The jacques futrelle meg.., p.36
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack, page 36
“Ah, Professor Van Dusen,” exclaimed Professor Dexter, and he seized the long, slender hand of The Thinking Machine in a frenzied grip.
“Dear me! Dear me!” complained The Thinking Machine as he sought to extract his fingers from the vice. “Don’t do that. What’s the matter?”
“The radium is gone—stolen!” Professor Dexter explained.
The Thinking Machine drew back a little and squinted aggressively into the distended eyes of his fellow scientist.
“Why that’s perfectly silly,” he said at last. “Come in, please, and tell me what happened.”
With perspiration dripping from his brow and hands atremble, Professor Dexter followed him into the reception room, whereupon The Thinking Machine turned, closed the door into the hallway and snapped the lock. Outside Mr. Bowen and the students heard the click and turned away to send the astonishing news hurtling through the great university. Inside Professor Dexter sank down on a chair with staring eyes and nervously twitching lips.
“Dear me, Dexter, are you crazy?” demanded The Thinking Machine irritably. “Compose yourself. What happened? What were the circumstances of the disappearance?”
“Come—come in here—the laboratory and see,” suggested Professor Dexter.
“Oh, never mind that now,” said the other impatiently. “Tell me what happened?”
Professor Dexter paced the length of the small room twice then sat down again, controlling himself with a perceptible effort. Then, ramblingly but completely, he told the story of Mme. du Chastaigny’s call, covering every circumstance from the time he placed the radium on the table in the laboratory until he saw her drive away in the carriage. The Thinking Machine leaned back in his chair with squint eyes upturned and slender white fingers pressed tip to tip.
“How long was she here?” he asked at the end.
“Ten minutes, I should say,” was the reply.
“Where did she sit?”
“Right where you are, facing the laboratory door.”
The Thinking Machine glanced back at the window behind him.
“And you?” he asked.
“I sat here facing her.”
“You know that she did not enter the laboratory?”
“I know it, yes,” replied Professor Dexter promptly. “No one save me has entered that laboratory today. I have taken particular pains to see that no one did. When Mr. Bowen spoke to me I had the radium in my hand. He merely opened the door, handed me her card and went right out. Of course it’s impossible that—”
“Nothing is impossible, Mr. Dexter,” blazed The Thinking Machine suddenly. “Did you at any time leave Mme. du Chastaigny in this room alone?”
“No, no,” declared Dexter emphatically. “I was looking at her every moment she was here; I did not put the radium out of my hand until Mr. Bowen was out of this room and in the hallway there. I then came into this room and met her.”
For several minutes The Thinking Machine sat perfectly silent, squinting upward while Professor Dexter gazed into the inscrutable face anxiously.
“I hope,” ventured the Professor at last, “that you do not believe it was any fault of mine?”
The Thinking Machine did not say.
“What sort of a voice has Mme. du Chastaigny?” he asked instead.
The Professor blinked a little in bewilderment.
“An ordinary voice—the low voice of a woman of education and refinement,” he replied.
“Did she raise it at any time while talking?”
“No.”
“Perhaps she sneezed or coughed while talking to you?”
Unadulterated astonishment was written on Professor Dexter’s face.
“She coughed, yes, violently,” he replied.
“Ah!” exclaimed The Thinking Machine and there was a flash of comprehension in the narrow blue eyes. “Twice, I suppose?”
Professor Dexter was staring at the scientist blankly.
“Yes, twice,” he responded.
“Anything else?”
“Well, she laughed I think.”
“What was the occasion of her laughter?”
“I stumbled over a suit case she had set down by the laboratory door there.”
The Thinking Machine absorbed that without evidence of emotion, then reached for the letter of introduction which Mme. du Chastaigny had given to Professor Dexter and which he still carried crumpled up in his hand. It was a short note, just a few lines in French, explaining that Mme. du Chastaigny desired to see Professor Dexter on a matter of importance.
