Authors: J. Allan Dunn
Tags: #Action and Adventure
Manning went straight to the point. Evasion with a man like Fremont was ridiculous.
“So,” said the publisher. “It might be expected. I am a man of peace, desiring peace for others, Manning, but it seems that peace is not a thing generally wanted. I am hampered and surrounded by guards even more than the Chief Executive in this Land of Freedom of ours.” He smiled whimsically. “Have you seen the precautions my friends have surrounded me with? They appear to me more than adequate.”
“Let us hope they are,” said Manning, gravely. “I have seen them, but they do not entirely satisfy me.”
“You say that the Griffin makes an essential point of acting upon schedule?” said Fremont. “I can understand that phase of a mind diseased. Also the truth of your suggestion that if he should fail in any detail it might mean a complete collapse. Let us see if we cannot compass that. You see, Manning, being threatened is nothing new to me. I am able to sleep nights in spite of it, and carry on days. I am not a fatalist, but I do not believe in worrying. My friends do that. I have affairs that seem to me more important, that fully occupy my mind. Even my death would not entirely neutralize my projects. I have been working against that contingency recently.”
He touched the papers on the desk before him.
“I have at least two days ahead,” he continued, still with the hint of hidden humor, to Manning the revelation of true bravery. “On Thursday, we shall see what we shall see. What are your suggestions?”
“I want to be with you personally, from midnight on Wednesday to the same hour on Thursday,” said Manning. “I have some matters that must be attended to, but I should like to come here Wednesday evening and not to let you out of my sight until the time limit expires. In the meantime, if you are under medical treatment, be extremely careful of what you take in the way of medicine, of your food. Doubtless that is watched. I believe that the Griffin is aware of that. I do not think he will strike in any such fashion, but—”
“I understand,” said Fremont. “As a newspaper publisher, I have not missed many of the details of this lunatic’s methods. Manning, I do not underestimate him. Neither do I underestimate you. He has a madman’s genius. All genius is perhaps a trifle mad. But, this time, you and I may rid the world of this monster. Let us take up his challenge. Come here, by all means. I shall enjoy you as a guest. And I will obey instructions. In the meantime, it is getting late. Will you not dine with me to-night?”
Manning agreed, glad to get the chance to study Fremont’s habits, as, no doubt, the Griffin had done, and not so closely as he now had the opportunity to do. Fremont was a delightful host, his conversation brilliant and illuminating. That such a man should be disposed of by such a creature as the Griffin was insupportable.
Before he left, Fremont showed him over part of the house. Manning noticed, if Fremont did not, that they were seldom out of observation. Silent servants appeared and vanished on supposed errands. It was not that they mistrusted Manning; they were fulfilling strict orders.
“This house,” said Fremont, “is ancestral, if we of America may talk of ancestors. But it has been in the family for several generations. I have no children of my own. I have never married. But there will be a Fremont to leave it to. This furniture”—he laid his hand almost caressingly on a splendid highboy—“is old and beloved.”
He mentioned the clock in the hall as he saw Manning to the door, the butler discreetly and unobtrusively present.
“Not a grandfather’s, but a great-grandfather’s, of my own. It has wooden works and is a bit erratic. It needs regulating all the time, but I would not part with it.”
Manning admired the case of mahogany inlaid with sandal wood, the fine columns set with brass, the sonorous tick. It gave off a wheezy warning, and then gonged the hour. Fremont patted it.
“Man-made, and outliving man,” he said. “Keeping the record of what man calls time.”
Manning stepped outside. His car was waiting. As the guard at the lodge had said, the close-clipped lawn was as bright, almost, as day. There were no shadows. Light poured down from the powerful electric lamps in the trees. A mouse could not have crossed without being seen.
Patrols showed as he drove on to the gate. They carried sub-machine guns.
It looked on the surface as if there was no danger to the owner of Quiet Acres, but Manning was not at ease as he drove on through the night, back to Manhattan, so to Pelham Manor where his own house stood with his little corps of faithful Japanese.
