Authors: J. Allan Dunn
Tags: #Action and Adventure
He met Poindexter at New York’s most exclusive club, to which both of them belonged. The diplomat listened to his story gravely.
“The contemplated act of a madman, undoubtedly,” he said. “But, if we can foil him once, we will shake his confidence. Once break down that colossal self-esteem of his and you will be close to capturing this wretched being, Manning. I place myself in your hands. You will be my guest from the night of the twelfth until the morning, at least, of the fourteenth. I shall take my own precautions.
“It seems incredible that he can succeed. I think he has over-estimated his resources. He has inflated ego which may be punctured. Of course, you understand that I place no responsibility on you, but surely the two of us can circumvent him.
“I am having a dinner party on the thirteenth, as it happens. All men well known to me, save one, who is well vouched for. James Fleming, the man who has lived most of his life in China. I had a letter from him two weeks ago. He mentioned others, who will be at the dinner, by the way, so there should be no doubt as to his identity. You know of him.”
“I know of him,” said Manning. “But he is an unknown, comparatively. If he arrives, seat me next to him. You have made no change in your domestic staff of late?”
“None. Tolu is still my major-domo. You remember him. There is no question of his fidelity.”
“None,” answered Manning. He knew Tolu, a Filipino, who had been with Poindexter for years. Manning had spoken with him in his own dialect. A man who could not be bribed, safe as Manning’s own selected Jap who served him at his home at Pelham Manor.
They went over the other servants. Two maids, a Negro cook. All had been with Poindexter for the three years since he had retired from active diplomatic service. Manning meant to look them up. They did not sound dangerous. He could have the building guarded by detectives, on the ground floor, on the roof. The special elevator that served the upper stories would be given a special operator. There would be other operatives posted outside the bungalow.
Fleming seemed the only doubtful quantity. And Manning resolved to make sure of him, aside from being his neighbor at the dinner. That seemed the vulnerable point of attack, yet might not prove so. He determined that there would be no minute of the twenty-four hours when he was not in personal touch with Poindexter, who agreed to all his precautions.
They would occupy adjoining beds, if Manning went to bed, which he doubted. He did not expect to sleep, to relax his vigilance for a second. This time, surely, they would foil the Griffin.
IV
IT was seven thirty. Almost twenty hours of the day set by the Griffin had passed. All the guests had assembled, save Fleming, who had telephoned from his hotel that he was unavoidably detained, but would try to arrive later.
Manning had checked him up. It was without doubt the Fleming who had but recently returned from self-imposed exile in the cause of science. He had been called upon, returned those calls, been recognized by old acquaintances, dined, received, arranged lectures.
Yet Manning felt an indefinable relief at the fact he would not be present at the dinner.
He had not slept, but he was still alert. His men were on the premises. There had been no sign of attack, but, until the clocks chimed midnight, he was on the alert, strung up to the zero hour. If Poindexter was alive on the morning of the fourteenth, Manning believed that the Griffin would abandon his plan; acknowledge, however grudgingly, defeat.
That a setback might crush him was not beyond conjecture. His inflamed brain was nourished upon his belief in his supremacy. It might well crumble under failure.
There were six at the dinner, to which seven had been asked. Outside of the host and Manning, the rest were men of affairs and accomplishment. A celebrated physician, a brilliant writer, the editor of a modern magazine that devoted itself solely to world affairs, supported by a group of prominent people of whom one was present, America’s greatest financier, far-seeing beyond material matters.
The cocktails were served in Poindexter’s library, furnished with things he had brought from the Orient, many of them gifts from grateful governments. Tolu had served them. He was a short, compact and dignified Filipino of high class, son of a chief, devoted to Poindexter, scholar as well as butler, proud to serve him.
Manning greeted him in Mindanao and he bowed gravely, but did not reply. The perfect servant. Manning thought him a trifle changed in manner, almost as if he, too, sensed some special gravity in the occasion, some menace to his master. It would have been a passing fancy, save for the stress of the condition of affairs. Manning knew that these half-primitive races were quick to feel unusual conditions. And Tolu, if he felt some hidden threat, would be an efficient aide.
