The problem of Cell 13
steel corridor. "This is where we keep condemned murderers. No one can
leave it without my permission; and no one in it can communicate with
the outside. I'll stake my reputation on that. It's only three doors
back of my office and I can readily hear any unusual noise."
"Will this cell do, gentlemen?" asked The Thinking Machine. There was
a touch of irony in his voice.
"Admirably," was the reply.
The heavy steel door was thrown open, there was a great scurrying and
scampering of tiny feet, and The Thinking Machine passed into the
gloom of the cell. Then the door was closed and double locked by the
warden.
"What is that noise in there?" asked Dr. Ransome, through the bars.
"Rats--dozens of them," replied The Thinking Machine, tersely.
The three men, with final goodnights, were turning away when The
Thinking Machine called:
"What time is it exactly, warden?"
"Eleven seventeen," replied the warden.
"Thanks. I will join you gentlemen in your office at half-past eight
o'clock one week from to-night," said The Thinking Machine.
"And if you do not?"
"There is no 'if' about it."
II.
Chisholm Prison was a great, spreading structure of granite, four
stories in all, which stood in the center of acres of open space. It
was surrounded by a wall of solid masonry eighteen feet high, and so
smoothly finished inside and out as to offer no foothold to a climber,
no matter how expert. Atop of this fence, as a further precaution, was
a five-foot fence of steel rods, each terminating in a keen point.
This fence in itself marked an absolute deadline between freedom and
imprisonment, for, even if a man escaped from his cell, it would seem
impossible for him to pass the wall.
The yard, which on all sides of the prison building was twenty-five
feet wide, that being the distance from the building to the wall, was
by day an exercise ground for those prisoners to whom was granted the
boon of occasional semi-liberty. But that was not for those in Cell
13. At all times of the day there were armed guards in the yard, four
of them, one patrolling each side of the prison building.
By night the yard was almost as brilliantly lighted as by day. On each
of the four sides was a great arc light which rose above the prison
wall and gave to the guards a clear sight. The lights, too, brightly
illuminated the spiked top of the wall. The wires which fed the arc
lights ran up the side of the prison building on insulators and from
the top story led out to the poles supporting the arc lights.
All these things were seen and comprehended by The Thinking Machine,
who was only enabled to see out his closely barred cell window by
standing on his bed. This was on the morning following his
incarceration. He gathered, too, that the river lay over there beyond
the wall somewhere, because he heard faintly the pulsation of a motor
boat and high up in the air saw a river bird. From that same direction
came the shouts of boys at play and the occasional crack of a batted
ball. He knew then that between the prison wall and the river was an
open space, a playground.
Chisholm Prison was regarded as absolutely safe. No man had ever
escaped from it. The Thinking Machine, from his perch on the bed,
seeing what he saw, could readily understand why. The walls of the
cell, though built he judged twenty years before, were perfectly
solid, and the window bars of new iron had not a shadow of rust on
them. The window itself, even with the bars out, would be a difficult
mode of egress because it was small.
Yet, seeing these things, The Thinking Machine was not discouraged.
Instead, he thoughtfully squinted at the great arc light--there was
bright sunlight now--and traced with his eyes the wire which led from
it to the building. That electric wire, he reasoned, must come down
the side of the building not a great distance from his cell. That
might be worth knowing.
Cell 13 was on the same floor with the offices of the prison--that is,
not in the basement, nor yet upstairs. There were only four steps up
to the office floor, therefore the level of the floor must be only
three or four feet above the ground. He couldn't see the ground
directly beneath his window, but he could see it further out toward
the wall. It would be an easy drop from the window. Well and good.
Then The Thinking Machine fell to remembering how he had come to the
cell. First, there was the outside guard's booth, a part of the wall.
There were two heavily barred gates there, both of steel. At this gate
was one man always on guard. He admitted persons to the prison after
much clanking of keys and locks, and let them out when ordered to do
so. The warden's office was in the prison building, and in order to
reach that official from the prison yard one had to pass a gate of
solid steel with only a peep-hole in it. Then coming from that inner
office to Cell 13, where he was now, one must pass a heavy wooden door
and two steel doors into the corridors of the prison; and always there
was the double-locked door of Cell 13 to reckon with.
There were then, The Thinking Machine recalled, seven doors to be
overcome before one could pass from Cell 13 into the outer world, a
free man. But against this was the fact that he was rarely
interrupted. A jailer appeared at his cell door at six in the morning
with a breakfast of prison fare; he would come again at noon, and
again at six in the afternoon. At nine o'clock at night would come the
inspection tour. That would be all.
"It's admirably arranged, this prison system," was the mental tribute
paid by The Thinking Machine. "I'll have to study it a little when I
get out. I had no idea there was such great care exercised in the
prisons."
