The problem of Cell 13
glimmer even of excitement.
"Copper!!" he repeated.
"Does the word mean anything to you?" asked Hatch quickly.
"Copper--metal, you know."
"Copper, copper, copper," the other repeated. Then, as Hatch looked,
the queer expression faded; there came again utter hopelessness.
There are many men with powerful names who operate in the Street--some
of them in copper. Hatch led Doane straight to the office of one of
these men and there introduced him to a partner in the business.
"We want to talk about copper a little," Hatch explained, still eying
his companion.
"Do you want to buy or sell?" asked the broker.
"Sell," said Doane suddenly. "Sell, sell, sell copper. That's
it--copper."
He turned to Hatch, stared at him dully a moment, a deathly pallor
came over his face, then, with upraised hands, fell senseless.
III.
Still unconscious, the man of mystery was removed to the home of The
Thinking Machine and there stretched out on a sofa. The Thinking
Machine was bending over him, this time in his capacity of physician,
making an examination. Hatch stood by, looking on curiously.
"I never saw anything like it," Hatch remarked. "He just threw up his
hands and collapsed. He hasn't been conscious since."
"It may be that when he comes to he will have recovered his memory,
and in that event he will have absolutely no recollection whatever of
you and me," explained The Thinking Machine.
Doane moved a little at last, and under a stimulant the color began to
creep back into his pallid face.
"Just what was said, Mr. Hatch, before he collapsed?" asked the
scientist.
Hatch explained, repeating the conversation as he remembered it.
"And he said 'sell,'" mused The Thinking Machine. "In other words, he
thinks--or imagines he knows--that copper is to drop. I believe the
first remark he heard was that copper had gone to smash--down, I
presume that means?"
"Yes," the reporter replied.
Half an hour later John Doane sat up on the couch and looked about the
room.
"Ah, Professor," he remarked. "I fainted, didn't I?"
The Thinking Machine was disappointed because his patient had not
recovered memory with consciousness. The remark showed that he was
still in the same mental condition--the man who was lost.
"Sell copper, sell, sell, sell," repeated The Thinking Machine,
commandingly.
"Yes, yes, sell," was the reply.
The reflection of some great mental struggle was on Doane's face; he
was seeking to recall something which persistently eluded him.
"Copper, copper," the scientist repeated, and he exhibited a penny.
"Yes, copper," said Doane. "I know. A penny."
"Why did you say sell copper?"
"I don't know," was the weary reply. "It seemed to be an unconscious
act entirely. I don't know."
He clasped and unclasped his hands nervously and sat for a long time
dully staring at the floor. The fight for memory was a dramatic one.
"It seemed to me," Doane explained after awhile, "that the word copper
touched some responsive chord in my memory, then it was lost again.
Some time in the past, I think, I must have had something to do with
copper."
"Yes," said The Thinking Machine, and he rubbed his slender fingers
briskly. "Now you are coming around again."
His remarks were interrupted by the appearance of Martha at the door
with a telegram. The Thinking Machine opened it hastily. What he saw
perplexed him again.
"Dear me! Most extraordinary!" he exclaimed. "What is it?" asked
Hatch, curiously.
The scientist turned to Doane again.
"Do you happen to remember Preston Bell?" he demanded, emphasizing the
name explosively.
"Preston Bell?" the other repeated, and again the mental struggle was
apparent on his face. "Preston Bell!"
"Cashier of the Blank National Bank of Butte, Montana?" urged the
other, still in an emphatic tone. "Cashier Bell?"
He leaned forward eagerly and watched the face of his patient; Hatch
unconsciously did the same. Once there was almost realization, and
seeing it The Thinking Machine sought to bring back full memory.
"Bell, cashier, copper," he repeated, time after time.
The flash of realization which had been on Doane's face passed, and
there came infinite weariness--the weariness of one who is ill.
"I don't remember," he said at last. "I'm very tired."
"Stretch out there on the couch and go to sleep," advised The Thinking
Machine, and he arose to arrange a pillow. "Sleep will do you more
good than anything else right now. But before you lie down, let me
have, please, a few of those hundred-dollar bills you found."
Doane extended the roll of money, and then slept like a child. It was
uncanny to Hatch, who had been a deeply interested spectator.
The Thinking Machine ran over the bills and finally selected fifteen
of them--bills that were new and crisp. They were of an issue by the
Blank National Bank of Butte, Montana. The Thinking Machine stared at
the money closely, then handed it to Hatch.
"Does that look like counterfeit to you?" he asked.
"Counterfeit?" gasped Hatch. "Counterfeit?" he repeated. He took
the bills and examined them. "So far as I can see they seem to be
good," he went on, "though I have never had enough experience with
one-hundred-dollar bills to qualify as an expert."
"Do you know an expert?"
"Yes."
"See him immediately. Take fifteen bills and ask him to pass on them,
each and every one. Tell him you have reason--excellent reason--to
believe that they are counterfeit. When he gives his opinion come back
to me."
Hatch went away with the money in his pocket. Then The Thinking
Machine wrote another telegram, addressed to President Bell, cashier
of the Butte Bank. It was as follows:
"Please send me full details of the manner in which money previously
described was lost, with names of all persons who might have had any
knowledge of the matter. Highly important to your bank and to justice.
