Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 043 - The Crime Clinic

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THE CRIME CLINIC
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. COMING EVENTS
? CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW BEGINS
? CHAPTER III. CASSLIN'S CASTLE
? CHAPTER IV. MURDER STRIKES
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW SEES
? CHAPTER VI. CARDONA'S THEORY
? CHAPTER VII. THE JACKDAW'S MINIONS
? CHAPTER VIII. AT THE CLINIC
? CHAPTER IX. THE CONSULTATION
? CHAPTER X. MELKEN FINDS A FRIEND
? CHAPTER XI. THE JACKDAW ORDERS
? CHAPTER XII. CARDONA PERSISTS
? CHAPTER XIII. AT WINCHENDON'S
? CHAPTER XIV. THE CALL
? CHAPTER XV. THE SHADOW RETURNS
? CHAPTER XVI. CARDONA LEARNS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE NEXT NIGHT
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE INTERLUDE
? CHAPTER XIX. THE JACKDAW ARRIVES
? CHAPTER XX. THE SHADOW'S TASK
? CHAPTER XXI. THE JACKDAW'S NEST
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 hide-out. 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."
"It ain't goin' to be easy," volunteered Scoffy, with a shake of his head. "I knowed Bennie was workin'
for The Jackdaw. I was the only guy that knowed it. But I never got no hook-up on the rest of the mob.
"The Jackdaw is a silk-hat, Joe. He may use some gorillas when he needs 'em, but he ain't in their class.
He's a guy that moves high. He knows the swells, an' he works alone whenever he can."
"I know his game," nodded Cardona. "If he had stayed around long enough I would have grabbed him.
Now that I know he's back, I can get to him. But I may have to do it through the mob. That's where you
come in. Understand? Watch Bennie Lizzit."
"All right, Joe," nodded Scoffy reluctantly.
"Give me a call," ordered Cardona. "Tell me as soon as you have any new dope. Nobody knows that
you're tipping me off. Don't worry."
With this assurance to the stool pigeon, Cardona closed his coat collar about his chin. He slouched his
hat down over his eyes, opened the door, and thrust his hands into his pockets as he stalked down the
stairs.
Scoffy listened at the door. He heard the thud of Cardona's footsteps. He was glad that the detective had
gone. The interview had taken only a few minutes. Scoffy tried to convince himself that no one had
recognized the detective. The stool pigeon realized that he had taken a long chance in bringing Cardona
here.
Satisfied as to Cardona's departure, Scoffy closed the door. He stood trembling as he fished in his
pocket for a pack of cigarettes. Matches rattled as a wooden box came out in the shaky hand.
Scoffy's gaze was toward the window. Suddenly, it turned to the door. With a wild gasp, the stool
pigeon sprang to lock the barrier.
He was too late.
SIMULTANEOUSLY with the sound of footsteps, the door swung open, and a big-shouldered,
ugly-faced ruffian thrust himself into the room. In his right hand, this fellow held a big revolver. He
covered Scoffy with a weapon, and a fierce grin appeared upon the pockmarked countenance.
"Bennie Lizzit!"
The name was gasped from Scoffy's lips. The intruder laughed as he closed the door behind him.
"Didn't expect to see me, eh?" he snarled. "Who'd you think I was - that smart dick comin' back?"
"What dick?" questioned Scoffy, trying to bluff.
"Joe Cardona," jeered Bennie Lizzit. "Say - that clod-hopper was lamped when he hit the avenue.
Everybody knew he was down here. I heard where he headed. I figured maybe he was comin' to see
you."
"What'd he want to see me for?" asked Scoffy. "I ain't said nothin' to him, Bennie. You an' me - we're
pals and -"
"We was pals," retorted Bennie. "But not no more - you squealin' rat!"
Scoffy saw what was coming. Bennie Lizzit was between him and the door. With a frenzied cry, the
trapped stool pigeon made a dash for the window. Bennie overtook him; with a sweep of his arm, the big
gangster sent the little man spinning into the corner.
"Honest, Bennie!" Scoffy was pleading. "Honest - I didn't squeal!"
"You mean you ain't goin' to squeal no longer!"
With these words, Bennie shot his left hand forward, and pinned the stool pigeon's neck to the wall.
Before the cornered squealer could manage to squirm away, Bennie made a vicious swing with his right
arm. His revolver landed squarely upon the side of Scoffy's head.
The little fellow sagged. Bennie Lizzit delivered another skull-crushing blow. He released his left hand.
Scoffy's body tumbled to the floor. The stool pigeon was dead.
Bennie gloated as he surveyed the work which he had done. Still holding his revolver, he turned toward
the door.
The murderer's eyes began to bulge. His fist tightened on his revolver. His hand, however, did not rise.
Bennie Lizzit, killer though he was, felt pangs of fear at the uncanny event which was taking place before
his gaze here in this gangster hide-out.
