Day of Doom: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 2

by J. Allan Dunn

That Big Joe knew his own realm Manning granted, but there was more than a chance that some obscure underling, working up a minor grievance that darkened his very reason, might be the one to make an attack. Some brooding man, especially in these times, when depression stalked the land with its grim retinue of hunger, homelessness, destitution and death, was likely to be dangerous. Cranks have killed presidents, started a world war, assassinated kings. It might be a humble ditch-digger, denied a job, half mad from seeing his family suffer, determined to wipe out the man at the head of the party in control. Or it might be a discharged clerk or secretary. Somebody who knew that Big Joe’s assertions of having nothing to do with politics was a myth.

  Manning believed in hunches; in his subconscious mind, his trained powers of observation and his experience; in his tremendous coördination. Hunches had become part of his metabolism; the automatic chemistry of his body. Hunches seemed to ring alarms that geared him to high tension, making him supremely receptive to evil vibrations. Such hunches had saved him from the savage rush of a man-eating beast, from creeping head-hunters in the bush, from modern killers of the metropolis.

  He believed that this crank, whether or not he was the actual writer of the note, was not merely blowing off steam in his threats.

  He set aside the pile of work that cried for his personal attention, put in a call to Centre Street, and drove there, to be instantly closeted with the commissioner, to whom he showed the letter.

  The commissioner frowned as he perused it.

  “Funny it should be sent to you,” he said. “Still, you have been in the public eye lately. I’ve got a duplicate of it myself. A crank, of course. I hadn’t decided what to do about it. No sense in bothering Big Joe. He wouldn’t pay any attention to it, or thank me for showing it to him. How does it strike you?”

  The commissioner knew that Manning considered it seriously or he would not have asked for the interview.

  “Got a hunch, Manning?” he inquired.

  Manning nodded.

  “Call it a crank,” he said. “It wouldn’t be any member of a mob or a gangster. They wouldn’t dare, any of them. This man may not be a criminal with a record, but, to my mind, Commissioner, he may be a potential criminal and a very dangerous one. The mere fact that he is an amateur is likely to give him a tremendous advantage. I have seen an unskilled fighter break through a professional’s guard more than once, both that of a boxer and a sabreur. It might be some crank who would be cunning enough to show up at Blue Bay Lodge with an unimportant excuse and get through to Curran by his mere appearance of harmlessness. I suppose Curran is guarded there, but I imagine he’d be more or less careless himself in the country.”

  “You’re right, Manning,” said the commissioner. “In the first place, I’ve got a deep respect for your hunches. In the second place, I can’t take any chances with Big Joe. If some crank only tried to pull something and it got out, it might mean my job. I’ll send some men over there. He’d raise merry hell if he knew. He laughs at this sort of thing, and he’s probably right. He’s been threatened enough and yet, in most ways, he’s the best protected man in the U.S.A.”

  Manning nodded.

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” he said. “The look of your desk after you get back, takes all the joy out of a vacation. If you send men down there, Commissioner, remember the three elements. The danger might come from sea or land or the crank may be some chap who can fly and wants Big Joe to have a certain type of plane used by the City, the Army and the Navy.”

  “There’s no bigger crank than an inventor,” said the commissioner. “Thank you, Manning. Now you go along and do your homework. I’ll attend to this. Curran may scrap anonymous letters, but I don’t scrap your hunches.”

  Manning took work home with him that night after he had stayed late at the office. It was early morning before he got to bed and then sleep evaded him. His hunch annoyed him like a conscience, like an ulcerated tooth. He could not rid himself of the idea that Big Joe Curran was in deadly danger; that the commissioner’s precautions might not prove sufficient. If the matter had been left entirely up to Manning’s private soul, he might have dismissed the matter. But he could not evade this inner suggestion that murder was forward, that this crank was one of those creatures who, like the rabbit, once in a thousand years, bites a dog.

  The world might get along without Big Joe and be the better for it, but his killing in this fashion would be murder. Moreover, the anonymous writer had been correct. The possible peril, the mystery were incentives that challenged Manning.

