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

his coffee and toast.”
    “You served him?”
    “Yes, sir. He preferred it that way. Didn’t like a maid in his room.”
    “All right. Have you a telephone directory?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Bring it.”
    The moment the butler left, Manning raced through the suite as his own setter might search the brush. The tiny colonnaded portico made for privacy. The bathroom window was large enough to admit a man, but it was fast locked, with a patent catch. So was the one in the dressing room. When Jennings came back Manning was gazing reflectively at the safe.
    “We’ll go over the house,” he said. “Top to bottom.”
    “Excepting Mrs. ’Astings’s apartment, sir?” Manning nodded.
    There was nothing of luxury lacking in the house. Manning passed through the servants’ hall, crowded with excited help, through the kitchen, through the cemented room that held the big frigidaire. He asked for ice water and got it, Jennings pulling out a tray of cubes.
    “You run this?” he asked.
    “I try to, sir. Would you like some breakfast?”
    “I’ve eaten,” said Manning. “Now show me where the help sleeps. All of you.”
    “I ’ope, sir”—Jennings dropped intermittent hs—“you don’t think this is an inside job?”
    “Inside or outside, you want to know who did it, don’t you?” he challenged Jennings.
    “Of course, sir.”
    “All right. I’ve had my breakfast. I’ll stroll about outdoors again until the others get here.”
    He had seen two telephones in the garage. One looked like a house connection. The other might be direct. He made sure he was not overlooked when he tried the second, got a “through,” named his number.
    VI
    THERE were a police surgeon, a detective sergeant, and two aides, three reporters. Manning let the sergeant take charge.
    The sergeant looked through the safe, found in some steel drawers morocco cases that held necklaces, other jewels.
    “One drawer empty,” he said. “May or may not mean a thing. I’ll dust for finger-prints. I understand Hastings had a collection of uncut stones. Looks like they were after them. Might have been in here. There’s some bits of wadding.”
    “Strangled!” said the police surgeon. “Died of suffocation. Look at this cord. Yellow silk. Oriental. Any Japs or Chinks in the household?”
    “None,” said Manning laconically. “He strangled, but not from the cord. You’d better have an autopsy.”
    “Why?”
    “Because a man who dies that way has bulging eyes, his tongue shows. Look at that bed-clothing, look at that pillow. Strangle a man, and he struggles, writhes. This one died in his sleep.”
    “How?”
    “I’m not sure yet. But I think you’ll find sulphurous oxide in his lungs.”
    The surgeon looked at Manning. He knew the authority he held. He looked at the pillows and the spreads upon the bed.
    “We’ll do that,” he said.
    The sergeant surveyed the open window, looked through the arches of the portico.
    “Came in this way,” he announced.
    “Yes, and no,” said Manning. “You’ll find no traces.”
    The sergeant regarded him with the superior glance of a professional toward an amateur as he rated Manning.
    “You got it all faded?” he asked, superciliously.
    “Just a hunch,” said Manning. “Call Jennings.”
    The butler came.
    “You wanted me?” he asked.
    “I wanted you,” said Manning. “These gentlemen have got their own theory about what happened. I don’t agree with them. I’d like a chat with you, in your own quarters. Confidentially.”
    He watched the butler closely, winked at him.
    “Very well, sir. Come this way.”
    Jennings had a tiny suite for himself. Sitting room, bedroom and bath. There was a telephone—two phones—in the sitting room. Manning took a comfortable chair. The butler stood until Manning asked him to sit down.
    “They think it’s a Jap or a Chink,” said Manning. “Tell me, have you seen any round here, probably Chinese, though it might be a Hindu?”
    “Why, come to