“Do you happen to know Mme. Curie’s handwriting?” asked The Thinking Machine after a cursory examination. “Of course you had some correspondence with her about this work?”
“I know her writing, yes,” was the reply. “I think that is genuine, if that’s what you mean.”
“We’ll see after a while,” commented The Thinking Machine.
He arose and led the way into the laboratory. There Professor Dexter indicated to him the exact spot on the work table where the radium had been placed. Standing beside it he made some mental calculation as he squinted about the room, at the highly placed windows, the glass roof above, the single door. Then wrinkles grew in his tall brow.
“I presume all the wall windows are kept fastened?”
“Yes, always.”
“And those in the glass roof?”
“Yes.”
“Then bring me a tall step-ladder please!”
It was produced after a few minutes. Professor Dexter looked on curiously and with a glimmer of understanding as The Thinking Machine examined each catch on every window, and tapped the panes over with a pen-knife. When he had examined the last and found all locked he came down the ladder.
“Dear me!” he exclaimed petulantly. “It’s perfectly extraordinary—most extraordinary. If the radium was not stolen through the reception room, then—then—” He glanced around the room again.
Professor Dexter shook his head. He had recovered his self-possession somewhat, but his bewilderment left him helpless.
“Are you sure, Professor Dexter,” asked The Thinking Machine at last coldly, “are you sure you placed the radium where you have indicated?”
There was almost an accusation in the tone and Professor Dexter flushed hotly.
“I am positive, yes,” he replied.
“And you are absolutely certain that neither Mr. Bowen nor Mme. du Chastaigny entered this room?”
“I am absolutely positive.”
The Thinking Machine wandered up and down the long table apparently without any interest, handling the familiar instruments and glittering appliances as a master.
“Did Mme. du Chastaigny happen to mention any children?” he at last asked, irrelevantly.
Professor Dexter blinked again.
“No,” he replied.
“Adopted or otherwise?”
“No.”
“Just what sort of a suit case was that she carried?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Professor Dexter. “I didn’t particularly notice. It seemed to be about the usual kind of a suit case—sole leather I imagine.”
“She arrived in this country yesterday you said?”
“Yes.”
“It’s perfectly extraordinary,” The Thinking Machine grunted. Then he scribbled a line or two on a scrap of paper and handed it to Professor Dexter.
“Please have this sent by cable at once.”
Professor Dexter glanced at it. It was:
Mme. Curie, Paris:
Did you give Mme. du Chastaigny letter of introduction for Professor Dexter? Answer quick.
Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen.
As Professor Dexter glanced at the dispatch his eyes opened a little.
“You don’t believe that Mme. du Chastaigny could have—” he began.
“I daresay I know what Mme. Curie’s answer will be,” interrupted the other abruptly.
“What?”
“It will be no,” was the positive reply. “And then—” He paused.
“Then—?”
“Your veracity may be brought into question.”
With flaming face and tightly clenched teeth but without a word, Professor Dexter saw The Thinking Machine unlock the door and pass out. Then he dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. There Mr. Bowen found him a few minutes later.
“Ah, Mr. Bowen,” he said, as he glanced up, “please have this cable sent immediately.”
Once in his apartments The Thinking Machine telephoned Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, at the office of his newspaper. That long, lean, hungry looking young man was fairly bubbling with suppressed emotion when he rushed into the booth to answer and the exhilaration of pure enthusiasm made his voice vibrant when he spoke. The Thinking Machine readily understood.
“It’s about the radium theft at Yarvard that I wanted to speak to you,” he said.
“Yes,” Hatch replied. “just heard of it this minute—a bulletin from Police Headquarters. I was about to go out on it.”
“Please do something for me first,” requested The Thinking Machine. “Go at once to the Hotel Teutonic and ascertain indisputably for me whether or not Mme. du Chastaigny, who is stopping there, is accompanied by a child.”
