The Crime Clinic

CHAPTER XV THE SHADOW RETURNS

THE tones of a whispered voice came to Harry Vincent’s ears. From the darkness, The Shadow was issuing a command.

“Let the car roll,” were the monotoned words, “as soon as trouble begins inside the house. Start the motor at the bottom of the slope.”

“Right,” whispered Harry.

He saw The Shadow’s purpose. It would be a mistake for Harry to slide away now. The other mobsters thought that their companion had taken care of him.

What if they should investigate? Perhaps another gangster would come from the crew. Harry could visualize The Shadow disposing of such investigators one by one. He realized, a moment later, that The Shadow could not depend upon such a plan. Trouble was due within the house. The Shadow must return to prevent it.

Something was going on in the darkness. Straining his eyes, Harry could see a figure moving on the street. A grayish cloth seemed to be coming up over arms and shoulders.

Harry suddenly knew what it meant. The Shadow was peeling a sweater from the stunned gangster’s body.

The sweater seemed to move away. Harry caught a flash of what appeared to be a checkered cap. Staring through the rear window, he saw cap and sweater settling into place. It dawned on him that The Shadow had taken off his hat; that over his cloak he had drawn the mobster’s sweater; that on his head he wore the stunned man’s cap!

Harry could see a crouching figure hurrying across the lawn. It disappeared beyond the shrubbery. The Shadow had taken the place of the growling gangster!

That was the last that Harry Vincent saw. Up by the house, however, there were those who noted the arrival of the sweatered figure. Bing Claver, crouched on the stones beside the veranda, hissed a warning.

“Did you get him?”

“Knocked him cold.” The growl was a perfect imitation of the stunned gangster. “But he may come to. I didn’t want to plug him. I’m going back.”

“All right, Cady,” agreed Bing. “Give him the works as soon as we pile into the place. Then come up with us.”

THE sweatered form moved away. It took a circuitous path alongside the house. That was natural, for the opening in the hedge was farther back. Thus did The Shadow come into the midst of Bing Claver and his mobsters, to lull them into thinking that Cady, the stunned gangster, had fulfilled his mission.

Bing Claver and his mob were in readiness. Scattered, they would have been a difficult problem for The Shadow at this moment. The master fighter preferred to met them in a massed attack. Behind a bush, he doffed the sweater and the cap. His black hat settled on his head.

Silently, The Shadow crept to the opened window of the little hallway. He glided over the ledge — inward as easily as he came outward.

One minute after The Shadow’s return, Lamont Cranston appeared just beyond the curtains. His form was still unseen within the living room. His sharp eyes, however, could spy what was going on. The macaw was still giving its performance under Farrell Sarborn’s supervision,

Over by the farther French window was Bart Melken. The young man who served The Jackdaw was still fidgeting with his cigarette lighter. He flipped it; the flame appeared, and went out an instant later, as Melken dropped the cap upon it. Then, with twitching lips, Melken suddenly moved away to the shelter of the wall.

There was a moment’s pause. One of the French doors seemed to tremble. It hesitated. The macaw, its eyes staring across the room, uttered a shrill and unexpected cry.

“Robbers!” shrieked the bird. “Robbers!”

Some of Winchendon’s guests began to laugh. They stopped short as they saw Farrell Sarborn’s startled face. The man who owned the macaw was staring in the same direction as the bird. His lips seemed to phrase a silent warning; his arms suddenly spread.

People turned toward the outer side of the room. At that instant, the French doors crashed. In from the outer darkness sprang Bing Claver, two mobsters at his heels. All wore caps and handkerchiefs over their eyes.

“Up with your dukes!” came Bing Claver’s shout.

Guests obeyed spontaneously. The flash of revolvers dimmed the shine of jewels. This entire throng was at the mercy of the invaders from the underworld. The Jackdaw’s minions had arrived tonight. Unaccompanied by their chief, they were springing a massed attack.

Bing Claver advanced. His gun arm lowered. The presence of two henchmen at his heels was sufficient. As he gestured with his revolver, guests backed up against the wall. Women were too frightened to scream.

Bing Claver sneered. He had nearly reached the center of the clearing room. A straight path lay between the curtained doorway and the French windows, where two mobsters stood in readiness. Bing was midway on that path. Not one of the helpless guests intervened.

As his eyes swept around the room, Bing stopped and stared at the farther curtain. He saw it tremble. Up came his revolver.

The motion was too late. A terrific roar re-echoed from the curtain. Bing Claver staggered and sprawled headlong.

