The Crime Master: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 1 (Gordon Manning and The Griffin)

by J. Allan Dunn

  He knew the voice well, every inflection of it. Refined, subtly mocking. He could never mistake it.

  “Manning. This is the eighteenth. Some time on the twentieth—that gives a twenty-four hours’ margin, and it happens to be the birthday of a man who has lived too long”—here the voice became momentarily strident, vindictive, hinted of madness hard-curbed—“some time on the twentieth I shall kill Richard Pollard. Unless, of course, you contrive to prevent it. Good-by.”

  There was a strain of music—bizarre accompaniment to such a threat. The merest echo of a mocking laugh.

  Richard Pollard! The thing was inconceivable. Why Richard Pollard? What could that man have done to provoke the Griffin’s vengeance, if it was vengeance, and not the mad tangent of a lunatic, striking only at the best and noblest.

  The sheer audacity of it chilled Manning’s blood, brought down his beating pulses to normal, set his face in grim lines. Pollard!

  It might be that, in his colossal conceit, the Griffin envied him, considering himself the Lord of Destinies. The mad reactions of such a creature could not be calculated.

  Pollard was the famous explorer-scientist. He was resting now from his latest trip, preparing for another, after a lecture tour, that fall. A man between fifty and sixty, still vigorous, yet in his prime.

  He was studying the ocean rifts, the faults of submarine formations, with a view to solving the questions of changing climates, altered currents, the seismic disturbances prevalent in certain lands. Living on his country place on Long Island, a national hero because of his adventures, though not yet recognized, save by the few, for his scientific exploits.

  He must be warned, protected.

  For a while Manning sat still and silent. Then he drew the morning paper toward him. Pollard had been mentioned there, strangely enough, on the sporting page. He had made a hole in one on the golf course close to his home. That was one of his relaxations, almost a hobby. On one expedition he had made a nine-hole course on snowy wastes, played with crimson balls. He had what was jokingly known as his golf cabinet. In final decisions of associates, Pollard would lean to the man who handled a good mashie, made a long drive.

  Manning could understand that. He liked the game himself. It had nothing to do with the matter in hand, save that Pollard’s picture was published, the face of a fine Nordic, intelligent and forceful.

  He must be warned, protected. The day after to-morrow. There should be time, plenty of time, to circumvent any schemes of the Griffin, satanically ingenious though they were. Manning roused himself to start a chain that would give him access to Pollard, no easy man to know; not because of his nature, but from the demands made on his time. He meant to be with him every minute of the twentieth, from midnight to midnight.

  It was not so readily accomplished. Pollard met him when he arrived, greeted him cordially, listened to all Manning had to say—and laughed.

  “It would seem this Griffin, as you style him, should be destroyed. You say you have undertaken that office. But I cannot conceive of any hate against me.

  “Except that he is mad,” said Manning.

  “Grant that. Then, sane brains should cope with him. I have had several communications concerning you, Manning. It would seem that you have already crossed swords with this Griffin, are well equipped to cope with him. But, if you will pardon me, I am well qualified to take good care of myself. There have been times when my life has been threatened by a horde of fanatics—madmen of a type. I refuse to be coddled.”

  “Let me tell you a few things that have happened,” said Manning. “This man has more than the cunning of a savage, more than pits and poisoned arrows. He studies his victims, and he has never failed. Whether you like it or not, Mr. Pollard,” he added, with his jaws grim, his eyes like the points of steel drills, “I intend to see you well guarded to-morrow. If you will give me the privilege, I should like to be within sight of you all the time. I am sure the Griffin will strike.

  “You have not only yourself to consider. There is our own prestige, the prestige of the police force, to which I am unofficially attached, but which is being undermined by these crimes. I have a feeling, a presentiment, which you may laugh at, that this time the Griffin himself will not be far away. He plans some mechanical method to take you off. He says he will use no pawns in the actual play. It is imperative that you are guarded. Your life, your work, belongs to the nation, to the world.”

