The problem of Cell 13
looked it was with difficulty he restrained an exclamation of
astonishment--triumphant astonishment. Finally, with his brain teeming
with possibilities, he left the house, taking the photograph and the
scrap of paper. Ten minutes later he was talking to his City Editor
over the 'phone.
"It's a great story," he explained, briefly. "The missing girl is the
mysterious model of St. George's picture, 'Fulfillment.'"
"Great," came the voice of the City Editor.
II.
Having laid his story before his City Editor, Hatch sat down to
consider the fragmentary writing. Obviously "sday" represented a day
of the week--either Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, these being the
only days where the letter "s" preceded the "day." This seemed to be a
definite fact, but still it meant nothing. True, Miss Field had last
been seen on Wednesday, but then?--nothing.
To the next part of the fragment Hatch attached the greatest
importance. It was the possibility of a threat,----"ill you." Did it
mean "kill you" or "will you" or "till you" or--or what? There might
be dozens of other words ending in "ill" which he did not recall at
the moment. His imagination hammered the phrase into his brain as
"kill you." The "to the"--the next words--were clear, but meant
nothing at all. The last letters were distinctly "ho," possibly
"hope."
Then Hatch began real work on the story. First he saw the bank clerk,
Victor Willis, who Miss Stanford had said loved Grace Field, and
whom Hatch suspected Miss Stanford loved. He found Willis a grim,
sullen-faced young man of twenty-eight years, who would say nothing.
From that point Hatch worked vigorously for several hours. At the end
of that time he had found out that on Wednesday, the day of Miss
Field's disappearance, a veiled woman--probably Grace Field--had
called at the bank and inquired for Willis. Later, Willis, urging
necessity, had asked to be allowed the day off and left the bank. He
did not appear again until next morning. His actions did not impress
any of his associates with the idea that he was a bridegroom; in fact,
Hatch himself had given up the idea that Miss Field had eloped. There
seemed no reason for an elopement.
When Hatch called at the studio, and home, of Constans St. George, to
inform him of the disappearance of the model whose identity had been
so long guarded, he was told that Mr. St. George was not in; that is,
St. George refused to answer knocks at the door, and had not been seen
for a day or so. He frequently disappeared this way, his informant
said.
With these facts--and lack of facts--in his possession on Friday
evening, Hatch called on Professor S. F. X. Van Dusen. The Thinking
Machine received him as cordially as he ever received anybody.
"Well, what is it?" he asked.
"I don't believe this is really worth your while, Professor," Hatch
said, finally. "It's just a case of a girl who disappeared. There are
some things about it which are puzzling, but I'm afraid it's only an
elopement."
The Thinking Machine dragged up a footstool, planted his small feet on
it comfortably and leaned back in his chair.
"Go on," he directed.
Then Hatch told the story, beginning at the time when the picture was
placed in the art museum, and continuing up to the point where he had
seen Willis after finding the photograph and the scrap of paper. He
had always found that it saved time to begin at the beginning with The
Thinking Machine; he did it now as a matter of course.
"And the scrap of paper?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"I have it here," replied the reporter.
For several minutes the scientist examined the fragment and then
handed it back to the reporter.
"If one could establish some clear connection between that and the
disappearance of the girl it might be valuable," he said. "As it is
now, it means nothing. Any number of letters might be thrown into the
waste-basket in the room the two girls occupied, therefore dismiss
this for the moment."
"But isn't it possible----" Hatch began.
"Anything is possible, Mr. Hatch," retorted the other, belligerently.
"You might take occasion to see the handwriting of St. George, the
artist, and see if that is his--also look at Willis's. Even if it were
Willis's, however, it may mean nothing in connection with this."
"But what could have happened to Miss Field?"
"Any one of fifty things," responded the other. "She might have fallen
dead in the street and been removed to a hospital or undertaking
establishment; she might have been arrested for shoplifting and given
a wrong name; she might have gone mad and gone away; she might have
eloped with another man; she might have committed suicide; she might
have been murdered. The question is not what _could_ have happened,
but what _did_ happen."
"Yes, I thoroughly understand that," Hatch replied, with a slight
smile. "But still I don't see----"
"Probably you don't," snapped the other. "We'll take it for granted
that she did none of these things, with the possible exception of
eloping, killing herself, or was murdered. You are convinced that
she did not elope. Yet you have only run down one possible end of
this--that is, the possibility of her elopement with Willis. You don't
believe she did elope with him. Well, why not with St. George?"
"St. George?" gasped Hatch. "A great artist elope with a shop-girl?"
"She was his ideal in a picture which you say is one of the greatest
in the world," replied the other, testily. "That being true, it is
perfectly possible that she was his ideal for a wife, isn't it?"
The matter had not occurred to Hatch in just that light. He nodded his
head, with a feeling of having been weighed and found wanting.
"Now, you say, too, that St. George has not been seen around his
studio for a couple of days," said the scientist. "What is more
possible than that they are together somewhere?"