  Nine o’clock found him in his roadster, crossing Queensboro Bridge on his way to the northeastern shore of Long Island, on the road to Blue Bay Lodge. And the hunch rode with him. Its warming tingle spread through his veins, promising adventure; the old thrill that yet was ever new, and welcome. He drove faster and faster. If he was checked he had means of dismissing this trouble. His special commissions, issued by the commissioner and also by the governor, were still in effect. They had never been revoked.

  He had promised himself that he would get them cancelled, that for a while, at least, he would devote himself to his legal business, but the fascination of baffling crime had gripped him once again.

  As Manning came to a gap among the trees that crowned the hill and lined the highway, he saw below him the outspread estate of Joseph Curran, lying in a saucer of land with its northern border tilting to the cobalt waters of the bay that had given the place its name, Blue Bay. There were other houses nearby, and a yacht club.

  The harbor was shaped generally like a horseshoe, notched irregularly here and there. It was a good anchorage and had ample room for protected cruising, if the Sound proved too boisterous. Manning had secured a description of Curran’s house and had no trouble in recognizing it, built of brick in Colonial style, stately, with its pillared portico and finely placed windows—one of them a beautiful Palladian above the portal. Garage and stables were subordinated, vine-covered and almost hidden by trees, of which many fine specimens were set about the spacious grounds—terraced lawns and walks, shrubberies and Curran’s famous rose gardens, whose blooms had often captured prizes and disproved a popular fallacy that roses, except for the coarser varieties, could not be successfully grown on Long Island soil.

  Manning knew that Big Joe had been an athlete in his younger days, he was still a sportsman in his sixth decade, playing a consistent eighty-four at golf, skipper of his own yacht, driving his own car and riding spirited horses. With his fixed determinations, his enormous prestige, he would be impatient of any idea that he had to be protected.

  But Manning trusted that he would be able to get in personal touch with him. By appealing to Curran’s hospitality, he could be assured of being close to him for several hours with an opportunity for deciding whether this threat was or was not the act of a crank. He could also prepare special precautions for protecting him without the latter’s knowledge. This would be in addition to the cordon of plain-clothes men that he knew the commissioner had supplied.

  He saw a smart looking launch beside the private wharf. It was small, but it had a cabin and its lines were built for speed. Off the wharf was Curran’s auxiliary ketch. Her sails were reefed and under cover. It did not look as if she were going out that morning. It was now close to noon. But two men in whites stood on the wharf above the launch which they had evidently just lowered from davits.

  There was no lodge or keeper as Manning drove into the grounds. Curran might be going out in the launch. It was possible and the first strategic move would be to head him off from the water.

  He swung his car into a curving path that led to the garage, braked and jumped out as a man in chauffeur’s livery presented himself and civilly but firmly asked what he wanted. A polite man, but one who could be hard upon occasion. More like a gangster’s bodyguard than an ordinary driver. Manning put his question as to Curran’s whereabouts.

  “He don’t see visitors without appointment,” said the man who was
clearly suspicious, inclined to be belligerent. “Were you expected?”

  Manning saw the well-known figure of Curran emerge from the boathouse. If he was going out in that tender, Manning was going with him. The man opposed him for a moment and then subsided, as Manning, having no time for arguments, dropped him with a right to the jaw, leaped a low hedge and raced across a stretch of lawn to the head of the stone steps leading to the wharf. There he waved his cap and halloo’d to Curran, calling him by name. He ran down the steps so that Curran might recognize him, which he did. It was a performance out of character for Manning, but he had no time to waste, if his hunch was right.

  Curran’s greeting was cordial. He showed no surprise, beyond a transient gleam in his keen eyes. “I happened to be near here,” Manning explained, a little breathlessly, “and I remembered your invitation to see your roses. But I see you are going out in the launch. Don’t let me detain you.”

