Manning ate dinner leisurely. He had had a busy day, and he expected a busy night. To-morrow might prove even more crowded and more exciting.
At eight o’clock the man he had borrowed from headquarters drove up in a private car, a first-grade detective named Doherty.
“This guy Burton,” said Doherty, “throws some fancy parties in this penthouse of his. Nothing to crash in about, so far, but something hot might break there any dawning, take it from me! He has plenty cuties and he gives them plenty hooch. One of ’em may make a dive over his parapet some morning, though they ain’t the type to do it to save their virtue. His babies ain’t got any. It’s just hot-cha-cha, but it costs him pe-lenty. Here’s a list of some of his guests. Them marked ones are regulars.”
Manning glanced over the names.
“That’s fine, thanks,” he said. “You’ll have another drink, and a fresh cigar? Now, what is the address, and does Burton lease the place?”
“He leases it and pays the rent regular, which is why he can do what he pleases. I wrote the address down on this card.”
Manning saw that Burton’s penthouse was on the roof of the building in which Thorndyke had his offices, which might, or might not, be pure coincidence, viewed in the light of the fact that Dr. Thorndyke’s name was on the list as a regular guest at Burton’s revels.
“He’s pulling one of these parties to-night,” Doherty went on. “They don’t start until round one or two o’clock. I got a line on Burton’s income. If he’s earned enough in the last two years to pay three months’ rent on that penthouse, I’m a Chinaman. To say nothing of what his chow and alky sets him back. He’s had one job in the last twelve months for a theatrical outfit. The show flopped and he didn’t get paid. But he sure lives high in town. I’m telling you that if he sculps in the nude, he gets plenty inspiration, from what the lad who runs the all-night elevator that goes to the roof tells me. It was him I got the list from. He wants to be a detective. Can you beat it?”
“That’s just what I wanted to know, Doherty,” said Manning. “I’m going to make a call presently. I wish you’d stay here and make yourself comfortable. You and I may drive into the city later. I’d like to get a peep at that party, if it can be arranged.”
“Duck soup,” said Doherty. What between panatelas, pinch-bottle Scotch and a lounge chair in Manning’s library he foresaw a pleasant hour or so ahead of him.
Soon afterwards Manning drove off to Larchmont in his own car to keep his appointment with Dr. Thorndyke. As he went he considered the clause in Stanhope’s will that provided for his estate to be turned over to the girl if he should be found missing for over a year. He doubted whether that was legal. It was the sort of thing a quixotic lover might insert, but the outstanding fact was that the sooner Stanhope died, the sooner the girl would acquire his estate. In view of her own fortune she would hardly need it. But others might.
Thorndyke was more or less the usual type of successful physician—in his thirties, well set up and handsome in a way that would, Manning considered, make him attractive to many women. His features were aquiline. His mustache and pointed beard, together with his dark hair that grew to a peak on his forehead and was silvered at the temples, and upward curving eyebrows gave him a satanic cast of countenance. His dress was immaculate, though a trifle foppish. He was in dinner clothes, as was Manning, and he received the investigator affably, offering refreshment, which Manning declined. He would never have cared to accept the doctor’s hospitality. The man was plausible, cultured, but he suggested secret dissipations.
Manning came promptly to the point, speaking of his having received the letter and the copy of the will. He did not mention the first letter. He was pretty certain the doctor did not know of its existence; he fancied that, in that unwitting omission, Thorndyke had made a mistake. He, or Burton, or both.
“Before I decide whether to accept or decline the responsibility of being Stanhope’s joint executor with you,” said Manning, “I should like, at least, to see Miss Minturn. Stanhope brought me a letter of personal introduction from a mutual friend in the Orient that gives him a claim on my offices. He was in a morbid mood when he wrote that letter and made that will. I hardly set him down as a suicidal type, though inclined to be rash. He may have exaggerated conditions.”
