Chapter 1

I—ACROSS THE THRESHOLD
II—THE CRIME
III—INTO THE UNDERWORLD
IV—ALIAS THE RAT
V—THE SECOND-HAND DEALER
VI—A MIDNIGHT VISITOR
VII—WHISPERING SHADOWS
VIII—A LEASH IS SLIPPED
IX—BEHIND THE DOOR
X—THE PIECES OF A PUZZLE
XI—THE BACK ROOM AT JERRY’S
XII—A CLUE
XIII—THE CIPHER MESSAGE
XIV—THE ROBBERY
XV—THE ALIBI
XVI—TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER
XVII—THE MAN WITH THE CRUTCH
XVIII—MIRRORED YEARS
XIX—A HOLE IN THE WALL
XX—THE CAT’S-PAW
XXI—WITHOUT MERCY
XXII—THE FIGHT
XXIII—THE RENDEZVOUS
XXIV—AGAINST TIME
XXV—THE OLD WAREHOUSE
XXVI—THE LAST PORTAL

DOORS OF THE NIGHT

I—ACROSS THE THRESHOLD

Billy Kane paused for an instant in the doorway of the room before him,
as his dark, steady eyes travelled over the appointments in a sort of
measured approval such as a connoisseur who knew his art might bestow
upon a canvas in which he found no flaw. The apartment was quite in
keeping with everything else that pertained to the palatial residence in
that upper Fifth Avenue section of New York. The indirect lighting fell
soft and mellow upon the priceless Oriental rug, the massive desk of
dark, carved wood, the wide, inviting leather-upholstered chairs, the
heavy portières that filled the window spaces and hung before the doors,
the bookshelves that lined the walls almost ceiling high and that were
of the same dark, polished wood as the desk and chairs. There was luxury
here, and wealth; but it was luxury without ostentation, and wealth that
typified only good taste and refinement.

He closed the door behind him, and began to pace slowly up and down the
room. And now he frowned a little. He had dined alone with his employer
as usual, for Mrs. Ellsworth being an invalid was rarely in evidence,
and David Ellsworth usually so genial an old gentleman, had not been
entirely himself. From the pocket of his dinner jacket Billy Kane took
out his cigarette case, selected a cigarette, and lighted it. Mr.
Ellsworth had lingered in the dining room, and had said that he would
come presently to the library—that there was a little matter he wished
to attend to. There was nothing strange in that, for they often worked
together here in this room in the evenings, and yet Billy Kane’s puzzled
frown deepened. There was something certainly amiss with the old
multi-millionaire tonight, and that anything should disturb the old
philanthropist’s tranquillity, except when his sympathies had been
aroused and the man’s heart, that was softer than a woman’s, had been
touched by some pathetic appeal, was decidedly strange.

Billy Kane continued his pacing up and down the room in long, athletic
strides, the great, broad shoulders squared back as his hands were
thrust into the pockets of his jacket. It was far more than a feeling of
respect or mere liking that he held for his employer, for there had come
esteem for the old gentleman’s sterling qualities, and with the esteem a
sincere affection, and out of it all, very curiously, a sort of
fathering, or protecting interest for this man of millions.

The frown passed away, and Billy Kane smiled a little whimsically at the
somewhat quaint conceit. Fathering! Nevertheless, it was true! There was
scarcely an hour of the day that some appeal for charity, ranging from a
few cents to many thousands of dollars, was not made upon David
Ellsworth—too many of them spurious, and it was his, Billy Kane’s,
self-appointed task to stand between his employer and these fraudulent
attempts. All the world, at least all the world within reach, seemed to
be thoroughly conversant with the old gentleman’s ask-no-questions
liberality—and to lose no opportunity in taking advantage of that
knowledge! For instance, though here he was forced to the belief that it
was genuinely worthy, there was the case of the deformed beggar, one
Antonio Laverto, who, during the last week, had taken up his station on
the corner a block away from the house. The beggar had already secured
the old gentleman’s attention, and also a dollar or two every time David
Ellsworth passed; in return for which David Ellsworth had become
possessed of a very pitiful life history, and also possessed of a desire
to set the man squarely on his feet again.