The door was swinging open, of its own accord. As Bennie stared into the darkened hallway beyond, all
that he could see was a pair of blazing eyes. As he stared, the murderer saw a form materialize. He
gasped as he observed a being in black that appeared just within the doorway.
"The Shadow!"
Bennie's blurted recognition was a fitting tribute to the mysterious presence of The Shadow. A tall form
garbed in black, The Shadow had arrived as an avenger from the night. His shape seemed spectral
beneath the folds of a black cloak. His features - all save those terrible, blazing eyes - were invisible
beneath the shade of a broad-brimmed slouch hat.
THE one symbol of realism was the huge automatic that projected from a black-gloved hand. The sight
of that weapon brought terror to Bennie Lizzit. The mobster had killed. His victim lay at his feet. The
Shadow had trapped the murderer.
An ominous laugh came from unseen lips. The Shadow had arrived too late to prevent the death of
Scoffy, the stool pigeon. He was here, however, to learn the reason why Scoffy had been slain. His
sinister laugh was the token of his power.
Had The Shadow trapped Bennie Lizzit at any other moment, the gangster would unquestionably have
quailed. From his lips, The Shadow would have learned the reason for the murderer's crime.
But with Scoffy's body at his feet, Bennie Lizzit still was dominated with a savage thirst for murder. At the
sound of The Shadow's laugh, the killer spat a fierce oath and swung his gun arm upward to fire
point-blank at the avenger who had caught him on the scene of crime.
The room re-echoed to the roar of an ear-splitting report. The flash of flame came from The Shadow's
automatic. A split second before his enemy, The Shadow had delivered his message to prevent the
gangster's shot.
Bennie staggered backward, clutching his left shoulder. Crippled, he still snarled his rage. With clawing
finger, he managed to pull the trigger of his revolver. Shots went wide from his wavering gun.
Once more the automatic thundered. The bullet clipped the gangster's arm. With a shriek of pain, Bennie
Lizzit sprawled sidewise. He was against the window as he fell; his useless hand, as it lost the revolver,
struck against the drawn window shade.
The sash beyond was open. Lurching, where he had sought solidity, Bennie Lizzit floundered
headforemost over the low sill. He made a wild clutch with his left hand; his fingers slipped as they
clicked against the window frame.
The window shade snapped loose. Wrapped like a shroud about the hurtling gangster, it accompanied
Bennie Lizzit on his three-story plunge to the paving beneath the window. A hideous scream ended in a
crash below.
Silent, The Shadow stood within the door of this room where death had been delivered and avenged.
Shouts came to him from the street below. The black cloak swished. The tall form disappeared into the
darkness of the hallway.
Coming events had brought The Shadow to this spot. Joe Cardona had talked with Scoffy. The stool
pigeon had died at the hands of Bennie Lizzit. The murderer, in turn, was dead. These startling
occurrences were but the prelude to a trail of crime.
The Shadow, though he had not heard the words from Scoffy's lips, foresaw the coming conflict. Though
Joe Cardona, alone, had received word that the smooth crook called "The Jackdaw" had returned, The
Shadow soon would know what the detective had learned.
The stage was set for the events that were to come.
CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW BEGINS
LATE the next afternoon, Detective Joe Cardona was seated at his desk in headquarters. The place was
deserted. Cardona, alone, was giving vent to his feelings by means of a sullen scowl. The chief object of
Cardona's annoyance seemed to be the evening newspaper that was lying on the desk before him.
Leaning back in his chair, Cardona spent a few minutes in reflective thought. Then, in a decisive manner,
he arose, picked up the newspaper, and strode into another office.
He sat down in a chair on the opposite side from a gray-haired man who was busily engaged in
completing a report sheet. This was Inspector Timothy Klein, Cardona's superior.
Klein did not appear to notice Cardona's arrival. When he had finished his report sheet, however, the
grizzled inspector looked up and greeted the detective with a friendly smile.
"What's the matter, Joe?" he inquired.
"Plenty," admitted Cardona. "This, for one thing."
He pointed to the newspaper as he spoke. Klein looked at the item indicated and shook his head.
"Why does this bother you?" he questioned. "A couple of small-fry mobsters killed - that's all. There have
been other shootings in that neighborhood."
"Listen, inspector." Cardona's voice was serious. "I've got a hunch that there's trouble coming. There's
something big behind this. I'll tell you why. I was using this fellow Scoffy. Just breaking him in as a
high-grade stool pigeon."
Inspector Klein arched his eyebrows. The statement aroused his immediate interest.
"Last night," went on Cardona, "I went down there to see him. He told me about this fellow, Bennie
Lizzit. Scoffy was afraid of Lizzit. More than that, he told me Lizzit was hooked up with a big game. I
told Scoffy to keep an eye on Lizzit. Then what happens? This. Lizzit kills Scoffy; and someone gets
Lizzit."
