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About the Author
Bill Phillips is president of the International Association of
Home Safety and Security Professionals. He works as a
security consultant and freelance writer. He is the editor of
the “Lock” article in the World Book Encyclopedia . His
articles have also appeared in Consumers Digest , Home
Mechanix (Security Editor), The National Locksmith
(Contributing Writer), Keynotes , Locksmith Ledger
International (Contributing Editor), Safe & Vault Technology ,
Security Dealer , the Los Angeles Times , and many other
periodicals. He is the author of 13 security-related books,
including: The Complete Book of Locks and Locksmithing ,
Sixth Edition (McGraw-Hill); The Complete Book of Home,
Site and Office Security (McGraw-Hill); The Complete Book
of Electronic Security (McGraw-Hill); the Home Mechanix
Guide to Security (John Wiley & Sons); and Hassle-Free
Home Security (Doubleday Book and Music Club).
Copyright © 2014, 2010, 2008 by McGraw-Hill Education. All
rights reserved. Except as permitted under the United
States Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may
be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means,
or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior
written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-25-983469-1
MHID: 1-25-983469-7
TERMS OF USE
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Chapter 9. Masterkeying
Coding Systems
Master Key Systems
Masterkeying Warded Locks
Masterkeying Lever Tumbler Locks
Masterkeying Disc Tumbler Locks
Masterkeying Pin Tumbler Locks
Developing the Master Key System
Master Key System Variations
A Simple Master Key System
Appendix A. Manufacturers
Appendix D. Glossary
Index
Foreword
Egypt
The oldest known lock was found in 1842 in the ruins of
Emperor Sargon II’s palace in Khorsabad, Persia. The ancient
Egyptian lock was dated to be about 4000 years old. It relied
on the same pin tumbler principle that is used by many of
today’s most popular locks.
The Egyptian lock consisted of three basic parts: a wood
crossbeam, a vertical beam with tumblers, and a large wood
key. The crossbeam ran horizontally across the inside of the
door and was held in place by two vertically mounted
wooden staples. Part of the length of the crossbeam was
hollowed out, and the vertical beam intersected it along that
hollowed out side. The vertical beam contained metal
tumblers that locked the two pieces of wood together. Near
the tumbler edge of the door there was a hole accessible
from outside the door that was large enough for someone to
insert the key and an arm. The spoon-shaped key was about
14 inches to 2 feet long with pegs sticking out of one end.
After the key was inserted in the keyhole (or “armhole”), it
was pushed into the hollowed out part of the crossbeam until
its pegs were aligned with their corresponding tumblers. The
right key allowed all the tumblers to be lifted into a position
between the crossbeam and vertical beam so that the pins
no longer obstructed movement of the crossbeam. Then the
crossbeam (bolt) could be pulled into the open position. To
see how the lock looked and operated see Fig. 1.1 .
Figure 1.1 Ancient Egyptian locks relied on the pin tumbler principle that many
of today’s locks use.
Greece
Most early Greek doors pivoted at the center and were
secured with rope tied in intricate knots. The cleverly tied
knots, along with beliefs about being cursed for tampering
with them, provided some security. When more security was
needed, doors were secured by bolts from the inside. In the
few cases where locks were used, they were primitive and
easy to defeat. The Greek locks used a notched bolt-work
and were operated by inserting the blade of an iron sickle-
shaped key, about a foot long, in a key slot and twisting it
180° to work the bolt (Fig. 1.2 ). They could be defeated just
by trying a few different-size keys.
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“And as Mark’s Queen,” says Horvendile, intent on his conceit,
“you strayed with Tristran in the sunlit glades of Morois, that high
forest, where many birds sang full-throated in the new light of
spring; as Medeia you fled from Colchis; and as Esclairmonde you
delivered Huon from the sardonic close wiles of heathenry, which to
you seemed childish. All poets have had these fitful glimpses of you,
Ettarre, and of that perfect beauty which is full of troubling
reticences, and so, is somehow touched with something sinister.
