The Crime Clinic

CHAPTER VIII AT THE CLINIC

THE SHADOW, in his trailing of Bart Melken, had followed a lead which he had gained at Rutherford Casslin’s home. He had picked up a definite angle of the case which Detective Joe Cardona had failed to observe.

Yet Cardona’s negligence was excusable. The sleuth had found a track of his own, and was determined to follow it with precision. Emphatically, Joe Cardona felt that through Doctor Lysander Dubrong, some answer could be learned regarding Casslin’s death.

Casslin had died on a Monday night. The Shadow had trailed Bart Melken on Tuesday evening. Wednesday afternoon found Joe Cardona ready for action. In his office at headquarters, the ace detective was considering his important move.

The Jackdaw had returned. Of that, Joe Cardona was convinced. Despite his natural egotism, Cardona was not blind to his failures. He was positive that there had been an important prelude to the murder of Rutherford Casslin: namely, the deaths of Scoffy and Bennie Lizzit.

Had either of those two been living now, Cardona would have been able to find a direct lead to The Jackdaw. But with Scoffy and Bennie dead, the detective had a more difficult task. Pondering, Cardona was forced to admit that he had played his cards wrong when he had made that visit to Scoffy’s hideout. Joe realized that he must have been recognized by someone in the bad lands.

The Jackdaw was in back of the trouble. He had eyes in the underworld. Cardona must avoid them. He had failed to escape recognition by night; he knew that he would certainly be spotted by day. Yet the mission which he had in mind was one that could not be entrusted to a stool pigeon.

Smiling grimly, Cardona opened a desk drawer and drew out a package. It was a large bundle; one that completely filled the drawer. Donning his hat and coat, Cardona took the package with him and left the office. Outside of headquarters, he hailed a taxicab and rode for some twenty blocks.

He reached an old house, entered the front door, and ascended to the third floor. In a little room at the rear, he opened the package and drew out an old jacket, a pair of baggy trousers, and a mass of grayish hair, together with a weather-beaten hat.

Within a few minutes, Cardona had donned these garments. He looked at his reflection in a mirror, and uttered a chuckle. To all intents, Joe Cardona had become a decrepit old man with gray hair and gray beard — a derelict who would pass unnoticed along the East Side.

It was seldom that Cardona resorted to this disguise. He kept the articles at headquarters so that he could don them if emergency demanded such action. To make doubly sure today, he had come to this secluded room, there to put on the garments.

This room was, in a sense, a hideout, a place to which Cardona came on rare occasions when he wanted to remain unnoticed in Manhattan. The room was serving him well at present, for here he had plenty of opportunity to make his disguise effective.

Weather was chilly. Cardona needed an overcoat. He brought one from the closet. It was an old, frayed coat that Cardona had outworn during the previous winter. It was all that the detective needed to complete the part that he intended to play.

Thus, instead of Detective Joe Cardona, a heavy but stoop-shouldered old man came from the obscure house. This odd-looking individual made his way to an elevated station, rode for some distance, and finally alighted in a tawdry district. Joe Cardona was again invading the territory where he had gone to see Scoffy, the stool pigeon.

SHAMBLING beneath the superstructure of the “L,” Cardona crossed the thoroughfare and turned into a side street. The buildings here were mournful. One, alone, showed signs of rehabilitation. Above it hung a sign:

Cardona, peering along the street, saw another man coming from the opposite direction. A frail, twisted figure that hobbled with the aid of a cane, the approaching individual attracted Cardona’s immediate interest.

This was Limps Silvey. Cardona did not know the man’s identity, but he stared suspiciously at Silvey’s brownish, evil face, as they met outside the entrance to the clinic. Limps was a few steps ahead. Cardona let him enter first.

Inside the door, Cardona found a large waiting room. Sprawled on chairs about the place were men and women of all the types that might be found in this district.

Sullen, dejected bums; cripples more hopeless than Limps; women who stared solemnly at the bare walls — these formed the crowd who awaited consultation with Doctor Lysander Dubrong.

Joe Cardona had heard of this clinic. Doctor Dubrong had gained high credit through its institution. Three days every week — sometimes at more frequent intervals — the eminent physician devoted his time to the riffraff of New York.

People had spoken of the work as a noble, philanthropic enterprise. Joe Cardona had considered it in this light until two nights ago. Then, his sudden suspicions of Doctor Dubrong had caused him to gain doubts.

A middle-aged woman was seated at a table in the corner. She was evidently Dubrong’s secretary. She saw Joe Cardona as he slid into a chair, and beckoned to him. Carefully feigning his part as an old man, the detective approached.