There was nothing, positively nothing, in his cell, except his iron
bed, so firmly put together that no man could tear it to pieces save
with sledges or a file. He had neither of these. There was not even a
chair, or a small table, or a bit of tin or crockery. Nothing! The
jailer stood by when he ate, then took away the wooden spoon and bowl
which he had used.
One by one these things sank into the brain of The Thinking Machine.
When the last possibility had been considered he began an examination
of his cell. From the roof, down the walls on all sides, he examined
the stones and the cement between them. He stamped over the floor
carefully time after time, but it was cement, perfectly solid. After
the examination he sat on the edge of the iron bed and was lost in
thought for a long time. For Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen,
The Thinking Machine, had something to think about.
He was disturbed by a rat, which ran across his foot, then scampered
away into a dark corner of the cell, frightened at its own daring.
After awhile The Thinking Machine, squinting steadily into the
darkness of the corner where the rat had gone, was able to make out in
the gloom many little beady eyes 'staring at him. He counted six pair,
and there were perhaps others; he didn't see very well.
Then The Thinking Machine, from his seat on the bed, noticed for the
first time the bottom of his cell door. There was an opening there of
two inches between the steel bar and the floor. Still looking steadily
at this opening, The Thinking Machine backed suddenly into the corner
where he had seen the beady eyes. There was a great scampering of tiny
feet, several squeaks of frightened rodents, and then silence.
None of the rats had gone out the door, yet there were none in the
cell. Therefore there must be another way out of the cell, however
small. The Thinking Machine, on hands and knees, started a search for
this spot, feeling in the darkness with his long, slender fingers.
At last his search was rewarded. He came upon a small opening in the
floor, level with the cement. It was perfectly round and somewhat
larger than a silver dollar. This was the way the rats had gone. He
put his fingers deep into the opening; it seemed to be a disused
drainage pipe and was dry and dusty.
Having satisfied himself on this point, he sat on the bed again for an
hour, then made another inspection of his surroundings through the
small cell window. One of the outside guards stood directly opposite,
beside the wall, and happened to be looking at the window of Cell 13
when the head of The Thinking Machine appeared. But the scientist
didn't notice the guard.
Noon came and the jailer appeared with the prison dinner of
repulsively plain food. At home The Thinking Machine merely ate to
live; here he took what was offered without comment. Occasionally he
spoke to the jailer who stood outside the door watching him.
"Any improvements made here in the last few years?" he asked.
"Nothing particularly," replied the jailer. "New wall was built four
years ago."
"Anything done to the prison proper?"
"Painted the woodwork outside, and I believe about seven years ago a
new system of plumbing was put in."
"Ah!" said the prisoner. "How far is the river over there?"
"About three hundred feet. The boys have a baseball ground between the
wall and the river." The Thinking Machine had nothing further to say
just then, but when the jailer was ready to go he asked for some
water.
"I get very thirsty here," he explained. "Would it be possible for you
to leave a little water in a bowl for me?"
"I'll ask the warden," replied the jailer, and he went away.
Half an hour later he returned with water in a small earthen bowl.
"The warden says you may keep this bowl," he informed the prisoner.
"But you must show it to me when I ask for it. If it is broken, it
will be the last."
"Thank you," said The Thinking Machine. "I shan't break it."
The jailer went on about his duties. For just the fraction of a second
it seemed that The Thinking Machine wanted to ask a question, but he
didn't.
Two hours later this same jailer, in passing the door of Cell No. 13,
heard a noise inside and stopped. The Thinking Machine was down on his
hands and knees in a corner of the cell, and from that same corner
came several frightened squeaks. The jailer looked on interestedly.
"Ah, I've got you," he heard the prisoner say. "Got what?" he asked,
sharply.
"One of these rats," was the reply. "See?" And between the scientist's
long fingers the jailer saw a small gray rat struggling. The prisoner
brought it over to the light and looked at it closely. "It's a water
rat," he said.
"Ain't you got anything better to do than to catch rats?" asked the
jailer.
"It's disgraceful that they should be here at all," was the irritated
reply. "Take this one away and kill it. There are dozens more where it
came from."
The jailer took the wriggling, squirmy rodent and flung it down on the
floor violently. It gave one squeak and lay still. Later he reported
the incident to the warden, who only smiled.
Still later that afternoon the outside armed guard on Cell 13 side of
the prison looked up again at the window and saw the prisoner looking
out. He saw a hand raised to the barred window and then something
white fluttered to the ground, directly under the window of Cell 13.
It was a little roll of linen, evidently of white shirting material,
and tied around it was a five-dollar bill. The guard looked up at the
window again, but the face had disappeared.
With a grim smile he took the little linen roll and the five-dollar
bill to the warden's office. There together they deciphered something
which was written on it with a queer sort of ink, frequently blurred.
On the outside was this:
"Finder of this please deliver to Dr. Charles Ransome."
"Ah," said the warden, with a chuckle. "Plan of escape number one has
gone wrong." Then, as an afterthought: "But why did he address it to
Dr. Ransome?"