The problem of Cell 13
"And where did he get the pen and ink to write with?" asked the guard.
The warden looked at the guard and the guard looked at the warden.
There was no apparent solution of that mystery. The warden studied the
writing carefully, then shook his head.
"Well, let's see what he was going to say to Dr. Ransome," he said at
length, still puzzled, and he unrolled the inner piece of linen.
"Well, if that--what--what do you think of that?" he asked, dazed.
The guard took the bit of linen and read this:
"_Epa cseot d'net niiy awe htto n'si sih. 'T'"_.
III.
The warden spent an hour wondering what sort of a cipher it was, and
half an hour wondering why his prisoner should attempt to communicate
with Dr. Ransome, who was the cause of him being there. After this the
warden devoted some thought to the question of where the prisoner got
writing materials, and what sort of writing materials he had. With the
idea of illuminating this point, he examined the linen again. It was a
torn part of a white shirt and had ragged edges.
Now it was possible to account for the linen, but what the prisoner
had used to write with was another matter. The warden knew it would
have been impossible for him to have either pen or pencil, and,
besides, neither pen nor pencil had been used in this writing. What,
then? The warden decided to personally investigate. The Thinking
Machine was his prisoner; he had orders to hold his prisoners; if this
one sought to escape by sending cipher messages to persons outside, he
would stop it, as he would have stopped it in the case of any other
prisoner.
The warden went back to Cell 13 and found The Thinking Machine on his
hands and knees on the floor, engaged in nothing more alarming than
catching rats. The prisoner heard the warden's step and turned to him
quickly.
"It's disgraceful," he snapped, "these rats. There are scores of
them."
"Other men have been able to stand them," said the warden. "Here is
another shirt for you--let me have the one you have on."
"Why?" demanded The Thinking Machine, quickly. His tone was hardly
natural, his manner suggested actual perturbation.
"You have attempted to communicate with Dr. Ransome," said the warden
severely. "As my prisoner, it is my duty to put a stop to it."
The Thinking Machine was silent for a moment.
"All right," he said, finally. "Do your duty."
The warden smiled grimly. The prisoner arose from the floor and
removed the white shirt, putting on instead a striped convict shirt
the warden had brought. The warden took the white shirt eagerly, and
then and there compared the pieces of linen on which was written the
cipher with certain torn places in the shirt. The Thinking Machine
looked on curiously.
"The guard brought _you_ those, then?" he asked.
"He certainly did," replied the warden triumphantly. "And that ends
your first attempt to escape."
The Thinking Machine watched the warden as he, by comparison,
established to his own satisfaction that only two pieces of linen had
been torn from the white shirt.
"What did you write this with?" demanded the warden.
"I should think it a part of your duty to find out," said The Thinking
Machine, irritably.
The warden started to say some harsh things, then restrained himself
and made a minute search of the cell and of the prisoner instead. He
found absolutely nothing; not even a match or toothpick which might
have been used for a pen. The same mystery surrounded the fluid with
which the cipher had been written. Although the warden left Cell 13
visibly annoyed, he took the torn shirt in triumph.
"Well, writing notes on a shirt won't get him out, that's certain," he
told himself with some complacency. He put the linen scraps into his
desk to await developments. "If that man escapes from that cell
I'll--hang it-I'll resign."
On the third day of his incarceration The Thinking Machine openly
attempted to bribe his way out. The jailer had brought his dinner and
was leaning against the barred door, waiting, when The Thinking
Machine began the conversation.
"The drainage pipes of the prison lead to the river, don't they?" he
asked.
"Yes," said the jailer.
"I suppose they are very small?"
"Too small to crawl through, if that's what you're thinking about,"
was the grinning response.
There was silence until The Thinking Machine finished his meal. Then:
"You know I'm not a criminal, don't you?"
"Yes."
"And that I've a perfect right to be freed if I demand it?"
"Yes."
"Well, I came here believing that I could make my escape," said the
prisoner, and his squint eyes studied the face of the jailer. "Would
you consider a financial reward for aiding me to escape?"
The jailer, who happened to be an honest man, looked at the slender,
weak figure of the prisoner, at the large head with its mass of yellow
hair, and was almost sorry.
"I guess prisons like these were not built for the likes of you to get
out of," he said, at last.
"But would you consider a proposition to help me get out?" the
prisoner insisted, almost beseechingly.
"No," said the jailer, shortly.
"Five hundred dollars," urged The Thinking Machine. "I am not a
criminal."
"No," said the jailer.
"A thousand?"
"No," again said the jailer, and he started away hurriedly to escape
further temptation. Then he turned back. "If you should give me ten
thousand dollars I couldn't get you out. You'd have to pass through
seven doors, and I only have the keys to two."
Then he told the warden all about it.
"Plan number two fails," said the warden, smiling grimly. "First a
cipher, then bribery."
When the jailer was on his way to Cell 13 at six o'clock, again
bearing food to The Thinking Machine, he paused, startled by the
unmistakable scrape, scrape of steel against steel. It stopped at the
sound of his steps, then craftily the jailer, who was beyond the
prisoner's range of vision, resumed his tramping, the sound being
apparently that of a man going away from Cell 13. As a matter of fact
he was in the same spot.
