Doors of the Night

by Frank L. Packard

“We got him!” he said. There was hoarse elation in the gangster’s voice.

A fierce uplift swept in an almost overmastering surge upon Billy Kane. His answer, however, was little more than a grunt of approval.

“You have—eh?” he said.

“You bet your life!” exclaimed the gangster jubilantly. “You know Marlot’s saloon? Well, the guy lives next door in that old motheaten shack. Some place! The police have been leery of it for a long while. There’s mostly a bunch of slick-fingers hang out there. Get me? He’s got the back room—used to be the kitchen, I guess. He’s a smooth one, all right! He’s got a private entrance of his own when he doesn’t want to go in or out by the front; the old back door opens right into his room from the yard. Savvy?”

Billy Kane nodded his head shortly in affirmation. He took a cigarette from his pocket, and lighted it nonchalantly.

“But, say”—the elation in the gangster’s voice was growing still more pronounced—“that ain’t all! The Pippin spotted his nibs through the window from the yard a few minutes ago. Say, what do you think, Bundy! The cripple hobbles across the room, and pulls the old washstand away from the wall, and lifts up an innocent-looking piece of the wall paper that you’d think was stuck down for fair. The Pippin had only a rip in the window shade to see through, and he couldn’t see very well, but he could see a dinky little hole there in the wall, and a satchel inside, and the cripple takes something out of his pocket and slips it into the hole, and smooths the wall paper back again. The Pippin beat it out of there then, and found me, and he’s just wised me up.”

It was quite dark here on the street, but even so Billy Kane kept his face turned slightly away from the gangster. The blood was racing in one mad, ungovernable flood of feverish excitement through his veins. It seemed somehow as though a weight that had been unendurable, an actual physical burden beyond his strength to bear, had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. The Man with the Crutch! From the prior events of the evening, from what Red Vallon had just said, there was no possibility that the Pippin had stumbled upon another man with a crutch. This was the one, without question, without room for a single shadow of a doubt. And he as good as had the man now! He flicked the ash from his cigarette with his forefinger, and nodded curtly again.

“Figure it out for yourself,” said Red Vallon, a sort of eager self-complacency in his voice. “Of course, the man had nothing to do with that murder last night, but the police know he was around there lugging a satchel, and you add to that the crook dump where he lives, and a guy that has a nifty little hiding place in the wall with a satchel in it—and where does he get off? I ain’t throwing any bouquets at myself, Bundy, but I told you I’d pull something good this trip, and I guess you got to hand it to me for delivering the goods. Pipe this, Bundy! The police think the Pippin’s a stool-pigeon anyhow. Well, five minutes ago I sent the Pippin to tip off the police, while I beat it up here to put you wise. Get me? With all that stuff against the guy, he ain’t got a hope. He goes up for that murder, and that lets you out, Bundy.”

Billy Kane stood still. They had reached the cellarlike entrance to the Rat’s den, but he made no move to descend the short, cavernous stairway. A little way up the block the street lamp seemed suddenly to be swirling around and around in swift, lightning-like irregular flashes. The blood that had rushed hotly, madly through his veins but an instant before was cold and sluggish now, as though some icy tourniquet were at work upon his heart, stilling its action.

“That lets you out, Bundy.” The words mocked and jeered at him. Let him out! It was ruin, disaster, death—unless in some way he could forestall this move of Red Vallon. He fought desperately for control of himself. That envelope, her threat, his own desire to get at the man, were like issues fading into the background. He knew that the man was the murderer of Peters, and if the police, whether they caught the man or not, found what he believed they would find in that satchel—some at least of those rubies from the Ellsworth vault—then Red Vallon, this man standing here, who with horrible callousness, but equally with the genuine motive of protecting the Rat, was ironically planning, while believing him innocent, to send the guilty man to his death, would know absolutely beyond question that the Rat had not killed Peters last night, that last night’s alibi was a lie, and that he, Billy Kane, was the man in the mask, at whose throat Red Vallon and his gang asked nothing better than to hurl themselves like a pack of starving wolves!