Authors: J. Allan Dunn
Tags: #Detective/Hard-Boiled
It did not look like the Griffin. There were cranks enough who might have real or fancied grievances against the governor, beloved as he was. A crafty criminal might well try to avert suspicion by asserting that he was the Griffin.
Only, unless he had the exact, diabolical twist of the Griffin, mentally, why warn the victim? That was the Griffin’s perversity, born of his belief that the horoscopes he cast made his fiendish triumph certain.
Manning’s roadster had a California top. He was not waiting for the storm to end. He would probably drive out of it. And, whether it was hoax or terrible tragedy in the making, he meant to lose no time getting to the bottom of it. He wanted to get there when day was breaking, to look for possible signs of preparation for murder.
If it was the Griffin, Manning knew that the plan had matured, had been worked out as a chess master works out his game, providing for every possible combination against him. But even chess masters lose, Manning told himself grimly.
Above all, he wanted to look at that scarlet
affiche
Thorpe had found on his plate. At first thought that suggested inside work, but Manning remembered the layout of the Lodge, the open windows at this time of the year, plenty of chance for someone to steal out of the woods, climb in, affix the seal, and get away again.
It might even be that fantastic creature of the Griffin’s, Al, the legless freak of humanity who walked and ran on his hands with incredible agility, who looked like some grotesque thing out of a nightmare.
Manning waited upon himself. Tanaka was a perfect valet as well as butler, but Manning was self-serving. He packed rods, tackle, flies and boots, filled a bag with clothes and an extra automatic and shoulder holster, adjusting one now by his left armpit. He hunted up his creel and returned to the library, meaning to fill his flask.
Tanaka was there, clearing away. Manning’s sleeping quarters were above the library and a stairway of wrought iron connected the two. The house was his own design and he often spent more than half his nights with his books.
He was halfway down the stairs when the telephone rang. Tanaka moved towards it. There was nothing extraordinary about a call. Plenty of people would want to know if he was back—yet there was something in the sharp vibrance of the bell that communicated itself to Manning like an actual magnetic contact.
He knew that the Griffin could cut into his wire by a special device. This might be only his highstrung nerves. He called to Tanaka.
“I’ll take it….”
There came a great clap of thunder overhead that seemed to jar the house. Lavender light flared in through the tall windows, eclipsing the shaded lamps, flinging the shadow of Tanaka sprawling and enlarged upon the far wall.
Tanaka looked up. He lifted the receiving arm as Manning, inspired by instinct, vaulted the rail and landed lightly on all fours.
He was too late.
There was a hideous smell of burning rubber and of flesh. Tanaka lay crumpled. His brown flesh was curiously veined with blue as if Death had used his skin as parchment on which to write a hieroglyphic message. Dead—utterly. Nothing could restore him though Manning let his grief-stricken countryman and fellow servant do what he could until the doctor came, and the coroner.
It was an hour before Manning got away. The storm had passed as suddenly as it had risen. This death might have been its cryptic purpose.
Manning could not tell, but he believed, that he was the intended victim; that the storm was merely coincidental, that the Griffin had meant him to receive some frightful charge he had transmitted over the wire. The Griffin owned men, body and soul, who were supreme in their crafts and sciences, prisoned by his knowledge of their secret crimes. He had achieved this sort of thing before, using a man’s radio.
Always he studied a victim’s habits, used them to slay him. He had expected Manning to answer that phone, at that hour. If Tanaka had been killed instead, it was like a rabbit tripping a deadfall set for a panther.
Nothing certain, all offset by the question as to why the Griffin had ignored his regular routine. On the very day that Manning had been sworn in and commissioned by a distressed police commissioner as a special agent to hunt down the Griffin, the monster had written, congratulating him as a worthy competitor, always letting Manning know the name, the fatal day, taunting him beforehand. It did not seem likely he would forego such anticipatory gloating.
Unless his madness had changed since he had fled Dannemora.
These thoughts shuffled through Manning’s mind as he drove the car at headlong speed over the long hills and around the sharp curves to the north. Twice a motor patrol hailed him but fell back at the sound of his police siren, a glimpse of his special license plate.