Now all these things I likewise see in you, Ettarre; and therefore, for
my own sanity’s sake, I dare not concede that you are a human
being.”
The clerk was very much in earnest. Ettarre granted that, insane
as his talk seemed to her; and the patient yearning in his eyes was
not displeasing to Ettarre. Her hand touched his cheek, quickly and
lightly, like the brush of a bird’s wing.
“My poor Horvendile, you are in love with fantasies. There was
never any lady such as you dream of.” Then she left him.
But Horvendile remained at the parapet, peering out over broad
rolling uplands.
II
H
ORVENDILE left the fortress, and came presently to Maugis
d’Aigremont. Horvendile got speech with this brigand where he
waited encamped in the hill-country of Perdigon, loth to leave
Storisende since it held Ettarre whom he so much desired, but with
too few adherents to venture an attack.
Maugis sprawled listless in his chair, wrapped in a mantle of soiled
and faded green stuff, as though he were cold. In his hand was a
naked sword, with which moodily he was prodding the torn papers
scattered about him. He did not move at all, but his somber eyes
lifted.
“What do you plan now, Horvendile?”
“Treachery, messire.”
“It is the only weapon of you scribblers. How will it serve me?”
Then Horvendile spoke. Maugis sat listening. Above the swordhilt
the thumb of one hand was stroking the knuckles of the other
carefully. His lean and sallow face stayed changeless.
Says Maugis: “It is a bold stroke—yes. But how do I know it is not
some trap for me?”
Horvendile shrugged, and asked: “Have I not served you
constantly in the past, messire?”
“You have suggested makeshifts very certainly. And to a pretty
pass they have brought me! Here I roost like a starved buzzard, with
no recreation save to watch the turrets of Storisende on clear
afternoons.”
“Where Ettarre prepares to marry Sir Guiron,” Horvendile
prompted.
“I think of that.... She is very beautiful, is she not, Horvendile?
And she loves this stately kindly fool who carries his fair head so
high and has no reason to hide anything from her. Yes, she is very
beautiful, being created perfect by divine malice that she might be
the ruin of men. So I loved her: and she did not love me, because I
was not worthy of her love. And Guiron is in all things worthy of her.
I cannot ever pardon him that, Horvendile.”
“And I am pointing out a way, messire, by which you may
reasonably hope to deal with Sir Guiron—ho, and with the Counts
Emmerick and Perion, and with Ettarre also—precisely as you elect.”
Then Maugis spoke wearily. “I must trust you, I suppose. But I
have no lively faith in my judgments nowadays. I have played fast
and loose with too many men, and the stench of their blood is in my
nostrils, drugging me. I move in a half-sleep, and people’s talking
seems remote and foolish. I can think clearly only when I think of
how tender is the flesh of Ettarre. Heh, a lovely flashing peril allures
me, through these days of fog, and I must trust you. Death is ugly, I
know; but life is ugly too, and all my deeds are strange to me.”
The clerk was oddly moved. “Do you not know I love you as I
never loved Guiron?”
“How can I tell? You are an outlander. Your ways are not our
ways,” says the brigand moodily. “And what have I to do with love?”
“You will talk otherwise when you drink in the count’s seat, with
Ettarre upon your knee,” Horvendile considered. “Observe, I do not
promise you success! Yet I would have you remember it was by very
much this same device that Count Perion won the sister of Ettarre.”
“Heh, if we fail,” replies Maugis, “I shall at least have done with
remembering....” Then they settled details of the business in hand.
Thus Horvendile returned to Storisende before twilight had
thickened into nightfall. He came thus to a place different in all
things from the haggard outlaw’s camp, for Count Emmerick held
that night a noble revel. There was gay talk and jest and dancing,
with all other mirth men could devise.
IV
I
T was deep silent night when Horvendile came into the room
where Ettarre slept. “Out, out!” cried Horvendile. “Let us have
more light here, so that men may see the beauty men die for!”
He went with a torch from lamp to lamp, kindling them all.
