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

by J. Allan Dunn

  And he had won.

  Manning sat looking out over lower Manhattan, its towering buildings, listening to the sounds of the great city, and the river that swept about its southern border. He was haggard, worn, not from personal fear, but because of the bafflement with which he had met, the certainty that the Griffin was planning another coup.

  A maniac, undoubtedly, but infinitely cunning and resourceful. He overlooked no details. He was like an old fox that deliberately shows itself in the open, lolling out its tongue at the pack before it starts off on the chase it actually enjoys, knowing its ultimate refuge certain.

  His secretary entered, bringing the mail. It was not so much her manner or the look on her face that warned Manning. He had known that morning would bring a letter with the red cartouche, the abominable, boasting emblem.

  Manning had traveled far since the war, largely in the Orient. He had looked into its mysteries, divided the chaff of fakery from the true effects of knowledge, knowing magic to be only the enigma of the unknown. He believed in telepathy, the affection of one mind by the emanations of another, through mental vibration. Especially he believed that evil vibrations held peculiar force. Many centuries backed his belief. He knew himself attuned to the Griffin’s sending because of expectancy and a certain dread of failure; though that did not affect his resolution to persevere, despite the Crime Master’s open warning that, if he came too close, he might pay the penalty.

  He realized that the Griffin was subtly striving to undermine him, to destroy the quality of his spirit. Not only by his announcements of crime, with their invariable gap of two or three days in which he might make his preparations for defense yet know that the Griffin was making his offensive, but because of another element.

  There was a girl he loved, as virile men like Manning love. Eleanor Severn, lately returned from Europe. He knew that she had expected him to renew his attentions, to carry them to courtship; that she was hurt because of his apparent indifference.

  The Griffin had already sent her a scarlet seal. Manning dared not include her in his peril, had sought to avoid that by staying away from her, not mentioning his mission. But the Crime Master had embroiled her in the contest between him and Manning, a contest the Griffin continually referred to as a fair and open one, save for the fact that he was privileged to make the first moves.

  To think that Eleanor might be involved shook Manning’s sturdiness at times, at times stiffened his fibers. Now—

  He opened the envelope with a steady hand that did not quiver as he read the ominous contents. Only his lips closed more tightly, little muscles bossed along the clean line of his jaw.

  Dear Manning:

  A little closer last time. But the horse named “Almost” never won a race. You are deserving of another trial. It is possible you know this gentleman who was born under an unlucky star. I do not know if you hold any credence in horoscopy, but it is certain that the horoscope of Edward Poindexter shows the House of Death in the ascendency this month.

  By my calculations I find he will die sometime on the thirteenth.

  That is an unlucky number. Many scoff at it, but you will find the reasons for such “superstitions”—shall we call them, well founded?

  Poindexter himself has traveled in the East. You may be able to persuade him to take extraordinary precautions, to accept your protection. Do your best, my dear antagonist. But Poindexter will not be alive after midnight of the thirteenth instant.

  He is one of those fools who takes it upon himself to change the ways of the world. He styles himself a Peace Maker. May he be thrice blessed, in the next world, which he will surely enter shortly. If there is one. In this one he is doomed.

  Remember, Manning, the nearer you come to me, the greater your peril. There may be peril to others. I like you as an adversary, but I do not accept defeat gracefully. I see no present prospect of it.

  So, I leave you to plan your moves. Mine are already well arranged.

  It was signed with the seal of the Griffin.

  Manning set down the letter, lines in his face swiftly graved there. Death was on the wing. He could almost hear the beating, feel the chill draft of its somber pinions. He had faced it many a time. In the trenches, on perilous missions, in the jungle, with lurking bushmen creeping up unknown trails with poisoned darts for the intruder. Not death for him, this time, unless indeed he came in actual contact with the fiend; then he well believed he would be in dire peril; but death for another, for a man who had already served well and was now coming to the crux of his usefulness.

