The Crime Clinic

CHAPTER XIV THE CALL

TEN o’clock had been the time that Bart Melken was awaiting. There was another man who was watchful for that hour. Joe Cardona, huddled in a corner of the Derry Cafe, in Corona, was hoping that Limps Silvey would appear.

Outside, Joe had a squad of men in readiness. They were far enough away not to attract attention. They had two cars; they were anxious for the word to go. Joe had told them that important work might be afoot tonight.

Where was Limps Silvey? Joe Cardona began to wonder if he was the victim of a stall. Had the crafty hobbler seen him in the darkness, and made a fake call? Joe did not know. He had nothing to do but wait.

The telephone bell began to ring. The coin box was situated in an obscure corner of the restaurant, not far from the spot where Cardona was located. Joe waited, then realized that it might be the call for Limps.

Under sudden impulse, Cardona arose and approached the telephone. He raised the receiver. He heard an unfamiliar voice. It asked a single question.

“That you, Limps?”

“Yeah,” responded Joe, in an attempt to imitate Limps Silvey’s husky tones.

“Scram, then,” came the voice over the wire. “We’ve picked our lay. It’s O.K. We’re on the ground now. Bing decided to go ahead with the Winchendon job.”

“Which one?” inquired Cardona huskily.

“I didn’t say which one,” came the voice. “I said Winchendon. You know — the place you looked over. Old Silas Winchendon’s house. We’re busting in there. That’s why you’d better scram. It’s only a few miles from where you are now.”

“O.K.”

Joe Cardona hung up the receiver. He had the dope he wanted. He had been studying society news in an effort to pick places which might lure The Jackdaw. He had seen a mention of a party at Winchendon’s; he had paid little attention to it, because it had not appeared to be more than a mere formal gathering.

Cardona did know, however, that the Winchendons lived in Copperwood, near Long Island Sound. It was not far there from Corona; but the speaker on the telephone had mentioned that the gang was already there.

Joe considered quickly. He realized that a rapid swoop would be more effective than a delayed telephone call. He hurried out to the street.

“Stay here to grab Limps Silvey,” ordered Joe. “We’re hopping out to stop a job.”

Rounding a corner close by, Joe leaped into the first of two parked cars. The automobiles were filled with detectives. Joe gave his next order.

“Head for Copperwood,” he barked. “The Winchendon house. I can locate it when we get there.”

The motor thrummed. The first car shot away. The second followed. Joe Cardona gave instructions as they rode along. It was a mad chase; a broad, good road lay ahead. It was not until they made a turn at Cardona’s order that trouble was encountered.

JOE knew the way to Copperwood. He had picked a good short cut. Barring signs blocked it, half a mile from the spot that they had left the main road. There was no passing. The signs marked a fallen bridge.

Joe Cardona fumed as he gave the order to turn around. The cars headed back to the main road. Five good minutes had been lost through this misadventure. More would be gone because the longer route must be taken. Joe Cardona regretted that he had not called Silas Winchendon by telephone.

It was too late to do so now. The only hope was to make all speed. Crime lay ahead. Word had been gained through a fortunate break. Now, mischance seemed destined to ruin Cardona’s opportunity to met The Jackdaw’s hordes.

Meanwhile, Silas Winchendon’s mansion lay silent amid the grounds that surrounded it. Cars were parked in the driveway; others were on the sloping street that ran by the side of the house more than fifty yards away.

IT was in one of these cars — a coupe — that a young man was seated. Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, was peering into darkness. He had been here long, had Harry. He had been watching the lights in the French windows that indicated Silas Winchendon’s living room.

He had noticed something else. Creeping figures had shown dimly beyond the low hedge that lined the sidewalk. Mumbled voices had come to Harry’s ears. In response, he had flicked the dashlight twice. That sudden glimmer, on and off, on and off, had been a signal to The Shadow.

