Professor Augustus Van Dusen: 49 Detective Mysteries in One Edition. Jacques Futrelle
man?”
For another moment she stood looking upon the pallid face, then the necessity of action impressed itself upon her. The heart was still beating,—she convinced herself of that,—and he was breathing. Perhaps he had only fainted. She grasped at the idea hopefully, and turned, seeking water. There was a faucet over a sink at the end of the long table, and innumerable graduated glasses; but even in her excited condition Martha knew better than to use one of them. All sorts of chemicals had been in them—poisons too. With another quick glance at the little scientist she rushed out of the room, as she had entered, bent on getting water.
When she appeared again at the open door with pitcher and drinking glass she paused a second time in amazement. The distinguished scientist was sitting cross legged on the couch, thoughtfully caressing the back of his head.
“Martha, did anyone call?” he inquired.
“Lor’, sir! what did happen to you?” she burst out amazedly.
“Oh, a little accident,” he explained irritably. “Did anyone call?”
“No, sir. How do you feel now, sir?”
“Don’t disturb yourself about me, my good woman; I’m all right,” The Thinking Machine assured her, and put his feet to the floor. “You are sure no one was here?”
“Yes, sir. Lor’! you was that white when I picked you up from the floor there—”
“Was I lying on my back or my face?”
“Flat of your back, sir, all sprawled out. I thought you was dead, sir.”
Again The Thinking Machine thoughtfully caressed the back of his head, and Martha rattled on verbosely, indicating just where and how he had been lying when she opened the door.
“Are you sure that you didn’t hear any sound?” again queried the scientist.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Any sudden jar?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing. I was just laying the tea things, sir, and opened the door to tell you it was ready.”
She poured a glass of water from the pitcher, and The Thinking Machine moistened his lips, to which the color was slowly returning.
“Martha,” he directed, “go see if the front door is closed, please.”
Martha went out. “Yes, sir,” she reported on her return.
“Locked?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Thinking Machine arose and straightened up, almost himself again. Then he went over to the laboratory table and peered squintingly into a mirror which hung there, after which he wandered all over his apartments, examining windows, trying doors, and stopping occasionally to stare curiously about at objects which had been familiar for years. He turned; Martha was just behind him, looking on wonderingly.
“Lost something, sir?” she asked solicitously.
“You are sure you didn’t hear any sound of any sort?” he asked in turn.
“Not a thing, sir.”
Then The Thinking Machine went to the telephone. In a minute or so he was in conversation with Hutchinson Hatch, newspaper reporter.
“Heard of any jail delivery at Chisholm prison?” he inquired.
“No,” replied the reporter. “Why?”
“There has been an escape,” said the scientist positively.
“Who was it?” demanded the reporter eagerly. “How did it happen?”
“The prisoner’s name is Philip Gilfoil. I don’t know how he got out, but he is out.”
“Philip Gilfoil?” Hatch repeated. “He’s the forger who—”
“Yes, the forger,” said The Thinking Machine abruptly. “He’s out. You might go over and investigate, then come by and see me.”
Hatch spoke to his city editor and rushed out. Half an hour later he was at Chisholm prison, a vast spreading structure of granite in the suburbs, and in conversation with the warden, an old acquaintance.
“Who was it that escaped?” Hatch began briskly.
“Escaped?” repeated the warden with a momentary start, and then he laughed. “Nobody.”
“You have been keeping Philip Gilfoil here, haven’t you?”
“I am keeping Philip Gilfoil here,” was the grim response. “He is No. 97, and is now in Cell 9.”
“How long since you have seen him?” the reporter insisted.
“Ten minutes,” was the ready response.
The reporter was staring at him steadily; but the warden’s eyes met his frankly. There have been instances where denials of this sort have been made offhand with the idea of preventing the public from knowing the truth as long as possible. Hatch knew of several.
“May I see Gilfoil?” he inquired coldly.
“Sure,” replied the warden cheerfully. “Come on and I’ll show you.”
He escorted the newspaper man along the corridor to Cell 9. “Ninety-seven, are you there?” he called.
“Where’d you expect I’d be?” grumbled some one inside.
“Come to the door for a minute.”
There was a movement inside the cell, and the figure of a man approached the door out of the gloom. It had been several months since Hatch had seen Philip Gilfoil; but there was not the slightest question in his mind about the identity of this man. It was Gilfoil—the same sharp, hooked nose, the same thin lipped mouth, everything the same save now that the prison pallor was upon him. There was frank surprise in the reporter’s face.
“Do you know me, Gilfoil?” he inquired.
“I’ll never forget you,” replied the prisoner. There was anything but a kindly expression in the voice. “You’re the fellow who helped to send me here—you and the old professor chap.”
Hatch led the way back to the warden’s office. “Look here, warden!” he remarked pointedly, accusingly. “I want to know the real facts. Has that man been out of his cell since he has been here?”
“No, except for exercise,” was the reply. “All the prisoners are allowed a certain time each day for that.”
“I mean has he never been out of the prison?”
“Not on your life!” declared the warden. “He’s in for eight years, and he doesn’t get out till that’s up.”
“I have reason to believe—the best reason in the world to believe—that he has been out,” insisted the reporter.
“You are talking through your hat, Hatch,” said the warden, and he laughed with the utmost good nature. “What’s the matter, anyway?”
Hatch didn’t choose to tell him. He went instead to a telephone and called up The Thinking Machine.
“You are mistaken about Gilfoil having escaped,” he told the scientist. “He is still in Chisholm prison.”
“Did you see him?” came the irritable demand.
“Saw him and talked to him,” replied the reporter. “He was in Cell 9 not five minutes ago.”
There was a long silence. Hatch could imagine what it meant—The Thinking Machine was turning this over and over in his mind.
“You are mistaken, Mr. Hatch,” came the surprising statement at last in the same irritable, querulous voice. “Gilfoil is not in his cell. I know he is not. There is no need to argue about it. Good by.”
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