Authors: J. Allan Dunn
Tags: #Detective/Hard-Boiled
Manning, ex-Military Intelligence, scientist, explorer and adventurer, had been called in when the police failed. He had now a commission from the governor, endorsed and renewed by the present incumbent, besides full police powers in the city.
Over Manning’s protests, though he knew the judgment was within the law, the Griffin had not been executed and he had escaped from the institution for the criminally insane to pursue his bloodthirsty career.
He had slain more than once since his reappearance. Also Manning had managed more than once to circumvent his fell plans, but not to lay hands on the mocking fiend who openly proclaimed the name of his intended victim and the date on which he should die.
These things flashed through the governor’s mind as he tossed his napkin on the plate to cover the
affiche,
and, leaning forward, pried at it with his knife as he told the rest an anecdote in his usual brilliant manner, that kept the girl, who was waiting to serve the consommé, in the background.
This thing might be a hoax. Certainly not a practical joke on the part of any of the men at the table, or the employees. But—the table had been set for an hour or two; there were the open windows….
The governor, making the point of his story, glanced through them at the new green of grass and trees. He saw nothing, yet he felt as if a shadow had passed over the lawn, as if a chill wind had trailed it, entered, congealing for a moment the marrow in his spine.
He was a brave man, of a brave line, but he believed he had received his death warrant. As the waitress brought his soup he removed his napkin, and with it the scarlet lozenge, palming it, putting it into his pocket, achieving the jesting tag of his tale, smiling at the others as they laughed at his wit.
Half an hour later, in his room, he looked again at the red symbol.
He had enemies, naturally enough. He had been threatened by the friends of men he had refused to pardon, by cranks. This might be one of these, masquerading as the Griffin. The latter’s diabolical methods had been often enough exploited in the press after his satanic victories.
But this did not tie up with the Griffin’s invariable method. He had taken up the appointment of Manning as a challenge. Likened it to a game of chess, wherein he played with living men, and studied out his moves before making the first one. Always he had notified Manning beforehand, never the man he hoped to annihilate. He might have changed his methods.
It was significant of Thorpe that he took it calmly, filling and lighting his pipe with steady fingers. He wondered if Manning knew of this. If so, why had he not communicated with him? There was no telephone at Nitamo Lodge. They purposely cut themselves off from the world. The nearest instrument was at the small railroad depot, whence telegrams were sometimes brought, thence despatched, in emergency.
He resolved to try and get in touch with Gordon Manning. He knew him personally. Manning had once been the governor’s guest at the Lodge. He could be so again, if he would. But there was no date set, only the scarlet lozenge with the imprint of the ravening beast upon it….
A knock came at the door. The manager’s son appeared.
“I beg pardon, Governor. You and Mr. Bostick have drawn the Maple Pool. It should be good, ’round sunset. I’ve seen some good ’uns rising there.”
“Fine, Tom!” said the governor. “But I’m afraid he’ll wipe my eye.”
“He can fish—but so can you,” said the other. “Mail just got in. Dad brought it. One for you, sir.”
Thorpe surveyed it dubiously after the man had left. No one should write him here. Only intimates knew where he was. His secretary had orders—but this was addressed plainly to him, at Nitamo Lodge.
He did not know the bold handwriting, purple ink on a thick, gray, handwoven paper. He turned the envelope over. On the flap the sinister symbol was repeated, sealed in red wax. It was from the Griffin.
A brief note. The note of a man whose mind was warped, perverted by dementia grandiosa, but infinitely crafty, infinitely evil.
The stars decree your downfall. You deem yourself destined to rule a Nation but your House of Nativity proclaims your presumption shall be taught a lasting lesson. You, who think yourself a leader among men, shall be dust. The same immutable horoscope proclaims me as the Divine Agent who shall announce in your elimination that all men are grass when, in its next verdure, it shall be nurtured from your dust.
Know then that on the Ninth of May, wherever you may be, however you may strive to avert the inevitable; you die.
There was no signature, only a well-penned drawing of the same device, the upper body of a griffin, rampant.
