When the fifth day of The Thinking Machine's imprisonment rolled around the warden was wearing a hunted look. He was anxious for the end of the thing. He could not help but feel that his distinguished prisoner had been amusing himself. And if this were so, The Thinking Machine had lost none of his sense of humor. For on this fifth day he flung down another linen note to the outside guard, bearing the words: "Only two days more." Also he flung down half a dollar.
Now the warden knew--he _knew_--that the man in Cell 13 didn't have any half dollars--he _couldn't_ have any half dollars, no more than he could have pen and ink and linen, and yet he did have them. It was a condition, not a theory; that is one reason why the warden was wearing a hunted look.
That ghastly, uncanny thing, too, about "Acid" and "No. 8 hat" clung to him tenaciously. They didn't mean anything, of course, merely the ravings of an insane murderer who had been driven by fear to confess his crime, still there were so many things that "didn't mean anything" happening in the prison now since The Thinking Machine was there.
On the sixth day the warden received a postal stating that Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding would be at Chisholm Prison on the following evening, Thursday, and in the event Professor Van Dusen had not yet escaped--and they presumed he had not because they had not heard from him--they would meet him there.
"In the event he had not yet escaped!" The warden smiled grimly. Escaped!
The Thinking Machine enlivened this day for the warden with three notes. They were on the usual linen and bore generally on the appointment at half-past eight o'clock Thursday night, which appointment the scientist had made at the time of his imprisonment.
On the afternoon of the seventh day the warden passed Cell 13 and glanced in. The Thinking Machine was lying on the iron bed, apparently sleeping lightly. The cell appeared precisely as it always did from a casual glance. The warden would swear that no man was going to leave it between that hour--it was then four o'clock--and half-past eight o'clock that evening.
On his way back past the cell the warden heard the steady breathing again, and coming close to the door looked in. He wouldn't have done so if The Thinking Machine had been looking, but now--well, it was different.
A ray of light came through the high window and fell on the face of the sleeping man. It occurred to the warden for the first time that his prisoner appeared haggard and weary. Just then The Thinking Machine stirred slightly and the warden hurried on up the corridor guiltily. That evening after six o'clock he saw the jailer.
"Everything all right in Cell 13?" he asked. "Yes, sir," replied the jailer. "He didn't eat much, though."
It was with a feeling of having done his duty that the warden received Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding shortly after seven o'clock. He intended to show them the linen notes and lay before them the full story of his woes, which was a long one. But before this came to pass the guard from the river side of the prison yard entered the office.
"The arc light in my side of the yard won't light," he informed the warden.
"Confound it, that man's a hoodoo," thundered the official. "Everything has happened since he's been here."
The guard went back to his post in the darkness, and the warden 'phoned to the electric light company.
"This is Chisholm Prison," he said through the 'phone. "Send three or four men down here quick, to fix an arc light."
The reply was evidently satisfactory, for the warden hung up the receiver and passed out into the yard. While Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding sat waiting the guard at the outer gate came in with a special delivery letter. Dr. Ransome happened to notice the address, and, when the guard went out, looked at the letter more closely.
"By George!" he exclaimed.
"What is it?" asked Mr. Fielding.
Silently the doctor offered the letter. Mr. Fielding examined it closely.
"Coincidence," he said. "It must be."
It was nearly eight o'clock when the warden returned to his office. The electricians had arrived in a wagon, and were now at work. The warden pressed the buzz-button communicating with the man at the outer gate in the wall.
"How many electricians came in?" he asked, over the short 'phone. "Four? Three workmen in jumpers and overalls and the manager? Frock coat and silk hat? All right. Be certain that only four go out. That's all."
He turned to Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding. "We have to be careful here--particularly," and there was broad sarcasm in his tone, "since we have scientists locked up."
The warden picked up the special delivery letter carelessly, and then began to open it.
"When I read this I want to tell you gentlemen something about how---- Great Cæsar!" he ended, suddenly, as he glanced at the letter. He sat with mouth open, motionless, from astonishment.
"What is it?" asked Mr. Fielding.
"A special delivery letter from Cell 13," gasped the warden. "An invitation to supper."
"What?" and the two others arose, unanimously. The warden sat dazed, staring at the letter for a moment, then called sharply to a guard outside in the corridor.
"Run down to Cell 13 and see if that man's in there."
The guard went as directed, while Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding examined the letter.
"It's Van Dusen's handwriting; there's no question of that," said Dr. Ransome. "I've seen too much of it."
Just then the buzz of the telephone from the outer gate sounded, and the warden, in a semi-trance, picked up the receiver.
"Hello! Two reporters, eh? Let 'em come in." He turned suddenly to the doctor and Mr. Fielding. "Why, the man _can't_ be out. He must be in his cell."
Just at that moment the guard returned.
"He's still in his cell, sir," he reported. "I saw him. He's lying down."
