The problem of Cell 13
somewhere this evening. If you drop by afterwards there may be an
answer to a few telegrams which will make this matter clear."
Protestingly the mysterious woman was led away by Detective Mallory;
and Doane and Hatch followed shortly after. The next act of The
Thinking Machine was to write a telegram addressed to Mrs. Preston
Bell, Butte, Montana. Here it is:
"Your husband suffering temporary mental trouble here. Can you come on
immediately? Answer."
When the messenger boy came for the telegram he found a man on the
stoop. The Thinking Machine received the telegram, and the man, who
gave to Martha the name of Manning, was announced.
"Manning, too," mused the scientist. "Show him in."
"I don't know if you know why I am here," explained Manning.
"Oh, yes," said the scientist. "You have remembered Doane's name. What
is it, please?"
Manning was too frankly surprised to answer and only stared at the
scientist.
"Yes, that's right," he said finally, and he smiled. "His name is
Pillsbury. I recall it now."
"And what made you recall it?"
"I noticed an advertisement in a magazine with the name in large
letters. It instantly came to me that that was Doane's real name."
"Thanks," remarked the scientist. "And the woman--who is she?"
"What woman?" asked Manning.
"Never mind, then. I am deeply obliged for your information. I don't
suppose you know anything else about it?"
"No," said Manning. He was a little bewildered, and after awhile went
away.
For an hour or more The Thinking Machine sat with finger tips pressed
together staring at the ceiling. His meditations were interrupted by
Martha.
"Another telegram, sir."
The Thinking Machine took it eagerly. It was from the manager of the
Lincoln Club in Pittsburg:
"Henry C. Carney, Harry Meltz, Henry Blake, Henry W. Tolman, Harry
Pillsbury, Henry Calvert and Henry Louis Smith all visitors to dub in
month you name. Which do you want to learn more about?"
It took more than an hour for The Thinking Machine to establish long
distance connection by 'phone with Pittsburg. When he had finished
talking he seemed satisfied.
"Now," he mused. "The answer from Mrs. Preston."
It was nearly midnight when that came. Hatch and Doane had returned
from a theater and were talking to the scientist when the telegram,
was brought in.
"Anything important?" asked Doane, anxiously.
"Yes," said the scientist, and he slipped a finger beneath the flap of
the envelope. "It's clear now. It was an engaging problem from first
to last, and now----"
He opened the telegram and glanced at it; then with bewilderment on
his face and mouth slightly open he sank down at the table and leaned
forward with his head on his arms. The message fluttered to the table
and Hatch read this:
"Man in Boston can't be my husband. He is now in Honolulu. I received
cablegram from him to-day.
"Mrs. Preston Bell."
VI.
It was thirty-six hours later that the three men met again. The
Thinking Machine had abruptly dismissed Hatch and Doane the last time.
The reporter knew that something wholly unexpected had happened. He
could only conjecture that this had to do with Preston Bell. When the
three met again it was in Detective Mallory's office at police
headquarters. The mysterious woman who had claimed Doane for her
husband was present, as were Mallory, Hatch, Doane and The Thinking
Machine.
"Has this woman given any name?" was the scientist's first question.
"Mary Jones," replied the detective, with a grin.
"And address?"
"No."
"Is her picture in the Rogues' Gallery?"
"No. I looked carefully."
"Anybody called to ask about her?"
"A man--yes. That is, he didn't ask about her--he merely asked some
general questions, which now we believe were to find out about her."
The Thinking Machine arose and walked over to the woman. She looked up
at him defiantly.
"There has been a mistake made, Mr. Mallory," said the scientist.
"It's my fault entirely. Let this woman go. I am sorry to have done
her so grave an injustice."
Instantly the woman was on her feet, her face radiant. A look of
disgust crept into Mallory's face.
"I can't let her go now without arraignment," the detective growled.
"It ain't regular."
"You must let her go, Mr. Mallory," commanded The Thinking Machine,
and over the woman's shoulder the detective saw an astonishing thing.
The Thinking Machine winked. It was a decided, long, pronounced wink.
"Oh, all right," he said, "but it ain't regular at that."
The woman passed out of the room hurriedly, her silken skirts rustling
loudly. She was free again. Immediately she disappeared The Thinking
Machine's entire manner changed.
"Put your best man to follow her," he directed rapidly. "Let him go to
her home and arrest the man who is with her as her husband. Then bring
them both back here, after searching their rooms for money."
"Why--what--what is all this?" demanded Mallory, amazed.
"The man who inquired for her, who is with her, is wanted for a
$175,000 embezzlement in Butte, Montana. Don't let your man lose sight
of her."
The detective left the room hurriedly. Ten minutes later he returned
to find The Thinking Machine leaning back in his chair with eyes
upturned. Hatch and Doane were waiting, both impatiently.
"Now, Mr. Mallory," said the scientist, "I shall try to make this
matter as clear to you as it is to me. By the time I finish I expect
your man will be back here with this woman and the embezzler. His name
is Harrison; I don't know hers. I can't believe she is Mrs. Harrison,
yet he has, I suppose, a wife. But here's the story. It is the
chaining together of fact after fact; a necessary logical sequence to
a series of incidents, which are, separately, deeply puzzling."
