The Crime Clinic

CHAPTER XI THE JACKDAW ORDERS

Two days had passed since Bart Melken’s visit to his friend, Farrell Sarborn. Those two days had been anxious ones for Melken. The Jackdaw’s minion knew well that he would soon receive another order to play his part in crime.

There were hours, in the late afternoon, when Melken made it a practice to remain alone in his hotel room. That was part of The Jackdaw’s bargain. Today, with afternoon waning, Melken was in the room. Today, more than ever before, he sensed impending orders from his chief.

Accounts in the newspapers had given no new findings on the murder of Rutherford Casslin. That, at least, was satisfactory to Bart Melken. He was sure that Joe Cardona was making no progress that would lead him to The Jackdaw.

The position was a singular one. Bart was anxious that no one else would learn The Jackdaw’s identity. He was anxious, also, that he could learn it. His scheme was simply to meet The Jackdaw on an equal basis, for the first time, and thus be able to make terms that would result in his own freedom.

To date, Bart had gained no inkling whatever regarding The Jackdaw’s identity. That fact, as much as any other, made him dread the power of his task-making chief. With Farrell Sarborn as an ally, there was some chance that Bart Melken might gain a helpful clew.

As for The Shadow, Bart Melken had no idea whatever that his mysterious presence had appeared. He figured only himself, the police, and The Jackdaw. Yet The Shadow’s part, so far as Bart was concerned, was more important than that of any other.

This very room in which Bart Melken sat had been fitted, during his absence, with a dictograph. In an adjoining hotel room, a young man was on duty. Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, was not only watching for any who might visit Bart Melken; he was also keeping tabs on Bart’s end of telephone conversations.

The telephone bell rang while Bart was deep in thought. Yvonne Lydell was on the wire. Bart was relieved to hear her voice. He conducted a leisurely conversation.

“Tonight?” he questioned. “Certainly. I can meet you at Winchendon’s… Yes, about half past nine is the time I expect to arrive there. I can take you home afterward. Very well. Has your father returned from Florida?… Ah, next week… That is later than he expected… Very well, Yvonne. I shall met you at Winchendon’s.”

Melken hung up the telephone. He strolled back and forth across the room. The bell began to ring again. Bart hesitated; then answered the summons. He paled as he heard the voice over the wire.

It was The Jackdaw.

THERE was an effect about The Jackdaw’s voice that had always placed Melken on the defensive. The Jackdaw seldom asked questions. He dealt in statements, and gave his orders. He seemed to have plans for crime already mapped. Moreover, his direct way of talking invariably gave Melken the impression that The Jackdaw knew much about him.

“Tonight,” came The Jackdaw’s oddly pitched voice, “you are going to an affair at the home of Silas Winchendon.”

“Yes,” stammered Melken. “I’ll be at Winchendon’s.”

“The signal will be required,” ordered, The Jackdaw. “Wait until all the guests are assembled in Winchendon’s living room. Signal near the French doors at the side. Retire, and act as the other guests.”

“What time?” queried Melken.

“Any time after ten o’clock,” came The Jackdaw’s final command.

“But — but wait a moment,” began Melken. “I’m not — not sure about tonight. If—”

A click came over the wire. The Jackdaw had ended the conversation. Melken knew the answer. He would have to go through with the game or take the consequences.

Melken paced the room. He was muttering to himself, but his words had no meaning.

Harry Vincent, in the other room, had noted down the few facts that he had gleaned from Melken’s talk with The Jackdaw. They were sufficient only to reveal that Melken had some important duty to perform at Winchendon’s this night.

Minutes passed; Melken, with a sigh of resignation, went to the telephone. His hand was trembling as it lifted the receiver. The Jackdaw’s minion was losing his nerve; he was afraid that he would fail in the task placed before him.

Melken was choosing the only way out; he was reverting to his half-formed plan of counting on his friend, Farrell Sarborn, as a protector. He gave the operator the number of Sarborn’s apartment.

When he heard his friend’s easy, cheery voice, Melken felt a return of confidence. He began a conversation that kept Harry Vincent busy recording it.

“This is Bart Melken,” began The Jackdaw’s minion. “Listen, Farrell, I’m still feeling nervous. More so than ever. I have to go out tonight — to a party at Silas Winchendon’s home. I–I’d like to get out of it.”

Sarborn’s reply was to the effect that such should be an easy matter. Melken quickly changed his tack.

“The trouble, Farrell,” he said, “is that Yvonne will be there. She’ll wonder why I didn’t come. I’ve promised to take her home, afterward. I–I tell you what I’d like to do. I’d like to take you along. I might be able to arrange it by calling Mrs. Winchendon. But there would have to be some good reason.”

Sarborn put a question over the wire. It was a query regarding the type of party that was to be held.

“A swanky affair,” explained Melken, “but a very quiet one. The Winchendons like to have interesting people. They always invite guests who offer something unusual by way of diversion.”

As Bart Melken paused, he heard Farrell Sarborn offer a suggestion. The idea caused a gleam to appear upon Bart’s pallid face.

“Great!” he exclaimed. “By Jove, that would be just the ticket! If you could give them a short talk on the bird life of South America, and bring the big macaw with you, they’d fall for it to perfection. You will be the lion of the evening, Farrell!”

A pause; then Melken added:

“Certainly! I’ll call Mrs. Winchendon at once. Unless you hear from me to the contrary, you’ll know that it has been arranged. I’ll stop for you in a cab. This is important to me, Farrell” — Melken’s tone became sober — “and you’ll never regret helping me out. I’ll tell you more about the situation later on. Thanks, old fellow.”

Melken hung up; then made another call, to the home of Silas Winchendon. As he had anticipated, the young man had no difficulty in arranging for Farrell Sarborn to appear as an invited guest. His description of the remarkable scarlet macaw aroused Mrs. Winchendon’s interest to such an extent that it appeared that she was inviting the bird rather than its master.

A CURIOUS elation governed Bart Melken when he had completed his arrangements. He knew that trouble was in the air. No specified orders had been given by The Jackdaw other than a necessary signal. What the shrewd crook plotted was more than Bart could decide.

The presence of Farrell Sarborn, however, would be of vital value. That was the cause of Melken’s elation. He felt that with his friend there, he would be able to show nerve enough to either give the signal or completely ignore it. All that he needed was surety that would enable him to make a decision one way or the other.

At heart, Bart Melken was a weakling. Susceptible to persons of stronger will, he had hitherto followed The Jackdaw like an unprotesting lamb. Now, with the sense that he could depend upon the strong personality of Farrell Sarborn, Bart had gained synthetic courage. He had lost his fear of consequences whether he might continue his unliked work or whether he might choose to defy The Jackdaw’s orders.

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:

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:

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.