  “Good man!” said Curran heartily. “Fine! It is not just the best time of the year to see the roses, but we have a few late blooms.” Manning fancied that Curran’s shrewd gaze regarded him for a moment, speculatively, as if he wondered whether Manning did not know enough about roses to make an inspection trip at such a time of year. But he went on, reacting as Manning had felt sure he would. “In a hurry?”

  “Not especially, for once.”

  “Then you’ll come out in the tender for a trial run with me. It just arrived yesterday, specially built, fast, good enough for dirty weather, and the engine is powerful enough to tow the ketch if its own engine should break down; which, as a matter of fact, it has, or I would be cruising in her this minute. Glad I’m not, since you came. We’ll be out about an hour, then you must lunch with me, and then we’ll look at the roses.”

  They stepped into the well-appointed tender and Curran made ready to start the engine before casting off. Manning stopped him.

  “Mind if I do that?” he asked. “I’m interested in engines.”

  “Of course not, my boy,” the other answered and sat in the awninged cockpit, staring quizzically while Manning went over the enclosed engine with scrupulous care. He inspected the self-starter, all connections, for some hidden gadget that would explode as soon as any one attempted to function the machinery. There was nothing and he got his spark, fed gas while the judge cast off and then surrendered the wheel to the owner as they sped from the wharf towards the harbor.

  For its type, the launch was unusually fast. It was warranted to make better than thirty knots after its engine had become adjusted and got to know itself.

  Manning noted that some of the fishing craft had taken up anchor and were making towards the harbor mouth, falling in behind the speedier launch. Also, two other launches had gone ahead. They had plenty of speed, too. While it seemed that only one or two people were aboard either of them, Manning did not doubt that there were more, cabined, armed with rifles, with machine guns or quick-firers.

  Overhead, an amphibian plane was air cruising. It was a common enough sight.

  “Then it was not just the roses,” said Curran quietly when he had sped up his engine to the limit he wanted.

  “No,” said Manning. “Not just the roses. You may think me unwarranted, judge, but this is the copy of a letter I received yesterday. I don’t like it.”

  Big Joe read the warning—or the threat—calmly, refolded the crisp, bond paper and handed it back to Manning.

  “You seem to have taken this seriously enough to give me your personal protection, for which I am grateful,” he said. “I imagine,” he added a shade less cordially, “that the police is also taking it seriously. Some of these boats—all of which are strangers to the port—are acting curiously. It would seem,” he added with a humorous quirk of his mobile mouth, “that the average detective methods are lacking in subtlety on water as well as on land. Both my men on the wharf, for example, have been wondering about them. On this tide none but a profound optimist would try fishing.”

  “It would not be wise not to take it seriously, sir,” said Manning. “The country cannot afford to run any risks concerning your welfare.”

  “I am sixty-three, Manning,” said Curran. “At least the last twenty-three years of my life have been punctuated with threats. I have yet to take any of them seriously. We’ll take our police convoy along for a short cruise, then you and I will enjoy—I hope—our luncheon; and then we will consider roses. If you still attach importance to the limit set by this nameless correspondent, who may, or may not, be a ‘well wisher,’ I shall be only too delighted to have you as my guest.”

  “I shall be very glad to stay,” Manning replied.

  They were passing through the entrance to the harbor. On one side gulls were wheeling and dipping about the white lighthouse on Kidd’s Neck. The blue water was ruffled by a freshening breeze. The blue sky was set with snowy, marestail cloud. Green shores smiled. Yachts showed their slanting canvas, launches clipped the water. Overhead an amphibian plane made a great circle and was coming back against the wind. The varying rhythm of her engines came down strongly, but she looked as if suspended in the air, rather than beating her way into the breeze.

  Manning saw the boats he believed to be manned by the metropolitan police, form an obtrusive and irregular, but powerful escort to their own launch. The commissioner had been wise. The boats, at least, were not ostensibly those used by authorities. They had been borrowed, or perhaps impounded from captured rum-running craft. He did not know enough about the scanty air fleet attached to the force, and hardly yet a distinctive branch, to be sure if there were any amphibians attached to it. He rather fancied not. He kept his eye on the plane. If it was hostile it would be hard to deal with. They would be as helpless as a crippled teal opposed to a hungry tern, if it attacked. Yet he could not believe that the commissioner had neglected the air as a source of danger.

