The Crime Clinic

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.”

“Your pets?”

“Yes.” Sarborn arose and beckoned. Melken followed him into an unfurnished room. There, in a long, wide cage, Melken observed a dozen green plumaged birds that were sitting solemnly on perches.

“Parakeets,” remarked Sarborn. “I made quite a study of them, and brought these along with me.”

“Do they chatter much?” asked Melken.

“Not these,” returned Sarborn, “but there’s the baby that does — when he feels in the mood.”

Melken turned toward the corner of the room. There, perched upon a metal bar set in the front of a deep window sill, was one of the most beautiful birds that he had ever seen. Its plumage was of a vivid red; the size of the bird was also remarkable. It measured nearly three feet from head to tail.

“A great scarlet macaw,” explained Sarborn. “A rare species for one to find in captivity. This bird is worth more than the whole cageload of parakeets.”

“Does the macaw talk?”

“Yes. When coaxed. I have trained him.”

SARBORN approached the bird. He reached up and scratched the macaw’s head. The big bird began to ruffle its throat feathers and open its bill, but no sound came. Sarborn continued the treatment. He nodded to Melken, and motioned him toward the door.

“Bustle up toward the bird,” he ordered. “Make out that you are threatening it. Stop short, though, before you arrive too close.”

The macaw was watching Melken as it moved its bill. The young man followed Sarborn’s instructions. As he made a fierce advance, a shrill warning came from the scarlet macaw.

“Keep away! Keep away!”

Melken stopped suddenly as he heard the high falsetto cry. Sarborn, still scratching the macaw’s head, laughed at his friend’s surprise. He gave another order.

“Be more affable,” he said. “Then stroll away and pretend that you are going out the door.”

Melken followed instructions. As he hesitated at the door, another call came from the macaw’s trembling beak.

“Come back!” shrilled the bird. “Come back!”

“Remarkable!” exclaimed Melken, as the cry died. “The bird seems to have almost human intelligence.”

“It is observant,” admitted Sarborn. “More than that, it has an aptitude for remembering things that it hears. It only chooses words that appeal to it, however. Try some.”

“New York,” suggested Melken.

“Repeat it,” ordered Sarborn. “Emphasize the name.”

“New York — New York—”

“New York!” screamed the macaw. “New York!”

Melken laughed. Sarborn ceased stroking the bird’s head. The macaw kept ruffling its throat, but gave no further cry. Melken approached, scratched the bird’s head; there was no response.

“It will only take its cues from me,” explained Sarborn. “Speaking of birds — here are some interesting eggs. I brought a small collection with me from South America.”

Sarborn pointed to a glass case in the corner. There, Melken saw a variety of eggs of different sizes. He remarked upon a large, blotched egg that was about three inches in length.

“What species of egg is that?” he questioned.

“A condor’s egg,” replied Sarborn. “The condor is one of the largest of all birds. They can fly to greater altitudes than the eagle.”

“It must be difficult obtain their eggs.”

“No. They have no marked nesting habits. The eggs are found upon rocks, in the mountains. Such eggs are not particularly rare.”

A slight sound came from a covered box in the corner. Melken looked in that direction. Sarborn reached over and raised the lid of the box. A small monkey poked its head into view.

“Are you raising monkeys, too?” laughed Melken, as he saw the little creature scramble up to Sarborn’s arms.

“No,” replied Sarborn. “I started to, but gave it up. I’m going to get rid of this little beast later on. Affectionate, but a nuisance. Just a common species. South American monkey. Called a sapajou.”

The monkey had seized Sarborn’s necktie. It was starting to climb up it, hand over hand. Sarborn wrested the sapajou free, and dropped it back into the box. He closed the lid and strolled back to the living room.

“Well,” he remarked, “you’ve seen the menagerie. Wouldn’t do at the Ritz. Better here. Guess I’ll get rid of the whole shebang. All except the macaw.”

“How long are you going to be in town?” questioned Melken anxiously.

AGAIN, Sarborn looked quizzically at his friend. He seemed to sense the worriment that was present in Melken’s mind.

“Quite a while,” said Sarborn. “Why?”

“Thought we might get together occasionally,” returned Melken. “I’ve been nervous during the past few days.”

“Why?”

“The trouble out at Casslin’s house. You must have read about it in the newspapers.”

“The murder of the millionaire?”

“Yes.”

“You were there?”

“Yes.”

“Hm-m-m.” Sarborn was shaking his head. “Very mysterious affair. Read about it in the newspapers. None of the guests were implicated, were they?”

“No,” answered Melken, “but I’m worried just the same. Farrell, there were some other robberies a few months ago — robberies that took place at houses where I had been. This was the first one where a murder occurred.”

“You think—”

“I don’t know what to think. I’m worried. If there’s one crook in back of all these robberies, there’s no telling what may happen next.”

“Why should it concern you?” Sarborn asked.

“Here’s why.” Melken’s tone became serious. “It’s going to look as though someone might be on the inside of some of these crimes. It’s also going to be tough for anyone who might observe too much.”

“You mean something might be planted on you?”

“Not on me,” broke in Melken hastily. “That is — not necessarily on me. On someone, though, and I might be the person.”

“Or,” added Sarborn calmly, “someone might decide that you knew too much and give the orders to bump you off?”

“I don’t know,” responded Melken. “I only know that I’ve been terribly worried since Casslin was killed. I’ve had a feeling that there is a menace hanging over me. We’re old friends, Farrell. You’re the only man to whom I can talk about this.”

Sarborn arose and clapped his friend on the shoulder. His action seemed to given Melken encouragement. There was a firmness in Sarborn’s manner that aroused confidence.

“Don’t worry, old top,” volunteered Sarborn. “If you have any idea whatever that trouble is brewing, let me know. If you’re uneasy, maybe you can arrange for me to be with you. I’ve faced everything. Anacondas to orangutans. I like trouble.”

Bart Melken nodded. Under this persuasion, he was ready to talk further.

“At Casslin’s,” he said seriously, “Yvonne saw a face at the window. She told me about it. That was just before the murder. She told the police afterward; but I didn’t say that she had spoken to me when she saw the face.

“That’s what has me worried, Farrell. I’ll be looking for danger signs from now on. I won’t be able to keep myself from doing so. If — if I begin to look like I’m — well, a menace to some crooks — they may decide to put me on the spot.”

“Don’t worry, Bart,” reassured Sarborn. “This hunch of yours is interesting. I think we’d better stick around together a bit.”

Bart Melken shook hands warmly. He felt the value of this friendship. When he left Sarborn’s apartment, a while later, he decided that he had accomplished something.

Melken, like Cardona and The Shadow, was out to learn the identity of The Jackdaw. His purpose was not guided by any dislike of crime; it was merely inspired by a desire for self-preservation; to escape a bargain that was proving one-sided.

Wrapped in thought as he departed, Bart Melken did not notice the peering eyes that watched him as he crossed the street in front of Farrell Sarborn’s apartment. He did not know that once again he was under the surveillance of The Shadow.