  “I hope so,” said Pollard more soberly. Manning admired his poise, his physique. The man was eminently fit, his personality compelling. “I do not laugh at your presentiment, as you call it,” Pollard said. “I have had them myself. They come, I think, from the quickening of natural senses by circumstances, coupled, of course, to observation and experience.

  “I have sat long nights in the jungle waiting for some rare beast to come along—and generally have had the luck to bag him. Usually I resorted to bait—a live goat, perhaps. It seems I must take you seriously. And this time I am to be the bait, the goat, though I shall not be a helpless one. You may bring your men, if you wish, search the house and grounds, patrol them. But I imagine your Griffin, who cannot be fabulous, with his grisly record, will be expecting some such move, since he has warned you.

  “You and I will sleep together in the little cabin I have, outside, where I go when I want to be entirely alone. It is not actually a cabin, though the front of it is built of logs. It is actually a cave in a rocky outcrop on the grounds. We can make sure there is no undermining”—he was still quizzical, Manning noticed—“they can only come at us from the front.

  “It appears to me, from what your Griffin has said and you have told me, that he is playing some sort of game with you in which he feels himself the master. As long as you are with me, he will not risk losing you as his future adversary. A kink of insanity. And I shall be pleased to have your company. But I have no idea of having my holiday spoiled. My birthday is the one occasion on which I refuse to do anything but enjoy myself. Do you play golf, by any chance?”

  Manning answered in the affirmative, adding that he had no clubs nor shoes with him.

  “I can outfit you, or the pro’, on the Cold Brook Club Links. I had planned to play in the morning with him. He is far too good for me, but I have a reputation now. I made the seventh hole in one. A hundred and eighty-three yards, across the stream, to the green.

  “Sheer luck, of course. I have got on the green before, but this time the ball went beyond the pin and trickled down the slope. The pin was in the cup, but the ball made it. I shall never make it again, but, from now on, that hole is mine in two. What is your handicap?”

  Manning told him.

  “Then you should give me three bisques at least. Nearer five. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll spend the daylight on the links. Few play here in the middle of the week. It is open country. If you want me to, I’ll promise to pack a gun and stand by if any one I do not know comes near us. We’ll lunch on the veranda of the clubhouse. When dark comes, we’ll go back to my cabin. I am doing this largely on the recommendations you have had poured in on me, Manning. I still feel the whole thing is a hoax, perhaps a draw-off to let your Griffin strike elsewhere.”

  Manning did not agree with him. But the prospect of staying out in the open pleased him. It looked as if the Griffin’s problem would not be solved so easily, so bloodily, this time.

  “You got a letter from the Police Commissioner?” he said. “It included a set of my finger-prints, my signature. I want to reproduce them.”

  “Nonsense. I know a man, a sane man, and a real one, when I see him.”

  But Manning insisted.

  When they went to the cabin at eleven o’clock he was assured that the Griffin had planted no mines timed to turn Pollard’s birthday into his day of death. He was inclined to subscribe to Pollard’s theory that the Griffin would not include himself in the crime that would surely be attempted. Unless he got the Crime Master this time, others would follow. He had not yet corne
red the man. And the Griffin enjoyed this game of circumvention, of mad wits against sound ones, too much to relinquish it. Perhaps he had not reckoned on Manning staying close to the advertised victim. Perhaps? Deep in his consciousness, Manning did not think the Crime Master overlooked many moves.

  Manning had men posted on the grounds, two close to the cabin. Nothing had happened, nothing suspicious had been seen or heard. Pollard rallied Manning.

  “You’re more nervous about this thing than I am,” he said. “Shall we have breakfast in this funk-hole, or go over to the house?”

  Manning tried to respond somewhat to the other’s mood. He felt his responsibility, he had seen the work of the Crime Master, knew the resourcefulness of his methods.

  They had breakfast in the main house, started for the Cold Brook links in Manning’s own roadster.

  It was a glorious morning in fall, a crisp tang in the air that was exhilarating, that roused Pollard to enthusiasm, that had some effect upon Manning’s still somewhat pessimistic mood. He could not shake off the feeling of evil intended, if not actually impending. The cries of the crows in the thinning elms seemed to him to be melancholy, prophetic.

