Doors of the Night

by Frank L. Packard

Something, a shapeless thing, a deeper, shadowy blackness passed by him. It seemed to escape contact with him by the barest fraction of an inch. He heard the sound of breathing—then a step along the passageway below—and the basement door closed quietly. There was silence again, save for that din infernal that beat at his eardrums. He lifted his hand to his forehead—it was moist as he brought it away again.

A moment more, and he was grimly composed again. It was the maid probably. That seemed the natural conclusion. Who else would have gone out by the basement door? Well, if that were so, he was left now with almost unrestricted freedom of action; the family being all upstairs, he might reasonably expect to have the first floor quite to himself without very great fear of interruption.

He crept on up the stairs, and reached the main hallway. Here the dim light in the vestibule sifting down the length of the hall metamorphosed the blackness into a murky gloom. He listened again. A murmur of voices came intermittently from above. There was no other sound.

There was a door at his right. He opened it silently, and stepped through into the room beyond. He closed the door, and the flashlight winked out again. He was in luck now! This, at the first venture, was the room he was looking for. The round, white ray of the flashlight, cutting a filmy path through the darkness, fell upon the nickel dial of a small safe that stood against the opposite wall. He crossed to the safe, knelt before it, and took the crumpled piece of paper that bore the combination from his pocket. Thereafter for a moment, as his fingers moved swiftly, the silence was broken by the faint, musical whirling of the dial—and then a low, metallic thud, as he shot the lever over—and the safe door swung open.

The ray from the flashlight flooded the interior of the safe. It was a small safe, but even so it was evidently more than large enough for its requirements. On the floor of the safe was a package of securities, held together by broad elastic bands, but the pigeon-holes were but sparsely filled, some being entirely empty. A few minutes’ examination disposed of the pigeon-holes—and the skeleton keys came into service again on a little locked drawer. The drawer contained a single envelope, sealed. He slit the envelope open. It contained two folded sheets of paper. He examined only one of them, and that only to the extent of glancing at the first few words: “I, Theodore Rodgers, being of sane mind and——”

Billy Kane’s face darkened, as he thrust the envelope into his pocket and locked the drawer. It was true then! His lips pursed grimly, as his eyes fell upon the package of securities again. He took up the package and riffled it tentatively through his fingers. Theodore Rodgers had perhaps been a little eccentric—if eccentricity was defined by a divergence from the general habits and customs of others! He had made no secret that he kept his securities in his own safe, preferring that method to depositing them in a safe-deposit vault, and claiming that, as the securities were made out in his name and were therefore valueless to anyone else, they offered no temptation for robbery. Young Merxler had evidently followed in his uncle’s footsteps in this particular! But Theodore Rodgers had been credited with being worth in the neighborhood of seventy thousand dollars! Billy Kane’s lips pursed tighter, as he replaced the package of bonds and stock certificates in the safe, and closed and locked the safe door. At a generous estimate there remained no more than twelve or fifteen thousand dollars. Young Merxler, in the brief period following his uncle’s death, had evidently done well!

Billy Kane retreated from the room, descended the stairs, and let himself out through the basement door—and five minutes later, in his taxi, was being whirled downtown again. “The back room at Jerry’s before ten.” He had directed the chauffeur to drive to a side street just off the Bowery near Chatham Square—that was close to Jerry’s. He had looked at his watch, as he had entered the taxi. It was just nine o’clock. He had therefore plenty of time now. He took the envelope from his pocket and extracted the two folded sheets. There was not light enough to read by, but that was quite easily rectified. He had his flashlight.

He bent well down toward the floor of the cab so as not to attract the chauffeur’s attention, read both of the papers, read them again—and a look of stunned surprise and bewilderment settled on his face. One was a will, evidently drawn and written by Rodgers himself, and duly witnessed, bequeathing practically everything to charity, and specifying four or five different organizations as the beneficiaries. It appointed Karlin, who was referred to as a “trusted and lifelong friend,” the sole executor; and, “as a mark of personal esteem,” and as a “slight compensation” for the administration of the estate, left Karlin a legacy of two thousand five hundred dollars. The other paper was a letter signed by young Merxler. Billy Kane read this again for the third time:

“If I die before Karlin does, this is a joke on Karlin; if Karlin dies before I do the will and this letter go into the fire. Damn him—I hate him! He’s a smooth oily-tongued hypocrite! It was Karlin more than anybody else who backed my uncle up in the idea of cutting me off. Well, I guess this is where I get even! If there’s two thousand five hundred dollars left when I get through, I hope Karlin will enjoy it—but there won’t be! I just wanted him to know how thoughtful my uncle was, and it was worth the risk of keeping the cursed will for the sake of the jolt it will give Karlin’s miserly, snivelling soul. If there’s anything Karlin loves, it’s money. If Karlin’s got any God at all, it’s money. He worships that, all right!”

Here the letter veered abruptly into direct address: