The problem of Cell 13
The outburst had no appreciable effect on The Thinking Machine beyond
causing him to raise his eyebrows slightly as he looked at the defiant
little figure.
"When did you last see Mr. Willis have a revolver?"
"I know nothing of any revolver. I know only that Victor Willis is
innocent as you are, and that I love him. Whatever has become of Grace
Field I don't know."
Tears leaped suddenly to her eyes, and, turning, she left the room.
After a moment they heard the outer door slam as she passed out. Hatch
turned to the scientist with a question in his eyes.
"Did you smell anything like chloroform or ether when you were in St.
George's apartments?" asked The Thinking Machine as he arose.
"No," said Hatch. "I only noticed that the place seemed close, and
there was an odor of Chinese incense--joss sticks--which was almost
stifling."
The Thinking Machine looked at the reporter quickly, but said nothing.
Instead, he passed out of the room, to return a few minutes later with
his hat and coat on.
"Where are we going?" asked Hatch.
"To St. George's studio," was the answer.
Just then the telephone bell in the next room rang. The scientist
answered it in person.
"Your City Editor," he called to Hatch.
Hatch went to the 'phone and remained there several minutes. When he
came back there was a new excitement in his face.
"What is it?" asked the scientist.
"Another queer thing my City Editor told me," Hatch responded.
"Constans St. George, raving mad, has escaped from the hospital and
disappeared."
"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed the scientist, quickly. It was as near
surprise as he ever showed. "Then there is danger."
With quick steps he went to the telephone and called up Police
Headquarters.
"Detective Mallory," Hatch heard him ask for. "Yes. This is Professor
Van Dusen. Please meet me immediately here at my house. Be here in ten
minutes? Good. I'll wait. It's a matter of great importance. Good-by."
Then impatiently The Thinking Machine moved about, waiting. The
reporter, whose acquaintance with the logician was an extended one,
had never seen him in just such a state. It started when he heard St.
George had escaped.
At last they left the house and stood waiting on the steps until
Detective Mallory appeared in a cab. Into that Hatch and The Thinking
Machine climbed, after the latter had given some direction, and the
cabby drove rapidly away. It was all a mystery to Hatch, and he was
rather glad of it when Detective Mallory asked what it meant.
"Means that there is danger of a tragedy," said The Thinking Machine,
crustily. "We may be in time to avert it. There is just a chance. If
I'd only known this an hour ago--even half an hour ago--it might have
been stopped."
The Thinking Machine was the first man out of the cab when it stopped,
and Hatch and the detective followed quickly.
"Is Mr. St. George in his apartments?" asked the scientist of the
elevator boy.
"No, sir," said the boy. "He's in hospital, shot."
"Is there a key to his place? Quick."
"I think so, sir, but I can't give it to you."
"Here, give it to me, then!" exclaimed the detective. He flashed a
badge in the boy's eyes, and the youth immediately lost a deal of his
coolness.
"Gee, a detective! Yes, sir."
"How many rooms has Mr. St. George?" asked the scientist.
"Three and a bath," the boy responded.
Two minutes later the three men stood in the reception-room of the
apartments. There came to them from somewhere inside a deadly,
stifling odor of chloroform. After one glance around The Thinking
Machine rushed into the next room, the studio.
"Dear me, dear me!" he exclaimed.
There on the floor lay huddled the figure of a man. Blood had run from
several wounds on his head. The Thinking Machine stooped a moment, and
his slender fingers fumbled over the heart.
"Unconscious, that's all," he said, and he raised the man up.
"Victor Willis!" exclaimed Hatch.
"Victor Willis!" repeated The Thinking Machine, as if puzzled. "Are
you sure?"
"Certain," said Hatch, positively. "It's the bank clerk."
"Then we are too late," declared the scientist.
He arose and looked about the room. A door to his right attracted his
attention. He jerked it open and peered in. It was a clothes press.
Another small door on the other side of the room was also thrown open.
Here was a kitchenette, with a great quantity of canned stuffs.
The Thinking Machine went on into the little bedroom which Hatch had
searched. He flung open the bathroom and peered in, only to shut it
immediately. Then he tried the handle of another door, a closet. It
was fastened.
"Ah!" he exclaimed.
Then on his hands and knees he sniffed at the crack between the door
and the flooring. Suddenly, as if satisfied, he arose and stepped away
from the door.
"Smash that door in," he directed.
Detective Mallory looked at him stupefied. There was a similar
expression on Hatch's face.
"'What's--what's in there?" the detective asked. "Smash it," said the
other, tartly. "Smash it, or God knows what you'll find in there."
The detective, a powerful man, and Hatch threw their weight against
the door; it stood rigid. They pulled at the handle; it refused to
yield.
"Lend me your revolver?" asked The Thinking Machine.
The weapon was in his hand almost before the detective was aware of
it, and, placing the barrel to the keyhole, The Thinking Machine
pulled the trigger. There was a resonant report, the lock was smashed
and the detective put out his hand to open the door.
"Look out for a shot," warned The Thinking Machine, sharply.
VI.
