Doors of the Night

by Frank L. Packard

“Open the safe, Bundy!” she instructed evenly. “Watch him, Mr. Dayler, and satisfy yourself.”

The dial whirled deftly, swiftly, under Billy Kane’s fingers. The steel door swung open.

“Gone! My God, it is gone!” Dayler’s cry now was broken, almost inarticulate. His head half buried in the cupboard, he was staring into the empty safe. And then he reeled back to the table, and stood there clawing at its edge, gray to the lips, looking from one to the other.

“I have not quite finished my story,” she said quietly. “It is quite true that Keats is dead; but he did not die two or three days ago, he has been dead well over a month. Nor did he die from natural causes. He was murdered. There is a gigantic Crime Ring in this country, whose headquarters are here in New York, that is as implacable and heinous as it is far-spread and powerful. Keats, far under the influence of liquor in a low dive one night and in maudlin self-admiration at the idea of making restitution to you, became drunkenly confidential, and his ‘confidant,’ as it happened, was an old broken-down yegg of about his own age, too old for active work at his sordid trade, a pensioner, a hanger-on, as it were, of this Crime Ring, who made himself as valuable as he could in any way that he could. He reported the story. Keats was promptly murdered—not so much for the sake of the paper, for that could easily have been taken from him without resorting to murder, but that there should be no Keats, with his change of heart, ready to take the witness stand in your behalf, and therefore render the paper of no value to them at all. The Crime Ring did not, however, act with the same haste as far as you were concerned. That is not their way! They watched you, they became thoroughly conversant, intimately acquainted with you, and your house, and your mode of living. It was necessary that they should do so before the next move could be decided upon. It was essential that you should know that the document was still in existence, and it was equally essential that you should know Keats was dead and would therefore never be able to help you with his testimony. The actual delivery of the document into your hands was the really clever and finished play to make, for it not only accomplished those ends naturally, simply, and without possibility of alarming you, but your temporary possession of the letter would also psychologically enhance its value in your eyes and make the shock of its subsequent loss all the greater—and you all the more generous! But unless they could be sure of recovering it—if for instance you had a safe-deposit vault where you would likely place it—that plan would not do at all, and some other must be devised. They satisfied themselves on that score, however; and the discovery of that wall safe, and, incidentally, its combination, made it as certain as anything is humanly certain that they would know where to find the letter again when they wanted it. And, finally, there was the police, the men of the Royal Northwest Mounted, to be put upon your trail. It was only when you stood facing arrest for murder, and only when that paper was all that stood between you and the hangman’s noose, that it was worth—well, perhaps you will say what it is worth? That is the situation to-night, Mr. Dayler.”

The man was rocking on his feet, still clawing at the edge of the table for support. He seemed to have lost all self-control.

“Blackmail!” he said, through dry, twitching lips.

“And without any come-back!” She shrugged her shoulders. “You are rated at a quarter of a million. What will you give for that paper?”

Dayler did not answer at once. He reached out behind him, felt for the arm of his chair, and sat down heavily. He spoke at last, brushing his hand nervously across his forehead.

“I—I’ll give—ten thousand dollars,” he said hoarsely.

“You do not place a very complimentary value on your life,” she said evenly.