The jacques futrelle meg.., p.33
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack, page 33
“Find anything?” asked Hatch, finally.
The Thinking Machine shook his head impatiently.
“It’s amazing,” he exclaimed petulantly, like a disappointed child.
“It is,” Hatch agreed, cheerfully.
The Thinking Machine turned and walked back toward the house as he had come, Hatch following.
“I think we’d better go back to Boston,” he said tartly.
Hatch silently acquiesced. Neither spoke until they were in the train, and The Thinking Machine turned suddenly to the wondering reporter.
“Did it seem possible to you that those are not the footprints of Baby Blake at all, only the prints of his shoes?” he demanded suddenly.
“How did they get there?” asked Hatch, in turn.
The Thinking Machine shook his head.
On the afternoon of the next day, when the newspapers were full of the mystery, Mrs. Blake received this letter, signed “Three” as before:
“We hav the baby and will bring him bak for twenny fiv thousan dolers. Will you give it. Advertis as befour dereckted, YES or NOA.”
III
When Hutchinson Hatch went to inform The Thinking Machine of the appearance of this second letter late in the afternoon, he found the scientist sitting in his little laboratory, finger tips pressed together, squinting steadily at the ceiling. There was a little puzzled line on the high brow, a line Hatch never saw there before, and frank perplexity was in the blue eyes.
The Thinking Machine listened without changing his position as Hatch told him of the letter and its contents.
“What do you make of it all, professor?” asked the reporter.
“I don’t know,” was the reply—one which was a little startling to Hatch. “It’s most perplexing.”
“The only known facts seem to be that Baby Blake was kidnapped, and is now in the possession of the kidnappers,” said Hatch.
“Those tracks—the footprints in the snow, I mean—furnish the real problem in this case,” said the other after a moment. “Presumably they were made by the baby—yet they might not have been. They might have been put there merely to mislead anyone who began a search. If the baby made them—how and why do they stop as they do? If they were made merely with the baby’s shoes, to mislead investigation, the same question remains—how?
“Let’s see a moment. We will dismiss the seeming fact that the baby walked on off into the air and disappeared, granting that those tracks were made by the baby. We will also dismiss the possibility that the baby was with anyone when it made the tracks, if it did make them. There were certainly no other footprints but those. There were no footprints leading from or to that point where the baby tracks stopped.
“What are the possibilities? What remains? A balloon? If we accept the balloon as a possibility we must at the same time relinquish the theory of a preconceived plan of abduction. Why? Because no successful plan could have been arranged so that that baby, of its own will, would have been in that particular spot at that particular moment. Therefore a balloon might have been floated over the place a thousand times without success, and balloons are large—they attract attention, therefore are to be avoided.
“There is a possibility—a bare one—that a balloon with a trailing anchor or hook did pass over the place, and that this hook caught up the baby by its clothing, lifting it clear of the ground. But in that event it was not kidnapping—it was accident. But here against the theory of accident we have the kidnappers’ letters.
“If not a balloon, then an eagle? Hardly possible. It would take a bird of exceptional strength to have lifted a fourteen-month child, and besides there are a thousand things against such a possibility. Certainly the winged man is not known to science, yet there is every evidence of his handiwork here. Briefly, the problem is—granting that the baby itself made the tracks—how was a baby lifted out of the relative centre of a large yard?
“Consider for a moment that the baby did not make the tracks—that they were placed there by some one else. Then we are confronted by the same question—how? A person might have fastened shoes to a long pole and rigged up some arrangement of the sort, and made the tracks for a distance say of twenty feet out into the snow, but remember the tracks run out forty-eight feet to the box you say.
“If it would have been possible for a person to stand on that box without leaving a track to it or from it, he might have finished the tracks with the shoes on a pole, but nobody went to that box.”
The Thinking Machine was silent for several minutes. Hatch had nothing to say. The Thinking Machine seemed to have covered the possibilities thoroughly.
“Of course, it might have been possible for a person in a balloon to have put the tracks there, but it would have been a senseless proceeding,” the scientist went on. “Certainly there could have been no motive for it strong enough to make a person invite discovery by sailing about the house in a balloon even at night. We face a stone wall, Mr. Hatch—a stone wall. It is possible for the mind to follow it only to a certain point as it now stands.”
He arose and disappeared into an adjoining room, returning in a few minutes with his hat and overcoat.
“Of course,” he said to Hatch, “if the baby is alive and in the possession of the kidnappers, it is possible to recover it, and we’ll do that, but the real problem remains.”
“If it is alive?” Hatch repeated.
“Yes, if,” said the other shortly. “There are in my mind grave doubts on that point.”
“But the kidnappers’ letters?” said Hatch.
“Let’s go find out who wrote them,” said the other, enigmatically.
Together the two men went to Lynn, and there for half an hour The Thinking Machine talked to Mrs. Blake. He came out finally with a package in his hand.
Miss Barton, with eyes red, apparently from weeping, and evident sorrow imprinted on her pretty face, entered the room almost at the same moment.
“Miss Barton,” the scientist asked, “could you tell me how much the baby Douglas weighed—relatively, I mean?”
