Machine’s white fingers seized upon it eagerly, and his watery, squint eyes examined it. A portion of it had been used—the spool was only half gone. But he noted—and as he did his eyes reflected a glitter of triumph—he noted that the paper cap on each end was still in place.
“Now, Mr. Mallory,” he said, “I’ll demonstrate to you that in Dolan the police are dealing with a man far beyond the ordinary bank thief. In his way he is a genius. Look here!”
With a penknife he ripped off the paper caps and looked through the hole of the spool. For an instant his face showed blank amazement. Then he put the spool down on the table and squinted at it for a moment in absolute silence.
“It must be here,” he said at last. “It must be, else why did he—of course!”
With quick fingers he began to unwind the thread. Yard after yard it rolled off in his hand, and finally in the mass of brown on the spool appeared a white strip. In another instant The Thinking Machine held in his hand a tiny, thin sheet of paper—a cigarette paper. It had been wound around the spool and the thread wound over it so smoothly that it was impossible to see that it had ever been removed.
The detective and Hatch were leaning over his shoulder watching him curiously. The tiny paper unfolded—something was written on it. Slowly The Thinking Machine deciphered it.
“47 Causeway Street, basement, tenth flagstone from northeast corner.”
And there the money was found—$109,000. The house was unoccupied and within easy reach of a wharf from which a European bound steamer sailed. Within half an hour of sailing time it would have been an easy matter for Dolan to have recovered it all and that without in the least exciting the suspicion of those who might be watching him; for a saloon next door opened into an alley behind, and a broken window in the basement gave quick access to the treasure.
“Dolan reasoned,” The Thinking Machine explained, “that even if he was never permitted to see his wife she would probably use that thread and in time find the directions for recovering the money. Further he argued that the police would never suspect that a spool contained the secret for which they sought so long. His conversation with his wife, today, was merely to draw her attention to something which would require her to use the spool of brown thread. The brown coat was all that he could think of. And that’s all I think.”
Dolan was a sadly surprised man when news of the recovery of the money was broken to him. But a certain quaint philosophy didn’t desert him. He gazed at Detective Mallory incredulously as the story was told and at the end went over and sat down on his cell cot.
“Well, chief,” he said, “I didn’t think it was in you. That makes me owe you a hat.”
The Problem of Convict no. 97
Martha opened the door. Her distinguished master, Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen—The Thinking Machine—lay senseless on the floor. His upturned face, always drawn and pale, was deathly white now, the thin straight lips were colorless, the eyelids drooping, and the profuse yellow hair was tumbled back from the enormous brow in disorder. His arms were outstretched on either side helplessly, and the slender white hands were still and inert. The fading light from the windows over the laboratory table beat down upon the pitifully small figure, and so for the moment Martha stood with distended eyes gazing in terror and apprehension. She was not of the screaming kind, but a great lump rose in her old throat. Then, with fear tearing at her heart, she swooped the slender, childlike figure up in her strong arms and laid it on a couch.
“Glory be!” she exclaimed, and there was devotion in the tone—devotion to this eminent man of science whom she had served so long. “What could have happened to the poor, poor man?”
For another moment she stood looking upon the pallid face, then the necessity of action impressed itself upon her. The heart was still beating,—she convinced herself of that,—and he was breathing. Perhaps he had only fainted. She grasped at the idea hopefully, and turned, seeking water. There was a faucet over a sink at the end of the long table, and innumerable graduated glasses; but even in her excited condition Martha knew better than to use one of them. All sorts of chemicals had been in them—poisons too. With another quick glance at the little scientist she rushed out of the room, as she had entered, bent on getting water.
When she appeared again at the open door with pitcher and drinking glass she paused a second time in amazement. The distinguished scientist was sitting cross legged on the couch, thoughtfully caressing the back of his head.
“Martha, did anyone call?” he inquired.
“Lor’, sir! what did happen to you?” she burst out amazedly.
“Oh, a little accident,” he explained irritably. “Did anyone call?”
“No, sir. How do you feel now, sir?”
“Don’t disturb yourself about me, my good woman; I’m all right,” The Thinking Machine assured her, and put his feet to the floor. “You are sure no one was here?”
“Yes, sir. Lor’! you was that white when I picked you up from the floor there—”
“Was I lying on my back or my face?”
“Flat of your back, sir, all sprawled out. I thought you was dead, sir.”
Again The Thinking Machine thoughtfully caressed the back of his head, and Martha rattled on verbosely, indicating just where and how he had been lying when she opened the door.
“Are you sure that you didn’t hear any sound?” again queried the scientist.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Any sudden jar?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing. I was just laying the tea things, sir, and opened the door to tell you it was ready.”
She poured a glass of water from the pitcher, and The Thinking Machine moistened his lips, to which the color was slowly returning.
“Martha,” he directed, “go see if the front door is closed, please.”
Martha went out. “Yes, sir,” she reported on her return.
“Locked?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Thinking Machine arose and straightened up, almost himself again. Then he went over to the laboratory table and peered squintingly into a mirror which hung there, after which he wandered all over his apartments, examining windows, trying doors, and stopping occasionally to stare curiously about at objects which had been familiar for years. He turned; Martha was just behind him, looking on wonderingly.
“Lost something, sir?” she asked solicitously.
“You are sure you didn’t hear any sound of any sort?” he asked in turn.
“Not a thing, sir.”
Then The Thinking Machine went to the telephone. In a minute or so he was in conversation with Hutchinson Hatch, newspaper reporter.
“Heard of any jail delivery at Chisholm prison?” he inquired.
