The jacques futrelle meg.., p.43
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack, page 43
The eminent logician dried his hands and started for the reception room. At the door he paused and peered in. With no knowledge of just what style of fit his visitor had chosen to have he felt the necessity of this caution. What he saw was not alarming—merely a good-looking young man pacing back and forth across the room with quick, savage stride. His eyes were blazing, and his face was flushed with anger. It was Mr. van Safford.
At sight of the diminutive figure of The Thinking Machine, topped by the enormous yellow head, the young man paused and his anger-distorted features relaxed into something closely approaching surprise.
“Well?” demanded The Thinking Machine, querulously.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. van Safford with a slight start. “I—I had expected to find a—a—rather a different sort of person.”
“Yes, I know,” said The Thinking Machine grumpily. “A man with a black moustache and big feet. Sit down.”
Mr. van Safford sat down rather suddenly. It never occurred to anyone to do other than obey when the crabbed little scientist spoke. Then, with an incoherence which was thoroughly convincing, Mr. van Safford laid before The Thinking Machine in detail those singular happenings which had so disturbed him. The Thinking Machine leaned back in his chair, with finger tips pressed together, and listened to the end.
“My mental condition—my suffering—was such,” explained Mr. van Safford in conclusion, “that when I proved to my own satisfaction that she had twice misrepresented the facts to me, wilfully, I—I could have strangled her.”
“That would have been a nice thing to do,” remarked the scientist crustily. “You believe, then, that there may be another—”
“Don’t say it,” burst out the young man passionately. He arose. His face was dead white. “Don’t say it,” he repeated, menacingly.
The Thinking Machine was silent a moment, then glanced up in the blazing eyes and cleared his throat.
“She never did such a thing before?” he asked.
“No, never.”
“Does she—did she—ever speculate?”
Mr. van Safford sat down again.
“Never,” he responded, positively. “She wouldn’t know one stock from another.”
“Has her own bank account?”
“Yes—nearly four hundred thousand dollars. This was her father’s gift at our wedding. It was deposited in her name, and has remained so. My own income is more than enough for our uses.”
“You are rich, then?”
“My father left me nearly two million dollars,” was the reply. “But this all doesn’t matter. What I want—”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted The Thinking Machine testily. There was a long pause. “You have never quarrelled seriously?”
“Never one cross word,” was the reply.
“Remarkable,” commented The Thinking Machine ambiguously. “How long have you been married?”
“Two years—last June.”
“Most remarkable,” supplemented the scientist. Mr. van Safford stared. “How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
“How long have you been thirty?”
“Six months—since last May.”
There was a long pause. Mr. van Safford plainly did not see the trend of the questioning.
“How old is your wife?” demanded the scientist.
“Twenty-two, in January.”
“She has never had any mental trouble of any sort?”
“No, no.”
“Have you any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Has she?”
“No.”
The Thinking Machine shot out the questions crustily and Mr. van Safford answered briefly. There was another pause, and the young man arose and paced back and forth with nervous energy. From time to time he glanced inquiringly at the pale, wizened face of the scientist. Several thin lines had appeared in the domelike brow, and he was apparently oblivious of the other’s presence.
“It’s a most intangible, elusive affair,” he commented at last, and the wrinkles deepened. “It is, I may say, a problem without a given quantity. Perfectly extraordinary.”
Mr. van Safford seemed a little relieved to find some one express his own thoughts so accurately.
“You don’t believe, of course,” continued the scientist, “that there is anything criminal in—”
“Certainly not!” the young man exploded, violently.
“Yet, the moment we pursue this to a logical conclusion,” pursued the other, “we are more than likely to uncover something which is, to put it mildly, not pleasant.”
Mr. van Safford’s face was perfectly white; his hands were clenched desperately. Then the loyalty to the woman he loved flooded his heart.
“It’s nothing of that kind,” he exclaimed, and yet his own heart misgave him. “My wife is the dearest, noblest, sweetest woman in the world. And yet—”
“Yet you are jealous of her,” interrupted The Thinking Machine. “If you are so sure of her, why annoy me with your troubles?”
The young man read, perhaps, a deeper meaning than The Thinking Machine had intended for he started forward impulsively. The Thinking Machine continued to squint at him impersonally, but did not change his position.
“All young men are fools,” he went on, blandly, “and I may add that most of the old ones are, too. But now the question is: What purpose can your wife have in acting as she has, and in misrepresenting those acts to you? Of course we must spy upon her to find out, and the answer may be one that will wreck your future happiness. It may be, I say. I don’t know. Do you still want the answer?”
“I want to know—I want to know,” burst out Mr. van Safford, harshly. “I shall go mad unless I know.”
The Thinking Machine continued to squint at him with almost a gleam of pity in his eyes—almost but not quite. And the habitually irritated voice was in no way softened when he gave some explicit and definite instructions.
“Go on about your affairs,” he commanded. “Let things go as they are. Don’t quarrel with your wife; continue to ask your questions because if you don’t she’ll suspect that you suspect; report to me any change in her conduct. It’s a very singular problem. Certainly I have never had another like it.”
