Billy Kane made no effort to stop her, as she closed the door silently
behind her. She was gone. The minutes passed, and he still sat there on
the side of the bed, his eyes mechanically fixed on the spot, an
innocent blank wall now, where she had disappeared. His face, hard and
set at first, grew harder. What was he to do? There seemed to yawn
before him, to have opened at his feet an abyss, bottomless, pitiless,
and he tottered on the brink of it, and unseen hands reached up and
snatched at him to drag him from the narrow ledge that was all that was
left to him of safety. What was he to do? To go on? Every hour that he
clung to this role of the Rat held a surer promise, not only of
desperate peril to himself, but a promise that he would find himself
launched in a sea of crime, of shuddering things, of murder, of blood,
of sordid viciousness, of hate. In God’s name, who was this Rat, who in
this hole here with its secret opening and its gnawed tunnel to the
daylight made the pseudonym so apt!
He clenched his hands suddenly, and rising to his feet began to pace the
room. He began to see now what, strangely enough, though it should have
been plainly obvious all through that day, he had not seen until she,
this unknown, mysterious woman, had, herself unconscious of it, made him
see. Her power over the Rat to which he was subject in his assumed
character, did not, in the final analysis, whatever the source of that
power might be, materially affect the situation. It was not her threat
that was the driving force that must actuate him. There was another and
a far greater force which he could neither ignore nor escape. He saw
that now. If the foreknowledge of proposed crime came to him, he was as
guilty, if he stood idly by, as those who became the actual perpetrators
of that crime. To-night, if there was to be murder done, and it was
within his power to prevent that murder, or even if it were only within
his power to attempt to prevent that murder—and he did nothing—he was a
murderer himself. And so to-night he had no choice. He must act. It did
not seem to him that there had been any question in his mind about this
in a specific way at all from the moment she had spoken of murder. But
afterwards—if he went on—the crimes that Red Vallon and Karlin and their
confederates would plot, and that he would know of—what then?
He halted by the table, and laughed in a short, harsh way, and in the
dark eyes there burned a sudden fire. Was there really any question
about that, either? Had there ever been! He asked only one thing in life
now, and to that everything else was subordinate—to feel his hands upon
the throat of the man who had murdered David Ellsworth, and who had
fastened that guilt upon him—Billy Kane—to wring from that man a
confession that would clear his name. Nothing else mattered. He could
run for it, discard this rôle of the Rat, and perhaps effect his escape,
but he would thereby throw away almost every hope of bringing the guilty
man to justice. The other way was to fight. Well, he would fight! It
would be a good fight! And, as the Rat, he would not have to fight
alone! If he accepted the chances as they stood, he must accept the risk
involved in foiling the plots and crimes of those who thought him their
confederate; but against this, the first step already inaugurated, he
had the craft and cunning of the underworld at his back in the one
purpose that meant anything to him now. It would be a good fight! If he
failed, he might as well go out this way as any other—better this way,
for then at least some of the projected deviltry would never know
fruition. He drew in his breath sharply as in a sort of strange relief.
It was settled now, once for all! He would go on—as the Rat—to the end.
And to-night he would see this Merxler plot through to the end.
Billy Kane picked up the crumpled piece of paper she had dropped on the
table, studied it for an instant, then placed it in his pocket. It
contained the scrawled figures of a safe’s combination, nothing more.
And now, glancing at his watch and finding that it was already a little
after eight o’clock, Billy Kane worked quickly. The mask that had served
him the night before was already in his pocket, as was his revolver. To
these he added the electric flashlight that Whitie Jack had procured for
him that morning, and, from where they dangled in the lock of the door,
Whitie Jack’s bunch of skeleton keys. He extinguished the light; then
passing out through the secret door, which he closed carefully behind
him, he made his way quickly through the little underground passage,
gained the shed through the trap-door, emerged on the lane, and from
there, cautiously, he reached the street.
He walked rapidly now, but keeping always in the shadows, shunning the
direct rays of the street lamps. He cared nothing for the police; his
danger did not lie in that direction. Seen anywhere in the city by
either police or plain-clothes man he would be recognized, not as Billy
Kane, but as the Rat—and the authorities, he was fairly well satisfied,
had no particular or immediate interest in the Rat. His danger lay
to-night in an unlucky recognition by some prowler of the underworld,
the report of which might reach the ears of Red Vallon and his crowd.
