The Jacques Futrelle Megapack. Jacques Futrelle
sleep. There may have been a fear that some one used a key to enter.”
“Well?” asked the scientist. “After that?”
“Three weeks or so elapsed, bringing the affair down to this morning,” Hatch went on. “Then the same thing happened a little differently. For instance, after the third time the gas went out Henley decided to find out for himself what caused it, and so expressed himself to a few friends who knew of the mystery. Then, night after night, he lighted the gas as usual and kept watch. It was never disturbed during all that time, burning steadily all night. What sleep he got was in daytime.
“Last night Henley lay awake for a time; then, exhausted and tired, fell asleep. This morning early he awoke; the room was filled with gas again. In some way my city editor heard of it and asked me to look into the mystery.”
That was all. The two men were silent for a long time, and finally The Thinking Machine turned to the reporter.
“Does anyone else in the house keep gas going all night?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” was the reply. “Most of them, I know, use electricity.”
“Nobody else has been overcome as he has been?”
“No. Plumbers have minutely examined the lighting system all over the house and found nothing wrong.”
“Does the gas in the house all come through the same meter?”
“Yes, so the manager told me. I supposed it possible that some one shut it off there on these nights long enough to extinguish the lights all over the house, then turned it on again. That is, presuming that it was done purposely. Do you think it was an attempt to kill Henley?”
“It might be,” was the reply. “Find out for me just who in the house uses gas; also if anyone else leaves a light burning all night; also what opportunity anyone would have to get at the meter, and then something about Henley’s love affair with Miss Lipscomb. Is there anyone else? If so, who? Where does he live? When you find out these things come back here.”
That afternoon at one o’clock Hatch returned to the apartments of The Thinking Machine, with excitement plainly apparent on his face.
“Well?” asked the scientist.
“A French girl, Louise Regnier, employed as a maid by Mrs. Standing in the house, was found dead in her room on the third floor today at noon,” Hatch explained quickly. “It looks like suicide.”
“How?” asked The Thinking Machine.
“The people who employed her—husband and wife—have been away for a couple of days,” Hatch rushed on. “She was in the suite alone. This noon she had not appeared, there was an odor of gas and the door was broken in. Then she was found dead.”
“With the gas turned on?”
“With the gas turned on. She was asphyxiated.”
“Dear me, dear me,” exclaimed the scientist. He arose and took up his hat. “Let’s go and see what this is all about.”
II
When Professor Van Dusen and Hatch arrived at the apartment house they had been preceded by the Medical Examiner and the police. Detective Mallory, whom both knew, was moving about in the apartment where the girl had been found dead. The body had been removed and a telegram sent to her employers in New York.
“Too late,” said Mallory, as they entered.
“What was it, Mr. Mallory?” asked the scientist.
“Suicide,” was the reply. “No question of it. It happened in this room,” and he led the way into the third room of the suite. “The maid, Miss Regnier, occupied this, and was here alone last night. Mr. and Mrs. Standing, her employers, have gone to New York for a few days. She was left alone, and killed herself.”
Without further questioning The Thinking Machine went over to the bed, from which the girl’s body had been taken, and, stooping beside it, picked up a book. It was a novel by “The Duchess.” He examined this critically, then, standing on a chair, he examined the gas jet. This done, he stepped down and went to the window of the little room. Finally The Thinking Machine turned to the detective.
“Just how much was the gas turned on?” he asked.
“Turned on full,” was the reply.
“Were both the doors of the room locked?”
“Both, yes.”
“Any cotton, or cloth, or anything of the sort stuffed in the cracks of the window?”
“No. It’s a tight-fitting window, anyway. Are you trying to make a mystery out of this?”
“Cracks in the doors stuffed?” The Thinking Machine went on.
“No.” There was a smile about the detective’s lips.
The Thinking Machine, on his knees, examined the bottom of one of the doors, that which led into the hall. The lock of this door had been broken when employees burst into the room. Having satisfied himself here and at the bottom of the other door, which connected with the bedroom adjoining, The Thinking Machine again climbed on a chair and examined the doors at the top.
“Both transoms closed, I suppose?” he asked.
“Yes,” was the reply. “You can’t make anything but suicide out of it,” explained the detective. “The Medical Examiner has given that as his opinion—and everything I find indicates it.”
“All right,” broke in The Thinking Machine abruptly. “Don’t let us keep you.”
After awhile Detective Mallory went away. Hatch and the scientist went down to the office floor, where they saw the manager. He seemed to be greatly distressed, but was willing to do anything he could in the matter.
“Is your night engineer perfectly trustworthy?” asked The Thinking Machine.
“Perfectly,” was the reply. “One of the best and most reliable men I ever met. Alert and wide-awake.”
“Can I see him a moment? The night man, I mean?”
“Certainly,” was the reply. “He’s downstairs. He sleeps there. He’s probably up by this time. He sleeps usually till one o’clock in the daytime, being up all night.”
“Do you supply gas for your tenants?”
“Both gas and electricity are included in the rent of the suites. Tenants may use one or both.”
“And the gas all comes through one meter?”
“Yes, one meter. It’s just off the engine room.”
“I suppose there’s no way of telling just who in the house uses gas?”
“No. Some do and some don’t. I don’t know.”
This was what Hatch had told the scientist. Now together they went to the basement, and there met the night engineer, Charles Burlingame, a tall, powerful, clean-cut man, of alert manner and positive speech. He gazed with a little amusement at the slender, almost childish figure of The Thinking Machine and the grotesquely large head.
“You are in the engine room or near it all night every night?” began The Thinking Machine.
“I haven’t missed a night in four years,” was the reply.
“Anybody ever come here to see you at night?”
“Never. It’s against the rules.”
“The manager or a hall boy?”
“Never.”
“In the last two months?” The Thinking Machine persisted.
“Not in the last two years,” was the positive reply. “I go on duty every night at seven o’clock, and I am on duty until seven