"There, I told you so," said the warden, and he breathed freely again. "But how did he mail that letter?"
There was a rap on the steel door which led from the jail yard into the warden's office.
"It's the reporters," said the warden. "Let them in," he instructed the guard; then to the two other gentlemen: "Don't say anything about this before them, because I'd never hear the last of it."
The door opened, and the two men from the front gate entered.
"Good-evening, gentlemen," said one. That was Hutchinson Hatch; the warden knew him well.
"Well?" demanded the other, irritably. "I'm here."
That was The Thinking Machine.
He squinted belligerently at the warden, who sat with mouth agape. For the moment that official had nothing to say. Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding were amazed, but they didn't know what the warden knew. They were only amazed; he was paralyzed. Hutchinson Hatch, the reporter, took in the scene with greedy eyes.
"How--how--how did you do it?" gasped the warden, finally.
"Come back to the cell," said The Thinking Machine, in the irritated voice which his scientific associates knew so well.
The warden, still in a condition bordering on trance, led the way.
"Flash your light in there," directed The Thinking Machine.
The warden did so. There was nothing unusual in the appearance of the cell, and there--there on the bed lay the figure of The Thinking Machine. Certainly! There was the yellow hair! Again the warden looked at the man beside him and wondered at the strangeness of his own dreams.
With trembling hands he unlocked the cell door and The Thinking Machine passed inside.
"See here," he said.
He kicked at the steel bars in the bottom of the cell door and three of them were pushed out of place. A fourth broke off and rolled away in the corridor.
"And here, too," directed the erstwhile prisoner as he stood on the bed to reach the small window. He swept his hand across the opening and every bar came out.
"What's this in the bed?" demanded the warden, who was slowly recovering.
"A wig," was the reply. "Turn down the cover."
The warden did so. Beneath it lay a large coil of strong rope, thirty feet or more, a dagger, three files, ten feet of electric wire, a thin, powerful pair of steel pliers, a small tack hammer with its handle, and--and a Derringer pistol.
"How did you do it?" demanded the warden.
"You gentlemen have an engagement to supper with me at half-past nine o'clock," said The Thinking Machine. "Come on, or we shall be late."
"But how did you do it?" insisted the warden.
"Don't ever think you can hold any man who can use his brain," said The Thinking Machine. "Come on; we shall be late."
It was an impatient supper party in the rooms of Professor Van Dusen and a somewhat silent one. The guests were Dr. Ransome, Albert Fielding, the warden, and Hutchinson Hatch, reporter. The meal was served to the minute, in accordance with Professor Van Dusen's instructions of one week before; Dr. Ransome found the artichokes delicious. At last the supper was finished and The Thinking Machine turned full on Dr. Ransome and squinted at him fiercely.
"Do you believe it now?" he demanded.
"I do," replied Dr. Ransome.
"Do you admit that it was a fair test?"
"I do."
With the others, particularly the warden, he was waiting anxiously for the explanation.
"Suppose you tell us how----" began Mr. Fielding.
"Yes, tell us how," said the warden.
The Thinking Machine readjusted his glasses, took a couple of preparatory squints at his audience, and began the story. He told it from the beginning logically; and no man ever talked to more interested listeners.
"My agreement was," he began, "to go into a cell, carrying nothing except what was necessary to wear, and to leave that cell within a week. I had never seen Chisholm Prison. When I went into the cell I asked for tooth powder, two ten and one five-dollar bills, and also to have my shoes blacked. Even if these requests had been refused it would not have mattered seriously. But you agreed to them.
"I knew there would be nothing in the cell which you thought I might use to advantage. So when the warden locked the door on me I was apparently helpless, unless I could turn three seemingly innocent things to use. They were things which would have been permitted any prisoner under sentence of death, were they not, warden?"
"Tooth powder and polished shoes, yes, but not money," replied the warden.
"Anything is dangerous in the hands of a man who knows how to use it," went on The Thinking Machine. "I did nothing that first night but sleep and chase rats." He glared at the warden. "When the matter was broached I knew I could do nothing that night, so suggested next day. You gentlemen thought I wanted time to arrange an escape with outside assistance, but this was not true. I knew I could communicate with whom I pleased, when I pleased."
The warden stared at him a moment, then went on smoking solemnly.
"I was aroused next morning at six o'clock by the jailer with my breakfast," continued the scientist. "He told me dinner was at twelve and supper at six. Between these times, I gathered, I would be pretty much to myself. So immediately after breakfast I examined my outside surroundings from my cell window. One look told me it would be useless to try to scale the wall, even should I decide to leave my cell by the window, for my purpose was to leave not only the cell, but the prison. Of course, I could have gone over the wall, but it would have taken me longer to lay my plans that way. Therefore, for the moment, I dismissed all idea of that.
