The jacques futrelle meg.., p.56
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack, page 56
Then he understood. The mysterious tread was stilled now, as if the person had stopped, and it remained still for several minutes. The Thinking Machine crept silently, cautiously, toward the door and stepped out into the hall. Leaning over the stair rail, he listened. And after awhile the tread sounded again. He drew back into the shadow of a linen closet as the sound grew nearer—stood stockstill staring into blank nothingness as it was almost upon him; then the footsteps receded gradually along the hall, down the stairs, growing fainter, until the receding echo was lost in the silence of the night.
Whereupon The Thinking Machine went boldly up the stairs to the fourth floor, the top. He mounted confidently, as if expecting something to reward his scrutiny; but his eyes rested only upon the bleak desolation of unoccupied apartments. He went straight to the rear room, above the one he had just left, and directly across to one of the windows. Faint, rosy streaks of dawn slashed the east—just enough natural light to show dimly a silken wire hanging down from the middle of the window outside. He opened the window, drew in the wire, and examined it carefully under the electric light, and nodded as if he understood.
Finally he turned abruptly and retraced his steps to the first floor. There he paused to examine the knob of the front door; then went on down into the basement. Instead of examining the door there, however, he turned back under the stairs. There he found another door—a door to the subcellar, standing open a scant few inches. A damp, moldy smell came up. After a moment he pushed the door open slowly and ventured one foot forward in the darkness. It found a step, and he began to descend. The fourth step down creaked suddenly, and he paused to listen intently. Utter silence!
Then on down, ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen, steps, and his foot struck soft, yielding earth. Safely on the ground again, in the protecting gloom, he stood still for a long time, peering blindly around him. At last a blaze of light leaped from the electric bulb, which was extended far from the body to the right, and The Thinking Machine drew a quick breath. It might have been surprise; for within the glow of the light lay the figure of a young man, a boy almost, flat of his back on the muddy earth, with eyes blinking in the glare. His feet were bound tight together with a rope, and his hands were evidently fastened behind him.
“Are you the gentleman who telephoned for me?” inquired The Thinking Machine calmly.
There was no answer, and yet the prostrate man was fully conscious, as proved by the moving eyes and a twitching of his limbs.
“Well?” demanded the scientist impatiently. “Can’t you talk?”
His answer was a flash of flame, the crash of a revolver at short range, and the light dropped, automatically extinguished as the pressure on the button was removed. Upon this came the sound of a body falling. There was a long drawn gasp, and again silence.
“For God’s sake, Cranston!” came the explosive voice of a man after a moment. “You’ve killed him!”
“Well, I’m not in this game to spend the rest of my life in jail,” was the answer, almost a snarl. “I didn’t want to kill anybody; but if I had to, all right. If it hadn’t been for this kid here, we’d have been all right anyway. I’ve got a good mind to give him one too, while I’m at it!”
“Well, why don’t you?” came a third voice. It was taunting, cold, unafraid.
“Oh, shut up!”
Feet moved uncertainly, feelingly, over the soft earth and stumbled upon the inert, limp figure of The Thinking Machine, lying face down on the ground, almost at the feet of the bound man. One of the men who had spoken stooped, and his fingers touched the still, slim body. He withdrew his hands quickly.
“Is he dead?” some one asked.
“My God, man! Why did you do it?” exclaimed the man who had spoken first, and there was a passionate undertone in his voice. “I never dreamed that this thing would lead to—to murder!”
“It hardly seems to be a time to debate why I did it,” was the brutal response; “so much as it is to decide what we’ll do now that it is done. We might drop this body in the coal bin in the basement until we finish up here; but what shall we do with the boy? We are both guilty—he saw it. He wanted to tell the other. What will he do now?”
“He’ll tell it just so surely as he lives,” the bound man answered for himself.
“In that case there’s only one thing to do,” declared Cranston flatly. “We’d better make a double job of this, leave them both here, and get away.”
“Don’t kill me—don’t kill me!” whined the young man suddenly. “I won’t ever tell—I promise! Don’t kill me!”
“Oh, shut up!” snarled Cranston. “We’ll attend to you later. Got a match?”
“Don’t strike a light,” commanded the other man sharply, fearfully. “No, don’t! Why, man, suppose—suppose your shot had struck him in—in the face. God!”
“Well, help me lift it,” asked Cranston shortly.
And between them they carried the childlike body of the eminent man of science through the darkness to the stairs, up the stairs and through the basement to the back. The dawn was growing now, and the pallid, drawn face of The Thinking Machine was dimly visible by a light from the window. The eyes were wide open, glassy; the mouth agape slightly. Overcome by a newborn terror—hideous fear—the two men flung the body brutally into an open coal bin, slammed down the cover, and went stumbling, clattering, out of the room.
It was something less than half an hour later that the lid of the coal bin was raised from inside, and The Thinking Machine clambered out. He paused for a moment, to rub his knees and elbows ruefully and stretch his cramped limbs.
“Dear me! Dear me!” he grumbled to himself. “I really must be more careful.”