Billy Kane paused abruptly in his stride, as his eyes rested on the
portières that hung before one of the two doorways at the lower end of
the room. Behind that door, which was one of wood matching the other
doors of the room, was a door of solid steel, and behind the steel door
was one of the strongest vaults in the city of New York, and in the
vault, besides the magnificent collection of rubies that nestled in
their plush-lined trays, a collection that, while but a hobby, had yet
made their owner even more famous and widely known than had his
millions, were thousands of dollars—_the money kept there for the sole
purpose of being given away_! Eccentricity? Well, perhaps—but if so, it
was a very fine eccentricity, the eccentricity of one of God’s own
noblemen.

One of God’s own noblemen! Yes, he had good reason to call David
Ellsworth that! Billy Kane’s strong face softened. As a boy is
acquainted with his father’s companions, he had been acquainted with
David Ellsworth for many years, it was true; but he had never known the
other for his real worth until the last three months, during which time
he had been the retired magnate’s confidential secretary. His father had
been an old friend of David Ellsworth; and a little more than three
months ago his father had died, just as he, Billy Kane, had graduated
from Harvard. His father’s estate, supposedly large, had turned out to
amount to comparatively nothing; the net residue of the estate, which
had just been wound up, being represented by the sum now at his credit
in the bank, a matter of something less than five thousand dollars.
Apart from that, there was nothing. His mother had been dead many years;
and, with no ties to hamper him, he had been casting around for some
opening where he could utilize his university degree in arts to the best
advantage, when he had received the offer from David Ellsworth to act as
the latter’s confidential secretary. He had accepted at once, and since
then he had led a rather singular existence.

Billy Kane tamped out his cigarette on the edge of an ash receiver, and
stood leaning with his back against the desk, facing the hall door. Yes,
it was a very singular existence! His new home was veritably a palace,
with servants at every beck and call. His work was not onerous; and his
salary was over-generous. He, in turn, had a private secretary, or at
least a most capable stenographer, who, having been long in David
Ellsworth’s employ, took care of the daily routine; and it was mostly
routine as far as business went, for the millionaire had long since
retired from any active participation in the various interests through
which he had acquired his fortune. But the work, that is the bulk of it,
had now taken on quite a different angle, due to his, Billy Kane’s own
initiative, than had been thought of when he had accepted the position.
He had not been there a week before he had realized that the old
philanthropist was being victimized right and left by fraudulent appeals
for money. It had been sufficient simply to excite David Ellsworth’s
sympathy in order to open the ever-ready purse. David Ellsworth had
inquired no further. He, Billy Kane, but not without protest from the
old gentleman, to whom the loss of the money was nothing, but to whom
the uncovering of some pitiful fraud was a cause of genuine distress,
had instituted a new régime, and had undertaken to investigate every
case on its merits.

The whimsical smile came back to his lips. Born and brought up in the
city, he had imagined that he knew his New York; but the last three
months had opened his eyes to a new world around him—the world of the
Bad Lands, with its own language, its own customs and its own haunts. He
knew his New York a great deal better now! Those three months had
brought him into intimate touch with the dens and dives, and many of the
habitués of the underworld, since it was amongst those surroundings that
his investigations had mainly led him. He had even been in the heart of
that sordid world no later than that afternoon.

Behind his back, Billy Kane’s fingers were drumming a meditative tattoo
upon the desk. His train of thought had brought him back to the crippled
Italian beggar, Antonio Laverto. The man was a pitiful looking object
enough—one of those mendicants commonly designated in the vernacular as
a “flopper.” His legs were twisted under him in contorted angles at the
knees, and his means of locomotion consisted in lifting himself up on
the palms of his hands and swaying himself painfully along a foot or so
at a time. Laverto’s story, told in halting and broken English, was
equally pitiful. The man had been a photographer, an artist he had
called himself, and he had come to America a few years before from some
little town in Italy, lured by the high prices that he had heard the
rich New World would pay him for his work. But within a few days of
landing he had met with an accident in a tenement fire that had crippled
and maimed him for life. He had been practically destitute, his sole
possessions being the camera and a few of the cherished photographs he
had brought with him. The camera had gone to pay for his support during
convalescence; and subsequently, reduced to beggary, most of his
pictures had gone the same way.

