The problem of Cell 13
There was no leading financier or banker out of the city so far as
they could learn hurriedly. It was not conclusive, but it aided me.
Also I received another telegram from Butte, signed Preston Bell,
telling me the circumstances of the supposed burning of the
hundred-dollar bills. It did not show that they were burned at all; it
was merely an assumption that they had been. They were last seen in
President Harrison's office."
"Harrison, Harrison, Harrison," repeated Doane.
"Vaguely I could see the possibility of something financially wrong in
the bank. Possibly Harrison, even Mr. Bell here, knew of it. Banks do
not apply for permission to reissue bills unless they are positive of
the original loss. Yet here were the bills. Obviously some sort of
jugglery. I wired to the police of Butte, asking some questions. The
answer was that Harrison had embezzled $175,000 and had disappeared.
Now I knew he had part of the missing, supposedly burned, bills with
him. It was obvious. Was Bell also a thief?
"The same telegram said that Mr. Bell's reputation was of the best,
and he was out of the city. That confirmed my belief that it was an
office rule to sign telegrams with the cashier's name, and further
made me positive that this man was Preston Bell. The chain of
circumstances was complete. It was two and two--inevitable result,
four.
"Now, what was the plot? Something to do with copper, and there was an
embezzlement. Then, still seeking a man who knew Bell personally, I
sent him out walking with Hatch. I had done so before. Suddenly
another figure came into the mystery--a confusing one at the moment.
This was a Mr. Manning, who knew Doane, or Bell, as Harry--something;
met him in Pittsburg three years ago, in the Lincoln Club.
"It was just after Mr. Hatch told me of this man that I received a
telegram from the shoemaker in Denver. It said that he had made a shoe
such as I described within a few months for Preston Bell. I had asked
if a sale had been made to a financier or banker; I got the name back
by wire.
"At this point a woman appeared to claim John Doane as her husband.
With no definite purpose, save general precaution, I asked Mr. Hatch
to see her first. She imagined he was Doane and embraced him, calling
him John. Therefore she was a fraud. She did not know John Doane, or
Preston Bell, by sight. Was she acting under the direction of some one
else? If so, whose?"
There was a pause as The Thinking Machine readjusted himself in the
chair. After a time he went on:
"There are shades of emotion, intuition, call it what you will, so
subtle that it is difficult to express them in words. As I had
instinctively associated Harrison with Bell's present condition I
instinctively associated this woman with Harrison. For not a word of
the affair had appeared in a newspaper; only a very few persons knew
of it. Was it possible that the stranger Manning was backing the woman
in an effort to get the $10,000? That remained to be seen. I
questioned the woman; she would say nothing. She is clever, but she
blundered badly in claiming Mr. Hatch for a husband."
The reporter blushed modestly.
"I asked her flatly about a drug. She was quite calm and her manner
indicated that she knew nothing of it. Yet I presume she did. Then I
sprung the bombshell, and she saw she had made a mistake. I gave her
over to Detective Mallory and she was locked up. This done, I wired to
the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg to find out about this mysterious
'Harry' who had come into the case. I was so confident then that I
also wired to Mrs. Bell in Butte, presuming that there was a Mrs.
Bell, asking about her husband.
"Then Manning came to see me. I knew he came because he had remembered
the name he knew you by," and The Thinking Machine turned to the
central figure in this strange entanglement of identity, "although he
seemed surprised when I told him as much. He knew you as Harry
Pillsbury. I asked him who the woman was. His manner told me that he
knew nothing whatever of her. Then it came back to her as an associate
of Harrison, your enemy for some reason, and I could see it in no
other light. It was her purpose to get hold of you and possibly keep
you a prisoner, at least until some gigantic deal in which copper
figured was disposed of. That was what I surmised.
"Then another telegram came from the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg. The
name of Harry Pillsbury appeared as a visitor in the book in January,
three years ago. It was you--Manning is not the sort of man to be
mistaken--and then there remained only one point to be solved as I
then saw the case. That was an answer from Mrs. Preston Bell, if there
was a Mrs. Bell. She would know where her husband was."
Again there was silence. A thousand things were running through Bell's
mind. The story had been told so pointedly, and was so vitally a part
of him, that semi-recollection was again on his face.
"That telegram said that Preston Bell was in Honolulu; that the wife
had received a cable dispatch that day. Then, frankly, I was puzzled;
so puzzled, in fact, that the entire fabric I had constructed seemed
to melt away before my eyes. It took me hours to readjust it. I tried
it all over in detail, and then the theory which would reconcile every
fact in the case was evolved. That theory is right--as right as that
two and two make four. It's logic."
It was half an hour later when a detective entered and spoke to
Detective Mallory aside.
"Fine!" said Mallory. "Bring 'em in."
Then there reappeared the woman who had been a prisoner and a man of
fifty years.
"Harrison!" exclaimed Bell, suddenly. He staggered to his feet with
outstretched hands. "Harrison! I know! I know!"
"Good, good, very good," said The Thinking Machine.
Bell's nervously twitching hands were reaching for Harrison's throat
when he was pushed aside by Detective Mallory. He stood pallid for a
moment, then sank down on the floor in a heap. He was senseless. The
Thinking Machine made a hurried examination.