"From this first observation I knew the river was on that side of the prison, and that there was also a playground there. Subsequently these surmises were verified by a keeper. I knew then one important thing--that anyone might approach the prison wall from that side if necessary without attracting any particular attention. That was well to remember. I remembered it.
"But the outside thing which most attracted my attention was the feed wire to the arc light which ran within a few feet--probably three or four--of my cell window. I knew that would be valuable in the event I found it necessary to cut off that arc light."
"Oh, you shut it off to-night, then?" asked the warden.
"Having learned all I could from that window," resumed The Thinking Machine, without heeding the interruption, "I considered the idea of escaping through the prison proper. I recalled just how I had come into the cell, which I knew would be the only way. Seven doors lay between me and the outside. So, also for the time being, I gave up the idea of escaping that way. And I couldn't go through the solid granite walls of the cell."
The Thinking Machine paused for a moment and Dr. Ransome lighted a new cigar. For several minutes there was silence, then the scientific jail-breaker went on:
"While I was thinking about these things a rat ran across my foot. It suggested a new line, of thought. There were at least half a dozen rats in the cell--I could see their beady eyes. Yet I had noticed none come under the cell door. I frightened them purposely and watched the cell door to see if they went out that way. They did not, but they were gone. Obviously they went another way. Another way meant another opening.
"I searched for this opening and found it. It was an old drain pipe, long unused and partly choked with dirt and dust. But this was the way the rats had come. They came from somewhere. Where? Drain pipes usually lead outside prison grounds. This one probably led to the river, or near it. The rats must therefore come from that direction. If they came a part of the way, I reasoned that they came all the way, because it was extremely unlikely that a solid iron or lead pipe would have any hole in it except at the exit.
"When the jailer came with my luncheon he told me two important things, although he didn't know it. One was that a new system of plumbing had been put in the prison seven years before; another that the river was only three hundred feet away. Then I knew positively that the pipe was a part of an old system; I knew, too, that it slanted generally toward the river. But did the pipe end in the water or on land?
"This was the next question to be decided. I decided it by catching several of the rats in the cell. My jailer was surprised to see me engaged in this work. I examined at least a dozen of them. They were perfectly dry; they had come through the pipe, and, most important of all, they were _not house rats, but field rats_. The other end of the pipe was on land, then, outside the prison walls. So far, so good.
"Then, I knew that if I worked freely from this point I must attract the warden's attention in another direction. You see, by telling the warden that I had come there to escape you made the test more severe, because I had to trick him by false scents."
The warden looked up with a sad expression in his eyes.
"The first thing was to make him think I was trying to communicate with you, Dr. Ransome. So I wrote a note on a piece of linen I tore from my shirt, addressed it to Dr. Ransome, tied a five-dollar bill around it and threw it out the window. I knew the guard would take it to the warden, but I rather hoped the warden would send it as addressed. Have you that first linen note, warden?"
The warden produced the cipher.
"What the deuce does it mean, anyhow?" he asked.
"Read it backward, beginning with the 'T' signature and disregard the division into words," instructed The Thinking Machine.
The warden did so.
"T-h-i-s, this," he spelled, studied it a moment, then read it off, grinning:
"This is not the way I intend to escape."
"Well, now what do you think o' that?" he demanded, still grinning.
"I knew that would attract your attention, just as it did," said The Thinking Machine, "and if you really found out what it was it would be a sort of gentle rebuke."
"What did you write it with?" asked Dr. Ransome, after he had examined the linen and passed it to Mr. Fielding.
"This," said the erstwhile prisoner, and he extended his foot. On it was the shoe he had worn in prison, though the polish was gone--scraped off clean. "The shoe blacking, moistened with water, was my ink; the metal tip of the shoe lace made a fairly good pen."
The warden looked up and suddenly burst into a laugh, half of relief, half of amusement.
"You're a wonder," he said, admiringly. "Go on."
"That precipitated a search of my cell by the warden, as I had intended," continued The Thinking Machine. "I was anxious to get the warden into the habit of searching my cell, so that finally, constantly finding nothing, he would get disgusted and quit. This at last happened, practically."
The warden blushed.
"He then took my white shirt away and gave me a prison shirt. He was satisfied that those two pieces of the shirt were all that was missing. But while he was searching my cell I had another piece of that same shirt, about nine inches square, rolled into a small ball in my mouth."
"Nine inches of that shirt?" demanded the warden. "Where did it come from?"
"The bosoms of all stiff white shirts are of triple thickness," was the explanation. "I tore out the inside thickness, leaving the bosom only two thicknesses. I knew you wouldn't see it. So much for that."
There was a little pause, and the warden looked from one to another of the men with a sheepish grin.
"Having disposed of the warden for the time being by giving him something else to think about, I took my first serious step toward freedom," said Professor Van Dusen. "I knew, within reason, that the pipe led somewhere to the playground outside; I knew a great many boys played there; I knew that rats came into my cell from out there. Could I communicate with some one outside with these things at hand?
