From above, faintly, through the flooring, came the tap-tap, tap-tap of
the old Italian cobbler’s hammer. Billy Kane, from his hands and knees,
straightened up, easing his body from the discomfort of his cramped
position; and, as he listened, he toyed now with the steel jimmy,
commandeered from Whitie Jack, that was in his hand. He had been even
more assiduous in his own tapping, at least for the last hour or more,
than was the old fellow above there. The old fellow seemed to work all
day—and all night. It was night now—or, rather, evening. If there was
any sound heard from the street it would be attributed to the old
cobbler, of course, which was just as well.
The murky light from the single incandescent across the room threw the
sparse furnishings of the Rat’s den into uncouth shadows on the walls,
and threw his own shadow into a grotesque, shapeless blotch upon the
floor. From the street level, down through the cellar-like stairway to
this underground abode, seeping in through the closed door, came the
muffled roll of traffic, and a footstep now and then on the pavement
like the echo of some sound that was detached, far distant.
He resumed his work, tapping with infinite pains with the butt of his
steel jimmy on board after board of the flooring. And now this board or
that seemed to give back a more resonant sound than its fellows, and he
tapped it again, and still again, only to shake his head finally, and
pass on to the next board.
There were other secrets in this crime hole besides that ingenious door
and its tunnel to the shed and lane behind; secrets that _she_ had
plainly stated existed, and had as plainly stated were no secrets to
her; secrets that she wielded in such a manner as to complicate a
situation that was already one of extreme peril and desperate enough.
They were the Rat’s secrets; and for the moment he was the Rat, and
self-preservation made the possession of those secrets vitally essential
to him.
The net seemed to be drawing closer around him; at moments it seemed to
be strangling him. He had built so heavily on Peters. And Peters was
dead. And he, Billy Kane, was still the Rat. It was difficult enough to
carry out the rôle, as it was—but if the Rat should unexpectedly return!
Where was the Rat? If he could glean a hint of when the Rat might
probably return, or of the Rat’s whereabouts! Surely those secrets
hidden here somewhere would answer, in a measure at least, those
questions. Or, if not, then the fuller and more intimate knowledge they
must give him of the Rat would make his assumed rôle more secure, safer
as long as he was forced to play it, since they would place in his hands
the trumps that would enable him to preserve this character he had
usurped as he came more and more into direct contact with that malignant
Crime Trust of which the legitimate Rat was obviously one of the leading
spirits. And she, that strange, mysterious being, whom he had come to
call the Woman in Black, whose hatred, a hatred that was boundless, more
bitter, more deliberate, more merciless than, it seemed, any human could
hold for another, he had acquired through this abhorrent proxy that fate
had thrust upon him—surely these things hidden here, if he could but
find them, must too, in a measure at least, explain what lay between her
and the devil in human guise whose part he, Billy Kane, was compelled to
play.
He worked on, his ear attuned to the sound as the steel jimmy tapped the
flooring, his mind feverishly, insistently active. He had counted on
forcing the truth from Peters last night. Instead, he had found the old
butler murdered, and had only managed to escape destruction himself at
the hands of Red Vallon and the underworld through a spurious alibi that
was in itself a ghastly thing. He, as the Rat, stood now the
self-confessed murderer of Peters! Yes, the net seemed to be drawing its
strands so tightly about him sometimes that they strangled him, and
strangled his soul, and made his courage falter.
Peters was dead, murdered—and to have made the man talk he would have
gone the limit himself. He had meant to wring the truth from Peters’
lips at any cost. But a dead man couldn’t talk!
It was not warm in the room, nor was he overheated by his exertions, but
Billy Kane, with the back of his hand, swept away a bead of moisture
that had oozed out upon his forehead. Who was it who had murdered
Peters? And why? His brain had wrestled with that problem since last
night. There seemed to be but one answer, one solution. Peters’
connection with the Ellsworth murder, the search that had been made in
Peters’ bedroom, and carried no further than that single room,
indicating that what had been sought had been found, seemed to be proof
positive that the author of the crime was at least conversant with the
details of David Ellsworth’s murder, if he were not, indeed, as seemed
even more likely, one of those who had actually participated in that
murder himself. And with this as a premise the motive behind Peters’
murder was apparently clear enough. Nearly fifteen thousand dollars and
a fortune in rubies had been taken from the steel vault in the Ellsworth
home. Peters might have been the temporary custodian, in whole or in
part, of the proceeds of the robbery, or he might only have been in
possession of his share. In either case it was enough to account for his
having been double-crossed and murdered by one of his own accomplices,
or else by some one sufficiently well informed about the Ellsworth
murder to know that Peters had at least a tempting enough portion of the
“goods” in his flat to make a visit there very much worth while.
