Chapter 2

Some half dozen blocks along, Billy Kane turned into a cross street and
headed deeper into the East Side.

And now Billy Kane’s forehead drew together in puckered furrows, as he
approached the lodging of Antonio Laverto, the cripple. In the inside
pocket of his vest were two thousand dollars in cash, for the outlay of
which, in spite of the old millionaire’s attitude in reference to it,
he, Billy Kane, held himself morally responsible. The frown deepened. It
was strange, very strange! He had logically convinced himself that
Laverto’s was a worthy case—but the intuition that something was wrong
would not down, and the nearer he approached the miserable and squalid
dwelling in which the Italian lived, the stronger that intuition grew.

And then Billy Kane shrugged his shoulders. He could at least put the
case to one more test, and if Laverto came through that all right that
was the end of it, and the man got the money. Laverto would certainly
not anticipate another visit this evening, so soon after the one of the
afternoon; and if he could come unawares upon the man, and observe the
other unawares perhaps, the chances were decidedly in favor of Laverto
being caught napping if he were sailing under false colors.

Billy Kane, reaching his destination, paused in front of a tumble-down
and dilapidated frame house, and glanced around him. The little side
street here was dirty and ill-lighted, but populous enough. Small shops,
many of them basement shops with cavernous, cellar-like entrances
opening from the sidewalk, lined both sides of the street; for the rest,
it was simply a matter of two rows of flanking, dingy tenements and old
houses—save for the usual saloon, whose window lights were bright enough
on the corner ahead.

The house door was wide open, and Billy Kane, pulling his slouch hat
down over his eyes, stepped into the dark unlighted interior. The place
was a hive of poverty, a miserable lodging house of the cheapest class;
and the air was close, almost fetid, and redolent with the smell of
garlic. How many humans eked out an existence here Billy Kane did not
know; but, though he knew them to be woefully many, for he had seen a
great number of them on his visit here that afternoon, the only evidence
of occupancy now was the occasional petulant cry of a child from
somewhere in the darkness, and a constant murmuring hum of voices from
behind closed doors.

Antonio Laverto’s room was the second one on the right of the passage.
Billy Kane moved quietly forward to the door, and stood there in the
blackness for a moment listening. There was no sound from within; nor
was there any light seeping through the keyhole or the door panels,
which later, he remembered, were badly cracked. Satisfied that the
cripple, unless he were asleep, was not inside, Billy Kane tried the
door, and, finding it unlocked, opened it silently, and stepped into the
room.

He lighted a match, held it above his head, and glanced around him. It
was a pitiful abode, pitiful enough to excite anyone’s sympathy—as it
had his own that afternoon. There was a cot in one corner with a thin,
torn blanket for covering, a rickety chair, and an old deal table on
which stood a cracked pitcher and wash basin, and the remains of a small
loaf of bread.

The match went out, and Billy Kane retreated to the door, and from the
door, to the street again. It was pretty bad in there, and evidently
just as genuinely on the ragged edge of existence as it had been that
afternoon—but still the persistent doubt in his mind would not down. It
was a sort of dog in the manger feeling, and he did not like it, and it
irritated him—but it clung tenaciously.

He lighted a cigarette, and, frowning, flipped the match stub away from
him. In any case, he had to find the man before he went home, whether it
resulted in his paying over the two thousand dollars or not. His eye
caught the lighted window of the saloon, and he started abruptly forward
in that direction. If there was anything at all in his suspicions, the
saloon was the most likely place in the neighborhood where they would be
verified; but in any event, the barkeeper, who probably knew everyone in
the locality better than anyone else, could possibly supply at least a
suggestion as to where the Italian spent his evenings and might be
found.

Billy Kane chose the side entrance to the saloon—it would probably
afford him a preliminary inspection of the place without being observed
himself—and entered. He found himself in a passageway that was meagerly
lighted by a gas jet, and that turned sharply at right angles a few
steps ahead. He reached the turn in the passage, and halted suddenly, as
a voice, curiously muffled, reached him. The passage here ahead of him,
some four or five yards in length, was lighted by another gas jet, and
terminated in swinging doors leading to the barroom; but halfway down
its length, in a little recess, most thoughtfully situated for the
privacy and convenience of the saloon’s perhaps none too reputable
clientele, was a telephone booth.

