The problem of Cell 13
It was ten minutes to ten o'clock when Hatch left the building. Now he
would see Miss Stanford and have her identify the gloves and the veil.
He boarded a car and drew out and closely examined the gloves and
veil. The gloves were tan, rather heavy, but small, and the veil was
of some light, cobwebby material which he didn't know by name.
"If these are Grace Field's," the reporter argued, to himself, "it
means something. If they are not, I'm simply a burglar."
There was a light in the Dorchester house where Miss Stanford lived,
and the reporter rang the bell. A servant appeared.
"Would it be possible for me to see Miss Stanford for just a moment?"
he asked.
"If she has not gone to bed."
He was ushered into the little parlor again. The servant disappeared,
and after a moment Miss Stanford came in.
"I hated to trouble you so late," said the reporter, and she smiled at
him frankly, "but I would like to ask if you have ever seen these?"
He laid in her hands the gloves and the veil. Miss Stanford studied
them carefully and her hands trembled.
"The gloves, I know, are Grace's--the veil I am not so positive
about," she replied.
Hatch felt a great wave of exultation sweep over him, and it stopped
his tongue for an instant.
"Did you--did you find them in Mr. Willis's possession?" asked the
girl.
"I am not at liberty to tell just where I found them," Hatch replied.
"If they are Miss Field's--and you can swear to that, I suppose--it
may mean that we have a clew."
"Oh, I was afraid it would be this way," gasped the girl, and she sank
down weeping on a couch.
"Knew what would be which way?" asked Hatch, puzzled.
"I knew it! I knew it!" she sobbed. "Is there anything to connect Mr.
Willis directly with the--_the murder?_"
The reporter started to say something, then paused. He wasn't quite
sure of himself. He had uncovered something, he didn't know what yet.
"It would be better, Miss Stanford," he explained, gently, "if you
would tell me all you know about this affair. The things which are now
in my possession are fragmentary--if you could give me any new detail
it would be only serving the ends of justice."
For a little while the girl was silent, then she arose and faced him.
"Is Mr. Willis yet under arrest?" she asked, calmly now.
"Not yet," said the reporter.
"Then I will say nothing else," she declared, and her lips closed in a
straight line.
"What was the motive for murder?" Hatch insisted.
"I will say nothing else," she replied, firmly. "And what makes you
positive there was murder?"
"Good-night. You need not come again, for I will not see you."
Miss Stanford turned and left the room. Hatch, sadly puzzled,
bewildered, stood staring after her a moment, then went out, his brain
alive with possibilities, with intangible ends which would not be
connected. He was eager to lay the new facts before The Thinking
Machine.
From Dorchester the reporter took a car for his home. In his room,
with the tangible threads of the mystery spread out on a table, he
thought and surmised far into the night, and when he finally replaced
them all in his pocket and turned down the light it was with a
hopeless shake of his head.
On the following morning when Hatch arose he picked up a paper and
went to breakfast. He spread the paper before him and there--the first
thing he saw--was a huge headline, stating that a burglar had entered
the room of Constans St. George and had tried to kill Mr. St. George.
A shot had been fired at him and had passed through his left arm.
Mr. St. George had been asleep when the door of his apartments was
burst in by the thief. The artist arose at the noise, and as he
stepped into the reception-room had been shot. The wound was trivial.
The burglar escaped; there was no clew.
IV.
It was a long story of seemingly hopeless complications that Hatch
told The Thinking Machine that morning. Nothing connected with
anything, and yet here was a series of happenings, all apparently
growing out of the disappearance of Miss Field, and which must have
some relation one to the other. At the conclusion of the story, Hatch
passed over the newspaper containing the account of the burglary in
the studio. The artist had been removed to a hospital.
The Thinking Machine read the newspaper account and turned to the
reporter with a question:
"Did you see Willis's handwriting?"
"Not yet," replied the reporter.
"See it at once," instructed the other. "If possible, bring me a
sample of it. Did you see St. George's handwriting?"
"No," the reporter confessed.
"See that and bring me a sample if you can. Find out first if Willis
has a revolver now or has ever had. If so, see it and see if it is
loaded or empty--its exact condition. Find out also if St. George has
a revolver--and if he has one, get possession of it if it is in your
power."
The scientist twisted the two gloves and the veil which Hatch had
given to him in his fingers idly, then passed them to the reporter
again.
Hatch arose and stood waiting, hat in hand.
"Also find out," The Thinking Machine went on, "the exact condition of
St. George--his mental condition particularly. Find out if Willis is
at his office in the bank to-day, and, if possible, where and how he
spent last night. That's all."
"And Miss Stanford?" asked Hatch.
"Never mind her," replied The Thinking Machine. "I may see her myself.
These other things are of immediate consequence. The minute you
satisfy yourself come back to me. Quickness on your part may prevent a
tragedy."
The reporter went away hurriedly. At four o'clock that afternoon
he returned. The Thinking Machine greeted him; he held a piece of
letter-paper in his hand.
"Well?" he asked.
"The handwriting is Willis's," said Hatch, without hesitation. "I saw
a sample--it is identical, and the paper on which he writes is
identical."