It was early dawn when he reached the reserve. Birds were twittering, tuning up, the air was vernal, the sky serene, the scene absolutely peaceful.
The lodgekeeper was up and recognized him.
“I didn’t know you were coming, Mr. Manning,” he said.
“Didn’t know it myself till yesterday. You know how it is,” answered Manning.
“Yes, sir. Got to grab the chance. They sure are catching some beauties. The governor broke the record yesterday. Nigh got drowned doing it. But he’ll tell you about that, sir,” the man went on, abashed at having talked too much. Governor Thorpe might not like it known.
Manning drove on slowly. There was dew on the grass and the foliage was fresh, dustless, the air was perfumed with spring sweetness. But back in the city, Tanaka lay hideously dead. Death might be couching now in these coverts where the ferns were beginning to uncurl, where rabbits gamboled, young broods cheeped and does nuzzled their young. The Wiequaskeck murmured. There had been no frost and already flies were dancing in the early sunbeams. A trout broke the shaded surface of a pool like the flash of a diamond.
He was remembered, greeted, at the Lodge, registered, with Thorpe’s name in the sponsor column.
“You might tell the governor I am here when he gets up,” he said. “I am earlier than he expected, I imagine. I’m going for a stroll.”
IV
It was early morning on the ninth. The aroma of coffee and bacon greeted the men as they assembled for breakfast, jesting with each other, drawing for the favorite pools, making wagers for the best catch.
Five hours of the dreaded twenty-four had passed. Manning had seen the scarlet
affiche
and the letter. Both looked genuine but both had been shown in newspaper illustrations from time to time, when the Griffin and his last enormity took the headlines. The writing paper was handmade, Japanese. Both letter and seal might be false, a clever man might have contrived to have them forged, to divert suspicion from himself.
The main thing that bothered Manning was that he had no message himself from the Griffin, unless he might count Tanaka’s death as a warning, unless that death had been meant for him. There had been times when the Griffin had grimly suggested that if Manning ever ceased to amuse him as an adversary, he might eliminate him. Yet hardly without notice. The Griffin loved the cat and mouse game.
It was possible, he thought, that someone might have got hold of one of the actual seals. The Griffin used them freely enough. Things were mysteriously lost from police records now and then. A letter might have been filched to match the paper, serve as copy for the forger.
It was hard to imagine any of those sportsmen committing a murder, hard to imagine any outsider getting through the lines Manning had established and which would be rigidly maintained until the twenty-four hours were over.
As for Thorpe, he took it lightly.
“I place my burden upon you, Manning,” he said. “I suppose the place is swarming with plain-clothes men, badly disguised as keepers. I think the affair is a fake. Everyone here is vouched for. And as for myself, if I’ve got to die, I’d prefer to die in the open.”
He spoke jestingly, but Manning saw he meant that last sentence. He managed to get the governor’s promise to stay away as much as possible from the banks and all overhanging trees. Manning had checked up his watchers before sunrise. They were picked detectives from the Manhattan Homicide, Loft and Robbery squads, all with marksman badge above their shields, though these were not now displayed.
There would be a relief at noon. Until midnight not a rabbit could get past them, day or night. Others would watch the Lodge, inside and out, after nightfall.
He had checked the credentials of the guests. The hosts of two were with them. Derrick Blythe had wired from a private hospital.
BOSTICK ONE OF THE FINEST STOP LOOK OUT OR HE WILL TRIM YOU ALL STOP TREAT HIM WELL
BLYTHE
Club rules allowed two men to a pool. Intermediate waters were open. A pool once relinquished was open to the first to claim it.
There was mild rivalry between Bostick and Thorpe. The governor had the biggest fish but Bostick ran him close.
They paired off and drew the pool known as the “Sachem.”
Bostick appeared good naturedly rueful. He had had an accident the day before when his line snagged and his tips had broken on the Leonard splitcane with which he performed such casting marvels. He produced a steel rod as substitute.
“They’re not bad when you’re used to them,” he said. “But they can’t take the place of hexagonal splitcane, made by a master.”