"First was necessary, I saw, a long and fairly reliable thread, so--but here," he pulled up his trousers legs and showed that the tops of both stockings, of fine, strong lisle, were gone. "I unraveled those--after I got them started it wasn't difficult--and I had easily a quarter of a mile of thread that I could depend on.
"Then on half of my remaining linen I wrote, laboriously enough I assure you, a letter explaining my situation to this gentleman here," and he indicated Hutchinson Hatch. "I knew he would assist me--for the value of the newspaper story. I tied firmly to this linen letter a ten-dollar bill--there is no surer way of attracting the eye of anyone--and wrote on the linen: 'Finder of this deliver to Hutchinson Hatch, _Daily American_, who will give another ten dollars for the information.'
"The next thing was to get this note outside on that playground where a boy might find it. There were two ways, but I chose the best. I took one of the rats--I became adept in catching them--tied the linen and money firmly to one leg, fastened my lisle thread to another, and turned him loose in the drain pipe. I reasoned that the natural fright of the rodent would make him run until he was outside the pipe and then out on earth he would probably stop to gnaw off the linen and money.
"From the moment the rat disappeared into that dusty pipe I became anxious. I was taking so many chances. The rat might gnaw the string, of which I held one end; other rats might gnaw it; the rat might run out of the pipe and leave the linen and money where they would never be found; a thousand other things might have happened. So began some nervous hours, but the fact that the rat ran on until only a few feet of the string remained in my cell made me think he was outside the pipe. I had carefully instructed Mr. Hatch what to do in case the note reached him. The question was: Would it reach him?
"This done, I could only wait and make other plans in case this one failed. I openly attempted to bribe my jailer, and learned from him that he held the keys to only two of seven doors between me and freedom. Then I did something else to make the warden nervous. I took the steel supports out of the heels of my shoes and made a pretense of sawing the bars of my cell window. The warden raised a pretty row about that. He developed, too, the habit of shaking the bars of my cell window to see if they were solid. They were--then."
Again the warden grinned. He had ceased being astonished.
"With this one plan I had done all I could and could only wait to see what happened," the scientist went on. "I couldn't know whether my note had been delivered or even found, or whether the mouse had gnawed it up. And I didn't dare to draw back through the pipe that one slender thread which connected me with the outside.
"When I went to bed that night I didn't sleep, for fear there would come the slight signal twitch at the thread which was to tell me that Mr. Hatch had received the note. At half-past three o'clock, I judge, I felt this twitch, and no prisoner actually under sentence of death ever welcomed a thing more heartily."
The Thinking Machine stopped and turned to the reporter.
"You'd better explain just what you did," he said.
"The linen note was brought to me by a small boy who had been playing baseball," said Mr. Hatch. "I immediately saw a big story in it, so I gave the boy another ten dollars, and got several spools of silk, some twine, and a roll of light, pliable wire. The professor's note suggested that I have the finder of the note show me just where it was picked up, and told me to make my search from there, beginning at two o'clock in the morning. If I found the other end of the thread I was to twitch it gently three times, then a fourth.
"I began the search with a small bulb electric light. It was an hour and twenty minutes before I found the end of the drain pipe, half hidden in weeds. The pipe was very large there, say twelve inches across. Then I found the end of the lisle thread, twitched it as directed and immediately I got an answering twitch.
"Then I fastened the silk to this and Professor Van Dusen began to pull it into his cell. I nearly had heart disease for fear the string would break. To the end of the silk I fastened the twine, and when that had been pulled in I tied on the wire. Then that was drawn into the pipe and we had a substantial line, which rats couldn't gnaw, from the mouth of the drain into the cell."
The Thinking Machine raised his hand and Hatch stopped.
"All this was done in absolute silence," said the scientist. "But when the wire reached my hand I could have shouted. Then we tried another experiment, which Mr. Hatch was prepared for. I tested the pipe as a speaking tube. Neither of us could hear very clearly, but I dared not speak loud for fear of attracting attention in the prison. At last I made him understand what I wanted immediately. He seemed to have great difficulty in understanding when I asked for nitric acid, and I repeated the word 'acid' several times.
"Then I heard a shriek from a cell above me. I knew instantly that some one had overheard, and when I heard you coming, Mr. Warden, I feigned sleep. If you had entered my cell at that moment that whole plan of escape would have ended there. But you passed on. That was the nearest I ever came to being caught.
"Having established this improvised trolley it is easy to see how I got things in the cell and made them disappear at will. I merely dropped them back into the pipe. You, Mr. Warden, could not have reached the connecting wire with your fingers; they are too large. My fingers, you see, are longer and more slender. In addition I guarded the top of that pipe with a rat--you remember how."
"I remember," said the warden, with a grimace. "I thought that if any one were tempted to investigate that hole the rat would dampen his ardor. Mr. Hatch could not send me anything useful through the pipe until next night, although he did send me change for ten dollars as a test, so I proceeded with other parts of my plan. Then I evolved the method of escape, which I finally employed.
