Fairbanks was silent for several minutes as he lay back with his eyes closed. “But the vital thing, the real thing that bewildered me most of all,” he said slowly, “you haven’t touched. That is, Why was it that after all my searching for the road to the left and the farm house, I didn’t find them, if they were there?”

  “Of course you don’t remember,” explained The Thinking Machine; “but the night our party went over the route I asked Dr. Pollock and Mr. Hatch just after we left the little store whether they had noticed anything peculiar. They replied in the negative. As a matter of fact,” and the scientist was speaking very quietly, “our automobile went the same way yours had gone—not toward Millen, as you supposed and they supposed, but back toward Pelham. You didn’t find the road to the left and the farm house when you were searching, for the reason that they were beyond the little store toward Pelham, eight or ten miles away.”

  A great wave of relief swept over the young man, and he leaned forward eagerly. “But wouldn’t I have known when I turned the wrong way?” he demanded.

  The Thinking Machine shrugged his shoulders. “You would have known in daylight, yes,” was the reply, “but at night, in a hurry and somewhat confused by the flying dust, you turned the wrong way—toward Pelham, not toward Millen. You see that is possible when I tell you that Dr. Pollock and Mr. Hatch didn’t notice that we had turned the wrong way, when there was no storm, and when I asked them if they had noticed anything peculiar.”

  There was a long silence. Fairbanks dropped back in the bed and lay silent.

  “In your manuscript,” resumed The Thinking Machine at last, “you mentioned that you seemed to hear some one calling you as you started away from the little store. This you attributed vaguely to imagination. As a matter of fact, you did hear some one call—it was the man who sold you the gasolene. He knew you intended going to Millen, saw that you had turned the wrong way, and called to tell you so. You didn’t wait to hear.”

  And that was all of it.

  MYSTERY OF THE GRIP OF DEATH

  I

  Deep silence, then a long shuddering wail of terror, a stifled, strangling cry for help, the sound of a body falling, and again deep silence. A pause, and after awhile the tramp, tramp of heavy shoes through a lower hall. A door slammed and a man staggered out into a deserted street, haggard, trembling and with lips hard set. He reeled down the street and turned the first corner, waving his trembling hands fantastically.

  Another pause, and spears of light flashed through the black night from the second floor of a great six-story tenement in South Boston, then came the sound of stockinged feet hurrying along the hall. Half a dozen horror-stricken men and women gathered at the door of the room whence had come the cry, helplessly gazing into one another’s eyes, waiting, waiting, listening.

  Finally, from inside the room, they heard a faint whispering sound as of wind rustling through dead leaves, or the silken swish of skirts, or the gasp of a dying man. They listened with strained attention until the noise stopped.

  At last one of the men rapped on the door lightly. There was no answer, no sound. Again he rapped, this time louder; then he beat his fists on the door and called out. Still a silence that was terrifying. Mute inquiry lay in the eyes of all.

  “Break in the door,” said some one at length, in an awed whisper.

  “Send for the police,” said another.

  The police came. They smashed in the door, old and rotting from age, and two of them entered the dark room. One of them used his lantern and those who crowded the door heard an exclamation.

  “He’s dead!”

  Peering curiously around the corner of the door the white-faced watchers in the hall saw a man, dressed for bed, lying still on the floor. Two chairs had been overturned; the bed clothing was disarranged. One of the policemen was bending over the body, making a hurried examination. He finally arose.

  “Strangled to death with a rope—but no rope here,” he explained to the other. “This is a case for a medical examiner and detectives.”

  “What’s his name?” asked one of the policemen of a man who stood looking in curiously.

  “Fred Boyd,” was the reply.

  “Have a roommate?”

  “No.”

  The other policeman was fumbling about the table with his light. At last he turned and held up something in his hand.

  “Look here,” he said.

  It was a new wedding ring. The bright gold glittered in the lantern light.

  An hour later a man turned from a side street into the avenue where stood the big tenement house, and swung along in that direction. It was the man who had left the lower door soon after the cries were heard on the second floor. Then his face had been haggard, distorted; now it was calm. One might even trace a line of melancholy and regret there.

  Around the street door of the tenement was gathered a crowd of half a hundred curious ones, half-clad and shivering in the chill of the night, all craning their necks to see into the hall over the broad shoulders of a policeman who barred the door.

  From a score of windows the heads of other curious ones were thrust out; there was the hum of subdued conversation.

  The stranger paused on the outskirts of the little knot and peered curiously into the hall, as others were doing. He saw nothing, and turned to a bystander.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Man murdered inside,” was the short response.

  “Murdered?” exclaimed the stranger, “who was it?”

  “Fellow named Fred Boyd.”

  A flash of horror passed over the stranger’s face and he made an involuntary motion with his hand toward his heart. Then he steadied himself with an effort.

  “How was he—he murdered?” he asked.

  “Choked to death,” said the other. “Somebody heard him yell for help a little while ago, and when a policeman came he smashed in the door and found him dead. The body was still warm.”

  The stranger’s face was white as death now and his lips moved nervously. His hands, thrust deep into his pockets, were clenched until the nails cut the flesh.

