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

It was midnight. The beginning of the zero hours—twenty-four hours of constant vigil to guard the life of Allison and the secret he alone held. That secret was nearing completion.

Allison, Manning and Dougherty stood in the laboratory of the penthouse. It was skylighted with glass, proof against ordinary missiles, layers held together by shock absorbing glucose. The sky was clear. The stars shone in a cloudless sky and seemed to gaze benignly on the mortal who sought to solve the riddle of the infinite; to learn the law that kept them in their orbits, that marshaled the constellations and fixed the planets and controlled the blazing suns.

Allison was serene. Constantly he encountered minor setbacks, but he was convinced he was on the right track. His last experiment was a profound success that had startled Manning and Dougherty and left them solemn after the demonstration they had witnessed.

The laboratory was a place of shining glass and metal, of rods and spirals and strange-shaped containers—condensers and transformers, inducers and reducers, generators and converters, elaborate contrivances of which they could only guess the use.

They had seen a million volts released without thunder, sending a purple glare high into the heavens, then subdued, eliminated. The primal force that held the atoms indivisible had been split. Allison was a god.

Manning had been with him as guest and guardian for forty-eight hours, relieving Dougherty for short watches.

Now the three were together for twenty-four hours. No one else was in the penthouse. The servants had been given a holiday. All through the building detectives and private operatives saw that nobody penetrated to the roof. The whole building was being thoroughly searched, every hour. Its own watchmen were supplemented by picked men from Centre Street.

The penthouse was shut off, in a state of siege. It was, of course, amply provisioned. Dougherty had volunteered as cook and butler.

“I’m no Oscar of the Waldorf,” he said, “but I can handle plain food. I’ve made you a menu.”

It was simple, but satisfactory. Eggs, bacon, coffee and melon for breakfast. A simple luncheon. Canned turtle soup, steak, asparagus and baked potatoes for dinner, with a dessert. Manning had ordered and taken in all the food. He had provided water, even a supply of ice. He was leaving nothing to chance. He included tobacco, cigars, cigarettes and certain liquors from his own supply. They would fare well enough, but they would use nothing that was on hand, not even the running water. The servants were not let off because they were in any way mistrusted, but because Manning was resolved to eliminate all chance of outside interference. The Griffin’s money might bribe one of them to do some apparently insignificant thing which might prove the loophole he needed.

How the Griffin would strike was beyond Manning’s ken, beyond the ideas of Dougherty. That the stroke would be subtle and sudden was certain.

Allison surrendered himself to their dual keeping with a laugh.

“I am yours for the next twenty-four hours,” he said. “To guard and keep. For that period I shall do no more work. I have earned a rest and I intend to relax and enjoy it. Do not take your own responsibilities too heavily,” he added. “The Fates look down, my lot is determined. Whatever happens, I have made some advancement in the right direction. Even to have pointed out the way is satisfaction.”

Dougherty said something almost incoherent. His voice was strained and harsh. Manning felt the terrible tension, but he was primed with the thrill that always prefaced an encounter with the Griffin. He felt that Dougherty was going stale from his steady stress of guardianship to which the climax now seemed imminent. The sergeant had changed within the last twenty-four hours and Manning wondered if he would crack, but his jaw was steady and there was a glint in his eyes that proclaimed resolution. Allison rallied him.

“You’re not yourself, Dougherty,” he said. “Let’s go into the living room and get some refreshment. Afterwards, if you smoke, I’ll play to you both. I know Dougherty doesn’t play the piano, but how about you, Manning? My instrument is the violin.”

“I never got farther than chopsticks,” Manning confessed, “but I’m a music lover.”

“I find it lets me down,” said Allison. “Clears up the cobwebs and all the trash left over from concentration on a problem.”

Manning glanced upwards through the vaulted skylight. He could see dark shapes soaring, manbirds on motionless wings, their cruising lights gleaming on patrol. There were police planes and army pilots. All landing fields had been notified not to fly over that part of Manhattan without reporting it in advance. No unknown airplane could penetrate that flying cordon.

