The problem of Cell 13
"Oh, all right, I guess," said Doane, and there came new wrinkles of
perplexity in his brow. "Allow me, Mr.--Mr.--really I have forgotten
your name----"
"Manning," laughed the other.
"Mr. Hatch, Mr. Manning."
The reporter shook hands with Manning eagerly; he saw now a new line
of possibilities suddenly revealed. Here was a man who knew Doane as
Harry--and then Pittsburg, too.
"Last time I saw you was in Pittsburg, wasn't it?" Manning rattled on,
as he led the way into a nearby cafe. "By George, that was a stiff
game that night! Remember that jack full I held? It cost me nineteen
hundred dollars," he added, ruefully.
"Yes, I remember," said Doane, but Hatch knew that he did not. And
meanwhile a thousand questions were surging through the reporter's
brain.
"Poker hands as expensive as that are liable to be long remembered,"
remarked Hatch, casually. "How long ago was that?"
"Three years, wasn't it, Harry?" asked Manning.
"All of that, I should say," was the reply.
"Twenty hours at the table," said Manning, and again he laughed
cheerfully. "I was woozy when we finished."
Inside the café they sought out a table in a corner. No one else was
near. When the waiter had gone, Hatch leaned over and looked Doane
straight in the eyes.
"Shall I ask some questions?" he inquired.
"Yes, yes," said the other eagerly.
"What--what is it?" asked Manning.
"It's a remarkably strange chain of circumstances," said Hatch, in
explanation. "This man whom you call Harry, we know as John Doane.
What is his real name? Harry what?"
Manning stared at the reporter for a moment in amazement, then
gradually a smile came to his lips.
"What are you trying to do?" he asked. "Is this a joke?"
"No, my God, man, can't you see?" exclaimed Doane, fiercely. "I'm ill,
sick, something. I've lost my memory, all of my past. I don't remember
anything about myself. What is my name?"
"Well, by George!" exclaimed Manning. "By George I don't believe I
know your full name. Harry--Harry--what?"
He drew from his pocket several letters and half a dozen scraps of
paper and ran over them. Then he looked carefully through a worn
notebook.
"I don't know," he confessed. "I had your name and address in an old
notebook, but I suppose I burned it. I remember, though, I met you in
the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg three years ago. I called you Harry
because everyone was calling everyone else by his first name. Your
last name made no impression on me at all. By George!" he concluded,
in a new burst of amazement.
"What were the circumstances, exactly?" asked Hatch.
"I'm a traveling man," Manning explained. "I go everywhere. A friend
gave me a card to the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg and I went there.
There were five or six of us playing poker, among them Mr.--Mr. Doane
here. I sat at the same table with him for twenty hours or so, but I
can't recall his last name to save me. It isn't Doane, I'm positive. I
have an excellent memory for faces, and I know you're the man. Don't
you remember me?"
"I haven't the slightest recollection of ever having seen you before
in my life," was Doane's slow reply. "I have no recollection of ever
having been in Pittsburg--no recollection of anything."
"Do you know if Mr. Doane is a resident of Pittsburg?" Hatch inquired.
"Or was he there as a visitor, as you were?"
"Couldn't tell you to save my life," replied Manning. "Lord, it's
amazing, isn't it? You don't remember me? You called me Bill all
evening."
The other man shook his head.
"Well, say, is there anything I can do for you?"
"Nothing, thanks," said Doane. "Only tell me my name, and who I am."
"Lord, I don't know."
"What sort of a club is the Lincoln?" asked Hatch.
"It's a sort of a millionaire's club," Manning explained. "Lots of
iron men belong to it. I had considerable business with them--that's
what took me to Pittsburg."
"And you are absolutely positive this is the man you met there?"
"Why, I _know_ it. I never forget faces; it's my business to remember
them."
"Did he say anything about a family?"
"Not that I recall. A man doesn't usually speak of his family at a
poker table."
"Do you remember the exact date or the month?"
"I think it was in January or February possibly," was the reply. "It
was bitterly cold and the snow was all smoked up. Yes, I'm positive it
was in January, three years ago."
After awhile the men separated. Manning was stopping at the Hotel
Teutonic and willingly gave his name and permanent address to Hatch,
explaining at the same time that he would be in the city for several
days and was perfectly willing to help in any way he could. He took
also the address of The Thinking Machine.
From the café Hatch and Doane returned to the scientist. They found
him with two telegrams spread out on a table before him. Briefly Hatch
told the story of the meeting with Manning, while Doane sank down with
his head in his hands. The Thinking Machine listened without comment.
"Here," he said, at the conclusion of the recital, and he offered one
of the telegrams to Hatch. "I got the name of a shoemaker from Mr.
Doane's shoe and wired to him in Denver, asking if he had a record of
the sale. This is the answer. Read it aloud."
Hatch did so.
"Shoes such as described made nine weeks ago for Preston Bell, cashier
Blank National Bank of Butte. Don't know John Doane."
"Well--what----" Doane began, bewildered.
"_It means that you are Preston Bell_," said Hatch, emphatically.
"No," said The Thinking Machine, quickly. "It means that there is only
a strong probability of it."
* * * * * *
The door bell rang. After a moment Martha appeared.
"A lady to see you, sir," she said.
"Her name?"
"Mrs. John Doane."
