In the Grip of the Griffin: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 3

by J. Allan Dunn

  “I caught you like a fish. My slave seined you as he used to seine a tunny in his native Italy. And I shall gut you, and scale you; scale by scale; while you are still alive.”

  The nets were still about Manning. He was quite helpless.

  “If you hope to get any enjoyment out of that performance,” said Manning, “why don’t you let me rest up, beforehand?”

  The Griffin cackled. His long-inflamed brain was breaking down.

  “You are a victim after my own heart, Manning. You are still brave and bold. You have not my wisdom, you are not of the Appointed, or we might have worked together. Death sits in your House of Destiny, and the power of the zodiac is absolute.

  “So take your ease, for a little while. Reserve your powers. You will need them all. Our orbits cross, our fates clash like swords in the dark. But I am the conqueror. So rest. It will not be long.”

  Manning forced himself to relax. He knew he would need all his wits, all his energy, if he were to survive. And he did not greatly care to, unless he knew the Griffin had been annihilated.

  The astromancer had planned well and long, knowing before he sent out his threat that Farnum would be at the ball, where that was always held, leasing the empty building next door, erecting the shed that hid the autogyro, settling there at night.

  Manning was not without his own purposes. He had meant to pit his sanity against the madness of the Griffin, to use his knowledge of the Griffin’s reactions; but now he was in the toils.

  Farnum was dead, or dying.

  The plane hummed and whirred, driving on above the mists, through clean air, where the stars spangled the firmament. Other planes would be mounting soon, searching with no more chance of discovery than men hunting a needle in a giant haystack.

  The revolutions lessened, the driving propellers stopped. They were going down, descending through the fog that still held, though New York must be a hundred, perhaps two hundred, miles away. By the persistence of the mist Manning imagined they were close to the coast.

  Suddenly they broke through the ceiling into bright sunlight.

  “It will not be long now, Manning,” the Griffin hissed into his ear. “Not long.”

  They landed in what seemed to be a natural clearing, amid tall trees. The nets and cords were expertly taken off Manning, his gun was taken from him, and two men went systematically over him in search of other weapons, finding none. The contents of his pockets were turned over to the Griffin, who pouched them somewhere in the clothes he wore beneath a voluminous black cloak. With a wide-rimmed, high-crowned black hat, he looked, Manning thought, like a medieval Spanish brigand. It was a poor costume for flying, but it suited the Griffin.

  “You will not need these things again,” he said to Manning. “Perhaps I shall find something to keep as a souvenir.”

  He was being suave, infinitely polite, and infinitely deadly. He was the cat, playing with the mouse that could not get away, that presently it would kill, after physical and mental torture.

  There was no road in the clearing, where the wiry grass grew high, but a car came into it a few minutes after they had made landing. Manning was transferred to it, with his arms bound behind his back. It was a big and powerful machine. A silent man, whose face wore the hopelessness of a convict condemned for life, took place on one side of Manning in the rear, another of similar type, his features expressionless, his form undernourished, sat on the other.

  The Griffin got in beside the driver, and the car moved away, just as the autogyro took off with a splendid ease, soaring high, up again toward the still low ceiling.

  It was a bright day in summer, the birds sang and flew, the morning shadows were long, and the air was fresh.

  Here and there were broken-down fences. The place looked like a rundown and abandoned farm. Now and then Manning caught a glimpse of sunny water that must be, he thought, either Delaware or Chesapeake Bay. He was sure they had flown south, that they were either in Maryland or Delaware. Probably the first, from the hills.

  He thought of the words of the condemned nobleman in the Tower of London, awaiting execution:

  “One more glimpse of the sun, one more sight of the sea;

  One embrace from my dearest one, then death come speedily.”

  He was not morbid about it, or sorry for himself, but he knew his chances were slim. The things they had taken from him did not matter much, but he was not sure if something they had overlooked were still upon him. He could not find out, bound as he was. Without it, the sooner the Griffin could be persuaded or taunted into killing him, the better.

