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:
Instead, The Shadow produced a tiny flashlight. Stooping, he turned its beams upward through the overhanging slits that marked the front of the locker. His keen eyes saw within. A soft laugh came from motionless lips.
The flashlight went out. The Shadow returned to the closet. Beyond the coats, he made another inspection, which, like the visit to the locker, brought a soft laugh in whispered tones. Pressing his fingers along the edge, he was rewarded by a clicking sound. The rear of the closet slid away. The Shadow entered a smaller closet. He smoothly opened the door beyond. The sliding panel closed behind him.
In his character of a bespectacled blind man, The Shadow now stood in the small ground-floor parlor of a deserted house. On his right was a doorway to the street. It was locked, but it opened easily to the pick which The Shadow applied. A short pause; then the stooped-shouldered blind man emerged upon the sidewalk. He fumbled as he locked the door behind him. He moved away, tapping lightly with his cane as he advanced.
From the lips beneath the black spectacles came a soft, barely audible laugh; the third which The Shadow had uttered since his arrival in Doctor Dubrong’s East Side Clinic. There was significance in that laugh. It was caused by The Shadow’s present surroundings.
The spot where the pretended blind man had emerged was not upon a side thoroughfare. It was in a blind alley; one which The Shadow, by day, recognized as a place that he had visited by night.
The secret exit from Doctor Dubrong’s consulting room had brought The Shadow into the very cul-de-sac where Limps Silvey had disappeared upon the previous night!
CHAPTER X
MELKEN FINDS A FRIEND
EVENING had come to Manhattan. Bart Melken, seated at a desk in the corner of his sumptuous hotel room, was staring dully from the window. The twinkling lights of the great city; the distant glow of the Rialto; these were discouraging rather than alluring to the young man who served as The Jackdaw’s minion.
Since his protest to Bing Claver, Melken had been despondent. He had made the appeal to the gang leader, hoping that it might reach The Jackdaw. He was sure, now, that if it had, there would be small comfort in the fact.
Bart Melken knew that he was deep in The Jackdaw’s toils. There was no retreating; but he felt the need of aid. The murder of Rutherford Casslin had brought him face to face with desperate facts.
Crime was not distasteful to Bart Melken; the penalty was what he feared. Capable though The Jackdaw might be, there was always chance of a slip. When that time arrived, Bart felt sure, he, and not The Jackdaw, would be the scapegoat.
The telephone bell rang. It was only a few feet from the spot where Melken sat. The ringing startled the young man. With trembling hand, he lifted the receiver of the telephone. He feared that this might be a message from The Jackdaw — a stern order giving him another task to perform for the crook who dealt in subtle theft, with murder as a side line. Bart knew The Jackdaw’s voice, a strained, far-away method of talking. He sighed in relief as he recognized other tones.
“Hello, Bart,” a friendly voice was saying. “How have you been since I saw you last.”
“Who is calling?” stammered Bart Melken.
“Farrell Sarborn,” came the reply. “Just landed back in New York yesterday. Called you last night — there was no answer.”
“Farrell Sarborn!” The exclamation came from Melken with a note of alleviation. “Where are you, Farrell? Stopping here in town?”
“Apartment up on Seventy-eighth Street,” returned the speaker at the other end. “Come up and see the place. I picked up a few oddities when I was in South America.”
Bart Melken repeated the address as Sarborn gave it to him. He agreed to come and see his friend at once. Leaving the apartment, Melken went down to the lobby, arrived on the street, and hailed a taxicab.
ONCE again, the young man was followed. It was not The Shadow who trailed him tonight, however. A young man, seated in the lobby, had strolled out to a coupe immediately after Melken’s departure. He drove in pursuit of the taxi which Melken had hailed.
This young man was Harry Vincent, an agent of The Shadow. Just as Cliff Marsland served as watchdog in the underworld, so did Harry Vincent take up trails in the fashionable districts. Each of these subordinates served The Shadow well. Since The Shadow had trailed Melken to his meeting with Bing Claver, other duties had concerned The Shadow. To Harry Vincent remained the work of keeping The Shadow posted on Melken’s future actions.
The taxicab stopped at a small apartment building on Seventy-eighth Street. Bart Melken alighted, paid the driver, and entered the lobby. He found a bell which was beside the card bearing Farrell Sarborn’s name. The door clicked. Bart Melken entered.
Immediately afterward, Harry Vincent stepped into the same lobby. He saw the depressed button, not yet released by a closing door. He knew the apartment to which Bart Melken had gone. He went away to report his finding to The Shadow.
On the third floor, Bart Melken spied an opened door. Framed there was the figure of Farrell Sarborn. Tall and thin in his shirt sleeves, Sarborn was smiling a friendly greeting as he extended his hand to Melken.
A few minutes later, the two men were seated in Sarborn’s living room, and a squatly, greasy-faced servant was bringing them drinks upon a tray. Sarborn indicated the fellow with a nudge of his thumb.
“This is Jalon,” he said. “Brought him along from Caracas. Needed a servant, and he speaks English. Used to work in the States. Wanted to come back.”
Bart Melken nodded. He was accustomed to Farrell Sarborn’s brisk, phraselike way of speaking. Melken was not a man with many friends, although he had numerous acquaintances. He was accustomed, however, to consider Farrell Sarborn as a real friend.
Although Sarborn was not of the elite, he could take his place in any company. The man had money, and was a traveler. A few months ago, he had started out for South America. His return had been quite unexpected. To Bart Melken, it was a most propitious event.
For though Bart had never said a word to anyone regarding the hold which The Jackdaw held over him, he had always felt that if the crisis came, he could confide in Farrell Sarborn.
The traveler was truly a man of the world; his keen, poker face showed that trait. He was at least a dozen years older than Bart Melken; that, too, gave Bart a greater reliance in his friend’s judgment.
Bart Melken felt that a crisis was impending now. He did not intend to speak of it in detail, even to Farrell Sarborn, but he saw in the traveler’s presence an opportunity to gain a companion who might serve him well when trouble arrived.
“What have you been doing?” questioned Sarborn, in a friendly tone. “You aren’t married yet?”
“Not yet,” returned Bart. “I’ve just been hanging around New York. I see Yvonne quite often, of course. Tonight happens to be an exception.”
“A wonderful girl, Yvonne,” observed Sarborn. “You’re very lucky to be marrying her. I hope you’ve been keeping out of mischief.”
“I have,” said Bart dully.
Sarborn’s eyes became keen. The traveler sipped from a glass, and stared at his companion. Bart Melken felt a bit uneasy. He tried to curb his restlessness.
“What have you been doing, Farrell?” he questioned, when his friend made no comment. “Seeing much of South America?”
Sarborn chuckled.
“South America,” he declared, “is responsible for my being in this apartment. If I hadn’t been there, I probably would be living at the Ritz. As it is, I have to keep a place where my pets can stay.”