Harry was sure that it had not been observed. The men in the darkness were under cover of the hedge. Now, however, since they had advanced farther across the lawn, Harry had become worried. Had The Shadow seen the signal?

Yielding to an impulse, Harry Vincent repeated the signal. On went the light; off again. On; then off. Twice in quick succession. Harry knew that The Shadow was alert; indeed, he tad seen tokens of miraculous ability on the part of his mysterious chief. In the tenseness of the moment, however, Harry was overanxious to play his part.

Harry had been ordered here by instructions received from Burbank. Harry knew, from his own report, that The Shadow must have picked the Winchendon home as a danger spot tonight. It had been Harry’s duty to remain huddled in his own car, lined with others that were presumably empty.

The mobsters, rather than attract attention, had not made a close inspection of these vehicles. Harry had locked his doors from the inside; with windows up, he had been protected. At the first sign of figures beyond the hedge, he had lowered the windows. Thus he had also heard the invaders, as they spoke in low whispers.

Harry felt more at ease after he had given the second pair of light signals. The men who were approaching the house had evidently reached the flat, stone veranda by the French windows. Their forms were lost beyond patches of shrubbery. Harry could not hear a sound.

He had warned The Shadow. He awaited only a definite sign that would either send him on his way, or bring him to some new duty. It was while Harry counted on such a result — an expected ending to his night’s work — that the unexpected happened.

A SLIGHT sound came from the left side of the car. As Harry turned in that direction, the jab of cold steel came suddenly against the side of his neck. A flashlight glimmered, its glare lowered toward the floor of the coupe. A voice growled an order.

“Shut up and don’t budge,” came the command. “It’ll be curtains for you, bimbo. Put up them dukes.”

Harry raised his arms. It was too late to reach for his automatic, which was ready in a side pocket of the car. An ugly snarl came from the man who had surprised him.

“Blinking your light, eh?” questioned the mobster, as he extinguished his flashlight. “Well, I’m wise to you. Don’t think you can get away with something now you’re in the dark. I’m watching. What are you — a dick or something?”

Harry made no reply. His situation was a serious one. Fear, however, was not the emotion that swept The Shadow’s agent. Harry was chagrined because he had shown stupidity; he was alarmed because he had caused a slip-up in The Shadow’s plans.

The mobster who now controlled him had evidently caught the glimmer of the second signal, and had doubled back around the hedge. He had trapped Harry Vincent with neither sound nor trouble. Yet Harry still possessed a temporary safety. He knew that this man would not dare to fire while his companions were still waiting for the attack.

A critical stage, however, might be approaching. If gun play burst loose around the Winchendon mansion, the gangster’s logical course would be to shoot his prisoner. In anticipation of this danger, Harry let his right hand creep over toward the pocket in the door. It was a desperate chance; yet he wanted to have his automatic ready if the mobster should choose to fire at him.

Harry’s left shoulder hunched unconsciously. The gangster growled; he flashed his light simultaneously. The glare, confined entirely to the car, revealed Harry’s hand; it also showed the butt of the automatic. The muzzle of the gangster’s revolver jabbed more firmly. Harry could imagine the finger trembling on the trigger.

“One inch, bimbo,” came the snarl, “and it’ll be curtains. Make a grab for that rod if you want — I’m going to snuff you out anyway in a minute. This is where you—”

The sentence ended abruptly. A gargling gasp coughed from the gangster’s lips. His body slumped. The revolver barrel flopped away from Harry’s neck. The flashlight tumbled to the floor of the coupe. Harry reached down and extinguished it.

Staring through the window, Harry saw nothing but blackness where the mobster had been. Yet in the back of his head, he held the impression of a dull, thudding sound that he had heard. Solid blackness seemed to move before Harry’s eyes. He realized then that a living presence was outside the window.

The Shadow had come to the coupe. He must have seen the second signal as well as the first that Harry Vincent had given. Rising like a specter from the darkness, the black-garbed master of the night had struck down the gangster who had held Harry Vincent in his power.