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:
As Bart Melken rested in an easy-chair, he never once supposed that through his telephone calls he had paved the way to startling consequences. The words that he had uttered had been recorded. Already, Harry Vincent, seated in the adjoining room, was completing an exact report to The Shadow.
It was nearly five o’clock — Melken’s last call had been completed shortly before the hour — when Harry Vincent appeared in the lobby of Melken’s hotel. The Shadow’s agent hailed a cab, and rolled to a huge skyscraper — the Badger Building. He rode by elevator to a high floor, and entered an office which bore the legend:
RUTLEDGE MANN INVESTMENTS
In an inner room, Harry came face to face with a lethargic, chubby-faced individual, who was seated at a desk beside the window. This was Rutledge Mann, who served as a contact man and special investigator for The Shadow. Harry gave Mann the sealed envelope which contained his report. He left the office shortly afterward.
Ten minutes later, Mann left the Badger Building, and rode by cab to Twenty-third Street. Here, he entered a dilapidated building, and ascended a flight of dingy stairs. He stopped in front of an office which bore a name upon its central panel of unwashed glass:
B. JONAS
Mann dropped the envelope through the mail chute. He stared a few moments at the door, with its frosted front that made it impossible to see within. Every sign told of desertion. Cobwebs were apparent on the glass panel. To all appearances, no one had been in that office for many months.
Yet Mann knew that the letter which he had dropped would be delivered; for this mail chute was the collection box where The Shadow received such messages as the one which Mann had brought.
No one approached that door after Mann had left. Yet the message in the mail chute was gained by the recipient for whom it was intended. The proof of this took place in a silent, mysterious room, somewhere in the maze that is Manhattan.
A CLICK resounded amid total blackness. A bluish light came on; its rays were concentrated by an opaque shade so they spread uncanny illumination upon the polished surface of a corner table.
Appearing beneath the light were two white hands that moved like detached creatures creeping into life from oblivion. Between them, they held the envelope which had come from Harry Vincent through the agency of Rutledge Mann.
The hands of The Shadow! One token told of their identity. This was a gleaming gem that flashed mysteriously from the long third finger of the left hand. That jewel, unmatched in all the world, was The Shadow’s girasol — a fire opal of shimmering splendor. The strange stone emitted sparks that seemed to come from a living coal.
Harry Vincent’s report tumbled from the envelope. It was written in ink; it was prepared in simple code. To The Shadow, its wording was plain. Thus did the master learn all that Bart Melken had said over the telephone that afternoon.
Strangely, the blue-inked words began to fade as promptly as The Shadow read them. An invisible hand seemed to be obliterating them from view. That was due to the special type of ink that The Shadow and his agents used in their private correspondence. Writing disappeared shortly after it contacted with the open air.
Melken’s conversations had been somewhat obscure in certain details — particularly the one which he had conducted with The Jackdaw. To The Shadow, however, the gaps were easy ones to fill. The report gave the super sleuth the vital facts that he wished to know.
Crime was due to strike tonight, at the home of Silas Winchendon. Bart Melken, nervous and disturbed, had called upon a friend to be close at hand — without revealing facts to that friend. Orders had come from Melken’s superior — and The Shadow knew the name under which that hidden crook masqueraded.
The Jackdaw planned to follow his success at Rutherford Casslin’s with another well-laid scheme of crime. Although his purpose was not mentioned, The Shadow seemed to sense the type of robbery that the crook had planned.
The whispered laugh that echoed from the darkness revealed The Shadow’s hidden thoughts. The black-garbed master was already formulating a method of offsetting The Jackdaw’s efforts.
Tonight, The Jackdaw’s cleverness would be met by The Shadow’s skill. The meeting ground would be the home of Silas Winchendon. A mighty struggle was in the making; what its outcome would be, only The Shadow could foresee.
The light clicked out. A weird, chilling laugh broke the silence of the gloom. Reverberations died. Silence returned.
The Shadow had departed from that room of blackness. He had left his mysterious sanctum to issue forth in battle against crime.
CHAPTER XII
CARDONA PERSISTS
WHILE The Shadow, in his sanctum, was studying reports that were bringing him closer to The Jackdaw’s trail, Joe Cardona, in his office at headquarters, was gloomily considering the situation that he faced.
Ever since he had been forced to take Doctor Lysander Dubrong’s bitter gibes, Cardona had been seeking a comeback. He had realized fully that Dubrong was too clever for him. In that realization, however, Joe had reached a definite and startling conclusion.
The detective was sure that someone had spotted him while he had been in Doctor Dubrong’s waiting room; that the physician had known the identity of his bewhiskered patient all during the clinic hours.
In proof of this, Cardona cited to himself the fact that Dubrong had departed from usual procedure by letting a patient into the consulting room after the one-o’clock deadline. Cardona, therefore, had tried to figure who had tipped off Dubrong to the fact that a detective was close by.
In his two-hour waiting period at the clinic, Cardona had studied the patients there. One, only, had aroused his keen suspicion. That was the man whom he had encountered at the outer door, the shuffling cripple called Limps Silvey.
Was there collusion between Limps and Dubrong? Cardona had determined to find that out. He had, accordingly, put stool pigeons watching Limps. So far, their findings had been meager.
Limps had appeared only at intervals. He had revisited the East Side Clinic; he had been seen wandering about the streets at night. He had also shown a proclivity for passing out of sight in a hurry.
With another evening arriving, Joe Cardona was angry at this lack of action. He wanted to get close on Limps Silvey’s trail. He was positive that the frail, twisted man served Dubrong in some important capacity.
The telephone began to ring. Cardona picked up the instrument. He recognized the voice of one of his stool pigeons. The words came in an eager, whining tone.
“I’m wise to this guy Limps,” the stool was saying. “He’s been duckin’ us cute until just now. I’ll tell you where he is — he’s sneakin’ in an’ out from Bing Claver’s joint. He’s there now, an’ I think he’s goin’ to stay a while.”
“O.K.,” ordered Cardona briskly. “Stick there until I show up.”
DUSK had settled. Cardona scorned disguise. He felt that he could trail Limps Silvey under cover of night.
He started out from headquarters. A while later, he appeared by the decadent alley where the side entrance to Bing Claver’s apartment was located.
It was darkening; the stool pigeons sneaked out and whispered as they saw the detective. Joe heard their words. Apparently, Limps Silvey had suddenly dropped his usual crafty tactics. Off his guard, the stools had trailed him. Joe dismissed the stools and took up watch alone.
Usually stolid, Joe Cardona was anxious tonight. He had cause to be. The blind lead on the Casslin murder — nothing had developed from the Hindu theory — had brought criticism from Police Commissioner Weston.