That, in substance, was the Italian’s story. Billy Kane shook his head
impatiently. The man bothered him. He had been frankly skeptical and
wholly suspicious at first; but investigation had only confirmed the
man’s story. Certainly, an Italian by that name, newly arrived in the
country, had been badly hurt and crippled in a tenement fire a few years
ago, and had been treated in one of the city hospitals. That much, at
least, he had discovered! Also, no more than a few hours ago, he had
gone to Laverto’s home and found the man existing in a small, miserable
room on the East Side, and surrounded by every evidence of squalor and
abject poverty; and the man, he was obliged to confess, had got his
sympathy too. There were two exquisite little photographs, landscapes,
real gems of art, wrapped up in fold after fold of newspaper. Laverto
had shown them to him, and had told his story again, begging him to buy
one of the pictures—and when he had produced the money the cripple had
drawn his treasures back, and had clutched them to his breast, and had
cried over them, and finally had refused to sell at all.

Billy Kane’s fingers continued to drum on the desk. David Ellsworth
would undoubtedly want to know about Laverto to-night—and the man
bothered him. He had no grounds for further suspicion, fairness
compelled him to the admission that the man’s story seemed true; and
yet, based on nothing more tangible than intuition, there still lingered
a doubt about the whole matter in his mind.

Billy Kane straightened up from the desk. Jackson, one of the footmen,
had opened the door from the hall, and David Ellsworth, an immaculate
little gray-haired old gentleman, in evening clothes, stepped into the
library.

The footman closed the door silently.

David Ellsworth wore glasses. He took them off, polished them with
nervous energy while his blue eyes swept around the room, fixed on Billy
Kane’s face, and swept around the room again. He cleared his throat once
or twice before he spoke.

“I’ve kept you waiting, Billy,” he said abruptly. “You must have noticed
that I had finished dinner at the same time as yourself; but I have been
very much disturbed and perplexed all day, and I have been trying to
solve a problem before saying anything to you.”

“I hope there’s nothing seriously wrong, sir,” Billy Kane answered
quickly. “May I ask what——”

“Yes,” said David Ellsworth, a sort of curious reluctance in his voice.
He took a letter from his pocket, and handed it to Billy Kane. “It’s
this.”

Billy Kane opened the letter—and, staring at the type-written words on
the sheet in his hand, suddenly an angry red tinged his cheeks and
mounted to his temples. His eyes mechanically travelled over the lines
again:

Like father like son may be an old adage, but like a good many
old adages its face value is not always to be relied upon. It
might pay you to keep an eye on your confidential secretary—and
on the contents of your vault.

A Friend.

Billy Kane laid the letter down upon the desk without a word—but his
lips were tight.

“You understand, Billy,” said the old millionaire eagerly, “that the
only reason why I did not show this to you immediately when I received
it this morning was because I wanted, if possible, to formulate a
definite conclusion as to the motive that prompted the writing of the
contemptible thing. You understand, my boy, don’t you? I could talk to
you then about it without hurting you. As for the actual letter itself,
there is, of course, but one answer, and that is—this!”

David Ellsworth reached out for the letter—but Billy Kane had already
picked it up.

“You were going to tear it up, sir,” he said deliberately. “I’d rather
you wouldn’t. There may be a chance some day of showing this to the cur
who wrote it—and I wouldn’t like to lose that chance.”

“Then keep it, by all means!” agreed David Ellsworth. He nodded his head
in vigorous assent, as Billy Kane restored the letter to its envelope,
and placed the letter in the pocket of his dinner jacket. “So much for
that! But what do you make of it, Billy?”

“It’s object is obvious enough,” Billy Kane replied savagely. “Somebody
appears to have it in for me.”

David Ellsworth was polishing his glasses again.

