The Crime Master: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 1 (Gordon Manning and The Griffin)
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There was an intelligent-looking red-headed youth in his outer room, two women stenographers in the next, deft, deferential, businesslike. His personal office was well but not luxuriously furnished. In one corner stood a circular safe of ultra-hardened steel, practically impregnable—and empty—though no one knew that but Manning.
It seemed all it was intended to represent, the obvious repository of secrets. It would take experts hours to get into it. And it was only a lure. Manning kept his secrets accurately filed in a trained memory, supplemented by a condensed file in a cypher that he had improved upon from many he had studied. That file was in his desk, ingeniously concealed.
Manning never appeared in court. He had clients, though they were not so numerous as important. He oftener refused advice than gave it. His fees were large, but his cases, turned over to other attorneys for action, did not occupy all his time. Yet, to those who took occasion to comment on him, he was a man of little leisure, of comparatively few friends though many acquaintances. None knew him intimately. He was cordial enough but reserved, although he was not considered an enigma.
He took seat in his desk chair, gazing out to the towers of Manhattan, lining the busy river, with its spidery bridges, its teeming commerce. The window was open, the sounds of the metropolis blended in a symphony of achievement.
His dark eyes were like those of a hawk, or an eagle, made for the fathoming of far perspectives, far-seeing, eager, with a certain fierceness that came into them now. His body lounged, at ease, relaxed, but his mind was centered on a desperate and dangerous quest. He sought a man, a universal enemy of the powers that had built up the city he loved, the greatest city in the world, New York. He sought him in secret and stern resolve, the man who had mocked, was still mocking, at the police—looting, murdering at will, head, without question, of a band that was not only devoted to him, or linked by rites of deviltry, but infinitely resourceful under the direction of their head. The Griffin.
Manning frowned. He admitted himself worried. It was never known where, when or how the Griffin would strike, and he had never failed. Mad perhaps, with a species of insanity that might some day burn out his inflamed brain, but, meanwhile, made it that of an evil genius.
He swung his chair to the desk, always clear of papers not under immediate consideration. He had been set to the trail, but he could find no starting point, no scent toward the following of it, the solution of the mystery that gripped him. The Griffin left no traces, save those of devastation. No clews.
Manning was fresh to the trail, but there was a long count against the offender—the man who had no name that is to say, no name unless it was revealed in a device he used, embossed on—ovals of heavy paper, cartouches he affixed as tokens of his presence—of his absence from the scene of crime—or token that he was the master-mind who originated it.
A device that was the head of the mythical creature known to heraldry as a griffin, stamped in scarlet.
It might, Manning fancied, be a clew to the surname of the man, who seemed more fiend than human. But that was only a fancy and he wanted facts.
It was a waiting game he was forced to play and that harassed him. The hideous certainty that the Griffin would reveal himself, stagger the city with some fresh crime that would come like a bolt from the blue, stagger the very foundations of law and order, without warning, without trace of the offenders.
These acts were like those of the fictional Frankenstein, shaped like a man, minded like a fiend. A fiend of frightfulness and inordinate cunning, of illimitable daring and deviltry, heading an organization growing ever bolder with success.
Manning signed some letters, summoned one of the stenographers, dictated, ran through typed documents, digesting their contents, arriving at solutions. But all the time his brow was furrowed.
His subconscious brain busied itself with the main issue for which his business was only a camouflage. It held a presage of impending trouble that he was powerless to prevent, though he must trace its source. He knew he was up against no ordinary opponent, but one as resourceful and relentless as any he had encountered in his duties in the war opposing the Boche Secret Service.
He finished up the correspondence, gave a word of praise to the girl and got his car from its parking space, easing the powerful but unostentatious machine through the traffic, driving with automatic accuracy, his mind ever prescient of impending calamity, out to Grand Concourse, through the park, on to his home in Pelham Manor, a bachelor establishment catered to by his picked Japanese servants, perfect if remote.
All the way his eyes, that saw the traffic, the lights, were conning with their eagle gaze for an elusive quarry, a fabulous beast, a scarlet griffin.
III
AS Manning picked up the square envelope with its bold superscription in violet ink, he had a premonition, perhaps of the quickened senses, a positive emotion or reaction; that here was something evil. He did not analyse such matters. He believed that all hunches were based upon actualities, that so-called luck was merely the blossom, or the fruit of seed some one had sewed where perhaps he might not pluck.
But he had seen many curious things in his time. In the war, when he was detailed on Secret Service though ostentatiously merely a brass hat. In the Orient and the far-off places he had traveled since the war. He would not have disputed that vibrations for good or wickedness might not persist, did not cling, as some subtle odor, to objects handled by persons of strong vitality and will.
And here was evil. As if the envelope had been defiled by a malignant touch. He opened it without hesitation, abruptly.
My dear Manning:
Allow me to exchange congratulations with you upon your acceptance of the post you have just taken over. I take it that, with myself, it is not entirely the pursuit of—shall we call it crime?—that interests you, whether to achieve or prevent it; but that the adventure of the chase appeals.
