The Jacques Futrelle Megapack. Jacques Futrelle
eyes snapped.
“Lock me in any cell in any prison anywhere at any time, wearing only what is necessary, and I’ll escape in a week,” he declared, sharply.
Dr. Ransome sat up straight in the chair, interested. Mr. Fielding lighted a new cigar.
“You mean you could actually think yourself out?” asked Dr. Ransome.
“I would get out,” was the response.
“Are you serious?”
“Certainly I am serious.”
Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding were silent for a long time.
“Would you be willing to try it?” asked Mr. Fielding, finally.
“Certainly,” said Professor Van Dusen, and there was a trace of irony in his voice. “I have done more asinine things than that to convince other men of less important truths.”
The tone was offensive and there was an undercurrent strongly resembling anger on both sides. Of course it was an absurd thing, but Professor Van Dusen reiterated his willingness to undertake the escape and it was decided upon.
“To begin now,” added Dr. Ransome.
“I’d prefer that it begin tomorrow,” said The Thinking Machine, “because—”
“No, now,” said Mr. Fielding, flatly. “You are arrested, figuratively, of course, without any warning locked in a cell with no chance to communicate with friends, and left there with identically the same care and attention that would be given to a man under sentence of death. Are you willing?”
“All right, now, then,” said the Thinking Machine, and he arose.
“Say, the death-cell in Chisholm Prison.”
“The death-cell in Chisholm Prison.”
“And what will you wear?”
“As little as possible,” said The Thinking Machine. “Shoes, stockings, trousers and a shirt.”
“You will permit yourself to be searched, of course?”
“I am to be treated precisely as all prisoners are treated,” said The Thinking Machine. “No more attention and no less.”
There were some preliminaries to be arranged in the matter of obtaining permission for the test, but all three were influential men and everything was done satisfactorily by telephone, albeit the prison commissioners, to whom the experiment was explained on purely scientific grounds, were sadly bewildered. Professor Van Dusen would be the most distinguished prisoner they had ever entertained.
When The Thinking Machine had donned those things which he was to wear during his incarceration he called the little old woman who was his housekeeper, cook and maid servant all in one.
“Martha,” he said, “it is now twenty-seven minutes past nine o’clock. I am going away. One week from tonight, at half-past nine, these gentlemen and one, possibly two, others will take supper with me here. Remember Dr. Ransome is very fond of artichokes.”
The three men were driven to Chisholm Prison, where the Warden was awaiting them, having been informed of the matter by telephone. He understood merely that the eminent Professor Van Dusen was to be his prisoner, if he could keep him, for one week; that he had committed no crime, but that he was to be treated as all other prisoners were treated.
“Search him,” instructed Dr. Ransome.
The Thinking Machine was searched. Nothing was found on him; the pockets of the trousers were empty; the white, stiff-bosomed shirt had no pocket. The shoes and stockings were removed, examined, then replaced. As he watched all these preliminaries—the rigid search and noted the pitiful, childlike physical weakness of the man, the colorless face, and the thin, white hands—Dr. Ransome almost regretted his part in the affair.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.
“Would you be convinced if I did not?” inquired The Thinking Machine in turn.
“No.”
“‘All right. I’ll do it.”
What sympathy Dr. Ransome had was dissipated by the tone. It nettled him, and he resolved to see the experiment to the end; it would be a stinging reproof to egotism.
“It will be impossible for him to communicate with anyone outside?” he asked.
“Absolutely impossible,” replied the warden. “He will not be permitted writing materials of any sort.”
“And your jailers, would they deliver a message from him?”
“Not one word, directly or indirectly,” said the warden. “You may rest assured of that. They will report anything he might say or turn over to me anything he might give them.”
“That seems entirely satisfactory,” said Mr. Fielding, who was frankly interested in the problem.
“Of course, in the event he fails,” said Dr. Ransome, “and asks for his liberty, you understand you are to set him free?”
“I understand,” replied the warden.
The Thinking Machine stood listening, but had nothing to say until this was all ended, then:
“I should like to make three small requests. You may grant them or not, as you wish.”
“No special favors, now,” warned Mr. Fielding.
“I am asking none,” was the stiff response. “I would like to have some tooth powder—buy it yourself to see that it is tooth powder—and I should like to have one five-dollar and two ten-dollar bills.”
Dr. Ransome, Mr. Fielding and the warden exchanged astonished glances. They were not surprised at the request for tooth powder, but were at the request for money.
“Is there any man with whom our friend would come in contact that he could bribe with twenty-five dollars?” asked Dr. Ransome of the warden.
“Not for twenty-five hundred dollars,” was the positive reply.
“Well, let him have them,” said Mr. Fielding. “I think they are harmless enough.”
“And what is the third request?” asked Dr. Ransome.
“I should like to have my shoes polished.”
Again the astonished glances were exchanged. This last request was the height of absurdity, so they agreed to it. These things all being attended to, The Thinking Machine was led back into the prison from which he had undertaken to escape.
“Here is Cell 13,” said the warden, stopping three doors down the steel corridor. “This is where we keep condemned murderers. No one can leave it without my permission; and no one in it can communicate with the outside. I’ll stake my reputation on that. It’s only three doors back of my office and I can readily hear any unusual noise.”
“Will this cell do, gentlemen?” asked The Thinking Machine. There was a touch of irony in his voice.
“Admirably,” was the reply.
The heavy steel door was thrown open, there was a great scurrying and scampering of tiny feet, and The Thinking Machine passed into the gloom of the cell. Then the door was closed and double locked by the warden.
“What is that noise in there?” asked Dr. Ransome, through the bars.
“Rats—dozens of them,” replied The Thinking Machine, tersely.
The three men, with final good-nights, were turning away when The Thinking Machine called:
“What time is it exactly, warden?”
“Eleven seventeen,” replied the warden.
“Thanks. I will join you gentlemen in your office at half-past eight o’clock one week from tonight,” said The