Doors of the Night

by Frank L. Packard

Billy Kane finished his cigarette, and finished still another, as the taxi made its way uptown. There had never been anything criminal, so far as was known, about young Merxler, nothing wrong up to now, except that he had gone the pace, and that, perhaps more than anything else, he had been a foolish and unbalanced boy and had lost his head; but now there were two very unpleasant facts that loomed up insistently. First, it was common knowledge that at the time of his uncle’s death young Merxler was having an exceedingly hard time of it to make both ends meet. And, second, was the fact that Karlin was in this too. Knowing Karlin now for what Karlin really was, it looked ugly enough for young Merxler. Karlin, accepted in the upper circles in which he moved, as a respected citizen and an excellent attorney, had always been trusted as a friend and the legal adviser of both young Merxler’s father and uncle—which placed him now in a position where he could be a very useful, if not indispensable confederate in assisting Merxler to enter without obstacle into the possession of his uncle’s estate.

The minutes passed. Billy Kane, within a few blocks of his destination, noted the cross streets carefully now, as he shook his head again. The pieces did not fit so perfectly after all. Suppose that Rodgers had left a will disinheriting his nephew, and suppose that young Merxler had found that will and that it was in Merxler’s safe now, and that Karlin was a party to it—why hadn’t the will been destroyed? That would seem the obvious and safe thing to have done! And if Merxler and Karlin and Red Vallon were all hand in glove in the affair, where was the incentive for murder that she had spoken of? Whose murder? There was a snarl in the thing. He was conscious that he had not untangled it at all to his satisfaction.

He tapped suddenly on the glass front, signalling the chauffeur; and, as the taxi drew up at the curb, he stepped quickly to the sidewalk.

“Wait for me here,” he directed, and started at a brisk pace up the block.

He turned at the first corner, heading east along the cross street. It was purely a residential neighborhood here. There was no other pedestrian in sight for the moment. Merxler’s house was one of a row halfway up the block. Billy Kane’s pace became a nonchalant stroll. He passed the row of houses slowly, though apparently indifferent to their existence, and then, retracing his steps quite as negligently, slipped suddenly into the shadows of a flight of high front steps, and the next instant was crouched against the basement door.

A skeleton key from Whitie Jack’s comprehensive assortment crept into the lock. It proved abortive. Billy Kane, as he made a second attempt with another key, was subconsciously rehearsing certain details in his mind. There was a light in the vestibule or front hallway above him, but the windows on that floor were dark. Above that again the windows were lighted, and it was a fair presumption that the family proper were all upstairs. There was probably a maid, but as there was no sign of life here in the basement it might well be her evening out.

Again Billy Kane selected another key, still another—and then the door opened silently under his hand. He stepped inside, closed the door noiselessly behind him, and stood listening. There was no sound and no light. It was pitch black. He could not have seen his hand before his eyes. And then his flashlight winked through the black, went out, winked inquisitively again, and he moved forward. The stairs were just at his right, and made a right-angled turn halfway up. He gained the stairs and began to mount them, testing each separate tread cautiously before the next step was attempted. Stairs before now had been known to creak out discordantly! Billy Kane smiled in a grim, mirthless way. He was becoming an adept at this burglarious trade where silence was so prime a factor. Since last night he——

What was that?

He felt his muscles, as though without volition of his, strain suddenly and grow rigid. He was halfway up the stairs now, and he drew back into the angle made by the turn, his body hugged tight against the wall. What was that! He thought he had heard a sound as of someone moving in the hall above, but it was gone now and there was only a stillness in the house, a stillness that, as he listened, became exaggerated until it seemed to possess noises of its own that began to throb, and pound, and palpitate, and make his eardrums ring, and—no!—there it was again—a light, quick step—and, unmistakably now, upon the topmost stair.

It was inky black. He could not see. He pressed still closer, flattening himself against the wall. The step was very light, scarcely audible; a woman’s step probably, and probably the maid’s. Billy Kane held his breath. If he were found here, discovered, caught, the Rat would——He did not care to dwell upon the consequences.