Authors: J. Allan Dunn
Tags: #Action and Adventure
“You’re wanted on the telephone, Mr. Manning,” he said. “Take it in the booth. Better put this over you.”
He draped a big towel over Manning’s shoulders as the latter stepped toward the booth. Already Manning felt the premonitory vibrations that warned him of a message from the Griffin. He had never received one here before, but he knew too well that the Griffin kept himself well informed of Manning’s whereabouts.
For a split second he hesitated before he took down the receiver. He knew what he would hear—the confident announcement of another murder, another prominent and useful citizen to be sacrificed to the death-lust of the madman. A wave of weariness and depression submerged his soul; he fought through it. There had been so many failures, so many almost victories. He had caught and destroyed the Griffin’s agents, but none had ever given the slightest clew to where they might find the Griffin’s lair. This time, surely, he would succeed. The very laws of nature could not justify the continued triumphs of this malignant destroyer of civilization and progress.
The Griffin’s deeds palsied the city, alarmed the nation, broke down the machinery of justice, threatened finance, encouraged crooks, and advanced the reign of terror that seemed to threaten the greatest city in the world.
Manning heard music, the strains that always came to him when the Griffin spoke through the telephone. He fancied he could hear the strum of barbaric drums, the blare of strident trumpets, the clash of cymbals and the high wail of strange, stringed instruments. It might have been the celebration of some savage Tartar raid, prefacing horrible orgies. It made his flesh creep.
Then came the devilish chuckle of the Griffin before his deep voice followed:
“I fancied I should find you here, Manning. I have found the intimate study of the habits of those in whom I am interested a great source of success. I understand you are looking a bit drawn. I trust you are not allowing your misfortunes in our Game to weigh upon you. I rely upon you to be always at your best.”
The music had died away. Manning did not answer. There was no use. He wanted to know, to strive once more to get to grips with this insane assassin.
“You know my hatred of hypocrisy, Manning, how I despise those blatant prigs who fancy themselves demi-gods, philanthropists. So, I have decided to eliminate a man who boasts that he conducts a forum where the truth is told and the cause of the downthrodden championed. Bah!
“You should know his name without my telling you. John Fremont, head of the chain of sheets he calls newspapers. We will give them something worthwhile publishing, the demise of the owner and dictator of the contemptible rags.”
Manning’s eyes narrowed, his jaws clamped down.
John Fremont, whose publications from coast to coast fearlessly published news that was clean, exposed all graft, defied all who tried, by threat or deed, to silence them. Fremont, the man who stood for true American citizenship.
“You have pad and pencil?” the mocking voice went on. “Or perhaps you will not need it. The date is Thursday, which is the thirtieth and the last day of the month. This is Monday, which gives you ample time, my dear Manning, to make those elaborate precautions of yours that have, hitherto, not proved eminently successful.
“I shall not tell you any exact hour. Some time between midnight on Wednesday and the same hour on Thursday. This provides the element of suspense and adds interest which I hope you will appreciate as I do. Considering Fremont’s position in the Fourth Estate, there will be no question about adequate publicity—for both of us, Manning, both of us.”
Then there was nothing but the mocking laugh, once more the faint music and, Manning could have sworn, the scent of burning amber in his nostrils. He had known that perfume often in his Oriental travel. He could not be mistaken.
His face was haggard when he emerged from the booth. To the hovering trainer he looked years older.
“You’re not ill, Mr. Manning? Nothing I can get you? No bad news, I hope. I’ve got a bottle of good Scotch.”
Manning summoned a smile, knew that he was only grinning in somewhat ghastly fashion. He was not an abstainer, and he felt he needed a drink.
“News I hope to turn to good account, Mac,” he said. “Not altogether unexpected, not altogether pleasant. I could stand a drink. Thanks.”
In his mind’s eye he could see the flaring headlines announcing the death of Fremont, latest victim of the Griffin, the news that Gordon Manning had once more been worsted. It was not so much the personal element that affected him, though he would feel the blame of that, for the whole of the resources of the regular police force had failed ignominiously, time and again, before he had been called in. No, it was the dread of a failure that would take off a brilliant, honorable man whose stand and whose force did much to restore and maintain public confidence in the belief, none too vigorous these days, that the right must prevail.