Billy Kane drew back, and protected from view by the angle of the
passage while he could still see the telephone booth himself quite
plainly, stood motionless. The booth, like a good many others, was by no
means sound-proof, and the voice, though muffled seemed strangely
familiar to him. Billy Kane’s brows drew together sharply. Through the
glass panel of the upper portion of the booth he could see the figure of
a man of about his own height, and he could see, as the man stood a
little sideways with his lips to the transmitter, the man’s profile.

And then Billy Kane, with a grim smile, reached suddenly up to the gas
jet over his head and turned it out. This left him in darkness and made
no appreciable diminution in the lighting of the passage leading to the
barroom. The man who stood upright in the booth at full height, and who
was speaking most excellent English, was Antonio Laverto, the maimed and
broken cripple whose pitiful and heart-rending story had been so
laboriously told in the few halting and hardly understandable words at
his command!

And now, Billy Kane, listening, could make out snatches of what the man
was saying.

“... That’s none of your business, and I guess the less you know about
it the better for yourself.... What?... Yes, Marco’s—the second-hand
clothes dealer.... What?... Yes, sure—by the lane.... The back door’s
got a broken lock—it’s never been fixed since he moved in two weeks ago.
All you got to do is walk in. It’s a cinch.... Sure, that’s right—that’s
all you got to do. Marco don’t keep open in the evening and besides he’s
away, you don’t need to worry about that.... Eh?... No, there won’t be
no come-back.... You pull the break the way I tell you, and you get a
hundred dollars in the morning.... What?... All right then, but don’t
make any mistake. You got to be out of there before a quarter of eleven!
Get me? Before a quarter of eleven—that’s all I care, and that’s give
you all the time you want.... Eh?... Yes—sure.... Good-night.”

The grim smile was still on Billy Kane’s lips, as he crouched back
against the wall. The door of the telephone booth opened, and Laverto
stuck his head out furtively. The little black eyes, staring out of the
thin, swarthy face, glanced up and down the passageway, and then the
head seemed to shrink into the shoulders, the body to collapse, and,
with legs twisted and dragging under him, there came the _flop-flop_ of
the palms of the man’s hands on the bare wooden flooring, as he started
along the passageway.

But Billy Kane was already at the side door of the saloon—and an instant
later he had swung around the street corner, and was heading briskly
back in the direction of the Bowery. He laughed shortly, as his hand
automatically crept into his inside pocket. The two thousand dollars
were still there—and they would stay there! His intuition, after all,
had not been at fault. The man was a vicious and damnable fraud, and, as
a logical corollary to that fact, was moreover a dangerous and clever
criminal. What was this “break” that was to be “pulled” at Marco’s
before a quarter of eleven?

Quite mechanically Billy Kane looked at his watch. He and David
Ellsworth had dined early, and it was even now barely eight o’clock.
Billy Kane’s face hardened, as he walked along, reached the Bowery, and,
by the same route he had come, gained Washington Square, and swung onto
a Fifth Avenue bus. Why Marco’s? There was surely nothing worth while
there! Marco’s was little more than a rag shop. He happened to know
Marco, because on the corner next to the tumble-down place that, as
Laverto had said, Marco had rented a week or so ago, there was a small
notion shop kept by an old Irish widow by the name of Clancy, where,
more than once on his visits to the East Side, he had dropped in to buy
a paper or a package of cigarettes. Why Marco’s? It puzzled him. The old
white-bearded, stoop-shouldered dealer did not seem to have much that
was worth stealing!