Billy Kane smiled a little grimly now, as, moving forward, he pushed the
bed to one side in order to continue his examination of the flooring.
That had been his solution; but, strangely enough, the newspapers for
once had had no solution to offer. The known presence of so many
men—when Red Vallon’s gang had invaded the house—indicated quite
clearly, the papers said, that it was the work of an organized band;
but, apart from that, they were frankly mystified. But because Peters
had been the butler of David Ellsworth, and had been murdered just three
nights after his master had been murdered, the morning papers had flung
clamorous headlines across their front pages, and had filled their
columns with every detail that had even the remotest bearing upon the
affair. They, however, scarcely hinted at even a possible connection
between the two crimes, for the very simple reason that Peters had
obviously been attacked by a gang, whereas, in the case of David
Ellsworth, they _knew_ that the old millionaire had been done to death
by his private secretary, Billy Kane!
He had read the papers, all of them. But out of the welter of words
there had been only one thing that had possessed any value for him in
the shape of information, and even that had been of a negative
character. Some reporter had unearthed the fact that a stranger, whose
description answered in a general way to Whitie Jack, had been seen
loitering around the neighborhood of Peters’ apartment during a good
part of the previous day. The description was not accurate enough to
identify Whitie Jack positively; but as Whitie Jack _had_ been there,
and there on his, Billy Kane’s instructions, he had immediately sent the
man away that morning, and had told him to keep under cover until
further orders.
The steel jimmy tapped with persistent inquisitiveness along another
board. Billy Kane’s lips were tight now. Peters’ death had seemed at
first to have robbed him of all he had been building upon; and during
the hours alone here in this den last night, facing what looked like the
ruin of the final chance and hope of establishing his own innocence, of
clearing his own name, of bringing to justice the wantons who had struck
down old David Ellsworth, he had known those bitterest of hours where
the will weakens, and courage seems a useless thing and a mockery. But
he had fought through those hours, and the morning had brought its
reward. Peters’ murder had broken the thread of evidence, but equally,
it seemed, after all, it had knitted it together again—there was the Man
with the Crutch.
His lips relaxed a little in an ironical smile. The papers had
overlooked the Man with the Crutch! It was Red Vallon who, all
unconsciously, had joined together the broken thread. The gangster had
come here to the den that noon. There had been a marked increase of
deference in the man’s attitude and manner, a sort of unholy admiration,
awe, respect and fear. The man, hardened though he was himself, was
still visibly affected by the fact that he stood in the presence of the
Rat, alias Bundy Morgan, who, as he believed, had coolly and
imperturbably given gruesome evidence that, to gain his ends, he would
neither hesitate nor stop at murder. Red Vallon had not forgotten, and
was not likely to forget, his “object lesson!”
Red Vallon had told his story furtively, leaning across the table,
talking in a guarded whisper. He had got it straight enough from one of
his own men, who the police in turn believed was one of their own stool
pigeons. Shortly before the confusion incident to the exit of Red
Vallon’s men on the previous night, the exact hour not positively
established, a man with a crutch, and carrying a small hand bag, was
known to have crept cautiously out of the apartment house where Peters
had his flat. After that the man had disappeared. “The police have
elected the cripple as the guy that waltzed off with the swag while the
rest of the bunch made a noise to smear up his tracks,” Red Vallon had
said, with a malicious grin. “What’s the matter with pushing a good
thing along, Bundy? What’s the matter with pushing out a few feelers,
and trying to spot this crutch gazabo? The Pippin’s the one that put me
wise, and the Pippin can make good nosing him out if any one can.”
There had come upon Billy Kane an overwhelming surge of relief. More
than anything else on earth that he had suddenly wanted at that moment
was—the Man with the Crutch.