  Manning had a “dearest one,” but he had not seen, nor spoken, nor written to her, for over a year. The Griffin had once tried to strike at Manning through her; and Manning had severed all communications, might indeed have severed the bond between them; vowed himself to eliminate the Griffin. Then, and only then, might he see her with safety to herself.

  But he could not help yearning towards her, with regret for what might have been; as he looked at the bright glimpses of sun glare on the water. Life was never so sweet, the world never so fair, as when one was looking the last upon them.

  They came to an old road, unworked for years, sandy and overgrown. Trees grew in close ranks beside it. Then they passed outbuildings that looked like ancient slave quarters.

  The road forked, and they passed a wall, driving swiftly. Trees and shrubbery looked like a jungle inside.

  All this time they had seen no human being but themselves. The place was infinitely remote, though cities could not be far away. But desolation had struck here, long before the depression started. It was a perfect hiding place. Save for the car tracks, there was no trace of anyone coming this way, to a spot so destitute of charm or utility.

  But a fine lair for the Griffin, who was an adept at choosing his aeries, and concealing them. The tire marks could easily be erased, and Manning did not doubt that they would be.

  An avenue went winding; trees, shrubbery and foliage thick on either side, tangled with vines, many of the trees dead. There were traces of a garden. Then came the house, once a stately enough mansion, fallen into decay. Planks were out of place, paint was only a vestige. One great chimney had crumbled, the porch tilted, with the gallery above it. Pillars were missing, and shutters hung crazily.

  Yet, despite its deserted, haunted appearance, Manning did not doubt that, within, the Griffin had established a measure of comfort for himself, if not of luxury. He’d have some of his slaves here, men of once brilliant profession or useful occupation, bound to him by his knowledge of guilty secrets that would send them to jails they dreaded, to public announcements of their crimes and the ruin of the families who might—gratefully perhaps—now think them dead.

  These men worked the Griffin’s perverted will, devised his means of murder. Nameless creatures, known by numbers. Once Manning had freed many of them, but he did not doubt that they had returned. Their bondage would end only with the Griffin’s death.

  The car drove through gaping doors into the ruin of a coachhouse. The Griffin got out, entering the house from a side porch. The two men escorted Manning through a rear door, holding him by his bound arms. They were more like automatons than men. It was no use to think of appealing to them. They were quite ready to strangle him if he tried to escape.

  The room into which he was shown was dark, from drawn curtains, furnished with odds and ends of furniture, including a table and a sideboard. The two men stayed on guard. To Manning’s surprise a meal was brought in, a well-cooked breakfast, to which he did ample justice, though he knew the motive was not one of hospitality, but sprung from the same cause that made the redskins feed their prisoners before they bound them to the stake—so that they would last longer.

  When he had finished, the two cadaverous and silent men took him into a hall that led through the old house, down a stairway to a basement smelling of mold and decay, coming at last to a place that must have been the wine cellar in days gone by. It was flagged, wa
lled with stone, lighted by narrow windows, set horizontally, and barred.

  A heavy table stood beneath two gasoline lanterns that shed a brilliant light.

  The Griffin sat there, in his black robe and skullcap, but his mask was still off. Manning saw that with relief, as he looked about him. There was a stool opposite the Griffin, no doubt for him to sit in, while the monster made a final arraignment. Manning was sure he would not forego that.

  The table was not wide. It held on its plain surface a carafe and glasses, folded cloths, and what seemed some sort of case, covered with a square of black silk.

  Posts stayed the flooring above. There was something that looked like a frame for growing mushrooms. Earth, several inches thick, was confined in the frame; rich-looking soil, evidently recently prepared, watered.

  It was hardly a grave, but it suggested it.

  Shadowy figures stood about. Manning counted six of them, without his own two guards, who stepped away from him at a gesture from the Griffin. The six others were dressed in denim overalls, numbers stenciled in yellow on their breasts. Their faces were all haggard, hopeless, abject.