Inspector Klein began to nod thoughtfully.
"Which leaves me out," declared Cardona. "My stool's dead; so is the man he was watching. That's why
I think the game is going to break."
"What do you think it's all about, Joe?"
"I know what it's about," asserted Cardona. "You know the trouble we had with those swell society
robberies. You know how little we learned. Some rumors about a smart crook they called 'The
Jackdaw.' Whether he was a gentleman burglar or a gang leader, we didn't find out. The only way we
figured that he'd ducked out was when he quit operating.
"Well, last night Scoffy tipped me that Bennie Lizzit had worked for The Jackdaw. With Bennie back in
town, Scoffy figured The Jackdaw might be back. Now that Scoffy and Bennie are both dead, I figure
The Jackdaw is back."
THE statement brought a frown from Inspector Klein. Cardona knew the reason. He spoke before Klein
had an opportunity to express himself.
"I know what you're thinking, inspector," said the detective. "It's going to raise hob if we start going after
some unknown bird that we call 'The Jackdaw.' The commissioner put the taboo on my mentioning The
Shadow in reports - even though I knew there were cases in which The Shadow figured. Now, if I say
there's a crook called The Jackdaw -"
Inspector Klein raised his hands. He tried to curb Cardona's outburst.
"Easy, Joe," he said. "You're getting ahead of yourself. There are no reports of robberies as yet."
"That's just it," returned Cardona grimly. "The other times we came in after The Jackdaw was gone. This
trip I want to be ahead of him."
"Excellent," affirmed Klein.
"I've figured it this way," asserted Cardona. "If The Jackdaw is back on the job, he'll be after big game.
Here - right on the same page of this afternoon's newspaper - is something that ought to interest him."
Inspector Klein looked at the item which Cardona indicated. Half aloud, he read the words which most
impressed him:
"Among the gems which Rutherford Casslin will exhibit at his home on Wednesday night is a large
diamond of a decided reddish tint. Its value has not been stated; but Mr. Casslin stated that he regards it
as the prize of his collection."
"Casslin is a millionaire," explained Cardona. "Lives out on Long Island in a big place he calls 'Five
Towers.' I talked to him on the telephone this afternoon."
"About the diamond?"
"Yes. I told him who I was. I asked him about being present at his home on Wednesday night."
"What did he say?"
"I think he's crazy," growled Cardona. "He told me to go back to Bombay; that he was tired of people
calling him up and misrepresenting themselves. He wanted to know if I was the same fellow who talked
to him in London, and claimed to be from Scotland Yard."
"That's odd," commented Klein. "He must have obtained the diamond in India. Listen, Joe; why don't you
go out here this evening and see this millionaire? Get his slant on whatever he suspects; but don't mention
anything about The Jackdaw. That ought to pave the way for a visit on Wednesday night."
A shadow fell across the floor as the inspector was speaking. Joe Cardona saw the approaching streak
of black; he wheeled in his chair, and looked toward the door. He grinned as he saw a tall,
stoop-shouldered janitor, who was carrying a pail and mop. The fellow looked at the detective with dull,
listless eyes.
"Hello, Fritz," laughed Cardona. "Cleaning up early again, eh?"
"Yah," returned the janitor.
"Well, I'm not interfering," said Cardona. "I'm on my way right now." He turned to Klein. "I'm all set,
inspector. I'll run out to Casslin's place some time this evening."
"So he can see you're not from Bombay," added Klein, with a short laugh. "That sure is an odd one, Joe,
unless some -"
"Unless Casslin is goofy?"
"No." Klein was rising from the desk as he spoke. "Unless there is some Hindu business mixed up with
that diamond. I've seen some strange hookups in my time."
"I'll find out the whole story, inspector."
The two men walked from the room. Klein was pocketing his report as he went. He looked toward the
janitor, who was busy with mop and bucket.
"Good night, Fritz," he said.
"Yah," was the janitor's reply.
Footsteps died in the corridor.
IT was then that Fritz ceased his mopping. His tall form seemed to straighten to unusual proportions. A
soft laugh came from his thick lips. In the direct light of the room, Fritz's face took on an artificial
expression that neither Cardona nor Klein had noticed. It was more a mask than a face.
Stooping again, this curious janitor shambled from the office. He emitted a friendly "Yah" to a detective
whom he passed in the hall. He reached an obscure room, placed mop and bucket upon the floor, and
opened the door of a locker.
Folds of black cloth tumbled forth. A cloaklike garment rolled over the janitor's head. Long hands placed
a slouch hat upon the head above. With swift, gliding stride, a phantom shape swung away from the
locker, and reentered the gloomy corridor.
The metamorphosis was complete. The pretended janitor had become The Shadow.
