The Crime Clinic

CHAPTER XVIII THE INTERLUDE

WHEN Farrell Sarborn strode from the elevator, the eyes of The Shadow were upon him. Sequestered in the darkness of the stairway, the keen-visioned observer watched Bart Melken’s friend make his departure.

The Shadow made no motion for a short while. Then, like a spectral shape, he glided forth from his spot of hiding, and moved easily toward the door. His form seemed to shroud the light; it cast a long splotch through the narrow glass panels, upon the tiled floor of the lobby.

The Shadow’s gloved hand rested on the knob of the door. It paused there as the outer door swung open, and a man entered the lobby. In the dim light, The Shadow recognized the new arrival. It was Doctor Lysander Dubrong.

The physician’s face seemed sallow in the yellow light. Dubrong was wearing a serious, worried expression. His suave smile was absent. The Shadow watched him run his finger along the line of push buttons to the one which The Shadow knew belonged to Farrell Sarborn.

Dubrong was holding the little receiver to his ear. His eyes were upon the mouthpiece by the name board.

The Shadow was not only observant, his keen ears could hear the conversation which Dubrong was conducting with Jalon, in the apartment above.

“Hello… Mr. Sarborn…” Dubrong paused. “I want to talk with Mr. Sarborn… What’s that? Who am I?… Let me talk to Mr. Sarborn… What? Am I Mr. Cranston?” The flicker of the suave smile returned to Dubrong’s thin lips. “Yes… I am Mr. Cranston… I must see Mr. Sarborn…”

The Shadow sidled into darkness as the door began to click. Dubrong with surprising agility, leaped from the name board and pushed open the door. He strode directly past the spot where The Shadow was standing. The door came directly in front of the black-cloaked watcher.

While the door was closing, The Shadow spied a new entrant into the lobby. A squatly man had arrived there just as Dubrong sprang past the door. The way was blocked to him.

The Shadow, peering from the edge of the door, again recognized a face. This man was a second-class detective from headquarters; he had evidently been detailed to watch the movements of Doctor Dubrong.

The dick looked at the name board. He saw the pressed button, with the name of Farrell Sarborn. He paused for a few moments, then turned and hurried from the lobby. A soft laugh came from The Shadow. He knew that the trailer was hastening to report to Joe Cardona.

DUBRONG had gone above, using the elevator which was waiting when he entered. The Shadow followed on his trail, using the stairway. As he neared the top, he heard the sound of excited voices. Doctor Dubrong was arguing with Jalon.

“Get out of my way!” ordered the physician. “I want to see your master — not you.”

“He is not here,” returned Jalon, blocking the door to the apartment.

“Where is Bart Melken?” demanded Dubrong.

“He is not here,” retorted Jalon.

“He came here — from his hotel,” was Dubrong’s savage response. “I learned that when I called there. Where is he?”

“He has left.”

“I’m going to find out — from your master.”

“He has left, also.”

Dubrong shot a vicious punch into the servant’s body. As Jalon doubled up, The Shadow saw Dubrong stride past his blocker. He could hear angry shouts as Jalon followed. The two men came staggering forth, locked in a furious grasp.

It appeared an unequal struggle, the frail physician against the squatly, thick-formed South American servant. Dubrong, however, showed marked skill in combat. He twisted free, delivered another punch, and sent the squatly man staggering. He headed for the elevator this time. He had evidently assured himself that neither Sarborn nor Melken was in the apartment.

Jalon, however, was not satisfied. Like a tiger, the servant sprang after the departing physician. A knife blade flashed as Jalon leaped toward the open door of the elevator.

The Shadow sprang suddenly forth from his spot of obscurity. Dubrong did not see him; the physician was in the elevator. Jalon did not see him; the servant was intent upon stopping Dubrong.

As The Shadow made his swift approach, a shot resounded. It came from the elevator. Jalon, already pounding into the car to grapple with the man who appeared an enemy to his master, collapsed with suddenness.

Dubrong must have pulled a revolver and delivered a quick but certain shot. The elevator door clanged shut. The car began its descent as The Shadow reached the closed door.

Doctor Dubrong was making a get away. His shot had mortally wounded Farrell Sarborn’s servant. There was no need for The Shadow’s presence here. Swiftly, the black-clad intervener swung toward the stairway.

The elevator stopped at the ground floor before The Shadow had sufficient time to make the descent. Its door slid open, and Doctor Dubrong leaped forth with the wild fury of a madman. He dashed from the apartment building, pocketing his revolver as he ran. He had used the weapon that he had shown Joe Cardona, that day in the consulting room at the clinic.

A MOTOR sounded as The Shadow arrived at the bottom of the stairs. When the tall pursuer had reached the street, the tail light of Dubrong’s car was rounding the corner. The Shadow paused just beyond the sphere of light outside of the apartment. He turned quickly as he sidled back into darkness.

A stocky man was striding up the street. It was Joe Cardona.

Whatever thought The Shadow might have held regarding a pursuit of Doctor Dubrong was ended at the sight of the detective. As Cardona entered the lobby, The Shadow moved across the street to the side of a parked coupe. There, he flung his cloak and hat into the car. Visible now, he returned, a figure in evening clothes. His face came into light as he opened the outer door of the lobby. The Shadow bore the features of Lamont Cranston.