Thorpe read it without flinching. He knew how often the Griffin had succeeded. If it had to be, he would take it in the open; but reflection persuaded him that this wilderness place might be safer than many others, with due precautions.
He was not minded to forego his holiday. For one thing, he needed it. He had not stopped working for the public weal because he was no longer governor, nor because he might be nominated for president. He was a widower, and childless, who had simply and utterly devoted his life towards the betterment of his fellowman and the firm establishment of his country. He was not afraid of death but he enjoyed life, as he employed it.
The Maple Pool would not be ready to fish until about four o’clock. He had his own car, driving it himself. If the Griffin ran true to his satanic form, Thorpe had three days of leeway. The Griffin probably got unhallowed satisfaction over the thought that his prospective victim would cower through the hours before his predicted execution. Thorpe was not that sort.
He drove to the depot and waited for the always protracted connections between that outland place and New York City. He tried Manning’s office, where he plied his profession as consulting attorney, he tried his house and his clubs, only to find that Manning was out of town on a mission he had kept private, but would return by the next morning.
Thorpe got the Commissioner of Police, personally, told him briefly what had happened, read also the letter.
“The ninth, you say?” answered the commissioner. “I’ll get in touch with Manning the moment he returns. I may be able to locate him to-night, this afternoon. I think you’re safe in the meanwhile, Governor, but for God’s sake be careful. Where will you be for the next few hours? I’ll send up some men.”
“Better wait until you see Manning,” Thorpe replied. “There is no danger here. The place is well patrolled. Send your men if you want to but choose them carefully. I’m on a holiday with my friends. I don’t want us overrun by dicks. Get hold of Manning if you can. Meantime, I’m going fishing. May send you some trout. I expect to get some good ones this afternoon. This thing may be only a fake, Commissioner.”
At the other end of the wire the commissioner grunted.
Thorpe himself was not as confident as he sounded, but he forgot it, absolutely, as he worked a Parmacheenee Belle in the riffles and felt the tug of a strike, the plunge of a big trout at the end of his gossamer line.
He was at the end of the tickles, above the pool. Bostick was at the lower end. He had creeled some good ones and Thorpe was on his mettle. The governor acknowledged the other’s supremacy when it came to close casting, but he felt he was as good when it came to manipulating the artificial fly to copy the actions of a natural one.
This trout should tie the score. Thorpe was on to a record fish. He gave it line and braked it. It broke water, resplendent, iridescent, fighting like a bulldog against the barb in its jaw. He checked it, tip up, the splitcane bending like a bow.
Then Thorpe’s footing slipped on the weedy boulders and he went down, instinctively holding his rod up but rolling in the current, swept down into the pool. His waders filled with water and he went deep, thrashing as he came up, plummeted down again, struggling. Vaguely he heard a shout, saw Bostick plunging, lurching out to the bank.
He made the shallows, but got no hold. The stream gripped him, conquered him. He was a fair swimmer but the water in his waders was like lead. He wallowed, taking water into his lungs, choking, wondering if this could be some infernal trick of the Griffin, his bewildered reason even now rejecting that….
Then someone gripped him, raised him, dragged him to safety.
It was Bostick.
“A close call, Thorpe! You need hip-waders here. Now, you’re all right. And the trout is still on—”
“Don’t lose him,” said Thorpe, spewing water. He had held to his rod. Bostick knelt beside him, raising him, giving him a drink from his flask that Thorpe choked on but appreciated. “I’ll handle him,” he said, sitting up, feeble but determined. The line on the reel was almost out, but the trout was still hooked.
Ten minutes later Bostick had the fish in his net, jubilant.
“You’re a sport, Governor,” he said. “And you’ve landed the record!”
“You landed me, Bostick,” said Thorpe. “I’d have drowned if it hadn’t been for you.”
“It wasn’t your day to die,” said Bostick. “Have another drink?”
Thorpe took it, gathered himself together.
“No,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t my day to die. You deferred it.”
Bostick laughed, making light of it, weighing the big fish.
“All right to make it back?” he asked. “They’ve quit rising.”
“I haven’t,” said Thorpe and proved it by getting to his feet. “That’s mighty good Scotch, Bostick.”