"In order to carry this out successfully it was necessary for the guard in the yard to get accustomed to seeing me at the cell window. I arranged this by dropping linen notes to him, boastful in tone, to make the warden believe, if possible, one of his assistants was communicating with the outside for me. I would stand at my window for hours gazing out, so the guard could see, and occasionally I spoke to him. In that way I learned that the prison had no electricians of its own, but was dependent upon the lighting company if anything should go wrong.
"That cleared the way to freedom perfectly: Early in the evening of the last day of my imprisonment, when it was dark, I planned to cut the feed wire which was only a few feet from my window, reaching it with an acid-tipped wire I had. That would make that side of the prison perfectly dark while the electricians were searching for the break. That would also bring Mr. Hatch into the prison yard.
"There was only one more thing to do before I actually began the work of setting myself free. This was to arrange final details with Mr. Hatch through our speaking tube. I did this within half an hour after the warden left my cell on the fourth night of my imprisonment. Mr. Hatch again had serious difficulty in understanding me, and I repeated the word 'acid' to him several times, and later the words: 'Number eight hat'--that's my size--and these were the things which made a prisoner upstairs confess to murder, so one of the jailers told me next day. This prisoner heard our voices, confused of course, through the pipe, which also went to his cell. The cell directly over me was not occupied, hence no one else heard.
"Of course the actual work of cutting the steel bars out of the window and door was comparatively easy with nitric acid, which I got through the pipe in thin bottles, but it took time. Hour after hour on the fifth and sixth and seventh days the guard below was looking at me as I worked on the bars of the window with the acid on a piece of wire. I used the tooth powder to prevent the acid spreading. I looked away abstractedly as I worked and each minute the acid cut deeper into the metal. I noticed that the jailers always tried the door by shaking the upper part, never the lower bars, therefore I cut the lower bars, leaving them hanging in place by thin strips of metal. But that was a bit of dare-deviltry. I could not have gone that way so easily."
The Thinking Machine sat silent for several minutes.
"I think that makes everything clear," he went on. "Whatever points I have not explained were merely to confuse the warden and jailers. These things in my bed I brought in to please Mr. Hatch, who wanted to improve the story. Of course, the wig was necessary in my plan. The special delivery letter I wrote and directed in my cell with Mr. Hatch's fountain pen, then sent it out to him and he mailed it. That's all, I think."
"But your actually leaving the prison grounds and then coming in through the outer gate to my office?" asked the warden.
"Perfectly simple," said the scientist. "I cut the electric light wire with acid, as I said, when the current was off. Therefore when the current was turned on the arc didn't light. I knew it would take some time to find out what was the matter and make repairs. When the guard went to report to you the yard was dark. I crept out the window--it was a tight fit, too--replaced the bars by standing on a narrow ledge and remained in a shadow until the force of electricians arrived. Mr. Hatch was one of them.
"When I saw him I spoke and he handed me a cap, a jumper and overalls, which I put on within ten feet of you, Mr. Warden, while you were in the yard. Later Mr. Hatch called me, presumably as a workman, and together we went out the gate to get something out of the wagon. The gate guard let us pass out readily as two workmen who had just passed in. We changed our clothing and reappeared, asking to see you. We saw you. That's all."
There was silence for several minutes. Dr. Ransome was first to speak.
"Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Perfectly amazing."
"How did Mr. Hatch happen to come with the electricians?" asked Mr. Fielding.
"His father is manager of the company," replied The Thinking Machine.
"But what if there had been no Mr. Hatch outside to help?"
"Every prisoner has one friend outside who would help him escape if he could."
"Suppose--just suppose--there had been no old plumbing system there?" asked the warden, curiously.
"There were two other ways out," said The Thinking Machine, enigmatically.
Ten minutes later the telephone bell rang. It was a request for the warden.
"Light all right, eh?" the warden asked, through the 'phone. "Good. Wire cut beside Cell 13? Yes, I know. One electrician too many? What's that? Two came out?"
The warden turned to the others with a puzzled expression.
"He only let in four electricians, he has let out two and says there are three left."
"I was the odd one," said The Thinking Machine. "Oh," said the warden. "I see." Then through the 'phone "Let the fifth man go. He's all right."
The Thinking Machine--Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, Ph.D., LL.D., F.R.S., M.D., etc., scientist and logician--listened intently and without comment to a weird, seemingly inexplicable story. Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, was telling it. The bowed figure of the savant lay at ease in a large chair. The enormous head with its bushy yellow hair was thrown back, the thin, white fingers were pressed tip to tip and the blue eyes, narrowed to mere slits, squinted aggressively upward. The scientist was in a receptive mood.
"From the beginning, every fact you know," he had requested.