“I don’t quite agree with you, speaking as a psychiatrist,” said Thorndyke, stroking his torpedo beard. “Even today there are plenty of the Romeo type, killing themselves on the bier of a dead love. Otherwise normal. I think Stanhope might make away with himself. The case is unfortunate. When he returned he found Miss Minturn suffering from partial amnesia, induced by a shock to her amatory emotions, induced by young Stanhope’s refusal to marry her, his departure and silence. This upset her sex reflexes, it has put her on the borderline between sanity and insanity at certain periods. It produced in her, at first, lack of recognition of her lover, later, a revulsion that wounded him to the quick, that upset his own normality. It may seem involved to a layman, not to an alienist.”
Manning had himself studied medicine, but he did not mention it. He knew that Thorndyke had been called in as expert in several prominent trials where good fees resulted and the alienists on either side invariably disagreed. He had his own opinion of such testimony.
“You think her condition will improve?” he asked.
“I trust so. I sincerely hope so and believe that with the proper treatment it will. She has suffered a second shock, a renewal of the bruise. She is now too readily excited, her cerebral tissues too readily inflamed.
“As to your seeing her,” Thorndyke continued, “that can be arranged. I should, however, have to be present, out of mere medical precaution. I am going out, presently, on an important call. So, let us make it to-morrow evening at, say this time. She is usually calmer at that hour, more rational in her behavior.”
“We will consider it an engagement, then,” said Manning as he took his leave. He was aware that his dislike towards Thorndyke was fully reciprocated. It was a mutual mistrust, as sincere and natural as that of the trained dog for vermin, the mongoose for the cobra. He also gathered that Thorndyke in no way considered himself inferior.
The penthouse was not set exactly in the middle of the roof of the building. On one side there were two shallow terraces with steps joining them. These were set with lawns, flowers and shrubbery with dwarf trees of weeping willow reflected in twin pools where water lilies floated, and Midas fishes swam, fat and golden. Lanterns of fretted metal-work were suspended everywhere, giving broken spots of color, amber and crimson and emerald. More light filtered through from the windows of the penthouse that faced this hanging garden of Manhattan, windows shuttered with Venetian blinds. Casements were up to offset the warmth of the summer night.
Through the windows came the sound of laughter, of gay voices, the clink of glasses, a babble of revelry that sounded a little forced, a trifle boisterous. Now and then there were exclamations, false protests, little bursts of applause.
The party had only just commenced, according to the elevator lad, but seemingly all had arrived well primed. And everyone was there. Burton himself had told the operator that there would be no more.
“He told me not to let no one crash the party,” said the lad.
“We’re not crashing it,” said Doherty. “We ain’t going to make any trouble for you, kid. All we want is a looksee and then you can forget it.”
The operator showed them where a narrower terrace ran at the back of the penthouse, little more than a pathway of brick with a hip-high parapet, on which evergreens in stone tubs were set at regular intervals. This walk surrounded the penthouse on three sides. In the rear it passed unscreened windows that threw out bright light and from which came the voices of servants.
“Japanese?” asked Manning, remembering the oriental chauffeur of the car that had called for Stanhope.
“Yep,” whispered the elevator lad; “two of ’em. One lives here, the other comes in from out of town
with Mr. Burton. He drives his car.”
“Lincoln?” queried Manning.
The operator nodded. Something in Manning’s authoritative query made the lad look at him more closely as they stood in the private entry that led from the elevator to the roof. He drew in his breath.
“Gee,” he said in an awed voice, “ain’t you Gordon Manning, the guy that copped the Griffin? I saw your picture in the papers,” he added as he regarded Manning’s lean, bronzed and hawklike features.
“That’s him, kid,” said Doherty. “Now scram. Keep your trap closed. We’ll ring when we want you.”
The two of them stepped out of the entry to the bricked walk. The penthouse was entirely detached; its front door opened onto the lawns and garden. Manning and Doherty stood in dense shadow. A bright moon soared over Manhattan. It turned the falling spray of a fountain to an iridescent shower.
One of the Japanese was singing a curious, broken air in a high-pitched voice. He broke off to speak to his fellow. The odor of spicy cooking came out of the kitchen and pantry windows, along with the click of dishes.
If one of these men had driven the Lincoln he could be identified by the houseman at the Brummell, but that would only prove what Burton might not care to deny; that Burton had used his own car to take Stanhope to the depot. Questioning a Jap was a pretty hopeless task.
