In the Grip of the Griffin: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 3 (32 page)

“You and I, Manning,” the Griffin had told him, “are gambling in the last game we shall ever play together. See that you throw a high main, Manning, for we play with the dice of destiny.”

Whatever dice the Griffin played with would be cogged.

Yet Manning did not believe that the Griffin would try to kill him in a crowd. He might Farnum; but for Manning, his old enemy, he would want something more spectacular; or far more secret, for his own private satisfaction. The Griffin never meant Manning to have an easy or a sudden death. Manning was sure of that.

The night wore on, swiftly moving after midnight, and the tension increased for all the bodyguards with every passing minute. The stroke might come when the prizes were being decided upon, or given out. It might….

Manning felt suddenly as if an icy finger had traced the course of his spine. He was used to terror and to horror; but this gripped him, held him in a spell. It was beyond all reason.

A dance had just ended. Many of the couples remained on the floor, applauding for an encore. But there were open spaces, and through these there stalked a grim and awful figure, clad in black, skullcapped, the face masked with leprous tissue that enhanced rather than hid the bony beak of a nose, the protruding cheek-bones.

It moved silently, stalking, like Pestilence in person. It seemed to move with malign purpose, intent upon some horrible mission, unafraid; conscious of, and exulting in, the glances that were cast upon it, as the dancers drew away from it, whispering its name.

Manning had seen this presence before, and there were scores who had heard or read of it. Their recognition spread like wildfire.

Beyond all belief—
but it was The Griffin himself!

III

The Gas of Mourning

There was a movement of men gathering, closing in, groping for weapons. The figure on the now almost empty floor, where fearful men and women shrank from it, was in deadly peril. But it seemed more amused than astonished at its reception.

A man dressed as a clown stepped to Manning’s side. A cavalier followed. The commissioner, robed as a cardinal, touched Manning’s shoulder.

“There must be no shooting. If they miss—”

“Wait!” Manning’s voice rang out. There was a measure of relief in it—and then he saw the real danger, the satanic ingenuity of the Griffin’s move.

A few women had screamed, more had fainted. The fear might turn to panic at any moment. Then somebody laughed, the jangling laughter of overstrained nerves at a joke, an ill-advised jest, in the worst of taste, but still a joke.

For there was another Griffin now, on the edge of the huddling maskers. The second, and then a third, and still a fourth, all replicas, in cap and robe and mask. But these seemed uncertain, perplexed at the sensation caused by their leader. If he were their leader?

Two more Griffins were uncovered as people drew away from them, exposed them.

Which was the real Griffin?

Manning gave swift, short orders to his men.

He gave a signal, and a trumpeter, forewarned, an extra in the orchestra, blared out a shrill, compelling blast.

There were men on post at the exits who had been ordered not to leave their places, whatever happened.

The six Griffins found detectives, in stern mood, at both elbows. They marched them to the dressing room.

After the trumpet call there was a tremendous silence.

Farnum showed no sign of alarm. Manning’s fist closed on his gun. This showing of six Griffins was not an accident. It was a cloak for action.

Through the silence there came a chuckle that rose to a mocking laugh. Manning glanced upward, swept his glance around the boxes on the lower balcony. Some were still unoccupied, the curtains partly, or wholly, drawn. It seemed to him that the drapes of one of them were slightly shaking.

Suddenly there sounded a tremendous bellow, as if from some hideous and enormous beast. Something came hurtling down to the main floor, a smoking missile that exploded, but cast no death-dealing missiles. Only a brownish-yellow fume that spread and mushroomed, bringing choking coughs and blinding, smarting tears.

Beside Manning, Farnum suddenly slumped, gasping out something that resolved itself into a scarlet froth, then a spurt of blood.

Manning caught him in his arms. He had heard no shot, but the bellowing sound might have covered that. And the missile he saw projecting from Farnum’s body, a slender bolt of metal by the collar bone, where already a stain of red was fast spreading on the elaborate embroidery of the mandarin robe, might have been sped by air, or by powerful spring, even by a bowstring. It was not unlike the sort of bolt the medieval crossbow men used in battle and the hunt.