The bus jolted on up the Avenue. Billy Kane shifted his position
uneasily on the somewhat uncomfortably hard seat on the top of the bus.
His first impulse had been to confront Laverto on the spot, but quick on
the heels of that impulse had come a better plan. With rope enough the
man would hang himself. If there was anything in this Marco affair, a
robbery as was indicated, Marco would obviously report it to the police
as soon as it was discovered, and he, Billy Kane, being in possession of
the evidence that would convict its author, would then be in a position
to put an end, for a good many years at least, to Laverto’s criminal
career; and besides this, there was David Ellsworth—he did not want to
wound or hurt the other’s finer sensibilities, but that David Ellsworth
should see Laverto for himself in the latter’s true colors was
essential, for it would and must make the old philanthropist in the
future less the victim of that over-generous and spontaneous sympathy
which was so easily excited by those who preyed upon him.

The thought of David Ellsworth brought back again the thought of David
Ellsworth’s anonymous letter. Billy Kane lighted a cigarette, and smoked
it savagely. It was someone of the same breed as Antonio Laverto, and
for the same reason that Laverto would soon have for revenge, who had
written that letter. He was quite sure of that in his own mind. What
else, indeed, could it be? Not David Ellsworth’s explanation! That was
entirely too chimerical! One by one he reviewed the cases where he had
uncovered fraudulent attempts upon the old millionaire’s charity during
the past three months; but, while more than one was concerned with
characters vicious, dissolute and criminal enough, not one seemed to
dovetail into the niche in which he sought to fit it.

A second cigarette followed the first, and his mind was still busy with
his problem, as he pressed the button at the side of his seat, clambered
down the circular iron ladder at the rear of the bus, stepped to the
sidewalk as the bus drew up to the curb, and stood waiting for the bus
to pass on—David Ellsworth’s residence was on the first corner down the
cross street on the other side of the Avenue. The bus creaked
protestingly into motion, and Billy Kane, in the act of stepping from
the curb to cross the Avenue, paused suddenly, instead, as a voice spoke
behind him.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Kane, sir, may I speak to you for a moment?”

Billy Kane turned around abruptly. He stared at the other in surprise.
It was Jackson, the footman.

“Why yes, of course. But what on earth are you doing out here, Jackson?”
he demanded a little sharply.

“I was waiting for you, sir,” the man answered hurriedly. “I knew you’d
gone out, Mr. Kane; and I knew I couldn’t miss you here, sir, when you
came back, as you always come by the Avenue, sir. And, begging your
pardon again, sir, would you mind if we didn’t stand here? You wouldn’t
take offense, sir, if we went in by the garage driveway where we could
be alone for a minute, sir?”

Billy Kane eyed the man critically. Jackson, immaculate in his livery,
appeared to be quite himself; but Jackson at times had been known to
possess a greater fondness for a bottle than was good for him.

“What is it, Jackson?” he demanded still more sharply. “Did Mr.
Ellsworth send you here?”

“No, sir; he didn’t,” the man answered nervously. “But, if you please,
Mr. Kane, sir, that is, if you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather wait until——”

“Very well, Jackson!” Billy Kane interrupted curtly. “I suppose you have
a reason for your rather strange request. Come along, then, and I’ll
listen to what you have to say.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the man earnestly.

They crossed the Avenue, passed down the cross street, turned the
corner, and a moment later, entering by the garage driveway, gained the
courtyard in the rear of the house. It was dark here, there were no
lights showing from the back of the house itself or from the garage; and
here, close to the private entrance to the “office” and library, Billy
Kane halted.

“Well, Jackson, what’s it all about?” he inquired brusquely.

“If you please, Mr. Kane, sir”—the man’s voice had taken on a curious,
quavering note—“don’t speak so loud. We—you—you might be heard, sir,
from the servants’ entrance over there. I—Mr. Kane, sir—Mr. Ellsworth
has been murdered, and the money, sir, and the rubies are gone.”

Billy Kane was conscious only that he had reached out and grasped the
footman’s arm. They were very black, the shadows of the house, and it
was dark about him, but strange quick little red flashes seemed to dance
and dart and shoot before his eyes; and in his brain the man’s words
kept repeating themselves over and over in an insistent sort of way, and
the words seemed meaningless except that they were pregnant with an
overwhelming and numbing horror.