“You’ve told me that I was the most guileless man you ever knew, Billy,”
he said, shaking his head slowly; “and perhaps I am, and then again
perhaps I’m not—and perhaps it isn’t always because I’m guileless that I
close my eyes to many things. But I guess, after all, that I can peer as
far through a stone wall as the next man. I’ve had to do some pretty
stiff peering in the days gone by to get the few millions together that
I’ve got now. I mention this, Billy, so that you may not confuse my
idiosyncrasies with—well, whatever you like to call it. Those dollars,
my boy, didn’t just drop into my hands—they were _thought_ there. And so
you think that letter means someone has it in for you? Think a little
deeper, Billy.”

“I don’t quite follow you,” said Billy Kane, in a puzzled way.

“And yet it is quite simple—although I’ve spent a day over it!” returned
the old millionaire, with a wry smile. “I have known you from a child.
Nothing has ever occurred to shake my confidence in you. The person who
wrote that letter was obviously acquainted with my past friendship for
your father and my long knowledge of yourself, and, with nothing to back
it up, he would be a madman indeed who would expect a scurrilous missive
such as that to have any weight with me. Am I right—or wrong, Billy?”

“Well; yes, sir—I suppose you’re right,” Billy Kane answered.

“I am sure I am,” declared the old gentleman decisively. “Quite sure of
it! But suppose, Billy, that to-morrow, or at any time _subsequent_ to
my having received that letter, something _did_ occur here—what then?”

The old millionaire’s face was grave. Billy Kane leaned sharply forward.

“What do you mean?” he questioned in a startled tone.

“Sit down there at the desk, Billy, and I’ll tell you,” said David
Ellsworth; and then, as Billy Kane obeyed, he stepped swiftly across the
room, opened the hall door, looked out, closed the door softly again,
and from there walked to one of the two doors at the lower end of the
room, opened this, looked into the room beyond, and closed it again.

Billy Kane watched the other in frank amazement. The door that David
Ellsworth had just opened was the door of the “office”—the room that
during working hours, which were from ten to five, was occupied by the
stenographer. True, the room opened on the back hallway and had a
separate entrance from the courtyard in the rear, an entrance always
used by the stenographer, but it was always locked by Peters, the
butler, at night, and he, Billy Kane, had the only other key.

David Ellsworth returned, and halted before Billy Kane’s chair.

“No, I am not in my second childhood, Billy,” he said quietly. “That
letter was certainly not written without a purpose; and yet from every
angle that I have been able to view it, except one, it would have been
exactly that—without purpose. I believe it is the first step in a
carefully laid plan that will divert, or fix, suspicion upon you.”

Billy Kane shook his head in perplexity.

“A plan?” he repeated. “I don’t understand.”

David Ellsworth’s only reply was to jerk his head significantly toward
the other of the two doors at the end of the room.

Mechanically Billy Kane followed the direction of the gesture with his
eyes; and then he was on his feet, his face suddenly grim and set.

“My God!” he murmured under his breath. “You mean——”

“Yes,” said David Ellsworth evenly. “Why not? I couldn’t tell you myself
exactly how much those stones in there are worth, but they are ranked as
one of the most valuable single collections of rubies in existence, and
certainly the figures would run somewhere between two and three hundred
thousand dollars. Besides, there’s always a little cash there—you know
better than I do precisely how much at the present moment.”

“Fourteen thousand five hundred odd,” Billy Kane answered automatically.

“Quite so!” nodded the old millionaire. “Well, it’s worth it, isn’t it,
Billy? I’ve never been afraid of any ordinary cracksman’s attempt
against that vault; but, if I am right now, this wouldn’t be any
ordinary attempt. I believe we are dealing with—_brains_. I believe,
further, that instead of you and I being the only ones who know the
combinations, as we have imagined, they are known to someone else.
Suppose, then, that the vault is found empty some morning? I immediately
recall to mind that letter. I remember that you are the only one to whom
I have confided the combinations. And suppose that some additional clue
pointing to you is left on the scene of the robbery? It would look
pretty black for you, Billy, would it not? Naturally the stolen stones
and money would not be found in your possession; but the plain, logical
supposition would be that, not being a fool, and believing that you were
above suspicion, you had secreted the proceeds of the robbery, and were
pursuing what you considered the safest course—that is, to brazen it out
and indignantly proclaim your innocence. The object of all this, of
course, being immunity for the real authors of the crime, for if you
were accused and convicted it is obvious that the police would look no
further and consider the case closed.”