“Don’t forget to shift to hip-waders,” said the other. “If you haven’t got any with you, I brought an extra pair. We should wear about the same size. They’re rubberized twill, made in England, keep you dry to your waist and they’re not a quarter the weight of the all-rubber ones. And much safer. It doesn’t take much for a man to drown in swift water, once his waders hold him down.”
III
The Police Commissioner finally located Manning at his own house in Pelham Manor, late that evening. He drove out there rather than confer over the telephone, and found Gordon Manning just at the end of a delayed dinner served him by his Japanese.
“You look fit,” said the commissioner. “You need to be. It looks like the Griffin!”
The two had gone into Manning’s library. Tanaka set out liqueurs and highball materials. Manning, standing by the fire-place, filled his pipe and lit it as the commissioner bit off the end of one of Manning’s imported cigars.
Manning was lean and brown and tall, physically in the pink and mentally alert. The little lines that had registered on his face since he had first encountered the Griffin stood out sharply now. His keen eyes showed a trace of bewilderment. But he made no comment.
“Tell me about it,” he said simply and listened to the end, smoking serenely enough.
“It isn’t the Griffin’s usual procedure,” he said. “It’s not easy to imagine him giving up the pleasure of baiting me—and you as well—by his boasting preannouncements. I’ve heard nothing, seen nothing. The Griffin always has left it to me to inform the prospective victim. What do you make of it, Commissioner? The letter, paper and all, may be a forgery.”
The head of the Police Department sent out a vicious puff of smoke. His veins were congested, his face suggested apoplexy. If the pursuit of the Griffin had incised lines of care on the features of Manning it had affected the commissioner far more deeply. For a man like Thorpe to die might well mean his job and his future reputation.
“It looks like a crank to me,” he replied. “Whether it is just a plan to see if the thing gets into the papers or not, or whether he may try an actual attack, it’s hard to say. We can’t take any chances.”
“Of course not,” Manning answered. “I’ll go down there, to-night, and look the place over. I’ve been there, as Thorpe’s guest. Offhand, I’d say it wouldn’t be as hard to guard a man up there as in the city. The Lodge can be handled easily enough and the stream patrolled efficiently. I’d be with him all the time, of course. But I want to take a thorough survey. Thorpe, of course, will welcome me as an expected guest. I’ll take my tackle with me, fish, at that.”
“Thorpe don’t want any of the guests or members tipped off,” said the commissioner. “I’d rather see him down here, myself. I’d like to keep him in solitary until the ninth is over, but you can’t budge him. He’s up there to fish and he is going to fish, come hell or high water….”
“Or the Griffin,” said Manning gravely. “That fiend has killed in places as remote as a solitary cell before now. Thorpe is a brave man. He’s proven it many times, morally and physically. A sensible one. We’ll try and not spoil his holiday or that of the rest, but we’ll have to connect with the employees. The others may wonder at the sight of so many keepers, but we’ll have our men placed during the night of the eighth, and once those chaps get casting a fly, they won’t notice the banks except where they come ashore occasionally. The Wiequaskeck is a wading stream. I’ll get in touch with you to-morrow. Let you know what I propose to do.”
“I’d like to kidnap the governor, just the same,” growled the commissioner as he stood up and got ready to go back to the city.
“That would be a confession of weakness,” said Manning. “Besides, he wouldn’t let you do it. You’ve got a closed car. I see it’s started to rain.”
The commissioner nodded. The rain broke on the window in sharp bursts and when the front door was opened the weather looked as if it had determined upon a night of storm. It was common enough this time of year, with thunder and vivid display of lightning.
Manning stood watching it as the commissioner drove off. By the time lapse between peal and flash he fancied it was local. If they had one like it up at Nitamo Lodge it would spoil fly fishing until the waters cleared and subsided. He closed the door and went in, thoughtful but swift in his actions.
His senses, naturally acute, long trained against danger and emergencies, were swift to respond to the threat of evil when it was sent out by the Griffin but he felt nothing directed towards him now, nothing that might he called definite. There was a premonition of disaster that might or might not be intimately associated by the thought that Thorpe was in danger.