The Crime Master: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 1 (Gordon Manning and The Griffin) (5 page)

Then he drew up heavy paper, dipped his exquisite pen in violet ink held in a stand whose lid was the carved head of a golden griffin.

My dear Gordon Manning:

For you are dear to me. It seems as if you might be a very worthy opponent. Once we have clashed, and you have won two pawns of mine. You found them faithful pawns, I think. They are off my board, but I have not forgotten them. Now the game is set anew. And, as ever, the first move is mine. I choose my own gambit.

You were very ingenious in your discovery. There was, of course, a slight flaw on my part. I have not the time to sufficiently experiment. Let us see how you can solve my next problem. It is, at least, ingenious.

I do not put it beyond you. I am keenly interested to see what you will make of it. You may even capture other pawns. I trust not. But they will be only pawns. You will still be playing with an invisible, an intangible opponent.

I shall let you know when, to use the French phrase, “the fact is accomplished.” But, do not take too many of my pawns. I can spare them, but I do not relish their capture. And, should you advance to the possession of more important pieces, I may, however reluctantly, be compelled to forego this tilting of ours, for all its invigoration, and proceed to—I choose the word with care—eliminate you.

Antagonistically yours.

For signature he made a clever drawing of a griffin’s head. He addressed the envelope, sealed it with a scarlet cartouche, an oval of thick paper embossed with the same design, the emblem he left always to proclaim his identity with what Manning called crime, and the Crime Master reprisal, stamped it, summoned a servant.

Before the man came the Griffin donned a mask fine as goldbeater’s skin. It made him look like the facial simulacrum of a long buried Egyptian monarch on the outside of the funeral coffer, save for his glowing eyes.

“This to the mail,” he said. “At Grand Central. Send up the man who is waiting.

II

THE man who came through the opening in the softly sliding panel looked like an ideal English upper servant, not the stage type, but the real thing, reserved and dignified. He bowed, keeping his distance from the strange, commanding figure at the desk.

“Your credentials have been checked, Jennings,” said the Crime Master. “On both sides of the ledger. Your term at Dartmoor left you with a desire to change your country. I congratulate you on your manner of entry. You are, as a convicted criminal, an undesirable adjunct—but I also am, technically, a criminal.

“You have now entered my service—”

“I beg your pardon, sir, I—”

“You have entered this room,” said the Crime Master. “That suffices. I shall take care of you under all circumstances, even if you blunder. But not if you try any tricks, Jennings. Not if you try any tricks. Would you mind stepping back slightly? Thank you. This is merely an object lesson, in the first primer, the kindergarten. So—”

The ex-butler’s face turned from ruddy red to the hue of cigar ashes. In front of his feet the floor revolved with a slight whir. It left a circular gap, with polished sides that were lost in shadow. But there came up a hissing, gurgling sound of running water that was soul-racking. It closed.

“Merely a parallel,” said the Griffin. “Or a parable. Translate it as you will. I have other methods. To those who serve me—”

He opened a drawer, took out a rouleau of gold pieces, double eagles. Jennings’s somewhat protruding eyes bulged. The Griffin pushed the stack over.

“Call that a retainer. Obey me, to the best of your ability, which I judge, now and after performance, and you need never want. Whatever you may temporarily suffer I will make up to you and shorten the suffering. But I should advise you to follow instructions closely.
Very
closely. They have a habit in the United States of punishing severely any one who—let us say—kills and bungles. Most unpleasantly. The electric chair. They are not so merciful as in England. They shave your head the night before for the electrodes. It is not an incentive to sleep. You can smell yourself burning. And they tell me you leap like a hooked trout against the belts.”

He laughed as Jennings blanched again. Added another stack of the gold pieces to the first. It was plain that he enjoyed the other’s terror.

“You will not come to that. The last time you killed you were quite clever. That is why I sent for you. Now, you are to go to this address. It is on Long Island, the home of a man who has battened on the credulity of the ignorant, swallowed the savings of the widow and the orphan. A rich man, but growing old. With a young wife—the fool! Jennings, you must be careful with your women.”