He could not guess how deeply it had penetrated, only that the shock to Farnum was severe. That was a job for the medical examiner and any other surgeons who might be on hand. What was done was done. But the assassin was at liberty, making his getaway. An agent of the Griffin, as those six mock Griffins had been his agents.

Manning’s eyes were running, and burning. He turned and thrust Farnum into the arms of the commissioner. Holding his breath, he darted across the empty floor, through the rising mist of gas. Officers were fighting through the offensive fog to the stairs. Manning reached a pillar below the box where the curtains had waved, or seemed to, and swarmed up it.

The fumes mounted swiftly, in wisps that seemed like tentacles, reaching to halt him, to bring him down. All over the hall a pandemonium of strangling sounds, of inarticulate cries, rose from the crowd.

Manning clutched at decorations as he grew dizzy, and some of them gave way. But he got his head and shoulders above the gaseous tide, got a full breath of clean air. He flung a knee over the edge of the box, wiped his streaming eyes with the back of his hand.

The box was empty! Below, he could hear police giving assurance, announcing themselves, calling for order. He heard something else, that might have been meant especially for his ear, that would not be heard below: a malignant, satisfied chuckle.

That meant the close presence of the Griffin himself, keen to know that the first kill had been made. Manning was programmed to be the next, but it did not deter him.

A narrow aisle backed the boxes. Men and women gathered in it, alarmed, hesitating to move downstairs because of the gas. The Griffin would not have forced his way through these, nor would his agent. They had fled, upward, to the next gallery, to the roof?

Stairs leading to the top balcony were immediately outside the box. Manning mounted swiftly, gun in hand, eager to be at grips with the assassin and his master, the Griffin. It was a time for speed rather than caution. Others were following him. They would be blocked by the frightened people in the aisle behind the boxes, but they would speedily get through.

The main lighting of the floor had been subdued with colored shades or substituted by spotlights. It was dim in the top balcony, which seemed empty of men, but was cluttered with strange shapes and deeps of shadow, from which might come at any moment the dart of death.

Manning had heard that chuckle too often not to be sure that it was genuine, had come from the actual throat of the monster. The Griffin was at that moment close at hand, actually within the hall.

Fresh air came through screened ventilators, from the roof. Manning filled his lungs with it, driving out the last of the gas. For a moment he stood looking and listening.

There was a steep iron ladder that led to a scuttle hatch. More air flowed from there. The door to the hatch was open—and it had been closed, and bolted from within, when Manning had led his search earlier in the evening.

The ladder ended on a narrow platform. The door was ajar, as if it had been hastily closed but had failed to latch.

It was like the entry to an unsprung trap. Manning passed through.

He was on the roof, beneath the stars, a breeze blowing from the river with a tang of the sea to it. All about were the towers of Manhattan, lifting to the sky that had the first hint of dawn in it. Low mists were rising, with the inevitable change of temperature toward daybreak.

All about him the ventilators, cowled tubes, like those of a steamer, heading into the wind; looked like a company of hooded monks. They were excellent places for a grisly game of hide-and-seek. It was easy for him to imagine he saw furtive figures slinking swiftly out of sight.

To the left, he looked over the parapet into a narrow service-alley, with a fire escape zigzagging down the wall. The same to the rear. Manning knew those escapes were being watched. In front, the street.

To the right, a fifteen-foot drop, the roof of the next building, seemingly deserted. It had a small scuttle-housing, like a shark’s fin, and in the center there was a structure of wood, windowless, painted gray, flat of top; that looked as if it might cover an unsightly water tank.

As he stood there, momentarily baffled, on the alert, tingling with the prescience of imminent danger, he heard a light
swish
in the air, and half-turned. Something settled lightly over him and fell, swathing him in light meshes of netting that were instantly drawn tight, as another and then another web entangled him and bound him.