"Gentlemen, kindly step into the next room," requested The Thinking
Machine.
Together Hatch and Doane passed through the door. There was an
expression of--of--no man may say what--on Doane's face as he went.
"Show her in here, Martha," instructed the scientist.
There was a rustle of silk in the hall, the curtains on the door were
pulled apart quickly and a richly gowned woman rushed into the room.
"My husband? Is he here?" she demanded, breathlessly. "I went to the
hotel; they said he came here for treatment. Please, please, is he
here?"
"A moment, madam," said The Thinking Machine. He stepped to the door
through which Hatch and Doane had gone, and said something. One of
them appeared in the door. It was Hutchinson Hatch.
"John, John, my darling husband," and the woman flung her arms about
Hatch's neck. "Don't you know me?"
With blushing face Hatch looked over her shoulder into the eyes of The
Thinking Machine, who stood briskly rubbing his hands. Never before in
his long acquaintance with the scientist had Hatch seen him smile.
V.
For a time there was silence, broken only by sobs, as the woman clung
frantically to Hatch, with her face buried on his shoulder. Then:
"Don't you remember me?" she asked again and again. "Your wife? Don't
you remember me?"
Hatch could still see the trace of a smile on the scientist's face,
and said nothing.
"You are positive this gentleman is your husband?" inquired The
Thinking Machine, finally.
"Oh, I know," the woman sobbed. "Oh, John, don't you remember me?" She
drew away a little and looked deeply into the reporter's eyes. "Don't
you remember me, John?"
"Can't say that I ever saw you before," said Hatch, truthfully enough.
"I--I--fact is----"
"Mr. Doane's memory is wholly gone now," explained The Thinking
Machine. "Meanwhile, perhaps you would tell me something about him. He
is my patient. I am particularly interested."
The voice was soothing; it had lost for the moment its perpetual
irritation. The woman sat down beside Hatch. Her face, pretty enough
in a bold sort of way, was turned to The Thinking Machine inquiringly.
With one hand she stroked that of the reporter.
"Where are you from?" began the scientist. "I mean where is the home
of John Doane?"
"In Buffalo," she replied, glibly. "Didn't he even remember that?"
"And what's his business?"
"His health has been bad for some time and recently he gave up active
business," said the woman. "Previously he was connected with a bank."
"When did you see him last?"
"Six weeks ago. He left the house one day and I have never heard from
him since. I had Pinkerton men searching and at last they reported he
was at the Yarmouth Hotel. I came on immediately. And now we shall go
back to Buffalo." She turned to Hatch with a languishing glance.
"Shall we not, dear?"
"Whatever Professor Van Dusen thinks best," was the equivocal reply.
Slowly the glimmer of amusement was passing out of the squint eyes of
The Thinking Machine; as Hatch looked he saw a hardening of the lines
of the mouth. There was an explosion coming. He knew it. Yet when the
scientist spoke his voice was more velvety than ever.
"Mrs. Doane, do you happen to be acquainted with a drug which produces
temporary loss of memory?"
She stared at him, but did not lose her self-possession.
"No," she said finally. "Why?"
"You know, of course, that this man is _not_ your husband?"
This time the question had its effect. The woman arose suddenly,
stared at the two men, and her face went white.
"Not?--not?--what do you mean?"
"I mean," and the voice reassumed its tone of irritation, "I mean that
I shall send for the police and give you in their charge unless you
tell me the truth about this affair. Is that perfectly clear to you?"
The woman's lips were pressed tightly together. She saw that she had
fallen into some sort of a trap; her gloved hands were clenched
fiercely; the pallor faded and a flush of anger came.
"Further, for fear you don't quite follow me even now," explained The
Thinking Machine, "I will say that I know all about this copper deal
of which this so-called John Doane was the victim. _I know his
condition now_. If you tell the truth you may escape prison--if
you don't, there is a long term, not only for you, but for your
fellow-conspirators. Now will you talk?"
"No," said the woman. She arose as if to go out.
"Never mind that," said The Thinking Machine. "You had better stay
where you are. You will be locked up at the proper moment. Mr. Hatch,
please 'phone for Detective Mallory."
Hatch arose and passed into the adjoining room. "You tricked me," the
woman screamed suddenly, fiercely.
"Yes," the other agreed, complacently. "Next time be sure you know
your own husband. Meanwhile where is Harrison?"
"Not another word," was the quick reply.
"Very well," said the scientist, calmly. "Detective Mallory will be
here in a few minutes. Meanwhile I'll lock this door."
"You have no right----" the woman began.
Without heeding the remark, The Thinking Machine passed into the
adjoining room. There for half an hour he talked earnestly to Hatch
and Doane. At the end of that time he sent a telegram to the manager
of the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg, as follows:
"Does your visitors' book show any man, registered there in the month
of January three years ago, whose first name is Harry or Henry? If so,
please wire name and description, also name of man whose guest he
was."
This telegram was dispatched. A few minutes later the door bell rang
and Detective Mallory entered.
"What is it?" he inquired.
"A prisoner for you in the next room," was the reply. "A woman. I
charge her with conspiracy to defraud a man who for the present we
will call John Doane. That may or may not be his name."
"What do you know about it?" asked the detective.
"A great deal now--more after awhile. I shall tell you then. Meanwhile
take this woman. You gentlemen, I should suggest, might go out