  Death, hovering, ready to strike from an ambush that all Manning’s wits might not uncover.

  He knew Poindexter, admired him. Poindexter was a pathfinder in the cause of humanity.

  Manning had met him in the Far East where Poindexter had served in the diplomatic service of the United States with signal success. Those brilliant capabilities of his were now devoted to the peace movement.

  It was quite feasible that the Griffin, enemy to all mankind, should have selected so prominent a man, engaged in a project that might well irritate the inflamed mind of the Crime Master.

  Manning had seen Poindexter two or three times since his return, twice dining with him. He lived on higher Fifth Avenue in what is known as a roof bungalow, a place that could only be reached by elevators, or many flights of stairs. Entry could be easily guarded.

  It should be an easy matter to protect him, if he permitted Manning to take charge. And Manning thought he would. Trained in Oriental ways, Poindexter was more willing to admit the possibilities of secret assassination than the Griffin’s last victim, who had laughed at the idea, and been killed in the open, before the very eyes of Manning, impotent to save him, unable to avenge him, swiftly though he had acted.

  He would get in touch with Poindexter at once. They had many things in common, liked to talk over affairs of the East, in which the diplomat still held keen interest. Poindexter would see him, consent to Manning taking charge of guarding him for the twenty-four hours of the thirteenth. He must permit it or it would be carried out despite him.

  The telephone rang sharply. For a split moment he paused. This was not from the Griffin. He had used that instrument, he had worked out some method of induction that made it impossible to trace a call, but the bell always held a higher note. Yet Manning felt a dire foreboding that he conquered as he answered. There was only one way to treat danger—to face it.

  “Gordon? This is Eleanor. Why have you not been to see me?”

  “I have been very busy.”

  “Trying to find this Griffin?”

  Manning’s brown face twitched. He sensed that this was no ordinary call, that it might well be one the Griffin had anticipated. He might be listening in.

  “Don’t mention that subject over the line,” Manning said, his voice acute with apprehension. But he could not check the girl.

  “I have been reading about him. It was he who sent me the seal on the card that came with the flowers brought me on landing, that I thought had come from you. I got another seal this morning, a few minutes ago. What does it mean? I must see you. Gordon, I am afraid.”

  Manning’s lean features set into a mask of determination that many men had seen and recognized. Soldiers, tribesmen, carriers on safari. The look that carried on. Now, blending with it, showing in his eyes, was pain, the anguish of evil portent.

  She was afraid. And she was not the kind to be afraid. He knew that. Knew her spirit was brave. He did not believe her in imminent danger, but now she was linked with his mission. If anything could have knitted his resolve, if anything was needed to stiffen it; her call did so.

  “I will see you,” he said.

  “When?”

  “I will send a message. Not now, not over the telephone.”

  This was the only thing to do. He must let her know. He did not think the Griffin meant to strike, only to threaten. But the threat was like the sound of sappers to beleaguered garrisons, the steady advance of
tunneling from which, at any moment, death might belch with terrific force.

  The Crime Master had never yet failed. He acknowledged neither God nor devil nor man, considering himself invincible. It was through this arrogance of his that Manning hoped some day—some day soon—to trap him. But here was a diabolical complication. He was using Manning’s love for the girl as a factor to weaken him.

  Manning hung up. For a moment his bowed head rested on his clenched hands, his shoulders heaved. Then he stood up, and in his eyes there shone something that could meet and match the Griffin’s serpent gaze, a fire that glowed brightly, the flame of his soul.

  It flickered, but did not die, flared with even more intensity, as the telephone bell rang once more, this time with a peculiar pitch.

  It was the Griffin.

  Manning listened to the cultured voice with its sardonic inflection, the voice he would never fail to recognize. Through the speech he heard the sound of music, faint, sweet, but curiously primitive. It did not interfere with those clear tones, but lent intensity to the mocking phrases.

  “You may as well see her. Manning. A charming girl. It would be too bad to spoil your idyl. I am afraid I have marred it somewhat. But only in the game.

