Maxwell Grant
The Crime Clinic
CHAPTER I
COMING EVENTS
A SHORT, stocky man was strolling beneath the superstructure of an East Side elevated. The collar of his brown overcoat was upturned. His gray hat was tilted down over his forehead. His hands were thrust deep in his side pockets. The man had all the appearance of an idler. He looked like a typical denizen of this dingy district in Manhattan.
Jostling shoulders with bums, the saunterer continued his slow pace. He growled at those whom he encountered, and there was a challenge in his air that commanded immediate respect. He seemed to be as tough a rowdy as any in the neighborhood, which abounded in tough characters.
The street was gloomy; nevertheless, the stroller showed a marked aptitude for turning his head away from any lights that he approached. Shop windows were lighted, for there was some evening business even on this tawdry thoroughfare. The muffled man avoided the glare from the little stores, sought only the shadows.
Only once did the stocky individual relax his effort to remain unrecognized. That was when he reached the entrance to a side street, where he idled in meditative fashion. He wanted to be sure that he was unobserved, and in convincing himself that this was the case, he unwittingly eased his vigilance. The glow of a street lamp temporarily revealed the man’s upturned features. That light showed a swarthy, square-jawed countenance.
The muffled man was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the Manhattan force. A prowler in the borderlands where crime was fostered, he had every reason to keep his identity unknown. After short, quick glances along the street, Cardona turned and entered the alleyway.
Perhaps there were those who knew Cardona’s gait; perhaps there were spying eyes that had caught that momentary revealment of the detective’s face. Whichever the case might be, there was a distinct activity along the street immediately after Detective Cardona’s departure.
Another idler across the street turned suddenly and walked away. A sneaky, stealthy man slipped from the protection of an obscure doorway. He passed a lounger who was standing beside the steps of an elevated station. This fellow sidled away as though a relayed message had been given.
NEWS was going through the underworld that Joe Cardona had arrived within the realm of crime. The grapevine telegraph was hard at work, reporting this event. Such was the way in the badlands of Manhattan.
Yet amid the subdued excitement, no one had noted the activities of the first individual who had taken action after viewing Joe Cardona’s face. This fellow had passed as one of the underworld. He looked like a husky gangster, who had every right to be in this forlorn district. Hence he had passed unchallenged.
In the light of a dingy cigar store, this man who had seen Cardona appeared as a different type. His face, though firm and determined, showed a keenness lacking in the usual gangster. Ensconced in a telephone booth, he called a number, and announced his identity in a low voice.
“Marsland reporting,” were his words.
“Report,” came the order, in a quiet voice.
“Cardona in vicinity,” announced Marsland. “Entered alley alongside Climax Brass Shop. Went into third house on the left.”
“Report received.”
This secret conversation had a meaning. Cliff Marsland, pretended gangster, had reported Cardona’s arrival. The man to whom he had spoken over the wire was a chap named Burbank — one whom Cliff had never seen, yet with whom he had much in common.
For Cliff Marsland was an agent of The Shadow; and Burbank was The Shadow’s contact man. As a prowler in the underworld, Cliff picked up data of importance, and sent it to Burbank; the contact man, in turn, relayed it to The Shadow.
To the underworld, a secret visit by Joe Cardona was a matter of importance. Whatever concerned the underworld, concerned The Shadow also. For The Shadow, mysterious personage whose very identity was unknown, battled crime and swung the balance of power into the hands of justice.
Cliff Marsland, sensing suppressed excitement in the neighborhood, had picked up the information that Joe Cardona had been seen. He had passed the word along to The Shadow. From now on, it would be The Shadow’s province to learn why Joe Cardona had set forth on a secret mission.
JOE CARDONA was a detective of capability. He had a tendency, however, to rely upon grit rather than craftiness. He had come to this district, confident that he could conceal his identity. So sure of that had Cardona been that he did not suspect that he had been recognized and trailed.
The detective was laughing gruffly he ascended a pair of dilapidated stairs within the building that he had entered. He stopped in front of a door on the third floor and gave two short, quick raps; after a pause, he repeated the double knock.
The door opened, and a peaked, wild-eyed face stared through the crack. A sickly grin appeared upon the hunted countenance as the door opened farther.
Joe Cardona stepped in. The little, stoop-shouldered man who had admitted him quickly closed and locked the door.
“Nobody seen you?” he questioned, in a hoarse, frightened voice. “Sure nobody seen you, Joe?”
“Not a chance, Scoffy,” returned Cardona, with a grin. “Look — I had my collar up — my hat tilted. I looked like any other mug on the avenue. Sit down — sit down—”
“Don’t stay long, Joe,” pleaded the little man as he sank to a tumble-down chair. “I ain’t got much to tell you tonight. I took a big chance, Joe, when I told you to come to this hideout. Say — if anyone wised that I was playin’ stool—”
“Forget it, Scoffy. You’re safe. Let’s hear what you’ve got to tell me.”
“It ain’t much, Joe” — “Scoffy’s” voice was a hoarse whisper — “but it may mean a lot — later on. I just got the word that The Jackdaw is workin’ again.”
Scoffy’s lips twitched as his beady eyes stared toward Cardona. The little stool pigeon was anxious to see what effect his words had on the detective. He expected that Cardona would be startled. The expectation was fulfilled.
Cardona’s eyes narrowed. His jaw hardened. His fists tightened. The star detective sat down upon the only other chair in the dilapidated bedroom and looked firmly at his informant.
“What do you know about The Jackdaw?” he demanded.
“Nothin’ at all, Joe,” pleaded Scoffy. “Nothin’ — honest. I’d blab if I knew who he was—”
“Tell me what you think about him.”
“Nothin’ you don’t know, Joe.”
“Tell me, anyway.”
“Well,” asserted Scoffy, in a confidential tone, “he’s a real guy, all right. Everybody knows how he used to work. He went after swell stuff — jewels — bonds — the kind of swag you’d find in a big banker’s home.”
“Alone?”
“Sometimes — an’ sometimes with a mob. All dependin’ on the lay. Then he scrammed — an’ came back. But he scrammed again. Now I think he’s comin’ back.”
“Why?”
“Because I seen Bennie Lizzit back in town — and Bennie was workin’ in The Jackdaw’s mob.”
“Do you know any others in the outfit?”
“Not a one, Joe — honest. Say — Bennie an’ me used to be pals. If he knowed that I was squealin’ to you, Joe, I’d get the works, sure.”
Cardona eyed the furtive-faced stool pigeon. There was no question about Scoffy’s sincerity. The palefaced gangster was telling all that he knew. Joe was determined to take advantage of Scoffy’s potential usefulness.
“All right,” said the detective, rising. “I’m counting on you, Scoffy. Keep your eyes open. Pal around with Bennie Lizzit again. Find out the fellow he’s working for. If The Jackdaw is back again, I’m going to crack his mob and get him, too.”