Ettarre stood between the bed-curtains, which were green
hangings worked with birds and beasts of the field, each in his
proper colors. The girl was robed in white; and upon her breast
gleamed the broken sigil of Scoteia, that famed talisman which
never left her person. She wore a scarlet girdle about her middle,
and her loosened yellow hair fell heavy about her. Her fine proud
face questioned the clerk in silence, without any trace of fear.
“We must wait now,” says Horvendile, “wait patiently for that
which is to follow. For while the folk of Storisende slept—while your
fair, favored lover slept, Ettarre, and your stout brothers Emmerick
and Perion slept, and all persons who are your servitors and well-
wishers slept—I, I, the puppet-shifter, have admitted Maugis
d’Aigremont and his men into this castle. They are at work now,
hammer-and-tongs, to decide who shall be master of Storisende and
you.”
Her first speech you would have found odd at such a time. “But,
oh, it was not you who betrayed us, Horvendile—not you whom
Guiron loved!”
“You forget,” he returned, “that I, who am without any hope to
win you, must attempt to view the squabbling of your other lovers
without bias. It is the custom of omnipotence to do that, Ettarre. I
have given Maugis d’Aigremont an equal chance with Sir Guiron. It is
the custom of omnipotence to do that also, Ettarre. You will
remember the tale was trite even in Job’s far time that the
sweetmeats of life do not invariably fall to immaculate people.”
Then, as if on a sudden, Dame Ettarre seemed to understand that
the clerk’s brain had been turned through his hopeless love for her.
She wondered, dizzily, how she could have stayed blind to his
insanity this long, recollecting the inconsequence of his acts and
speeches in the past; but matters of heavier urgency were at hand.
Here, with this apparent madman, she was on perilous ground; but
now had arisen a hideous contention without; and the shrieks there,
and the clash of metal there, spoke with rude eloquence of a
harborage even less desirable.
“Heaven will defend the right!” Ettarre said bravely.
“I am not so sure that heaven has any finger in this pie. An arras
hides all. It will lift presently, and either Good or Evil, either Guiron
or Maugis, will come through that arras as your master. I am not
certain as yet which one I shall permit to enter; and the matter rests
with me, Ettarre.”
“Heaven will defend the right!” Ettarre said bravely.
And at that the arras quivered and heaved, so that its heavy
embroideries were converted into a welter of shimmering gold,
bright in the glare of many lamps, sparkling like the ocean’s waters
at sunset; and Horvendile and Ettarre saw nothing else there for a
breathless moment, which seemed to last for a great while. Then,
parting, the arras yielded up Maugis d’Aigremont.
Horvendile chuckled.
V
M
AUGIS came forward, his eyes fixed hungrily upon Ettarre. “So
a long struggle ends,” he said, very quiet. “There is no virtue
left, Ettarre, save patience.”
“While life remains I shall not cease to shriek out your villainy. O
God, men have let Guiron die!” she wailed.
“I will cause you to forget that death is dreadful, Ettarre!”
“I need no teacher now.... And so, Guiron is dead and I yet live! I
had not thought that would be possible.” She whispered this. “Give
me your sword, Maugis, for just a little while, and then I will not
hate you any longer.”
The man said, with dreary patience: “Yes, you would die rather
than endure my touch. And through my desire of you I have been
stripped of wealth and joy and honor, and even of hope; through my
desire of you I have held much filthy traffic, with treachery and theft
and murder, traffic such as my soul loathed: and to no avail! Yes, I
have been guilty of many wickednesses, as men estimate these
matters; and yet, I swear to you, I seem to myself to be still that
boy with whom you used to play, when you too were a child, Ettarre,
and did not hate me. Heh, it is very strange how affairs fall out in
this world of ours, so that a man may discern no aim or purpose
anywhere!”
“Yet it is all foreplanned, Maugis.” Horvendile spoke thus.