  “Sit down, Manning,” said the Griffin. “I should have preferred to finish this matter between us in more elaborate surroundings, but, after all, that is largely your fault. You have made the vicinity of New York an uncomfortable place for me of late. I grant you that. You circumscribed my freedom. So I found this place, where I can be fairly well contented for a time. Until the hue-and-cry that will follow your death, and the exhibition of your body to the public gaze dies down. Until the yapping of the hounds ceases.”

  The Griffin was under self-control, temporarily. But red lights came and went in his dark eyes like the gleams in black opals, orange and crimson glints of murder and madness.

  “I shall try to comply with any last request of yours,” he went on mockingly. “It is the universal custom. But first, let me explain what I have finally decided upon.”

  He plucked the silk square from the case and showed, nested in velvet, an array of gleaming knives. They might have been a surgeon’s scalpels, save for their settings. Each was handled in ivory, stained red, intricately carven. The case was of teak, inlaid about the edges. In the center was one long, thin dagger with a fluted blade, several inches long. The haft was of gray jade, carved to represent a skeleton in a squatting position, the end of it the skull.

  The Griffin took this from the case and thrust its tip into the wood.

  “You have traveled in the Orient, Manning,” he went on. “You will recognize the cutlery of the executioner. This belonged to a man who once was an emperor’s favorite, a master of the Death of a Thousand Cuts. If that man were alive, and available, I think I should have decided on that for your end. A superb demonstration of surface anatomy. But, to do it properly, one should first give the ceremonial cuts of mercy, removing the ears, the lips, the nose, the eyes, destroying—synthetically, I grant you—the senses of the victim.

  “But the correct procedure would mutilate your face, and I want that to be very surely recognized. The body will not so much matter. And I could only obtain a substitute executioner, who proved, upon trial, most clumsy. He would have killed you far too soon, Manning, far too soon.”

  Manning looked steadfastly at the Griffin, knowing he could have little effect upon those eyes that regretted the abandoned spectacle of a man dissected, nerve by nerve, every sensitive part of his body quivering in agony as his life leached out from the sliced flesh, with all the main arteries and veins skillfully avoided.

  He looked at the snickersee, the long-bladed knife with which the executioner of the Grand Li-Chi, might, if it were the will or whim of the emperor or magistrate, give the coup de grâce.

  It was close to the Griffin’s reach.

  “So,” said the Griffin, “I chose another form of Oriental disposal, wherein one honors an enemy with a lingering death. I have been at some pains, knowing you would soon be in my toils, to obtain the right kind of bamboo sprouts, also to arrange a swift-growing soil of rich humus. I need not tell you the process, Manning. You will be stripped, bound very securely to that frame, face and belly down, after the sprout, already for the purpose, chosen from a score I have been treating, is planted there.

  “Within twelve hours at most it will have grown through your softer parts, no doubt with considerable unpleasantness. The tip should show beside your spine, to the right or left. I am not sure how long after that you will continue to live. Perhaps you can inform me.”

  VI

  Last Request

  He leaned forward, his face close to that of Manning over the table, taunting and contemptuous. Manning did not waver. It was a death so fantastic, so excruciatingly agonizing, that only the Oriental mind could have conceived it, only a mad monster like the Griffin have adopted it.

  “When you are dead, Manning, I shall take pains to have your corpse placed on public exhibition. It may be found below Washington Arch, or on the Rocking Stone in Central Park. That is a matter of detail. But all the world will know how and why you died.”

  The Griffin licked his cruel lips, where once more curds of froth gathered.

  “I am Alpha and Omega, Manning,” he half chanted. “I am Apollyon, let lose upon earth to whip back mortals to the knowledge and worship of the true gods, or to destroy them.”

  In another moment, Manning saw that the Griffin would lose all control, and could no longer restrain his appetite to see his supreme enemy set to the living torture of the bamboo sprout.