  “What time did it happen?” he said.

  “The cop says about fifteen minutes to eleven,” was the reply. “One of the tenants who lived on the second floor, where Boyd had a room, looked at his clock when he got up after he heard Boyd shout, so they know just when it was.”

  Uncontrollable terror glittered in the stranger’s eyes, but none noted it. All were intently looking into the hall waiting for something.

  “Medical Examiner Barry and Detective Mallory are up there now,” volunteered the bystander. “The body will be coming out in a minute.”

  Then an awed whisper went around: “It’s coming.”

  The stranger stood peering on as the others did.

  “Do they know who did it?” he asked. His voice was tense, and he fiercely repressed a quaver in it.

  “No,” said his informant. “I heard, though, that a fellow had been up in Boyd’s room tonight, and the man who had the next room heard them talking very loud. They had been playing cards.”

  “Did the man go out?” asked the stranger.

  “Nobody saw him if he did,” was the reply. “I guess, though, the police know who he was, and they’re probably looking for him by this time. If they don’t know, Mallory’ll find him out all right.”

  “Great God!” exclaimed the stranger between his tightly compressed lips.

  The other man turned and looked at him curiously.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing, nothing,” said the stranger, hurriedly. “Look, there it comes—that’s all. It’s awful, awful, awful.”

  The big policeman in the door stepped to one side, and men came out bearing a litter, on which lay a grim, grisly something that had been a man. It was covered with a sheet. Beside it were Detective Mallory and Medical Examiner Barry. The little knot of onlookers was silent in the presence of death.

  The stranger looked, looked as if fascinated by the horrid thing which lay there, watched them put the litter into the police ambulance, heard the Medical Examiner give some instructions and then Detective Mallory reentered the house. The wagon drove away.

  Turning suddenly, the stranger strode quickly down the avenue to the first corner. There he turned away and was swallowed up in the darkness. After a moment, from a distance, came the sound of a man’s footsteps, running.

  II

  Several newspaper men, among them Hutchinson Hatch, went over the scene of the crime with Detective Mallory. It was a square, corner room on the second floor. The furniture consisted only of a bed, a table, a wash stand, chairs, there was no carpet to cover the gaping cracks in the floor, no curtains on the two windows.

  The building was old and poorly constructed. Here a part of the cornice was sagging and broken, there the walls were mouldy; the ceiling was blotched with smoke, over by the steam radiator rats had gnawed a hole big enough to put one’s fist in, the single-stemmed gas jet was grimy with dirt.

  Of the two windows one was in the back wall and one in the side. Hutchinson Hatch trailed around the room with Detective Mallory. He saw that the two windows were securely fastened down with a sliding catch over the middle of the lower sash; there were no broken panes so that one leaving by the window might have reached in and fastened it after him.

  Mr. Mallory explored the closet, but found only the things that belong to a poor man: clothing, an old hat, a battered trunk. There was no opening, the walls were solid. Then Mr. Mallory went to the door that had been smashed in. It was the only door except that of the closet.

  There was no transom.

  Mr. Mallory and the reporter looked at this door a long time. It had been fastened when the police came—barred with an iron rod from one side to the other—held in round, iron sockets, set in the door facing. Neither of the sockets was open at the top; the bar had to be pushed through one straight on across the door into the other.

  Thus early in the investigation Hutchinson Hatch saw this problem. If the windows were fastened inside and the murderer could not have passed out that way; if the door was fastened inside with an iron bar in both sockets and the murderer could not have gone that way—What then?

  Hatch thought instinctively of a certain scientist and logician of note. Professor Augustus S.

  F. X. Van Dusen, Ph. D., M. D., LL. D., etc., so-called The Thinking Machine, whom he had occasion to know well because of certain previous adventures in which the scientist had accomplished seemingly impossible things.

  “And I think this would stump even him,” Hatch said to himself with a grim smile.

  Then he listened as Detective Mallory questioned the various tenants of the house. Briefly the detective brought out these facts:

  A man, whose description the detective carefully noted, had called to see Boyd that evening about half past eight o’clock. He had been there many times before. Four persons had seen him this evening in Boyd’s room, but no one of these knew his name. Some one passing had seen Boyd playing cards with him.

  Shortly after 10 o’clock, when practically every one in the house had gone to bed, a man and woman in the next room heard Boyd’s voice and that of his caller raised suddenly as if in argument. This continued for five minutes or so, then it quieted down. Such things were common in the tenement and the man and woman dropped off to sleep, thinking nothing of it.

  Some time later, evidently only a few minutes, they were awakened by that pitiful, terror-stricken cry which made them shudder. With others in the house who had been aroused they dressed hurriedly. It was then they heard heavy foot steps in the hall below and the street door opened with a bang.

  Both were of the opinion not five minutes could not have elapsed from the time they heard the cry until they stood outside the door where the man lay. They would have heard, they thought, anyone leave Boyd’s room after they were awakened by the cry, yet there was no sound from there when they stood in the hall. Then they heard—what?

  “It was a peculiar sound,” the man explained. “It struck me first that it was the swish of silk skirt, then, of course, as no woman was in the room, it must have been the dying man breathing.”