“Certainly, of course,” said Hatch, “but the story—”
“This is the story,” interrupted The Thinking Machine, tartly. “If you can learn nothing of any child at the hotel go to the steamer on which she arrived yesterday from Liverpool and inquire there. I must have definite, absolute, indisputable evidence.”
“I’m off,” Hatch responded.
He hung up the receiver and rushed out. He happened to be professionally acquainted with the chief clerk of the Teutonic, a monosyllabic, rotund gentleman who was an occasional source of private information and who spent his life adding up a column of figures.
“Hello, Charlie,” Hatch greeted him. “Mme. du Chastaigny stopping here?”
“Yep,” said Charlie.
“Husband with her?”
“Nope.”
“By herself when she came?”
“Yep.”
“Hasn’t a child with her?”
“Nope.”
“What does she look like?”
“A corker!” said Charlie.
This last loquacious outburst seemed to appease the reporter’s burning thirst for information and he rushed away to the dock where the steamship, Granada from Liverpool, still lay. Aboard he sought out the purser and questioned him along the same lines with the same result. There was no trace of a child. Then Hatch made his way to the home of The Thinking Machine.
“Well?” demanded the scientist.
The reporter shook his head.
“She hasn’t seen or spoken to a child since she left Liverpool so far as I can ascertain,” he declared.
It was not quite surprise, it was rather perturbation in the manner of The Thinking Machine now. It showed in a quick gesture of one hand, in the wrinkles on his brow, in the narrowing down of his eyes. He dropped back into a chair and remained there silent, thoughtful for a long time.
“It couldn’t have been, it couldn’t have been, it couldn’t have been,” the scientist broke out finally.
Having no personal knowledge on the subject, whatever it was, Hatch discreetly remained silent. After a while The Thinking Machine aroused himself with a jerk and related to the reporter the story of the lost radium so far as it was known.
“The letter of introduction from Mme. Curie opened the way for Mme. du Chastaigny,” he explained. “Frankly I believe that letter to be a forgery. I cabled asking Mme. Curie. A ‘No’ from her will mean that my conjecture is correct; a ‘Yes’ will mean—but that is hardly worth considering. The question now is: What method was employed to cause the disappearance of the radium from that room?”
The door opened and Martha appeared. She handed a cablegram to The Thinking Machine and he ripped it open with hurried fingers. He glanced at the sheet once, then arose suddenly after which he sat down again, just as suddenly.
“What is it?” ventured Hatch.
“It’s ‘Yes,’” was the reply.
* * * *
In the seclusion of his own small laboratory The Thinking Machine was making some sort of chemical experiment about eight o’clock that night. He was just hoisting a graduated glass, containing a purplish, hazy fluid, to get the lamp light through it, when an idea flashed into his mind. He permitted the glass to fall and smash on the floor.
“Perfectly stupid of me,” he grumbled and turning he walked into an adjoining room without so much as a glance at the wrecked glass. A minute later he had Hutchinson Hatch on the telephone.
“Come right up,” he instructed.
There was that in his voice which caused Hatch to jump. He seized his hat and rushed out of his office. When he reached The Thinking Machine’s apartments that gentleman was just emerging from the room where the telephone was.
“I have it,” the scientist told the reporter, forestalling a question. “It’s ridiculously simple. I can’t imagine how I missed it except through stupidity.”
Hatch smiled behind his hand. Certainly stupidity was not to be charged against The Thinking Machine.
“Come in a cab?” asked the scientist.
“Yes, it’s waiting.”
“Come on then.”
They went out together. The scientist gave some instruction to the cabby and they clattered off.
“You’re going to meet a very remarkable person,” The Thinking Machine explained. “He may cause trouble and he may not—any way look out for him. He’s tricky.”
That was all. The cab drew up in front of a large building, evidently a boarding house of the middle class. The Thinking Machine jumped out, Hatch following, and together they ascended the steps. A maid answered the bell.
