Professor Augustus Van Dusen: 49 Detective Mysteries in One Edition. Jacques Futrelle
and yet far enough to remain undiscovered. This seems to me to be the mental attitude in this case. Your grandfather knew that you would do just what you have done here; that is, search the house and lot. He knew too that you would search banks and safety deposit vaults, and with a million at stake he knew it would be done thoroughly. Knowing this, naturally he would not put the money in any of those places.
“Then what? He doesn’t own any other property, as far as we know, and we shall assume that he did not buy property in the name of some other person; therefore, what have we left? Obviously, if the money is still in existence, it is hidden on somebody’s else property. And the minute we say that, we have the whole wide world to search. But again, doesn’t the deviltry and maliciousness of the old man narrow that down? Wouldn’t he have liked to remember as a dying thought that the money was always just within your reach, and yet safely beyond it? Wouldn’t it have been a keener revenge to have you dig over the whole place, while the money was hidden just six feet outside in a spot where you would never dig? It might be sixty, or six hundred, or six thousand. But then we have the law of probability to narrow those limits; so—”
Professor Van Dusen turned suddenly and strolled across the uneven ground to the property line. Walking slowly and scrutinizing the ground as he went, he circled the lot, returning to the starting point. Dr. Ballard had followed along behind him.
“Are all your grandfather’s belongings still in the house?” asked the scientist.
“Yes, everything just as he left it; that is, except his dog and a parrot. They are temporarily in charge of a widow down the road here.”
The scientist looked at Dr. Ballard quickly. “What sort of dog is it?” he inquired.
“A St. Bernard, I think,” replied Dr. Ballard wonderingly.
“Do you happen to have a glove or something that you know your grandfather wore?”
“I have a glove, yes.”
From the debris which littered the floor of the house, a well worn glove was recovered.
“Now, the dog, please,” commanded the scientist.
A short walk along the country road brought them to a house, and here they stopped. The St. Bernard, a shaggy, handsome, boisterous old chap, with wise eyes, was led out in leash. The Thinking Machine thrust the glove forward, and the dog sniffed at it. After a moment he sank down on his haunches, and with head thrust forward and upward, whined softly. It was the call of the brute soul to its master.
The Thinking Machine patted the heavy-coated head, and with the glove still in his hand made as if to go away. Again came the whine, but the dog sank down on the floor, with his head between his forepaws, regarding him intently. For ten minutes the scientist sought to coax the animal to follow him, but still he lay motionless.
“I don’t mind keepin’ that dog here; but that parrot is powerful noisy,” said the woman after a moment. She had been standing by watching the scientist curiously. “There ain’t no peace in the house.”
“Noisy—how?” asked Dr. Ballard.
“He swears, and sings and whistles, and does ‘rithmetic all day long,” the woman explained. “It nearly drives me distracted.”
“Does arithmetic?” inquired The Thinking Machine.
“Yes,” replied the woman, “and he swears just terrible. It’s almost like havin’ a man about the house. There he goes now.”
From another room came a sudden, squawking burst of profanity, followed instantly by a whistle, which caused the dog on the floor to prick up his ears.
“Does the parrot talk well?” asked the scientist.
“Just like a human bein’,” replied the woman, “an’ just about as sensible as some I’ve seen. I don’t mind his whistling, if only he wouldn’t swear so, and do all his figgerin’ out loud.”
For a minute or more the scientist stood staring down at the dog in deep thought. Gradually there came some subtle change in his expression. Dr. Ballard was watching him closely.
“I think perhaps it would be a good idea for me to keep the parrot for a few days,” suggested the scientist finally. He turned to the woman. “Just what sort of arithmetic does the bird do?”
“All kinds,” she answered promptly. “He does all the multiplication table. But he ain’t very good in subtraction.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” commented The Thinking Machine. “I’ll take the bird for a few days, doctor, if you don’t mind.”
And so it came to pass that when The Thinking Machine returned to his apartments he was accompanied by as noisy and vociferous a companion as one would care to have.
Martha, the aged servant, viewed him with horror as he entered. “The perfessor do be gettin’ old,” she muttered. “I suppose there’ll be a cat next.”
Two days later Dr. Ballard was called to the telephone. The Thinking Machine was at the other end of the wire.
“Take two men whom you can trust and go down to your grandfather’s place,” instructed the scientist curtly. “Take picks, shovels, a compass, and a long tape line. Stand on the front steps facing east. To your right will be an apple tree some distance off that lot on the adjoining property. Go to that apple tree. A boulder is at its foot. Measure from the edge of that stone twenty-six feet due north by the compass, and from that point fourteen feet due west. You will find your money there. Then please have some one come and take this bird away. If you don’t, I’ll wring its neck. It’s the most blasphemous creature I ever heard. Good bye.”
Dr. Ballard slipped the catch on the suit case and turned it upside down on the laboratory table. It was packed—literally packed—with United States bonds. The Thinking Machine fingered them idly.
“And there is this too,” said Dr. Ballard.
He lifted a stout sack from the floor, cut the string, and spilled out its contents beside the bonds. It was gold—thousands and thousands of dollars. Dr. Ballard was frankly excited about it; The Thinking Machine accepted it as he accepted all material things.
“How much is there of it?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” replied Dr. Ballard.
“And how did you find it?”
“As you directed—twenty-six feet north from the boulder, and fourteen feet west from that point.”
“I knew that, of course,” snapped The Thinking Machine; “but how was it hidden?”
“It’s rather peculiar,” explained Dr. Ballard. “Fourteen feet brought the man who had measured it to the edge of an old, dried up well, twelve or fifteen feet deep. Not expecting any such thing, he tumbled into it. In his efforts to get out he stepped upon a stone which protruded from one side. That fell out, and revealed the wooden box, which contained all this.”
“In other words,” said the scientist, “the money was hidden in such a manner that it would in time have come to be buried twelve or fifteen feet below the surface, because the well, being dry, would ultimately, of course, have been filled in.”
Dr. Ballard had been listening only hazily. His hands had been plowing in and out of the heap of gold. The Thinking Machine regarded him with something like contempt about his thin-lipped mouth.
“How—how did you ever do it?” asked Dr. Ballard at last.
“I am surprised that you want to know,” remarked The Thinking Machine cuttingly. “You know how I reached the conclusion that the money was not hidden either in the house or lot. The plain logic of the thing told me that, even before the search you had made demonstrated it. You saw how logic narrowed down the search, and you saw my experiment with the dog. That was purely an experiment. I wanted to see the instinct of the animal. Would it lead him anywhere?—perhaps to the spot where the money