“And to what end have you ensnared me, Horvendile?” says
Maugis, turning wearily. “For the attack on Storisende has failed, and
I am dying of many wounds, Horvendile. See how I bleed! Guiron
and Perion and Emmerick and all their men are hunting me
everywhere beyond that arras, and I am frightened, Horvendile—
even I, who was Maugis, am frightened!—lest any of them find me
here. For I desire now only to die untroubled. Oh, Horvendile, in an
ill hour I trusted you!”
As knave and madman, Ettarre saw the double-dealer and his
dupe confront each other. In the haggard face of Maugis, no longer
evil, showed only puzzled lassitude. In the hand of Horvendile a
dagger glittered; and his face was pensive.
“My poor Maugis, it is not yet time I make my dealings plain to
you. It suffices that you have served my turn, Maugis, and that of
you I have no need any longer. You must die now, Maugis.”
Ettarre feared this frozen madman, she who was by ordinary
fearless. Ettarre turned away her face, so that she might not see the
two men grapple. Without, the uproar continued—for a long while, it
seemed. When she looked again it was, by some great wonder-
working, to meet Guiron’s eyes and Guiron’s lips.
VI
“M
Y love, Ettarre, they have not harmed you?”
“None has harmed me, Guiron. Oh, and you?”
“Maugis is dead,” he answered joyously.
“See, here he lies, slain by brave Horvendile. And the rogues who
followed Maugis are all killed or fled. Our woes are at an end, dear
love.”
Then Ettarre saw that Horvendile indeed waited beside the dead
body of Maugis d’Aigremont. And the clerk stayed motionless while
she told Guiron of Horvendile’s baleful work.
Sir Guiron then said: “Is this true speech, Horvendile?”
“It is quite true I have done all these things, messire,” Horvendile
answered quietly.
“And with what purpose?” said Sir Guiron, very sadly; for to him
too it seemed certain that such senseless treachery could not spring
from anything but madness, and he had loved Horvendile.
“I will tell you,” Horvendile replied, “though I much fear you will
not understand—” He meditated, shook his head, smiling. “Indeed,
how is it possible for me to make you understand? Well, I blurt out
the truth. There was once in a land very far away from this land—in
my country—a writer of romances. And once he constructed a
romance which, after a hackneyed custom of my country, purported
to be translated from an old manuscript written by an ancient clerk—
called Horvendile. It told of Horvendile’s part in the love-business
between Sir Guiron des Rocques and La Beale Ettarre. I am that
writer of romance. This room, this castle, all the broad rolling
countryside without, is but a portion of my dream, and these places
have no existence save in my fancies. And you, messire—and you
also, madame—and dead Maugis here, and all the others who
seemed so real to me, are but the puppets I fashioned and shifted,
for a tale’s sake, in that romance which now draws to a close.”
He paused; and Sir Guiron sighed. “My poor Horvendile!” was all
he said.
“It is not possible for you to believe me, of course. And it may be
that I, too, am only a figment of some greater dream, in just such
case as yours, and that I, too, cannot understand. It may be the
very cream of the jest that my country is no more real than
Storisende. How could I judge if I, too, were a puppet? It is a
thought which often troubles me....”
Horvendile deliberated, then spoke more briskly. “At all events, I
must return now to my own country, which I do not love as I love
this bright fantastic tiny land that I created—or seemed to create—
and wherein I was—or seemed to be—omnipotent.”
Horvendile drew a deep breath; and he looked downward at the
corpse he had bereft of pride and daring and agility. “Farewell,
Maugis! It would be indecorous, above all in omnipotence, to
express anything save abhorrence toward you: yet I delighted in you
as you lived and moved; and it was not because of displeasure with
you that I brought you to disaster. Hence, also, one might evolve a
heady analogue....”
Guiron was wondering what he might do in accord with honor and
with clemency. He did not stir as Horvendile came nearer. The clerk
showed very pitiful and mean beside this stately champion in full
armor, all shining metal, save for a surcoat of rose-colored stuff
irregularly worked with crescents of silver.