“You wish an appointment with Doctor Dubrong?” asked the secretary.

Cardona nodded.

“Your name?”

“Michael Gaston.”

The woman made a notation.

“You will have to await your turn,” she said. “Some of these people have appointments from two days ago. Others are already registered to see Doctor Dubrong.”

Cardona nodded dully and resumed his seat. A moment later, the door opened, and another East Sider entered. This was a rheumatic blind man, his body almost doubled. He wore black glasses, and he leaned heavily on a weather-beaten cane. He seemed to sense where he should go, for he tapped his way to the corner, and mumbled a name to the secretary. He was told to take a chair, which he managed to find after tapping his way along the row of waiting patients.

A clock struck eleven. The secretary arose and went to the front door. She latched it, so that no new patients could enter. Then, referring to her list, she singled out Limps Silvey. The cripple, evidently one who had an appointment from Monday, arose and hobbled to a door which the woman opened. Cardona caught a glimpse of a gloomy anteroom with a door beyond. Then the opening closed behind Limps Silvey.

Cardona heard a voice beside him. One patient was talking to another. The words were informative.

“Dat was Limps Silvey,” the speaker growled. “Foist on de list. Wisht I was foist. Gets my goat sittin’ around dis joint.”

Cardona remembered the name. Limps Silvey. Probably the cripple was a regular patient at Doctor Dubrong’s clinic. There was something about Limps Silvey’s shrewd stare that Cardona had not liked.

THE first patient had been ushered in at the stroke of eleven. Ten minutes later, a buzzer sounded. Evidently Limps had been sent out through another door, for the woman secretary picked another patient from the list. Fifteen minutes elapsed. The buzzer sounded again.

Thus proceeded the affairs of the East Side Clinic. Patient after patient was ushered through the little anteroom to see Doctor Lysander Dubrong. At last only Joe Cardona and the blind man remained. While they were waiting, the clock struck one.

“I am sorry,” said the secretary. “The clinic hours are ended. You two will be the first appointments on Friday. That is, unless Doctor Dubrong is willing to remain a while longer — a practice which he seldom follows.”

At that moment, the buzzer sounded twice. With a gesture that indicated the patients should remain, the secretary went through the anteroom. She returned a minute later.

“Doctor Dubrong will see one of you,” she announced. “It is your turn, Mr. Gaston.”

Joe Cardona arose and moved toward the anteroom. He entered, and the door closed behind him. The blind man remained seated in his chair. The secretary approached him.

“I am sorry,” she said, “you will have to return on Friday. You must leave now.”

The blind man gripped his cane. He arose and stood in his bent attitude.

“All right, lady,” he said. “I can come back Friday. Never mind the door; I can open it. I find my way very well.”

As he spoke, the blind man edged toward the door. Seeing that he had found the knob, the secretary turned and went toward her desk. There was a door in the corner just beyond the desk. The woman opened it and stepped into a small closet to obtain her hat and coat. She heard the outer door open and bang shut. She thought the blind man had gone.

In this surmise, the secretary was wrong. The moment that she had turned, the blind man had gazed after her. He had opened the door, and let it shut at just the psychological moment. In fact, while the door was automatically closing, the blind man had moved with surprising swiftness.

Across the waiting room, with long, noiseless stride, he had reached the door to the anteroom. There, his ways had been those of stealth. Silently, he had gained that gloomy entrance to Doctor Dubrong’s consultation room.

He stood within a widened chamber that was lighted by a single bulb in the ceiling. Stretching his form to an amazing height, he thrust a long-fingered hand toward the incandescent. The light went out as he twisted it. The windowless anteroom was in darkness.

Simultaneously, the blind man slid his large, gogglelike black glasses to his forehead. His eyes, previously hidden, seemed to blaze in the darkness. Edging toward the inner door, this remarkable intruder softly turned the knob. He opened the door the fraction of an inch. Peering through the space, he could see the interior of the consultation room.

Doctor Lysander Dubrong was seated at a desk. Opposite him was the bearded old man who had entered as the final patient. Doctor Dubrong was speaking; the bearded patient was listening attentively.

Neither man sensed the presence of a watching eye. The pretended blind man in the anteroom was peering unobserved. His keen eyes glistened; his sharp ears heard.

Joe Cardona was not the only surreptitious visitor to Doctor Dubrong’s East Side Clinic. The detective, as well as the physician, was under observation at this moment.

The fake blind man who had gained secret access to the anteroom was also in disguise. He was The Shadow. By day, as well as night, The Shadow could move unrecognized!