The Thinking Machine accompanied him to the door and closed it behind him.
“I have never seen a man in love,” he mused, “who wasn’t in trouble.”
And with this broad, philosophical conclusion he went to the ’phone. Half an hour later Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, entered the laboratory where the scientist sat in deep thought.
“Ah, Mr. Hatch,” he began, without preliminary, “did you ever happen to hear of Mr. and Mrs. van Safford?”
“Well, rather,” responded the reporter with quick interest. “He’s a well known club-man, worth millions, high in society and all that; and she’s one of the most beautiful women I ever saw. She was a Miss Potter before marriage.”
“It’s wonderful the memories you newspaper men have,” observed the scientist. “You know her personally?”
Hatch shook his head.
“You must find some one who knows her well,” commanded The Thinking Machine, “a girl friend, for instance—one who might be in her confidence. Learn from her why Mrs. van Safford leaves her house every morning at eight o’clock, then tells her husband she has been with some one that we know she hasn’t seen. She has done this every day for four days. Your assiduity in this may prevent a divorce.”
Hatch pricked up his ears.
“Also find out just what sort of an illness Miss Nell Blakesley has—or is—suffering. That’s all.”
An hour later Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, called on Miss Gladys Beekman, a young society woman who was an intimate of Mrs. van Safford’s before the latter’s marriage. Without feeling that he was dallying with the truth Hatch informed her that he called on behalf of Mr. van Safford. She began to smile. He laid the case before her emphatically, seriously and with great detail. The more he explained the more pleasantly she smiled. It made him uncomfortable but he struggled on to the end.
“I’m glad she did it,” exclaimed Miss Beekman. “But I—I couldn’t believe she would.”
Then came a sudden gust of laughter which left Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, with the feeling that he was being imposed upon. It continued for a full minute—a hearty, rippling, musical laugh. Hatch grinned sheepishly. Then, without an excuse, Miss Beekman arose and left the room. In the hall there came a fresh burst, and Hatch heard it dying away in the distance.
“Well,” he muttered grimly. “I’m glad I was able to amuse her.”
Then he called upon a Mrs. Francis, a young matron whom he had cause to believe was also favoured with Mrs. van Safford’s friendship. He laid the case before her, and she laughed! Then Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, began to get mule-headed about it. He visited eight other women who were known to be on friendly terms with Mrs. van Safford. Six of them intimated that he was an impertinent, prying, inquisitive person, and—the other two laughed! Hatch paused a moment and rubbed his fevered brow.
“Here’s a corking good joke on somebody,” he told himself, “and I’m beginning to think it’s me.”
Whereupon he took his troubles to The Thinking Machine. That distinguished gentleman listened in pained surprise to the simple recital of what Hatch had not been able to learn, and spidery wrinkles on his forehead assumed the relative importance of the canals on Mars.
“It’s astonishing!” he declared, raspily.
“Yes, it so struck me,” agreed the reporter.
The Thinking Machine was silent for a long time; the watery blue eyes were turned upward and the slender white fingers pressed tip to tip. Finally he made up his mind as to the next step.
“There seems only one thing to do,” he said. “And I won’t ask you to do that.”
“What is it?” demanded the reporter.
“To watch Mrs. van Safford and see where she goes.”
“I wouldn’t have done it before, but I will now.” Hatch responded promptly. The bull-dog in him was aroused. “I want to see what the joke is.”
It was ten o’clock next evening when Hatch called to make a report. He seemed a little weary and tremendously disgusted.
“I’ve been right behind her all day,” he explained, “from eight o’clock this morning until twenty minutes past nine tonight when she reached home. And if the Lord’ll forgive me—”
“What did she do?” interrupted The Thinking Machine, impatiently.
“Well,” and Hatch grinned as he drew out a notebook, “she walked eastward from her house to the first corner, turned, walked another block, took a down town car, and went straight to the Public Library. There she read a Henry James book until fifteen minutes of one, and then she went to luncheon in a restaurant. I also had luncheon. Then she went to the North End on a car. After she got there she wandered around aimlessly all afternoon, nearly. At ten minutes of four she gave a quarter to a crippled boy. He bit it to see if it was good, found it was, then bought cigarettes with it. At half past four she left the North End and went into a big department store. If there’s anything there she didn’t price I can’t remember it. She bought a pair of shoe-laces. The store closed at six, so she went to dinner in another restaurant. I also had dinner. We left there at half past seven o’clock and went back to the Public Library. She read until nine o’clock, and then went home. Phew!” he concluded.
The Thinking Machine had listened with growing and obvious disappointment on his face. He seemed so cast down by the recital that Hatch tried to cheer him.
“I couldn’t help it you know,” he said by way of apology. “That’s what she did.”
“She didn’t speak to anyone?”
“Not a soul but clerks, waiters and library attendants.”
“She didn’t give a note to anyone or receive a note?”
“No.”
“Did she seem to have any purpose at all in anything she did?”
“No. The impression she gave me was that she was killing time.”
The Thinking Machine was silent for several minutes. “I think perhaps—” he began.