  “Don’t forget, my dear Manning, that in this chess tournament of ours, the queen should always be guarded. I advise you not to try and send her away, to take her off the board. That might precipitate matters.”

  Manning seldom cursed, save in times of stress, when men understood only strong talk. Now an oath rose to his lips as he heard the derisive laughter of the Griffin blending with the music. He checked it, replaced the receiver.

  That he was shadowed by the Griffin’s men he did not doubt. He had never been able to detect the “trailers,” expert as he was in such matters, but many things had proved their existence. And now Eleanor was spied upon. To meet her could not increase her danger which, as yet, was only a menace. She knew enough now to be told all. She had the right to know. After all, he had unwittingly involved her.

  It revealed the close study the Crime Master made of those against whom he was actively arrayed. Manning’s devotion was only a matter of social rumor, yet the Griffin had unerringly set his finger upon the romance. Manning’s love was danger for her, instead of the protection he had meant it to be.

  III

  HE met her in the reception parlors of a select hotel, talking briefly, seemingly unobserved, unheard, in a palm-shadowed niche. For the first time in his life Manning had to battle with jumpy nerves. He imagined lurking listeners, watchers. But he showed no nervousness before her.

  She was frank, as she always was, and so was Manning.

  “It would seem that the Griffin, as you call him, has a fixed idea that he can strike at you through me—that he believes you entertain a feeling for me you have never told me of, Gordon. Would you have told me if I had not received a scarlet seal, if you had not undertaken to rid the world of this fiend, for he is nothing short of that?”

  He met her gaze. She was modern. She did not hide her emotions. He saw more than friendship in her eyes.

  “It is true,” he told her. “I would have kept on avoiding you, but he has made that impossible.”

  “You would have let me think you did not love me, that my love for you was not what you wanted? That was not fair, Gordon. When a woman loves, as I do, she wants to know, to share the dangers of the man she loves. To help him.”

  Her hand went into his. A clasp was all they might indulge in there, all they needed. Through both of them there ran a thrill at the contact. It left Manning with a sense of power.

  “You must not try and help me,” he said. “I thought of asking you to go away, but that is too risky. This time I shall be inspired to do my more than best.”

  “I may help you,” she said steadfastly. “If he wins this time, with his satanic ingenuity, I may act as a bait to tempt him within reach. With you to guard me, I am willing. You know I love you, Gordon.”

  “I do. But God forbid that you should ever be used that way! Eleanor, it seems impossible that God, Fate, what you will, should permit such a monster to carry on. The balance must be struck, but not with your aid. It is frightful to me to think that my love for you should have drawn you into this web.”

  “That love came to you, as it did to me. And true love is not harmful. It will help us.”

  He had not told her about Poindexter. He knew her gallant spirit, knew that she might try to aid him in some way she would not tell him of. She had a brilliant brain; but he was not going to let her do what she plainly desired—share his risks.

  They rose to go. Between them was a new bond. The sense of power that had thrilled him at the caress of her fingers still tingled in him as he saw her to her car. Her liveried chauffeur opened the door, then checked his action, starting back.

  Over the Severn monogram, her own entwined initials, some one had set a scarlet oval, vivid as a clot of blood. To the casual observer it might have seemed merely the rather blatant crest of the car owner. But Manning’s blood chilled. He saw Eleanor pale and shiver slightly.

  “They are trying to frighten us,” she said, “to work on you through me. Your Griffin is a coward at heart. But I am not afraid any more, Gordon. You will win.”

  But Manning was afraid. He felt as if an icy finger, the finger of Death, had traced his spine. Sweat started on his forehead as he stood gazing at the griffin’s head on the cartouche.

  He met Poindexter at New York’s most exclusive club, to which both of them belonged. The diplomat listened to his story gravely.