Billy Kane did not reply for a moment. He had been startled at first,
but now he was conscious rather of a slight sense of inward amusement.
The old millionaire’s deductions were, of course, plausible and
possible; but, also, they appeared to be a little labored, a little
far-fetched, a little visionary. Apart from being based on a premise
that entailed somewhat elaborate preparations, there was one very weak
point in the old gentleman’s argument. The combinations being known only
to the two of them, David Ellsworth had failed to explain how, or where
the combinations had been obtained by a third party; and Billy Kane was
even more than ever confirmed in his mind that there was a very much
simpler, and a very much more creditable motive for that letter—spite.
Through his efforts there was more than one none too reputable a
character who otherwise would have partaken liberally of the old
philanthropist’s bounty; and that was probably the secret of the letter.
That the day’s cogitations of David Ellsworth had resulted in the
discovery of a mare’s nest was the way it struck Billy Kane now; but if
the old gentleman found satisfaction in his deductions, he, Billy Kane,
was of no mind to dispute them. There was nothing to be gained by it,
and on occasions he had known even David Ellsworth to grow stubborn and
most unpleasantly irascible.

“You may be right, sir,” Billy Kane said deliberately.

David Ellsworth’s two hands fell on Billy Kane’s shoulders, and pressed
him back into his chair again.

“So you think I may be right, do you?” There was a twinkle in the blue
eyes. “Tut, tut! You can’t fool the old man, Billy, my boy! What you
really think is that I’ve got a brain storm. But”—his voice grew
suddenly grave and agitated—“I _know_ I’m right, Billy—I _feel_ it. I’m
as sure now, as though it had already happened. But we’ll beat them, my
boy! Take your pen, and a blank card—there are some in the top drawer
there. Being forewarned, all that’s necessary is to change the
combinations. And I guess that will be an answer to their letter that
they didn’t expect!”

David Ellsworth was already across the room. Billy Kane took a small
blank card from the drawer of the desk, picked up a pen, and, without
comment, turned in his chair to watch the other. After all, little as he
shared the old millionaire’s alarm, the changing of the vault’s
combination was a precaution well worth while under any circumstances.
If it even became a habit, so much the better!

The portières were swung back now, the innocent looking door that
matched the others in the room was opened, and the nickel-plated knobs
and dials of the massive steel inner door glistened in the light. Came a
faint musical tinkle, as the dial whirred under David Ellsworth’s
fingers; then, presently, a soft metallic thud, as the old millionaire
swung the handle over and the bolts shot back. The heavy door moved
slightly inward, there was the click of an electric-light switch, the
vault was flooded with light, and from where he sat Billy Kane could see
into the interior. It was as large as a small sized room, and built of
the finest steel throughout. Steel shelves piled with document cases
lined the vault, and at the far end was a huge safe of the most modern
and perfected design. Billy Kane smiled a little to himself. In one
thing, at least, that David Ellsworth had said, the old millionaire had
indubitably been justified. The vault was as impregnable as human
ingenuity and skill could make it, and there was very little indeed to
be feared from any ordinary attempt upon it.

A few minutes passed while David Ellsworth worked with the key used for
changing the combination and with the mechanism on the inner side of the
door, and then he began to call out a series of numbers. Billy Kane
jotted them down on the card.

“We’ll test it now—call them back,” said David Ellsworth; and then, as
Billy Kane obeyed: “All right, Billy. Now we’ll do the same thing with
the safe.”

He moved down to the end of the vault, spent a moment or two over the
safe’s dial; and, as this door in turn was swung open, Billy Kane caught
a glimpse of the tiers of plush-lined trays that held the famous ruby
collection, and of the score of packages of banknotes that lay neatly
piled in the compartments inside the safe.