“For God’s sake, sir, let go my arm—you’re breaking it!” moaned the
footman in a whisper.

The man’s voice seemed to clear Billy Kane’s brain. David
Ellsworth—murdered! The horror was still there, but now there came a
fury beyond control, and a bitter grief that racked him to the soul.
David Ellsworth, his second father, the gentlest man and the kindest he
had ever known—_murdered_! His hand dropped to his side, and, turning,
he sprang up the few steps to the entrance just in front of him. He
whipped out his key, opened the door, and stepped forward into the
passageway. At his right was the door to the stenographer’s room, and
beyond, opening from that room, was the door to the library. He felt for
the door handle, for there was no light in the passage, and, finding it,
opened the door—and stood there rigid and motionless like a man turned
to stone. Across the blackness of the intervening room the library door
was partially open, and sprawled upon the floor lay the figure of a
white-haired man, only the hair was blotched with a great crimson
stain—and it was David Ellsworth. And something came choking into Billy
Kane’s throat, and a blinding mist before his eyes shut out the sight.

“In Heaven’s name, don’t go in there, sir!” Jackson was beside him
again, whispering in his ear, and pulling the door softly shut. “Don’t,
sir—don’t go—they’ll get you!”

“Get—_me_! What do you mean?” Billy Kane whirled on the man.

“For the love of God, sir,” pleaded Jackson, “don’t speak so loud! I’m
risking my neck for you, as it is, sir. There’s a couple of
plain-clothesmen waiting up in your room, sir, hiding there, and there’s
another two hiding in the front hall.”

“Are you mad, Jackson!” Billy Kane’s voice was low enough now in its
blank amazement.

“I’m telling you the truth, sir,” Jackson whispered tensely. “They’ve
got you dead to rights, sir. There ain’t a chance, except to run for
it—and that’s what I’d do, sir, if I were you, Mr. Kane. I didn’t mean
you to enter the house at all, but you acted so quick I couldn’t stop
you.”

Billy Kane’s two hands fell in an iron grip on the other’s shoulders,
and in the darkness he bent his head forward to stare into the man’s
face and eyes.

“You mean, Jackson,” he said hoarsely, “that _you_ believe I did that?”

The man wriggled himself free from Billy Kane’s grip.

“It’s not for me to say sir,” he answered uneasily. “I—I can only tell
you what they say.”

“Tell me, then!” Billy Kane’s voice, low as it was, was deadly in its
even, monotonous tone.

“Yes, sir,” said Jackson. “Keep your ear close to my lips, sir If anyone
hears us, it’s all up. They found him, Mr. Ellsworth, sir, lying there
dead in the library with his head split open, about half an hour after
you went out, sir. You were with him in the library after dinner alone,
sir; and no one was with him after that, and—don’t grip me again like
that, sir, or I can’t go on. You don’t know your own strength, sir, Mr.
Kane.”

“Go on, Jackson!” breathed Billy Kane. “I’m sorry! Go on!”

“Yes, sir; thank you, sir. It was Peters, the butler, sir, who found the
body, and he sent for the police. Mrs. Ellsworth doesn’t know anything
about it yet, sir. They’re afraid to tell her, she’s so delicate and
sick, sir. It was about half an hour after you went out, sir, as I said,
that Peters went to see Mr. Ellsworth about something, and found him
there like you just saw, sir. And then the police came, sir, and they
figured that you did it before you went out, and that you went out to
dispose of the money and jewels, sir, in some safe place, and maybe also
as a sort of alibi like, so that they’d think it was done while you were
away, sir, and that when you returned, if you did return, sir, you would
profess horror and surprise, sir.”

“Are you mad, Jackson!” Billy Kane said again.

“No, sir—you’ll see, sir—they’ve got you dead to rights. Both the vault
and safe doors were open, and the money and rubies gone, and on the
floor of the vault, way in by the wall under the lower shelf, like it
had fluttered in there without you noticing it, sir, was a card with the
combinations on it, and it was in your handwriting, Mr. Kane, sir. And
in Mr. Ellsworth’s hand, clutched there tight, sir, was a little piece
of black silk cord, and on the floor, under the table, sir, where it
must have rolled without you knowing it, sir, was a black button.”

