Day of Doom: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 2

by J. Allan Dunn

  “More than you’d think,” said Manning. “Mind letting me see what you’ve got on those five guests of Hyde’s?”

  The commissioner shoved the report across the desk. He had not lost faith in Manning. He had come up from the ranks himself and he knew that he lacked education, but he felt he knew human nature. East or West. Those five names were all in the Social Register. Manning did not care for such things. The commissioner had to. There must be proof, overwhelming proof, to combat the assembled defense that would be made. Defense, backed by money and position, not only social but political. A stand the papers would be swift to take up as vital news. If he went into court he must be impregnable. Manning’s reputation was strong, but the commissioner had to show positive evidence.

  He watched the crime specialist’s face and felt some relief at the grin he saw.

  “Commissioner,” said Manning, “we won’t start reaping until we’re sure the wheat is ripe. So, hold your horses. Did you ever read the book by Rosamond Lehmann?”

  “I don’t read many books,” said the commissioner. “Who is she, and what’s the book about?”

  “It’s not so much the book, as the title,” said Manning. “The book is called ‘The Dusty Answer.’ I’ll explain that to you in a day or so.”

  “You’ll be explaining it to a new commissioner if you don’t hurry. Election’s ten days from now. There may be a new Mayor and, if there is, there’ll be a new commissioner, particularly if this case is still unsolved.”

  “The Mayor seems fairly well set, even for a third term,” said Manning. “And I’ll give you your dusty answer before Election Day. And you will get all the glory.”

  “If you solve the case,” returned the commissioner, “you are welcome to the glory. All I want is not to get run out of my job.”

  “All I want,” said Manning, “is a vacation. And I’m going to get it.”

  The commissioner grunted in his non-committal fashion. He was not so incredulous as he appeared. He could see no positive solution to the case, but he held faith in Manning and he was cheered by the farewell grin Manning bestowed upon him as he left with the police report of the five names remembered by Bino as guests of Morton Hyde on the evening when Bino lost his sky-stone.

  There was only one name Manning considered. The other four were coupled, married attachés of two big museums. Manning had met them all, more or less casually and he dismissed them from the case.

  The fifth name and record he pondered very carefully.

  Kuyper. John Kuyper, descendant of the original Jan Kuyper who was contemporary with Stuyvesant; a trader who had sold turnip seed to the Indians for gunpowder, both because it was profitable and safer than letting them have the genuine article. Jan had grown to be a merchant, a power in Manhattan, the family successfully hanging on to their holdings through all phases of politics and revolutionary wars. They had become wealthy aristocrats. They had invested wisely and secured their interests. They had been careful also about their breeding, as a result of which the Kuyper family had run somewhat to seed.

  The present John had been stodgy in his student days. He had not achieved greatness in class or field or track. He was not a social favorite, except where newspapers flattered him in their social columns or mothers cultivated him for their daughter’s sake. He became a fraternity man by force rather than favor. Before he graduated he had inherited the Kuyper millions, was fat and already inclined to be bald. Lonely, no doubt, for all his position.

  He had, it appeared, shown more interest in astronomy than anything else. There was a professor who felt that this vague trend toward science might be cultivated, that the Kuyper heir might endow an observatory that would outshine all others, bring fame to the university and opportunity to the professor.

  It is hard to believe that an astronomer would stoop to earthly affairs and motives, but it was noticed that his daughter took a special interest in young Kuyper, that she assisted her father in certain observations, when Kuyper would act also as her aide in the hours spent after dark in the dim observatory while transits were observed and spectra noted.

  The university got its new observatory. It was called by Kuyper’s name. It gave him some sort of scientific kudos that might have compensated for the sad fact that, once the endowment fund had passed over, Kuyper got, not the stratosphere of celestial bliss he had hoped from the lady, but what is known as “the air.”

  He soured. He withdrew into himself and became somewhat of a misanthrope with a vast sense of his own unacknowledged importance. He mooned about at scientific meetings, contributed to the funds for celestial exploration. It was in such a manner that he met Morton Hyde. Kuyper might not supply ideas and theories, but he was a patron who could be depended upon for expenses.