Suddenly, as they looked between the shrubs, that masked them perfectly, Manning saw a broad sweep of light as the main door was flying open. There was a burst of strange music, pipes shrilling and drums beating, in a wild rhythm that stirred the blood. There was the plucking of strings; the wail of violins, but the syncopated drumming dominated everything. It might have been the orchestra of a camp in Tatary or Cathay or musicians in the kalang of a Javanese sultan. It was as weird as the eerie crowd of creatures that came gamboling out, capering about the terraces, posturing, dancing, as the lanterns winked out and spotlights rayed in crossing beams of orange and purple and green.
Mythical beings they seemed, half men, half beasts. Men and women alike, scantily attired in breadths of skin, in wisps of tissue with the gleam of metal and of jewels. Bizarre, incredible as a nightmare, a phantasmagoria such as Doré sometimes drew.
Griffins, cockatrices, phoenixes, dragons! Medusa and Gorgon heads, shriveled mummy faces, skulls, birds and brutes; faces of supreme beauty, faces that were frozen into types of sin and hate and cruelty. Emblazoned creatures of heraldry; fiends, harpies, sirens. Succubus, witch, virgin and harlot. Ape, warrior, hermit and troglodyte.
All these were masks, supremely wrought. Many of them covered the head as entirely as a helmet with lowered visor. They were masterpieces and those who wore them seemed to have become imbued with the attributes of the creatures they represented. Burton’s party seemed destined to become an orgy.
“That was his last job—making masks for that stage flop. ‘Manhattan Nights,’ they were going to call it,” whispered Doherty.
Manning nodded. He was beginning to see things more clearly. Masks for stage work had been a vogue, now fading. The effect was startling, but illuminating. But unless they unmasked, which did not seem likely for a while, with the saturnalia just beginning, recognition would be impossible. They knew Burton was there and Thorndyke. The elevator boy had brought them up, knowing them well.
“I’ve seen all I want,” Manning said. Doherty was surprised, but said nothing, warned by the ring in Manning’s voice that a lukewarm trail had suddenly become hot. They went down in the elevator and into the street.
“Let’s take a look at the studio,” said Manning.
The studio stood back a little from the street; with a courtyard in front, and double gates which were closed, but had a little grille through which Manning looked at the place. It had a high-pitched skylight, large, barred windows in front. Once it had been a stable. There was no light. It appeared deserted, neglected.
Manning stood in the empty street, scanning the general surroundings.
“I’m leaving you in town,” he said to Doherty. “Find out whether anyone has seen anybody come in here. Make a thorough job of it. Come down to Pelham to-morrow night. Come in time to have dinner with me. We’ve got an engagement afterwards that may prove important.”
Doherty saluted, proud of the invitation, and Manning got into his roadster and drove rapidly north through the almost silent streets.
Manning rose late. There was, after all, only one thing for him to do that evening before he kept his appointment with Dr. Thorndyke, to see Alice Minturn. It was to call on a builder and contractor who referred him to another in the same line of business. This did not take long and the call proved satisfactory.
Manning’s face did not reflect his mental grimness as he rang the bell at The Lilacs at nine o’clock. It was answered by the Japanese Ito, who was not liked by other Japanese. The man was a mixed Malayan type. He had bowed legs and long arms. He was dressed in semi-livery of black alpaca with a low-cut vest. It was hard to tell if he actually limped.
He placed Manning’s card on a silver tray and carried it stiffly ahead, after he had taken Manning’s hat and cane. Manning watched him sharply as he hefted the latter, but the man’s face betrayed nothing.
Thorndyke was with Burton in the library, both in dinner dress. They made a strong combination, for certain purposes, Manning thought; Thorndyke the plotter, likely to be an extremist; clever as the devil. Burton bluff, burly, none too intellectual, easily dominated, but dogged.
Katherine Burton came in silently. She was in black, her skin was white and smooth as ivory, her hair magnificent. Several rings gleamed on her slender fingers and there was a square-cut emerald pendant at her throat, which was apparently flawless—extremely valuable. Manning fancied all the gems were unusual. Her otherwise simple tastes seemed to permit jewels. And then Manning saw her eyes, as they looked at Thorndyke, and the jewels were dull glass in contrast.