There was a letter waiting him. Envelope and enclosure of heavy gray paper, the ink deep purple, the writing extraordinarily bold. Sealed with an oval of heavy scarlet on which was embossed a griffin.
Brought by a boy on a bicycle who seemed to be a district messenger, in uniform. Manning knew better. He knew the Griffin’s attention to details, the devilish cunning that made his crimes so eminently perfect.
There were only a few words:
My dear Manning:
Fremont is well guarded, as you have found. An interesting man in many ways. Nevertheless, at the hour appointed!
No signature, only the clever sketch of a griffin’s head.
V
THE deep voice of the clock in the hall, Fremont’s great-grandfather’s clock, that had ticked away the lives of so many in the generations since its wooden works were assembled, chimed.
They counted the strokes. Manning glanced at his wrist watch to confirm the news, welcome, yet to him, almost incredible.
Twelve.
“And it is true to the minute,” said Fremont triumphantly. “It was regulated yesterday by the only man on Long Island who understands these ancient timepieces.”
Manning nodded. It was too good to be true. But his own watch corroborated the time.
The Griffin—for once—had failed.
Fremont got to his feet, flicked the ash from his almost finished cigar.
“We seemed to have foiled him this time,” he said. “I thank you just the same, Manning, for your company. It has given me also a sense of additional protection. You had no sleep last night and I did, due to your presence. Now let us turn in.” Fremont added laughingly: “The bolts and bars have all been attended to. There are watchmen on duty in the house as well as outside, but there is one thing I always attend to, the winding up of the clock downstairs that has just announced midnight.
“The witching hour, eh, Manning? It’s growing old, that clock. You have to haul up the weights gently to wind the cord on its wooden wheels. But it is faithful. I’ll fix it and then we’ll go to bed. Your vigil is over.”
Manning got to his feet. There seemed to have been some slip. The Griffin had never failed to be exact in his predictions. “Somewhere, between midnight Wednesday and midnight Thursday,” he had boasted. It had been a boast. Midnight had struck, and yet….
As he followed Fremont downstairs, he took out his automatic, examined it. The vibrations of evil that affected him when the Griffin telephoned, and at other poignant moments, were with him now.
He saw the light from outside through the fan-shaped light above the heavy door. There was a light in the hall.
Fremont’s shadow and Manning’s own were flung fantastically on the wall as they descended the circular stairway. The clock ticked on. Seven minutes past the hour when Manning looked at it.
Seven minutes beyond the hour appointed.
He looked at the lock, the bolts, the chain on the door. All in order.
Fremont opened the door panel of the clock that showed the iron weights at the end of their suspending cords.
He pulled on one, drew up the weight. The wooden machinery creaked a little.
He pulled up the other, standing in front of the ancient timepiece. It reached its limit and then there was a click, a sharp explosion, a burst of fire and Fremont staggered back, his feet tangled in a rug, falling, his throat torn away by a slug, his hands clutching at it as he toppled, his vertebrae smashed, the spinal cord severed—life gone before he struck the floor.
At the same moment all lights went out, within the house and without. All was pitchy darkness. Manning heard footsteps coming.
There came three knocks on the door, on the brass, Colonial knocker.
He answered the challenge. With his gun out he slid back the bolts, unslotted the chain, sprang the lock. It took time and when he finally opened it he saw nothing but the ray of a torch far across the lawn, the beam of an electric flash, joined by others, coupled with shouts.
Lights now in the house. Other torches, a lamp, the butler and another man, bending over Fremont’s body.
Manning did not see them. He was shouting across the lawn, proclaiming himself, looking in vain, as he knew he would, for some sign of the Griffin, of his agent, whoever had knocked upon the door.
The lights were still out, the current would be off from the fence. He stood on the lawn, furious and inadequate as the guards came racing up.
The Griffin had again scored. Fremont was dead. But—it was beyond the appointed hour!
Manning turned to go into the house. There was something strange attached to the brass knocker. Something scarlet, scarlet as a gout of blood.
The red seal of the Griffin!
VI
THE butler, grief distorting his face, called Manning. It was the telephone. And Manning had expected it. The Griffin’s voice, his mocking laugh. Manning controlled himself to listen. There might be yet some clew.
