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:
“Suppose,” said Sarborn reflectively, “that you should pretend inability to go through with this?”
“It would not suffice,” responded Melken. “The Jackdaw will not take excuses.”
Nervously, the young man glanced at his watch. He shook his head as he noted the hour.
“I’m due there now, Farrell!” he exclaimed. “Due there at once! I’ve got to go through with this job.”
“Stay here—”
“I can’t!” Melken’s tone was excited. “I’ve told you this, Farrell, so you can help me later. When this job is done, I’ll be free of The Jackdaw. He told me so, today, when he talked to me over the telephone. I’m going through with it, Farrell. I only want to know that I can count on you if trouble comes. I want to come back here when this is finished.”
“Take me along with you,” Sarborn asked, pleadingly.
“Impossible! Yvonne and her father expect me alone. I must manage to deceive them. I’ll be away before the loss is discovered. After that, I can talk about an alibi—”
Melken was turning toward the door. Sarborn threw out an arm to restrain him. The delay was only momentary, but in that interval, The Shadow, beyond the barrier, glided away, the listening disk clutched in his black-gloved hand.
When Bart Melken broke free from Farrell Sarborn in the hallway, The Shadow was no longer in sight. He was watching, though, from the stairway. He saw Melken stride toward the elevator. Farrell Sarborn, shaking his head solemnly, stepped back into the apartment.
THE elevator door opened; Melken entered, closed the door, and descended. The Shadow crept forward. At the door of the apartment, he again employed his sound-detecting disk.
Within the apartment, Farrell Sarborn had lighted a cigarette. He was pacing slowly back and forth. He glanced at his watch, then called his servant, Jalon.
“Bring my hat and coat,” he ordered. “I am going out.”
While the servant followed the command, Sarborn opened a table drawer. From it, he brought forth a loaded revolver, which he dropped in his side pocket. Jalon returned with the outer garments. Sarborn donned hat and overcoat.
“If anyone calls,” he said to Jalon; “tell them that I am busy. You understand? Do not let them come up here” — he paused — “unless Mr. Cranston should call. I do not expect him, however, until nearly midnight. You can admit Mr. Cranston — no one else, however.”
Jalon grunted his understanding of the instructions. Farrell Sarborn strode to the door. Simultaneously, The Shadow glided away from his listening post.
When Farrell Sarborn strode out into the hallway, The Shadow was already on the stairs. His tall form was descending; he would arrive at the bottom by the time Sarborn had reached the first floor in the elevator.
The Shadow had divined Farrell Sarborn’s destination. Sarborn, like Melken, had chosen one definite place: the home of Garforth Lydell. Sarborn had realized, more fully than Melken had supposed, the power which The Jackdaw wielded over his friend.
Sarborn had openly accompanied Melken to Winchendon’s; that had been when Melken had volunteered no specific facts. Now, with Melken’s fullest fears asserted, Sarborn was secretly on his way to join the young man at Garforth Lydell’s.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE INTERLUDE
WHEN Farrell Sarborn strode from the elevator, the eyes of The Shadow were upon him. Sequestered in the darkness of the stairway, the keen-visioned observer watched Bart Melken’s friend make his departure.
The Shadow made no motion for a short while. Then, like a spectral shape, he glided forth from his spot of hiding, and moved easily toward the door. His form seemed to shroud the light; it cast a long splotch through the narrow glass panels, upon the tiled floor of the lobby.
The Shadow’s gloved hand rested on the knob of the door. It paused there as the outer door swung open, and a man entered the lobby. In the dim light, The Shadow recognized the new arrival. It was Doctor Lysander Dubrong.
The physician’s face seemed sallow in the yellow light. Dubrong was wearing a serious, worried expression. His suave smile was absent. The Shadow watched him run his finger along the line of push buttons to the one which The Shadow knew belonged to Farrell Sarborn.
Dubrong was holding the little receiver to his ear. His eyes were upon the mouthpiece by the name board.
The Shadow was not only observant, his keen ears could hear the conversation which Dubrong was conducting with Jalon, in the apartment above.
“Hello… Mr. Sarborn…” Dubrong paused. “I want to talk with Mr. Sarborn… What’s that? Who am I?… Let me talk to Mr. Sarborn… What? Am I Mr. Cranston?” The flicker of the suave smile returned to Dubrong’s thin lips. “Yes… I am Mr. Cranston… I must see Mr. Sarborn…”
The Shadow sidled into darkness as the door began to click. Dubrong with surprising agility, leaped from the name board and pushed open the door. He strode directly past the spot where The Shadow was standing. The door came directly in front of the black-cloaked watcher.
While the door was closing, The Shadow spied a new entrant into the lobby. A squatly man had arrived there just as Dubrong sprang past the door. The way was blocked to him.
The Shadow, peering from the edge of the door, again recognized a face. This man was a second-class detective from headquarters; he had evidently been detailed to watch the movements of Doctor Dubrong.
The dick looked at the name board. He saw the pressed button, with the name of Farrell Sarborn. He paused for a few moments, then turned and hurried from the lobby. A soft laugh came from The Shadow. He knew that the trailer was hastening to report to Joe Cardona.
DUBRONG had gone above, using the elevator which was waiting when he entered. The Shadow followed on his trail, using the stairway. As he neared the top, he heard the sound of excited voices. Doctor Dubrong was arguing with Jalon.
“Get out of my way!” ordered the physician. “I want to see your master — not you.”
“He is not here,” returned Jalon, blocking the door to the apartment.
“Where is Bart Melken?” demanded Dubrong.
“He is not here,” retorted Jalon.
“He came here — from his hotel,” was Dubrong’s savage response. “I learned that when I called there. Where is he?”
“He has left.”
“I’m going to find out — from your master.”
“He has left, also.”
Dubrong shot a vicious punch into the servant’s body. As Jalon doubled up, The Shadow saw Dubrong stride past his blocker. He could hear angry shouts as Jalon followed. The two men came staggering forth, locked in a furious grasp.
It appeared an unequal struggle, the frail physician against the squatly, thick-formed South American servant. Dubrong, however, showed marked skill in combat. He twisted free, delivered another punch, and sent the squatly man staggering. He headed for the elevator this time. He had evidently assured himself that neither Sarborn nor Melken was in the apartment.
Jalon, however, was not satisfied. Like a tiger, the servant sprang after the departing physician. A knife blade flashed as Jalon leaped toward the open door of the elevator.
The Shadow sprang suddenly forth from his spot of obscurity. Dubrong did not see him; the physician was in the elevator. Jalon did not see him; the servant was intent upon stopping Dubrong.
As The Shadow made his swift approach, a shot resounded. It came from the elevator. Jalon, already pounding into the car to grapple with the man who appeared an enemy to his master, collapsed with suddenness.
Dubrong must have pulled a revolver and delivered a quick but certain shot. The elevator door clanged shut. The car began its descent as The Shadow reached the closed door.