The Crime Clinic

CHAPTER I COMING EVENTS

A SHORT, stocky man was strolling beneath the superstructure of an East Side elevated. The collar of his brown overcoat was upturned. His gray hat was tilted down over his forehead. His hands were thrust deep in his side pockets. The man had all the appearance of an idler. He looked like a typical denizen of this dingy district in Manhattan.

Jostling shoulders with bums, the saunterer continued his slow pace. He growled at those whom he encountered, and there was a challenge in his air that commanded immediate respect. He seemed to be as tough a rowdy as any in the neighborhood, which abounded in tough characters.

The street was gloomy; nevertheless, the stroller showed a marked aptitude for turning his head away from any lights that he approached. Shop windows were lighted, for there was some evening business even on this tawdry thoroughfare. The muffled man avoided the glare from the little stores, sought only the shadows.

Only once did the stocky individual relax his effort to remain unrecognized. That was when he reached the entrance to a side street, where he idled in meditative fashion. He wanted to be sure that he was unobserved, and in convincing himself that this was the case, he unwittingly eased his vigilance. The glow of a street lamp temporarily revealed the man’s upturned features. That light showed a swarthy, square-jawed countenance.

The muffled man was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the Manhattan force. A prowler in the borderlands where crime was fostered, he had every reason to keep his identity unknown. After short, quick glances along the street, Cardona turned and entered the alleyway.

Perhaps there were those who knew Cardona’s gait; perhaps there were spying eyes that had caught that momentary revealment of the detective’s face. Whichever the case might be, there was a distinct activity along the street immediately after Detective Cardona’s departure.

Another idler across the street turned suddenly and walked away. A sneaky, stealthy man slipped from the protection of an obscure doorway. He passed a lounger who was standing beside the steps of an elevated station. This fellow sidled away as though a relayed message had been given.

NEWS was going through the underworld that Joe Cardona had arrived within the realm of crime. The grapevine telegraph was hard at work, reporting this event. Such was the way in the badlands of Manhattan.

Yet amid the subdued excitement, no one had noted the activities of the first individual who had taken action after viewing Joe Cardona’s face. This fellow had passed as one of the underworld. He looked like a husky gangster, who had every right to be in this forlorn district. Hence he had passed unchallenged.

In the light of a dingy cigar store, this man who had seen Cardona appeared as a different type. His face, though firm and determined, showed a keenness lacking in the usual gangster. Ensconced in a telephone booth, he called a number, and announced his identity in a low voice.

“Marsland reporting,” were his words.

“Report,” came the order, in a quiet voice.

“Cardona in vicinity,” announced Marsland. “Entered alley alongside Climax Brass Shop. Went into third house on the left.”

“Report received.”

This secret conversation had a meaning. Cliff Marsland, pretended gangster, had reported Cardona’s arrival. The man to whom he had spoken over the wire was a chap named Burbank — one whom Cliff had never seen, yet with whom he had much in common.

For Cliff Marsland was an agent of The Shadow; and Burbank was The Shadow’s contact man. As a prowler in the underworld, Cliff picked up data of importance, and sent it to Burbank; the contact man, in turn, relayed it to The Shadow.

To the underworld, a secret visit by Joe Cardona was a matter of importance. Whatever concerned the underworld, concerned The Shadow also. For The Shadow, mysterious personage whose very identity was unknown, battled crime and swung the balance of power into the hands of justice.

Cliff Marsland, sensing suppressed excitement in the neighborhood, had picked up the information that Joe Cardona had been seen. He had passed the word along to The Shadow. From now on, it would be The Shadow’s province to learn why Joe Cardona had set forth on a secret mission.

JOE CARDONA was a detective of capability. He had a tendency, however, to rely upon grit rather than craftiness. He had come to this district, confident that he could conceal his identity. So sure of that had Cardona been that he did not suspect that he had been recognized and trailed.

The detective was laughing gruffly he ascended a pair of dilapidated stairs within the building that he had entered. He stopped in front of a door on the third floor and gave two short, quick raps; after a pause, he repeated the double knock.

The door opened, and a peaked, wild-eyed face stared through the crack. A sickly grin appeared upon the hunted countenance as the door opened farther.

Joe Cardona stepped in. The little, stoop-shouldered man who had admitted him quickly closed and locked the door.

“Nobody seen you?” he questioned, in a hoarse, frightened voice. “Sure nobody seen you, Joe?”