Will communicate in detail on receipt of your answer."
Then, while his visitor slept, The Thinking Machine quietly removed
his shoes and examined them. He found, almost worn away, the name of
the maker. This was subjected to close scrutiny under the magnifying
glass, after which The Thinking Machine arose with a perceptible
expression of relief on his face.
"Why didn't I think of that before?" he demanded of himself.
Then other telegrams went into the West. One was to a customs
shoemaker in Denver, Colorado:
"To what financier or banker have you sold within three months a pair
of shoes, Senate brand, calfskin blucher, number eight, D last? Do you
know John Doane?"
A second telegram went to the Chief of Police of Denver. It was:
"Please wire if any financier, banker or business man has been out of
your city for five weeks or more, presumably on business trip. Do you
know John Doane?"
Then The Thinking Machine sat down to wait. At last the door bell rang
and Hatch entered.
"Well?" demanded the scientist, impatiently.
"The expert declares those are not counterfeit," said Hatch.
Now The Thinking Machine was surprised. It was shown clearly by the
quick lifting of the eyebrows, by the sudden snap of his jaws, by a
quick forward movement of the yellow head.
"Well, well, well!" he exclaimed at last. Then again: "Well, well!"
"What is it?"
"See here," and The Thinking Machine took the hundred-dollar bills in
his own hands. "These bills, perfectly new and crisp, were issued by
the Blank National Bank of Butte, and the fact that they are in proper
sequence would indicate that they were issued to one individual at the
same time, probably recently. There can be no doubt of that. The
numbers run from 846380 to 846395, all series B.
"I see," said Hatch.
"Now read that," and the scientist extended to the reporter the
telegram Martha had brought in just before Hatch had gone away. Hatch
read this:
"Series B, hundred-dollar bills 846380 to 846395 issued by this
bank are not in existence. Were destroyed by fire, together with
twenty-seven others of the same series. Government has been asked to
grant permission to reissue these numbers.
"Preston Bell, Cashier."
The reporter looked up with a question in his eyes.
"It means," said The Thinking Machine, "that this man is either a
thief or the victim of some sort of financial jugglery."
"In that case is he what he pretends to be--a man who doesn't know
himself?" asked the reporter.
"That remains to be seen."
IV.
Event followed event with startling rapidity during the next few
hours. First came a message from the Chief of Police of Denver. No
capitalist or financier of consequence was out of Denver at the
moment, so far as his men could ascertain. Longer search might be
fruitful. He did not know John Doane. One John Doane in the directory
was a teamster.
Then from the Blank National Bank came another telegram signed
"Preston Bell, Cashier," reciting the circumstances of the
disappearance of the hundred-dollar bills. The Blank National Bank had
moved into a new structure; within a week there had been a fire which
destroyed it. Several packages of money, including one package of
hundred-dollar bills, among them those specified by The Thinking
Machine, had been burned. President Harrison of the bank immediately
made affidavit to the Government that these bills were left in his
office.
The Thinking Machine studied this telegram carefully and from time to
time glanced at it while Hatch made his report. This was as to the
work of the correspondents who had been seeking John Doane. They found
many men of the name and reported at length on each. One by one The
Thinking Machine heard the reports, then shook his head.
Finally he reverted again to the telegram, and after consideration
sent another--this time to the Chief of Police of Butte. In it he
asked these questions:
"Has there ever been any financial trouble in Blank National Bank? Was
there an embezzlement or shortage at any time? What is reputation of
President Harrison? What is reputation of Cashier Bell? Do you know
John Doane?"
In due course of events the answer came. It was brief and to the
point. It said:
"Harrison recently embezzled $175,000 and disappeared. Bell's
reputation excellent; now out of city. Don't know John Doane. If you
have any trace of Harrison, wire quick."
This answer came just after Doane awoke, apparently greatly refreshed,
but himself again--that is, himself in so far as he was still lost.
For an hour The Thinking Machine pounded him with questions--questions
of all sorts, serious, religious and at times seemingly silly. They
apparently aroused no trace of memory, save when the name Preston Bell
was mentioned; then there was the strange, puzzled expression on
Doane's face.
"Harrison--do you know him?" asked the scientist. "President of the
Blank National Bank of Butte?"
There was only an uncomprehending stare for an answer. After a long
time of this The Thinking Machine instructed Hatch and Doane to go for
a walk. He had still a faint hope that some one might recognize Doane
and speak to him. As they wandered aimlessly on two persons spoke to
him. One was a man who nodded and passed on.
"Who was that?" asked Hatch quickly. "Do you remember ever having seen
him before?"
"Oh, yes," was the reply. "He stops at my hotel. He knows me as
Doane."
It was just a few minutes before six o'clock when, walking slowly,
they passed a great office building. Coming toward them was a
well-dressed, active man of thirty-five years or so. As he approached
he removed a cigar from his lips.
"Hello, Harry!" he exclaimed, and reached for Doane's hand.
"Hello," said Doane, but there was no trace of recognition in his
voice.
"How's Pittsburg?" asked the stranger.