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, Mann
ing. 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.
Tolu, cat-footed, precise in his black clothes, was taking the clip from the table edge. To it was attached the service button that Poindexter had pressed as his last act. From this the cord had trailed over the floor to the wainscoting and along that to the pantry, held in place by brass eyelets.
Tolu held the clip in his hand. He had taken out the junction plug and the cord was loose. He handled the clip and button as if it was some precious object, something to be treated with great care—or with great caution. He did not see or hear Manning. Manning stood observing him, while in his mind there rose a vision of Poindexter, glass in hand, pressing the button, stricken.
Pressing the button! Which Tolu alone set in place, removed!
An answer came to him, possible, probable.
Suddenly Tolu turned and observed Manning. His decorous mien seemed to vanish. He was, for a flaming second, a savage surprised in the bush, his eyes gleaming like crimson spangles, his black pompadour bristling. He seemed about to crouch, as if to fling a spear or discharge a poisoned dart. With this atavistic throwback Manning knew his answer was correct. And he knew how to handle such a savage.
He spoke sharply to him in Mindanao.
“What have you done with Tolu?”
The man gasped. He seized at the automatic in Manning’s hand, seemed to strive for control as he answered that he did not know what the tuan was talking about. He answered in a strange tongue, automatically, as Manning had expected him to. And, so replying, he revealed the secret, sealed his own fate.
Tolu spoke Mindanao; this man spoke Palawan.
It is as easy to find two Filipinos that look alike—though they may come from different islands, speak varying dialects—as it is to discover two Chinese or Japanese who cannot be distinguished apart by any but their own countrymen. Easier.
And this was not Tolu. Tolu, the faithful, had been decoyed away or seized, this Palawan set in his place, instructed in Tolu’s duties, an education which must have been obtained from Tolu under duress. Manning was not far from imagining exactly what had happened in the Griffin’s torture chamber. He knew too that Tolu had been eliminated.
As to how this Palawan had killed?
The Filipino, all savage now, poised the clip so that the button was toward Manning and flung it straight for the latter’s face. Manning ducked as he fired, felt the contrivance graze his head, knew that it carried death. It had spoiled his aim, though he winged his man. The Filipino ran, swaying, and leaped for the swinging pantry door, disappearing through it as Manning’s second bullet struck the little square of glass set in the upper panel to facilitate service and avoid collisions.
Manning raced after him. The frightened cook and maids blocked his way, blocked his third shot.
The killer had snatched up a knife, flourishing it, darting out to the roof garden. Other guns from the waiting detectives stabbed red flashes through the night. The pseudo-butler staggered, badly hurt, dropped to one knee, pitched to all fours as Manning’s next shot hit him between the shoulder blades. With incredible vitality he got to his feet, reached the coping and, in a last, prodigious effort, vaulted over it.
They saw him fall, hurtling down to the sidewalk, to lie there broken. Manning sent the men down and went back to the dining room, dismissing the terrified maids as he passed them.
He picked up the spring clip of nickeled metal, holding it carefully. With the blade of his penknife he pressed down the button and saw, as he expected, a fang of steel appear through the tiny orifice in the ebonized disk. The death-point was black. It was covered with poison.
It might never be defined, but Manning believed it to be at least allied to curari, the plant juice of Strychnos toxifers, or some related species, used for arrow heads and blowgun darts, causing instant paralysis of the lungs from failure of the nerve motors.
A few minutes more and the Palawan would have removed the button, replaced it with the regular one, got rid of the deadly evidence.
The house phone rang. The detective in the hall was speaking.
“A Mr. Fleming, sir. He says he was to be a guest upstairs to-night.”
“You told him?”
“Yes, sir. He is sending up his card. He seemed shocked. He has just left.”
The elevator that reached the roof dwelling came to rest in the vestibule. The special operator was still running it. He handed Manning an envelope.
Manning opened it. There was a card inside, but it was not engraved. On it was set the scarlet emblem, the rampant griffin’s head with curving beak and open claw.
This Fleming had been the Crime Master after all. He had been in the building, but he was gone, swallowed up in the night.
Globes of Jeopardy
The Griffin, Appearing at Last Before Manning, Throws Down a New Defiant Threat to the Manhunter
THE owner and head trainer of the private gymnasium down town where Gordon Manning kept himself physically fit, looked at the renowned investigator with a critical eye as he came out of his shower.
“I’d let up on the handball for a while if I was you, Mr. Manning,” he said. “You’re looking a bit drawn, a shade too fine. It’s this devilish hot weather, maybe.”
To a casual eye, Manning, stepping naked to his locker, would have looked infinitely fit with his lean, muscular body, brown almost as a Carib Indian’s; but the trainer was an expert of long standing. Manning was one of his clients in whom he felt pride. He did not feel that way about all of them, middle-aged business men striving to get rid of the fat and softness of easy living and unchecked appetites, men with paunches like jelly bags. But Manning was different. He had never been out of condition, in peace, nor in war, where he had served with distinction in the Secret Service. Now he was avowedly a consulting attorney, but the trainer, though he did not mention it, had an idea that the trouble might be mental as much as physical.
Manning’s eyes were clear and keen as ever, but there were lines between his brows that were deeper than usual. It could not be the market. That was steady, and Manning never mentioned stocks. He had told the trainer that he did not speculate. As for the heat, Manning had traveled far and wide, largely in the tropics. Eighty degrees, even in Manhattan, was not going to bother him. Besides, he lived in the country suburbs.
He grinned at the trainer genially.
“I’ll take your advice,” he said. “I do feel a bit stale.”
He did not seem like it a few moments later, striding along the street on his way to his office, swinging his especial cane and favorite weapon, a steel rod on which rings of leather were close shrunk, pliable and effective. Now and then he nodded a greeting. Some he did not return through absent-mindedness.
What some people call a hunch was beginning to manifest itself, stronger as he approached the building in w
hich he had his suite. Manning believed by experience, particularly that of his Oriental travel, in many phenomena sometimes called occult; and he felt that he was becoming receptive, tuned in to certain vibrations. The “sending” was of evil influence. He had been expecting something of the sort for days of anxious waiting. Now he was certain that he would receive a more direct communication at his office. It might be in the shape of a letter, written in purple ink on heavy gray paper, in a distinctive, masterful hand. It might be a message over the telephone that could not be traced.
Whichever it was it would come from the Griffin.
Manning had not heard from that mysterious madman for many days. No one knew his name or where he lived, but his deeds were blazoned all over the country, and Manhattan cringed when they read of another of his ghastly, maniacal crimes.
Insane he surely was, but, as a madman has incredible strength, so this man’s brain seemed to be inspired to fiendishness in such subtle form that he still roamed at large and laughed at law and order, at all civilization.
In that warped mind of his there might have been a distorted sense of injury that now made itself manifest in devilish determination to attack the best and most useful of men, to destroy them.
Centre Street had tried to cope with him in vain as the list of his crimes mounted, the toll of his victims grew. The police commissioner had persuaded Gordon Manning to take up the trail. Manning had hoped to work under cover, but, the day after his secret appointment, the Griffin had sent him his first communication, accepting the challenge, calling it a game, professing himself amused.
In the murders that followed, Manning had come close to the Griffin himself more than once. He burned for actual contact, though he knew it would be fraught with deadly danger. The Griffin laughed at his efforts. He had some means of synchronizing the telephone system so as to utilize any instrument entirely for his own purposes. Time and time again Manning had heard his haunting, taunting laugh come over the wire.
The Crime Master: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 1 (Gordon Manning and The Griffin) Page 12