It does to me. I trust we shall share many interesting and thrilling episodes. I am complimented, spurred by having such an adversary. It inspires me to further efforts. I fear that we shall never meet. I may, ultimately, have to make sure of that. In the meantime, until you push me too hard, and I grant that possible emergency, I shall thoroughly enjoy playing the game with you.
It is like playing chess with a skilled opponent. A game in which, however, you labor under a handicap. I always make the first move. Let us pit our resources against each other. We might perhaps both be called Crime Masters. But it will be no stalemate. One of us is going to win. Myself. For, if you seek to master crime, I am its master.
You will hear from me soon. Very soon. I much prefer to dealing with you direct.
There was no signature, only the embossed griffin’s head, with its rapacious beak, its rampant attitude, stamped on an oval of bright red, scarlet as blood.
IV
IT was a shock, an unexpected blow from an unseen adversary; rather, not so much a blow as a flick of insult, a challenge.
The man known to the police as the Griffin had, attested the mute evidence of his scarlet seal, committed many crimes. He had robbed, he had at times killed with what seemed mere, diabolical wantonness. His coups were always coupled with great gains, carried out with a precision that bespoke an evil genius in conception and preparation.
He might, Manning reflected, be well termed the Crime Master, juggling the words to make the meaning suit his successes, though, as he had written, they could be twisted to have an opposite interpretation, one that Manning meant to make apposite—to himself—as one who mastered crime.
It would be a hard-fought game, not played in the open, with the quarry always well away. The letter told one thing. The Griffin was a man of education, of sardonic humor, with a brilliant, if warped, brain. The use of the seal already indicated that.
The writing, Manning was sure, would lead nowhere. He did not doubt the other’s ability to write several distinctive hands, carefully studied. He had shown an infinite capacity for taking pains.
Every little while, at intervals of weeks or months, a crime tagged by the seal was perpetrated. Every little while, press and public clamored for the police to apprehend him. They suspected Centre Street of concealing the use of the seals in certain cases—and they were not away from the truth.
The chief commissioner, with his newly appointed squad of secret police, could do nothing with the Griffin. He worked alone, he was not a gangster, a racketeer. The commissioner had called in the aid of Manning, enlisted it, a willing volunteer. They had held, so far, no communication, would hold none until Manning had tracked this beast, run it to earth, destroyed it, or been destroyed himself. Yet, the Griffin had discovered his employment. It was something close to magic, which is merely the mystery of the unknown.
Manning accepted it as a fact. There was no use taking time to determine what indiscretion had freed the information. A harassed man might mutter in his sleep. Gossip flies far and often its links are intangible.
It was not himself. He slept soundly. He slept apart. The thing was out. The Griffin had learned of the appointment and, in his bizarre fashion, it had given him greater zest to prove his own powers, to show himself the Crime Master.
“A form of grandiose dementia,” Manning diagnosed it. There was nothing to do but wait for the fulfillment of that promised “very soon,” to wait for that “opening move” which would be fraught with inevitable tragedy, too late to remedy.
The Griffin might overplay his hand. He might not be playing chess so much as hurling boomerangs. So far, none had swung back to destroy him. He was like a wolf, captain of a lupine band, swooping down on defenseless, unsuspecting sheep. And Manning was the shepherd.
He ate dinner by himself, waited on by the imperturbable Japanese who had been with him for years, devoted, impeccable retainers who would protect him if he needed them, who maintained the little house Manning had built from his own plans, secure from intrusion.
After the meal Manning read a review, smoking a pipe. His hoped-for encounter with the Griffin might prove only a battle of wits, but, if it ever came to handgrips, with him or any of his followers, the man would need all of a maniac’s strength to cope with Manning.
V
IN Manning’s private office the next day the telephone rang crisply, imperatively. It was a private line, unlisted, unconnected with the general office instrument. As he lifted the receiver he was conscious, almost as if he had received an electric shock, of the same sensation he had experienced with the letter he had received from the Griffin.
A question, doubtless, of vibrations, himself tuned-in, receptive, expectant, his whole being, body and brain, a coherer.
Manning did not consider the voice disguised. It was resonant, but not harsh, cultured, tinged with maleficent humor, mocking.
“Manning,” it said. “It is within a few minutes of eleven o’clock. I trust you have standardized time, so you can check the moments. They are quite important.
“Don’t try to trace this phone call. It cannot be done. I told you you would hear from me very soon. This is the first move, now in the making. It will be accomplished by eleven o’clock, precisely.
“Then you can get busy and solve the problem, if you can. To use a vulgar idiom, this is being pulled off under your very nose, Manning. I have chosen the man because of his close proximity to you. In a measure, you are responsible for his selection and his demise, his most untimely and unforeseen demise. Not entirely. He has other qualifications, naturally.”
Manning glanced at the clock on his desk. It was accurate to a second. He felt that the Griffin—there was no question of his identity—was talking against time. He knew that he could not trace the wire. Others had tried to do that. The Griffin had some method of using the telephone service without automatic cut-in. He was equally sure that the crime now being predicted would be carried out.