“Yes!” he had answered gruffly, afraid almost to trust his voice.
“Sure!” Red Vallon had responded. “I thought you’d be strong for it!
Mabbe it won’t last long, ’cause the guy ought to be able to clear
himself unless we can hitch it onto him for keeps, but there’s nothing
like heaving a little dirt in the eyes of the bulls, and shooting ’em
off on the wrong lay. It’ll keep ’em guessing for a while anyhow. You
leave it to me, Bundy. I owe you something for queering your game last
night, though I guess there wasn’t any more of them rubies there besides
the one you found, for the Pippin says the bulls didn’t get anything,
and I owe you something for the lemon I’ve handed you so far in falling
down on spotting the ruby collection in any of the speak-easy joints;
but I won’t fall down here. You leave it to me! I’ll pull some slick
stuff this time!”
The steel jimmy tapped on. Billy Kane’s face was set. The Man with the
Crutch! Was there any doubt but that the Man with the Crutch was not
only Peters’ murderer, but, more vital still, one who, in Peters’ stead
now, embodied the clue to the hell-hatched plot that had cost David
Ellsworth his life, and had craftily woven the evidence of murder around
him, Billy Kane? The Man with the Crutch! If only Red Vallon and the
Pippin did not fail, then— The steel jimmy, almost perfunctorily, tapped
over the same board again; and then Billy Kane suddenly bent lower, his
ear close to the floor. He tapped once more. There was no doubt of it!
The sound was unquestionably and distinctly _hollow_. He felt his pulse
quicken. Off and on during the day he had covered almost the entire
flooring of the room. He had started with the flooring. Only the
flooring and the walls could contain any hidden recess. He had not
touched the walls yet, and it might not be necessary now!
He was examining the board critically. It was a short board, rough and
uneven, about ten inches wide, that ran to the edge of the wall. There
seemed to be no sign of any secret spring, either on the adjacent
flooring or on the wall, nor did the board itself appear to be in any
way loose or show any evidence of ever having been removed before. He
frowned as he tapped it again and found that, quite as unmistakably as
before, the hollow sound came back to him; and then, inserting the point
of the jimmy in the joint at the end of the board, he gave the board a
sharp wrench. It came away readily, but with it came a weary smile to
Billy Kane’s lips. Nothing! The under flooring had rotted away, which
accounted for the hollow sound, and he was rewarded with nothing more
than a hole bounded both in depth and width by the floor joists which
rested on the ground. Half angry, half ironically amused, he reached
forward to replace the board—and, straightening up suddenly, listened.
Someone was coming down the steps from the street.
In an instant he had the board and bed back in place, and the steel
jimmy in his pocket. And now a cigarette was drooping languidly from his
lips, as, in answer to a low knock, he crossed the room, and halted in
front of the door.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
“It’s de Cadger,” a voice answered.
Billy Kane opened the door. The Cadger, unknown to him personally, was
known to him by reputation. As one of those details vital to the
preservation of the rôle he played, he had stored up in his memory
during the past few days the name of every one connected with the Crime
Trust that he had heard mentioned either by Red Vallon or others. The
Cadger was one of the lesser breed; a stage hand, in the expressive
vernacular of the underworld.
The Cadger, a shrivelled, unkempt figure, his coat collar turned up over
a collarless shirt, an aggressively checkered peak cap pulled far down
over his eyes, thrust an envelope unceremoniously into Billy Kane’s
hand.
“Dis is fer youse, Bundy,” he said hurriedly, already turning and making
his way up the steps to the street again. “See youse later! I gotta go
to Gannet’s joint fer his kit.”
Billy Kane closed the door, and locked it. He had not heard from Red
Vallon since noon, nothing in reference to the Pippin’s quest for the
Man with the Crutch. He tore the envelope open eagerly, the thought
uppermost in his mind that this was a message from Red Vallon now; and
then, staring at the sheet of paper which he had extracted from the
envelope, he dropped, suddenly tight-lipped, into the chair by the table
under the light.