Again David Ellsworth called out a series of numbers, and as before
tested the new combination; and then, from beside the open door of the
safe, he spoke abruptly:

“Before I lock up again, Billy, what about our friend Laverto? You went
down there this afternoon, I believe?”

“Yes,” Billy Kane answered—and frowned. “But there’s no hurry about it,
is there? I’m bound to confess that his story seems to be straight
enough, and that I can’t find anything wrong, but——”

David Ellsworth chuckled suddenly, as he reached inside the safe and
took out a package of banknotes.

“You’ve been laughing at me up your sleeve for fussing around with those
combinations, my boy—I know you have. But you’re the old woman of the
two, Billy. If you couldn’t find anything wrong, I guess everything is
all right. If it isn’t”—he chuckled again, as he closed and locked the
safe—“it would do my heart good to see someone put something over on
you!”

The light in the vault went out. The vault door was closed and locked,
the outer door shut, the portières drawn back into place, and David
Ellsworth, coming back across the room, dropped the package of banknotes
on the desk.

“Take ’em to him, Billy,” he smiled; “and take ’em to him now. He’ll
have twelve hours more joy out of life than if you waited until
to-morrow morning.” He picked up the card upon which Billy Kane had
written the combinations, and placed it in his pocket. “You’ve got a
better memory than I have, Billy,” he observed, “and I guess you’ve got
this down pat now; but I’m afraid I’ll have to study the memo over a few
times before I take a chance on destroying it.”

Billy Kane was paying little attention to the other’s words; he was
riffling the banknotes through his fingers—they were of all
denominations, from hundred-dollar bills down to fives. It was, in fact,
a package of loose bills that he remembered having counted that morning.

“Do you happen to know how much there is here, Mr. Ellsworth?” he
inquired abruptly.

“Not precisely”—David Ellsworth peered over the rims of his glasses at
the package—“but I should say around a couple of thousand dollars.
I—er—promised him that, if he turned out to be deserving, and I’d——”

“There are two thousand dollars here exactly,” said Billy Kane a little
curtly. “What I understood that you promised him was that you would
start him up in life again, but it doesn’t require two thousand dollars
to start a man of his type going as a photographer.”

“H’m! Don’t you think so, Billy?” David Ellsworth’s blue eyes were
twinkling, and he was drawling his words. “Well, let’s see! Now, first
of all, judging from the photographic landscape he showed me, the man’s
a real artist, and he ought to have the best of tools to work with. A
good lens is a rather expensive commodity. I’m not much up on
photographic apparatus, but I’ll bet you could pay as high as a thousand
dollars for one outfit. And then there’s all the paraphernalia, and a
little place to furnish, and a little something to keep things going
until returns come in. Two thousand dollars—shucks, my boy! Indeed as a
matter of fact, now that you call my attention to it and I come to think
it over, Billy, I’m not sure that two thousand dollars is——”

And then Billy Kane laughed, and picked up the money, and went to the
door.

“All right, sir, I’ll go—at once,” he said, laughing again.

II—THE CRIME

Upstairs in his room Billy Kane changed from his dinner clothes into a
dark tweed suit, a very less noticeable attire for that neighborhood
where Antonio Laverto had his miserable home, and choosing a slouch hat,
left the house. A bus took him down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square,
and from there, crossing over Broadway, he continued on down the Bowery.

It was still early; and it was as though the night world here had not
yet awakened from its day’s slumber. The “gape wagons” had not yet begun
to bring their slumming parties to rub shoulders with the flotsam and
jetsam of the underworld, and to shudder in pharisaical horror at
“planted” fakes; true, the ubiquitous gasoline lamps glowed in useless
yellow spots against the entirely adequate street lighting in front of
many shops of all descriptions, and the pavements were alive with men,
women and children of every conceivable nationality and station in life,
but—Billy Kane smiled a little grimly, for he had learned a great deal,
a very great deal in the last three months, about this section of his
city—it was still early, and it was not yet the Bowery of the night.