Doors of the Night

by Frank L. Packard

The door yielded upon the trial of the third key. Billy Kane flung it open, stepped inside, and his flashlight played through the blackness. As he had expected, the room was empty. He locked the door again, and crossed quickly to the rear door. This he found opened inward. He looked out. This took a few seconds, but an accurate knowledge of his surroundings was worth even more than that should he be caught here. The door opened on practically a level with the ground; and it had an old-fashioned latch, with heavy iron handles, loop-shaped, below the thumb-pieces. He closed the door, and bolted it, smiling appreciatively as he noted that the bolt moved both readily and silently, as though in carefully oiled grooves.

His flashlight played around the room again now. The window shade was drawn. He located the washstand—and frowned suddenly in perplexity. A crutch leaned against the washstand. His face cleared the next instant. Why shouldn’t the man have an extra one? Perhaps he had to buy them in pairs, though he used only one at a time.

Billy Kane stepped swiftly to the washstand, and, preparatory to pulling it away from the wall, lifted up the crutch—and the next instant was examining the latter critically. It was extremely heavy. He whistled low under his breath. It was not only a crutch, it was a murderous weapon! The shaft of the thing, though painted a wood color, was solid iron! He set it down and pulled out the washstand; then, picking up the crutch again, he slashed it along the line of the wall where the washstand had been. A large piece of the wall paper came away, disclosing a neatly constructed little hiding place, some two feet long by a foot in depth. A queer, twisted smile was on Billy Kane’s lips. In there lay only two articles—but they were a manila envelope, and a small handbag.

He snatched up the envelope, and tore it open. A glance at the faded writing was enough; it was Joe Laynton’s letter of twenty years ago. He stuffed it into his pocket; and, almost more eagerly than before, reached into the aperture again, and took out the handbag. But now his fingers seemed to have gone clumsy with excitement as he fumbled with the catches. No, it was locked. Well, his steel jimmy would soon settle that! He pried the bag open, and stood staring at its contents. And the contents were not rubies! And then he laughed a little, as he lifted out and examined a package of banknotes. It did not matter, did it—the rubies or the money! It linked the Man with the Crutch with the Ellsworth murder just the same. This was the money, and apparently intact, that had been in the Ellsworth vault; the paper bands pinned around the packages, and marked in red ink with the amount in each package, had been pinned there and marked by himself!

It was strange, very strange! He restored the steel jimmy to his pocket, and attempted to fasten the bag with its end catches, but the frame had been bent in prying the bag open, and the catches would not work easily. It was very strange! How had this Man with the Crutch, so intimately connected with Peters’ and David Ellsworth’s murders, come also to be so intimately conversant with the Crime Trust’s game with Dayler?

His mind kept striking off at tangents, as he struggled with the bag. He could not carry a bag that would gape open! Once he got it to the den, that hole in the flooring, that he had thought so futile a reward for his search, would not be so futile after all. The bag would fit very nicely, and very securely, in there! Iron crutches weren’t usually made in pairs. That was queer, too! Was it an iron crutch that was the blunt instrument that had caused Peters’ death—and David Ellsworth’s? Why had the man used that dummy envelope to-night, and—

His flashlight was out. Footsteps were creeping cautiously along the hall outside. The police! The bag would have to do as it was now; but at least one catch was partially fastened. He tucked it under his arm, and for the fraction of a second, while he thrust the flashlight back into his pocket, he stood still; and then, a sudden, curious smile on his lips, he reached out and picked up the crutch again, and stole silently over to the rear door. The smile was lost as his lips thinned into a straight line. Yes, they were already here too! Well, the crutch might perhaps still serve the same purpose!

His ear to the panel, a whisper reached him:

“Put your shoulder to it, Jerry, and push with me, when I get the bar in the crack of the door.”

“All right,” another voice whispered. “The others will have been around at the front long ago. Are you ready?”