But what he thought Hatch didn’t learn for he was sent away with additional instructions. Next morning found him watching the front of the van Safford house again. Mrs. van Safford came out at seven minutes past eight o’clock, and walked rapidly eastward. She turned the first corner and went on, still rapidly, to the corner of an alley. There she paused, cast a quick look behind her, and went in. Hatch was some distance back and ran forward just in time to see her skirts trailing into a door.
“Ah, here’s something anyhow,” he told himself, with grim satisfaction.
He walked along the alley to the door. It was like the other doors along in that it led into the back hall of a house, and was intended for the use of tradesmen. When he examined the door he scratched his chin thoughtfully; then came utter bewilderment, an amazing sense of hopeless insanity. For there, staring at him from a door-plate, was the name: “van Safford.” She had merely come out the front door and gone into the back!
Hatch started to rap and ask some questions, then changed his mind and walked around to the front again, and up the steps.
“Is Mrs. van Safford in?” he inquired of Baxter, who opened the door.
“No, sir,” was the reply. “She went out a few minutes ago.”
Hatch stared at him coldly a minute, then walked away.
“Now this is a particularly savoury kettle of fish,” he soliloquized. “She has either gone back into the house without his knowledge, or else he has been bribed, and then—”
And then, he took the story to The Thinking Machine. That imperturbable man of science listened to the end, then arose and said “Oh!” three times. Which was interesting to Hatch in that it showed the end was in sight, but it was not illuminating. He was still floundering.
The Thinking Machine started into an adjoining room, then turned back.
“By the way, Mr. Hatch,” he asked, “did you happen to find out what was the matter with Miss Blakesley?”
“By George, I forgot it,” returned the reporter, ruefully.
“Never mind, I’ll find out.”
At eleven o’clock Hutchinson Hatch and The Thinking Machine called at the van Safford home. Mr. van Safford in person received them; there was a gleam of hope in his face at sight of the diminutive scientist. Hatch was introduced, then:
“You don’t know of any other van Safford family in this block?” began the scientist.
“There’s not another family in the city,” was the reply. “Why?”
“Is your wife in now?”
“No. She went out this morning, as usual.”
“Now, Mr. van Safford, I’ll tell you how you may bring this matter to an end, and understand it all at once. Go upstairs to your wife’s apartments—they are probably locked—and call her. She won’t answer but she’ll hear you. Then tell her you understand it all, and that you’re sorry. She’ll hear that, as that alone is what she has been waiting to hear for some time. When she comes out bring her down stairs. Believe me I should be delighted to meet so clever a woman.”
Mr. van Safford was looking at him as if he doubted his sanity.
“Really,” he said coldly, “what sort of child’s play is this?”
“It’s the only way you’ll ever coax her out of that room,” snapped The Thinking Machine belligerently, “and you’d better do it gracefully.”
“Are you serious?” demanded the other.
“Perfectly serious,” was the crabbed rejoinder. “She has taught you a lesson that you’ll remember for sometime. She has been merely going out the front door every day, and coming in the back, with the full knowledge of the cook and her maid.”
Mr. van Safford listened in amazement.
“Why did she do it?” he asked.
“Why?” retorted The Thinking Machine. “That’s for you to answer. A little less of your time at the club of evenings, and a little less of selfish amusement, so that you can pay attention to a beautiful woman who has, previous to her marriage at least, been accustomed to constant attention, would solve this little problem. You’ve spent every evening at your club for months, and she was here alone probably a great part of that time. In your own selfishness you had never a thought of her, so she gave you a reason to think of her.”
Suddenly Mr. van Safford turned and ran out of the room. They heard him as he took the stairs, two at a time.
“By George!” remarked Hatch. “That’s a silly ending to a cracking good mystery, isn’t it?”
Ten minutes later Mr. and Mrs. van Safford entered the room. Her pretty face was suffused with colour: he was frankly, outrageously happy. There were mutual introductions.
“It was perfectly dreadful of Mr. van Safford to call you gentlemen into this affair,” Mrs. van Safford apologized, charmingly. “Really I feel very much ashamed of myself for—”
“It’s of no consequence, madam,” The Thinking Machine assured her. “It’s the first opportunity I have ever had of studying a woman’s mind. It was not at all logical, but it was very—very instructive. I may add that it was effective, too.”
He bowed low, and turning picked up his hat.
“But your fee?” suggested Mr. van Safford.
The Thinking Machine squinted at him sourly. “Oh, yes, my fee,” he mused. “It will be just five thousand dollars.”
“Five thousand dollars?” exclaimed Mr. van Safford.
“Five thousand dollars,” repeated the scientist.
“Why, man, it’s perfectly absurd to talk—”
Mrs. van Safford laid one white hand on her husband’s arm. He glanced at her and she smiled radiantly.
“Don’t you think I’m worth it, Van?” she asked, archly.
He wrote the cheque. The Thinking Machine scribbled his name across the back in a crabbed little hand, and passed it on to Hatch.
“Please hand that to some charitable organization,” he directed. “It was an excellent lesson, Mrs. van Safford. Good day.”
