Read Online Day of Doom: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 2 by J. Allan Dunn - Free Book Online
Authors: J. Allan Dunn
Tags: Detective/Hard-Boiled
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he cried as Manning fired.
“Well, you landed him, but he’s a mess,” said the police commissioner. “You got him just in time, nicked him back of the head with your bullet. Same thing they called creasing, out West, when they knocked down the wild broncos. And you surely beat him up. Your second slug went through his lungs, but he had touched that button and if you hadn’t had that fake excavating crew on the spot that would have been the grand finish, with the place burning up the way it was.”
Manning, stiff and sore and seared, managed a grin.
“I told you it was in the lap of the little gods,” he said.
“Oh, yeah? Well, you get the credit, Manning. We can’t send him to the chair, though I’d like to exhibit him down at the Battery in a steel cage. Swing him there till the gulls pecked him to death. But the law of the land will say he is an incurable lunatic—which I grant—and we’ll have to let him live, though why a nut should be allowed to live, after he’s done what the Griffin has done, is beyond me. Probably die of T.B. with his punctured lungs, they say. Meantime they want to observe him. I’d like to skin him and set him up in a museum as a horrible example.”
“I know how you feel,” said Manning. “But we’ve got him.”
“And we’ll hold him,” said the commissioner.
“Here’s hoping,” answered Manning. “I did my best.”
He surveyed his broken knuckles a bit ruefully. His shots had done the actual trick, but, after all, he relished the memory of the blows he had sent home. It had been a good scrap, man to madman.
“Mind if I use your phone?” he asked the commissioner.
“I might let it go, this time. Listen, anything I can get for you?”
“Thanks, but I’m afraid not,” returned Manning with a grin the other thoroughly understood. “I’m going to call my girl.”
The Mottled Monster
It Was a Fearsome Murder That Had Struck Two Victims—Murder That Had Come and Gone a Way Only a Bird Could Follow
The Insistent note of his bedside telephone awakened Gordon Manning. Dawn was not far away, but his sleeping chamber was still dark and the light outside the open windows was a deep purple.
He could afford to sleep with open windows these nights, with the Griffin insane and safely incarcerated. Yet, instantly alert, Manning noted the time, five thirty, on the luminous dial of the clock on his bedside table as he picked up the instrument.
The message was from the chief police commissioner, New York City.
“Manning? This is Melleny speaking. Something strange has happened: a double killing, or at least a double death, on Park Avenue. A local doctor was called in for one—a woman. The precinct captain has been there and two men from the Central Office. I’ve just got the report. The whole thing is almost incredible. It seems a baffling mystery, especially the cause of death. Manning, if I wasn’t sure the Griffin is safely put away—and to make sure he is I just called Dannemora—I’d feel certain that cunning devil was up to his old devices.”
For a moment Manning had also wondered whether the Griffin, in some satanic trick, had not got away once more. It had taken him months to capture the arch-fiend whose web of murder and fear had been spread over the whole United States.
“There’s only one Griffin, what’s left of him,” he said to Melleny. “At that, I’m glad to know he’s where we put him. But I need a rest, commissioner.”
“And we need you. There’s only one Manning. Your commission and authority as special investigator are not revoked. If you’ll do me this much of a favor, go there and see what you think of it, then you can say ‘no’ if there isn’t an angle to it that grips you. You’ll have full charge. I’ll hold everybody until you get there. I’m sending a cartographer and a photographer and a fingerman, though Dr. Henley says there’s nothing in it for the last. He told me to say he hopes you’ll take the
“Well, you landed him, but he’s a mess,” said the police commissioner. “You got him just in time, nicked him back of the head with your bullet. Same thing they called creasing, out West, when they knocked down the wild broncos. And you surely beat him up. Your second slug went through his lungs, but he had touched that button and if you hadn’t had that fake excavating crew on the spot that would have been the grand finish, with the place burning up the way it was.”
Manning, stiff and sore and seared, managed a grin.
“I told you it was in the lap of the little gods,” he said.
“Oh, yeah? Well, you get the credit, Manning. We can’t send him to the chair, though I’d like to exhibit him down at the Battery in a steel cage. Swing him there till the gulls pecked him to death. But the law of the land will say he is an incurable lunatic—which I grant—and we’ll have to let him live, though why a nut should be allowed to live, after he’s done what the Griffin has done, is beyond me. Probably die of T.B. with his punctured lungs, they say. Meantime they want to observe him. I’d like to skin him and set him up in a museum as a horrible example.”
“I know how you feel,” said Manning. “But we’ve got him.”
“And we’ll hold him,” said the commissioner.
“Here’s hoping,” answered Manning. “I did my best.”
He surveyed his broken knuckles a bit ruefully. His shots had done the actual trick, but, after all, he relished the memory of the blows he had sent home. It had been a good scrap, man to madman.
“Mind if I use your phone?” he asked the commissioner.
“I might let it go, this time. Listen, anything I can get for you?”
“Thanks, but I’m afraid not,” returned Manning with a grin the other thoroughly understood. “I’m going to call my girl.”
The Mottled Monster
It Was a Fearsome Murder That Had Struck Two Victims—Murder That Had Come and Gone a Way Only a Bird Could Follow
The Insistent note of his bedside telephone awakened Gordon Manning. Dawn was not far away, but his sleeping chamber was still dark and the light outside the open windows was a deep purple.
He could afford to sleep with open windows these nights, with the Griffin insane and safely incarcerated. Yet, instantly alert, Manning noted the time, five thirty, on the luminous dial of the clock on his bedside table as he picked up the instrument.
The message was from the chief police commissioner, New York City.
“Manning? This is Melleny speaking. Something strange has happened: a double killing, or at least a double death, on Park Avenue. A local doctor was called in for one—a woman. The precinct captain has been there and two men from the Central Office. I’ve just got the report. The whole thing is almost incredible. It seems a baffling mystery, especially the cause of death. Manning, if I wasn’t sure the Griffin is safely put away—and to make sure he is I just called Dannemora—I’d feel certain that cunning devil was up to his old devices.”
For a moment Manning had also wondered whether the Griffin, in some satanic trick, had not got away once more. It had taken him months to capture the arch-fiend whose web of murder and fear had been spread over the whole United States.
“There’s only one Griffin, what’s left of him,” he said to Melleny. “At that, I’m glad to know he’s where we put him. But I need a rest, commissioner.”
“And we need you. There’s only one Manning. Your commission and authority as special investigator are not revoked. If you’ll do me this much of a favor, go there and see what you think of it, then you can say ‘no’ if there isn’t an angle to it that grips you. You’ll have full charge. I’ll hold everybody until you get there. I’m sending a cartographer and a photographer and a fingerman, though Dr. Henley says there’s nothing in it for the last. He told me to say he hopes you’ll take the
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