“Farewell, Sir Guiron!” Horvendile then said. “There are no men
like you in my country. I have found you difficult to manage; and I
may confess now that I kept you so long imprisoned at Caer Idryn,
and caused you to spend so many chapters oversea in heathendom,
mainly in order that I might weave out my romance here untroubled
by your disconcerting and rather wooden perfection. But you are not
the person to suspect ill of your creator. You are all that I once
meant to be, Guiron, all that I have forgotten how to be; and for a
dead boy’s sake I love you.”
“Listen, poor wretch!” Sir Guiron answered, sternly; “you have this
night done horrible mischief, you have caused the death of many
estimable persons. Yet I have loved you, Horvendile, and I know
that heaven, through heaven’s inscrutable wisdom, has smitten you
with madness. That stair leads to the postern on the east side of the
castle. Go forth from Storisende as quickly as you may, whilst none
save us knows of your double-dealings. It may be that I am doing
great wrong; but I cannot forget I have twice owed my life to you. If
I must err at all hazards, I prefer to err upon the side of gratitude
and mercy.”
“That is said very like you,” Horvendile replied. “Eh, it was not for
nothing I endowed you with sky-towering magnanimity. Assuredly, I
go, messire. And so, farewell, Ettarre!” Long and long Horvendile
gazed upon the maiden. “There is no woman like you in my country,
Ettarre. I can find no woman anywhere resembling you whom
dreams alone may win to. It is a little thing to say that I have loved
you; it is a bitter thing to know that I must live among, and pursue,
and win, those other women.”
“My poor Horvendile,” she answered, very lovely in her
compassion, “you are in love with fantasies.”
He held her hand, touching her for the last time; and he trembled.
“Yes, I am in love with my fantasies, Ettarre; and, none the less, I
must return into my own country and abide there always....”
As he considered the future, in the man’s face showed only
puzzled lassitude; and you saw therein a quaint resemblance to
Maugis d’Aigremont. “I find my country an inadequate place in which
to live,” says Horvendile. “Oh, many persons live there happily
enough! or, at worst, they seem to find the prizes and the applause
of my country worth striving for whole-heartedly. But there is that in
some of us which gets no exercise there; and we struggle blindly,
with impotent yearning, to gain outlet for great powers which we
know that we possess, even though we do not know their names.
And so, we dreamers wander at adventure to Storisende—oh, and
into more perilous realms sometimes!—in search of a life that will
find employment for every faculty we have. For life in my country
does not engross us utterly. We dreamers waste there at loose ends,
waste futilely. All which we can ever see and hear and touch there,
we dreamers dimly know, is at best but a portion of the truth, and is
possibly not true at all. Oh, yes! it may be that we are not sane;
could we be sure of that, it would be a comfort. But, as it is, we
dreamers only know that life in my country does not content us, and
never can content us. So we struggle, for a tiny dear-bought while,
into other and fairer-seeming lands in search of—we know not what!
And, after a little”—he relinquished the maiden’s hands, spread out
his own hands, shrugging—“after a little, we must go back into my
country and live there as best we may.”
A whimsical wise smile now visited Ettarre’s lips. Her hands went
to her breast, and presently one half the broken sigil of Scoteia lay
in Horvendile’s hand. “You will not always abide in your own country,
Horvendile. Some day you will return to us at Storisende. The sign of
the Dark Goddess will prove your safe-conduct then if Guiron and I
be yet alive.”
Horvendile raised to his mouth the talisman warmed by contact
with her sweet flesh. “It may be you will not live for a great while,”
he says; “but that will befall through no lack of loving pains on your
creator’s part.”
Then Horvendile left them. In the dark passage-way he paused,
looking back at Guiron and Ettarre for a heart-beat. Guiron and
Ettarre had already forgotten his existence. Hand-in-hand they stood
in the bright room, young, beautiful and glad. Silently their lips met.
