Kolchak The Night Strangler by Richard Matheson, Jeff Rice Page A

blow-up matched very nicely.
    “Mr. B., do you know what that little brass plaque under that photo up there says? It says ‘Malcolm Richards, M.D., Founder of the Richards Free Clinic. The Doctor Saint of the Waterfront.’”
    “Dreadful. Dreadful.”
    “What do you mean, dreadful? It’s great! This is what we need!”
    Then I remembered my camera. I’d forgotten it back in the office. Berry had it bulging out of one pocket.
    “You’re a lifesaver.”
    “Well, I just thought… I mean that’s why it took me so long.”
    “Never mind.” I did kiss him on his thinning thatch and began shooting pictures of the “Doctor Saint.”
    “ There he is, officers!”
    And that’s when I got busted.
    Before they got the cuffs on me, I slipped the camera to Berry and told him what to do. Then I ran around the admitting area creating as much havoc as possible so Berry could slip away unnoticed. It was probably his second greatest talent, going unnoticed. Finally, after about 30 seconds, a very large, very angry policeman cornered me up against a wall.
    “You’ve got me, officer. I cannot tell a lie. I am the Scarlet Pimpernel!”
    I was hustled over to the Municipal Building in handcuffs and brought directly to Schubert’s office. Schubert and his officers were there in shirtsleeves.
    So was Vincenzo.
    And so was Mr. Crossbinder.
    “Listen, Tony, I’ve got…”
”Shut up, Kolchak.” It was Schubert. Another precinct heard from. Vincenzo looked at me like I was a bug, took two large-sized Maalox tablets from his suitcoat pocket and began to chew them slowly.
    Crossbinder opened the festivities in a rolling voice worthy of a Shakespearean actor.
    “It is to be regretted, Mr. Kolchak, that the use of leg irons and mouth blocks was outlawed some years back.”
    “Now hold on, Mr. Crossbinder. Let me explain.” I turned to Schubert. “Will you take these damn cuffs off me?”
    “I warned you, Kolchak.”
    Crossbinder crossed his pipe-steam legs, his American Flag pin twinkling as he moved.
    “Con grat ulations, Mr. Kolchak. You have plumbed a new depth: the desecration of a saint. What do you do for an encore? Set fire to an orphanage?”
    I turned to Vincenzo.
    “Vince…”
    Crossbinder also turned to Vincenzo.
    “Yes, Mr. Vincenzo. Have you some illuminating comment to make?”
    “I took him off the story, Mr. Crossbinder. What more could …?”
    “For Christ’s sake, everybody shut up! You wanted facts Vincenzo. All right. I’ve got facts for you.
    “I did not invent the resemblance between Dr. Malcolm Richards and Dr. Richard Malcolm! I did not invent the fact that Westside Mercy Hospital—of which Dr. Richard Malcolm was a staff member—is buried underneath the site of the present Malcolm Richards clinic. Any fool can…”
    Crossbinder wasn’t through, however.
    “Charming. Just charming. Why not an expose on Dr. Schweitzer, Mr. Kolchak? The low down on Mahatma Gandhi? The real scoop on the Pope?
    “You and this eternal youth garbage. I can’t stand it!”
    “I can see why you, you old…”
”What did you say?”
    Schubert broke up the fight. “All right, hold on. We’re not here for personal vituperation.”
    I couldn’t restrain myself. “You know that word, Captain ?”
    “You’ve been arrested, Mr. Kolchak. You are one one-hundredth of an inch from being thrown in jail and…” He broke off and looked toward his door. So did I. Mr. Berry—good old Mr. Berry—was standing there with Sheila McCallister. He was shyly wiggling his fingers at me.
    “There he is! That’s the man I’m waiting for! John! Come right on in here!”
    Sheila opened the door for him and marched him in like a small, reluctant truant. “I apologize for interrupting your meeting sir, but this gentleman…”
    Crossbinder bellowed, “Who is this man?”
    “He works for you.”
    Crossbinder looked blank, and Berry spoke up for himself in a very timid voice. “D-down in Research, sir… for… thirty-five