The Crime Master: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 1 (Gordon Manning and The Griffin) by J. Allan Dunn Page B
Authors: J. Allan Dunn
Tags: action and adventure
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think of it, sir, there was a dark complexioned man on the same train with me the other day. He got off at the same station. Wore a cloth wrapped round his head. I took him for one of these chaps that give what they call seances in the old country. But I’ve seen nothing of him since. I’ve not been away from the house. I’ve been getting things organized and in running order, sir.
“Do you think it was some one like that who strangled the master and took the stones, sir?”
Manning shrugged his shoulders. He was not yet ready to express himself.
The telephone tinkled. Jennings answered it. It was one of the extensions of the outside service line.
“It’s for you, sir,” he said respectfully. He stood close to Manning, outwardly deferential. He must have heard, whether he intended to or not, the message. It contained one word after Manning’s voice had identified himself.
“No.”
Manning hung up. For a moment he stood silent, tapping the floor with his cane.
“Shan’t I take your cane, sir?” asked the butler.
“No, thanks; it doesn’t matter. I shall be leaving soon.”
He was sure now he had his man. Absolutely certain that one of the Griffin’s pawns stood in front of him. To prove it was another matter. But he had one card to play. The rest stood on intuition, blended with logic, and one or two things he noticed that seemed to interlock, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. There were many missing, but these joined, they gave a glimpse of pattern.
“You say you came recently into Mr. Hastings’s service, Jennings? Through an agency, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.” For the space of a swift breath Jennings had hesitated.
“Which one was it?” Manning’s voice had taken on an edge. The self-contained butler looked at him with eyes that strove to read his mind—eyes that gazed straight for one glance and shifted. His red and white complexion was patched.
“I don’t really remember, sir. I registered at several. You see, I’ve not been over on this side long. I’m not acquainted. But Mr. Hastings was well satisfied with my references.”
“I’m sure of that. It doesn’t matter much. Let’s see what the rest are doing.”
Manning turned to walk from the butler’s sanctum. He heard back of him a suppressed sigh of relief. He had his man now, he believed, but he would still have to bluff, to force the other’s hand. He could arrive by more tedious and lengthy ways, but such methods did not go well with the tactics of the Griffin. If he had alarmed Jennings the play might fail.
There are scores of employment agencies in New York, yet there are only a few, less than six, catering to the extremely select. From the garage phone Manning had sent in inquiry concerning Jennings, asking if he had been on the books of the twenty most flourishing concerns, and the answer had been no!
But Jennings had lied when he said he did not know from what agency he had been sent—or he had not come from any. And lied again about the Hindu.
A bluff, in Manning’s opinion, was just as good as the man who made it. The setting also helped.
VII
MRS. HASTINGS was still under the merciful influence of the drug. The body had not yet been removed for autopsy. The police surgeon and the detectives were waiting the arrival of the proper conveyance, the grisly accessories of the coroner’s and undertaker’s rites. They were in the dead man’s room, investigating, questioning the servants, brought to them one by one by the housekeeper. Understanding of human nature led them to hold the inquisition where the murdered man lay stark, his face covered now, a mute witness that might force some sign from any guilty person. Precisely for this reason Manning took Jennings with him. He was not going to lose sight of him.
He believed that the only reason Jennings had not disappeared was because to do so would have aroused instant suspicion and a too close hue and cry.
The police surgeon nodded to Manning.
“I found
“Do you think it was some one like that who strangled the master and took the stones, sir?”
Manning shrugged his shoulders. He was not yet ready to express himself.
The telephone tinkled. Jennings answered it. It was one of the extensions of the outside service line.
“It’s for you, sir,” he said respectfully. He stood close to Manning, outwardly deferential. He must have heard, whether he intended to or not, the message. It contained one word after Manning’s voice had identified himself.
“No.”
Manning hung up. For a moment he stood silent, tapping the floor with his cane.
“Shan’t I take your cane, sir?” asked the butler.
“No, thanks; it doesn’t matter. I shall be leaving soon.”
He was sure now he had his man. Absolutely certain that one of the Griffin’s pawns stood in front of him. To prove it was another matter. But he had one card to play. The rest stood on intuition, blended with logic, and one or two things he noticed that seemed to interlock, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. There were many missing, but these joined, they gave a glimpse of pattern.
“You say you came recently into Mr. Hastings’s service, Jennings? Through an agency, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.” For the space of a swift breath Jennings had hesitated.
“Which one was it?” Manning’s voice had taken on an edge. The self-contained butler looked at him with eyes that strove to read his mind—eyes that gazed straight for one glance and shifted. His red and white complexion was patched.
“I don’t really remember, sir. I registered at several. You see, I’ve not been over on this side long. I’m not acquainted. But Mr. Hastings was well satisfied with my references.”
“I’m sure of that. It doesn’t matter much. Let’s see what the rest are doing.”
Manning turned to walk from the butler’s sanctum. He heard back of him a suppressed sigh of relief. He had his man now, he believed, but he would still have to bluff, to force the other’s hand. He could arrive by more tedious and lengthy ways, but such methods did not go well with the tactics of the Griffin. If he had alarmed Jennings the play might fail.
There are scores of employment agencies in New York, yet there are only a few, less than six, catering to the extremely select. From the garage phone Manning had sent in inquiry concerning Jennings, asking if he had been on the books of the twenty most flourishing concerns, and the answer had been no!
But Jennings had lied when he said he did not know from what agency he had been sent—or he had not come from any. And lied again about the Hindu.
A bluff, in Manning’s opinion, was just as good as the man who made it. The setting also helped.
VII
MRS. HASTINGS was still under the merciful influence of the drug. The body had not yet been removed for autopsy. The police surgeon and the detectives were waiting the arrival of the proper conveyance, the grisly accessories of the coroner’s and undertaker’s rites. They were in the dead man’s room, investigating, questioning the servants, brought to them one by one by the housekeeper. Understanding of human nature led them to hold the inquisition where the murdered man lay stark, his face covered now, a mute witness that might force some sign from any guilty person. Precisely for this reason Manning took Jennings with him. He was not going to lose sight of him.
He believed that the only reason Jennings had not disappeared was because to do so would have aroused instant suspicion and a too close hue and cry.
The police surgeon nodded to Manning.
“I found
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