Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933
- Автор: Day Stanley, Dunn J. Allan
- Год: 1933
- Язык: английский
- Год: Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933». Краткое содержание книги:
“Fool!” said the Griffin. “This is a copy. And if anything should happen, at any time, that would disappoint me in you, any act of disobedience, the signed and witnessed confession would be released, automatically. That you were hypnotized into telling the truth does not alter the facts that can and will be eagerly substantiated. In the State where you committed the crime, kidnaping now brings life imprisonment. If you were able to clear yourself of the question as to whether you killed the child, you could not avoid that. Hard labor for both of you, for life!”
He gestured to AL, who released Allen. The New Englander stood stricken with despair that was reflected on his wife’s wan face.
“I’ll fix that contraption for you tonight,” he said humbly.
“I thought you would,” said the Griffin. “See that it is successful.”
III
Gordon Manning was the last client that afternoon at the downtown gymnasium where business men tried to keep themselves physically fit and offset the depression by virility. There was no partner available for handball but the professional. That suited Manning well enough and he threw himself into the game with an ardor and finesse that left his opponent panting, chagrined, and frankly admiring.
Manning went into the shower and let the needle sprays run icy cold. He had played hard not merely to win, but to help him forget the problem of the Griffin, to prevent it becoming an obsession that would rob him of his best judgment by incessantly suggesting he was no match for the monster, that the handicaps were too severe. The handball game had temporarily sidetracked even the workings of his subconscious mind as he set every energy to the task in hand.
But the poisonous leaven was there. The task had to be taken up again, helpless as it seemed. He was the only man who had ever defeated the Griffin, who had ultimately sent him to the asylum for the criminally insane at Dannemora. Now it was all to do over again. The Griffin had scored. The people looked to Manning to rid them of the menace.
He was well equipped for it, late officer in the Army Intelligence, scientist, world traveler, soldier and adventurer. He had been called in when the police had failed, given special commissions by the New York Police Commissioner and the Governor of the State; commissions still in effect. The Griffin, with his organization, his own intuition spurred by insanity that amounted to evil genius, had written satirically congratulating himself upon obtaining a worthy opponent. He had mailed the letter with its heavy gray paper, its purple ink and scarlet seal, upon the same day Manning had secretly accepted the commission. Not even the press had known — under restriction of publication — of his undercover appointment; but the Griffin had discovered it.
The Griffin professed to call it a game. He condescended to name his victim, to state a twenty-four-hour limit to the time of mysterious murder.
But he had inevitably planned his moves, made all his preparations, studying the problem intricately during the weeks between killings, when he was silent. A silence that was like the steady drip of water upon Manning, waiting, waiting, for the inevitable boasting announcement of a crime so devilishly planned that no protection availed against the madman’s craft.
That first capture had been largely owing to Manning’s blocking of one of his diabolical murders. Failure had so inflamed the Griffin that rage had made him almost futile, careless of consequences in his wild desire, to restore his fallen ego. Manning believed that the bringing about of another failure was the best, chance once more to secure this fiend in human shape.
The man was a devil loosed on earth. He had killed a score of valuable men who could hardly be replaced. He meant to keep on killing. He juggled with astrology and divination, doubtless believing himself an appointed destroyer.
Once, since the Griffin’s escape, Manning had foiled him, saved his intended victim, not so much by discovery of the devilish device employed as by strict vigilance and alertness at a crucial moment.
Then Manning had seen him, had gripped the cloak he wore, only to lose him in a surging crowd where the Griffin’s minions took advantage of the confusion.
Soon the Griffin would strike again, when he was ready, the victim selected, studied, all moves considered.
Manning, brown, lean, dressed, nodded to the old trainer who ran the gymnasium, and stepped outside, swinging his favorite weapon, a cane made from a steel tapering rod on which were shrunk scores of rings of leather. It was as efficient as a sword in his skillful hands. He asked nothing better than a chance at the Griffin, cane against gun or other weapon. His morale was not shaken, but he had a hunch, certain vibrations that tuned-in to evil emanations, that told him it was not long before he would be hearing from the arch-enemy, the man who hated all other men.
Ever since the last attack, the police force, public and private, had been trying to get clews concerning the Griffin’s whereabouts or those of his agents. His former elaborate organization had been shattered, but he still had great resources and he was rebuilding his force. All clews had failed. There had been no real clews. The score stood two to one, since his escape, in the Griffin’s favor. And now...
Manning’s powerful roadster had been standing at the curb. He stood with his hand on the doorturn, looking at the button to his siren at the hub of his steering wheel. On the black circle a scarlet oval showed red as blood, sinister as blood. An affiche of thick paper embossed with the signet of the Griffin!
Still another scarlet symbol was placed on the flap of the side pocket of the car, indicating certainly, to Manning, that he would find a letter tucked inside. It was infinitely galling for him to recognize the probability that either the Griffin or one of his agents, perhaps the very man who had found the chance to affix the seals and place the message, was watching him from some nearby point of vantage to make sure he received the letter. He denied them that satisfaction, got in, and drove to Pelham.
Not until he was in his own garage did he take out the envelope, again with the signet of the Griffin, sealed in wax, on the heavy handmade gray paper. The address was in the too familiar bold hand that, to a handwriting expert, revealed eccentricity of mind and also force of character and purpose.
Manning’s face was grim as he broke the seal in his library, after deliberately filling and lighting his pet briar and waiting until his Japanese butler brought him a highball.
Manning:
Still you serve to amuse me and therefore I again invite you as antagonist. The board is set, I have planned the gambit in which I may lose a pawn but only to win. I realize that you have been eagerly expecting my challenge. Last time we almost became closely acquainted, but, even if the cloak had held, I had not played my final trick.
You may be glad to know that I am succeeding admirably in restoring the organization you and the authorities so ruthlessly destroyed — for which you will some day pay in full. I have another Headquarters that it will take all your vigilance to discover, my dear Manning. I believe you called my last my “eyrie” though it is by no means certain whether the griffins, who were the steeds of the sun and drew the chariot of Nemesis, nested or used a lair. It matters little. Things shape well. The next to be eliminated will be that persistent prig and self-publicist, Evans Cooke, who claims to be building the true type of young American manhood by his interest in and contributions to the Olympic Games, the Amateur Athletic Association and other. “body-building organizations,” as he styles them. He considers himself a philanthropist and his chief enjoyment is to read about himself in the press. The man is a stench in my nostrils.