And then straight back to the entrance of the subcellar he went. It was lighter outside now, and he walked with the assurance of one who saw where he went, yet noiselessly. But the door of the stairs leading down still revealed only a yawning, black hole. He went on without the slightest hesitation, remembering to step over the fourth step, which had squeaked once before. In the gloom below, standing on the earth again, he listened for many minutes.
Assured at last that he was alone, he groped about the floor for his electric light, and finally found it. Without fear or apparent caution he examined the huge, dark, damp room. On each side were thrown up banks of dirt that seemed to have been dug recently, and here before him was where the bound man had lain. And over there—he started forward eagerly when he saw it—was a telephone! The transmitter box had been wrecked by what seemed to be a bullet. As he saw it he nodded his head comprehendingly.
From there he went on around some masonry. Here was a passage of some sort. He flashed the light into it. It had been dug out of the solid earth, and its existence evidently accounted for the heaps of dirt in the subcellar. Still he didn’t hesitate. Straight along the passage he went, wary of step, and stooping occasionally to avoid striking his head against the earth above him. Ten, fifteen, twenty, feet he went, and still the gloomy, foul smelling hole lay ahead of him, leading to—what? At about thirtyfive feet from the subcellar there was a sharp turn—he thought at first it was the end of the tunnel—then the passage straightened out again, and there was another fifteen or twenty feet, growing smaller and smaller as he went forward.
Suddenly the tunnel stopped. The Thinking Machine found himself flattening his nose against a door of some sort. He allowed his light to fade, then dimly, through a cranny, he saw a faint glow outside. This seemed to be his destination, wherever it was—and he paused thoughtfully. Obviously the light outside was electric, and if electric light might not some one be in there? A subterranean chamber of some sort, perhaps? His fingers ran around the edge of the door, loosened a fastening, and he peered out. Then, assured again, he opened the door wide, and stepped out into a brilliant glare.
He was in the subway. He stood blinking incredulously. Here to his right the shining rails went winding off round a curve in the far distance; and to the left was a quicker turn in the line of the excavation. In neither direction was there anything that looked like a station.
“Really, this is most extraordinary!” he exclaimed.
Then and there the eminent man of science paused to consider this weird thing from all possible viewpoints. It was unbelievable, positively nightmarish; yet true enough, for here he stood in the subway. There was no question about that; for in the distance was the roar of a train, and he discreetly withdrew into the little door, closing it carefully behind him until it had passed.
Finally he popped out again, closed the door behind him, paused only to admire the skill with which a portion of the tiling in the tunnel had been utilized as a door, then went on across the tracks. It was still early morning; the trains were as yet few and far between; so he had a little leisure for the minute examination he made of the tiled walls opposite the closed door. It was perhaps ten minutes before he found a tile that was loose. He hauled at it until it came out in his hand, revealing a dark aperture beyond.
Within fifteen minutes, therefore, from the time he undertook the search for the second door he was standing in another narrow, earthy tunnel which beckoned him on. With the ever ready light to guide him, and still proceeding with caution, he advanced for possibly thirty feet; then came a turn. Round the turn he found himself in a sort of room—another cellar, perhaps. He permitted his light to go out, and stood listening, straining his squint eyes. After a time he was satisfied and flashed his light again.
Directly before him were half a dozen rough steps, leading up to what seemed to be a trap door. He had barely time to notice this and to see that the trap door was hanging open, when there came a cyclonic rush toward him out of the darkness, from the direction of his right, something whizzed past his head, causing him to drop the precious light, and instinctively he ran up the steps. The gloom above was no more dangerous, he thought, than the gloom below, and he went on, finally passing through the trap and standing on a hard floor above.
There was the sound of a fierce, desperate struggle down there somewhere, cursing, blasphemy, then the noise of feet on the steps coming toward him, and the trap door closed with the heavy, resonant clang of iron. He was alone, his light lost. A sudden strange, awful silence closed down around him, a silence alive with suggestion of unseen, unknown dangers. He stood for a moment, then sank down upon the floor wearily.
Cashier Randall stood beside the ponderous door of the vault, watch in hand. It was two minutes of ten o’clock. At precisely ten the time lock on the massive steel structure, built into the solid masonry of the bank, would bring the mechanism into position for the combination to work. Already the various clerks and tellers were at their posts; books and money were in the vault. At length there came a whir and a sharp click in the heavy door, and the cashier whirled the combination. A few minutes later he pulled open the outer door with a perceptible effort, then turned his attention to the combination lock on the second door. This yielded more readily; but there was still another door, the third to be unlocked. Altogether the task of opening the huge vault required something like six minutes.
Finally Cashier Randall threw open the light third door, then touched an electric button to his right. Instantly the gloom of the structure was dispelled by a flood of light, and he started back in amazement. Almost at his feet, on the floor of the vault, was the huddled figure of a man. Dead? Or unconscious? Certainly there was no movement to indicate life, and the cashier stepped backward into the office with blanched face.
Others came crowding round and saw, and startled glances were exchanged.
“You, Carroll and Young, lift him out, please,” requested the cashier quietly. “Don’t make any noise about it. Take him to my office.”
The order was obeyed in silence. Then Cashier Randall in person went into the vault and ran hurriedly through the piles of money which lay there. He came out at last and spoke to one of the paying tellers.
