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

by J. Allan Dunn

  Sometimes there were strains of exotic music. Always of late there was information that was given in mockery. He had become so daring, so confident, that he announced the name of his intended victim—and even the day on which he would die.

  And always, in some fashion, he left on that victim, or in some conspicuous place, his seal, a scarlet cartouche of paper embossed with the design of the Griffin, the fabulous creature of legend, with its ravening beak and cruel eye, a crest of crime. A boast that he had been within striking distance.

  It was enough to destroy sleep, to jangle a man’s nerves, even one as possessed as Manning. It told on him. The silence as much as the open challenge, the statement of what he meant to do and dared Manning to prevent.

  Manning had been thinking recently that it was not altogether the Griffin’s demoniac desire to kill certain persons who had come under the ban of his inflamed imagination. He believed that the Griffin, devising some hideously artful means of destruction, experimenting with some new and subtle mode of murder; was obsessed with the desire to see its effect. His madness took the form of an exalted ego, a dementia not merely homicidal but grandiose. He exulted in choosing the most notable so that his deed should be noised abroad. He rejoiced to see the press describe him as a monster, demand that he should be caught.

  It aroused this perverted vanity to pit himself against Manning. He held one great advantage. Although he chose to tell Manning when and where he would strike, he had the benefit of preparation. It was like a game of chess, he had told Manning once, and, while it amused him, he was content to play it.

  “Cease to amuse me,” he threatened. “And the game will end—for you. Don’t be too clever.”

  Nor was that all. The woman Manning loved, whom he believed loved him, had been drawn into the fringes of the Griffin’s net on one occasion. Her safety was threatened. That disaster was always hovering. It hung over Manning’s head like the famous sword of Damocles. He dared not ask her to marry him because of his own constant danger, and the Griffin had seen through that, had used it as a probe with which to wear down Manning’s vitality and powers. It was no wonder that he was drawn fine; that the furrows of thought between his eyebrows had deepened.

  And now, he was sure, the Griffin was ready to strike again.

  II

  IT was there, on his desk in the office that looked out beyond the towers of Manhattan to the busy river and its spanning bridges. The biggest city in the world, the busiest, made the hunting ground, the web of this monster.

  A square, gray envelope of handmade paper. The bold, somewhat erratic writing in purple ink. The scarlet seal.

  Manning had tried to trace that paper in vain. As for the writing, it was at present a futile clew. To the expert Manning had chosen to analyze it, it had formed the basis of a remarkable report that coincided marvelously with Manning’s preconception of the Griffin’s character.

  He opened it without hesitation. With the prospect of action his pulses quickened, his brain seemed charged with unusual vigor. The lassitude that had crept upon him lately vanished. This time, surely, he would cope with the Griffin, capture him, meet wile with wile.

  My dear Manning:

  I trust I have not been harrying you through my silence. I have been conducting certain most interesting experiments which, while they are not yet entirely finished, are sufficiently conclusive to permit me to advise you of my next enterprise.

  The man I have chosen to eliminate is Everett Payson, that smug saint, that medieval moron, who has been striving absurdly to reconcile science with religion, who has made the statement that Science can accept the idea of a future life with—mark this—individuality retained after death.

  It is my intention to let him prove his own theory. You may have noticed the controversy of late in the Times. I don’t know if those matters interest you. If so it may not altogether surprise you to know that the letters signed Lucifer came from me. To any sane person they would be utterly convincing, but this self ordained professor, this champion of worn-out creeds, refuses to acknowledge defeat.

  There is but one way to stop it.

  It will be on Tuesday, which is to-morrow, my dear Manning, to-morrow from the day you receive this.

  I throw down the gage to you. Surround him with protection or let him depend upon Divine Providence, coupled of course by your own personal efforts. But he will surely solve the vexing question some time between daylight and dark on Tuesday—which happens to be the thirteenth.

  Payson, of course, thinks he is not superstitious. For that jest I could almost let him off if the fool did not go spread his nauseous, noxious syrup. But there is, as you must know from your own experience, much virtue in numbers, figures. I have calculated the horoscope of Everett Payson, and his star even now enters the House of Death.