The Thinking Machine drew Detective Mallory and Hatch to one side, out
of immediate range of any person who might rush out, then pulled the
closet door open. A cloud of suffocating fumes--the sweet, sickening
odor of chloroform--gushed out, but there was no sound from inside.
The detective looked at The Thinking Machine inquiringly.
Carefully, almost gingerly, the scientist peered around the edge of
the door. What he saw did not startle him, because it was what he
expected. It was Constans St. George lying prone on the floor as if
dead, with a blood-spattered revolver clasped loosely in one hand; the
other hand grasped the throat of a woman, a woman of superb physical
beauty, who also lay with face upturned, staring glassily.
"Open the windows--all of them, then help me," commanded the
scientist.
As Detective Mallory and Hatch turned to obey the instructions, The
Thinking Machine took the revolver from the inert fingers of the
artist. Then Hatch and Mallory returned and together they lifted the
unconscious forms toward a window.
"It's Grace Field," said the reporter.
In silence for half an hour the scientist labored over the unconscious
forms of his three patients. The detective and reporter stood by,
doing only what they were told to do. The wind, cold and stinging,
came pouring through the windows, and it was only a few minutes until
the chloroform odor was dissipated. The first of the three unconscious
ones to show any sign of returning comprehension was Victor Willis,
whose presence at all in the apartments furnished one of the mysteries
which Hatch could not fathom.
It was evident that his condition was primarily due to the wounds on
his head--two of which bled profusely. The chloroform had merely
served to further deaden his mentality. The wounds were made with the
butt of the revolver, evidently in the hands of the artist. Willis's
eyes opened finally and he stared at the faces bending over him with
uncomprehending eyes.
"What happened?" he asked.
"You're all right now," was the scientist's assuring answer. "This man
is your prisoner, Detective Mallory, for breaking and entering and for
the attempted murder of Mr. St. George."
Detective Mallory was delighted. Here was something he could readily
understand; a human being given over to his care; a tangible thing to
put handcuffs on and hold. He immediately proceeded to put the
handcuffs on.
"Any need of an ambulance?" he asked.
"No," replied The Thinking Machine. "He'll be all right in half an
hour."
Gradually as reason came back Willis remembered. He turned his head at
last and saw the inert bodies of St. George and Grace Field, the girl
whom he had loved.
"She was here, then!" he exclaimed suddenly, violently. "I knew it. Is
she dead?"
"Shut up that young fool's mouth, Mr. Mallory," commanded the
scientist, sharply. "Take him in the other room or send him away."
Obediently Mallory did as directed; there was that in the voice of
this cold, calm being, The Thinking Machine, which compelled
obedience. Mallory never questioned motives or orders.
Willis was able to walk to the other room with help. Miss Field and
St. George lay side by side in the cold wind from the open window. The
Thinking Machine had forced a little whiskey down their throats, and
after a time St. George opened his eyes.
The artist was instantly alert and tried to rise. He was weak,
however, and even a strength given to him by the madness which blazed
in his eyes did not avail. At last he lay raving, cursing, shrieking.
The Thinking Machine regarded him closely.
"Hopeless," he said, at last.
Again for many minutes the scientist worked with the girl. Finally he
asked that an ambulance be sent for. The detective called up the City
Hospital on the telephone in the apartments and made the request. The
Thinking Machine stared alternately at the girl and at the artist.
"Hopeless," he said again. "St. George, I mean."
"Will the girl recover?" asked Hatch.
"I don't know," was the frank reply. "She's been partly stupefied for
days--ever since she disappeared, as a matter of fact. If her physical
condition was as good as her appearance indicates she may recover. Now
the hospital is the best place for her."
It was only a few minutes before two ambulances came and the three
persons were taken away; Willis a prisoner, and a sullen, defiant
prisoner, who refused to speak or answer questions; St. George raving
hideously and cursing frightfully; the woman, beautiful as a marble
statue, and colorless as death.
When they had all gone, The Thinking Machine went back into the
bedroom and examined more carefully the little closet in which he had
found the artist and Grace Field. It was practically a padded cell,
relatively six feet each way. Heavy cushions of felt two or three
inches thick covered the interior of the little room closely. In the
top of it there was a small aperture, which had permitted some of the
fumes of the chloroform to escape. The place was saturated with the
poison.
"Let's go," he said, finally.
Detective Mallory and Hatch followed him out and a few minutes later
sat opposite him in his little laboratory. Hatch had told a story over
the telephone that made his City Editor rejoice madly; it was news,
great, big, vital news.
"Now, Mr. Hatch, I suppose you want some details," said The Thinking
Machine, as he relapsed into his accustomed attitude. "And you, too,
Mr. Mallory, since you are holding Willis a prisoner on my say-so.
Would you like to know why?"
"Sure," said the detective.
"Let's go back a little--begin at the beginning, where Mr. Hatch
called on me," said The Thinking Machine. "I can make the matter
clearer that way. And I believe the cause of justice, Mr. Mallory,
requires absolute accuracy and clarity in all things, does it not?"
"Sure," said the detective again.
"Well, Mr. Hatch told me at some length of the preliminaries of this
case," explained The Thinking Machine. "He told me the history of the
picture; the mystery as to the identity of the model; her great
beauty; how he found her to be Grace Field, a shop-girl. He also told