“I don’t understand,” said Billy Kane, a little numbly now. There had
been something grotesquely absurd, something in the nature of a ghastly,
hideous and ill-timed joke, something that was literally the phantasm of
a diseased brain in the murmur of this man’s voice whispering out of the
darkness; but there was creeping upon him now a prescience as of some
deadly and remorseless thing that was closing down, around and upon him
with inexorable and crushing force. “I don’t understand,” he said again.

“Yes, sir.” Jackson’s low, guarded voice went on. “It’s not for me to
say, sir. You’ll remember, Mr. Kane, that you were wearing a dinner
jacket, and that before going out you went up to your room and changed.
I suppose it was excitement, sir, and you never noticed it, and it’s not
to be wondered at under the circumstances, sir. The button had been
pulled off the jacket, sir, and had taken the black silk loop with it.
And the button had rolled under the library-table, Mr. Kane, sir, and
the loop was clutched in Mr. Ellsworth’s hand.”

Billy Kane said no word. There was a strange whirling in his brain. Some
insidious and abhorrent thing was obsessing his consciousness, but in
some way it was not fully born yet, nor concrete, nor tangible. He
raised his hand and brushed it across his eyes.

“But that’s not all, Mr. Kane, sir.” The whispering voice was coming out
of the darkness again, and it seemed curiously fraught with
implacability, as though, not content with its unendurable torture, it
must torment the more. “They found a letter in the pocket of your dinner
jacket, Mr. Kane. It was a letter addressed to Mr. Ellsworth, which the
police figure you must have intercepted so that he wouldn’t see it, you
being the one who opens the mail, sir. It was a letter warning him to
look out for you, sir.”

And now it had come like a flash, the clearing of Billy Kane’s brain,
and now it was brutally clear, clear beyond any possibility of
misunderstanding; and, as a man walking in a fog that had suddenly
lifted, he found himself reeling, in the full consciousness of its
horror, on the brink of a yawning chasm.

“My God!” he cried heavily. “This is damnable! I——”

“Keep quiet, sir!” implored Jackson frantically. “They’ll hear you! If
you care anything about a chance for your life, don’t make a sound. The
police figured that you would do one of three things, sir. They figured
that after you had hidden the loot somewhere, you would walk back here
as though nothing had happened, and pretend innocence, not knowing about
that button and the cord, sir; and so there’s a couple of them waiting
for you in the front hall, sir. Or they thought that you might discover
you had lost the card with the combinations written on it and remember
the letter in your dinner-jacket pocket, sir, and try to get back
unobserved, just as you’ve come in now, sir, and hoping that the murder
hadn’t been discovered in the meantime, try to recover the card and the
letter before you played any other game; and they meant to let you, sir,
only, as I told you, there’s a couple more hiding up in your room, and
you couldn’t step into the library without the fellows in front seeing
you. Or they thought you might just simply make a break for it, make
your getaway, sir, and never come back at all; and so there’s an alarm
out, and your description, sir, in every precinct in the city, and all
the railway stations are being watched. But that’s your only chance,
sir, to run for it.”

It was silent here in the great house, ominously, strangely silent; and
the silence grew heavy, and grew _loud_ with great palpitating throbs
that hammered at the ear drums—and then, in the distance, from the other
side of the door in the long passage leading to the front of the house,
faint but nevertheless distinct, there came the sound of an approaching
footstep.

“There’s someone coming!” whispered Jackson wildly. “Run for it,
sir—while you’ve got the chance!”

Billy Kane’s lips were thinned into a hard, straight line. Run for it!
He had never run from anything in all his life! And now his brain was
working in a sort of lightning debate, battling it out—logic that bade
him go, against that finer sense that bids a brave man drop where he
stands rather than turn his back.

Still nearer came that footstep.

“Run!” prompted Jackson again. “In another minute it will be too late!”