"It's all out in the Back Bay," the reporter explained. "There is a big apartment house there, a fashionable establishment, in a side street, just off Commonwealth Avenue. It is five stories in all, and is cut up into small suites, of two and three rooms with bath. These suites are handsomely, even luxuriously furnished, and are occupied by people who can afford to pay big rents. Generally these are young unmarried men, although in several cases they are husband and wife. It is a house of every modern improvement, elevator service, hall boys, liveried door men, spacious corridors and all that. It has both the gas and electric systems of lighting. Tenants are at liberty to use either or both.
"A young broker, Weldon Henley, occupies one of the handsomest of these suites, being on the second floor, in front. He has met with considerable success in the Street. He is a bachelor and lives there alone. There is no personal servant. He dabbles in photography as a hobby, and is said to be remarkably expert.
"Recently there was a report that he was to be married this Winter to a beautiful Virginia girl who has been visiting Boston from time to time, a Miss Lipscomb--Charlotte Lipscomb, of Richmond. Henley has never denied or affirmed this rumor, although he has been asked about it often. Miss Lipscomb is impossible of access even when she visits Boston. Now she is in Virginia, I understand, but will return to Boston later in the season."
The reporter paused, lighted a cigarette and leaned forward in his chair, gazing steadily into the inscrutable eyes of the scientist.
"When Henley took the suite he requested that all the electric lighting apparatus be removed from his apartments," he went on. "He had taken a long lease of the place, and this was done. Therefore he uses only gas for lighting purposes, and he usually keeps one of his gas jets burning low all night."
"Bad, bad for his health," commented the scientist.
"Now comes the mystery of the affair," the reporter went on. "It was five weeks or so ago Henley retired as usual--about midnight. He locked his door on the inside--he is positive of that--and awoke about four o'clock in the morning nearly asphyxiated by gas. He was barely able to get up and open the window to let in the fresh air. The gas jet he had left burning was out, and the suite was full of gas."
"Accident, possibly," said The Thinking Machine. "A draught through the apartments; a slight diminution of gas pressure; a hundred possibilities."
"So it was presumed," said the reporter. "Of course it would have been impossible for----"
"Nothing is impossible," said the other, tartly. "Don't say that. It annoys me exceedingly."
"Well, then, it seems highly improbable that the door had been opened or that anyone came into the room and did this deliberately," the newspaper man went on, with a slight smile. "So Henley said nothing about this; attributed it to accident. The next night he lighted his gas as usual, but he left it burning a little brighter. The same thing happened again."
"Ah," and The Thinking Machine changed his position a little. "The second time."
"And again he awoke just in time to save himself," said Hatch. "Still he attributed the affair to accident, and determined to avoid a recurrence of the affair by doing away with the gas at night. Then he got a small night lamp and used this for a week or more."
"Why does he have a light at all?" asked the scientist, testily.
"I can hardly answer that," replied Hatch. "I may say, however, that he is of a very nervous temperament, and gets up frequently during the night. He reads occasionally when he can't sleep. In addition to that he has slept with a light going all his life; it's a habit."
"Go on."
"One night he looked for the night lamp, but it had disappeared--at least he couldn't find it--so he lighted the gas again. The fact of the gas having twice before gone out had been dismissed as a serious possibility. Next morning at five o'clock a bell boy, passing through the hall, smelled gas and made a quick investigation. He decided it came from Henley's place, and rapped on the door. There was no answer. It ultimately developed that it was necessary to smash in the door. There on the bed they found Henley unconscious with the gas pouring into the room from the jet which he had left lighted. He was revived in the air, but for several hours was deathly sick."
"Why was the door smashed in?" asked The Thinking Machine. "Why not unlocked?"
"It was done because Henley had firmly barred it," Hatch explained. "He had become suspicious, I suppose, and after the second time he always barred his door and fastened every window before he went to sleep. There may have been a fear that some one used a key to enter."
"Well?" asked the scientist. "After that?"
"Three weeks or so elapsed, bringing the affair down to this morning," Hatch went on. "Then the same thing happened a little differently. For instance, after the third time the gas went out Henley decided to find out for himself what caused it, and so expressed himself to a few friends who knew of the mystery. Then, night after night, he lighted the gas as usual and kept watch. It was never disturbed during all that time, burning steadily all night. What sleep he got was in daytime.
"Last night Henley lay awake for a time; then, exhausted and tired, fell asleep. This morning early he awoke; the room was filled with gas again. In some way my city editor heard of it and asked me to look into the mystery."
That was all. The two men were silent for a long time, and finally The Thinking Machine turned to the reporter.
"Does anyone else in the house keep gas going all night?" he asked.
"I don't know," was the reply. "Most of them, I know, use electricity."
"Nobody else has been overcome as he has been?"
"No. Plumbers have minutely examined the lighting system all over the house and found nothing wrong."
"Does the gas in the house all come through the same meter?"