  “There was the matter of the last request,” he said, in a steady voice.

  “Of course. Name it.”

  “If I write a few words, will you see them delivered?”

  “They shall reach the hands of the proper party, that I promise you.”

  The Griffin grinned beneath the curve of his nose, looking slyly down it. Manning knew the Griffin thought he would write to the woman he loved, and the Griffin could get additional zest over reading the lines that would be Manning’s own epitaph. They would never be delivered, save to the Griffin, considering himself the “proper party.”

  “You took a notebook and a fountain pen from me,” said Manning. “I can use them.”

  The Griffin cackled. “A leaf from the notebook, yes, but not the pen, not your pen, Manning. You have tricks of your own. The most innocent looking fountain pens have turned out to be gas-guns, even miniature pistols. I will let you use my own pen. You have often read what it set down. What more fitting than to use it for your own last testament, or whatever it is you intend to write? The ink is purple, as you know. Quite fitting the occasion, the—to you—mournful occasion.”

  The Griffin was squeezing the last drop of enjoyment he could out of Manning’s predicament. He beckoned, and the case of knives was removed. Manning watched the departure of the snickersee, the knife-of-mercy, with longing. Then the Griffin handed over his pen, charged with the vivid ink that Manning had always seen in the Griffin’s communications, which were always intended as death warrants.

  Now he was in the toils. His arms were freed, on the Griffin’s order. They were very sure of him. They had him helpless and unarmed. Soon he would be naked, bound to the frame that held the dirt, with the tip of the bamboo sprout; its outer skin armored with vegetable silica, a living dagger; pressed against his navel.

  He tried out the pen-point. It was wide, a generous nib, fitted for the Griffin’s striking calligraphy. The Griffin watched him with his face like a mask of malignant derision, his eyes glittering, the tip of his tongue showing between his teeth and his lips like a serpent’s single tongue. Manning told himself he was surprised not to find it forked.

  A moment more and he would know for certain if he were going to die horribly or whether he would be able to use the one chance for liberty with which he had provided himself.

  He tried the pen again on his thumbnail, as if to test its flexibility. The ink ran freely, left a small purple splotch. But that was not goin
g to matter.

  Manning laid down the pen, sighed slightly, while the tip of the Griffin’s tongue protruded, further in pleased malice. He passed his hand over his forehead, his hair, round to the back of his neck, forward across his right ear; his eyes closed, like a man disheartened and perplexed.

  The butt of his right palm contacted with something, and Manning’s spirit leaped within him. He was careful to keep his eyes closed lest they give him away.

  It was still in place, though he had feared the nets might have rasped it loose.

  Manning’s ears were well-shaped. They lay close against his skull, the lobes generous. Behind the lobe of his right ear was a small capsule, attached with a special wax, impervious to moisture. A tiny pellet of gelatine.

  But far more deadly than any bullet. The gelatine was thin but tough; the contents were drops of frightful virulence. Here was venom that, once introduced into the blood, meant hideous and inevitable death. Only large doses of anti-venine immediately and copiously introduced could save the victim.

  Manning caught the pellet in the crook of his little finger as a thimble-rigger nicks his pea. He clasped both his hands nervously. The Griffin chuckled to see that sign of despair.

  “It is hard to know what to write,” said Manning wearily, “I doubt if you would ever deliver it. You seem to win this bout, Griffin, yet your victory will be brief. Madness rises steadily within you….”

  As he carefully chose his barbed phrases, he watched the Griffin. The Griffin’s hands clutched and unclutched like the talons of a beast that wants to rend and tear. And Manning transferred the poison pellet from his right hand to his left.

  He once more picked up the pen, as if to test it, for the third time.

  “Soon,” he said to the Griffin, “you will be a raving maniac, no better than a mad dog. You….”

  The Griffin half rose, leaning across the table with his face opposite that of Manning, his lips drawn back in a snarl. The attendants stayed still. It was theirs to obey, not to initiate.