The problem of Cell 13
time and again against Henley. There is a possibility that Miss
Regnier was not an intentional victim of the plot, but the fact
remains that she was murdered. Why? Find the motive for the plot to
murder Mr. Henley and you will know why."
The Thinking Machine reached over to the shelf, took a book, looked at
it a moment, then went on:
"The first question to determine positively is: Who hated Weldon
Henley sufficiently to desire his death? You say he is a successful
man in the Street. Therefore there is a possibility that some enemy
there is at the bottom of the affair, yet it seems hardly probable. If
by his operations Mr. Henley ever happened to wreck another man's
fortune find this man and find out all about him. He may be the man.
There will be innumerable questions arising from this line of inquiry
to a man of your resources. Leave none of them unanswered.
"On the other hand there is Henley's love affair. Had he a rival who
might desire his death? Had he any rival? If so, find out all about
him. He may be the man who planned all this. Here, too, there will
be questions arising which demand answers. Answer them--all of
them--fully and clearly before you see me again.
"Was Henley ever a party to a liaison of any kind? Find that out, too.
A vengeful woman or a discarded sweetheart of a vengeful woman, you
know, will go to any extreme. The rumor of his engagement to
Miss--Miss----"
"Miss Lipscomb," Hatch supplied.
"The rumor of his engagement to Miss Lipscomb might have caused a
woman whom he had once been interested in or who was once interested
in him to attempt his life. The subtler murders--that is, the ones
which are most attractive as problems--are nearly always the work of a
cunning woman. I know nothing about women myself," he hastened to
explain; "but Lombroso has taken that attitude. Therefore, see if
there is a woman."
Most of these points Hatch had previously seen--seen with the unerring
eye of a clever newspaper reporter--yet there were several which had
not occurred to him. He nodded his understanding.
"Now the center of the affair, of course," The Thinking Machine
continued, "is the apartment house where Henley lives. The person who
attempted his life either lives there or has ready access to the
place, and frequently spends the night there. This is a vital question
for you to answer. I am leaving all this to you because you know
better how to do these things than I do. That's all, I think. When
these things are all learned come back to me."
The Thinking Machine arose as if the interview were at an end, and
Hatch also arose, reluctantly. An idea was beginning to dawn in his
mind.
"Does it occur to you that there is any connection whatever between
Henley and Miss Regnier?" he asked.
"It is possible," was the reply. "I had thought of that. If there is a
connection it is not apparent yet."
"Then how--how was it she--she was killed, or killed herself,
whichever may be true, and----"
"The attempt to kill Henley killed her. That's all I can say now."
"That all?" asked Hatch, after a pause.
"No. Warn Mr. Henley immediately that he is in grave danger. Remember
the person who has planned this will probably go to any extreme. I
don't know Mr. Henley, of course, but from the fact that he always had
a light at night I gather that he is a timid sort of man--not
necessarily a coward, but a man lacking in stamina--therefore, one who
might better disappear for a week or so until the mystery is cleared
up. Above all, impress upon him the importance of the warning."
The Thinking Machine opened his pocketbook and took from it the
scarlet thread which he had picked from the rope of the flagpole.
"Here, I believe, is the real clew to the problem," he explained to
Hatch. "What does it seem to be?"
Hatch examined it closely.
"I should say a strand from a Turkish bath robe," was his final
judgment.
"Possibly. Ask some cloth expert what he makes of it, then if it
sounds promising look into it. Find out if by any possibility it can
be any part of any garment worn by any person in the apartment house."
"But it's so slight----" Hatch began.
"I know," the other interrupted, tartly. "It's slight, but I believe
it is a part of the wearing apparel of the person, man or woman, who
has four times attempted to kill Mr. Henley and who did kill the girl.
Therefore, it is important."
Hatch looked at him quickly.
"Well, how--in what manner--did it come where you found it?"
"Simple enough," said the scientist. "It is a wonder that there were
not more pieces of it--that's all."
Perplexed by his instructions, but confident of results, Hatch left
The Thinking Machine. What possible connection could this tiny bit of
scarlet thread, found on a flagpole, have with some one shutting off
the gas in Henley's rooms? How did any one go into Henley's rooms to
shut off the gas? How was it Miss Regnier was dead? What was the
manner of her death?
A cloth expert in a great department store turned his knowledge on the
tiny bit of scarlet for the illumination of Hatch, but he could go no
further than to say that it seemed to be part of a Turkish bath robe.
"Man or woman's?" asked Hatch.
"The material from which bath robes are made is the same for both men
and women," was the reply. "I can say nothing else. Of course there's
not enough of it to even guess at the pattern of the robe."
Then Hatch went to the financial district and was ushered into the
office of Weldon Henley, a slender, handsome man of thirty-two or
three years, pallid of face and nervous in manner. He still showed the
effect of the gas poisoning, and there was even a trace of a furtive
fear--fear of something, he himself didn't know what--in his actions.
Henley talked freely to the newspaper man of certain things, but of
other things was resentfully reticent. He admitted his engagement to
Miss Lipscomb, and finally even admitted that Miss Lipscomb's hand had
been sought by another man, Regnault Cabell, formerly of Virginia.