"Yes, so the manager told me. This meter, a big one, is just off the engine room. I supposed it possible that some one shut it off there on these nights long enough to extinguish the lights all over the house, then turned it on again. That is, presuming that it was done purposely. Do you think it was an attempt to kill Henley?"
"It might be," was the reply. "Find out for me just who in the house uses gas; also if anyone else leaves a light burning all night; also what opportunity anyone would have to get at the meter, and then something about Henley's love affair with Miss Lipscomb. Is there anyone else? If so, who? Where does he live? When you find out these things come back here."
* * * * *
That afternoon at one o'clock Hatch returned to the apartments of The Thinking Machine, with excitement plainly apparent on his face.
"Well?" asked the scientist.
"A French girl, Louise Regnier, employed as a maid by Mrs. Standing in the house, was found dead in her room on the third floor to-day at noon," Hatch explained quickly. "It looks like suicide."
"How?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"The people who employed her--husband and wife--have been away for a couple of days," Hatch rushed on. "She was in the suite alone. This noon she had not appeared, there was an odor of gas and the door was broken in. Then she was found dead."
"With the gas turned on?"
"With the gas turned on. She was asphyxiated."
"Dear me, dear me," exclaimed the scientist. He arose and took up his hat. "Let's go see what this is all about."
When Professor Van Dusen and Hatch arrived at the apartment house they had been preceded by the Medical Examiner and the police. Detective Mallory, whom both knew, was moving about in the apartment where the girl had been found dead. The body had been removed and a telegram sent to her employers in New York.
"Too late," said Mallory, as they entered.
"What was it, Mr. Mallory?" asked the scientist.
"Suicide," was the reply. "No question of it. It happened in this room," and he led the way into the third room of the suite. "The maid, Miss Regnier, occupied this, and was here alone last night. Mr. and Mrs. Standing, her employers, have gone to New York for a few days. She was left alone, and killed herself."
Without further questioning The Thinking Machine went over to the bed, from which the girl's body had been taken, and, stooping beside it, picked up a book. It was a novel by "The Duchess." He examined this critically, then, standing on a chair, he examined the gas jet. This done, he stepped down and went to the window of the little room. Finally The Thinking Machine turned to the detective.
"Just how much was the gas turned on?" he asked.
"Turned on full," was the reply.
"Were both the doors of the room closed?"
"Both, yes."
"Any cotton, or cloth, or anything of the sort stuffed in the cracks of the window?"
"No. It's a tight-fitting window, anyway. Are you trying to make a mystery out of this?"
"Cracks in the doors stuffed?" The Thinking Machine went on.
"No." There was a smile about the detective's lips.
The Thinking Machine, on his knees, examined the bottom of one of the doors, that which led into the hall. The lock of this door had been broken when employees burst into the room. Having satisfied himself here and at the bottom of the other door, which connected with the bedroom adjoining, The Thinking Machine again climbed on a chair and examined the doors at the top.
"Both transoms closed, I suppose?" he asked. "Yes," was the reply. "You can't make anything but suicide out of it," explained the detective. "The Medical Examiner has given that as his opinion--and everything I find indicates it."
"All right," broke in The Thinking Machine abruptly. "Don't let us keep you."
After awhile Detective Mallory went away. Hatch and the scientist went down to the office floor, where they saw the manager. He seemed to be greatly distressed, but was willing to do anything he could in the matter.
"Is your night engineer perfectly trustworthy?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"Perfectly," was the reply. "One of the best and most reliable men I ever met. Alert and wide-awake."
"Can I see him a moment? The night man, I mean?"
"Certainly," was the reply. "He's downstairs. He sleeps there. He's probably up by this time. He sleeps usually till one o'clock in the daytime, being up all night."
"Do you supply gas for your tenants?"
"Both gas and electricity are included in the rent of the suites. Tenants may use one or both."
"And the gas all comes through one meter?"
"Yes, one meter. It's just off the engine room."
"I suppose there's no way of telling just who in the house uses gas?"
"No. Some do and some don't. I don't know."
This was what Hatch had told the scientist. Now together they went to the basement, and there met the night engineer, Charles Burlingame, a tall, powerful, clean-cut man, of alert manner and positive speech. He gazed with a little amusement at the slender, almost childish figure of The Thinking Machine and the grotesquely large head.
"You are in the engine room or near it all night every night?" began The Thinking Machine.
"I haven't missed a night in four years," was the reply.
"Anybody ever come here to see you at night?"
"Never. It's against the rules."
"The manager or a hall boy?"
"Never."
"In the last two months?" The Thinking Machine persisted.
"Not in the last two years," was the positive reply. "I go on duty every night at seven o'clock, and I am on duty until seven in the morning. I don't believe I've seen anybody in the basement here with me between those hours for a year at least."