“Is Mr.—Mr.—oh, what’s his name?” and The Thinking Machine snapped his fingers as if trying to remember. “Mr—, the small gentleman who arrived from Liverpool yesterday—”
“Oh,” and the maid smiled broadly, “you mean Mr. Berkerstrom?”
“Yes, that’s the name,” exclaimed the scientist. “Is he in, please?”
“I think so, sir,” said the maid, still smiling. “Shall I take your card?”
“No, it isn’t necessary,” replied The Thinking Machine. “We are from the theatre. He is expecting us.”
“Second floor, rear,” said the maid.
They ascended the stairs and paused in front of a door. The Thinking Machine tried it softly. It was unlocked and he pushed it open. A bright light blazed from a gas jet but no person was in sight. As they stood silent, they heard a newspaper rattle and both looked in the direction whence came the sound.
Still no one appeared. The Thinking Machine raised a finger and tiptoed to a large upholstered chair which faced the other way. One slender hand disappeared on the other side to be lifted immediately. Wriggling in his grasp was a man—a toyman—a midget miniature in smoking jacket and slippers who swore fluently in German. Hatch burst out laughing, an uncontrollable fit which left him breathless.
“Mr. Berkerstrom, Mr. Hatch,” said The Thinking Machine gravely. “This is the gentleman, Mr. Hatch, who stole the radium. Before you begin to talk, Mr. Berkerstrom, I will say that Mme. du Chastaigny has been arrested and has confessed.”
“Ach, Gott!” raged the little German. “Let me down, der chair in, ef you blease.”
The Thinking Machine lowered the tiny wriggling figure into the chair while Hatch closed and locked the door. When the reporter came back and looked, laughter was gone. The drawn wrinkled face of the midget, the babyish body, the toy clothing, added to the pitiful helplessness of the little figure. His age might have been fifteen or fifty, his weight was certainly not more than twenty-five pounds, his height barely thirty inches.
“It iss as we did him in der theatre, und—” Mr. Berkerstrom started to explain limpingly.
“Oh, that was it?” inquired The Thinking Machine curiously as if some question in his own mind had been settled. “What is Mme. du Chastaigny’s correct name?”
“She iss der famous Mlle. Fanchon, und I am der marvellous midget, Count von Fritz,” proclaimed Mr. Berkerstrom proudly in play-bill fashion.
Then a glimmer of what had actually happened flashed through Hatch’s mind; he was staggered by the sublime audacity which made it possible. The Thinking Machine arose and opened a closet door at which he had been staring. From a dark recess he dragged out a suit case and from this in turn a small steel box.
“Ah, here is the radium,” he remarked as he opened the box. “Think of it, Mr. Hatch. An actual value of millions in that small box.”
Hatch was thinking of it, thinking all sorts of things, as he mentally framed an opening paragraph for this whooping big yarn. He was still thinking of it as he and The Thinking Machine accompanied willingly enough by the midget, entered the cab and were driven back to the scientist’s house.
An hour later Mme. du Chastaigny called by request. She imagined her visit had something to do with the purchase of an ounce of radium; Detective Mallory, watching her out a corner of his official eye, imagined she imagined that. The next caller was Professor Dexter. Dumb anger gnawed at his heart, but he had heeded a telephone request. The Thinking Machine and Hatch completed the party.
“Now, Mme. du Chastaigny, please,” The Thinking Machine began quietly, “will you please inform me if you have another ounce of radium in addition to that you stole from the Yarvard laboratory?”
Mme. du Chastaigny leaped to her feet. The Thinking Machine was staring upward with squint eyes and finger tips pressed together. He didn’t alter his position in the slightest at her sudden move—but Detective Mallory did.
“Stole?” exclaimed Mme. du Chastaigny. “Stole?”
“That’s the word I used,” said The Thinking Machine almost pleasantly.
Into the woman’s eyes there leapt a blaze of tigerish ferocity. Her face flushed, then the colour fled and she sat down again, perfectly pallid.
