The Jacques Futrelle Megapack. Jacques Futrelle
precisely seven minutes a woman, weighing more than 130 pounds, certainly not dressed for the street, disappeared completely from her dressing room. It is now five-eighteen Monday afternoon. I think we may solve this crime within a few hours.”
“Crime?” Hatch repeated eagerly. “Do you imagine there is a crime then?”
Professor Van Dusen didn’t heed the question. Instead he rose and paced back and forth across the reception room half a dozen times, his hands behind his back and his eyes cast down. At last he stopped and faced the reporter, who had also risen.
“Miss Wallack’s company, I presume, with the baggage, is now in Boston,” he said. “See every male member of the company, talk to them and particularly study their eyes. Don’t overlook anyone, however humble. Also find out what became of the box of chocolate candy, and if possible how many pieces are out of it. Then report here to me. Miss Wallack’s safety may depend upon your speed and accuracy.”
Hatch was frankly startled. “How—” he began.
“Don’t stop to talk—hurry!” commanded The Thinking Machine. “I will have a cab waiting when you come back. We must get to Springfield.”
The newspaper man rushed away to obey orders. He didn’t understand them at all. Studying men’s eyes was not in his line; but he obeyed nevertheless. An hour and a half later he returned, to be thrust unceremoniously into a waiting cab by The Thinking Machine. The cab rattled away toward South Station, where the two men caught a train, just about to move out for Springfield. Once settled in their seats, the scientist turned to Hatch, who was nearly suffocating with suppressed information.
“Well?” he asked.
“I found out several things,” the reporter burst out. “First, Miss Wallack’s leading man, Langdon Mason, who has been in love with her for three years, bought the candy at Schuyler’s in Springfield early Saturday evening before he went to the theater. He told me so himself rather reluctantly; but I—I made him say it.”
“Ah!” exclaimed The Thinking Machine. It was a most unequivocal ejaculation. “How many pieces of candy are out of the box?”
“Only three,” explained Hatch. “Miss Wallack’s things were packed into the open trunk in her dressing room, the candy with them. I induced the manager—”
“Yes, yes, yes!” interrupted The Thinking Machine impatiently. “What sort of eyes has Mason? What colour?”
“Blue, frank in expression, nothing unusual at all,” said the reporter.
“And the others?”
“I didn’t quite know what you meant by studying their eyes, so I got a set of photographs. I thought perhaps they might help.”
“Excellent, Excellent!” commented The Thinking Machine. He shuffled the pictures through his fingers, stopping now and then to study one, and to read the name printed below. “Is that the leading man?” he asked at last, and handed one to Hatch.
“Yes.”
Professor Van Dusen did not speak again. The train pulled into Springfield at nine-twenty. Hatch followed the scientist without a word into a cab.
“Schuyler’s candy store,” quickly commanded The Thinking Machine. “Hurry.”
The cab rushed off through the night. Ten minutes later it stopped before a brilliantly lighted candy store. The Thinking Machine led the way inside and approached the girl behind the chocolate counter.
“Will you please tell me if you remember this man’s face?” he asked as he produced Mason’s photograph.
“Oh, yes, I remember him,” the girl replied. “He’s an actor.”
“Did he buy a small box of chocolates of you Saturday evening early?” was the next question.
“Yes. I recall it because he seemed to be in a hurry; in fact, I believe he said he was anxious to get to the theater to pack.”
“And do you recall that this man ever bought chocolates here?” asked the scientist. He produced another photograph and handed it to the girl. She studied it a moment while Hatch craned his neck, vainly, to see.
“I don’t recall that he ever did,” the girl answered finally.
The Thinking Machine turned away abruptly and disappeared into a public telephone booth. He remained there for five minutes, then rushed out to the cab again, with Hatch following closely.
“City Hospital!” he commanded.
Again the cab dashed away. Hatch was dumb; there seemed to be nothing to say. The Thinking Machine was plainly pursuing some definite line of inquiry, yet the reporter didn’t know what. The case was getting kaleidoscopic. This impression was strengthened when he found himself standing beside The Thinking Machine in City Hospital conversing with the house surgeon, Dr. Carlton.
“Is there a Miss Gertrude Manning here?” was the scientist’s first question.
“Yes,” replied the surgeon. “She was brought here Saturday night, suffering from—”
“Strychnine poisoning, yes, I know,” interrupted the other. “Picked up in the street, probably. I am a physician. If she is well enough I should like to ask her a couple of questions.”
Dr. Carlton agreed, and Professor Van Dusen, still followed faithfully by Hatch, was ushered into the ward where Miss Wallack’s maid lay, pallid and weak. The Thinking Machine picked up her hand and his slender finger rested for a minute on her pulse. He nodded and seemed satisfied.
“Miss Manning, can you understand me?” he asked.
The girl nodded weakly.
“How many pieces of the candy did you eat?”
“Two,” she replied. She stared into the face above her with dull eyes.
“Did Miss Wallack eat any of it up to the time you left the theatre?”
“No.”
If the Thinking Machine had been in a hurry previously, he was racing now. Hatch trailed on dutifully behind, down the stairs, and into the cab, whence Professor Van Dusen shouted a word of thanks to Dr. Carlton. This time their destination was the stage door of the theatre from which Miss Wallack had disappeared.
The reporter was muddled. He didn’t know anything very clearly except that three pieces of candy were missing from the box. Of these the maid had eaten only two. She had been poisoned. Therefore, it seemed reasonable to suppose that if Miss Wallack had eaten the third piece she also would be poisoned. But poison would not make her invisible. At this point the reporter shook his head hopelessly.
William Meegan, the stage doorkeeper, was easily found.
“Can you inform me, please,” began The Thinking Machine, “if Mr. Mason left a box of candy with you last Saturday night for Miss Wallack?”
“Yes,” Meegan replied goodnaturedly. He was amused at the little man. “Miss Wallack hadn’t arrived. Mason brought a box of candy for her nearly every night and usually left it here. I put the one Saturday night on the shelf here.”
“Did Mr. Mason come to the theatre before or after the others on Saturday night?”
“Before,” replied Meegan. “He was unusually early, I suppose, to pack.”
“And the other members of the company coming in stop here, I imagine, to get their mail?” and the scientist squinted up at the mail box above the shelf.
“Sure, always.”
The Thinking Machine drew a long breath. Up to this time there had been little perplexed wrinkles in his brow. Now they disappeared.
“Now, please,” he went on, “was any package or box of any kind taken from the stage on Saturday night between nine and eleven o’clock?”