Professor Augustus Van Dusen: 49 Detective Mysteries in One Edition. Jacques Futrelle
have been the case if he had been a casual visitor. The warden shook hands with him and there was a pleasant reminiscent grin on his face.
“I want to find out something about this man Gilfoil,” the scientist began abruptly.
“You too?” remarked the warden. “Hutchinson Hatch was here a little while ago inquiring about him.”
“Yes, I sent him,” said the scientist. “He tells me that Gilfoil is still here?”
“He is still here,” said the warden emphatically. “He’s been here for nearly a year, and will remain here for another seven years. Hatch seemed to have an impression that he had escaped. Do you happen to know where he got that idea?”
The Thinking Machine squinted into his face for an instant inscrutably, then glanced up at the clock. It was eighteen minutes past eight o’clock.
“Are you sure that Gilfoil is in his cell?” he demanded curtly.
“I know he is—in Cell 9.” The warden tilted his cigar to an angle which was only a little less than aggressive, and glared at his visitor curiously. This constant questioning as to Convict 97, and the implied doubt behind it, was anything but soothing. The Thinking Machine dropped back into a chair, and the watery blue eyes were turned upward. The warden knew the attitude.
“How long have you had Gilfoil?” queried The Thinking Machine after a moment.
“A little more than ten months.”
“Well behaved prisoner?”
“Well, yes, now he is. When he first came he was rather an unpleasant customer, and was given to profanity, but lately he has realized the uselessness of it all, and now, I may say, he is a model of decency. That’s the usual course with prisoners; they are bad at first, and then in nine cases out of ten they settle down and behave themselves.”
“Naturally,” mused the scientist. “Just when did you first notice this change for the better in his conduct?”
“Oh, a month or six weeks ago,” was the reply.
“Was it a gradual change or a sudden change?”
“I couldn’t say, really,” responded the wondering warden. “I suppose it might be called a sudden change. I noticed one day that he didn’t swear at me as I passed his cell, and that was unusual.”
The Thinking Machine straightened up in his chair suddenly and squinted belligerently at the official for an instant. Then he sank back again, and his eyes wandered upward. “Do you happen to remember that first date he didn’t swear at you?”
The warden laughed. “It didn’t make any particular impression on my mind. It was a month or six weeks ago.”
“Has he sworn at you since?” the scientist went on.
“No, I don’t think anyone has heard him swear since. He’s been remarkably well behaved.”
“Any callers?”
“Well, not for a long time. A physician came here to see him twice. There was something the matter with his throat, I think.”
“How did it happen that the prison physician didn’t attend him?” demanded The Thinking Machine curiously.
“He asked that an outside physician be called,” was the response. “He had twelve or fifteen dollars here in the office, and I paid the physician out of that.”
Some new line of thought had evidently been awakened in the scientist’s mind; for there came a subtle change in the drawn face, and for a long time he was silent.
“Do you happen to remember,” he asked slowly at last, “if the physician was called in before or after he stopped swearing?”
“After, I think,” the warden replied wearily. “What the deuce is all this about, anyway?” he demanded flatly after a moment.
“Throat trouble, you said. How did it affect him?”
“Made him a little hoarse, that’s all. The doctor told me it wasn’t anything particularly—probably the dampness in the cell or something.”
“And did you know the doctor who was called—know him personally?” demanded The Thinking Machine, and there was a strange, new gleam in the narrow eyes.
“Yes, quite well. I’ve known him for years. I let him in and let him out.”
The crabbed little scientist seemed almost disappointed. He dropped back again into the depths of the chair.
“Do you want to see Gilfoil?” asked the warden.
“Not yet,” was the reply; “but I should like you to walk down the corridor very, very softly and flash your light in Cell 9 and see if Convict 97 is there?”
The warden came to his feet suddenly. There was something in the tone which startled him; but the momentary shock was followed instantly by a little nervous laugh. No man knew better than he that Convict 97 was still there, yet to please this whimsical visitor he lighted his dark lantern and went out. He was gone only a couple of minutes, and when he returned there was a queer expression on his face—almost an awed expression.
“Well?” queried the scientist. “Was he asleep.”
“No,” replied the warden, “he wasn’t. He was down on his knees beside his cot, praying.”
The Thinking Machine arose and paced back and forth across the office two or three times. At last he turned to the warden. “Really, I hate to put you to so much trouble,” he said; “but believe me it is in the interests of justice. I should like personally to visit Cell 9 say in an hour from now after Convict 97 is asleep. Meanwhile, don’t let me disturb you. Go on about your affairs; I’ll wait.”
And then and there The Thinking Machine gave the warden a lesson in perfect repose. He glanced at the clock,—the hands indicated eight-forty,—then sat down again, and for one hour he sat there without the slightest movement to indicate even a casual interest in anybody or anything. The warden, busy with some accounts, glanced around curiously at the diminutive figure half a dozen times; once or twice he imagined his visitor had fallen asleep, but the blue eyes behind the thick spectacles, narrow as they were, belied this idea. It was precisely twenty-one minutes of ten o’clock when The Thinking Machine arose.
“Now, please,” he requested.
Without a word of protest the warden relighted the dark lantern, opened the doors leading into the corridor of the prison, and they went on to Cell 9. They paused at the door. There was utter silence in the huge prison, broken only by the regular, rhythmic breathing of Convict 97. At a motion from The Thinking Machine the warden softly unlocked the cell door, and they entered.
“Silence, please,” whispered the scientist.
He took the lantern from the warden’s unresisting hand, and going softly to the cot turned the light full into the face of the sleeping man. For a second or so he gazed steadily at the features upturned thus to him, then the brilliant light seemed to disturb the sleeper, for his eyelids twitched, and finally opened with a start.
“Do you know me, Gilfoil?” demanded The Thinking Machine suddenly, and he leaned forward so that the cutting rays of light should illumine has own features.
“Yes,” the prisoner replied shortly.
“What’s my name?” insisted the scientist.
“Van Dusen,” was the prompt reply. “I know you, all right.” Convict 97 raised himself on an elbow and met the eyes of the other two men without a quiver.
“What size shoe do you wear?” demanded the scientist.
“None of your business!” growled the convict.
The Thinking Machine turned the lantern to the floor and found the shoes the prisoner had laid aside on retiring. He picked them up and examined them carefully,