Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933

The killer was beside himself, foam flecked on his lips, and his eyes were wild. Manning lashed out with his cane and the end of the rod struck Cyrus Allen on his elbow. It was a risky blow. It had to be precise, to avoid contact with the wires. Allen dropped one of them and then the other. They coiled sputtering on the cement floor like burning fuses. Manning glanced round for a main switch and the murderer leaped for him, grappling with mad and desperate force that took all of Manning’s strength and experience to offset. They struggled about the place, the gaunt man striving to trip Manning and Manning trying to get at his gun. He had been forced to drop his cane to grapple with the other.

Allen was like a mad dog, snapping with his teeth. They brought blood from Manning’s shoulder, they grazed his jugular, breaking the skin. Manning got an arm under Allen’s leg, tore loose his hold and tossed him in a heavy throw.

Allen struck the floor in a heap, lighting on top of Manning’s steel-cored cane. He slid upon it towards the crackling wires, and the cane completed the circuit. There was a flash, a frightful stench of burning flesh, the body of Allen jerking in the midst of it, then still. Manning staggered back from the sheer impact of the discharge.

The shocked guests were departing when Manning came out of the green door. The detectives were handling the crowd ably. The pool was empty. The Commissioner was in the dressing pavilion, with the doctor. The body of Cooke had been laid upon a lounge, covered with a blanket found in a locker.

“We’ll have to have the official examiner, of course,” the Commissioner said to Manning. “But Dr. Drake here says there is no question as to the cause of death. He was electrocuted. There was no chance of bringing him back.”

Manning nodded.

“I was afraid of something like that,” he said. “I suspected the pool. The contracting electrician stepped-up the voltage and connected it to this handle with a switch in the control shack. He threw it when he saw Cooke going in to change. He could tell when the contact was made, and, when he was sure Cooke was dead, he shut it off.”

“Cooke’s hands are burned. There are ruptured veins. No doubt an autopsy will reveal deranged organs. Death was probably instantaneous, if that is any relief,” said the doctor.

The Commissioner and Manning both thought of the same thing; the penitentiary autopsies of those who die in the chair. The cause of death would be verified.

“Is there anything else I can do?” asked the physician.

“Nothing, Doctor,” Manning answered quietly.

When the doctor had gone he turned to the Commissioner and told him what had happened behind the green door. “It will come out soon enough,” he said. “The doctor could do nothing for him, less than he might have done for poor Cooke. It was not a pleasant death, for he knew what was coming before he died. I only wish it had been the Griffin. He said he’d be looking on. Come outside.”

The autogyro had vanished. The police planes still circled, waiting orders.

“He was in that gyro; did you notice it?” Manning asked the Commissioner.

“I saw it. I... what’s that floating in the pool, Manning, over at the outflow end?”

Manning fished out a black, wooden disk. A weight at the end of a string anchored it, had steadied it for a straight drop. Part of the center had been carved out into a shallow receptacle that was filled with sealing wax, scarlet as blood, in which was sharply imprinted the seal of the Griffin.