No one could have traced The Shadow's course from then on. Not even the real Fritz, arriving for janitor
duty, saw the lurking shape which waited near the outer door until he had passed. The Shadow, by his
remarkable impersonation, had listened from the corridor to the conversation between Detective
Cardona and Inspector Klein. He had learned why Joe Cardona had visited Scoffy; he had also
discovered why Bennie Lizzit had slain the stool pigeon.
To The Shadow, the information gained was usable for a more direct purpose than an immediate visit to
the home of Rutherford Casslin. One hour after his departure from headquarters, The Shadow appeared
in an obscure portion of Manhattan. A corner light revealed him only as a passing shade of blackness
against a dingy wall.
The Shadow had arrived in a district of cosmopolitan Manhattan where members of a dark-skinned race
were wont to be. Hindus are rare in New York, but the spot chosen by The Shadow was one which they
frequented. The tall shape was lost in obscurity; it reappeared at a little used doorway, and glided into the
side entrance of a small restaurant.
Half an hour passed while The Shadow watched from obscurity. The proprietor of the restaurant was a
Hindu, garbed in American attire. Most of his patrons were Americans; but as The Shadow lingered, a
dark-skinned individual entered and spoke to the restaurant keeper. After that, he went to a table in a
corner of the place and sat down.
The Shadow glided from the unused entrance. Shortly afterward, a second Hindu entered, spied the one
seated at the table, and joined him. The men waited until bowls of curried rice had been set before them.
Alone, they were about to speak, when a tall American strolled in and took his seat at a table near by.
One of the Hindus glanced in his direction, then shrugged his shoulders, and started to talk to his
companion.
THE Hindus were obviously men of intelligence. The fineness of their Aryan features showed that fact.
Their talk was partly English, partly the native tongue familiar to them. It would have been an
indecipherable jargon to the average American.
The customer near by had ordered a dish of Indian food. He seemed quite oblivious to the words which
the Hindus were uttering. Nevertheless, his ears were keen, and nothing escaped him. The dialect came
within his understanding.
"It can only be the one," a Hindu was declaring. "Its color - red - is all that we need to know. It is the
diamond taken from Bishenpur."
"Would Changra of Bombay still seek it?" queried the man's companion.
"No," was the reply. "Once it had left London, and come to New York, the price would be too great for
any offer he might make. Changra sells his gems at profit."
"He sought the Bishenpur diamond."
"Yes. The Nizam of Hyderabad would gladly buy it for his vast collection. The Nizam would pay a great
price."
"How much would Changra offer for the diamond?"
"One hundred and fifty thousand rupees."
An eager hiss came from the listening Hindu.
"You are going back to India," said the first speaker. "If you should carry with you the Bishenpur
diamond, it would mean great gain for each of us."
"Changra would ask no questions?"
"None."
"But the diamond? How can you obtain it?"
"Tippu is watching at the American's castle. Tippu is bold. He will do his utmost to seize it."
The listener nodded in agreement. His dark eyes gleamed at the thought of great gain. The ensuing
discussion dealt with the arrangements which he must make upon reaching Bombay.
While the Hindus were still talking, the American finished his meal and arose. He strolled leisurely from
the restaurant. The plotting Hindus gave no more thought to him. They had no idea whatever that he had
understood their conversation.
NOT far from the restaurant, the tall listener stopped beside a parked coupe. He stepped into the car.
Blackened folds of cloth dropped over his shoulders. Black gloves and slouch hat completed his adopted
garb.
The coupe moved, guided by an unseen hand. As it rolled from the vicinity where New York's small
Hindu population thronged, a soft laugh betrayed the hidden thoughts of the driver of that car.
The Shadow had learned more than Joe Cardona. He had discovered why Rutherford Casslin had
regarded the detective's telephone call as a hoax. Possessor of a rare stone which he had brought from
India, the American millionaire had refused all offers which had been made for its purchase.
The Shadow had learned of a definite danger which overclouded Rutherford Casslin's possession of the
diamond. He had heard the name of a man who was watching the millionaire's Long Island home - Tippu,
a vigilant Hindu bent on crime.
The Shadow, like Joe Cardona, was bound for Rutherford Casslin's home. Whether or not The Jackdaw
was concerned in this enterprise did not matter. Crime threatened and where crime hovered, there would
The Shadow be.
The clock on the dashboard of the coupe showed the hour of nine as The Shadow guided his car through
the traffic of Manhattan, headed for an East River bridge.
摘要：

THECRIMECLINICMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.COMINGEVENTS?CHAPTERII.THESHADOWBEGINS?CHAPTERIII.CASSLIN'SCASTLE?CHAPTERIV.MURDERSTRIKES?CHAPTERV.THESHADOWSEES?CHAPTERVI.CARDONA'STHEORY?CHAPTERVII.THEJACKDAW'SMINIONS?CHAPTERVIII.ATTHECLINIC?CHAPTERI...

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