“I’ve learned my lesson, sir.”

“You think so, but you have not changed your nature. When you look into a woman’s eyes, remember the tube you saw just now. Let it be a symbol. Later on, Jennings, when you have served me, you may make a fool of yourself, but never of me. Now, or later. You understand.”

“Yes, sir.”

The ex-butler was standing on a thick rug when he felt that he was incapable of movement. His blood tingled, tingled until it was agony. He was in the clutch of some mysterious power that brought the sweat out all over him. The golden mask of the Griffin wrinkled with a silent laugh.

“Right! This man has applied for a butler. You will receive a slip from the agency to which he wrote. They will be told that the vacancy has been filled, and remitted a fee. I want from you, within twenty-four hours, a report of the household, a plan of the floors, every detail of the service under your control.
Every
detail. Now, come close and listen.”

There was sweat again on Jennings’s face when the Crime Master ended his instructions. Not alone of fear for himself. He felt as if he had been conferring with Apollyon. He was a crook, he held no scruples, the gold he had pocketed was his gold, but he acknowledged the Crime Master, whose wickedness, whose devilish ingenuity permeated him. He gasped, his cheeks like gills, rising and falling, mottled like headcheese.

“By God!” he exclaimed. “You’re a marvel. It’s bound to work.”

“And you’ll be rewarded. But, don’t invoke God. There is
no
God. I, who am your master, your paymaster, am not omnipotent. But I’m powerful enough to handle you, or throw you to the dogs. Worse than the dogs. Did you ever think of being gnawed to death by rats in a sewer, Jennings?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, think of it. I have a better imagination and a better method for those who betray me. Obey orders. And look out for a fatuous fool named Gordon Manning, a man of some parts, who may bamboozle you. You have the gold. Go! I will give you ten times that amount if you succeed.”

The Crime Master had given some secret signal. An opening showed. Jennings bowed himself through it, backward, bowed as he might to Satan.

III

GORDON MANNING was in his own house, the house he had himself designed, at Pelham Manor. It was close to dinner time. One of his trusted Japanese servants had just rubbed him down, nude himself save for a loin cloth, after a bout at jujutsu, for which Manning had supplanted his usual game of handball at a down town gymnasium, due to a rush of business.

Aside from his detective proclivities, invoked by the desire to come to grips with the Griffin, to destroy him, Manning was an advisory attorney. He did not appear in court, but his counsel was accounted valuable, his fees were all sufficient.

Toyata grunted as he surveyed his master, handed him his dinner clothes, valet as well as trainer. His own body was stalwart, muscular. Manning’s was lean. But he had given Toyata a hard quarter of an hour. He kept fit, body and mind. And he did not despise the wisdom of the Orient, physically, mentally and psychologically, in which he had traveled.

“Little more, you too smart for me,” said Toyata. Manning patted him on his brown shoulder.

“You teach me,” he said. “Some time I need. Some time, maybe, I need you.”

“You need us? All same you find us,” said Toyata. And meant it. Manning had brought his three Japanese overseas. They were devoted to him. If the Griffin had his fortress, Manning’s house held its secrets and it held three devoted retainers. No Romio of Old Nippon was better served.

To-night, as always, when he touched the envelope, Manning felt a crepitation. It was as if a slug crept down his spine. He did not have to look at the bold handwriting to turn and see the scarlet seal. He was not afraid of the Griffin, but he knew that this missive was a death warrant. Before he could enter the field a man had gone out into the void, suddenly, unshrived. Sometimes he felt as if the Crime Master was half justified. There were scoundrels and scoundrels, but the Griffin was the greatest of them all. He held no power of judgment. The man was a fiend who must be wiped out of existence, or social order was in constant peril.

While Manning believed he had to deal with a maniac that did not mend matters so long as the Griffin was at large, using his infernal cunning. Manning had nothing of the ordinary thing called fear in his composition. His war record proved that. Fear was one thing, it was another to believe that the odds were too great, to believe one could not win out. But a man could face such an issue with courage.

