The Jacques Futrelle Megapack. Jacques Futrelle
the fraction of a second it seemed that The Thinking Machine wanted to ask a question, but he didn’t.
Two hours later this same jailer, in passing the door of Cell No. 13, heard a noise inside and stopped. The Thinking Machine was down on his hands and knees in a corner of the cell, and from that same corner came several frightened squeaks. The jailer looked on interestedly.
“Ah, I’ve got you,” he heard the prisoner say.
“Got what?” he asked, sharply.
“One of these rats,” was the reply. “See?” And between the scientist’s long fingers the jailer saw a small gray rat struggling. The prisoner brought it over to the light and looked at it closely. “It’s a water rat,” he said.
“Ain’t you got anything better to do than to catch rats?” asked the jailer.
“It’s disgraceful that they should be here at all,” was the irritated reply. “Take this one away and kill it. There are dozens more where it came from.”
The jailer took the wriggling, squirmy rodent and flung it down on the floor violently. It gave one squeak and lay still. Later he reported the incident to the warden, who only smiled.
Still later that afternoon the outside armed guard on Cell 13 side of the prison looked up again at the window and saw the prisoner looking out. He saw a hand raised to the barred window and then something white fluttered to the ground, directly under the window of Cell 13. It was a little roll of linen, evidently of white shirting material, and tied around it was a five-dollar bill. The guard looked up at the window again, but the face had disappeared.
With a grim smile he took the little linen roll and the five-dollar bill to the warden’s office. There together they deciphered something which was written on it with a queer sort of ink, frequently blurred. On the outside was this:
“Finder of this please deliver to Dr. Charles Ransome.”
“Ah,” said the warden, with a chuckle. “Plan of escape number one has gone wrong.” Then, as an afterthought: “But why did he address it to Dr. Ransome?”
“And where did he get the pen and ink to write with?” asked the guard.
The warden looked at the guard and the guard looked at the warden. There was no apparent solution of that mystery. The warden studied the writing carefully, then shook his head.
“Well, let’s see what he was going to say to Dr. Ransome,” he said at length, still puzzled, and he unrolled the inner piece of linen.
“Well, if that—what—what do you think of that?” he asked, dazed.
The guard took the bit of linen and read this:
“Epa cseot d’net n—y awe htto n’si sih. T.”
III
The warden spent an hour wondering what sort of a cipher it was, and half an hour wondering why his prisoner should attempt to communicate with Dr. Ransome, who was the cause of him being there. After this the warden devoted some thought to the question of where the prisoner got writing materials., and what sort of writing materials he had. With the idea of illuminating this point, he examined the linen again. It was a torn part of a white shirt and had ragged edges.
Now it was possible to account for the linen, but what the prisoner had used to write with was another matter. The warden knew it would have been impossible for him to have either pen or pencil, and, besides, neither pen nor pencil had been used in this writing. What, then? The warden decided to personally investigate. The Thinking Machine was his prisoner; he had orders to hold his prisoners; if this one sought to escape by sending cipher messages to persons outside, he would stop it, as he would have stopped it in the case of any other prisoner.
The warden went back to Cell 13 and found The Thinking Machine on his hands and knees on the floor, engaged in nothing more alarming than catching rats. The prisoner heard the warden’s step and turned to him quickly.
“It’s disgraceful,” he snapped, “these rats. There are scores of them.”
“Other men have been able to stand them,” said the warden. “Here is another shirt for you—let me have the one you have on.”
“Why?” demanded The Thinking Machine, quickly. His tone was hardly natural, his manner suggested actual perturbation.
“You have attempted to communicate with Dr. Ransome,” said the warden severely. “As my prisoner, it is my duty to put a stop to it.”
The Thinking Machine was silent for a moment.
“All right,” he said, finally. “Do your duty.”
The warden smiled grimly. The prisoner arose from the floor and removed the white shirt, putting on instead a striped convict shirt the warden had brought. The warden took the white shirt eagerly, and then there compared the pieces of linen on which was written the cipher with certain torn places in the shirt. The Thinking Machine looked on curiously.
“The guard brought you those, then?” he asked.
“He certainly did,” replied the warden triumphantly. “And that ends your first attempt to escape.”
The Thinking Machine watched the warden as he, by comparison, established to his own satisfaction that only two pieces of linen had been torn from the white shirt.
“What did you write this with?” demanded the warden.
“I should think it a part of your duty to find out,” said The Thinking Machine, irritably.
The warden started to say some harsh things, then restrained himself and made a minute search of the cell and of the prisoner instead. He found absolutely nothing; not even a match or toothpick which might have been used for a pen. The same mystery surrounded the fluid with which the cipher had been written. Although the warden left Cell 13 visibly annoyed, he took the torn shirt in triumph.
“Well, writing notes on a shirt won’t get him out, that’s certain,” he told himself with some complacency. He put the linen scraps into his desk to await developments. “If that man escapes from that cell I’ll—hang it—I’ll resign.”
On the third day of his incarceration The Thinking Machine openly attempted to bribe his way out. The jailer had brought his dinner and was leaning against the barred door, waiting, when The Thinking Machine began the conversation.
“The drainage pipes of the prison lead to the river, don’t they?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the jailer.
“I suppose they are very small?”
“Too small to crawl through, if that’s what you’re thinking about,” was the grinning response.
There was silence until The Thinking Machine finished his meal. Then:
“You know I’m not a criminal, don’t you?”’
“Yes.”
“And that I’ve a perfect right to be freed if I demand it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I came here believing that I could make my escape,” said the prisoner, and his squint eyes studied the face of the jailer. “Would you consider a financial reward for aiding me to escape?”
The jailer, who happened to be an honest man, looked at the slender, weak figure of the prisoner, at the large head with its mass of yellow hair, and was almost sorry.
“I guess prisons like these were not built for the likes of you to get out of,” he said at last.
“But would you consider a proposition to help me get out?” the prisoner insisted, almost beseechingly.
“No,” said the jailer, shortly.
“Five hundred dollars,” urged The Thinking Machine. “I am not a criminal.”
“No,”