Joe Cardona, studying the name plates on the board, swung around as Cranston entered. The detective recognized the arrival. Not only did he remember Cranston, from the affray at Winchendon’s, he knew also that the millionaire was a friend of the police commissioner’s.

“Mr. Cranston!” exclaimed the detective. “How do you happen to be here?”

“Dropping in to see a friend of mine,” remarked Cranston quietly. “Farrell Sarborn — perhaps you remember him at Winchendon’s. He was the man who owned the macaw.”

“Say!” Cardona pointed to the name on the board. “That’s the place I’m going, too. I want to find doc — a fellow who came here to Sarborn’s place for no good reason. I don’t want to ring Sarborn’s bell. Do you know anyone else here?”

Cranston shook his head. Cardona seemed perplexed. The millionaire made a slight smile.

“Why not,” he suggested, “break the glass panel in the door?”

“I couldn’t wedge through there,” returned Cardona.

“You could reach in and turn the knob,” remarked Cranston.

Joe Cardona grunted. The plan was simple enough. The detective pulled a revolver from his pocket, and delivered a stroke with the butt. He shattered the glass, reached through, and turned the knob.

“Coming up?” he questioned.

“Very well,” returned Cranston.

WHEN the pair stepped from the elevator on the third floor, Cardona uttered a surprised exclamation. Bathed in light from the doorway of Sarborn’s apartment lay the dead form of Jalon, the servant. The man had managed to crawl that far before he died.

Joe gripped his revolver. He heard Lamont Cranston remark that the dead man was Sarborn’s servant. Joe nodded and motioned to Cranston to accompany him. They entered the apartment. They saw at once that the place was empty.

“I know the man who got this fellow!” exclaimed Cardona. “I’ll tell you who it was. Doctor Lysander Dubrong — the man who has the East Side Clinic. He came up here ten minutes ago.”

“Doctor Dubrong!” uttered Cranston, in a tone of incredulity. “That must be impossible! He is a man of high reputation.”

“I know him for what he is,” growled Cardona. “The question now is where he’s gone. He’s made a get-away.”

“Maybe the macaw knows,” suggested Cranston.

“The macaw?” asked Cardona.

“Yes,” returned Cranston, “the scarlet bird, there on the chair.”

Cardona stared at the macaw. The bird was perched as calmly as ever, the only challenge in its bearing being the motion of its beak.

“At Winchendon’s,” remarked Cranston, “the macaw had a remarkable ability to utter names that it had heard. Perhaps Sarborn, before he left, stated where he was going. Perhaps Dubrong has followed him there.”

“How do you make the bird talk?” asked Cardona.

Cranston was lighting a cigarette. Holding it between his lips, he approached and scratched the macaw’s head. The bird ruffed its throat feathers and wagged its beak. Suddenly, its shrill cry sounded.

“Lydell!” screamed the macaw. “Lydell! Lydell!”

Cranston removed the cigarette from his lips as he stepped away from the chair.

“That sounded plain enough,” he told Cardona. “It was a name, all right.”

“Lydell,” repeated Cardona.

“Lydell!” shrilled the scarlet macaw.

Cranston had spied the newspaper on the table. He picked it up and pointed to the news paragraph beside the picture.

“Look at that,” he said.

“Garforth Lydell!” exclaimed Cardona. “Say” — he was reading the paragraph — “he lives less than a dozen blocks from here. That’s where I’m going — to Lydell’s.”

Cardona leaped to the telephone. He turned to Cranston before raising the receiver.

“I’m calling police headquarters before I start,” he informed the millionaire. “I don’t want to lose any time. I’ve got a man outside, Mr. Cranston. Detective Sergeant Markham. You’ll do me a favor if you’ll go down and tell him to come up. I’m hopping for Lydell’s. You can stay here—”

Cranston was nodding as Cardona spoke. With no further delay, the millionaire turned and strode from the apartment. He took the elevator to the ground floor. At the outer door, he stood and made a beckoning gesture with his arms. Detective Sergeant Markham came hurrying from a car parked down the street. Like Cardona, Markham also remembered Lamont Cranston.

“Cardona wants you up at Sarborn’s apartment,” informed Cranston. “Right away, Markham. Third floor. Tell him I shall return here shortly. I have an appointment at the Cobalt Club which I must keep.”

Markham nodded. There was no mention of murder up above. He went into the apartment building as Cranston departed. Markham saw no reason why the millionaire should remain.

Cranston reached his coupe. There, he quickly donned his masking cloak and hat. It was The Shadow who drove away from the front of the apartment house. His hands, as they were manipulating the wheel, were drawing on their black gloves.

Bart Melken had gone to Garforth Lydell’s. Farrell Sarborn had followed him. Doctor Lysander Dubrong had taken up the trail. Detective Joe Cardona was on his way. Besides these, there was another who would arrive before Cardona.

The Shadow, too, was traveling to the focal point where crime was due to strike. The Shadow’s laugh was echoing as the coupe turned uptown at the nearest avenue.

Tonight, The Shadow would meet The Jackdaw. The elusive bird of crime would come face to face with the avenger who had crossed his path before. The Shadow knew.

He was out to snare The Jackdaw in the act of crime.