Above all, he must not be a braggart, or selfish, and must be as good a companion about the big fireplace as he is in field or stream. If a man does not come up to these matters his sponsor is fined his guest-right for a month. Therefore, it is not easy to be a visitor at Nitamo Lodge and a man will speak of it proudly.
As for the Lodge itself, it is convenient, it is supremely comfortable, but it is anything but luxurious. One man and his family of one son and two daughters, besides his wife, manage it completely; the plain cooking is incomparable, varied with game in season. Men do not take their private servants to the Lodge, neither do they rough it. It furnishes a happy medium and—aside from the wife and daughters of the manager—it is strictly stag.
No woman has ever cast a fly on the Wiequaskeck, or fired a shot within the coverts of the club. Nor will they, with the consent of the owners. The place is a sanctuary from everything that reminds them of everyday life and affairs; the members are like the herd bucks that leave the does and camp in seclusion on the ridges; not that they love the females less, but their own, intimate communion more.
It was the first week in May and the season fairly opened, but the weather had been unkind. The night before, frost had lightly revealed itself on the porches, again in the morning; not nipping, but enough to prevent any hatch of flies, to keep the water too cold for early fishing. The trout might rise in the late afternoon as the sun went off the pools it had warmed all day. Meanwhile only a Simple Simon would hope for fish.
On the Wiequaskeck the lusty trout were given an even break. You fished with flies only—the mere mention of bait was anathema. You matched the hatch, and some tied their own flies. It was lovely water, rapids and riffles, stretches clear as gin where the big fellows just dimpled the surface when they rose and you had to put a dry fly over them just once, and that perfectly; or they flipped at it with broad tails in disdain. There were cascades and pools and everywhere it was wide enough to be waded, to cast in comfort between the trees that thickly ranked it most of the way.
It was a fast stream, and, in places, a deep one. You had to be careful, even when you knew it, and guests were warned of the bad spots where a slip, with waders on, might mean death. But there were no records of casualties since the old Indian days, when the Mahikanders and the Katskils waylaid each other and the warwhoop drowned out the shrill whistle of the arrow, the rustle of the warriors from ambush, and the Wiequaskeck ran streaky pink at twilight.
The seven men gathered at the Lodge occupied themselves in various congenial ways. Some overhauled tackle already in perfect shape but always a joy to go over, to compare, exhibit, and discuss. Others swapped tales of earlier seasons, of prize fish. In mid-morning someone organized a friendly casting contest. There was no wind and a target was set out on the lawn, a circle of white cardboard at which they deftly cast their flies from various marked limits.
None of them was a duffer, some were more than merely expert. The best known, and best loved, man among them was Governor Thorpe. Ex-governor, for the time being, since party domination had swung in the State; but nevertheless always known as “Governor,” until the time when his friends and followers believed he would be called “President.”
A genial man, a just one, ever alive to the interests of his home State and its citizens. He was emphatically the People’s Choice in his own party, a man of education and family, but a thorough patriot. He had fought for water rights, for reforestation. A fine figure of a man, not far from sixty, he spoke with the conviction of an honest mind, he gave out the sense of power and dignity and humanity.
The governor threw a pretty fly. Time and time again his tapered cast of silkworm gut, chosen and tied himself, allied to the line of oiled silk, plaited and also skillfully tapered, sent the lure to touch the target.
But the wizard among them was a guest, sponsored by one of their eldest members, Derrick Blythe, himself debarred from being with them and his guest by a bad attack of asthma.
The guest’s name was Anthony Bostick. He was tall and gaunt with a black shock of upstanding hair and a wiry, trimmed mustache. He had caught more trout than any of them, so far. They had noted the absolute delicacy of his casting, the flirt of his wrist at the last second that let the lure down upon the surface with the exact imitation of a fly.