Supposed to be confined to bed, pleading physical inability to take his
place at that unhallowed council board of which he was accepted as a
member, it would be very awkward to explain his presence on the street
within half an hour after Red Vallon and Karlin had left his room!
To-morrow, the day after, it would be a different matter, he could go
and come then as he pleased, but to-night it multiplied his difficulties
and his dangers a thousandfold. And yet, after all, that was the most
simple of the problems that confronted him—with luck, he could see his
way out of that. But for the rest, he was almost like a blind man
groping his way along in what was already near to an inextricable maze.
He knew something of Merxler both by sight and hearsay, he knew where
Merxler lived, that there was a will in the safe which he must secure,
that he possessed the combination of the safe, and that afterwards there
was “the back door of Jerry’s before ten,” which referred undoubtedly to
the notorious gambling hell of that name, and that in these fragments,
once pieced together, there was murder—that was all he knew. And there
was something grim, and horribly ironic, and mocking, and something
forbidding, and ominous and premonitory in the fact that he was supposed
to know _all_!
The street for the moment in his immediate vicinity was deserted, and
just well enough within the radius of a street lamp to enable him to
see, he drew the package of money from his vest pocket that the old
millionaire had confided to his keeping the night before. He selected
several bills of the smaller denominations, placed them in his trousers’
pocket, and returned the package to the inside pocket of his vest. Thank
God for the money! He had enough in the bank twice over to replace this
two thousand that now belonged to the Ellsworth estate, but he could not
get it! He was a fugitive from the law! But this should see him
through—by the time two thousand was exhausted he must either have won
or lost. He smiled a little bitterly. Win or lose, the estate at least
would get its two thousand back! If he won, he would pay it back
himself; if he lost—well, his money in the bank had probably already
been attached!
And now he retreated to the shadows of the buildings again as he went
along. His surreptitious excursion from the Rat’s den last night had, to
one who knew the East Side as intimately as he knew it, supplied him
with a mental map, as it were, of the neighborhood in which the Rat had
chosen to reside. A block further on was The Purple Scarf, a so-called
Bohemian restaurant and dance hall, as lurid as its name, that for the
moment was the craze with the slummers and those of New York’s upper
strata who aped all things Bohemian—and from early evening until early
morning a line of taxis waited to snatch their share of the spoils from
the free-handed and, quite often, hilarious clientele. It was a taxi
that he wanted—without attracting any unnecessary attention to himself—a
taxi that he could not stand on a crowded thoroughfare and hail—and
there was, as usual, a line of them there now in front of the
restaurant.
He reached the corner, drew his hat far down over his eyes, stepped out
into the street, and approached the last taxi in the line from the side
away from the curb. The chauffeur was nodding in his seat. Billy Kane
touched the man on the arm.
“I want to go up to the Nineties—Broadway—probably several places after
that,” said Billy Kane pleasantly.
The chauffeur yawned, and shook his head.
“I’m waitin’ for a party in there.” He jerked his hand toward the
restaurant. “I got a fare.”
“I know you have,” said Billy Kane coolly. “You’ve got me.” He extended
a ten-dollar bill. “There’s another one just like this, perhaps more
than one, coming later—on top of the fare.”
The chauffeur grinned, pocketed the banknote, and, leaning out, opened
the door. His grin broadened.
“What did you say the address was?” he inquired.
“The one I gave you will do for the present,” Billy Kane answered
quietly. “I’ll let you know where to stop. Get up there as fast as you
can. I’m paying for speed to-night. Get the idea?”
“Leave it to me!” said the chauffeur. “Hop in!”
Billy Kane settled back in the seat. The car swung out of the line, shot
forward, and took the first corner on little better than two wheels.
Billy Kane smiled grimly. Between here and that purposely vague address
in the Nineties which he had given, the chauffeur could very obviously
be depended upon to do his part! In the meanwhile, and for the first
time, he, Billy Kane, had an opportunity to study those scattered pieces
of the puzzle in detail.
He lighted a cigarette. That there should be a will in Merxler’s safe at
all had a nasty look—unless it were Merxler’s own will, which was
altogether too highly improbable a supposition to be entertained
seriously. And besides, in that case, what was Karlin’s, and Red
Vallon’s, and the underworld’s interest in the matter? He shook his head
decisively. The existence of a will did not tend to place young Merxler
in an enviable light.