Manning elected to be a rover. He announced that he liked fast water and meant to try out some new flies, fishing them wet. So he expected to stay close to Thorpe during the day. He intended sleeping in Thorpe’s room that night, whether the governor liked it or not.
Because of Bostick’s intimacy with Thorpe, Manning kept him also under close surveillance—and saw nothing suspicious. He saw Bostick put on his waders, high-waisted, duplicates of the ones he had loaned Thorpe. He watched him don creel, landing net, flybox and oil jar. A weapon would be impossible for him to use, trussed and hampered, with one arm, often both, constantly occupied.
There was no sign of any weapon. The thought seemed an insult. Bostick was a gentleman, hail-fellow-well-met; above all, he had saved Thorpe’s life. He had a right to be regarded as a bodyguard rather than a possible enemy.
Also the Griffin—if it was the Griffin—sprang or swooped from unexpected places.
The morning wore on. Fish continued to rise, as flies still hatched and fish rose at them, more and more lazily, as the sun mounted. The anglers would go to the Lodge for lunch, come back again for the evening hatch and twilight fishing.
Then, when shadows deepened, was the time for crouching death to come out of covert. Not now, in the bright light.
Governor Thorpe was above the pool, flogging the riffles. Bostick was above him again. Manning was below the pool. In the deep water the big fellows had sunk to the cool bottom, ground-feeding. Manning started to leave the water and join Thorpe and Bostick on open water.
A man appeared, in khaki with leggings and a nondescript cap. There were signs of the officer to an expert eye. Moreover, Manning knew the man from previous experience, Inspector Burke, of the Homicide Squad, a good man.
“There’s a stranger fishing up above,” said Burke. “He came down a small stream. We’re not interfering with him, in case he happens to be a bona fide guest, but he’s not one of those staying at the Lodge. Three men are watching him and they’ll stop him if he comes too close. He’s about two hundred yards away, fishing the white water. Just landed one. Knows how to handle his fly.”
“I’ll see him,” said Manning. “Come on, Burke.”
The stranger, properly accoutered for the sport, was in midstream, casting cleverly, covering the water. A trout rose short and he reeled in, examining his fly, wading slowly to shore. He was a tall man, dark complexioned. Manning met him as he left the water, asking him politely if he was a member or had a guest card.
The other was inclined to resent the interference.
“Who the devil are you?” he asked. “I don’t poach. I imagine I have as much right here as you have.”
Manning did not disclose his real identity. He parleyed.
“You have only to show me your card, member or guest,” he said.
Burke and three others stood concealed. The man did not appear to be armed, but he was taking an injured attitude, inclined to argue.
Burke sauntered out of the bushes.
“Looks like he’s stalling,” he murmured to Manning, too low for the man to hear.
Manning had the same idea. It linked up with others. Why did the man refuse to show permission to fish the Wiequaskeck? He might be an ignorant trespasser, or he might pretend to be. But why waste time? It was suspicious….
And then Manning suddenly remembered something, irrelevantly, shocking—Bostick’s use of a steel rod that morning! It was not plausible that such an expert should neither carry an extra split-cane rod nor an extra tip to the one he had wielded.
“Take care of this, Burke,” he said.
“Hold him if you get anything on him. Frisk him.”
With that he started running down stream, his hunch presaging evil, even then in process.
It was with infinite relief that he saw the two above the pool. He had feared the stranger’s intrusion might have been carefully timed. The stranger wore a wrist watch and Manning fancied he had glanced at it. Bostick also had a watch. Now he was busy with cast and flybook, either changing his lure or quitting. He called out something to Thorpe, who turned towards him. Bostick was getting ready to cast again.
High brush and trees obscured the view momentarily as Manning pressed forward to the stream. He heard a loud shout and thrust aside a bush to see Bostick throw his rod away, and stride through the riffles, slipping now and then. His face was towards Manning, now emerging from the undergrowth, and it registered horror.
Governor Thorpe had lost his footing on the brink of the deep pool. He toppled and slid into the deep water with the current, going down. On the bank Manning saw him sink to the bottom like a plummet, without a struggle. Bubbles of air streamed up, from his lungs and from the borrowed waders that, with their great length, now sealed his fate.