese pu-erth tea taken from a Thermos. Manticore lifted the snakeskin with his free hand.

They approached the men who exited Casa Del Gato moments before, becoming suddenly surefooted as the sleek black car bore down. A hardy soul produced a handgun somehow missed inside. One less for our arsenal, the Manticore sighed.

The gunman took aim at the rapidly shrinking vehicle. One, two rounds bounced harmlessly off the car as it glided by silently. A third shot went wild. That was the gas taking effect. Bako knew .32 caliber hardware wasn’t a match for the Pegasus’ bulletproofing. That triggerman may as well have been using a peashooter. And then, the Pegasus, for that was her name, rolled out onto the hilly streets. The almost-new Golden Gate Bridge loomed watchfully.

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 over 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