“Not a chance, Scoffy,” returned Cardona, with a grin. “Look — I had my collar up — my hat tilted. I looked like any other mug on the avenue. Sit down — sit down—”

“Don’t stay long, Joe,” pleaded the little man as he sank to a tumble-down chair. “I ain’t got much to tell you tonight. I took a big chance, Joe, when I told you to come to this hideout. Say — if anyone wised that I was playin’ stool—”

“Forget it, Scoffy. You’re safe. Let’s hear what you’ve got to tell me.”

“It ain’t much, Joe” — “Scoffy’s” voice was a hoarse whisper — “but it may mean a lot — later on. I just got the word that The Jackdaw is workin’ again.”

Scoffy’s lips twitched as his beady eyes stared toward Cardona. The little stool pigeon was anxious to see what effect his words had on the detective. He expected that Cardona would be startled. The expectation was fulfilled.

Cardona’s eyes narrowed. His jaw hardened. His fists tightened. The star detective sat down upon the only other chair in the dilapidated bedroom and looked firmly at his informant.

“What do you know about The Jackdaw?” he demanded.

“Nothin’ at all, Joe,” pleaded Scoffy. “Nothin’ — honest. I’d blab if I knew who he was—”

“Tell me what you think about him.”

“Nothin’ you don’t know, Joe.”

“Tell me, anyway.”

“Well,” asserted Scoffy, in a confidential tone, “he’s a real guy, all right. Everybody knows how he used to work. He went after swell stuff — jewels — bonds — the kind of swag you’d find in a big banker’s home.”

“Alone?”

“Sometimes — an’ sometimes with a mob. All dependin’ on the lay. Then he scrammed — an’ came back. But he scrammed again. Now I think he’s comin’ back.”

“Why?”

“Because I seen Bennie Lizzit back in town — and Bennie was workin’ in The Jackdaw’s mob.”

“Do you know any others in the outfit?”

“Not a one, Joe — honest. Say — Bennie an’ me used to be pals. If he knowed that I was squealin’ to you, Joe, I’d get the works, sure.”

Cardona eyed the furtive-faced stool pigeon. There was no question about Scoffy’s sincerity. The palefaced gangster was telling all that he knew. Joe was determined to take advantage of Scoffy’s potential usefulness.

“All right,” said the detective, rising. “I’m counting on you, Scoffy. Keep your eyes open. Pal around with Bennie Lizzit again. Find out the fellow he’s working for. If The Jackdaw is back again, I’m going to crack his mob and get him, too.”

“It ain’t goin’ to be easy,” volunteered Scoffy, with a shake of his head. “I knowed Bennie was workin’ for The Jackdaw. I was the only guy that knowed it. But I never got no hook-up on the rest of the mob.

“The Jackdaw is a silk-hat, Joe. He may use some gorillas when he needs ‘em, but he ain’t in their class. He’s a guy that moves high. He knows the swells, an’ he works alone whenever he can.”

“I know his game,” nodded Cardona. “If he had stayed around long enough I would have grabbed him. Now that I know he’s back, I can get to him. But I may have to do it through the mob. That’s where you come in. Understand? Watch Bennie Lizzit.”

“All right, Joe,” nodded Scoffy reluctantly.

“Give me a call,” ordered Cardona. “Tell me as soon as you have any new dope. Nobody knows that you’re tipping me off. Don’t worry.”

With this assurance to the stool pigeon, Cardona closed his coat collar about his chin. He slouched his hat down over his eyes, opened the door, and thrust his hands into his pockets as he stalked down the stairs.

Scoffy listened at the door. He heard the thud of Cardona’s footsteps. He was glad that the detective had gone. The interview had taken only a few minutes. Scoffy tried to convince himself that no one had recognized the detective. The stool pigeon realized that he had taken a long chance in bringing Cardona here.

Satisfied as to Cardona’s departure, Scoffy closed the door. He stood trembling as he fished in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Matches rattled as a wooden box came out in the shaky hand.

Scoffy’s gaze was toward the window. Suddenly, it turned to the door. With a wild gasp, the stool pigeon sprang to lock the barrier.

He was too late.

SIMULTANEOUSLY with the sound of footsteps, the door swung open, and a big-shouldered, ugly-faced ruffian thrust himself into the room. In his right hand, this fellow held a big revolver. He covered Scoffy with a weapon, and a fierce grin appeared upon the pockmarked countenance.

“Bennie Lizzit!”

The name was gasped from Scoffy’s lips. The intruder laughed as he closed the door behind him.

“Didn’t expect to see me, eh?” he snarled. “Who’d you think I was — that smart dick comin’ back?”

“What dick?” questioned Scoffy, trying to bluff.