He was helpless, pursed like a salmon in a seine, his arms useless. He could fire his gun only to shoot himself. The next moment something struck him at the back of his skull. It was the perfect disabling blow. It left him sick, weak and dizzy, with the certain knowledge that he could not fight off unconsciousness. He felt himself being lowered to the next roof with a precision and speed that suggested a team of well-trained acrobats. He vaguely saw a door sliding aside in the wall of a wooden shed. Then came oblivion.

IV

Getaway

The four detectives who had followed Manning by the stairs broke out to the roof and heard nothing, saw nothing. The roof was empty, and so was the one below it. Beyond that the blank wall of a skyscraper forbade all idea of flight or pursuit.

Manning had vanished.

They were picked men on the homicide squad, chosen by the commissioner as Manning’s personal aides and his bodyguard. Sergeant Gorman, first-class detectives Fallon and Doyle, second-class detective Quinlan. All of them had fought it out with desperate crooks more than once. They had the instinct of their profession. They were crack officers, and, for all the emptiness and silence—because of it—they knew themselves in deadly danger; even as had Manning.

They wanted to ferret it out, to face it. Their guns were in their hands.

“He sure came up here,” said Gorman in a low voice, looking all about him. “That scuttle was shut first time we came up, with him. Take a quick looksee, lads. Quinlan, you an’ Doyle scout this roof. Look out for them ventilators and the dome. The alleys an’ the fire escapes are tagged.”

Quinlan and Doyle went scouting carefully and Gorman turned with Fallon to the parapet, and stared down at the roof below.

Quinlan grabbed Doyle by the arm.

“Look at the shed! She’s openin’ up!”

The sides of the gray wooden structure that looked as if it might camouflage a water tank were smoothly and quietly collapsing, falling outward. The roof was folding down on one of the walls, precise as machinery, well-hinged and oiled.

They saw a plane revealing itself. A strange ship, an autogyro far larger than any of them had seen, or imagined. It had a double set of sustaining and elevating blades that had been folded, but were opening up, like four-petaled flowers. The purr of twin-motors steadily increased.

“They got him in the ship!” said Gorman. “Come on!”

He set fingers between his teeth and whistled to Doyle and Quinlan. They came running across the roof. All four swarmed over the parapet, clung for a second, and then dropped.

Before they could get set to charge the plane, now fully in the clear, hell-fire broke out. Sub-machine guns riddled them from the gondola of the plane, tore them apart as they stood. Hot lead shocked and spun them about, leaving them bloody bundles that twitched, and then lay still.

Now the walls of the shed were down, level with the roof. The compact, powerful engines gave out their power. The overhead blades whirred and tugged. The twin-gyro lifted almost vertically, rose humming into the sky like an enormous top; up to where the last stars were paling and the river mist was spreading to a low ceiling.

On the ballroom floor, the commissioner took charge. Doors and windows were opened, to clear away the fumes of tear gas. None was allowed to leave. Farnum was carried into a dressing room, where the medical examiner swiftly started to give immediate aid, to find out the gravity of the wound. The great majority of the masqueraders did not yet know of the tragedy, though they were frightened and bewildered.

Of the doctors who offered their help, the medical examiner accepted the two that he recognized. The surgeons looked grave. Blood was jetting fast, dark blood now. It looked like a vein, an important one. Attempt to remove the missile might be immediately fatal, causing a hemorrhage that could not be checked in time with such means as they had at hand. Removal to a hospital was equally hazardous.

There was the added uncertainty that the dart, or bolt, might be poisoned, or barbed against easy withdrawal. The Griffin was capable of both.

“About one chance in a thousand,” the M.E. told the commissioner, as the latter entered the dressing room, his face grim. “We’ll do what we can. If we can get a powerful enough styptic, and stimulant, in time. I’ll need a messenger.”

“One waiting,” snapped the commissioner. “Motorcycle. Can’t you phone to save some time?”

“I tried it,” said the M.E. curtly. “The Griffin is thorough. The phones are dead.”

The commissioner’s face set like stone. He had seen Manning swarm up the pillar, his own men making for the stairs. He turned to the inspector by his side, rapped out an order.

“See what happened to the squad that went up after Major Manning. They would go through to the roof.”