The Jacques Futrelle Megapack. Jacques Futrelle
were found locked yesterday morning?”
“Yes. Both doors have spring-locks, therefore each locks itself when closed.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the scientist suddenly.
He turned away from the window, and, for a second time, examined the still and silent gong. Somewhere in his mind seemed to be an inkling that the gong might be more closely associated than appeared with the mystery of death, and yet, watching him curiously, Doctor Perdue knew he could have no knowledge of the sinister part it had played in the affair. With a penknife The Thinking Machine made a slight mark on the under side of each bell in turn; then squinted at them, one after another. On the inside of the top bell—the largest—he found something—a mark, a symbol perhaps—but it seemed meaningless to Hatch and Doctor Perdue, who were peering over his shoulder.
It was merely a circle with three upward rays and three dots inside it.
“The manufacturer’s mark, perhaps,” Hatch suggested.
“Of course, it’s impossible that the bell could have had anything to do—” Doctor Perdue began.
“Nothing is impossible, Perdue,” snapped the scientist crabbedly. “Do not say that. It annoys me exceedingly.” He continued to stare at the symbol. “Just where was the body found?” he asked after a little.
“Here,” replied Doctor Perdue, and he indicated a spot near the window.
The Thinking Machine measured the distance with his eye.
“The only real problem here,” he remarked musingly, after a moment, as if supplementing a previous statement, “is what made him lock the door and run?”
“What made—who?” Hatch asked eagerly.
The Thinking Machine merely squinted at him, through him, beyond him with glassy eyes. His thoughts seemed far away and the cobwebby lines in his forehead grew deeper. Doctor Perdue was apparently at the moment too self-absorbed to heed.
“Now, Perdue,” demanded The Thinking Machine suddenly, “what is really the matter with Mr. Phillips?”
“Well, it’s rather—” he started haltingly, then went on as if his mind were made up: “You know, Van Dusen, there’s something back of all this that hasn’t been told, for reasons which I consider good ones. It might interest you, because you are keen on these things, but I doubt if it would help you. And besides, I should have to insist that you alone should hear it.”
He glanced meaningly at Hatch, whom he knew to be present only in his capacity as reporter.
“There’s something else—about the bell,” said The Thinking Machine quickly. It was not a question, but a statement.
“Yes, about the bell,” acquiesced the physician, as if a little surprised that the other should know. “But as I said it—”
“I undertook to get at the facts here to aid Mr. Hatch,” explained The Thinking Machine; “but I can assure you he will print nothing without my permission.”
Doctor Perdue looked at the newspaperman inquiringly; Hatch nodded.
“I guess perhaps it would be better for you to hear it from Phillips himself,” went on the physician. “Come along. I think he would be willing to tell you.”
Thus the scientist and the reporter met Franklin Phillips. He was in bed. The once masterful financier seemed but a shadow of what he had been. His strong face was now white and haggard, and lined almost beyond recognition. The lips were pale, the hands nervously clutched at the sheet, and in his eyes was horror—hideous horror. They glittered at times, and only at intervals reflected the strength, the power which once lay there. His present condition was as pitiable as it was inexplicable to Hatch, who remembered him as the rugged storm-centre of half a dozen spectacular financial battles.
Mr. Phillips talked willingly—seemed, indeed, relieved to be able to relate in detail those circumstances which, in a way, accounted for his utter collapse. As he went on volubly, yet coherently enough, his roving eyes settled on the petulant, inscrutable face of The Thinking Machine as if seeking, above all things, belief. He found it, for the scientist nodded time after time, and gradually the lines in the dome-like forehead were dissipated.
“Now I know why he ran,” declared the scientist positively, enigmatically. The remark was hopelessly without meaning to the others. “As I understand it, Mr. Phillips,” he asked, “the east window was always open when the bell sounded?”
“Yes, I believe it was, always,” replied Mr. Phillips after a moment’s thought.
“And you always heard it when the window was open?”
“Oh, no,” replied the financier. “There were many times when the window was open that I didn’t hear anything.”
A fleeting bewilderment crossed the scientist’s face, then was gone.
“Of course, of course,” he said after a moment. “Stupid of me. I should have known that. Now, the first time you ever noticed it the bell rang twice—that is, twice with an interval of, say, a few seconds between?”
“Yes.”
“And you had had the gong, then, two or three months?”
“About three months—yes.”
“The weather remained cool during that time? Late winter and early spring?”
“I presume so. I don’t recall. I know the first time I heard the bell was an early, warm day of spring, because my window had not previously been opened.”
The Thinking Machine was dreamily squinting upward. As he stared into the quiet, narrow eyes a certain measure of confidence seemed to return to Mr. Phillips. He raised himself on an elbow.
“You say that once you heard the bell ring late at night—twice. What were the circumstances?”
“That was the night preceding a day of some important operations I had planned,” explained Mr. Phillips, “and I was in the little room for a long time after midnight going over some figures.”
“Do you remember the date?”
“Perfectly. It was Tuesday, the eleventh of this month,”—and, for an instant, memory called to Mr. Phillips’ face an expression which financial foes know well. “I remember, because next day I forced the market up to a record price on some railway stocks I control.”
The Thinking Machine nodded.
“This servant of yours who is missing, Francis, was rather a timid sort of man, I imagine.”
“Well, I could hardly say,” replied Mr. Phillips doubtfully.
“Well, he was,” declared The Thinking Machine flatly. “He was a good servant, I dare say?”
“Yes, excellent.”
“Would it have been within his duties to close a window which might have been left open at night?”
“Certainly.”
“Rather a big man?”
“Yes, six feet or so—two hundred and ten pounds, perhaps.”
“And Mr. Matsumi was, of course, small?”
“Yes, small even for a Japanese.”
The Thinking Machine arose and placed his fingers on Mr. Phillips’ wrist. He stood thus for half a minute.
“Did you ever notice any odor after the bell rang?” he inquired at last.
“Odor?” Mr. Phillips seemed puzzled. “Why, I don’t see what an odor would have to do—”
“I didn’t expect you to,” interrupted The Thinking Machine crustily. “I merely want to know if you noticed one.”
“No,”