"Could you give me his address?" asked Hatch.
"He lives in the same apartment house with me--two floors above," was
the reply.
Hatch was startled; startled more than he would have cared to admit.
"Are you on friendly terms with him?" he asked.
"Certainly," said Henley. "I won't say anything further about this
matter. It would be unwise for obvious reasons."
"I suppose you consider that this turning on of the gas was an attempt
on your life?"
"I can't suppose anything else."
Hatch studied the pallid face closely as he asked the next question.
"Do you know Miss Regnier was found dead to-day?"
"Dead?" exclaimed the other, and he arose. "Who--what--who is she?"
It seemed a distinct effort for him to regain control of himself.
The reporter detailed then the circumstances of the finding of the
girl's body, and the broker listened without comment. From that time
forward all the reporter's questions were either parried or else met
with a flat refusal to answer. Finally Hatch repeated to him the
warning which he had from The Thinking Machine, and feeling that he
had accomplished little, went away.
At eight o'clock that night--a night of complete darkness--Henley was
found unconscious, lying in a little used walk in the Common. There
was a bullet hole through his left shoulder, and he was bleeding
profusely. He was removed to the hospital, where he regained
consciousness for just a moment.
"Who shot you?" he was asked.
"None of your business," he replied, and lapsed into unconsciousness.
IV.
Entirely unaware of this latest attempt on the life of the broker,
Hutchinson Hatch steadily pursued his investigations. They finally led
him to an intimate friend of Regnault Cabell. The young Southerner had
apartments on the fourth floor of the big house off Commonwealth
Avenue, directly over those Henley occupied, but two flights higher
up. This friend was a figure in the social set of the Back Bay. He
talked to Hatch freely of Cabell.
"He's a good fellow," he explained, "one of the best I ever met, and
comes of one of the best families Virginia ever had--a true F. F. V.
He's pretty quick tempered and all that, but an excellent chap, and
everywhere he has gone here he has made friends."
"He used to be in love with Miss Lipscomb of Virginia, didn't he?"
asked Hatch, casually.
"Used to be?" the other repeated with a laugh. "He is in love with
her. But recently he understood that she was engaged to Weldon Henley,
a broker--you may have heard of him?--and that, I suppose, has
dampened his ardor considerably. As a matter of fact, Cabell took the
thing to heart. He used to know Miss Lipscomb in Virginia--she comes
from another famous family there--and he seemed to think he had a
prior claim on her."
Hatch heard all these things as any man might listen to gossip, but
each additional fact was sinking into his mind, and each additional
fact led his suspicions on deeper into the channel they had chosen.
"Cabell is pretty well to do," his informant went on, "not rich as we
count riches in the North, but pretty well to do, and I believe he
came to Boston because Miss Lipscomb spent so much of her time here.
She is a beautiful young woman of twenty-two and extremely popular in
the social world everywhere, particularly in Boston. Then there was
the additional fact that Henley was here."
"No chance at all for Cabell?" Hatch suggested.
"Not the slightest," was the reply. "Yet despite the heartbreak he
had, he was the first to congratulate Henley on winning her love. And
he meant it, too."
"What's his attitude toward Henley now?" asked Hatch. His voice was
calm, but there was an underlying tense note imperceptible to the
other.
"They meet and speak and move in the same set. There's no love lost on
either side, I don't suppose, but there is no trace of any ill
feeling."
"Cabell doesn't happen to be a vindictive sort of man?"
"Vindictive?" and the other laughed. "No. He's like a big boy,
forgiving, and all that; hot-tempered, though. I could imagine him in
a fit of anger making a personal matter of it with Henley, but I don't
think he ever did."
The mind of the newspaper man was rapidly focusing on one point; the
rush of thoughts, questions and doubts silenced him for a moment.
Then:
"How long has Cabell been in Boston?"
"Seven or eight months--that is, he has had apartments here for that
long--but he has made several visits South. I suppose it's South. He
has a trick of dropping out of sight occasionally. I understand that
he intends to go South for good very soon. If I'm not mistaken, he is
trying now to rent his suite."
Hatch looked suddenly at his informant; an idea of seeing Cabell and
having a legitimate excuse for talking to him had occurred to him.
"I'm looking for a suite," he volunteered at last. "I wonder if you
would give me a card of introduction to him? We might get together on
it."
Thus it happened that half an hour later, about ten minutes past nine
o'clock, Hatch was on his way to the big apartment house. In the
office he saw the manager.
"Heard the news?" asked the manager.
"No," Hatch replied. "What is it?"
"Somebody's shot Mr. Henley as he was passing through the Common early
to-night."
Hatch whistled his amazement.
"Is he dead?"
"No, but he is unconscious. The hospital doctors say it is a nasty
wound, but not necessarily dangerous."
"Who shot him? Do they know?"
"He knows, but he won't say."
Amazed and alarmed by this latest development, an accurate fulfillment
of The Thinking Machine's prophecy, Hatch stood thoughtful for a
moment, then recovering his composure a little asked for Cabell.
"I don't think there's much chance of seeing him," said the manager.