Poindexter showed nothing of what he might be feeling, though Manning knew he did not underestimate the situation.
The table was a masterpiece. The usual cloth had been replaced with Chinese weaves. Overhead was a lattice from which dropped wistaria blooms amid their greenery. The centerpiece was a glass circle in which fan-tailed goldfish lolled through weeds and coral.
They took their seats. Fleming’s place was vacant. The setting of service plate was removed. Now the arrangement was well balanced, two on each side, Poindexter at the head, the physician facing him.
In the right-hand pocket of his dinner jacket, Manning carried a flat, snub automatic. He did not often have a gun. He relied mostly upon his favorite weapon, a cane of steel core about which were shrunken rings of leather. But this could not be brought to a table. It did not look as if he would have use for the gun, but he was prepared.
For all the seeming security, he was conscious of high tension. He knew the Griffin.
On the roof, where Poindexter had placed carved benches of stone, a fountain, shrubs and flowering plants, Manning’s picked men were stationed, unobtrusive, but prepared for the slightest irregularity. The entrance was guarded, and the elevator. There was a man acting as telephone operator in the lobby. The protection seemed perfect, but Manning was uneasy.
When they went in the oysters had been placed for them. They swallowed them and sipped at the light wine that had been poured.
The floor was of marquetry, exquisitely inlaid woods, without rugs. By Poindexter’s right hand there was a service button clipped to the table edge. Tolu had retired between the courses.
“I have for you,” said Poindexter, “a special soup. Manning knows it. Some of you may have tasted it. All of you heard of it. Made from birds’ nests. I assure you it is delicious. A rare chance that I could obtain it.”
A murmur of appreciation went round. Edible birds’ nests, the prized potage of the Chinese.
“I am sorry,” said Poindexter, “that Fleming is not here. I had him in mind when I planned this dinner. He may have enjoyed American cooking, for a change, but I am sure he would have relished a return to the delicacies of the East. I have been accused of being a gourmet. I received a letter two days ago from the president of the Vegetarian League stating that, as a pacifist, opposed to the shedding of blood, I should not eat meat.
“Unfortunately, the chemistry of my body, not to mention the arrangement of my teeth, does not subscribe to that. But I have a Japanese seaweed salad for you later, then some red snappers from the Caribbean and a caribou steak from Canada. Then candied fruits from Se-Chuen; lychee nuts, a cordial from Kwei-Chau, made of apricots. I propose a toast to our absent guest, whom, I hope, will be with us later. Fleming, devotee of Science!”
He touched the button by his side for a change of course, half lifted his glass.
It fell from his hand, spilling the contents. The fragile crystal broke into fragments as they all started from their seats and Poindexter dropped back heavily into his chair, slid beneath the table, suddenly inert.
Manning felt the weight of his automatic pistol in his pocket as he sprang to his feet. It was useless here. The Griffin had struck. How, he knew not. The wine had been poured from the same bottle for all of them. Automatically, he had watched that, though not suspecting much danger from the pantry, none from Tolu. The latter came in answer to the signal, hurrying to his master, helping Manning and another to lift him while the physician rushed from the bottom of the table. They had all drunk some of the wine.
“He has had a stroke,” said the doctor. “His motor centers were paralyzed. He seems to have choked to death.”
The expert’s face was grave as he felt heart and pulse, strove in vain to detect a laboring breath. Manning was beside him; he had some medical knowledge, some experience.
Poindexter’s face was pallid, the hue of wax. There seemed no surface congestion, such as apoplexy might have caused. He was a florid man, but the veins were not swollen, his eyes were almost normal, save for a slight contraction of the pupils, which might, or might not, be imaginary.
“He is dead,” the doctor said. “Beyond the question of a doubt.”
V
THEY looked at each other, perplexed, disturbed, shocked at the dramatic ending to their dinner. Manning took charge.
“And not from natural causes,” he said. “Doctor, there must be an autopsy, though that may not help us capture the assassin.”