  It is even possible I may see you on this occasion. I am not sure that you amuse me any longer.

  Most sincerely,

  The Griffin.

  There was a clever sketch of a Griffin’s head in lieu of actual signature.

  As Manning laid the letter down his telephone rang. The vibrations of the bell were not as usual. They held a quality that was distinct, sinister. It seemed as if the Griffin had timed the reception and reading of his letter, for it was the Griffin talking.

  “Lest you forget, Manning. To-morrow, Tuesday, the thirteenth. Everett Payson. And who knows what else may happen? I have decided to leave the matter of your elimination to chance and circumstance. Don’t let it upset your judgment, or lose you any sleep. You are not looking too keen the last fortnight.”

  The deep voice ceased. Manning would know that voice anywhere. There came the echo of a derisive laugh, a faint sound of macabre music.

  Everett Payson!

  A man unique in this time and generation. A man of simple, steadfast faith, who sought to offset the evils of the age by its restoration. A man who went about doing good. Universally beloved and respected by all but those who jeered at righteousness.

  That he should be marked for death was too hideous.

  Manning did not know him, but he knew others who did, and he commenced immediately preparations to get in touch with him, to take precautions for his defense.

  Some time between daylight and dark!

  The Griffin never spoke falsely; until now he had never threatened idly.

  III

  THE GRIFFIN sat at his carved desk in the circular steel room at the top of his dwelling. Back of him squatted his West Indian dwarf, his bodyguard, fantastically arrayed as some court manikin of the middle ages, inordinately proud, devoted, chiefly through intense fear, to the Griffin. He bore a great knife, keen as a razor. He waited constantly for the word that would unleash him upon some one whom he could butcher to show his devotion.

  Squat and misshapen, ugly and apelike, he was as strong as an orangutan.

  The walls were covered with a golden weave. Curiously enough incense burned. There were no windows but the air was kept in circulation by mechanical means, the lighting was hidden. From somewhere came strains of music, ultra-modern, sensuous.

  Deep in the cellars of this place the Griffin had his laboratories where men chosen for their genius in various arts labored like slaves, nameless, never permitted to leave the place, brought there by means that left them no inkling of their whereabouts.

  All of them were outcasts from their professions, from their friends, by some act against the law. The Griffin held them in thrall with that knowledge. They were his, utterly.

  Under the rich weaves that were spread upon the floor a shaft could yawn at a touch from the Griffin’s hand or foot, opening with a clang like a greedy cry from its steel month, closing on secrets not to be revealed.

  In front of the Griffin was a bronze disk skillfully suspended. On the desk also were writing materials in semiprecious stones, an exquisite carving of a griffin—entire—the winged beast of mythology, of heraldry and ancient Greek architecture; progeny of a lion and an eagl
e, winged, four-legged, armed with claws and beak. Fitting symbol for the ruthless man who sat silent, listening to the music.

  He was clad in a dressing robe of somber but elaborate brocade, a skull cap of the same material covering the crown of his head. He wore a mask, yellow, pliable, thin as gold-beater’s skin. It clung to his features, to his nose, hooked as the carved griffin’s. It showed his broad brow. It revealed the formidable jaw. It revealed, and yet it screened, confused. It gave him a frightful, lifeless aspect, made the more fantastic and sinister by the burning eyes that looked through slits, like jewels lit by internal flames. Hard as jewels, these orbs. At times they seemed like tiny windows of dark glass through which one saw the murk and flame of hell. The eyes of a madman.

  The disk vibrated, gave out a mellow boom.

  A section of the curving wall slid aside and revealed an elevator that had just ascended. From it stepped a bewildered-looking man, habited like a tramp, unshaven, dirty, dusty in his rags. He stared at the room, at the image-like figure of the dwarf, at the awesome being behind the desk, still as a statue, with eyes that seared the newcomer. He listened to the music, sniffed the incense.

  “Say, what’s dis racket?” he asked in a professional whine. He was a typical jungle buzzard, picked up out of town by one of the few of those who served the Griffin and had liberty.