  Such a man, self-centered, inclined to be morose, might, Manning believed, have killed Hyde, have contrived the murder with considerable ingenuity and pride himself upon the achievement. The world might think him dull, but he would demonstrate that he was a genius. He could not proclaim it, but he could not resist writing to Manning. And Manning, if his theories evolved properly, was willing to give him credit for a devilish ingenuity.

  But there had to be utter proof and Manning’s first attempt met with staggering and disheartening failure.

  The old Kuyper home was on Staten Island, the estate diminished in acreage by the increased values of real estate which could not be overlooked. But there were still spacious grounds, trees and a garden behind high walls; it would have been a showplace if visitors were permitted. Kuyper had lived there in the summer, but this spring he had closed it up and stayed in town. He lived at his club. Manning had a decoy letter written there that suggested Kuyper’s coöperation in an expedition to a crater in Central Africa for the purpose of observing the transit of Venus. Kuyper would achieve certain honor as sponsor.

  The reply came promptly, on club paper, written by hand, as Manning had hoped. And the handwriting did not resemble in the slightest degree that of the one sent to Manning.

  There were plausible enough explanations. Either the letter from the club had been written by somebody else, which was hardly likely, but possible, or the one received by Manning which he had classified as Three by the calligraphic chart, had been dictated. That, however, would mean a confidant. The third suggestion was that Kuyper had deliberately cultivated two styles of writing. The fourth that he was innocent.

  Manning lost no time in making his next move. He was going to visit the house on Staten Island, without invitation and without warrant. The latter would not be issued, even to Gordon Manning, lacking all legal cause. It would be a burglarious entrance. If Kuyper should surprise him there and killed him, Kuyper would only have to claim that he did not recognize him but thought he was a thief.

  Kuyper, Manning believed, had made at least one trip to Staten Island since the house was closed. He might make another. But with this visit of Manning’s the crime specialist’s theory, so far as proof was concerned, must sink or swim.

  It was early in the morning when Manning’s roadster was braked in the wooded lane that ran back of the Kuyper mansion. Here were great wooden gates in the high brick wall whence had issued, in earlier days, the horsedrawn vehicles of the family.

  Manning had taken the first ferry from New York. At this hour none of the inhabitants of the section near the Kuyper house was abroad. Manning ran his car close to the wall, using it as an aid to reach the top. Manning kept always physically fit and he made it without difficulty, dropping down into a paved court on which faced the stables. There was a bar across the big gates, which he removed, replacing it after he had driven his car inside. The buildings here were all locked and he did not bother with them. He carried with him two packages and a black bag, with certain apparatus in it designed for general analysis. Manning was a fair chemist, but it did not need any extraordinary skill in that line to do what he proposed to do, to find what he hoped to find. He had determined to make his tests on the spot as he might
have to undertake several of them from various samples.

  He was armed. It was not improbable that Kuyper might have been watching him, or having his movements reported. Kuyper might have repented sending that bragging letter, and, in that revulsion, wondered whether Manning could suspect.

  Getting into the main house was not difficult. The basement windows were barred and those on the ground floor shuttered, but Manning became a porch climber and deftly opened a fastening on the window that gave upon it. He closed it, unlocked a rear door, retrieved his packages and his bag.

  He had a powerful electric lantern with him, but he hoped to find that the electricity had not been disconnected. He tested a switch and found it was still on. From this moment fortune seemed to favor him. The house had been modernized. As he went through it he saw an incinerator and what suited his purpose far better, a connection for a vacuum cleaner that carried all the dust removed to a container in the basement. The container was of considerable size. It had not been emptied and was a third full of dust.

  Manning had brought a vacuum cleaner of his own, and also a carpet sweeper, but now the way seemed open, the trail was clear, the scent strong.