After a moment there came again the steady scrape, scrape, and the
jailer crept cautiously on tiptoes to the door and peered between the
bars. The Thinking Machine was standing on the iron bed working at the
bars of the little window. He was using a file, judging from the
backward and forward swing of his arms.
Cautiously the jailer crept back to the office, summoned the warden in
person, and they returned to Cell 13 on tiptoes. The steady scrape was
still audible. The warden listened to satisfy himself and then
suddenly appeared at the door.
"Well?" he demanded, and there was a smile on his face.
The Thinking Machine glanced back from his perch on the bed and leaped
suddenly to the floor, making frantic efforts to hide something. The
warden went in, with hand extended.
"Give it up," he said.
"No," said the prisoner, sharply.
"Come, give it up," urged the warden. "I don't want to have to search
you again."
"No," repeated the prisoner.
"What was it, a file?" asked the warden.
The Thinking Machine was silent and stood squinting at the warden with
something very nearly approaching disappointment on his face--nearly,
but not quite. The warden was almost sympathetic.
"Plan number three fails, eh?" he asked, good-naturedly. "Too bad,
isn't it?"
The prisoner didn't say.
"Search him," instructed the warden.
The jailer searched the prisoner carefully. At last, artfully
concealed in the waist band of the trousers, he found a piece of steel
about two inches long, with one side curved like a half moon.
"Ah," said the warden, as he received it from the jailer. "From your
shoe heel," and he smiled pleasantly.
The jailer continued his search and on the other side of the trousers
waist band found another piece of steel identical with the first. The
edges showed where they had been worn against the bars of the window.
"You couldn't saw a way through those bars with these," said the
warden.
"I could have," said The Thinking Machine firmly.
"In six months, perhaps," said the warden, good-naturedly.
The warden shook his head slowly as he gazed into the slightly flushed
face of his prisoner.
"Ready to give it up?" he asked.
"I haven't started yet," was the prompt reply.
Then came another exhaustive search of the cell. Carefully the two men
went over it, finally turning out the bed and searching that. Nothing.
The warden in person climbed upon the bed and examined the bars of the
window where the prisoner had been sawing. When he looked he was
amused.
"Just made it a little bright by hard rubbing," he said to the
prisoner, who stood looking on with a somewhat crestfallen air. The
warden grasped the iron bars in his strong hands and tried to shake
them. They were immovable, set firmly in the solid granite. He
examined each in turn and found them all satisfactory. Finally he
climbed down from the bed.
"Give it up, professor," he advised.
The Thinking Machine shook his head and the warden and jailer passed
on again. As they disappeared down the corridor The Thinking Machine
sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
"He's crazy to try to get out of that cell," commented the jailer.
"Of course he can't get out," said the warden. "But he's clever. I
would like to know what he wrote that cipher with."
* * * * * *
It was four o'clock next morning when an awful, heart-racking shriek
of terror resounded through the great prison. It came from a cell,
somewhere about the center, and its tone told a tale of horror, agony,
terrible fear. The warden heard and with three of his men rushed into
the long corridor leading to Cell 13.
IV.
As they ran there came again that awful cry. It died away in a sort of
wail. The white faces of prisoners appeared at cell doors upstairs and
down, staring out wonderingly, frightened.
"It's that fool in Cell 13," grumbled the warden.
He stopped and stared in as one of the jailers flashed a lantern.
"That fool in Cell 13" lay comfortably on his cot, flat on his back
with his mouth open, snoring. Even as they looked there came again the
piercing cry, from somewhere above. The warden's face blanched a
little as he started up the stairs. There on the top floor he found a
man in Cell 43, directly above Cell 13, but two floors higher,
cowering in a corner of his cell.
"What's the matter?" demanded the warden.
"Thank God you've come," exclaimed the prisoner, and he cast himself
against the bars of his cell.
"What is it?" demanded the warden again.
He threw open the door and went in. The prisoner dropped on his knees
and clasped the warden about the body. His face was white with terror,
his eyes were widely distended, and he was shuddering. His hands, icy
cold, clutched at the warden's.
"Take me out of this cell, please take me out," he pleaded.
"What's the matter with you, anyhow?" insisted the warden,
impatiently.
"I heard something--something," said the prisoner, and his eyes roved
nervously around the cell.
"What did you hear?"
"I--I can't tell you," stammered the prisoner. Then, in a sudden burst
of terror: "Take me out of this cell--put me anywhere--but take me out
of here."
The warden and the three jailers exchanged glances.
"Who is this fellow? What's he accused of?" asked the warden.
"Joseph Ballard," said one of the jailers. "He's accused of throwing
acid in a woman's face. She died from it."
"But they can't prove it," gasped the prisoner. "They can't prove it.
Please put me in some other cell."
He was still clinging to the warden, and that official threw his arms
off roughly. Then for a time he stood looking at the cowering wretch,
who seemed possessed of all the wild, unreasoning terror of a child.