Horvendile closed the door, and so left Storisende forever. Without
he came into a lonely quiet-colored world already expectant of
dawn’s occupancy. Already the tree-trunks eastward showed like the
black bars of a grate. Thus he walked in twilight, carrying half the
sigil of Scoteia....
Book Second
══════════════════════
══════════════════════
I
T
HUS he walked in twilight, regretful that he must return to his
own country, and live another life, and bear another name than
that of Horvendile.... It was droll that in his own country folk
should call him Felix, since Felix meant “happy”; and assuredly he
was not pre-eminently happy there.
At least he had ended the love-business of Ettarre and Guiron
happily, however droll the necessitated makeshifts might have
been.... He had very certainly introduced the god in the car, against
Horatian admonition, had wound up affairs with a sort of
transformation scene.... It was, perhaps, at once too hackneyed and
too odd an ending to be æsthetically satisfactory, after all.... Why,
beyond doubt it was. He shrugged his impatience.
“Yet—what a true ending it would be!” he reflected. He was still
walking in twilight—for the time was approaching sunset—in the
gardens of Alcluid. He must devise another ending for this high-
hearted story of Guiron and Ettarre.
Felix Kennaston smiled a little over the thought of ending the
romance with such topsy-turvy anti-climaxes as his woolgathering
wits had blundered into; and, stooping, picked up a shining bit of
metal that lay beside the pathway. He was conscious of a vague
notion he had just dropped this bit of metal.
“It is droll how all great geniuses instinctively plagiarize,” he
reflected. “I must have seen this a half-hour ago, when I was
walking up and down planning my final chapters. And so, I wove it
into the tale as a breast-ornament for Ettarre, without ever
consciously seeing the thing at all. Then, presto! I awake and find it
growing dark, with me lackadaisically roaming in twilight clasping
this bauble, just as I imagined Horvendile walking out of the castle
of Storisende carrying much such a bauble. Oh, yes, the processes
of inspiration are as irrational as if all poets took after their mothers.”
This bit of metal, Kennaston afterward ascertained, was almost an
exact half of a disk, not quite three inches in diameter, which
somehow had been broken or cut in two. It was of burnished metal
—lead, he thought—about a sixteenth of an inch in thickness; and its
single notable feature was the tiny characters with which one
surface was inscribed.
Later Felix Kennaston was destined to puzzle over his inability to
recollect what motive prompted him to slip this glittering trifle into
his pocket. A trifle was all that it seemed then. He always
remembered quite clearly how it sparkled in the abating glare of that
day’s portentous sunset; and how the tree-trunks westward showed
like the black bars of a grate, as he walked slowly through the
gardens of Alcluid. Alcluid, be it explained, was the queer name with
which Felix Kennaston’s progenitors had seen fit to christen their fine
country home near Lichfield.
II
K
ENNASTON was to recall, also, that on this evening he dined
alone with his wife, sharing a taciturn meal. He and Kathleen
talked of very little, now, save the existent day’s small
happenings, such as having seen So-and-so, and of So-and-so’s
having said this-or-that, as Kennaston reflected in the solitude of the
library. But soon he was contentedly laboring upon the book he had
always intended to write some day.
Off and on, in common with most high-school graduates, Felix
Kennaston had been an “intending contributor” to various
magazines, spasmodically bartering his postage-stamps for
courteously-worded rejection-slips. Then, too, in the old days before
his marriage, when Kennaston had come so near to capturing
Margaret Hugonin and her big fortune, the heiress had paid for the
printing of The King’s Quest and its companion enterprises in rhyme,
as well as the prose Defence of Ignorance—wide-margined
specimens of the far-fetched decadence then in vogue, and the idol
of Kennaston’s youth, when he had seriously essayed the parlor-
tricks of “stylists.”
And it was once a familiar story how Marian Winwood got revenge
on Felix Kennaston, when he married Kathleen Saumarez, by
publishing, in a transparent guise of fiction, all the love-letters he
had written Miss Winwood; so that Kennaston might also have
claimed to be generally recognized as the actual author of her
Epistles of Ananias, which years ago created some literary stir.