  He had tried to cadge the price of a meal, a flop, or a shot of alky; and he had been told that he would be taken to a man who was a philanthropist. He knew the meaning of that word. He had grafted from many whose sympathies were as soft as he imagined their brains to be.

  But this—this was different. He wanted to get away from that silent and sinister figure, but the elevator had gone down automatically, the wall had closed behind him. It showed no seam, no sign on its golden tapestries.

  “What’s the idea?” he faltered, his professional braggadocio leaving him, his ideas of a soft snap vanishing.

  “You have no need to be afraid,” said the Griffin. The mask covered his mouth, but his voice was not muffled, resonant and deep. I am a benefactor of men. I presume you are hungry?”

  “Yes, guv’nor.”

  “You will be fed immediately. I suppose you would prefer a chopped steak and onions, but you must permit me to serve you my own ideas of a meal. I trust it will not be entirely lost on you. There will be wines, rather than crude alcohol, the palate as well as the stomach is considered.”

  “God bless you, guv’nor.”

  “Do you believe in God? Never mind. I am not really interested. That word reminded me of some one. Do you happen to know anything of Everett Payson?”

  “The guy that feeds the grease-spots, the down-and-outs? Sure I know him. I’ve seen him, heard him talk. He don’t preach at you, but he makes you believe things. Gives you good grub, slips you a piece of change once in a while, hands out clothing and shoes. He’s right, he is.”

  “Ah! Well. I am something of a wizard myself. A kindly one. After you have eaten I promise you this. That you will never again know hunger or thirst, nor heat nor cold, nor want of any kind. What more can a man ask for? No worries, no distress. And here comes the food.”

  The disk had sounded again. Two Negroes in livery brought a table, a serving wagon, a chair and dishes from the elevator. They placed them elaborately in front of the tramp. They gave him wine that he gulped, turtle soup, terrapin, a tender guinea hen cooked with grapes, a generous Burgundy, vegetables, all of which he devoured in a sort of wondering haze. He stopped picking the drumstick of the fowl to speak.

  “Guv’nor, this is okay. They say they give you anything you ask for in the dance-hall, that’s the death-house, see, for your last meal. Well, after a feed like this, I wouldn’t care if I never woke up.”

  A slight wrinkle showed on the mask. It might have been a smile.

  “You can clear, save for the salad and the dessert,” the Griffin told the colored waiters. “Leave the coffee. I’ll summon you later.”

  “That,” he told the hobo, looking doubtfully at the creamy fruit in an emerald skin before him, “is an avocado pear. In Mexico they call it Montezuma’s butter. Perhaps an acquired taste. I am anxious to see how it affects you.”

  “Whatever you say goes with me, guv’nor. You’re a prince. What do I tackle it with, a fork or a spoon?”

  “A spoon. There is a salad dressing goes with it. So.”

  When the waiters reappeared the grotesque guest was gone. They cleared and left swiftly.

  Time passed, with the dwarf still like a graven image, save when he lit the hubble-bubble pipe filled with Arabian and Turkish blend, tinged with hasheesh, that the Griffin smoked through a flexible tube, the smoke passing through rose water. The music changed from time to time.

  At length the disk sounded again, the elevator ascended, its door slid back. A man, gray, almost bald, clad in overalls stained with chemicals, entered the room. He set down a crystal phial on the desk.

  “It is finished, so far as I can carry it,” he said.

  “What do you mean by that, Forty-One?”

  The Griffin’s even tones were menacing. The man cringed visibly. A fellow of education and refinement once, a famous chemist who had once played the charlatan for money, and run afoul of the government.

  “I mean that it is an antidote, that it will restore life within a reasonable time, but I cannot guarantee that it will restore the action of the mind. The elements of the toxical potion were new to me. They need study. You called for haste.

  “And not for excuses. It might embarrass you if you were to be taken from here, set down whence I had you brought. It is a pity that your antidote was not here half an hour ago. I am afraid you have a death on your soul—Forty-One—if you believe you have a soul. Do you?”