  “The contemplated act of a madman, undoubtedly,” he said. “But, if we can foil him once, we will shake his confidence. Once break down that colossal self-esteem of his and you will be close to capturing this wretched being, Manning. I place myself in your hands. You will be my guest from the night of the twelfth until the morning, at least, of the fourteenth. I shall take my own precautions.

  “It seems incredible that he can succeed. I think he has over-estimated his resources. He has inflated ego which may be punctured. Of course, you understand that I place no responsibility on you, but surely the two of us can circumvent him.

  “I am having a dinner party on the thirteenth, as it happens. All men well known to me, save one, who is well vouched for. James Fleming, the man who has lived most of his life in China. I had a letter from him two weeks ago. He mentioned others, who will be at the dinner, by the way, so there should be no doubt as to his identity. You know of him.”

  “I know of him,” said Manning. “But he is an unknown, comparatively. If he arrives, seat me next to him. You have made no change in your domestic staff of late?”

  “None. Tolu is still my major-domo. You remember him. There is no question of his fidelity.”

  “None,” answered Manning. He knew Tolu, a Filipino, who had been with Poindexter for years. Manning had spoken with him in his own dialect. A man who could not be bribed, safe as Manning’s own selected Jap who served him at his home at Pelham Manor.

  They went over the other servants. Two maids, a Negro cook. All had been with Poindexter for the three years since he had retired from active diplomatic service. Manning meant to look them up. They did not sound dangerous. He could have the building guarded by detectives, on the ground floor, on the roof. The special elevator that served the upper stories would be given a special operator. There would be other operatives posted outside the bungalow.

  Fleming seemed the only doubtful quantity. And Manning resolved to make sure of him, aside from being his neighbor at the dinner. That seemed the vulnerable point of attack, yet might not prove so. He determined that there would be no minute of the twenty-four hours when he was not in personal touch with Poindexter, who agreed to all his precautions.

  They would occupy adjoining beds, if Manning went to bed, which he doubted. He did not expect to sleep, to relax his vigilance for a second. This time, surely, they would foil the Griffin.

  IVr />
  IT was seven thirty. Almost twenty hours of the day set by the Griffin had passed. All the guests had assembled, save Fleming, who had telephoned from his hotel that he was unavoidably detained, but would try to arrive later.

  Manning had checked him up. It was without doubt the Fleming who had but recently returned from self-imposed exile in the cause of science. He had been called upon, returned those calls, been recognized by old acquaintances, dined, received, arranged lectures.

  Yet Manning felt an indefinable relief at the fact he would not be present at the dinner.

  He had not slept, but he was still alert. His men were on the premises. There had been no sign of attack, but, until the clocks chimed midnight, he was on the alert, strung up to the zero hour. If Poindexter was alive on the morning of the fourteenth, Manning believed that the Griffin would abandon his plan; acknowledge, however grudgingly, defeat.

  That a setback might crush him was not beyond conjecture. His inflamed brain was nourished upon his belief in his supremacy. It might well crumble under failure.

  There were six at the dinner, to which seven had been asked. Outside of the host and Manning, the rest were men of affairs and accomplishment. A celebrated physician, a brilliant writer, the editor of a modern magazine that devoted itself solely to world affairs, supported by a group of prominent people of whom one was present, America’s greatest financier, far-seeing beyond material matters.

  The cocktails were served in Poindexter’s library, furnished with things he had brought from the Orient, many of them gifts from grateful governments. Tolu had served them. He was a short, compact and dignified Filipino of high class, son of a chief, devoted to Poindexter, scholar as well as butler, proud to serve him.

  Manning greeted him in Mindanao and he bowed gravely, but did not reply. The perfect servant. Manning thought him a trifle changed in manner, almost as if he, too, sensed some special gravity in the occasion, some menace to his master. It would have been a passing fancy, save for the stress of the condition of affairs. Manning knew that these half-primitive races were quick to feel unusual conditions. And Tolu, if he felt some hidden threat, would be an efficient aide.