Billy Kane’s hands were clenched until the nails bit into the flesh.
David Ellsworth had been right. That letter was but part of a deliberate
plot; and the plot had been framed with hellish ingenuity, not only to
secure the fortune in the vault, but, safeguarding its authors, to fix
irrevocably the guilt upon someone else, upon _him_, Billy Kane. Not a
loophole for escape had been left, every detail had been worked out with
a devil’s craft; the evidence was damning, incontrovertible, and if, in
spite of all, there might still have lingered a doubt in any jury’s
mind, he, Billy Kane, by an ironic trick of fate had——

“Run, I tell you!” came Jackson’s voice again. “Run, or—” And then
Jackson’s voice lost its deference, and his whisper was like the snarl
of a savage beast—the door along the passage was opening. “You damn
fool! I gave you your chance, and you wouldn’t take it—now take this!”

Billy Kane reeled suddenly back from the impact, as the man sprang
viciously upon him—and for a moment again his brain groped blindly in
confusion, even as he fought.

Jackson was yelling wildly at the top of his voice.

“Help! Here he is! Quick! Help! I’ve caught him!”

III—INTO THE UNDERWORLD

It had been dark before the opening of the door had thrown a dim glow
along the rear of the passage, and Jackson, in his onslaught, had missed
what was evidently intended for a throathold, and his hands, slipping
down, had caught at and bunched the shoulders of Billy Kane’s coat. But
now Billy Kane was in action. His arms, straightened, shot back behind
him—and the coat alone was in Jackson’s hands.

With an oath, the man dropped the coat to the floor, and wrenched a
revolver from his pocket. But there was light enough to see now—to see
the murder in the other’s eyes—and to see something there as well that
brought a surging fury whipping through Billy Kane’s veins.

“You devil! I understand it now!” he gritted, as he snatched and gripped
at the other’s wrist.

Jackson was twisting, squirming, fighting like a maniac.

“Help!” he shrieked. “Help! Here he is!”

Cries and shouts answered the man. There came the sound of racing feet.
Then a blinding flash—a wild scream. And Jackson, the revolver going off
in his hands as they struggled, sagged limply, and, with the revolver
clattering against the wall, slid to the floor—and Billy Kane, with a
bound, was through the back door, and leaping down the steps to the
courtyard.

There was no question in his mind now as to whether he should run for
it, or not. Jackson was one of the murderers ... there must ... be
others.... Jackson could hardly have staged it all alone ... but to
remain there and be caught was but to play into their hands! His brain
was working in flashes swift beyond any measure of time. If there could
still have remained a lingering doubt favorable to him in any jury’s
mind, fate had played him an ironic trick that would dispel any such
doubt instantly. _He had two thousand dollars of the money from that
vault in his vest pocket at that moment!_ And to be caught there, having
presumably gained entrance stealthily by the rear door, would condemn
him out of hand. To run, too, was to condemn him, that was their hell’s
snare that they had laid for him ... but there was a chance this way! A
rage that was merciless was upon him now. There was a chance this way
... one chance ... the only chance, not alone of saving his own life and
clearing his own name, but of bringing to justice the inhuman fiends who
had taken David Ellsworth’s life ... there was a chance ... one chance
... this way ... that someone would pay ... if he, Billy Kane, lived,
that someone _would_ pay!

There came a short, curt shout from behind him, an imperative order to
halt. He had gained the courtyard now, and was running along the garage
driveway, heading for the street. He glanced back over his shoulder. In
the darkness he could just make out a number of shadowy forms rushing
down the steps.

The order came again. Then the tongue-flame of a revolver split through
the black. And as though a red hot iron had been laid suddenly across
his left shoulder, Billy Kane gritted his teeth together in pain—and
stumbled—and recovered himself—and plunged out through the driveway
gates to the street.

Halfway down the block, he remembered, was an alleyway; and, running
like a deer now, Billy Kane again glanced behind him. Forms, a great
many of them, though perhaps his fancy exaggerated the number, were
pouring out into the street in pursuit.