This was different. He had not been able to face the Griffin. He knew the tones of his voice, their subtle inflections, the mockery that underlay all he said. Some day he hoped to recognize him by that voice, where he could come to grips with him. Meantime he was up against something intangible, invisible.

A man’s writing meant nothing, unless you tied up the two. Paper and postmarks led nowhere when a superbrain covered the details. But even a superman or a superdevil might slip. And Manning hoped for the benefit of that margin of error.

He had been on the trail of his quarry once. He had taken the active perpetrators and they had been found guilty, but nothing could break down their determination to cover the Griffin. One man was condemned to die in the chair, but he revealed nothing. The Griffin’s influence was uncanny, it held a hint of the supernatural. Manning believed it
was
the latter, from the standpoint that a madman was not controlled by the laws nature designed for man.

IV

MANNING had the resources of Centre Street behind him. None but the chief commissioner of police had known of his appointment, and he had meant to keep under cover, but the Griffin had found out about it. If the Griffin did not show himself, if he merely played the game, moving pieces on the board; so Manning must pit wits against him, but he could not longer count on concealment. The Crime Master had more than the one advantage he boasted of—the first move. He knew where Manning lived, in Pelham Manor; he had set one of the scarlet seals on the lock of Manning’s front door after the last coup in which a man had died and the Griffin gathered riches.

Manning felt now that he was watched, that he would be trailed if he worked in the open, yet that hardly seemed a necessary procedure so bold was the Crime Master in his invitations. It seemed as if he at once invited Manning to take part in the game and laughed at him with the assurance of an expert who, with his chosen opening assured, is sure of winning. Once Manning took up the trail, however, he might well have to disguise himself, to approach as an unknown if possible. That would not be easy. The Griffin would be expecting his arrival. It depended, of course, on the sort of crime committed, the circumstances, the environment.

When the telephone rang he knew who it was, sure before he heard that voice, educated, refined, save for the mockery in it, allied to the utter wickedness of the man’s ego. That suave voice, silken yet merciless, like a bowstring, seemed to dominate the room.

Manning knew it was useless to try and trace the call. The Griffin had perfected some manner of induction that prevented that. This time he did not even trouble to warn Manning.

“You got my letter, Manning? This is the Crime Master. I believe you have also named me the Griffin, I suppose because of my little souvenir. You have a clew there, Manning, if you only knew it, but I am afraid you are on the wrong trail.

“However, let that rest. You will see that souvenir again before long. This is Thursday. To-morrow will be Friday, which some think an unlucky day. You rise early, perhaps. I shall call you when the thing is accomplished. It is really an act of justice. But I fear you won’t agree with me. And the method I have used is really quite ingenious—and quite new. I dislike old-fashioned ways. They are usually crude.

“Good hunting to you! Pleasant dreams.”

The voice ceased. For a moment Manning fancied he heard faint strains of music, the echo of an amused and tolerant laugh. It set his blood tingling with the sheer impertinence of the man, the colossal conceit. He could guess why he had been called so soon, warned to expect another call, sardonically wished pleasant dreams.

The Griffin wanted to demoralize him, to keep him awake with worry and impotence. It did not quite accord with the Griffin’s professed pleasure at a worthy antagonist. It was not fair play, but that could be expected.

Manning had slept too often waiting for the zero hour. He called his favorite setter and took his cane, the only weapon he carried, formidable enough, with its rings of leather shrunk over a steel rod, its sharp ferrule.

He smoked his pipe on his walk, returned pleasantly tired physically, read for a while, rolled to slumber and awoke fresh, taking exercises and then a needle shower. But now his mind was active, it responded to apprehension, and though he ate his breakfast it was with no great appetite or enjoyment. He was waiting for the inevitable ringing of that bell.

Meantime he mused. The Griffin’s hint of his name holding a clew had occurred to Manning, Those scarlet symbols had been placed to identify the man who planned the crimes, even if he did not actually commit them, for months before Manning volunteered as special agent. That was one thing.