"Good!" he remarked again. "When he recovers he will remember
everything except what has happened since he has been in Boston.
Meanwhile, Mr. Harrison, we know all about the little affair of the
drug, the battle for new copper workings in Honolulu, and your partner
there has been arrested. Your drug didn't do its work well enough.
Have you anything to add?"
The prisoner was silent.
"Did you search his rooms?" asked The Thinking Machine of the
detective who had made the double arrest.
"Yes, and found this."
It was a large roll of money. The Thinking Machine ran over it
lightly--$70,000--scanning the numbers of the bills. At last he held
forth half a dozen. They were among the twenty-seven reported to have
been burned in the bank fire in Butte.
Harrison and the woman were led away. Subsequently it developed that
he had been systematically robbing the bank of which he was president
for years; was responsible for the fire, at which time he had
evidently expected to make a great haul; and that the woman was not
his wife. Following his arrest this entire story came out; also the
facts of the gigantic copper deal, in which he had rid himself of
Bell, who was his partner, and had sent another man to Honolulu in
Bell's name to buy up options on some valuable copper property there.
This confederate in Honolulu had sent the cable dispatches to the wife
in Butte. She accepted them without question.
It was a day or so later that Hatch dropped in to see The Thinking
Machine and asked a few questions.
"How did Bell happen to have that $10,000?"
"It was given to him, probably, because it was safer to have him
rambling about the country, not knowing who he was, than to kill him."
"And how did he happen to be here?"
"That question may be answered at the trial."
"And how did it come that Bell was once known as Harry Pillsbury?"
"Bell is a director in United States Steel, I have since learned.
There was a secret meeting of this board in Pittsburg three years ago.
He went incog. to attend that meeting and was introduced at the
Lincoln Club as Harry Pillsbury."
"Oh!" exclaimed Hatch.
THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
I.
With a little laugh of sheer light-heartedness on her lips and a
twinkle in her blue eyes, Marguerite Melrose bound on a grotesque
automobile mask, and stuffed the last strand of her recalcitrant hair
beneath her veil. The pretty face was hidden from mouth to brow; and
her curls were ruthlessly imprisoned under a cap held in place by the
tightly tied veil.
"It's perfectly hideous, isn't it?" she demanded of her companions.
Jack Curtis laughed.
"Well," he remarked, quizzically, "it's just as well that we _know_
you are pretty."
"We could never discover it as you are now," added Charles Reid.
"Can't see enough of your face to tell whether you are white or
black."
The girl's red lips were pursed into a pout, which ungraciously hid
her white teeth, as she considered the matter seriously.
"I think I'll take it off," she said at last.
"Don't," Curtis warned her. "On a good road The Green Dragon only hits
the tall places."
"Tear your hair off," supplemented Reid. "When Jack lets her loose
it's just a pszzzzt!--and wherever you're going you're there."
"Not on a night as dark as this?" protested the girl, quickly.
"I've got lights like twin locomotives," Curtis assured her,
smilingly. "It's perfectly safe. Don't get nervous."
He tied on his own mask with its bleary goggles, while Reid did the
same. The Green Dragon, a low, gasoline car of racing build, stood
panting impatiently, awaiting them at a side door of the hotel. Curtis
assisted Miss Melrose into the front seat and climbed in beside her,
while Reid sat behind in the tonneau. There was a preparatory quiver,
the car jerked a little and then began to move.
The three persons in it were Marguerite Melrose, an actress who had
attracted attention in the West five years before by her great beauty
and had afterwards, by her art, achieved a distinct place; Jack
Curtis, a friend since childhood, when both lived in San Francisco and
attended the same school, and Charles Reid, his chum, son of a mine
owner at Denver.
The unexpected meeting of the three in Boston had been a source of
mutual pleasure. It had been two years since they had seen one another
in Denver, where Miss Melrose was playing. Now she was in Boston,
pursuing certain vocal studies before returning West for her next
season.
Reid was in Boston to lay siege to the heart of a young woman of
society, Miss Elizabeth Dow, whom he first met in San Francisco. She
was only nineteen years old, but despite this he had begun a siege and
his ardor had never cooled, even after Miss Dow returned East. In
Boston, he had heard, she looked with favor upon another man, Morgan
Mason, poor but of excellent family, and frantically Reid had rushed,
like Lochinvar out of the West, to find the rumor true.
Curtis was one who never had anything to do save seek excitement in a
new and novel way. He had come East with Reid. They had been together
constantly since their arrival in Boston. He was of a different type
from Reid in that his wealth was distinctly a burden, a thing which
left him with nothing to do, and opened illimitable possibilities of
dissipation. The pace he led was one which caused other young men to
pause and think.
Warm-hearted and perfectly at home with both Curtis and Reid, Miss
Melrose, the actress, frequently took occasion to scold them. It was
charming to be scolded by Miss Melrose, so much so in fact that it was
worth while sinning again. Since she had appeared on the horizon
Curtis had devoted a great deal of time to her; Reid had his own
difficulties trying to make Miss Dow change her mind.