“The money is all right,” he said, with a relieved expression in his face. “Have it all counted carefully, please, and report to me.”
He retired into his private office and closed the door behind him. Carroll and Young stood staring down curiously at the man who now lay stretched full length on the couch. They looked at the cashier inquiringly.
“I think it’s a matter for the police,” continued the cashier after a moment and he picked up the receiver of the telephone.
“But how—how did he get in the vault?” stammered Carroll.
“I don’t know. Hello! Police headquarters, please.”
“Anything missing, sir?” inquired Young.
“Not so far as we know,” was the reply. “Don’t make any excitement about it, please. He is breathing yet, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” answered Carroll. “He doesn’t seem to be hurt—just unconscious.”
“Lack of air,” said the cashier. “He must have been in there all night. It’s enough to kill him. Hello! I want to speak to the chief of detectives. Mr. Mallory, yes. This is the Grandison National Bank, Mr. Mallory. Can you come down at once, please, and investigate a matter of great importance?”
Fifteen minutes later Detective Mallory walked into the cashier’s private office. Instantly his eyes fell upon the recumbent figure on the couch, and there came with the glimpse a strange, startled expression.
“Well, for—” he blurted. “Where did you get hold of him?”
“I found him in the vault just now when I opened it,” was the reply. “Do you know him?”
“Know him?” bellowed Detective Mallory. “Know him? Why it’s Professor Van Dusen, a distinguished scientist. He’s the fellow they call The Thinking Machine sometimes.” He paused incredulously. “Have you sent for a doctor? Well, send for one quick!”
With the tender care of a mother for her child the detective hovered about the couch whereon The Thinking Machine lay, having first opened the window, and pausing now and then to swear roundly at the physician’s delay in arriving. And at last the doctor came. Quick restoratives brought the scientist to consciousness within a few minutes.
“Ah, Mr. Mallory!” he remarked weakly. “Please have the doors locked, and put somebody you can trust on guard. Don’t let anyone out. I’ll explain in a minute or so.”
The detective rushed out of the room, returning a moment later. He found The Thinking Machine talking to the cashier.
“Have you a man named Cranston employed here in the bank?”
“Yes,” replied the cashier.
“Arrest him, Mr. Mallory,” directed The Thinking Machine. “Doctor, just the least bit of nitroglycerin, please, in my left arm, here. And, also, Mr. Mallory, arrest any particular chum of this man Cranston; also a young man, almost a boy, possibly employed here—probably a relative or closely connected with Cranston’s chum. That will do, doctor. Thanks! Anything stolen?”
The detective glanced inquiringly at the cashier.
“No,” replied that official.
The Thinking Machine dropped back on the couch, closed his eyes, and lay silent for a moment.
“Pretty bad pulse, doctor,” he remarked at last. “Charge your hypodermic again. What bank is this, Mr. Mallory?”
“Grandison National,” the detective informed him. “What happened to you? How did it come you were in the vault?”
“It was awful, Mr. Mallory—awful, believe me!” was the reply. “I’ll tell you about it after awhile. Meanwhile be sure to get Cranston and—”
And he fainted.
Twenty-four hours’ rest in his own home, under the watchful eye of a physician, restored The Thinking Machine to a physical condition almost normal. But the whys and wherefors of his mysterious presence in the vault of the bank were still matters of eager speculation, but speculation only, to both the police and the bank officials. His last words, before being removed to his own apartments, had been a warning against the further use of the vault; but no explanation accompanied it.
Meanwhile Detective Mallory and his men rounded up three prisoners—Harry Cranston, a middle aged and long trusted employee of the bank; David Ellis Burge, a young mechanical engineer with whom Cranston had been upon terms of great intimacy for many months; and Richard Folsom, a stalwart young nephew of Burge’s, himself a student of mechanical engineering. They were held upon charges born in the fertile mind of Detective Mallory, carefully isolated from one another and from the outside.
The Thinking Machine told his story in detail, incident by incident, from the moment of the telephone call until the trap door closed behind him and he found himself in the vault of a bank. His listeners, Detective Mallory, President Hall and Cashier Randall of the Grandison National, and Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, absorbed it in utter amazement.
“Certainly it was the most elusive problem that has ever come under my observation,” declared the diminutive man of science. “It was so elusive, so compelling, that I indiscreetly placed my life in danger twice, and I didn’t know definitely what it all meant until I knew I was in the vault. No man may know that slow suffocation, that hideous gasping for breath as minute after minute went by, unless he has felt it. And, gentlemen, if I had been killed one of the most valuable minds in the sciences would have been lost. It would have been nothing less than a catastrophe.” He paused and settled back into that position which was so familiar to at least two of his hearers.
“When I got the telephone call,” he resumed after a moment, “it told me several things beyond the obvious. The logic of it all—and logic, gentlemen, is incontrovertible—was that some man was in danger, in danger even as he talked to me, that he had tried to reach me, seeking help, that the first interruption on the wire came because perhaps he was being choked, and that the second came—the shot which wrecked the instrument—as a desperate expedient to prevent further conversation. The scene was quite clear in my mind.