The scientist grunted.
"I also saw some of St. George's writing," the reporter went on, as if
he were reciting a lesson. "It is wholly dissimilar."
The Thinking Machine nodded.
"Willis has no revolver that anyone ever heard of," Hatch continued.
"He was at dinner with several of his fellow employees last night, and
left the restaurant at eight o'clock."
"Been drinking?"
"Might have had a few drinks," responded the reporter. "He is not a
drinking man."
"Has St. George a revolver?"
"I was unable to find that out or do anything except get a sample of
his writing from another artist," the reporter explained. "He is in a
hospital, raving crazy. It seems to be a return of the trouble he had
once before, except it is worse. The wound itself is not bad."
The scientist was studying the sheet of paper. "Have you that scrap?"
he asked.
Hatch produced it, and the scientist placed it on the sheet; Hatch
could only conjecture that he was fitting it to something else already
there. He was engaged in this work when Martha entered.
"The young lady who was here earlier to-day wants to see you again,"
she announced.
"Show her in," directed The Thinking Machine, without raising his
eyes.
Martha disappeared, and after a moment Miss Stanford entered. Hatch,
himself unnoticed, stared at her curiously, and arose, as did the
scientist. The girl's face was flushed a little, and there was an
eager expression in her eyes.
"I know he didn't do it," she began. "I've just gotten a letter
from Springfield stating that he was there on the day Grace went
away--and----"
"Know who didn't do what?" asked the scientist.
"That Mr. Willis didn't kill Grace," replied the girl, her enthusiasm
suddenly checked. "See here."
The scientist read a letter which she offered, and the girl sank into
a chair. Then for the first time she saw Hatch and her eyes expressed
her surprise. She stared at him a moment, then nodded a greeting,
after which she fell to watching The Thinking Machine.
"Miss Stanford," he said, at length, "you made several mistakes when
you were here before in not telling me the truth--all of it. If you
will tell me all you know of this case I may be able to see it more
clearly."
The girl reddened and stammered a little, then her lips trembled.
"Do you know--not conjecture, but know--whether or not Miss Field, or
Grace, as you call her, was engaged to Willis?" the irritated voice
asked.
"I--I know it, yes," she stammered.
"And you were in love with Mr. Willis--you _are_ in love with him?"
Again the tell-tale blush swept over her face. She glanced at Hatch;
it was the nervousness of a girl who is driven to a confession of
love.
"I regard Mr. Willis very highly," she said, finally, her voice low.
"Well," and the scientist arose and crossed to where the girl sat,
"don't you see that a very grave charge might be brought home to you
if you don't tell all of this? The girl has disappeared. There might
be even a hint of murder in which your name would be mentioned. Don't
you see?"
There was a long pause, and the girl stared steadily into the squint
eyes above her. Finally her eyes fell.
"I think I understand. Just what is it you want me to answer?"
"Did or did you not ever hear Mr. Willis threaten Miss Field?"
"I did once, yes."
"Did or did you not know that Miss Field was the original of the
painting?"
"I did not."
"It is a semi-nude picture, isn't it?"
Again there was a flush in the girl's face.
"I have heard it was," she said. "I have never seen it. I suggested to
Grace several times that we go to see it, but she never would. I
understand why now."
"Did Willis know she was the original of that painting? That is,
knowing it yourself now, do you have any reason to suppose that he
previously knew?"
"I don't know," she said, frankly. "I know that there was something
which was always causing friction between them--something they
quarreled about. It might have been that. That was when I heard Mr.
Willis threaten her--it was something about shooting her if she ever
did something--I don't know what."
"Miss Field knew him before you did, I think you said?"
"She introduced me to him."
The Thinking Machine fingered the sheet of paper he held.
"Did you know what those scraps of paper you brought me contained?"
"Yes, in a way," said the girl.
"Why did you bring them, then?"
"Because you told me you knew I had them, and I was afraid it might
make more trouble for me and for Mr. Willis if I did not."
The Thinking Machine passed the sheet to Hatch.
"This will interest you, Mr. Hatch," he explained. "Those words and
letters in parentheses are what I have supplied to complete the full
text of the note, of which you had a mere scrap. You will notice how
the scrap you had fitted into it."
The reporter read this:
"If you go to th(at stud)io Wednesday to see that artist, (I will
k)ill you bec(ause I w)on't have it known to the world tha(t you a)re
a model. I hope you will heed this warning.
"V. W."
The reporter stared at the patched-up letter, pasted together with
infinite care, and then glanced at The Thinking Machine, who settled
himself again comfortably in the chair.
"And now, Miss Stanford," asked the scientist, in a most
matter-of-fact tone, "where is the body of Miss Field?"
V.
The blunt question aroused the girl, and she arose suddenly, staring
at The Thinking Machine. He did not move. She stood as if transfixed,
and Hatch saw her bosom rise and fall rapidly with the emotion she was
seeking to repress.
"Well?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"I don't know," flamed Miss Stanford, suddenly, almost fiercely. "I
don't even know she is dead. I know that Mr. Willis did not kill her,
because, as that letter I gave you shows, he was in Springfield. I
won't be tricked into saying anything further."