It wasn’t from Red Vallon. It was a message like the one Red Vallon had
showed him the night before, a message in the Crime Trust’s cipher. He
turned instinctively in his chair, glancing toward the secret door at
the rear of the room, as though he half expected to see it open, and see
that slim little figure in black enter, as though he half expected to
hear her cool, softly modulated voice that veiled, even as did the clear
ripple in her laugh, menace and contempt. And then he laughed aloud in a
short, hard way. A fool! Was he? Well, she had come in through that door
before, hadn’t she, when something was in the wind?
His eyes reverted to the sheet of paper. He knew what it was! The
headquarters of the Crime Trust had been broken up, and some of the
leaders had even taken to cover since the night Karlin had been arrested
by the police; but all the cogs in that Machiavellian machinery had not
stopped, and plans formulated and set in motion in the past were still
to be carried to their ultimate conclusions as they matured day by day.
There was not the slightest doubt but that this was one of their devil’s
schemes. Red Vallon—or was it the owner of those great, dark, steady
eyes?—had said enough to make him understand that, when temporarily
scattered, temporarily wary of the police, some unhallowed “managing
director” carried on their work, and communicated with the different
members of the gang by means of these cipher messages.
And now as he stared at the missive in his hand, angry flush rose slowly
to his cheeks, and he half made as though to tear the paper into shreds.
God knew, he had enough to do to keep his own life in his own body
without this; there was scarcely a moment of the day or night when he
was not battling with all the wits he possessed to save himself from
discovery—from the police as Billy Kane, from the underworld as the
spurious Rat—and his brain was already sick and tormented beyond
endurance with the struggle. Why, then, should he decipher this? If he
did, he could not sit idly by and, in the possession of the details of
some purposed crime, permit that crime to be enacted! It was the moral
obligation flung in his face again, just as it had been on the night he
had trapped Karlin, just as it had been last night when he had snatched
Vetter’s diamonds from Red Vallon’s maw, and not through any threat of
_hers_ held over his head, as she so thoroughly believed! She wasn’t
here now—was she?
He laid the paper down upon the table, and smoothed it out. Tear it up!
His short laugh was a jeer flung at himself. Certainly, he could tear it
up, and he would know nothing about it, except that he had shirked and
turned his back like a coward upon the responsibility that was already
his! He _could_ read the cipher, if he wanted to; he had seen her work
one out the night before.
“I thought I’d settled this sort of thing with myself before!” he
muttered grimly, and taking a pencil from his pocket he began to work
out the cipher.
It took some time, perhaps twenty minutes; and then he was studying a
second sheet of paper upon which he had written the decoded message:
The Cadger and Gannet will report to you at nine o’clock. The
Ninth Street house will be empty. Dayler and servants out this
evening. Secure sealed manila envelope in wall safe, left of
mantel, in library. Combination: Two right, eighteen; one left,
eight; one right, twenty-eight. Police on trail to-morrow.
The Cadger’s “see youse later,” then, was to be taken literally, and
not, as he had supposed, as simply a common and slang expression of
adieu! Billy Kane looked at his watch. It was not quite eight o’clock.
There was an hour, then, before the Cadger and this Gannet, another of
the Cadger’s ilk, would report here ready to follow his leadership in a
burglarious raid. Billy Kane stood up; and, in a sort of mechanical and
reassuring inventory, his hands felt over the outside of his pockets,
over the skeleton keys they contained, the steel jimmy, the flashlight,
the automatic, and the soft, slight bulge made by the neatly folded
mask—and, too, over another bulge that was made by a certain chamois
pocketbook. This latter brought a frown. He had not found a way yet to
return Vetter’s diamonds. It wasn’t so easy a thing to do when, if the
Rat’s hand showed in the matter, it was certain destruction for the Rat,
alias Bundy Morgan, and, for the moment, alias Billy Kane! But Vetter
and Vetter’s diamonds were extraneous things just now, weren’t they?
He extinguished the light, crossed to the door, unlocked it, stepped
out, locked the door behind him, made his way up the steps, and started
briskly off along the street. He did not know what the contents of that
“manila envelope” were, nor who Dayler was, nor the Crime Trust’s
motive—he was _supposed_ to know all that—he knew only that there was
some devil’s scheme on foot that would be worthy of the Crime Trust in
its scope and proportions. And the Crime Trust did not interest itself
in _little_ things!