The Crime Master: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 1 (Gordon Manning and The Griffin) by J. Allan Dunn
Authors: J. Allan Dunn
Tags: action and adventure
Ads: Link
open, but those wall safes are junk. It ain’t empty. I saw papers there.”
Manning nodded and went outside. The butler came out from the back as Manning strolled around.
“Anything I can do for you, sir?” he asked.
Manning eyed him. The man seemed to take him for granted as some one of importance and authority.
“You can show me Mr. Hastings’s room from the outside,” he said. “Is it here, or in front?”
“In the rear, sir. Up there. The front gets the morning sun, you see, sir. Mr. ’Astings didn’t like it in the mornings.”
“I see.”
There was a loggia, a portico, set into the walls, arched. On the second floor.
“That’s all,” said Manning. “What’s your name, by the by? I’ll want to talk to you later.”
“Jennings, sir. I’ve not been in Mr. ’Astings’s service long, but he was a fine gentleman and a good master. Very considerate. A terrible thing to ’appen, sir.”
“Yes,” said Manning curtly. “That’s all.”
Jennings bowed and left. A bit of a hypocrite, Manning fancied, but his job called for it, he supposed. Maintaining the regret of an old retainer, a little nosey, a little reluctant to leave. Manning saw him watching from a window of what might be the butler’s pantry.
He looked for signs beneath the portico, but hardly expected to find them. The Griffin would not bungle. But that strangling cord was nothing new.
A ladder would reach there easily enough. There was a four-car garage, elaborately equipped. Stables, with riding horses in the stalls. Doubtless Mrs. Hastings rode, perhaps Hastings. No chauffeurs, no grooms. They would all be in the house, in the servants’ quarters, gossiping.
A small building that was locked. It held garden tools. It was designed in Italian fashion, with a lean-to under a tiled roof. There were ladders here—two of them, on wall hooks. Manning appraised them. There were vines on the house, and they would be used for trimming them and the trees in the orchard.
He tore a handkerchief in two, wrapped the halves about his palms, and took down the shorter ladder, carrying it back into the orchard, sliding it in a slight depression where the long grass hid it.
He was back at the tool house when he saw the butler hurrying toward him. He stood nonchalantly regarding the view, filling his pipe.
“The constable, or whatever he is, sir, says it’s perfectly all right, sir.”
“Then I’ll come in.”
The detectives from New York had not arrived. The local man was apologetic.
“The commissioner said you were to take over,” he said.
Manning nodded.
“I want you to come over the house with me, Jennings,” he said. “We’ll see Mr. Hastings’s room first.”
The body of the multi-millionaire lay on his bed in his pyjamas, his head on the pillow, his body partly underneath the clothes. The doctor had seen him, a police surgeon would presently appear.
Manning did not disturb him. He saw the cord tight about his neck, sunken, the flesh bulging. The eyes were closed. The jaw had fallen. He saw the opening of the wall safe, a circular door. It had not been jimmied, but that meant little. A man expert with a microphone could have listed the combination in a few minutes.
There was a gun on a bed table, by a lamp. A treatise on star sapphires lay close to the shaded light.
There was a button in the frame of the bed, placed handy for an alarmed man to touch.
“Did Mr. Hastings fear burglars?” Manning asked Jennings.
“I wouldn’t say that, sir. He was cautious. Had a lot of stones in the safe, I’m told. And, for an elderly man, he was active. Quite. It’s hard to understand how he got strangled without turning in an alarm, even if he could not get at his gun. That button sets off a gong that would wake the dead. But we heard nothing.”
Manning glanced at the open window, a door that might lead to a dressing room, another to a bath.
“Slept with the window open?”
“Always, sir. It was open when I brought him
Manning nodded and went outside. The butler came out from the back as Manning strolled around.
“Anything I can do for you, sir?” he asked.
Manning eyed him. The man seemed to take him for granted as some one of importance and authority.
“You can show me Mr. Hastings’s room from the outside,” he said. “Is it here, or in front?”
“In the rear, sir. Up there. The front gets the morning sun, you see, sir. Mr. ’Astings didn’t like it in the mornings.”
“I see.”
There was a loggia, a portico, set into the walls, arched. On the second floor.
“That’s all,” said Manning. “What’s your name, by the by? I’ll want to talk to you later.”
“Jennings, sir. I’ve not been in Mr. ’Astings’s service long, but he was a fine gentleman and a good master. Very considerate. A terrible thing to ’appen, sir.”
“Yes,” said Manning curtly. “That’s all.”
Jennings bowed and left. A bit of a hypocrite, Manning fancied, but his job called for it, he supposed. Maintaining the regret of an old retainer, a little nosey, a little reluctant to leave. Manning saw him watching from a window of what might be the butler’s pantry.
He looked for signs beneath the portico, but hardly expected to find them. The Griffin would not bungle. But that strangling cord was nothing new.
A ladder would reach there easily enough. There was a four-car garage, elaborately equipped. Stables, with riding horses in the stalls. Doubtless Mrs. Hastings rode, perhaps Hastings. No chauffeurs, no grooms. They would all be in the house, in the servants’ quarters, gossiping.
A small building that was locked. It held garden tools. It was designed in Italian fashion, with a lean-to under a tiled roof. There were ladders here—two of them, on wall hooks. Manning appraised them. There were vines on the house, and they would be used for trimming them and the trees in the orchard.
He tore a handkerchief in two, wrapped the halves about his palms, and took down the shorter ladder, carrying it back into the orchard, sliding it in a slight depression where the long grass hid it.
He was back at the tool house when he saw the butler hurrying toward him. He stood nonchalantly regarding the view, filling his pipe.
“The constable, or whatever he is, sir, says it’s perfectly all right, sir.”
“Then I’ll come in.”
The detectives from New York had not arrived. The local man was apologetic.
“The commissioner said you were to take over,” he said.
Manning nodded.
“I want you to come over the house with me, Jennings,” he said. “We’ll see Mr. Hastings’s room first.”
The body of the multi-millionaire lay on his bed in his pyjamas, his head on the pillow, his body partly underneath the clothes. The doctor had seen him, a police surgeon would presently appear.
Manning did not disturb him. He saw the cord tight about his neck, sunken, the flesh bulging. The eyes were closed. The jaw had fallen. He saw the opening of the wall safe, a circular door. It had not been jimmied, but that meant little. A man expert with a microphone could have listed the combination in a few minutes.
There was a gun on a bed table, by a lamp. A treatise on star sapphires lay close to the shaded light.
There was a button in the frame of the bed, placed handy for an alarmed man to touch.
“Did Mr. Hastings fear burglars?” Manning asked Jennings.
“I wouldn’t say that, sir. He was cautious. Had a lot of stones in the safe, I’m told. And, for an elderly man, he was active. Quite. It’s hard to understand how he got strangled without turning in an alarm, even if he could not get at his gun. That button sets off a gong that would wake the dead. But we heard nothing.”
Manning glanced at the open window, a door that might lead to a dressing room, another to a bath.
“Slept with the window open?”
“Always, sir. It was open when I brought him
Similar Books