  “Snap out of it,” said Pollard with a laugh. “They can’t do much to us while we’re in the open, that’s certain. We’ve got the day before us. We’ll see how we come out this morning, and this afternoon we’ll rate our handicaps to make a close thing of it. To-morrow you’ll go back with the satisfaction of having baffled your Griffin, which, by the way, is a fabulous beast, I believe.”

  “There is nothing fabulous about the crimes he has committed,” said Manning. He was feeling some relief as he surveyed the links. The country was open, with scattering trees, one or two natural hazards in the shape of brooks and gulches. Where there was considerable growth of trees or brush the leaves were no longer thick. His men, following in other cars, could trail their play, make sure that no coverts were turned into ambushes.

  He was taking all precautions, but he did not actually believe that the Griffin would do anything so crude. The Crime Master might be mad, but he invariably lived up to his announcements. He would not relax vigilance for a moment. The links were the safest possible place. It was the coming night, until twelve o’clock, that Manning feared, in spite of their immunity until now.

  He had slept lightly but he felt fit, always in training. He looked forward to the game with growing interest as he inspected the clubs the professional offered him, testing them for length and weight and spring. He changed with Pollard in the locker room, using some of the latter’s toggery, finding shoes that fitted him, a light sweater.

  Pollard was in high spirits, chuckling over the posted announcement in the clubhouse, and again in the caddy house, of his “Hole-in-One” achievement.

  McKenzie, the pro’, had a word with Manning.

  “Mr. Pollard is a good player, sir,” said the pro’. “He’s a wee cranky over the etiquette o’ the game, but ’twould be better if more were so. Gie’ him the tee to himsel’ when he drives. He should make an eighty-three or four,” McKenzie went on. “Mebbe better, since he’s got confidence ower this one-hole of his. He’s a bit weak wi’ his brassie yet. You’re the first oot. You’ll not be crowded. There’s few on the links this time o’ the week until the afternoon.”

  They stood in the door of the caddy house, close to the first tee. Pollard had his favorite caddie, the pro’ had picked one for Manning. And Manning, watching Pollard practicing short chip shots, noticed his men taking up their work. They were unobtrusive. There was no need for them to come out into the open. For the most part they would travel the boundaries, see them clear.

  “How about a little wager, Manning?” asked Pollard. “Say a ball on every nine holes. I warn you, I’m feeling in rare form. Let’s go. Your honor. Three hundred and ninety-four yards. Par four.”

  Manning teed up with a wooden peg, looked down the fairway. Road to the right, with a low stone wall, beyond which two operatives were sauntering; to the left wide open country, boundary stakes. An old stable with two or three trees near it that threatened a sliced drive. The checkered direction post was two hundred yards ahead. He meant to watch that stable.

  He smacked the ball fairly with a low, hard drive that went well past the pole, clear on the stable, rolling to a good lie.

  “Looks like the green in two for you,” said Pollard. “Here goes.”

  He hooked a trifle, but made good distance. The match was on. They kept fairly even, playing for holes, but keeping score for the afternoon’s handicap. Pollard lost a ball in a quarry pit, was one down on the first nine.

  Manning played well, but not his best. It was like a handball court. The sunshine seemed to lack warmth, the brisk air was depressing instead of stimulating. Once an airplane roared overhead, and he watched it intently. Pollard laughed at him. Laughed again when Manning held up a shot as the mowing-tractor crossed the fairway, taking advantage of the lack of players. Pollard waved a greeting to the driver, called him by name.

  “You act as if it were a tank sent out to annihilate me,” he jested.

  “I’m taking no chances that I can help,” said Manning. “Not even of the Griffin’s lying.”

  “That chap has overreached himself this time. His colossal ego has made him tackle something he can’t carry out. This nine I beat you.”

