The Crime Clinic

CHAPTER XIII AT WINCHENDON’S

IT was after nine o’clock when Bart Melken and Farrell Sarborn arrived by taxicab at Silas Winchendon’s Long Island home. Both men entered, dressed in faultless evening clothes. Mrs. Winchendon, a plump, middle-aged woman, greeted them.

One of the servants had received a tall, cylindrical package at the door. Mrs. Winchendon indicated it with an interested gesture.

“The macaw’s cage?” she questioned.

“Yes,” smiled Melken. “The bird is in there. Mr. Sarborn will bring him out when you are ready.”

The servant took the cage into a small room. Mrs. Winchendon led the two guests to the living room. She stopped a moment, just outside the door.

“We have another treat tonight,” she remarked. “Mr. Cranston — Lamont Cranston, the famous globe-trotter. He has been telling us of his experiences in the Orient. It was so fortunate — he just chanced to call up Mr. Winchendon—”

Mrs. Winchendon ceased speaking. They were already at the door of the living room.

Bart Melken spied Yvonne Lydell among the guests who were listening to a quiet, convincing-toned speaker who was standing near the end of the living room.

Lamont Cranston was a man of whom Bart Melken had heard. Farrell Sarborn had known of him also, and the two studied the speaker with interest. Tall, impressive in his well-tailored evening clothes, Cranston had the appearance of a man who knew the world.

His face seemed immobile in expression. His chiseled features were almost masklike. His aquiline nose gave him a hawkish look, which was accentuated by a pair of keen, penetrating eyes.

Cranston, as everyone knew, was a multimillionaire who traveled when and where he chose. He maintained a large mansion in New Jersey. He had a habit of setting forth at most unexpected times on journeys that included the most distant places.

From the vastnesses of Siberia, to the depths of darkest Africa, Lamont Cranston had traveled. His ways carried him to bypaths that ordinary travelers dreaded. His present discourse on his journey to India concerned the little-known summits of the Himalaya Mountains.

CRANSTON concluded speaking a few minutes after Melken and Sarborn entered. A murmur of admiration came from the listeners who had heard his remarkable discourse. Mrs. Winchendon drew Farrell Sarborn and Bart Melken forward. She introduced Sarborn first.

“Mr. Sarborn is a traveler also,” she said to Cranston. “He has just returned from a trip to South America.”

“I am scarcely a traveler,” put forth Sarborn, as he shook hands with Cranston. “My journeys have been trivial compared with yours. I can merely claim some slight distinction as a student of certain districts where I have been.”

“That is much to your credit,” observed Cranston. “I, myself, have often neglected interesting surroundings due to my desire to arrive at another destination. It is a fault, I assure you — a fault which I must commend you for not possessing.”

There was no flattery in the millionaire’s tone; his words were given with the quite positiveness of a simple statement. This was pleasing to Farrell Sarborn. It seemed to place the new guest at his ease.

Bart Melken was looking about him. He was studying the people in the living room. He had come to a prompt realization that in this throng alone was sufficient pelf to arouse The Jackdaw’s cupidity.

Mrs. Winchendon was adorned with large and expensive gems. So were other of the guests. Indeed, when viewed from the standpoint of personal ornamentation, the living room was fairly glittering.

Melken noticed the French doors on the opposite side of the room. He also noted several curtained doorways.

It was possible that one of these might lead to a hidden spot where The Jackdaw intended to make a foray, but Bart could not imagine any haul that would exceed that of the jewelry. The Jackdaw, Bart knew well, had a penchant for precious stones.

“I regret,” Sarborn was saying to Cranston, “that I failed to hear your talk on India. I have often intended to travel there.”

“I shall be pleased to discuss India at any time,” returned Cranston. “In the meantime, I am anxious to hear your observations on South America.”

As the men parted, Cranston’s keen eyes turned in the direction of Bart Melken. The palefaced young man had crossed the living room to join Yvonne Lydell. Cranston saw his gaze go again to the French windows.

There was a contrast between the man and the girl. Melken now had no claim to handsomeness. His pallor, his furtive expression, were damaging to his appearance. Yvonne Lydell, tall and slender, was a perfect blonde, whose beautiful face showed a vivacity that made her fiancee’s gloominess more noticeable.