  He set up his little laboratory in the library. Magnascopes, an instrument for use of the fluoroscopic ray, vials, test tubes and other paraphernalia. He brought up from the container in the basement a liberal portion of the dust it held. One of his packages contained dust from the house across the street from Morton Hyde’s residence. Dust from the top floor that was level with Hyde’s roof terrace, from the front room where the window had slid up noiselessly. Dust from the treads of the stairways and the halls and passages. Dust from other floors.

  He had already determined their analysis. The dust on the floor of the top floor room differed prodigiously from that of the lower floors. Under the magic black ray it had shone with opposing hues. Analysis of the dust confirmed the fluoroscope, which could not play him false. The dust from the stairways and halls was more or less of a blend between the two.

  The dust on the lower floors showed the grit of New York, soot from soft coal, from carbon dioxide. It was the dust of the street, the city street.

  On the upper floor it was the dust of the country, almost gritless, dried garden soil, desiccated mould high in percentage of vegetation. It was imported dust. It showed difference even to the trained eye, it smelled different. Under the tests the result was amazing.

  Manning worked fast but carefully, concentrated on his search, in his belief that swiftly grew to surety that he was right. There was no doubt of it.

  He was so intense that he did not know that the front door had been opened after a car had rolled silently up the drive from the main gates. He looked up from a delicate reaction only when the door swung back and he saw Kuyper standing there.

  Kuyper’s outer appearance was phlegmatic, but his Dutch blue eyes were blazing, though his voice was under control.

  “Most interesting,” he said. “May I ask why you are here and what you are doing, unbidden, in my house ? You broke in, of course. And what is all this foolishness?”

  He picked up a graduated receptacle of earthenware, now partly filled with mud. And he did it with his left hand. Manning knew that ordinarily he acted normally. But he was ambidextrous. He could write with either hand, and produce two different styles of script.

  “I got a letter, Kuyper,” answered Manning, “from the man who claimed he killed Morton Hyde. That letter was a challenge to me which I have answered. You wrote that letter, right or left-handed. You knew Hyde’s habits and they intrigued you into this grim murder game of yours.

  “It was easy enough for you to get into the house across the way. You can enter from the patio court after dark in the rear without any difficulty. The lock on that door is a very ordinary one. I think you were clever enough to figure out beforehand that the place would be extremely dusty. It would inevitably show tracks.

  “Therefore you took up to town dust from this house, the same I have taken from your cellar. You may have used compressed air, or you may have only used the tool gardeners use for spraying dry arsenates on plants. The idea may have come to you from seeing your own man at work. It was most ingenious, the covering up of your tracks in that fashion. But you overlooked analysis. These dust samples are going to put you in the prisoner’s dock, Kuyper, they will send you to the chair.”

  Still Kuyper’s expression did not change. His face was like a mask.

  “You are evidently a man of resource, Manning,” he said. “Might I suggest, however, that someone else may have taken similar soil? Have you found the weapon? Even your genius cannot link this with me, I think.”

  “I know where you got the missile,” said Manning. “Bino lost it the night you dined with Morton Hyde, with Mr. and Mrs. Buxton and Mr. and Mrs. Woodward.”

  “Ah!” Kuyper sighed softly. “Nevertheless, Manning, if you will come with me into the next room I can show you that you are mistaken. It is a small snuggery and I have some brandy there that I should relish.”

  The snuggery was little more than a butler’s pantry. There was a small table and two settles much like a modern breakfast nook save that the wood and workmanship were old, as was the paneling of the walls. There was one window of leaded diamond-shaped panes of stained glass. Kuyper slid back the door of a cupboard and brought out a decanter and two glasses.

  Manning, alert, took the seat opposite Kuyper after the latter had sat down heavily. He again refused the brandy. Kuyper poured out a brimming wineglass, drained it, and repeated the drink.

  “We Kuypers,” he said, “do not go to trial. You win a hollow victory, Manning. I have taken a poison that has no antidote, even by stomach pump. It gives me no uneasiness and allows me several minutes to live. I acknowledge your genius. It seemed a perfect crime. A most entertaining problem.