  “If I had I have lost it,” said the man bitterly.

  “Traded it, perhaps. Well. I have another subject on hand. As for you, see that you serve me better. Now go.”

  IV

  EVERETT PAYSON lived in a modest but comfortable apartment that occupied one whole second floor of one of a row of houses of identical architecture west of Sixth Avenue, well below the Twenties. He was a man of ample means, who devoted most of them to charity and the amelioration of conditions of the poor, as well as the propagation of religion. He was far from narrow and embraced all creeds. He claimed the world needed faith in a Supreme Being and belief in the Hereafter.

  From the first moment of the thirteenth, though the Griffin had specifically named the space between dawn and dusk, Manning had the house guarded, in front, on the roof, and from the rear.

  The Griffin had said nothing about his preparations. He might keep his word—or try to—concerning the actual hour limit for his crime—but he might trick them by making his preparations earlier. There were two men on the ground floor. They had a list of all those who lived in the house. No stranger would be allowed to enter or exit without questioning, without probable detention.

  Only one apartment was vacant, the front half of the third floor, with five floors in the house. It was leased, the landlady told Manning, two weeks before by a man who gave suitable references, paid a month in advance for a friend, now in Massachusetts, detained there by a throat operation. They entered this and searched it. Two men with ready weapons were by the scuttle on the roof. With everybody warned, it would go hard with any one trying to pass there.

  Several of those who lived there went to daily business. To none of them was the Griffin’s name mentioned, for fear of panic, of spreading talk. Such a rumor would, Manning knew, bring a curious crowd to the street all day long. Such a crowd might well be a cover for the Griffin and his emissaries.

  As to whether the Griffin was serious in his somewhat covert threat on his own life, Manning did not speculate, save as it might bring the Griffin in person. That idea—that hope to come to close quarters with the arch-fiend—seemed impossible of fulfillment. Reserves were close by. There were forty operatives in the neighborhood, with cars and
motor cycles for pursuit, besides the men on beat and traffic duty.

  It appeared as if the Griffin were blocked, unless he could pass through solid walls. With the first light of dawn Manning had every exit watched. On the plea of certain suspicious characters having been seen in the neighborhood he had the whole house searched from roof to cellar.

  At six o’clock he pressed the button to Payson’s apartment. It opened promptly. Everett Payson was an early riser. He had the habits of a monk, he looked like a prior, Manning thought, his countenance serene yet strong, shining with inner fire that glowed through the shell of his flesh. Here was a good man. Goodness emanated from him. With robes and sandals he could have passed for some one straight from the cloister.

  He greeted Manning cordially.

  “It is good of you to share my meals and stay with me to-day, though I feel that what may or may not happen is guided only by Divine Providence. If I can be the instrument of ridding the community of this monster, of placing him where he can do no more harm, I am more than willing to surrender my own life, if that be necessary.”

  He smiled, to temper words that Manning could construe as melodramatic. The place was nicely furnished, though lacking any sign of luxury. Manning examined it with a serious face, lined with responsibility. He looked out to the street, the community garden at the rear, into all closets and every room. It did not seem feasible that the Griffin or any of his men could ever break through the cordon he had set, and yet—he had seen the Griffin’s work before, and while he was not physically afraid, he did not underestimate the unknown resources of the Griffin. They had too often come like a bolt from the blue when protection seemed positively proof.

  “My appetite is slight, my menu a little abstemious,” said Payson. “I prepare my own meals, attend to all my housekeeping. I have had certain things added to my little larder that I hope will satisfy you. There can be no danger lurking in any of them, I am sure. I took your advice of yesterday.

  “Grapefruit is my weakness. It abounds in vitamines. I have a box sent in every week. It came yesterday. I shall prepare them myself. Eggs are in the shell. Coffee in an unopened can. The same with our soup and meat. I have a fresh carton of flour with which to show you my domestic skill at making biscuits. Baking powder in a can. Sugar in an unbroken carton. Evaporated milk in its tin. We shall not fare sumptuously but sufficiently, and I trust you can put up with my company, I am rated something of a crank, you know,” he added whimsically.