Surely the place was impregnable. The elevator doors to the penthouse were locked, the door at the head of the stairway was closed. The building swarmed with armed and alert officers, the approaches to it were heavily guarded. The penthouse was shut off, it was rendered invulnerable.

Yet Manning, keyed-up to the expectancy of disaster, felt his spirit vibrating with premonitory alarm. He had no fear. He did not know what fear was. But he had seen many strange things in his Oriental travels, in African kraals; things inexplicable to ordinary knowledge, in old temples, spirit-houses, where phantoms had seemed to gather and take shape, chilling the hearts of warriors.

The Griffin’s apparent concession in naming the twenty-four hours in which his victim should die was in reality a crafty maneuver. It increased strain to the snapping point, while vigilance was so widely extended that, with Manning and Dougherty, it was stretched to extreme limits.

Now Manning felt certain phenomena that did not materialize out of his own consciousness. They were as automatic as the lifting hackles, the quivering nose and trembling body of a hunting dog that scents a dangerous quarry. There was evil in the penthouse, crouching, cowering, amorphous at present, invisible. At any moment it might assume some form, make itself manifest.

There was the same sort of atmospheric pressure that makes a dog howl hideously while old women predict the passing of a soul. Manning felt as if something clammy crawled down his spine, as if ghost hackles were rising on his neck, his skin goosefleshing.

Dougherty was rated the bravest man on the force. He, too, seemed haunted. Allison was the least concerned. He led the way into the living room and produced his cased violin from a carved chest.

Manning took it from him, went with it through the tall glass doors to the parapet, closing the doors behind him. He exercised the greatest precaution in opening the case, examining the violin, the bow, the cube of rosin. He had not forgotten the Griffin’s hint, which, of course, might turn out to be only a false lead, that some habit of Allison might be used as the means of destroying him.

There was nothing wrong. Out here on the roof terrace the air was cool and sweet. The lights of the theater district glowed below. All about, the towering buildings were dotted with squares and oblongs of illumination. The lighted spires gleamed like beacons. The low murmur of the city came up to Manning and now he felt nothing of that impression, that emanation of evil he had experienced within.

Allison smiled as he took over the violin.

“I played that last night for a little while,” he said, “after my formulas had proven themselves. Now I shall give you a concert.”

Dougherty and Manning smoked and sipped highballs. Allison declined a drink. From now on they partook of nothing that Manning had not personally inspected and provided.

Allison’s music was excellent and varied. He played the chansons of French voyageurs, barcarolles of Venetian gondoliers, sweet lieders of Germany, a stately Largo; passing from berceuse to minuet, from lilting gypsy airs to stirring marches, as the mood led him. Different music, this, from the barbaric strains Manning sometimes heard as the Griffin ceased talking through the telephone.

The room was delightfully furnished, artistically lighted. Through the tall windows they looked west, towards the Hudson. A few pinnacles cut the skyline where the stars glittered and the planes kept their vigil. Allison played with consummate skill for over an hour. Then he set down the violin and poured himself a drink.

“A nightcap,” he said. “I haven’t been sleeping too well lately, but I feel I shall to-night. Here’s to your healths, my friends and guardian angels, and, incidentally, here is also to my own health. I’ll turn in. See you both in the morning, although I suppose you’ll be peeping in on me, to see I haven’t been spirited away or otherwise eliminated.”

“He’s got nerve,” said Dougherty as Allison disappeared into his bedroom. “I’m damned if he hasn’t got more than I’d have, in his shoes. How about turning in, Manning? If you like we’ll split watch until breakfast time. Two four-hour tricks.”

Manning shook his head.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Go ahead and get a few hours if you feel like it. Things seem serene enough, but I haven’t had the long session you have for the past few weeks. I’m out of sleep until the time’s up.”

“I feel the same way about it,” said Dougherty. “I think I’ll shift into pajamas and a dressing-gown, just the same.”

He went to the bathroom of a guest chamber and presently came out looking far more fit and vigorous than he had done since dinner of the previous night. He took a prowl about the terrace, returned and began to look through a pile of geographical magazines. Manning found a book that interested him, but he could not lose himself in it. He still sensed that form of evil lurking, lurking for the appointed hour.