  “Silk skirt! Woman! woman! wedding ring!” Hatch thought. Whose was it? How could a woman have escaped from the room when it seemed that it would have been impossible for a man to escape? The questionings concluded, Detective Mallory turned graciously to the representatives of the press who were waiting impatiently. It was after midnight, dangerously near the first edition time, and the reporters were anxious for the detective’s comment.

  He was about to begin when another reporter, one of Hatch’s fellow workers, entered, called Hatch to one side and said something quickly. Hatch nodded his head and idly fingered a pack of playing cards he had taken from the table.

  “Good,” he said, “Go back to the office and write the story. I’ll ’phone Mallory’s statement and tell him that other thing. I want to do a little more work, but I’ll be at the office by halfpast 2 o’clock.”

  The reporter went out hurriedly.

  “I suppose you boys want to know something about how all this happened?” the detective was saying. He lighted a cigar and spread his feet wide apart. “I’ll tell you all I can—not all I know, mind you, because that wouldn’t be wise, but how the murder happened, and you can put in the thrill and all that to suit yourself.

  “About halfpast 8 o’clock tonight a man called here to see Boyd. He knew Boyd very well—was probably a friend of several years’ standing—and had called here frequently. We have an accurate description of him. He was seen by several persons who knew him by sight, therefore will be able to absolutely identify him when we arrest him.

  “Now, those two men were together in this room for possibly two hours. They were playing cards. More than half the murders on record are committed in the heat of passion. These men quarrelled over their game, probably ‘pitch’ or ‘casino’—”

  “It’s a pinochle pack,” said Hatch.

  “Then the crime was committed,” the detective went on, not heeding the interruption, “the unknown man was sitting here,” and Mallory indicated an overturned chair to his right.

  “He leaped like this,” and the detective, with a full eye for dramatic effect, illustrated, “seized Boyd by the throat, there was a struggle, notice the other overturned chair—and the unknown man bore Boyd down gripping his throat. He choked him to death.”

  “I thought the dead man was undressed when he was found?” asked Hatch. “The bed, too,” and he indicated its disordered condition.

  “He was, but—but it must have happened as I said,” said the detective. He didn’t like reporters who asked embarrassing questions. “His victim dead, the murderer went out by that door,” and he pointed dramatically.

  “Through the keyhole, I suppose?” said Hatch, quietly. “That door was fastened inside as no mere mortal could fasten it after he left the room.”

  “It’s an old burglar’s trick to fasten a door after you leave the room,” said the detective, loftily.

  “How about the wedding ring?”

  “Ah!” and the detective looked wise. “There’s nothing to be said of that now.” He saw suddenly that he had made one mistake and he felt his prestige slipping away. The reporters turned a flood of questions upon him: “How did it happen Boyd was undressed?”

  “Who put out the gas?”

  “How would a burglar replace an iron bar like that?”

  “Do you suspect a burglar?”

  Mr. Mallory raised his hand. “I will say absolutely nothing else about the case.”

  “Let’s see if we understand you,” said Hatch, and there was a mocking smile on his lips. “The police theory briefly is this: A man came here, there was a quarrel, a struggle; Boyd was killed, choked; then the murderer left this room by that door, possibly through the keyhole or a convenient crack. Then, being dead, Boyd got up, took off his clothes, turned out the gas, lay down on the floor, screamed for help and died again. Is that right?”

  “Bah!” thundered Mr. Mallory, on the verge of apoplexy. “Perhaps,” he added scornfully, “you know more about it than I do.”

  “Well, yes, I’ll confess that,” said Hatch. “I know at least the name of the man who was here tonight, and these other reporters will know it when their outside men come in.”

  “You do, eh,” demanded Mr. Mallory. “Who is it?”

  “His name is Frank Cunningham, a watchmaker of No. 213—Street.”

  “Then he is Boyd’s murderer,” Mr. Mallory declared. “We’ll have him under arrest in an hour.”

  “He has disappeared,” said Hatch, and he left the room.

  III

  From the South Boston tenement house Hutchinson Hatch went to the undertaking establishment where the body of Fred Boyd lay, made a careful examination of the mark which showed that he had been throttled, and then went in a cab to the home of Professor Van Dusen, The Thinking Machine. As he drove up he noticed a bright light in the professor’s laboratory. It was just fifteen minutes past 1 o’clock when he ascended the steps.

  The Thinking Machine in person answered the door bell, the leonine head with its shock of yellow hair, the clean shaven face, and the perpetually squinted eyes behind thick glasses standing out boldly and grotesquely in the light from a nearby arc.

  “Who is it?” asked The Thinking Machine.

  “Hutchinson Hatch,” said the reporter. “I saw your light and I was particularly anxious for a little advise, so I thought—”

  “Come in,” said the scientist, and he extended his long, slender fingers cordially.

  Hatch followed the thin, bowed figure of the scientist, which seemed that of a child, into the laboratory where he was motioned to a seat. Then Hatch told the story of the crime, so far as it was known, while the professor sat squinting steadily at him, his long taper fingers pressed together.

  “Did you see the man?” asked The Thinking Machine.

 

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