The Thinking Machine was squinting steadily into the eyes of the engineer, and for a time both were silent. Hatch moved about the scrupulously clean engine room and nodded to the day engineer, who sat leaning back against the wall. Directly in front of him was the steam gauge.
"Have you a fireman?" was The Thinking Machine's next question.
"No. I fire myself," said the night man. "Here's the coal," and he indicated a bin within half a dozen feet of the mouth of the boiler.
"I don't suppose you ever had occasion to handle the gas meter?" insisted The Thinking Machine.
"Never touched it in my life," said the other. "I don't know anything about meters, anyway."
"And you never drop off to sleep at night for a few minutes when you get lonely? Doze, I mean?"
The engineer grinned good-naturedly.
"Never had any desire to, and besides I wouldn't have the chance," he explained. "There's a time check here,"--and he indicated it. "I have to punch that every half hour all night to prove that I have been awake."
"Dear me, dear me," exclaimed The Thinking Machine, irritably. He went over and examined the time check--a revolving paper disk with hours marked on it, made to move by the action of a clock, the face of which showed in the middle.
"Besides there's the steam gauge to watch," went on the engineer. "No engineer would dare go to sleep. There might be an explosion."
"Do you know Mr. Weldon Henley?" suddenly asked The Thinking Machine.
"Who?" asked Burlingame.
"Weldon Henley?"
"No-o," was the slow response. "Never heard of him. Who is he?"
"One of the tenants, on the second floor, I think."
"Lord, I don't know any of the tenants. What about him?"
"When does the inspector come here to read the meter?"
"I never saw him. I presume in daytime, eh Bill?" and he turned to the day engineer.
"Always in daytime--usually about noon," said Bill from his corner.
"Any other entrance to the basement except this way--and you could see anyone coming here this way I suppose?"
"Sure I could see 'em. There's no other entrance to the cellar except the coal hole in the sidewalk in front."
"Two big electric lights in front of the building, aren't there?"
"Yes. They go all night."
A slightly puzzled expression crept into the eyes of The Thinking Machine. Hatch knew from the persistency of the questions that he was not satisfied; yet he was not able to fathom or to understand all the queries. In some way they had to do with the possibility of some one having access to the meter.
"Where do you usually sit at night here?" was the next question.
"Over there where Bill's sitting. I always sit there."
The Thinking Machine crossed the room to Bill, a typical, grimy-handed man of his class.
"May I sit there a moment?" he asked.
Bill arose lazily, and The Thinking Machine sank down into the chair. From this point he could see plainly through the opening into the basement proper--there was no door--the gas meter of enormous proportions through which all the gas in the house passed. An electric light in the door made it bright as daylight. The Thinking Machine noted these things, arose, nodded his thanks to the two men and, still with the puzzled expression on his face, led the way upstairs. There the manager was still in his office.
"I presume you examine and know that the time check in the engineer's room is properly punched every half-hour during the night?" he asked.
"Yes. I examine the dial every day--have them here, in fact, each with the date on it."
"May I see them?"
Now the manager was puzzled. He produced the cards, one for each day, and for half an hour The Thinking Machine studied them minutely. At the end of that time, when he arose and Hatch looked at him inquiringly, he saw still the perplexed expression.
After urgent solicitation, the manager admitted them to the apartments of Weldon Henley. Mr. Henley himself had gone to his office in State Street. Here The Thinking Machine did several things which aroused the curiosity of the manager, one of which was to minutely study the gas jets. Then The Thinking Machine opened one of the front windows and glanced out into the street. Below fifteen feet was the sidewalk; above was the solid front of the building, broken only by a flagpole which, properly roped, extended from the hall window of the next floor above out over the sidewalk a distance of twelve feet or so.
"Ever use that flagpole?" he asked the manager.
"Rarely," said the manager. "On holidays sometimes--Fourth of July and such times. We have a big flag for it."
From the apartments The Thinking Machine led the way to the hall, up the stairs and to the flagpole. Leaning out of this window, he looked down toward the window of the apartments he had just left. Then he inspected the rope of the flagpole, drawing it through his slender hands slowly and carefully. At last he picked off a slender thread of scarlet and examined it.
"Ah," he exclaimed. Then to Hatch: "Let's go, Mr. Hatch. Thank you," this last to the manager, who had been a puzzled witness.
Once on the street, side by side with The Thinking Machine, Hatch was bursting with questions, but he didn't ask them. He knew it would be useless. At last The Thinking Machine broke the silence.
"That girl, Miss Regnier, _was murdered_," he said suddenly, positively. "There have been four attempts to murder Henley."
"How?" asked Hatch, startled.
"By a scheme so simple that neither you nor I nor the police have ever heard of it being employed," was the astonishing reply. "_It is perfectly horrible in its simplicity_."
"What was it?" Hatch insisted, eagerly.
"It would be futile to discuss that now," was the rejoinder. "There has been murder. We know how. Now the question is--who? What person would have a motive to kill Henley?"