"I see," said the reporter.
"It was understood, too, as I understand it, that St. George was in
love with her," went on The Thinking Machine. "So, I should imagine a
solution of the mystery might be reached by taking St. George as the
center of the affair. Suicide may be passed by for the moment, because
she had no known motive for suicide--rather, if she loved Willis,
she had every reason to live. Murder, too, may be passed for the
moment--although there is a possibility that we might come back to
that. Question St. George. He will listen if you make him, and then he
must answer."
"But his place is all closed up," said Hatch. "It is supposed he is
half crazy."
"Possibly he might be," said The Thinking Machine. "Or it is possible
that he is keeping to his studio at work--or he might even be married
to Miss Field and she might be there with him."
"Well, I see no way to ascertain definitely that he is there," said
the reporter, and a puzzled wrinkle came into his face. "Of course I
might remain on watch night and day to see if he comes out for food,
or if anything to eat is sent in."
"That would take too long, and besides it might not happen at all,"
said The Thinking Machine. He arose and went into the adjoining room.
He returned after a moment, and glanced at the clock on the mantel.
"It is just nine o'clock now," he commented. "How long would it take
you to get to the studio?"
"Half an hour."
"Well, go there now," directed the scientist. "If Mr. St. George is in
his studio he will come out of it to-night at thirty-two minutes past
nine. He will be running, and may not wear either a hat or coat."
"What?" and Hatch grinned, a weak, puzzled grin.
"You wait where he can't see you when he comes out," the scientist
went on. "When he goes he may leave the door open. If he does go on
see if you find any trace of Miss Field, and then, on his return, meet
him at the outer door, ask him what you please, and come to see me
to-morrow morning. He will be out of his studio about twenty minutes."
Vaguely Hatch felt that the scientist was talking rot, but he had seen
this strange mind bring so many odd things to pass that he could not
doubt this, even if it were absurd on its face.
"At thirty-two minutes past nine to-night," said the reporter, and he
glanced at his watch.
"Come to see me to-morrow after you see the handwriting of Willis and
St. George," directed the scientist. "Then you may also tell me just
what happens to-night."
* * * * * *
Hatch was feeling like a fool. He was waiting in a darkened corner,
just a few feet from St. George's studio. It was precisely half-past
nine o'clock. He had been there for seven minutes. What strange power
was to bring St. George, who for two days had denied himself to
everyone, out of that studio, if, indeed, he were there?
For the twentieth time Hatch glanced at his watch, which he had set
with the little clock in The Thinking Machine's home. Slowly the
minute hand crept around, to 9:31, 9:31½, and he heard the door of the
studio rattle. Then suddenly it was thrown open and St. George
appeared.
Without a glance to right or left, hatless and coatless, he rushed out
of the building. Hatch got only a glimpse of his face; his lips were
pressed tightly together; there was a glint of madness in his eyes. He
jerked at the door once, then ran through the hall and disappeared
down the stairs leading to the street. The studio door stood open
behind him.
III.
When the clatter of the running footsteps had died away and Hatch
heard the outer door slam, he entered the studio, closing the door
behind him. It was close here, and there was a breath of Chinese
incense which was almost stifling. One quick glance by the light of an
incandescent told Hatch that he stood in the reception-room.
Typically, from floor to ceiling, the place was the abode of an
artist; there was a rich gradation of color and everywhere were scraps
of art and half-finished studies.
The reporter had given up the idea of solving the mystery of why St.
George had so suddenly left his apartments; now he devoted himself to
a quick, minute search of the place. He found nothing to interest him
in the reception-room, and went on into the studio where the artist
did his work.
Hatch glanced around quickly, his eyes taking in all the details, then
went to a little table which stood, half-covered with newspapers. He
turned these over, then bent forward suddenly and picked up--a woman's
glove. Beside it lay its mate. He stuffed them into his pocket.
Eagerly he sought now for anything that might come to hand. At last he
reached another door, leading into the bedroom. Here on a large table
was a chafing dish, many dishes which had not been washed, and all the
other evidences of a careless man who did a great deal of his own
cooking. There was a dresser here, too, a gorgeous, mahogany affair.
Hatch didn't stop to admire this because his eye was attracted by a
woman's veil which lay on it. He thrust it into his pocket.
"Quite a haul I'm making," he mused, grimly.
From this room a door, half open, led into a bathroom. Hatch merely
glanced in, then looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes had elapsed. He
must get out, and he started for the outer door. As he opened it
quietly and stepped into the hall he heard the street door open one
flight below, and started down the steps. There, half way, he met St.
George.
"Mr. St. George?" he asked.
"No," was the reply.
Hatch knew his man perfectly, because he had seen him half a dozen
times and had talked to him twice. The denial of identity therefore
was futile.
"I came to tell you that Grace Field, the model for your
'Fulfillment,' has disappeared," Hatch went on, as the other glared at
him.
"I don't care," snapped the other. He darted up the steps. Hatch
listened until he heard the door of the studio close.