The girl gazed at him a moment as if startled. “About thirty pounds, I should say,” she answered.
“Thanks,” said The Thinking Machine, and turned to Hatch. “I have twenty-five thousand dollars in this package,” he said.
Miss Barton turned and glanced quickly toward him, then passed out of the room.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Hatch.
“It’s for the kidnappers,” was the reply. “The police advised Mrs. Blake not to try to make terms—I advised her the other way and she gave me this.”
“What’s the next step?” Hatch asked.
“To put the advertisement ‘Yes’ signed by Mrs. Blake in the newspaper,” said The Thinking Machine. “That’s in accordance with the stipulations of the letters.”
An hour later the two men were in Boston. The advertisement was inserted in the Boston American as directed. The next day Mrs. Blake received a third letter.
“Rapp the munny in a ole nuspaipr ann thow it onn the trash-heape at the addge of the vakant lott one blok down the street frum wear you liv,” it directed. “Putt it on topp. We wil gett it ann yore baby wil be in yore armms two ours latter. Three (3).”
This letter was immediately placed in the hands of The Thinking Machine. Mrs. Blake’s face flushed with hope, and believing that the child would be restored to her, she waited in a fever of impatience.
“Now, Mr. Hatch,” instructed The Thinking Machine. “Do with this package as directed. A man will come for it some time. I shall leave the task of finding out who he is, where he goes and all about him to you. He is probably a man of low mentality, though not so low as the misspelled words of his letter would have you believe. He should be easily trapped. Don’t interfere with him—merely report to me when you find out these things.”
Alone The Thinking Machine returned to Boston. Thirty-six hours later, in the early morning, a telegram came for him. It was as follows:
“Have man located in Lynn and trace of baby. Come quick, if possible, to —— Hotel. Hatch.”
IV
The Thinking Machine answered the telegraphic summons immediately, but instead of elation on his face there was another expression—possibly surprise. On the train he read and re-read the telegram.
“Have trace of baby,” he mused. “Why, it’s perfectly astonishing.”
White-faced from exhaustion, and with eyes drooping from lack of sleep, Hutchinson Hatch met The Thinking Machine in the hotel lobby and they immediately went to a room, which the reporter had engaged on the third floor.
The Thinking Machine listened without comment as Hatch told the story of what he had done. He had placed the bundle, then hired a room overlooking the vacant lot and had remained there at the window for hours. At last night came, but there were clouds which effectively hid the moon. Then Hatch had gone out and secreted himself near the trash pile.
Here from six o’clock in the evening until four in the morning he had remained, numbed with cold and not daring to move. At last his long vigil was rewarded. A man suddenly appeared near the trash heap, glanced around furtively, and then picked up the newspaper package, felt of it to assure himself that it contained something, and then started away quickly.
The work of following him Hatch had not found difficult. He had gone straight to a tenement in the eastern end of Lynn and disappeared inside. Later in the morning, after the occupants of the house were about, Hatch made inquiries which established the identity of the man without question.
His name was Charles Gates and he lived with his wife on the fourth floor of the tenement. His reputation was not wholly savory, and he drank a great deal. He was a man of some education, but not of such ignorance as the letters he had written would indicate.
“After learning all these facts,” Hatch went on, “my idea was to see the man and talk to him or to his wife. I went there this morning about nine o’clock, as a book agent.” The reporter smiled a little. “His wife, Mrs. Gates, didn’t want any books, but I nearly sold her a sewing machine.
“Anyway, I got into the apartments and remained there for fifteen or twenty minutes. There was only one room which I didn’t enter, of the four there. In that room, the woman explained, her husband was asleep. He had been out late the night before, she said. Of course I knew that.
“I asked if she had any babies and received a negative. From other people in the house I learned that this was true so far as they knew. There was not and has not been a baby in the apartments so far as anyone could tell me. And in spite of that fact I found this.”
Hatch drew something from his pocket and spread it on his open hand. It was a baby stocking of fine texture. The Thinking Machine took it and looked at it closely.
“Baby Blake’s?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the reporter. “Both Mrs. Blake and the nurse, Miss Barton, identify it.”
“Dear me! Dear me!” exclaimed the scientist, thoughtfully. Again the puzzled expression came into his face.
“Of course, the baby hasn’t been returned?” went on the scientist.
“Of course not!” said Hatch.
“Did Mrs. Gates behave like a woman who had suddenly received a share of twenty-five thousand dollars?” asked The Thinking Machine.
“No,” Hatch replied. “She looked as if she had attended a mixed ale party. Her lip was cut and bruised and one eye was black.”
“That’s what her husband did when he found out what was in the newspaper,” commented The Thinking Machine, grimly.
“It wasn’t money, at all, then?” asked Hatch.
“Certainly not.”
Neither said anything for several minutes. The Thinking Machine sat idly twisting the tiny stocking between his long, slender fingers with the little puzzled line in his brow.
“How do you account for that stocking in Gates’s possession?” asked the reporter at last.
“Let’s go talk to Mrs. Blake,” was the reply. “You didn’t tell her anything about this man Gates getting the package?”
