The Crime Clinic
- Автор: Грант Максвелл
- Серия: The Shadow #43
- Год: 1933
- Язык: английский
- Год: Street and Smith
- Жанр: Крутые детективы
Электронная книга - «The Crime Clinic». Краткое содержание книги:
The Shadow glided from the darkened blind alley. His laugh whispered softly as he reached the street. He had, at least, learned the exact neighborhood where Limps belonged, and the sights that he marked along the street outside the blind alley seemed to give The Shadow an inkling of the shuffler’s whereabouts.
WHEN The Shadow again appeared, he was back at the improvised apartment house where Bing Claver lived. This time he made his progress upward from the darkness of the alley; the rubber cups squdged as his climbing form neared the opened window of the apartment.
There was a light in the room where The Shadow had been before. A telephone bell was ringing. The Shadow could hear Bing Claver’s low growl. Peering from beyond the window, the master investigator saw the gang leader at the telephone.
“Yeah…” Bing’s voice was emphatic. “He came here… Like I thought he would… Sure, he’s yellow… You’re going to use him just the same?… I get you… All right… I’ll be ready for the job when you want me…”
The receiver clicked Bing turned away from the telephone. He did not see the eyes of The Shadow. Those burning optics had disappeared. Once more, the mysterious phantom of darkness was descending into the darkness of the night.
Later, a shuddering burst of chilling laughter occurred in the darkness of a deserted street. It died as quickly as it had come, but its eerie echoes seemed to cling to darkened walls. A policeman on the street stopped short as he caught the reverberation. He turned and stared to seek the author of the uncanny mockery. He saw no one.
That was the laugh of The Shadow. Departing from his mission to the bad lands, it was the weird investigator’s challenge to the hordes of evil. Tonight, The Shadow had scored a point in the battle which he now was warring.
He had seen the minions of The Jackdaw. Through them, The Shadow would gain the clew to the murderer himself. He had heard Bing Claver receiving instructions from the chief; had heard the gang leader report the yellowness of Bart Melken.
More crime was in the wind. When it arrived, The Shadow would have his say.
CHAPTER VIII
AT THE CLINIC
THE SHADOW, in his trailing of Bart Melken, had followed a lead which he had gained at Rutherford Casslin’s home. He had picked up a definite angle of the case which Detective Joe Cardona had failed to observe.
Yet Cardona’s negligence was excusable. The sleuth had found a track of his own, and was determined to follow it with precision. Emphatically, Joe Cardona felt that through Doctor Lysander Dubrong, some answer could be learned regarding Casslin’s death.
Casslin had died on a Monday night. The Shadow had trailed Bart Melken on Tuesday evening. Wednesday afternoon found Joe Cardona ready for action. In his office at headquarters, the ace detective was considering his important move.
The Jackdaw had returned. Of that, Joe Cardona was convinced. Despite his natural egotism, Cardona was not blind to his failures. He was positive that there had been an important prelude to the murder of Rutherford Casslin: namely, the deaths of Scoffy and Bennie Lizzit.
Had either of those two been living now, Cardona would have been able to find a direct lead to The Jackdaw. But with Scoffy and Bennie dead, the detective had a more difficult task. Pondering, Cardona was forced to admit that he had played his cards wrong when he had made that visit to Scoffy’s hideout. Joe realized that he must have been recognized by someone in the bad lands.
The Jackdaw was in back of the trouble. He had eyes in the underworld. Cardona must avoid them. He had failed to escape recognition by night; he knew that he would certainly be spotted by day. Yet the mission which he had in mind was one that could not be entrusted to a stool pigeon.
Smiling grimly, Cardona opened a desk drawer and drew out a package. It was a large bundle; one that completely filled the drawer. Donning his hat and coat, Cardona took the package with him and left the office. Outside of headquarters, he hailed a taxicab and rode for some twenty blocks.
He reached an old house, entered the front door, and ascended to the third floor. In a little room at the rear, he opened the package and drew out an old jacket, a pair of baggy trousers, and a mass of grayish hair, together with a weather-beaten hat.
Within a few minutes, Cardona had donned these garments. He looked at his reflection in a mirror, and uttered a chuckle. To all intents, Joe Cardona had become a decrepit old man with gray hair and gray beard — a derelict who would pass unnoticed along the East Side.
It was seldom that Cardona resorted to this disguise. He kept the articles at headquarters so that he could don them if emergency demanded such action. To make doubly sure today, he had come to this secluded room, there to put on the garments.
This room was, in a sense, a hideout, a place to which Cardona came on rare occasions when he wanted to remain unnoticed in Manhattan. The room was serving him well at present, for here he had plenty of opportunity to make his disguise effective.
Weather was chilly. Cardona needed an overcoat. He brought one from the closet. It was an old, frayed coat that Cardona had outworn during the previous winter. It was all that the detective needed to complete the part that he intended to play.
Thus, instead of Detective Joe Cardona, a heavy but stoop-shouldered old man came from the obscure house. This odd-looking individual made his way to an elevated station, rode for some distance, and finally alighted in a tawdry district. Joe Cardona was again invading the territory where he had gone to see Scoffy, the stool pigeon.
SHAMBLING beneath the superstructure of the “L,” Cardona crossed the thoroughfare and turned into a side street. The buildings here were mournful. One, alone, showed signs of rehabilitation. Above it hung a sign:
EAST SIDE CLINIC
Cardona, peering along the street, saw another man coming from the opposite direction. A frail, twisted figure that hobbled with the aid of a cane, the approaching individual attracted Cardona’s immediate interest.
This was Limps Silvey. Cardona did not know the man’s identity, but he stared suspiciously at Silvey’s brownish, evil face, as they met outside the entrance to the clinic. Limps was a few steps ahead. Cardona let him enter first.
Inside the door, Cardona found a large waiting room. Sprawled on chairs about the place were men and women of all the types that might be found in this district.
Sullen, dejected bums; cripples more hopeless than Limps; women who stared solemnly at the bare walls — these formed the crowd who awaited consultation with Doctor Lysander Dubrong.
Joe Cardona had heard of this clinic. Doctor Dubrong had gained high credit through its institution. Three days every week — sometimes at more frequent intervals — the eminent physician devoted his time to the riffraff of New York.
People had spoken of the work as a noble, philanthropic enterprise. Joe Cardona had considered it in this light until two nights ago. Then, his sudden suspicions of Doctor Dubrong had caused him to gain doubts.
A middle-aged woman was seated at a table in the corner. She was evidently Dubrong’s secretary. She saw Joe Cardona as he slid into a chair, and beckoned to him. Carefully feigning his part as an old man, the detective approached.
“You wish an appointment with Doctor Dubrong?” asked the secretary.
Cardona nodded.
“Your name?”
“Michael Gaston.”
The woman made a notation.
“You will have to await your turn,” she said. “Some of these people have appointments from two days ago. Others are already registered to see Doctor Dubrong.”