Fifteen minutes later Manning was weaving through traffic uptown in his powerful roadster. He was an expert at the wheel. He did not waste time in telephoning, knowing Fremont was a hard man to get access to, with a corps of secretaries who warded off any but definite appointments.
His card and his personality broke through the outer guard at the offices of the
Clarion.
The man he finally met was eminently competent, as were all those close to the big newspaper publisher. His glance at Manning’s face was comprehending.
“It is something important?”
“Vital.”
Manning’s grim emphasis brought a corresponding gravity to the features of the secretary.
“Mr. Fremont is not very well. It is not serious, a bad cold from which he is recovering. The doctor persuaded him to stay at home for a few days. He is at his country place on Long Island.”
“I shall go there immediately,” said Manning. “I want to see him personally. It is not a matter to be discussed otherwise, at present.”
Manning was entirely himself again. The responsibility stiffened him, invigorated him, stimulated his keen wits. He was once again the stern, efficient, uncompromising officer of Secret Service, reckoning odds, but facing them.
The other nodded.
“I will give you a pass,” he said. “We are obliged to constantly protect Mr. Fremont from cranks and more dangerous enemies, especially since his signed editorials on Communism. I take it this may be an even greater peril?”
“It may be,” said Manning, tersely.
“You could not get through without the pass and my telephoning ahead,” the secretary went on. “We must establish your identity there. We consider him efficiently guarded. We have taken every precaution.”
“I am sure of it,” said Manning, a little wearily. He was also sure that the Griffin knew all about the guarding of Fremont, at home and abroad, very likely knew all about his indisposition though there had been no news of it.
He unfastened the links of his right-hand cuff, rolled up his sleeve, and revealed a tattooed star in red and blue. There was a well healed scar in the middle of it, not readily visible.
“You might fake the tattooing,” he said, “but not the scar. A bullet went through it once. Tell them to look for it if any one giving the name of Manning, looking like me, dressed like me, talking like me, driving a similar car, claims my identity.”
IV
THERE was no question as to the efficiency of the protective methods employed at Quiet Acres, Long Island, John Fremont’s country home. The name of the estate seemed to have been bestowed upon it in a hope that had not been entirely fulfilled. There had been sabotage in the press-rooms of the chain of papers from time to time, and threats had been made against Fremont himself, so that he had been forced, much against his will, to employ bodyguards.
This had been exploited in his columns, occasionally, decrying the conditions that obliged a citizen who was upholding law and order to hire men to protect himself.
Aside from his anti-Communistic editorials, Fremont, of late, had been insistent that the Federal Government condemn the manufacture and sale of weapons, save under the most rigid regulations. This stand had brought threats of reprisal from the racketeers.
Much of this Manning recalled, more or less thoroughly, as he drove to Quiet Acres. Fremont might be dubbed an altruist, but he was honest and he was on the right track. It was no wonder that he should have enemies in high places, as well as low, who sought to destroy his efforts by his elimination. And now a far subtler foe attacked. There was a high fence of woven wire about the entire estate, surmounted by angled strands of barbed wire. In addition, this was charged with a powerful current nightly, only one of many precautions that Manning was to be shown.
Back of the fence there grew a luxuriant and well-trimmed hedge, so that the wire was not visible from the house, a stately Colonial mansion in excellent preservation, partly restored. Its portico was columned and, seen from the main gate beyond the wide stretch of perfect lawn, shaded by magnificent trees under which was shrubbery with occasional flower beds, the place had a quiet dignity that matched the name Quiet Acres. It seemed an ideal spot for a man who was a thinker, as well as, perhaps, a dreamer, to retire for rest and recreation, or to use for the working out of his problems.
But it was in reality strongly fortified. There was a massive gate, of wrought iron set between posts of granite, with a small lodge just inside, designed to conform with the main building. The driveway curved in a wide sweep with one diverging road to the rear, to the garage, the greenhouses and kitchen offices. This was the only entrance.