“Joe Cardona,” jeered Bennie Lizzit. “Say — that clod-hopper was lamped when he hit the avenue. Everybody knew he was down here. I heard where he headed. I figured maybe he was comin’ to see you.”

“What’d he want to see me for?” asked Scoffy. “I ain’t said nothin’ to him, Bennie. You an’ me — we’re pals and—”

“We was pals,” retorted Bennie. “But not no more — you squealin’ rat!”

Scoffy saw what was coming. Bennie Lizzit was between him and the door. With a frenzied cry, the trapped stool pigeon made a dash for the window. Bennie overtook him; with a sweep of his arm, the big gangster sent the little man spinning into the corner.

“Honest, Bennie!” Scoffy was pleading. “Honest — I didn’t squeal!”

“You mean you ain’t goin’ to squeal no longer!”

With these words, Bennie shot his left hand forward, and pinned the stool pigeon’s neck to the wall. Before the cornered squealer could manage to squirm away, Bennie made a vicious swing with his right arm. His revolver landed squarely upon the side of Scoffy’s head.

The little fellow sagged. Bennie Lizzit delivered another skull-crushing blow. He released his left hand. Scoffy’s body tumbled to the floor. The stool pigeon was dead.

Bennie gloated as he surveyed the work which he had done. Still holding his revolver, he turned toward the door.

The murderer’s eyes began to bulge. His fist tightened on his revolver. His hand, however, did not rise. Bennie Lizzit, killer though he was, felt pangs of fear at the uncanny event which was taking place before his gaze here in this gangster hideout.

The door was swinging open, of its own accord. As Bennie stared into the darkened hallway beyond, all that he could see was a pair of blazing eyes. As he stared, the murderer saw a form materialize. He gasped as he observed a being in black that appeared just within the doorway.

“The Shadow!”

Bennie’s blurted recognition was a fitting tribute to the mysterious presence of The Shadow. A tall form garbed in black, The Shadow had arrived as an avenger from the night. His shape seemed spectral beneath the folds of a black cloak. His features — all save those terrible, blazing eyes — were invisible beneath the shade of a broad-brimmed slouch hat.

THE one symbol of realism was the huge automatic that projected from a black-gloved hand. The sight of that weapon brought terror to Bennie Lizzit. The mobster had killed. His victim lay at his feet. The Shadow had trapped the murderer.

An ominous laugh came from unseen lips. The Shadow had arrived too late to prevent the death of Scoffy, the stool pigeon. He was here, however, to learn the reason why Scoffy had been slain. His sinister laugh was the token of his power.

Had The Shadow trapped Bennie Lizzit at any other moment, the gangster would unquestionably have quailed. From his lips, The Shadow would have learned the reason for the murderer’s crime.

But with Scoffy’s body at his feet, Bennie Lizzit still was dominated with a savage thirst for murder. At the sound of The Shadow’s laugh, the killer spat a fierce oath and swung his gun arm upward to fire point-blank at the avenger who had caught him on the scene of crime.

The room re-echoed to the roar of an ear-splitting report. The flash of flame came from The Shadow’s automatic. A split second before his enemy, The Shadow had delivered his message to prevent the gangster’s shot.

Bennie staggered backward, clutching his left shoulder. Crippled, he still snarled his rage. With clawing finger, he managed to pull the trigger of his revolver. Shots went wide from his wavering gun.

Once more the automatic thundered. The bullet clipped the gangster’s arm. With a shriek of pain, Bennie Lizzit sprawled sidewise. He was against the window as he fell; his useless hand, as it lost the revolver, struck against the drawn window shade.

The sash beyond was open. Lurching, where he had sought solidity, Bennie Lizzit floundered headforemost over the low sill. He made a wild clutch with his left hand; his fingers slipped as they clicked against the window frame.

The window shade snapped loose. Wrapped like a shroud about the hurtling gangster, it accompanied Bennie Lizzit on his three-story plunge to the paving beneath the window. A hideous scream ended in a crash below.

Silent, The Shadow stood within the door of this room where death had been delivered and avenged. Shouts came to him from the street below. The black cloak swished. The tall form disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

Coming events had brought The Shadow to this spot. Joe Cardona had talked with Scoffy. The stool pigeon had died at the hands of Bennie Lizzit. The murderer, in turn, was dead. These startling occurrences were but the prelude to a trail of crime.

The Shadow, though he had not heard the words from Scoffy’s lips, foresaw the coming conflict. Though Joe Cardona, alone, had received word that the smooth crook called “The Jackdaw” had returned, The Shadow soon would know what the detective had learned.

The stage was set for the events that were to come.