  From behind Kidd’s Neck a long, low-hulled, low-cabined launch shot into the deeper waters of the Sound like a projectile. The hull was polished mahogany that gave off camouflaged flashes; the cabin was tan. There was a glitter of brass and glass. Two figures showed astern, one steering, the other reclining aft, shaded by fluttering awnings.

  A small flag waved at the taffrail—red, white and blue. There was a short mast with radio aërial spreaders. Here, also, a pennant showed membership in the Power Squadron. Both men were in whites with white caps, visored, braided, set with yachting emblems of ownership and authority.

  Manning’s gaze was swiftly on the craft. He used the powerful binoculars that hung in the cabin. Curran surveyed him with the same quizzical, half amused regard. A look that had made Manning wonder whether Big Joe was not, personally, a good deal of a fatalist.

  The man astern wore colored glasses and a black beard. It was trimmed in the fashion of Commodore Vanderbilt, a mode not unusual, especially among yachtsmen. The dark glasses were quite an ordinary precaution with many men. But Manning did not like beard nor glasses. They were devices that might be used for disguise. He was suspicious of anything not open and aboveboard on this occasion. He glanced about the cabin. The launch was equipped, as required by law, with various paraphernalia, including life preservers and fire extinguishers.

  There was no sign of any weapon. There was no weapon aboard, but his own shoulder-holstered gun. He might never have a chance to use that. In the jungle a repeating pistol or rifle is scant use against a horde of savages attacking unseen, unheard, unexpectedly. There might be the same conditions here, with a stranger, more ravening beast than even the jungle bred, stalking them.

  He came into the cockpit and casually asked to take the wheel.

  “You might like to watch the engine,” he suggested. “It’s smooth, but it has a tendency to heat up while running.”

  Curran made no spoken comment as he obeyed, but Manning again caught his humorous glance, the slightest shrug of Curran’s shoulders.

  The mahogany-hulled launch had developed trouble of its own. Its bow wave lowered, its speed
faltered and it dropped back. The convoy of four boats had not overlooked it. They now held a diamond formation, one ahead of the Curran launch, one astern, and one each to starboard and port, practically abeam.

  Manning glanced upwards. The amphibian was too close, it seemed, to evince too much interest. It might be police, of course. Police planes were generally confined to going after offenders who flew below the civic sky limits or were otherwise nuisances, and to prevent escapes of “wanted” men over the State Line.

  The commissioner might have hired or borrowed an amphibian as he had got the launches. Still….

  Manning did not like it. His hunch made protest. Something in him, seated perhaps in his pineal gland, that least known of seemingly useless relics of evolution, acted like a coherer. A message thrilled in it.

  Danger!

  It came. Instantly, like bolts from a summer sky. A daring maneuver, perfectly conceived, and had unerringly been executed. Nothing could balk its swift, concerted attack.

  The plane came hurtling down in an abrupt dive, twisting, as if it were going into a tailspin. It looked as if the pilot had suddenly lost control, but the moment and place of his disability was too pat to be coincidental.

  The flier was skillful. Manning saw his helmeted head peering and wished he had a rifle. His inner voice told him to shoot this man, to kill to prevent murder. His pistol was useless at that range. His voice could not carry above the roar of the plane, which barely straightened out before it lunged into the water, sending up spray, lurching with a seeming clumsiness that Manning believed an excellently timed and deliberate movement.

  It sideswiped the police boat to port with its starboard, metal pontoon and capsized it, left it sinking, while its crew struggled in the water.

  With prop revving furiously, the amphibian appeared to blunder between Curran’s tender and the police launch directly ahead. It screened the latter from view. Those on it could not see what might be happening to Big Joe’s craft. They were anxious to help their comrades, thinking the amphibian’s acts accidental. A crash had seemed inevitable, and fatal. Water is as hard to smash on as land, scarcely more elastic.