“Assassin?” They all spoke the word together.
“The Griffin! He announced that he would kill Poindexter before to-day was over. He has succeeded. I was here to protect him. The place is surrounded. No suspicions can attach to you gentlemen, but I must ask none of you to leave until the police arrive—to take your depositions. I will look to the help.”
They had borne Poindexter’s body to a lounge. Death had left no trace of his fatal dart, to all appearances. Tolu, still stolid, though to Manning he showed sign of emotion, asked, in his clipped American, what he should do.
“Leave everything as it is,” ordered Manning. “You gentlemen might go into the library, except the doctor.”
He had no hope of resuscitating Poindexter. There was none. He remembered Poindexter’s words, that Manning should not be held responsible. He had done his best, but the Crime Master had scored again, under his eyes, despite all precautions. For the moment the Griffin seemed more than human. His was the invisible hand that had killed.
Manning’s men were all on post. That did not enter into the matter. To his brain returned the clear picture of Poindexter with his wineglass held in his hand while he spoke. He had not even sipped from it. What he had drunk before could have had nothing to do with the sudden collapse that none of them had shared.
Manning secured the bottle, followed Tolu into the kitchen, gave the bottle over to one of his men whom he summoned. But he was certain that there was no poison in it, that the wine had not been juggled. He had watched the pouring, instinctively.
The Crime Master had won once more.
The police surgeon came, but could offer no suggestion beyond the verdict of the eminent physician. It looked like a stroke. But there would be an autopsy.
Manning doubted if it would determine the cause of death. That cause was there, somewhere in the little roof-house.
He nodded to the sergeant of the crime squad as the latter asked concerning the detention of the guests. They were beyond question, should not be held, could easily be reached. They left, grave of countenance, taken down in the elevator by Manning’s own operator.
The body was taken away. It was nine o’clock, three hours short of the limit set by the Griffin. Manning held a fancy that he could hear the latter’s sardonic laughter. The thing that had happened seemed incredible. There was no clew.
But there
must
be one. This was murder!
Manning had examined the servants himself before the sergeant had done so. He was confident of the results of his own inquiry. The death had not been caused by food. And Tolu could be trusted.
Could he?
Manning, in the library, alone, remembered the change he had observed in the Filipino, slight, explicable enough, but—the man
was
different. He was still on the premises. He could not leave. They were held on the roof, where Manning’s men were still on duty. The two maids did not sleep on the premises, but Manning had ordered all the help to stay until he was ready to let them go. He was convinced that the Griffin had made his preparations for the commission of the crime through the household arrangements, not through the unquestionable guests; though he had been suspicious of Fleming, who had not even appeared.
Manning sat brooding, seeking solution.
The vibrant ring of Poindexter’s desk phone brought him to his feet. This was the Griffin. For a moment he thought of ignoring it, then realized he could not afford to overlook anything that might lead to a clew, even the taunts of the Crime Master.
“It is still the thirteenth, Manning. I have time still in hand that I shall not need. I have just seen Poindexter’s body borne away for the inquest. It will reveal nothing. You will discover nothing. You might as well leave, Manning. This time I have entirely mastered you.”
There was no doubt about the sardonic laughter now. It rang from the transmitter as Manning closed the switch.
The insult brought Manning to his feet, stung with his failure, spurred to action. Somewhere on the premises was the solution—perhaps the murderer—the killer—for, though it would seem that the Griffin never was the actual slayer in any of his crimes, he was responsible.
Tolu?
Manning could not reconcile his conception of the Mindanao boy, Poindexter’s knowledge of him, with the fixed idea that Tolu must have done this thing, must be the Griffin’s pawn. Nor could he see how the deed had been accomplished in plain sight of five of them, all men of perception and intelligence, with Manning watching for some such move.
He went again into the dining room. The table had been cleared of all but the glass container in which the languid goldfish swam leisurely, coldblooded creatures, unmindful of what had occurred beyond their limited dimension. Above them, the latticed wistaria drooped.