  Manning could see the flat shape of the automatic in Pollard’s hip pocket that he had promised to carry. A futile weapon against the Machiavellian cunning of the Crime Master. For himself he had none. His cane was in the bag the caddy was carrying. Strips of leather—rings of it—shrunk over a rod of steel, formidable enough, if an opponent came within reach.

  IV

  LUNCHEON was served on the clubhouse veranda, as Pollard had suggested. There was no one else present. Manning’s men had come in, were still vigilant, though out of sight. The meal was excellent. They compared scores, settled on the afternoon’s game.

  “Play till it begins to get dark, eh, Manning? Then back to the funk-hole. I’m enjoying myself, thanks to your company, but you must admit I’ve been most amenable. I still think your Griffin is a bugaboo so far as I am concerned. Anyway, we’re safe on the links.”

  “It looks that way,” said Manning, but he was not easy. He knew how men approaching execution had often to fight against the fear of the swinging pendulums, the inexorable tick of clocks. A man could look at a watch and go into a frenzy. He had something of the same feeling, the sense that, fair as the day was, apparently perfectly safe, something was approaching, stalking, step by step, closer and closer, not to be defrauded.

  Pollard roared with laughter.

  “You remind me of the cautious Senator,” he said. “His friend pointed out some sheep as they drove past a field, remarking they had just been sheared. ‘It would appear so, from this side,’ said the Senator. Yes, what is it?”

  “Somebody to see you, Mr. Pollard,” said the caddy master. “He has a parcel he wants you to sign for.”

  Pollard and Manning exchanged glances. Pollard gently patted his hip pocket. Manning took up the cane he had brought to the clubhouse.

  “Send him over,” said Pollard.

  They were both a trifle tense. Pollard’s tone was not as light as he intended it to be when he spoke.

  “If the Griffin hasn’t changed his plans, this should not be the actual assassin,” he said. “He don’t look much like one.”

  The man was young, comparatively, deferential, smiling.

  “I’m from the local agency at Springport,” he said. “Springport Athletic Emporium. We carry Ski-Flites, you see. Got a wire from the manufacturers to present you with a dozen, sir; if possible to get your signature and maybe a word about Ski-Flites.”

  “Ah! On the theory it’s the ball and not the player, eh? Perhaps you’re right. Where do I sign?”

  “Let’s have a look at those balls,” said Manning. He was not too sure of what might be in that box—and he wanted to be. />
  Pollard winked at him when the man took off the paper, opened the lid and displayed a dozen Ski-Flites, nested in partitions, wrapped in the transparent celluloid envelopes, sealed with the Ski-Flite seal.

  “The paper said you were using a Ski-Flite when you made that hole,” the man went on. “These are presentation balls. They are marked with your name and numbered. If you find you improve your play with any of them, perhaps you would let us know; a longer drive, a better pitch, or smoother putt.”

  “I will. It’s a birthday present, though you may not know it. Set them down on the table. Manning, I’ll play Ski-Flites against your favorite Dimples. And many thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. And many happy returns of the day.”

  Pollard took three of the new balls, two for his bag, one in his pocket for the new game. He gave the box to the caddie master, asking him to have it put in his locker.

  “Ready, Manning?” he asked. “Then, let’s go.”

  “You take the honor, this trip,” said Manning, taking seat on the bench beside the sandbox and ball-washing tub on the edge of the wide tee. The two caddies stood off to the left. There were as yet no other players ready, though a car or two had driven up, their passengers presumably in the locker room.

  Pollard tried his swing, whipping at late flower heads, took his stance. His form was good, left arm straight, right elbow well in, left foot lifting in a final preliminary test; following well through, a fine figure of a mature man, virile, keen on his game.

  Manning heard the purr of an engine, the easy shift of gears. He glimpsed the car. The driver was the man who had brought the presentation balls, one of which, stripped of its envelope, was poised on the top of Pollard’s patent tee. It was a good car—eight cylinders—it slid into high, accelerated, racing down hill, passing the two operatives, who were once more sauntering down the road. The man was in a hurry. He might have been waiting until they finished lunch—he might—