The Jacques Futrelle Megapack. Jacques Futrelle
reporter an end of the robe caught on a corner of the trunk, and, stopping, the reporter unfastened it. A tiny strand of thread clung to the metal; Hatch detached it and stood idly twirling it in his fingers.
“As I was saying,” he resumed, “I rather like the place, but the price is too much. Suppose you leave it in the hands of the manager of the house—”
“I had intended doing that,” the Southerner interrupted.
“Well, I’ll see him about it later,” Hatch added.
With a cordial, albeit pre-occupied, handshake, Cabell ushered him out. Hatch went down in the elevator with a feeling of elation; a feeling that he had accomplished something. The manager was waiting to get into the lift.
“Do you happen to remember the name of the young lady who occupied Mr. Cabell’s suite while he was away?” he asked.
“Miss Austin,” said the manager, “but she’s not young. She was about forty-five years old, I should judge.”
“Did Mr. Cabell have his servant Jean with him?”
“Oh, no,” said the manager. “The valet gave up the suite to Miss Austin entirely, and until Mr. Cabell returned occupied a room in the quarters we have for our own employees.”
“Was Miss Austin ailing in any way?” asked Hatch. “I saw a large number of medicine bottles upstairs.”
“I don’t know what was the matter with her,” replied the manager, with a little puzzled frown. “She certainly was not a woman of sound mental balance—that is, she was eccentric, and all that. I think rather it was an act of charity for Mr. Cabell to let her have the suite in his absence. Certainly we didn’t want her.”
Hatch passed out and burst in eagerly upon The Thinking Machine in his laboratory.
“Here,” he said, and triumphantly he extended the tiny scarlet strand which he had received from The Thinking Machine, and the other of the identical color which came from Cabell’s bath robe. “Is that the same?”
The Thinking Machine placed them under the microscope and examined them immediately. Later he submitted them to a chemical test.
“It is the same,” he said, finally.
“Then the mystery is solved,” said Hatch, conclusively.
V
The Thinking Machine stared steadily into the eager, exultant eyes of the newspaper man until Hatch at last began to fear that he had been precipitate. After awhile, under close scrutiny, the reporter began to feel convinced that he had made a mistake—he didn’t quite see where, but it must be there, and the exultant manner passed. The voice of The Thinking Machine was like a cold shower.
“Remember, Mr. Hatch,” he said, critically, “that unless every possible question has been considered one cannot boast of a solution. Is there any possible question lingering yet in your mind?”
The reporter silently considered that for a moment, then:
“Well, I have the main facts, anyway. There may be one or two minor questions left, but the principal ones are answered.”
“Then tell me, to the minutest detail, what you have learned, what has happened.”
Professor Van Dusen sank back in his old, familiar pose in the large arm chair and Hatch related what he had learned and what he surmised. He related, too, the peculiar circumstances surrounding the wounding of Henley, and right on down to the beginning and end of the interview with Cabell in the latter’s apartments. The Thinking Machine was silent for a time, then there came a host of questions.
“Do you know where the woman—Miss Austin—is now?” was the first.
“No,” Hatch had to admit.
“Or her precise mental condition?”
“No.”
“Or her exact relationship to Cabell?”
“No.”
“Do you know, then, what the valet, Jean, knows of the affair?”
“No, not that,” said the reporter, and his face flushed under the close questioning. “He was out of the suite every night.”
“Therefore might have been the very one who turned on the gas,” the other put in testily.
“So far as I can learn, nobody could have gone into that room and turned on the gas,” said the reporter, somewhat aggressively. “Henley barred the doors and windows and kept watch, night after night.”
“Yet the moment he was exhausted and fell asleep the gas was turned on to kill him,” said The Thinking Machine; “thus we see that he was watched more closely than he watched.”
“I see what you mean now,” said Hatch, after a long pause.
“I should like to know what Henley and Cabell and the valet knew of the girl who was found dead,” The Thinking Machine suggested. “Further, I should like to know if there was a good-sized mirror—not one set in a bureau or dresser—either in Henley’s room or the apartments where the girl was found. Find out this for me and—never mind. I’ll go with you.”
The scientist left the room. When he returned he wore his coat and hat. Hatch arose mechanically to follow. For a block or more they walked along, neither speaking. The Thinking Machine was the first to break the silence:
“You believe Cabell is the man who attempted to kill Henley?”
“Frankly, yes,” replied the newspaper man.
“Why?”
“Because he had the motive—disappointed love.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” Hatch confessed. “The doors of the Henley suite were closed. I don’t see how anybody passed them.”
“And the girl? Who killed her? How? Why?”
Disconsolately Hatch shook his head as he walked on. The Thinking Machine interpreted his silence aright.
“Don’t jump at conclusions,” he advised sharply. “You were confident Cabell was to blame for this—and he might have been, I don’t know yet—but you can suggest nothing to show how he did it. I have told you before that imagination is half of logic.”
At last the lights of the big apartment house where Henley lived came in sight. Hatch shrugged his shoulders. He had grave doubts—based on what he knew—whether The Thinking Machine would be able to see Cabell. It was nearly eleven o’clock and Cabell was to leave for the South at midnight.
“Is Mr. Cabell here?” asked the scientist of the elevator boy.
“Yes, just about to go, though. He won’t see anyone.”
“Hand him this note,” instructed The Thinking Machine, and he scribbled something on a piece of paper. “He’ll see us.”
The boy took the paper and the elevator shot up to the fourth floor. After awhile he returned.
“He’ll see you,” he said.
“Is he unpacking?”
“After he read your note twice he told his valet to unpack,” the boy replied.
“Ah, I thought so,” said The Thinking Machine.
With Hatch, mystified and puzzled, following, The Thinking Machine entered the elevator to step out a second or so later on the fourth floor. As they left the car they saw the door of Cabell’s apartment standing open; Cabell was in the door. Hatch traced a glimmer of anxiety in the eyes of the young man.
“Professor Van Dusen?” Cabell inquired.
“Yes,” said the scientist. “It was of the utmost importance that I should see you, otherwise I should