Read Online Day of Doom: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 2 by J. Allan Dunn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. Allan Dunn
Tags: Detective/Hard-Boiled
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twelve feet in setback. There were shrubs and dwarf trees in stoneware vases. The whole terrace was backed by an eight foot wall of sheer cement, faced, and colored a deep green; the base of the penthouse which rose above them. There was no access from terrace to the penthouse.
The only door was the one through which they had come from the main building.
“Who lives up there?” asked Manning.
Sergeant Doherty answered:
“A guy who calls himself Zerah. A Hindu. He’s got some sort of a cult. It ain’t a fortune telling racket. We’ve had him looked into long ago. The society dames fall for whatever it is he hands them. His papers are okay, he’s got the right backing and he don’t charge fees. We’ve got nothing on him at headquarters. Some sort of a mystic, but we can’t touch him. This is a free country—in spots,” Doherty finished sarcastically.
Manning looked for clews, for some indication that somebody else but Pelota had been on the terrace at that unreasonable hour. He found none.
“Any suggestions?” he asked Henley.
“The man was strangled to death, I think. His diaphragmatic muscles are rigid. It looks like it might be some kind of poison. Those marks—it might have been a dart, but if it was, it has been taken. And where did his blood go to? I’m saying nothing till I dissect, and I’m not sure I’ll find anything. The eyes are dilated, there are baffling superficial symptoms. Damn it, Manning, I don’t know! That’s why I got the commissioner out of bed and asked for you. But—wait, man, wait till you see the other body!”
III
It was hard to believe that this corpse had once been vital, beautiful, alluring. But Manning had seen pictures of Evelyn Kyrrel Power, aside from the one framed on the dressing table. She had been young, prominent, popular, an acknowledged type of American beauty.
On the bed was a bloated thing that almost made Manning shudder when he saw it revealed. It was shapeless, discolored, monstrous.
Henley pulled up the merciful sheet.
“That staggers me, Manning,” he said, “if the two deaths are connected. They may be. Coincidence seems impossible. All the surface veins are broken, burst. Deeper ones may be the same. Tissues are ruptured. I think, but I am not sure, on account of the horrible distension, that there are two marks below the right breast like those on Pelota. I can tell better later. Here is poison again.
“Now, look outside. They have a terrace here. A door opens to it off the dining room. Under this window there’s a bed of flowers. There’s been no disturbance, unless you can find some trace of it. Supposedly, the window was open. Her husband and the maid say they were always open nights. If this was a dart, tell me what force could send it the distance from another building, even if the target could be seen.
“I’m trespassing on your province, perhaps,” he went on, “but this is beyond me. It baffles me. I have thought of a snake, or some poisonous creature, but what beast, bird or reptile has fangs that can strike deep and straight on any one’s chest? A serpent must have something within the compass of its jaws to send in its fangs. Even then they are curved, their path is not direct. Neither of them bled. This girl’s blood is jellied, the blood vessels are distended.
“Her husband tells, or tried to tell, a weird tale. But he was shocked, incoherent. I gave him a mild sedative. He was talking nightmares.
“I’ll leave it to you, Manning, and I trust you find a solution. I may have word for you, after the autopsies.”
Manning had made no comment, even when he bade Henley good-by. He searched the room, knowing it had been covered. He looked at the undisturbed flower bed, surveyed the nearest building, two hundred feet away, went out on the terrace and returned.
There was nothing. Only the two bodies, one swollen to the shape of a filled wineskin, the other shrunk like a corpse made ready for the injection of mummifying
The only door was the one through which they had come from the main building.
“Who lives up there?” asked Manning.
Sergeant Doherty answered:
“A guy who calls himself Zerah. A Hindu. He’s got some sort of a cult. It ain’t a fortune telling racket. We’ve had him looked into long ago. The society dames fall for whatever it is he hands them. His papers are okay, he’s got the right backing and he don’t charge fees. We’ve got nothing on him at headquarters. Some sort of a mystic, but we can’t touch him. This is a free country—in spots,” Doherty finished sarcastically.
Manning looked for clews, for some indication that somebody else but Pelota had been on the terrace at that unreasonable hour. He found none.
“Any suggestions?” he asked Henley.
“The man was strangled to death, I think. His diaphragmatic muscles are rigid. It looks like it might be some kind of poison. Those marks—it might have been a dart, but if it was, it has been taken. And where did his blood go to? I’m saying nothing till I dissect, and I’m not sure I’ll find anything. The eyes are dilated, there are baffling superficial symptoms. Damn it, Manning, I don’t know! That’s why I got the commissioner out of bed and asked for you. But—wait, man, wait till you see the other body!”
III
It was hard to believe that this corpse had once been vital, beautiful, alluring. But Manning had seen pictures of Evelyn Kyrrel Power, aside from the one framed on the dressing table. She had been young, prominent, popular, an acknowledged type of American beauty.
On the bed was a bloated thing that almost made Manning shudder when he saw it revealed. It was shapeless, discolored, monstrous.
Henley pulled up the merciful sheet.
“That staggers me, Manning,” he said, “if the two deaths are connected. They may be. Coincidence seems impossible. All the surface veins are broken, burst. Deeper ones may be the same. Tissues are ruptured. I think, but I am not sure, on account of the horrible distension, that there are two marks below the right breast like those on Pelota. I can tell better later. Here is poison again.
“Now, look outside. They have a terrace here. A door opens to it off the dining room. Under this window there’s a bed of flowers. There’s been no disturbance, unless you can find some trace of it. Supposedly, the window was open. Her husband and the maid say they were always open nights. If this was a dart, tell me what force could send it the distance from another building, even if the target could be seen.
“I’m trespassing on your province, perhaps,” he went on, “but this is beyond me. It baffles me. I have thought of a snake, or some poisonous creature, but what beast, bird or reptile has fangs that can strike deep and straight on any one’s chest? A serpent must have something within the compass of its jaws to send in its fangs. Even then they are curved, their path is not direct. Neither of them bled. This girl’s blood is jellied, the blood vessels are distended.
“Her husband tells, or tried to tell, a weird tale. But he was shocked, incoherent. I gave him a mild sedative. He was talking nightmares.
“I’ll leave it to you, Manning, and I trust you find a solution. I may have word for you, after the autopsies.”
Manning had made no comment, even when he bade Henley good-by. He searched the room, knowing it had been covered. He looked at the undisturbed flower bed, surveyed the nearest building, two hundred feet away, went out on the terrace and returned.
There was nothing. Only the two bodies, one swollen to the shape of a filled wineskin, the other shrunk like a corpse made ready for the injection of mummifying
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