The problem of Cell 13
"He's going away on the midnight train--going South, to Virginia."
"Going away to-night?" Hatch gasped.
"Yes; it seems to have been rather a sudden determination. He was
talking to me here half an hour or so ago, and said something about
going away. While he was here the telephone boy told me that Henley
had been shot; they had 'phoned from the hospital to inform us. Then
Cabell seemed greatly agitated. He said he was going away to-night, if
he could catch the midnight train, and now he's packing."
"I suppose the shooting of Henley upset him considerably?" the
reporter suggested.
"Yes, I guess it did," was the reply. "They moved in the same set and
belonged to the same clubs."
The manager sent Hatch's card of introduction to Cabell's apartments.
Hatch went up and was ushered into a suite identical with that of
Henley's in every respect save in minor details of furnishings. Cabell
stood in the middle of the floor, with his personal belongings
scattered about the room; his valet, evidently a Frenchman, was busily
engaged in packing.
Cabell's greeting was perfunctorily cordial; he seemed agitated. His
face was flushed and from time to time he ran his fingers through his
long, brown hair. He stared at Hatch in a preoccupied fashion, then
they fell into conversation about the rent of the apartments.
"I'll take almost anything reasonable," Cabell said hurriedly. "You
see, I am going away to-night, rather more suddenly than I had
intended, and I am anxious to get the lease off my hands. I pay two
hundred dollars a month for these just as they are."
"May I look them over?" asked Hatch.
He passed from the front room into the next. Here, on a bed, was piled
a huge lot of clothing, and the valet, with deft fingers, was brushing
and folding, preparatory to packing. Cabell was directly behind him.
"Quite comfortable, you see," he explained. "There's room enough if
you are alone. Are you?"
"Oh, yes," Hatch replied.
"This other room here," Cabell explained, "is not in very tidy shape
now. I have been out of the city for several weeks, and---- What's the
matter?" he demanded suddenly.
Hatch had turned quickly at the words and stared at him, then
recovered himself with a start.
"I beg your pardon," he stammered. "I rather thought I saw you in town
here a week or so ago--of course I didn't know you--and I was
wondering if I could have been mistaken."
"Must have been," said the other easily. "During the time I was away a
Miss----, a friend of my sister's, occupied the suite. I'm afraid some
of her things are here. She hasn't sent for them as yet. She occupied
this room, I think; when I came back a few days ago she took another
place and all her things haven't been removed."
"I see," remarked Hatch, casually. "I don't suppose there's any chance
of her returning here unexpectedly if I should happen to take her
apartments?"
"Not the slightest. She knows I am back, and thinks I am to remain.
She was to send for these things."
Hatch gazed about the room ostentatiously. Across a trunk lay a
Turkish bath robe with a scarlet stripe in it. He was anxious to get
hold of it, to examine it closely. But he didn't dare to, then.
Together they returned to the front room.
"I rather like the place," he said, after a pause, "but the price
is----"
"Just a moment," Cabell interrupted. "Jean, before you finish packing
that suit case be sure to put my bath robe in it. It's in the far
room."
Then one question was settled for Hatch. After a moment the valet
returned with the bath robe, which had been in the far room. It was
Cabell's bath robe. As Jean passed the 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 preoccupied, 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 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 are 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 not have come at this time of
night."
With a wave of his hand Cabell passed that detail. "I was anxious to
get away at midnight," he explained, "but, of course, now I shan't go,
in view of your note. I have ordered my valet to unpack my things, at
least until to-morrow."
The reporter and the scientist passed into the luxuriously furnished
apartments. Jean, the valet, was bending over a suit case as they
entered, removing some things he had been carefully placing there. He
didn't look back or pay the least attention to the visitors.
"This is your valet?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"Yes," said the young man.
"French, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"Speak English at all?"
"Very badly," said Cabell. "I use French when I talk to him."
"Does he know that you are accused of murder?" asked The Thinking
Machine, in a quiet, conversational tone.
The effect of the remark on Cabell was startling. He staggered back a
step or so as if he had been struck in the face, and a crimson flush
overspread his brow. Jean, the valet, straightened up suddenly and
looked around. There was a queer expression, too, in his eyes; an
expression which Hatch could not fathom.
"Murder?" gasped Cabell, at last.
"Yes, he speaks English all right," remarked The Thinking Machine.