Now he took his honors modestly. He had been trained when he was a boy, he said, by his father’s gamekeeper, who taught him how to tie flies and how to cast them. Under persuasion, he gave an exhibition of unusual flycasting, including the famous Spey, or underhand, throw. His rod and his arm seemed to combine as one and when, time and time again, he flicked the target, they spontaneously applauded him.
They were still at it when the gong sounded. The midday meal was ready. It was laid in the trophy room. Plaster casts and stretched skins of fish were on the walls, with beautifully preserved birds, heads and antlers. A fire burned in the hearth, though the windows were open to let in the breath of Spring, balmy and promising, telling of rising sap and mating creatures. Trout did their breeding in the fall, but the other wild things were choosing lovers. Bird songs came in.
The table was laid, as usual, with the service plates face down and a clean napkin of red and white check atop each one. Linen, crockery, and silver were spotless. In the center was a great bowl of daffodils.
Only one end of the long table was set. The governor’s place was at the head. He took his seat, arranged his napkin over one knee, and turned his plate in expectation of the first course. He stared at his plate. The dishes were of plain design, white with lines of green and red about the outer edge and the emblem of the club on the border.
This was an heraldic dolphin contrived into a ring with the club motto within it.
Simon Peter said: I go a fishing.
Now, Governor Thorpe was gazing with changing and conflicting emotions at the inside of the platter, which should have been plain.
It held a scarlet splotch, red as blood, a lozenge of bright crimson, an affiche that was embossed in a design that, at the first glance, impressed Thorpe as sinister before his brain swiftly gathered and aligned the data stored there.
The design was that of the upper part of a griffin in heraldic device, showing the lion’s claws and tail, the eagle’s wings and beak of that mythical creature.
The Griffin!
II
It was the title taken by the evil, murderous genius whose killings had amazed and terrorized the continent. A madman whose stupendous egomania prompted him to hate all that was good, progressive and wise. The monster who had slain a score of men who could hardly be replaced, men who stood for advancement, philanthropy and wisdom. He had thrown society and finance into temporary panics until he had been captured by Gordon Manning and sent to Dannemora.
Manning, ex-Military Intelligence, scientist, explorer and adventurer, had been called in when the police failed. He had now a commission from the governor, endorsed and renewed by the present incumbent, besides full police powers in the city.
Over Manning’s protests, though he knew the judgment was within the law, the Griffin had not been executed and he had escaped from the institution for the criminally insane to pursue his bloodthirsty career.
He had slain more than once since his reappearance. Also Manning had managed more than once to circumvent his fell plans, but not to lay hands on the mocking fiend who openly proclaimed the name of his intended victim and the date on which he should die.
These things flashed through the governor’s mind as he tossed his napkin on the plate to cover the affiche, and, leaning forward, pried at it with his knife as he told the rest an anecdote in his usual brilliant manner, that kept the girl, who was waiting to serve the consommé, in the background.
This thing might be a hoax. Certainly not a practical joke on the part of any of the men at the table, or the employees. But—the table had been set for an hour or two; there were the open windows….
The governor, making the point of his story, glan
ced through them at the new green of grass and trees. He saw nothing, yet he felt as if a shadow had passed over the lawn, as if a chill wind had trailed it, entered, congealing for a moment the marrow in his spine.
He was a brave man, of a brave line, but he believed he had received his death warrant. As the waitress brought his soup he removed his napkin, and with it the scarlet lozenge, palming it, putting it into his pocket, achieving the jesting tag of his tale, smiling at the others as they laughed at his wit.
Half an hour later, in his room, he looked again at the red symbol.
He had enemies, naturally enough. He had been threatened by the friends of men he had refused to pardon, by cranks. This might be one of these, masquerading as the Griffin. The latter’s diabolical methods had been often enough exploited in the press after his satanic victories.
But this did not tie up with the Griffin’s invariable method. He had taken up the appointment of Manning as a challenge. Likened it to a game of chess, wherein he played with living men, and studied out his moves before making the first one. Always he had notified Manning beforehand, never the man he hoped to annihilate. He might have changed his methods.