“Manning? You see, my friend, you failed again. It was just a question of studying habit, Manning. I know enough of yours to kill you whenever I wish. Not yet, I think. You still amuse me.
“Fremont was fond of that great-grandfather clock of his. Had a man come to regulate its works once every month. Wound it himself.
“Well, the man came yesterday. He was quite easy to impersonate. A rather striking personality, not meaning any pun. Looked just like the theatrical idea of a Swiss watch and clock expert. So did my man, Manning, so did my man. I saw the double myself, listened to him speak. The make-up and the accent were excellent.
“The lights going out and the knocking on the door, were, I admit, a trifle melodramatic. You must humor me there, Manning. You remember the knocking on the gate in Macbeth? Effective. And it gave me a chance to set my final seal on the performance. The current at Quiet Acres comes on a leased line from a main power transmission that is not hard to eliminate.
“As for the actual cause of death, that was a little device that I myself suggested. My pseudo Swiss left the clock wound up, as he always did, and you may be sure he handled the weights carefully. But—the next time Fremont handled them—which was to-night—you know what happened.”
“After twelve o’clock,” said Manning.
“After twelve o’clock,
checked by my watch, which is correct. You failed after all.
You failed!”
If he could taunt the Griffin sufficiently, augment his madness to a frenzy, the death of the publisher might not have been entirely in vain.
He heard the Griffin’s chuckle.
“My dear Manning, you have overlooked something. By that watch of yours, doubtless, it is twenty-one minutes after twelve, but not by solar time, Manning, only by Daylight Saving.”
The voice ceased. Through the receiver there came only a faint dying sound of exotic music.
The Fate of Ezra Farnett
Manning Traps the Messenger of Murder—and the Hours of Doom in Which the Griffin Promised Death are Almost Over
THE mysterious, unrecognized residence of the Griffin was built upon the summit of a wooded knoll entirely owned by the monster who chose to be known only under his fabulous
nom de crime.
The Griffin—an apt symbol, this mythical creature, half lion, half eagle, ready to rend with beak and claw, to swoop or leap, and to destroy.
Save for the outward appearance, the house was practically a fortress, impregnable, almost, to all but artillery fire. It was less than fifty miles from the towers of Manhattan, twenty minutes of flying time, an hour and a half by motor or train. Yet, so remote was it, so cleverly did the Griffin carry out his comings and his goings, that few people knew the place existed at all.
The trees were thick enough, and the house so cunningly placed in a natural depression, that summer or winter, it could not be seen from the infrequently traveled road. The drive that led upward to the evil aerie was masked. It seemed merely an inconsequential lane, a wood road, perhaps, or a way for cows, from and to pasture.
Deep in the bowels of the knoll, the Griffin had his underground laboratories. There the men who were his slaves labored—men no longer known by name, but only by number, serfs to his despotism. They came from all ranks of life, carefully selected, every man an expert in his particular profession or trade.
They never saw the outside world. And every one of them, however much he might long for liberty, knew that freedom would only lead to another type of imprisonment—and disgrace for their loved ones. There were none of them but had committed crimes, none but were hunted, few for whom rewards were not offered. Men of infinite capacity, but weak. Out of their weakness the Griffin forged the links for the strong chains of his own machinations.
They hated him, but they feared him more. He held them at his mercy, and they knew how slight a thing that was. Now, as he passed among them, clad in a long robe of black brocade, his face covered with a yellow, shining mask that clung without revealing his identity, like some scabrous outer skin that was ready to be sloughed like the skin of a serpent, they surrounded him with the emanations of their hatred, their desire to rid themselves of his unholy thrall.
Yet, even if they had been able to destroy him, even if they could have won their way out of the crypts where they toiled, they knew their lives were proscribed.
The Griffin knew what they felt, and in his almost maniacal mind he rejoiced in it. Behind him, close, watchful, always hoping to be called upon, there came the dwarf, the Caribbean from Voodoo Land, squat, mute, and deaf; a fantastic figure in turban and raiment that would have suited some freak at a medieval court.