The Crime Master: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 1 (Gordon Manning and The Griffin) by J. Allan Dunn Read Free Book Online Page A

and laughed at him with the assurance of an expert who, with his chosen opening assured, is sure of winning. Once Manning took up the trail, however, he might well have to disguise himself, to approach as an unknown if possible. That would not be easy. The Griffin would be expecting his arrival. It depended, of course, on the sort of crime committed, the circumstances, the environment.
    When the telephone rang he knew who it was, sure before he heard that voice, educated, refined, save for the mockery in it, allied to the utter wickedness of the man’s ego. That suave voice, silken yet merciless, like a bowstring, seemed to dominate the room.
    Manning knew it was useless to try and trace the call. The Griffin had perfected some manner of induction that prevented that. This time he did not even trouble to warn Manning.
    “You got my letter, Manning? This is the Crime Master. I believe you have also named me the Griffin, I suppose because of my little souvenir. You have a clew there, Manning, if you only knew it, but I am afraid you are on the wrong trail.
    “However, let that rest. You will see that souvenir again before long. This is Thursday. To-morrow will be Friday, which some think an unlucky day. You rise early, perhaps. I shall call you when the thing is accomplished. It is really an act of justice. But I fear you won’t agree with me. And the method I have used is really quite ingenious—and quite new. I dislike old-fashioned ways. They are usually crude.
    “Good hunting to you! Pleasant dreams.”
    The voice ceased. For a moment Manning fancied he heard faint strains of music, the echo of an amused and tolerant laugh. It set his blood tingling with the sheer impertinence of the man, the colossal conceit. He could guess why he had been called so soon, warned to expect another call, sardonically wished pleasant dreams.
    The Griffin wanted to demoralize him, to keep him awake with worry and impotence. It did not quite accord with the Griffin’s professed pleasure at a worthy antagonist. It was not fair play, but that could be expected.
    Manning had slept too often waiting for the zero hour. He called his favorite setter and took his cane, the only weapon he carried, formidable enough, with its rings of leather shrunk over a steel rod, its sharp ferrule.
    He smoked his pipe on his walk, returned pleasantly tired physically, read for a while, rolled to slumber and awoke fresh, taking exercises and then a needle shower. But now his mind was active, it responded to apprehension, and though he ate his breakfast it was with no great appetite or enjoyment. He was waiting for the inevitable ringing of that bell.
    Meantime he mused. The Griffin’s hint of his name holding a clew had occurred to Manning, Those scarlet symbols had been placed to identify the man who planned the crimes, even if he did not actually commit them, for months before Manning volunteered as special agent. That was one thing.
    Another was the Griffin’s boast of new methods. Untried, they might, it was likely they would, be imperfect. And he must find that flaw. Must. As the hour of seven chimed he found himself pacing up and down. He filled his pipe, and the hand that applied the match shook ever so slightly.
    “Pshaw!” he exclaimed aloud. “I’m getting nervous.”
    Then the phone sounded. It meant that some one was dead, by foul means, that the Griffin had struck again. It jangled in his ears, then he was cool again. He had to be so, with such an adversary.
    “The name is Severy Hastings, Manning. The address Pebble Manor, Stony Ridge, Long Island. There are plenty of trains, or you might take your little car. You may even arrive before the family knows what has happened.
    “Hastings sleeps late. He is not as young as he might be—he was not as young. Perhaps his conscience troubled him of nights. It should. He made his millions through manipulating other people’s money, and kept it all. Of late he had posed as philanthropist. He