THE SHADOW’S shot had been delivered with a purpose. The Shadow had foreseen the way that Bing would work. He had waited until the room had cleared. He had fired at Bing in action. His deed had attracted the attention of the gangsters by the windows.

Up came their revolvers. While they were rising, The Shadow’s automatics spoke again. Two massive weapons, looming through the curtains, unloosed a burst of lead. One gangster tumbled into the living room. The other, screaming, staggered to the veranda.

The other pair of French windows burst inward. With the crash of glass came the roar of The Shadow’s weapons. The guests were dropping for cover as revolvers were firing back their answer to The Shadow’s message. Hasty mobsmen, behind their fellows, were shooting wildly at the only targets they could see — bursting shafts of flame from the curtains.

Bullets zimmed against the walls, all close by the doorway. One whistled through the upper section of the curtain; The Shadow’s guns were roaring from a point lower down. The Shadow was attracting fire as well as giving it. The guests were safe throughout this conflict.

Five mobsmen had fallen in the skirmish, Bing Claver in that number. The Shadow, his form vague behind the curtain, had given the leaden hail to the ones in advance. Now, overwhelmed by the onslaught, the others of the tribe were leaping away for safety. The French windows were cleared quickly of mobsmen.

While guests were trembling, Farrell Sarborn jumped into action. He dashed to the nearest window and grabbed a gun that was lying on the floor. He fired a deluge of shots wildly in the air. Other emboldened guests joined him. At the same time, shots barked from the little window of the hallway.

Then came volleys from the lawn. Shouts arose; the sounds of a fierce conflict were breaking loose. Guests staggered in from the doors, wondering what new danger had arisen.

The sounds of police whistles gave the answer. Joe Cardona and his detectives had arrived.

Farrell Sarborn, striding back across the room, stopped short as he saw Bing Claver rising to his knees. The gang leader, critically wounded, was uttering oaths as he reached for his revolver, which had fallen beneath his body.

Sarborn held an empty gun — one that he had plucked from a dead gangster. He flung it at Bing’s head and missed. Bing did not see the weapon. He was swinging his revolver, ready to shoot anyone. Sarborn leaped for the chair where the macaw was perched. He sent the scarlet bird flapping wildly as he used the chair as a club to meet Bing Claver.

A shot came from beyond the curtain. Bing’s arm dropped. The gang leader wavered. That bullet marked his finish. As Bing was on the verge of toppling, the chair came hurtling from Sarborn’s hands. It crashed against the gang leader’s head and shoulders. Bing Claver collapsed upon the floor.

This was the dramatic finish to the wild invasion. It left Farrell Sarborn standing in the center of the room, with Bing Claver’s inert form stretched at his feet. It brought all attention there for a long instant of suspense.

Then came a shout from the French windows. Into the living room entered a swarthy man, his coat thrown back to show his badge, his right hand gripping a smoking revolver. Detective Joe Cardona had arrived with his squad of underlings.

ORDER returned where chaos had held sway. Guests began to congratulate each other. Farrell Sarborn, because of his timely actions, was surrounded by a handshaking throng. Among them was Lamont Cranston. The millionaire, calmer even than Sarborn, was convincing in his congratulations.

The detectives had wiped out the fleeing mobsters. One dick was wounded; none of the others had been touched. The remnants of Bing Claver’s gang had rushed directly into the arms of the men who represented the law.

Calming guests began to tell their stories. All, apparently, had been in the living room when the attack had occurred. All recalled that shots had come from beyond the curtain. Recollections were vague; the sight of falling mobsters had attracted most attention. No one seemed to have any idea of how the counterattack had been launched against the invading mobsters.

So far as Winchendon and his guests were concerned, the police could have the credit, along with the cool hands who had acted well — when Farrell Sarborn had shown the way.

But to Joe Cardona, as he viewed the dead and riddled body of Bing Claver, this affair was filled with mystery. The detective was convinced that Bing was the chief of The Jackdaw’s minions; that the supercrook had ordered this attack.

The Jackdaw himself was missing, and so was the mysterious fighter who had driven back the evil horde. This, to Joe Cardona, was proof of a new and startling conflict that was in the making. He knew that another and more powerful hand had entered in the game.

He, Joe Cardona, was but an outsider in the clash. The Jackdaw — whoever he might be — was opposed by an enemy whose skill had proven greater than the crook’s.

The fight lay between The Jackdaw and The Shadow.