It was significant of Thorpe that he took it calmly, filling and lighting his pipe with steady fingers. He wondered if Manning knew of this. If so, why had he not communicated with him? There was no telephone at Nitamo Lodge. They purposely cut themselves off from the world. The nearest instrument was at the small railroad depot, whence telegrams were sometimes brought, thence despatched, in emergency.
He resolved to try and get in touch with Gordon Manning. He knew him personally. Manning had once been the governor’s guest at the Lodge. He could be so again, if he would. But there was no date set, only the scarlet lozenge with the imprint of the ravening beast upon it….
A knock came at the door. The manager’s son appeared.
“I beg pardon, Governor. You and Mr. Bostick have drawn the Maple Pool. It should be good, ’round sunset. I’ve seen some good ’uns rising there.”
“Fine, Tom!” said the governor. “But I’m afraid he’ll wipe my eye.”
“He can fish—but so can you,” said the other. “Mail just got in. Dad brought it. One for you, sir.”
Thorpe surveyed it dubiously after the man had left. No one should write him here. Only intimates knew where he was. His secretary had orders—but this was addressed plainly to him, at Nitamo Lodge.
He did not know the bold handwriting, purple ink on a thick, gray, handwoven paper. He turned the envelope over. On the flap the sinister symbol was repeated, sealed in red wax. It was from the Griffin.
A brief note. The note of a man whose mind was warped, perverted by dementia grandiosa, but infinitely crafty, infinitely evil.
The stars decree your downfall. You deem yourself destined to rule a Nation but your House of Nativity proclaims your presumption shall be taught a lasting lesson. You, who think yourself a leader among men, shall be dust. The same immutable horoscope proclaims me as the Divine Agent who shall announce in your elimination that all men are grass when, in its next verdure, it shall be nurtured from your dust.
Know then that on the Ninth of May, wherever you may be, however you may strive to avert the inevitable; you die.
There was no signature, only a well-penned drawing of the same device, the upper body of a griffin, rampant.
Thorpe read it without flinching. He knew how often the Griffin had succeeded. If it had to be, he would take it in the open; but reflection persuaded him that this wilderness place might be safer than many others, with due precautions.
He was not minded to forego his holiday. For one thing, he needed it. He had not stopped working for the public weal because he was no longer governor, nor because he might be nominated for president. He was a widower, and childless, who had simply and utterly devoted his life towards the betterment of his fellowman and the firm establishment of his country. He was not afraid of death but he enjoyed life, as he employed it.
The Maple Pool would not be ready to fish until about four o’clock. He had his own car, driving it himself. If the Griffin ran true to his satanic form, Thorpe had three days of leeway. The Griffin probably got unhallowed satisfaction over the thought that his prospective victim would cower through the hours before his predicted execution. Thorpe was not that sort.
He drove to the depot and waited for the always protracted connections between that outland place and New York City. He tried Manning’s office, where he plied his profession as consulting attorney, he tried his house and his clubs, only to find that Manning was out of town on a mission he had kept private, but would return by the next morning.
Thorpe got the Commissioner of Police, personally, told him briefly what had happened, read also the letter.
“The ninth, you say?” answered the commissioner. “I’ll get in touch with Manning the moment he returns. I may be able to locate him to-night, this afternoon. I think you’re safe in the meanwhile, Governor, but for God’s sake be careful. Where will you be for the next few hours? I’ll send up some men.”
“Better wait until you see Manning,” Thorpe replied. “There is no danger here. The place is well patrolled. Send your men if you want to but choose them carefully. I’m on a holiday with my friends. I don’t want us overrun by dicks. Get hold of Manning if you can. Meantime, I’m going fishing. May send you some trout. I expect to get some good ones this afternoon. This thing may be only a fake, Commissioner.”