Four times in all they looked in on Allison, who slept like a tired child. Four times Manning inspected the guinea pigs in open cages he had placed here and there on the floors to detect any creeping, deadly vapor that might turn the penthouse into a lethal chamber for all of them. He had investigated all ventilation and heating ducts, but he was being thorough.

The night passed. The sky over the Hudson River turned gray, warming as the sun rose in the east. Vague mists dissolved about the tall buildings. Manning went outside. The planes caught the sun and were no longer shadows, but brilliant, tangible machines intent upon their task. They were being relieved by fresh planes and pilots every four hours.

There could be no danger from the sky. Manning could find no trace of it on the roof. He made a short patrol, assuring himself that the doors and gates were still locked—from within—plain-clothes men at their posts.

Dougherty was preparing breakfast. He had changed back into regular clothing. The smell of coffee came from the compact kitchen. Allison appeared, shaven, smiling, refreshed.

“Eight o’clock and all’s well,” he announced. “I’m hungry. How about chow, Dougherty?” he inquired as he looked into the kitchen.

Eight o’clock! A third of the allotted time had passed. Sometimes the Griffin waited until the last minute to strike.

Dougherty appeared. The table was already set in the dining room, where the sun was pouring in. A pair of canaries were singing lustily. Manning had inspected the guinea pigs once more. Allison opened a window. There were flowers outside and flower boxes gay with blooms inside the room. It was a gay appearing place that morning, but Manning was tense as a coiled spring. His hunch had heightened. The Evil Presence was still manifest despite the smiling morning, the sunny room.

Dougherty carried a dish with musk melons upon it.

“Your favorite fruit,” he said to Allison. “They’re nice and cold. We’d better eat them first and I’ll cook the omelette and bacon later so they won’t be spoiled. Where are you sitting, Mr. Allison?”

Manning had bought the melons, consulting Allison as to his taste. Dougherty sat with them, dividing a melon equally with a silver knife, scooping the seeds out deftly and placing them in a bowl. He placed one half on Allison’s plate, the other on his own.

“How about you, Manning?” he asked. “Choose your own?”

There were two more melons. Manning did not immediately reach for one. He was a little surprised that Dougherty had helped himself to the other half of the first melon, but figured that he might have done that with some remote idea of reassurance, or of determination to taste the same food as Allison. It seemed unnecessary.

There was another matter, also a slight one, but arresting to Manning’s keen perceptions. Dougherty’s hand had been perfectly steady while he divided the melon with the silver knife, but he had used his left hand. It was an unusual thing for a normal person to do. He had not noticed before, and he was sure he would have, that Dougherty had shown himself ambidextrous or left-handed.

Manning caught himself remembering the original meaning of the word sinister—“opposed to dexter—pertaining to the left.” Sinister-handed! It was an ill-omened phrase. Dougherty had seemed nervous, which was natural enough—Manning’s nerves were also taut. Now, for the first time, he caught sight of the sergeant’s eyes in the sunlight. The pupils were….

Dougherty spooned up some of the rich orange pulp, swallowed it. Manning reached for a second melon and a knife.

“Pretty nearly perfect,” said Dougherty. “Try it, Mr. Allison.”

Allison did so, smacked his lips.

“Delicious,” he said; “sweet as hon—”

He never completed that word or any other one. He began spasmodically gasping for breath. His mouth opened wide and his face seemed suddenly drained of blood. Then he slid from his chair in a heap, the spoon falling from his hand.

“It’s a stroke,” said Dougherty. “I’ll get a doctor.”

He started to his feet. Manning also.

“Never mind a doctor,” he said. “I’m afraid he’s gone. But not you. You’re staying here.”

Dougherty stared at him. His eyes glittered with excitement.

“Okay,” he said. “You notify ’em if you want to.”

“Put up your hands!” ordered Manning.

“Are you crazy?” Dougherty partially obeyed.

“Higher,” snapped Manning. “I may be. I’ll know better when his half of the melon has been analysed. I may apologize to you then, but I doubt it. I’ll let you put down your hands on one condition, that you finish that half, or start to finish it. One spoonful of that pulp, ‘sweet as honey,’ will be enough.”