“No,” said the reporter.
“It would only worry her,” explained the scientist. “Better let her hope, because—”
Hatch looked at The Thinking Machine quickly, startled.
“Because, what?” he asked.
“There seems to be a very strong probability that Baby Blake is dead,” the other responded.
Pondering that, yet conceiving no motive which would cause the baby’s death, Hatch was silent as he and the scientist together went to the house of Mrs. Blake. Miss Barton, the nurse, answered the door.
“Miss Barton,” said The Thinking Machine, testily as they entered, “just when did you give this stocking,”—and he produced it—“to Charles Gates?”
The girl flushed quickly, and she stammered a little.
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “Who is Charles Gates?”
“May we see Mrs. Blake?” asked the scientist. He squinted steadily into the girl’s eyes.
“Yes—of course—that is, I suppose so,” she stammered.
She disappeared, and in a few minutes Mrs. Blake appeared. There was an eager, expectant look in her face. It was hope. It faded when she saw the solemn face of The Thinking Machine.
“What recommendations did Miss Barton have when you engaged her?” he began pointedly.
“The best I could ask,” was the reply. “She was formerly a governess in the family of the Governor-General of Canada. She is well educated, and came to me from that position.”
“Is she well acquainted in Lynn?” asked the scientist.
“That I couldn’t say,” replied Mrs. Blake. “If you are thinking that she might have some connection with this affair—”
“Ever go out much?” interrupted her questioner.
“Rarely, and then usually with me. She is more of a companion than servant.”
“How long have you had her?”
“Since a week or so after my baby”—and the mother’s lips trembled a little—“was born. She has been devoted to me since the death of my husband. I would trust her with my life.”
“This is your baby’s stocking?”
“Beyond any doubt,” she replied as she again examined it.
“I suppose he had several pairs like this?”
“I really don’t know. I should think so.”
“Will you please have Miss Barton, or someone else, find those stockings and see if all the pairs like this are complete,” instructed The Thinking Machine.
Wonderingly, Mrs. Blake gave the order to Miss Barton, who as wonderingly received it and went out of the room with a quick, resentful look at the bowed figure of the scientist.
“Did you ever happen to notice, Mrs. Blake, whether or not your baby could open a door? For instance, the front door?”
“I believe he could,” she replied. “He could reach them because the handles are low, as you see,” and she indicated the knob on the front door, which was visible through the reception hall room where they stood.
The Thinking Machine turned suddenly and strode to the window of the library, looking out on the back yard. He was debating something in his own mind. It was whether or not he should tell this mother his fear of her son’s death, or should hide it from her until such time as it would appear itself. For some reason known only to himself he considered the child’s death not only a possibility, but a probability.
Whatever might have resulted from this mental debate was not to be known then, for suddenly, as he stood staring out the rear window overlooking the spot where the baby’s tracks had been seen in the snow—now melted—he started a little and peered eagerly out. It was the first sight he had had of the yard since the night he had examined it by moonlight.
“Dear me, dear me,” he exclaimed suddenly.
Turning abruptly he left the room, and a moment later Hatch saw him in the back yard. Mrs. Blake at the window watched curiously. Outside The Thinking Machine walked straight out to the spot where the baby’s tracks had been, and from there Hatch saw him stop and stare at the slightly raised box which covered the water connections.
From this box the scientist took five steps toward a flat-topped stone—the one he had noticed previously—and Hatch saw that it was about ten feet. Then from this he saw The Thinking Machine take four steps to where the sagging clothes-line hung. It was probably eight feet. Then the bowed figure of The Thinking Machine walked on out toward the rear wall of the enclosure, under the clothes-line.
When he stopped at the end of the line he was within fifteen feet of the dangling swing which had been Baby Blake’s. This swing was attached to a limb twenty feet above—a stout limb which jutted straight out from the tree trunk for fifteen feet. The Thinking Machine studied this for a moment, then passed on beyond the tree, still looking up, until he disappeared.
Fifteen minutes later he returned to the library where Mrs. Blake awaited him. There was a question in Hatch’s eyes.
“I’ve got it,” snapped The Thinking Machine, much as if there had been a denial. “I’ve got it.”
* * * *
On the following day, by direction of The Thinking Machine, Mrs. Blake ordered the following advertisement inserted in all Boston and Lynn newspapers, to occupy one-quarter of a page.
TO THE PERSONS WHO NOW HOLD DOUGLAS BLAKE
Your names, residence and place of concealment of Douglas Blake, fourteen months old, and the manner in which he came into your possession are now known.
Mrs. Blake, the mother, does not desire to prosecute for reasons you know, and will give you twenty-four hours in which to return the baby safely to its home in Lynn.
Any attempt to escape of either person concerned will be followed instantly by arrest. Meanwhile you are closely watched, and will be for twenty-four hours, at which time arrest and prosecution will follow.
No questions will he asked when the child is returned and your names will be fully protected. There will also be a reward of $1,000 for the person who returns the baby.
Hutchinson Hatch read this when The Thinking Machine had completed it and had stared at the scientist in wonderment.