At the other end of the wire the commissioner grunted.
Thorpe himself was not as confident as he sounded, but he forgot it, absolutely, as he worked a Parmacheenee Belle in the riffles and felt the tug of a strike, the plunge of a big trout at the end of his gossamer line.
He was at the end of the tickles, above the pool. Bostick was at the lower end. He had creeled some good ones and Thorpe was on his mettle. The governor acknowledged the other’s supremacy when it came to close casting, but he felt he was as good when it came to manipulating the artificial fly to copy the actions of a natural one.
This trout should tie the score. Thorpe was on to a record fish. He gave it line and braked it. It broke water, resplendent, iridescent, fighting like a bulldog against the barb in its jaw. He checked it, tip up, the splitcane bending like a bow.
Then Thorpe’s footing slipped on the weedy boulders and he went down, instinctively holding his rod up but rolling in the current, swept down into the pool. His waders filled with water and he went deep, thrashing as he came up, plummeted down again, struggling. Vaguely he heard a shout, saw Bostick plunging, lurching out to the bank.
He made the shallows, but got no hold. The stream gripped him, conquered him. He was a fair swimmer but the water in his waders was like lead. He wallowed, taking water into his lungs, choking, wondering if this could be some infernal trick of the Griffin, his bewildered reason even now rejecting that….
Then someone gripped him, raised him, dragged him to safety.
It was Bostick.
“A close call, Thorpe! You need hip-waders here. Now, you’re all right. And the trout is still on—”
“Don’t lose him,” said Thorpe, spewing water. He had held to his rod. Bostick knelt beside him, raising him, giving him a drink from his flask that Thorpe choked on but appreciated. “I’ll handle him,” he said, sitting up, feeble but determined. The line on the reel was almost out, but the trout was still hooked.
Ten minutes later Bostick had the fish in his net, jubilant.
“You’re a sport, Governor,” he said. “And you’ve landed the record!”
“You landed me, Bostick,” said Thorpe. “I’d have drowned if it hadn’t been for you.”
“It wasn’t your day to die,” said Bostick. “Have another drink?”
Thorpe took it, gathered himself together.
“No,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t my day to die. You deferred it.”
Bostick laughed, making light of it, weighing the big fish.
; “All right to make it back?” he asked. “They’ve quit rising.”
“I haven’t,” said Thorpe and proved it by getting to his feet. “That’s mighty good Scotch, Bostick.”
“Don’t forget to shift to hip-waders,” said the other. “If you haven’t got any with you, I brought an extra pair. We should wear about the same size. They’re rubberized twill, made in England, keep you dry to your waist and they’re not a quarter the weight of the all-rubber ones. And much safer. It doesn’t take much for a man to drown in swift water, once his waders hold him down.”
III
The Police Commissioner finally located Manning at his own house in Pelham Manor, late that evening. He drove out there rather than confer over the telephone, and found Gordon Manning just at the end of a delayed dinner served him by his Japanese.
“You look fit,” said the commissioner. “You need to be. It looks like the Griffin!”
The two had gone into Manning’s library. Tanaka set out liqueurs and highball materials. Manning, standing by the fire-place, filled his pipe and lit it as the commissioner bit off the end of one of Manning’s imported cigars.
Manning was lean and brown and tall, physically in the pink and mentally alert. The little lines that had registered on his face since he had first encountered the Griffin stood out sharply now. His keen eyes showed a trace of bewilderment. But he made no comment.
“Tell me about it,” he said simply and listened to the end, smoking serenely enough.
“It isn’t the Griffin’s usual procedure,” he said. “It’s not easy to imagine him giving up the pleasure of baiting me—and you as well—by his boasting preannouncements. I’ve heard nothing, seen nothing. The Griffin always has left it to me to inform the prospective victim. What do you make of it, Commissioner? The letter, paper and all, may be a forgery.”
In the Grip of the Griffin: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 3 Page 6