Merxler’s uncle, a man by the name of Theodore Rodgers, who had died
some few months before, had been quite an intimate friend of David
Ellsworth—that was where his, Billy Kane’s, personal knowledge of
Merxler came from. He had met Rodgers several times at the old
millionaire’s home; and once he had met the nephew there as well. The
two did not get on very well together. Young Merxler was a notorious
“high-roller.” Left a large fortune by his father two years ago, he had
squandered it to the last copper. Theodore Rodgers, his uncle, had time
and again, both privately and publicly, stated that he would have
nothing more to do with the boy. That was the gist of it. It had
occasioned some surprise then that, when Rodgers had died, it was found
that he had taken no steps to keep his money, what he had of it, some
sixty or seventy thousand dollars, out of the young spendthrift’s hands.
But no will had been found. Rodgers was a bachelor; young Clayton
Merxler was a dead sister’s only son—and Merxler had inherited as next
of kin, and had promptly moved his family—he was married—into his late
uncle’s residence.
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.
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:
“It’ll break your heart, Karlin, won’t it, to think I spent two
thousand five hundred dollars of _your_ money! That’s the joke,
Karlin! It’s rich, isn’t it? And I just want to tell you, too,
that you had the will in your own hands once—and overlooked the
bet! That’s where you slipped up, Karlin. It was the day my
uncle died, and we were going over the papers together. It was
in a plain, unsealed envelope—and didn’t look like anything. You
tossed it on a heap of other stuff to be looked into later—all
you could think of was counting stocks and bonds, getting your
fingers into money—that you didn’t know was yours—some of it,
anyway! I was looking for something else—and found it. I only
had to read about two words and see that it was in my uncle’s
handwriting, and—well, since you’re the executor, you’ll find it
enclosed herewith!
Clayton Merxler.”
Billy Kane refolded the papers, returned them to the envelope, restored
the envelope and flashlight to his pockets, and leaned back in his seat.
The taxi lurched and swayed along at a pace that gave small deference or
heed to speed laws. Billy Kane stared out of the window.
The letter was viciously facetious, callous and unscrupulous. The boy
was a self-confessed and blatantly unrepentant thief. In that at least
his first supposition had evidently been justified, and it was quite
clear now why Merxler had not destroyed the will—but otherwise the whole
affair had now assumed an entirely different aspect. Instead of Karlin
being in league with Merxler, Karlin, unknown to Merxler, it now
appeared, was aware of the existence of the will—and Karlin, if _she_
had not exaggerated, meant murder. And, since no one else was involved,
meant Merxler’s murder.
Billy Kane’s face hardened in perplexity. But why? What could Karlin
hope to gain thereby? Certainly it was not on account of the little
legacy of two thousand five hundred dollars—Karlin had only to expose
the fact that the will existed to obtain that. And that applied equally
to the executorship. And what good could the executorship do Karlin?
With the stocks and bonds there open to inspection and their value
known, Karlin’s executorship could afford no opportunity for crooked
work—he could simply turn the securities into cash, turn the cash over
to the various charities, and the cash must correspond with the
valuation of the estate’s schedule of assets. Why, then—murder? Personal
enmity? No; Red Vallon and the underworld were interested in this, and
the enmity that had caused Merxler to preserve the will, an enmity that
no doubt was fully returned by Karlin, had nothing to do with Red Vallon
and the rest.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes went by. The taxi reached the lower section
of the city. Billy Kane still stared from the window, his face still
hard in perplexity. Murder! No, he did not understand. But there was
still the “back room at Jerry’s”—where he was going now! Did the answer
lie there? Jerry’s, safely entrenched in one of the most abandoned
neighborhoods of the city, was a gambling hell that yet boasted a
certain exclusiveness—and its patrons quite made good the boast. It was
an open secret that men whose names ranked high in the city’s commercial
and professional world went there for their fling. Jerry, it was said,
was an ex-croupier from Monte Carlo, and had brought the spirit of Monte
Carlo with him. He, Billy Kane, had heard of the place often enough—the
entertainment was lavish, the play unlimited. Did the answer lie
there—in the back room at Jerry’s? He shrugged his shoulders
philosophically now, and a grim little smile came and flickered across
his lips. Well, if there were any means by which an uninvited guest
could gain access to that back room, he would know within a very few
minutes now!