In the Grip of the Griffin: The Complete Battles of Gordon Manning & The Griffin, Volume 3 Read Online Free PDF Page A

with them, dividing a melon equally with a silver knife, scooping the seeds out deftly and placing them in a bowl. He placed one half on Allison’s plate, the other on his own.
    “How about you, Manning?” he asked. “Choose your own?”
    There were two more melons. Manning did not immediately reach for one. He was a little surprised that Dougherty had helped himself to the other half of the first melon, but figured that he might have done that with some remote idea of reassurance, or of determination to taste the same food as Allison. It seemed unnecessary.
    There was another matter, also a slight one, but arresting to Manning’s keen perceptions. Dougherty’s hand had been perfectly steady while he divided the melon with the silver knife, but he had used his left hand. It was an unusual thing for a normal person to do. He had not noticed before, and he was sure he would have, that Dougherty had shown himself ambidextrous or left-handed.
    Manning caught himself remembering the original meaning of the word sinister—“opposed to dexter—pertaining to the left.” Sinister-handed! It was an ill-omened phrase. Dougherty had seemed nervous, which was natural enough—Manning’s nerves were also taut. Now, for the first time, he caught sight of the sergeant’s eyes in the sunlight. The pupils were….
    Dougherty spooned up some of the rich orange pulp, swallowed it. Manning reached for a second melon and a knife.
    “Pretty nearly perfect,” said Dougherty. “Try it, Mr. Allison.”
    Allison did so, smacked his lips.
    “Delicious,” he said; “sweet as hon—”
    He never completed that word or any other one. He began spasmodically gasping for breath. His mouth opened wide and his face seemed suddenly drained of blood. Then he slid from his chair in a heap, the spoon falling from his hand.
    “It’s a stroke,” said Dougherty. “I’ll get a doctor.”
    He started to his feet. Manning also.
    “Never mind a doctor,” he said. “I’m afraid he’s gone. But not you. You’re staying here.”
    Dougherty stared at him. His eyes glittered with excitement.
    “Okay,” he said. “You notify ’em if you want to.”
    “Put up your hands!” ordered Manning.
    “Are you crazy?” Dougherty partially obeyed.
    “Higher,” snapped Manning. “I may be. I’ll know better when his half of the melon has been analysed. I may apologize to you then, but I doubt it. I’ll let you put down your hands on one condition, that you finish that half, or start to finish it. One spoonful of that pulp, ‘sweet as honey,’ will be enough.”
    The face of Dougherty was suddenly transformed. His lips curled back and showed his teeth in a snarl. He thrust his right hand high, but his left—the sinister hand that had halved the fruit, darted for his right side.
    His second gun—the first one known to Manning and revealed several times as a service weapon in a holster as regularly worn—came from the inner pocket of his coat. It spat fire twice before he fell with Manning’s bullet in his chest. The shock of the slug and its placement had knocked him down. Manning was bored through his shoulder, high up, his collarbone was broken.
    The sergeant, still snarling, dying even then from the wound, fired again, left-handed, but the shot went wild as Manning’s relentless aim crashed lead into the man’s skull. It was a duel to the death, though he would have preferred to take his man alive.
    But the Evil lurking there had materialized too swiftly. The Griffin had struck. Two men lay dead. One of them Allison.
    There was pounding at the stairway door and Manning opened it. Officers came in, stood amazed and aghast.
    “Who killed him?” demanded an inspector.
    “He killed Allison, I killed him,” said Manning quietly. The game was over. The Griffin had lost a pawn, but he had called checkmate. “Get the commissioner right away,” Manning ordered. “And the Medical Examiner.”
    “Dougherty killed Allison? That’s