  “The missile was chosen because of its aptness. The newspaper accounts have all seen that point. Hyde was old and getting smug, damned smug and patronizing.

  “The dusting was eminently successful until you came into it. As for the weapon, I thought of several. It must be silent and efficient. An air gun of sufficient bore and power could not be procured. It would be absurd to have one manufactured. I wanted to use that sky-stone, as Bino called it. Bino literally dropped it into my lap that night. I made the weapon myself. It was the same idea as the slung shots the children use, or used to use. A forked frame and rubber bands. I improved upon it. I used springs. I practiced with it here in my own garden, unseen, of course. I could bring down birds with it and never miss. I tested its range, its power. It could be held in the hand, either left or right, with me, and discharged with the other. Or it might be fixed, the frame held rigid, and then….”

  Manning, watching, saw his pupils contract to pinpoints. The irises were pools of blue flame. The whites were bloodshot. The masklike face was breaking up. Kuyper’s mouth twitched and twisted.

  Automatically Manning ducked, thrusting his hand into his right-hand pocket for his gun.

  There was a click, a twang, and a bullet this time of lead, sped across the room, through the space where Manning’s head had been. It struck the paneling and exploded. If it had hit Manning it would have killed him.

  He clutched his gun and then, swift as a striking snake, Kuyper snatched up the decanter and brought it down on Manning’s head. The heavy cut glass broke. Half stunned, blood flowing, blinding him as he wiped it from his eyes, Manning leveled his gun while the madman stabbed at him with the jagged neck of the decanter.

  “We Kuypers do not go to trial!” he cried. Then he collapsed as Manning’s snapshot smashed his right shoulder. He lost his glass dagger, but he fought desperately as Manning grappled with him, mastered him at last and got the handcuffs on him.

  The weapon that had killed Hyde showed where a panel had shifted at a touch from Kuyper on some hidden catch. There was a space where it had been firmly set, loaded with the explosive bullet, and the strong springs extended
. It was doubtless the perfect crime that Kuyper had devised for Manning, as mentioned in the letter, rigged in the belief that he could lure the detective there.

  There had been no poison in the brandy, but Kuyper secured some in prison, or smuggled it there. He was the last of his family and “the Kuypers did not go to trial!”

  Hunch!

  The Young Man’s Story Sounded Like Merely a Lover’s Problem, but Manning’s Instinct Leads Him into a Deadly Mystery

  Gordon Manning pushed forward two open boxes towards his visitor. One was of silver, wrought with writhing dragons in high relief, containing cigarettes. The other was carved in Polynesian tapa design from golden Hawaiian koa. He suggested a drink as he took out the letter of introduction from the unsealed envelope.

  John Stanhope refused all three. He was wrought up, nervous as he pushed back a forelock of black hair from his bronzed forehead. Nervous, imaginative and demonstrative. Capable and determined. So Manning appraised.

  The introduction bore a signature that was a compelling one for Manning. The writer was not one to ask favors for himself or others. Beyond question he considered Stanhope worthy of assistance.

  “Where did you meet the colonel?” Manning asked, lighting his pipe.

  “Pahang, Malay Peninsula. Four years ago. I was after tin. He smoothed the path for me. I hardly know why, except he seemed to take a fancy to me.”

  Manning nodded. He could understand that. There was something compelling about his visitor’s ego. Manning had known the colonel in Johore. He was the sort to help younger men accomplish what he might no longer attempt himself.

  “I don’t want to waste your time, Mr. Manning,” said Stanhope, his fists clenched, the fire of emotion and purpose in his dark eyes. “I know it’s valuable. I think you are the only man who can help me, though I did not expect to ask for that when I presented that letter. Four years ago I was in love with Alice Minturn. She lives now not far from you, in Pelham Manor, at a house called The Lilacs, with Elmer Brent and his sister, who are distant relatives. When I first knew her she was in college at Northampton and I was finishing at Princeton. She was also in love with me.”