Manning brought his car to a halt, seeing the gates closed. A man in quiet livery came out and spoke through the gate. Manning saw another lounging in the open door of the lodge, caught sight of others at its windows, half concealed by curtains and window boxes. Unless he was mistaken, he observed also the muzzle of a gun, screened by the flowering plants.
He gave his name and the information that his arrival had been telephoned ahead by Wentworth, Fremont’s secretary. The man was polite.
“A Mr. Manning was expected,” he said. “Could he identify himself?”
The man in the doorway gave an order and the gates opened, evidently controlled by a lever within the lodge. Twenty yards up the drive, a chain was swung across it. Manning was invited to drive in, slowly. The guard came from the doorway and looked at the scar in the tattoo mark carefully.
“We have to be careful, Mr. Manning,” he said. “I know of you and I imagine that your coming might mean special care on our part. We admit no one who is not well known to us by sight without rigid identification. The tradesmen and the men they send for deliveries are never changed, and they come only at regular intervals. I am in charge for the Hinkley Agency.”
Manning nodded as he fixed his cuff. “You can’t be too careful,” he said guardedly. “I know your agency—an excellent one. I am glad Mr. Fremont had the matter attended to so thoroughly.”
“It wasn’t exactly his arranging,” said the other, plainly glad of the opportunity of talking to a man so high up in his own profession. “I understand he objected to it strongly, still objects, but he was overruled by his friends. He’s a fine man and should not be allowed to run risks. We haven’t had much trouble, none serious. I guess the racketeers know pretty well what they must expect if they fool around here. They’ll get a hot reception. The voltage along that fence after dark is the same as they turn on in the hot seat at Sing Sing…. Okay with the chain,” he called over his shoulder.
Two men came from the lodge. Manning saw the bulge of shoulder guns.
“We’ve got six men in there, night and day,” said the agency detective. “Six more about the grounds. There are flood lights in the trees that make the grounds as light as a Tom Thumb golf course. Three men in the house. The servants have all been with Mr. Fremont a long time. They’re devoted to him. There is an alarm signal to the lodge. Private wire to State Police Headquarters. I don’t think much more could be done,” he added, his face a little anxious. Gordon Manning might have come on a purely private matter, but the shrewd operative did not think so.
Another man came to the door.
“We’ve telephoned the house, Mr. Manning,” he said respectfully. “Mr. Fremont is expecting you. If you’ll leave your car in front, it will be taken to the garage.”
It certainly seemed as if Fremont was efficiently safeguarded, Manning mused as he drove on. But he knew the Griffin was capable of penetrating better defenses than this. He himself had surrounded houses with guards only to have them passed by some subtle method that no efforts on Manning’s part had been able to prevent.
The butler matched the residence. A powerful man, though elderly, his demeanor perfect.
“Mr. Fremont,” he said, “is awaiting Mr. Manning in the library. You have no bags, sir?”
“None.”
An under-butler, in the same quiet livery, who had been hovering in the background, retired as the butler ushered Manning to the beautiful circular stairway that swept upward about the hall. Manning’s keen gaze suggested that this second man was one of the inside guards, doubtless qualified enough as a servant and also in the other capacity. There was an air of alert efficiency about him that denoted more than the ordinary employee.
“Mr. Manning, sir.”
The library was on the second floor, a paneled room hung with some fine, old portraits, furnished in Colonial manner with rare pieces that might have graced a museum, but seemed eminently in place here. There were books along one wall and in recesses, a fireplace Adam might have designed. Everything was in harmony, in period.
Fremont rose from his desk chair to greet Manning. He showed signs of weariness, or recent illness, Manning thought. A man of ordinary stature who gave the impression of bigness. A grand head, white-haired, a florid complexion, piercing eyes, the forehead of a philosopher who was also a seer. His greeting was cordial.
“Wentworth said this was important,” he said. “I can guess what it may all mean. That madman, the Griffin, has chosen me for his attentions?”