The detective lighted a cigar and the others disposed themselves
comfortably to listen.
"This gentleman came to me," began The Thinking Machine, "with a story
of loss of memory. He told me that he knew neither his name, home,
occupation, nor anything whatever about himself. At the moment it
struck me as a case for a mental expert; still I was interested. It
seemed to be a remarkable case of aphasia, and I so regarded it until
he told me that he had $10,000 in bills, that he had no watch, that
everything which might possibly be of value in establishing his
identity had been removed from his clothing. This included even the
names of the makers of his linen. That showed intent, deliberation.
"Then I knew it could _not_ be aphasia. That disease strikes a man
suddenly as he walks the street, as he sleeps, as he works, but never
gives any desire to remove traces of one's identity. On the contrary,
a man is still apparently sound mentally--he has merely forgotten
something--and usually his first desire is to find out who he is. This
gentleman had that desire, and in trying to find some clew he showed a
mind capable of grasping at every possible opportunity. Nearly every
question I asked had been anticipated. Thus I recognized that he must
be a more than usually astute man.
"But if not aphasia, what was it? What caused his condition? A drug? I
remembered that there was such a drug in India, not unlike hasheesh.
Therefore for the moment I assumed a drug. It gave me a working basis.
Then what did I have? A man of striking mentality who was the victim
of some sort of plot, who had been drugged until he lost himself, and
in that way disposed of. The handwriting might be the same, for
handwriting is rarely affected by a mental disorder; it is a physical
function.
"So far, so good. I examined his head for a possible accident.
Nothing. His hands were white and in no way calloused. Seeking to
reconcile the fact that he had been a man of strong mentality, with
all other things a financier or banker, occurred to me. The same
things might have indicated a lawyer, but the poise of this man, his
elaborate care in dress, all these things made me think him the
financier rather than the lawyer.
"Then I examined some money he had when he awoke. Fifteen or sixteen
of the hundred-dollar bills were new and in sequence. They were issued
by a national bank. To whom? The possibilities were that the bank
would have a record. I wired, asking about this, and also asked Mr.
Hatch to have his correspondents make inquiries in various cities for
a John Doane. It was not impossible that John Doane was his name. Now
I believe it will be safe for me to say that when he registered at the
hotel he was drugged, his own name slipped his mind, and he signed
John Doane--the first name that came to him. That is _not_ his name.
"While waiting an answer from the bank I tried to arouse his memory by
referring to things in the West. It appeared possible that he might
have brought the money from the West with him. Then, still with the
idea that he was a financier, I sent him to the financial district.
There was a result. The word 'copper' aroused him so that he fainted
after shouting, 'Sell copper, sell, sell, sell.'
"In a way my estimate of the man was confirmed. He was or had been in
a copper deal, selling copper in the market, or planning to do so. I
know nothing of the intricacies of the stock market. But there came
instantly to me the thought that a man who would faint away in such a
case must be vitally interested as well as ill. Thus I had a
financier, in a copper deal, drugged as result of a conspiracy. Do you
follow me, Mr. Mallory?"
"Sure," was the reply.
"At this point I received a telegram from the Butte bank telling me
that the hundred-dollar bills I asked about had been burned. This
telegram was signed 'Preston Bell, Cashier.' If that were true, the
bills this man had were counterfeit. There were no ifs about that. I
asked him if he knew Preston Bell. It was the only name of a person to
arouse him in any way. A man knows his own name better than anything
in the world. Therefore was it his? For a moment I presumed it was.
"Thus the case stood: Preston Bell, cashier of the Butte bank, had
been drugged, was the victim of a conspiracy, which was probably a
part of some great move in copper. But if this man were _Preston
Bell_, how came the signature there? Part of the office regulation? It
happens hundreds of times that a name is so used, particularly on
telegrams.
"Well, this man who was lost--Doane, or Preston Bell--went to sleep in
my apartments. At that time I believed it fully possible that he was a
counterfeiter, as the bills were supposedly burned, and sent Mr. Hatch
to consult an expert. I also wired for details of the fire loss in
Butte and names of persons who had any knowledge of the matter. This
done, I removed and examined this gentleman's shoes for the name of
the maker. I found it. The shoes were of fine quality, probably made
to order for him.
"Remember, at this time I believed this gentleman to be Preston Bell,
for reasons I have stated. I wired to the maker or retailer to know if
he had a record of a sale of the shoes, describing them in detail, to
any financier or banker. I also wired to the Denver police to know if
any financier or banker had been away from there for four or five
weeks. Then came the somewhat startling information, through Mr.
Hatch, that the hundred-dollar bills were genuine. That answer meant
that Preston Bell--as I had begun to think of him--was either a thief
or the victim of some sort of financial conspiracy."
During the silence which followed every eye was turned on the man who
was lost--Doane or Preston Bell. He sat staring straight ahead of him
with hands nervously clenched. On his face was written the sign of a
desperate mental struggle. He was still trying to recall the past.
"Then," The Thinking Machine resumed, "I heard from the Denver police.