The mocking voice kept on.
“I am afraid, my dear Manning, that you are powerless to prevent my coup, but I shall take precautions. We have another seventy odd seconds. It would be too late for you to take advantage of the occasion by buying certain stocks for a swift fall, as I have done. I have no especial enmity against the man chosen, but his death will be very profitable to me. I have an expensive organization to maintain.
“He dies by a new method I have recently perfected. I shall be interested in your failure to uncover it—and me. It will exercise your ingenuity. And the name of the man—”
The clock on Manning’s desk began to chime the hour.
He heard his caller chuckle as the strokes went on to four—to five.
“The name is Richard Ordway. Two floors beneath you, my dear Manning. And quite dead by now, I assure you.”
Richard Ordway! Private banker, promoter, financier, manipulator. Manning knew him. They were members of the same club. He often saw him in the building. Stocks might well go into turmoil when Ordway died suddenly. There would be a panic on the Exchange, the Curb. Sales that could not be traced in the mad scramble.
And the Griffin, scattering his orders, using his organization, could not be detected. Yet, because of that quirk in his brain, he had thrown down the challenge to Manning.
Manning’s wits worked fast. The supreme impudence, the insolence of the call, sent a surge of hot blood through him. His resolve might hardly be strengthened, but it rose within him. And the Griffin, for all his cleverness, had given out something that might yet betray him.
His voice was distinctive. Manning would not forget its inflections. He had landed more than one spy because of certain shadings and intonations, slight accents. He might never hear it again, but—if he did?
He leaped into action, wasting no time. He knew he could not save Ordway, but, before the last stroke had sounded, he was out of his side door into the corridor, hat on, cane and gloves in hand.
The Griffin had, he fancied, overlooked one other matter. He pressed the button, caught the express descending, stepped into the car. On the third floor they overtook the local. When the latter arrived Manning was lounging at the cigar and news stand. He had bought an impromptu but effective mask that he had used before—a newspaper. Like many other individuals in the district, he buried his face in it, seemingly seeking market news.
He had marked the indicator of the other local—the third still out of order. It was at the top of the building. Four people stepped out of the one that had followed his express car. A young clerk, a girl, a man he knew and another man who carried a brief case, well dressed, self-assured, walking swiftly, but showing no especial signs of hurry.
Manning had certain qualities that make up the born detector. He had studied many things. He did not absolutely believe in physiognomy, but there were certain features he considered evinced undeniable traits. He acted now like a hound that has caught the scent.
He was assured that Ordway, up on the fifth floor, was dead. He could not aid him. He was not anxious to uncover himself in any capacity of investigator until he had to. But he followed the man with the brief case, realizing that, if he was a member of the Griffin’s organization, he might, would, know him by sight.
Manning knew the tricks of shadowing. At Wall Street and Broadway the man dived into a subway entrance. Manning followed, running to make the express, seeing his quarry enter, two cars ahead. The man kept in the train until Forty-Second Street, and Manning trailed him, up through Grand Central to Madison Avenue.
The man swung aboard a surface car. Manning followed in a taxi, telling the driver what he wanted. A New York taxi driver is surprised by nothing. He scented a hot tip. Above Fifty-Seventh he stopped and Manning saw his man turn a corner. He left the driver grinning over a two-dollar bill.
The hotel was one that harbored all sorts and conditions of people, both men and women, who did not o
bviously work. There was a lobby and a desk, facing two elevators. Between the cars there was a long mirror, used by the lady guests for a final overlook.
Manning found a pillar, stood back of it, seeing his man in the mirror, marking the pigeonhole from which the clerk gave him his key. He made sure of it as he asked an idle question about an imaginary registration, and then left.
Fifteen minutes later his carefully relayed message got through and was responded to by Rafferty, detective of the old-school, but to be relied upon in ordinary routine. Rafferty had an intimate description of the man, knew the number of the room. It was sufficient.
Manning’s instinct told him he was on the right track, but he had to go warily. He was dealing with no ordinary opponent. There was no reason for him to arrest his suspect, many reasons not to. Manning did not forget the Griffin’s boasted “new method” of killing. He acted on inspiration, based on experience. The Griffin would not have expected him to dash down to the lobby of the building to trace the man. At least, he did not think so.
VI
THE death of Ordway was a sensation. When Manning got back down town it had been long discovered by his secretary, who had been immediately hysterical. All had happened as the Griffin must have hoped. On ’Change the news spread like wildfire. Fortunes were made and lost, matters were still in the balance as Manning arrived.
The police were there. Detectives from the homicide squad. There was nothing to show that Ordway had not died from natural causes. He was slumped over his desk, without mark of a wound.
But an alert reporter had been on the spot. He had seen, pasted on the dead man’s blotter, conspicuous, flaunting, the scarlet seal of the Griffin. Already the press was reeling off sensational stories. This time Centre Street could not cover up. The Griffin had struck again.
Newsboys proclaimed it. The Street was in disorder. The panic spread through the length of Manhattan.
And Richard Ordway lay on the operating table while experts tried to find out how he died.