She was infatuated with the doctor. Her gaze betrayed her to an observer like Manning. She would have followed Thorndyke barefoot over lava wastes, through cactus thickets, adoring and serving him, fired with the flame of a superlative and starved passion; a flame fanned the more by the cold airs of the physician’s demeanor toward her.
The room was momentarily electric with a current that somehow lacked a spark. It flowed from the woman and was received by the man with a certain insolence, a disdain; much as an age-old idol might receive incense.
As for Burton, Manning doubted if he realized the situation, patent as it was.
She gave Manning a ring-clustered hand. He held it a moment, admiring the star sapphire that showed its mystic and elusive fire.
“They say in Borneo, where they find a lot of those gems,” he said, “that the star is the imprisoned spirit of a woman who loved, but who died without having her love returned. That is a very beautiful stone.”
Her manner was not cordial as he released her hand. The light had gone out of her eyes. Suddenly she looked plain, old and tired.
“I will get Alice ready,” she said. “I have not told her she was to have a visitor. We were afraid it would disturb her. Do you want me in the room, doctor?” she asked Thorndyke.
“I think not. The less the better. Just Mr. Manning and myself,” he answered.
The big double chamber was dim with shaded lights. The bed, curtained and canopied, was in a recess that seemed to have been added to the original room. It would not accommodate the wheel-chair that stood at the foot of the bed; mute evidence of the helplessness of its occupant.
“We built out a solarium,” said Thorndyke, “so that when the sun shone its rays might help her. The panes are crystal. It cost a lot, but she could afford it and while the rays have not seemed to help her, one cannot say how they may have retarded disease.”
He spoke in a low voice before they moved towards the bed. There Manning saw, sunk amid soft pillows, the sorrowful, beautiful but inanimate, face he had glimpsed at the front window.
One arm
was outside the coverlet, ringless. The nails had been tinted. The lips were rouged. Some feminine impulses and vanities apparently remained in her.
“This is Mr. Manning, Alice,” said Thorndyke. “A friend of mine, and of yours.”
The girl showed scant interest. Her fingers stirred, balling up the silken coverlet.
Manning had agreed to mention nothing that would link him with Stanhope.
“I represent the Seminary, Miss Minturn,” said Manning. “They appreciate so much what you have done for them. Especially for your gift of books for their library. They want a bust of you to set there. Mr. Burton, your cousin, will make it, of course, but we want your consent and, perhaps, a few words from you, over a microphone, set up here, in your room, without any outside people, just yourself, talking to them.”
The quiet, lovely face on the pillow showed no change of expression, but Thorndyke made a sound and took a step, as if he meant to interfere. Manning had startled him. There had been a gift of books in the name of Alice Minturn, but the rest was cut out of whole cloth. Manning had explained that the reason for his seeking an interview was to assure himself of the girl’s sanity. He could not, he told Thorndyke, assume executorship in a will that enriched or might enrich anyone whose reason did not seem to him, at the time, sound.
“There have been rumors, as there always are,” he assured Thorndyke. “I do not subscribe to them. This is merely a matter of form, for my own comfort.”
“You’ve overdone things,” Thorndyke said, and his low tones were suddenly menacing.
“No,” said Manning calmly. “Not I, Thorndyke. You! And overlooked things, also. I am surprised that Burton as an artist, did not catch it, but I suppose he left the staging to you?”
“Just what do you mean?” demanded Thorndyke. He stood with his hands in the side pockets of his dinner-jacket. “Just what the devil do you mean, Manning? Are you over infatuated with your own reputation? Look here….”
“No. Look there,” Manning replied quietly. “I admired Miss Burton’s ring a little while ago. I also admired her hands. Criminal science observes finger-prints closely. It has not yet advanced to the study of fingers. No two hands are alike, digitally. The palmists will tell you that. They ascribe various influences to the shape of fingers. I don’t, but I do know that Miss Burton’s thumbs are unusual. They extend between the first and second knuckles of her forefinger. She should not have left her hand outside the quilt. Otherwise, the illusion is excellent.”
Day of Doom: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 2 Page 15