Mrs. Winchendon was introducing Sarborn to the other guests. Melken’s friend was well received. Silas Winchendon, a big, heavy man, seemed pleased to meet another visitor who had a reputation as a traveler.

It was quite a while before the arrangements were finished for Sarborn to speak to the gathering. At last, Sarborn beckoned to a servant. The covered cage was brought into the room. Sarborn smiled as he heard buzzing conversation end.

“IT is my pleasure,” announced Sarborn, “to discuss the avifauna of South America. I must admit that my knowledge of the birds of that continent is somewhat restricted. I have been more interested in the birds themselves than in a study of the various species.

“In South America, I obtained one bird that is rarely brought to the United States. I refer to the great scarlet macaw. I was fortunate enough to acquire an excellent specimen; and the bird has shown a remarkable response to its captivity.”

Removing the top of the cage, Sarborn dipped his arm within and brought out the three-foot macaw on his hand. He carried the bird to a chair back, and let it perch there.

Exclamations of admiration greeted the appearance of the macaw. The brilliant plumage was something that few of the guests had ever seen before.

The macaw, blinking in the light, kept moving its beak and ruffling its throat feathers so furiously that all the observers laughed. Lamont Cranston, lighting a cigarette beside the nearer of the French windows, looked up and studied the bird curiously.

“I have trained the macaw to speak,” explained Sarborn, “but he is as wise as an owl, and requires considerable coaxing. Let me demonstrate.”

He scratched the macaw’s head. The bird kept up its beak motion. Suddenly, it spoke in high falsetto:

“Hello! Hello, there!”

Everyone laughed at the shrill sound. Sarborn, his head bent close toward the bird, looked up and smiled. He raised his hand for silence.

“This bird,” he said, “has a remarkable proclivity for remembering words that it hears. For instance, suppose someone is introduced to it—”

Mrs. Winchendon stepped forward.

“This is Mrs. Winchendon,” said Sarborn, to the macaw. “Mrs. Winchendon. Would you remember her?”

He was scratching the bird’s head and looking toward it as he spoke. The macaw’s trembling beak became more furious.

“Winchendon!” shrilled the scarlet bird. “Winchendon!”

Sarborn began some new experiments, much like those he had shown to Melken. To further demonstrate the bird’s intelligence, he stepped away and stood at arm’s length, while he made a noise like a kitten mewing.

“Cats! Cats!” screamed the bird.

“It is odd,” remarked Sarborn, when the macaw had become silent, “how this bird has managed to actually associate sounds with words that it has heard concerning them. The reference to cats was a surprising accomplishment. On the boat, coming up from South America, we had a joke of pointing out other ships and saying, ‘Pirates.’ In the harbor of Port-au-Prince, the macaw fairly screamed ‘Pirates! Pirates!’ every time we had it on deck and it saw the shipping of the harbor.”

“Pirates!” shrilled the macaw.

A clock was chiming ten. Bart Melken, who had been standing across the room, strolled near a French window and began to fumble with his cigarette lighter. Only Lamont Cranston observed the action.

CRANSTON’S position was so taken that he could see from the other French window, although he did not appear to glance in that direction. While Sarborn was still coaxing the macaw, Cranston’s keen eye again turned toward the darkness outside.

A tiny speck of light glimmered beyond. It went out. It reappeared. That was all. Cranston strolled toward the spot where Farrell Sarborn had the macaw.

“Can the bird tell my name?” he asked. “I think it heard you give it.”

“We’ll try,” replied Sarborn. He scratched the macaw’s head, then shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m afraid you have stepped too close to it,” he said. “Just step back a few paces, Mr. Cranston.”

“Cranston!” screamed the macaw, the moment the millionaire obeyed.

“It heard your name again, then,” laughed Sarborn. “I did not realize that I was mentioning it.”

Cranston had joined in the general laughter. He was retiring toward one of the curtained doorways. As Sarborn again turned his attention to the macaw, all eyes were on the bird. Cranston’s keen gaze observed that fact.

With a slight sidewise motion, the millionaire eased through the curtained doorway, so unobtrusively that not a single person witnessed his departure. In the darkness of a hallway he lifted folded garments from beneath a chair.

Cloth rustled over shoulders. A black slouch hat settled upon the millionaire’s head. With swift, silent motion, Lamont Cranston gained a window at the end of the hallway. The sash rose noiselessly. A dark form passed over the sill.

Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow.