The jacques futrelle meg.., p.81
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack, page 81
“Sure,” said the detective.
“Let’s go back a little—begin at the beginning, where Mr. Hatch called on me,” said The Thinking Machine. “I can make the matter clearer that way. And I believe the cause of justice, Mr. Mallory, requires absolute accuracy and clarity in all things, does it not?”
“Sure,” said the detective again.
“Well, Mr. Hatch told me at some length of the preliminaries of this case,” explained The Thinking Machine. “He told me the history of the picture; the mystery as to the identity of the model; her great beauty; how he found her to be Grace Field, a shop-girl. He also told me of the mental condition of the artist, St. George, and repeated the rumor as he knew it about the artist being heartbroken because the girl—his model—would not marry him.
“All this brought the artist into the matter of the girl’s disappearance. She represented to him, physically, the highest ideal of which he could conceive—hope, success, life itself. Therefore it was not astonishing that he should fall in love with her; and it is not difficult to imagine that the girl did not fall in love with him. She is a beautiful woman, but not necessarily a woman of mentality; he is a great artist, eccentric, childish even in certain things. They were two natures totally opposed.
“These things I could see instantly. Mr. Hatch showed me the photograph and also the scrap of paper. At the time the scrap of paper meant nothing. As I pointed out, it might have no bearing at all, yet it made it necessary for me to know whose handwriting it was. If Willis’s, it still might mean nothing; if St. George’s, a great deal, because it showed a direct thread to him. There was reason to believe that any friendship between them had ended when the picture was exhibited.
“It was necessary, therefore, even that early in the work of reducing the mystery to logic to center it about St. George. This I explained to Mr. Hatch and pointed out the fact that the girl and the artist might have eloped—were possibly together somewhere. First it was necessary to get to the artist; Mr. Hatch had not been able to do so.
“A childishly simple trick, which seemed to amaze Mr. Hatch considerably, brought the artist out of his rooms after he had been there closely for two days. I told Mr. Hatch that the artist would leave his rooms, if he were there, one night at 9:32, and told him to wait in the hall, then if he left the door open to enter the apartments and search for some trace of the girl. Mr. St. George did leave his apartments at the time I mentioned, and—”
“But why, how?” asked Hatch.
“There was one thing in the world that St. George loved with all his heart,” explained the scientist. “That was his picture. Every act of his life has demonstrated that. I looked at a telephone book; I found he had a ’phone. If he were in his rooms, locked in, it was a bit of common sense that his telephone was the best means of reaching him. He answered the ’phone; I told him, just at 9:30, that the Art Museum was on fire and his picture in danger.
“St. George left his apartments to go and see, just as I knew he would, hatless and coatless, and leaving the door open. Mr. Hatch went inside and found two gloves and a veil, all belonging to Miss Field. Miss Stanford identified them and asked if he had gotten them from Willis, and if Willis had been arrested. Why did she ask these questions? Obviously because she knew, or thought she knew, that Willis had some connection with the affair.
“Mr. Hatch detailed all his discoveries and the conversation with Miss Stanford to me on the day after I ’phoned to St. George, who, of course, had found no fire. It showed that Miss Stanford suspected Willis, whom she loved, of the murder of Miss Field. Why? Because she had heard him threaten. He’s a hare-brained young fool, anyway. What motive? Jealousy. Jealousy of what? He knew in some way that she had posed for a semi nude picture, and that the man who painted it loved her. There is your jealousy. It explains Willis’s every act.”
The Thinking Machine paused a moment, then went on:
“This conversation with Mr. Hatch made me believe Miss Stanford knew more than she was willing to tell. In what way? By a letter? Possibly. She had given Mr. Hatch a scrap of a letter; perhaps she had found another letter, or more of this one. I sent her a note, telling her I knew she had these scraps of letters, and she promptly brought them to me. She had found them after Mr. Hatch saw her first somewhere in the house—in a bureau drawer she said, I think.
“Meanwhile, Mr. Hatch had called my attention to the burglary of St. George’s apartments. One reading of that convinced me that it was Willis who did this. Why? Because burglars don’t burst in doors when they think anyone is inside; they pick the lock. Knowing, too, Willis’s insane jealousy, I figured that he would be the type of man who would go there to kill St. George if he could, particularly if he thought the girl was there.
“Thus it happened that I was not the only one to think that St. George knew where the girl was. Willis, the one most interested, thought she was there. I questioned Miss Stanford mercilessly, trying to get more facts about the young man from her which would bear on this, trying to trick her into some statement, but she was loyal to the last.
“All these things indicated several things. First, that Willis didn’t actually know where the girl was, as he would have known had he killed her; second, that if she had disappeared with a man, it was St. George, as there was no other apparent possibility; third, that St. George would be with her or near her, even if he had killed her; fourth, the pistol shot through the arm had brought on again a mental condition which threatened his entire future, and now as it happens has blighted it.
“Thus, Miss Field and St. George were together. She loved Willis devotedly, therefore she was with St. George against her will, or she was dead. Where? In his rooms? Possibly. I determined to search there. I had just reached this determination when I heard St. George, violently insane, had escaped from the hospital. He had only one purpose then—to get to the woman. Then she was in danger.
“I reasoned along these lines, rushed to the artist’s apartments, found Willis there wounded. He had evidently been there searching when St. George returned, and St. George had attacked him, as a madman will, and with the greater strength of a madman. Then I knew the madman’s first step. It would be the end of everything for him; therefore the death of the girl and his own. How? By poison preferably, because he would not shoot her—he loved beauty too much. Where? Possibly in the place where she had been all along, the closet, carefully padded and prepared to withstand noises. It is really a padded cell. I have an idea that the artist, sometimes overcome by his insane fits, and knowing when they would come, prepared this closet and used it himself occasionally. Here the girl could have been kept and her shrieks would never have been heard. You know the rest.”
The Thinking Machine stopped and arose, as if to end the matter. The others arose, too.
“I took you, Mr. Mallory, because you were a detective, and I knew I could force a way into the apartments which I imagined would be locked. I think that’s all.”
“But how did the girl get there?” asked Hatch.
“St. George evidently asked her to come, possibly to pose again. It was a gratification to the girl to do this—a little touch of vanity caused her to pose in the first place. It was this vanity that Willis was fighting so hard, and which led to his threats and his efforts to kill St. George. Of course the artist was insane when she came; his frantic love for her led him to make her a prisoner and hold her against her will. You saw how well he did it.”
There was an awed pause. Hatch was rubbing the nap of his hat against his sleeve, thoughtfully. Detective Mallory had nothing to say; it was all said. Both turned as if to go, but the reporter had two more questions.
“I suppose St. George’s case is hopeless?”
“Absolutely. It will end in a few months with his death.”
“And Miss Field?”
“If she is not dead by this time she will recover. Wait a minute.” He went into the next room and they heard the telephone bell jingle. After a time he came out. “She will recover,” he said. “Good-afternoon.”
Wonderingly, Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, and Detective Mallory passed down the street together.
PROBLEM OF THE ORGAN GRINDER
Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, was standing in a corner with both hands in his coat pockets. Just three inches to the left of his second waistcoat button was the point of a stiletto, and he glanced at it from time to time in frank uneasiness, then his eyes returned to the flushed, tense face of the girl who held it. She was Italian. Her eyes were splendidly black, and there was a gleam in them that was anything but reassuring. Her scarlet lips were parted slightly, disclosing small, regular, white teeth clenched tightly together. A brilliant multicolored headdress partially confined her hair and rippled down about her shoulders. Her skirt was barely to her ankles.
“I feel like the third act of an Italian comic opera,” Hatch thought grimly. Then aloud, “What is all this?”
“You must be silent, signor!” warned the young woman in excellent English.
“I am going to be,” Hatch explained; “but still I should like to—”
“You must be silent, signor!” the girl repeated. “No, don’t take your hands from your pockets!”
“But look here!”
The stiletto point was pressed in until he felt it against his flesh. He winced involuntarily, but wisely held his tongue. It was a time to stand perfectly still and wait. He had come to the tenement in the course of his professional duties, and had rapped on this door to inquire in which apartment a certain family lived. The door had been opened by the young woman—and now this! He didn’t understand it; he didn’t even make a pretense of conjecturing what it meant. He just kept on standing still.
From outside came the varied noises of a busy city. Inside the gloom grew about him, and gradually the rigid, motionless figure of the girl became a shadowy silhouette. Then an electric arc light outside, which happened to be on a level with a window, spluttered and flashed into brilliance almost blinding him. Through the murk of the room only their motionless figures were visible.
After awhile the reporter heard vaguely a stealthy shuffle of feet as if some one was passing along the hall. Then the door leading from the hall into the next room opened and closed softly. The girl prodded him with the stiletto point to remind him to be silent. It was a needless warning, because now Hatch dimly foresaw some grave and imminent danger to himself in the presence of this third person, whoever it might be. Unconsciously he was concentrating all his forces, mental and physical, for—for something he didn’t know what.
The shuffling feet were now in the next room. He heard them moving about as if coming toward the connecting door. Then a hand was laid on the knob, the lock rattled a little, and the door was softly closed. Hatch took a deep breath of relief—whoever this third person might be, he evidently had no business in the room with them just at that moment.
With straining ears and tense nerves the reporter listened, and after awhile came a muffled chatter as of some one talking rapidly and incoherently. Then he heard a man’s voice, pleasant neither in tone nor in the expletives used, and several times he heard the chatter—quick, excited, incoherent. At last the man broke out into a string of profanity, objurgations. The chatter rose angrily, and burst finally into a strangling, guttural scream of anguish.
With a chilly creepiness along his spine and nerves strained to the breaking point, Hatch started forward involuntarily. The stiletto point at his breast stopped him. He glared at the rigid figure of the girl and choked back, with an effort, an outburst of emotion. His utter helplessness overwhelmed him.
“Some one is being killed in there!” he protested desperately between gritting teeth.
“Sh-h!” warned the girl.
From the next room came the shuffling of feet again, then a soft thump thrice repeated, and a faint gurgling cry. Hatch shivered a little; the girl was rigid as marble.
“I guess that fixed you!” Hatch heard a man say.
There was silence for a minute or so. The feet moved stealthily again, and the door leading from the other room into the hall opened and closed. The footsteps moved rapidly along, then apparently precaution was forgotten, for they clattered down the steps and were gone.
Suddenly the girl straightened up. “You will remain here, signor,” she said, “until I am out of the house? You will raise no alarm for at least five minutes? Believe me, if you do, it will be worse for you; for sometime, somewhere, you will have occasion to regret it! You promise?”
Hatch would not make himself believe that he had the slightest choice in the matter. “I promise, of course,” he said.
She bowed a little, half mockingly, flung open the door, and ran out. Hatch heard the swishing of her skirts as she sped down the stairs, then he brought himself together with a huge sigh and a nervous jerking of his limbs.
He strode across the room twice to regain possession of jumping nerves, then paused and lighted a cigarette. What was in the next room? He didn’t know. He wanted to know, and yet there was an intangible fear which clung to him and held him back when he started for the door. At last he mastered this absurd weakness, and flung the door open wide, and walked in. At first he saw nothing, and he had expected to see every evidence of a brutal crime. Then in a far corner he noticed what seemed to be a bundle of rags which had been thrown there carelessly. He strode over boldly and poked it with his foot, stooping to examine it.
What he saw brought an exclamation from him; but it was rather of astonishment than of horror. The thing he had found was the body of a monkey. The rags were the tawdry clothing in which organ grinders attire their apish companions. There was a little cap, a coat, and trousers.
“Well! What in the deuce—” exclaimed the reporter. He dropped on his knees beside the tiny body. There were three stab wounds in it—one in the throat and two in the breast. The body was still warm.
“But why,” protested Hatch, “should anyone, man or woman, murder a monkey?”
Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen—The Thinking Machine—didn’t hazard a conjecture. “Are you sure it was a monkey that was murdered?” he asked instead. “I mean are you sure that only a monkey was murdered?”
“I am sure,” he responded emphatically, “that the monkey was killed while I listened, and certainly there was nothing else that I could find or that I heard to indicate anything beyond that.”
“Did you search the place?” queried the scientist.
“Yes.”
“Find anything?”
“No, nothing.”
“Did you happen to notice, Mr. Hatch, if the monkey’s clothing had pockets?”
“There were no pockets. I looked for them.”
The Thinking Machine lay back in his chair, steadily squinting upward for several minutes, without speaking. Then: “I can comprehend readily why the monkey should have been killed as it was. Any one of half a dozen hypotheses would explain that. But if the monkey didn’t have a pocket somewhere in its clothing, then I don’t see so readily why—Oh, of course—must have been bigger than I thought,” he mused.
“What?” inquired Hatch.
“Are you sure, Mr. Hatch, that there had been nothing sewn to the clothing of the monkey?” asked The Thinking Machine, without heeding the question—“that nothing had been ripped loose from the clothing?”
“I can’t say as to that,” the reporter replied.
“Where is the monkey now?”
“Still there in the room, I suppose. I came straight from there to you here. Of course, my being held up that way wasn’t of any actual consequence—it was merely incidental, I thought, to the other.”
The Thinking Machine nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “I presume that was merely because you happened to arrive at an inopportune moment, and that method was employed to keep you out of the way until whatever was to be done was done.”
The Thinking Machine and the reporter went out together. It was a few minutes past nine o’clock when they reached the tenement. It was dirty and illy lighted, and boldly faced a street which was a center of the Italian colony. Hatch led the way in and up the stairs to the room where he had left the monkey. The little body still lay huddled up, inert, as he had left it.
By the light of an electric bulb The Thinking Machine examined it closely. Twice Hatch saw him shake his head. When The Thinking Machine arose from the floor his face was inscrutable. He led Hatch around that room and the next and through a third which connected, and then they went out.
“It is an extraordinary case, Mr. Hatch,” he explained as they went on. “There are now three explanations of the affair, either one of which would fit in with every fact that we know. But instead of helping us, these three possibilities make it necessary for us to know more. Two of them must be removed—the remainder will be correct as surely as two and two make four, not sometimes but all the time.”
Hatch waited patiently.
“The real problem here,” the scientist continued after a moment, “is the identity of the person who owned the monkey. When we get that, we get a starting point.”
“That would not seem difficult,” Hatch suggested. “It is extremely improbable that anyone knows of the affair except the persons who were responsible for it, perhaps the owner of the monkey and ourselves. An advertisement in the newspapers would bring the owner quickly enough.”
“There is always the possibility, Mr. Hatch, that the owner is the man who killed the monkey,” replied the scientist. “In that event the advertisement would do no good; and there is a question if it would be advisable to let those persons who are responsible for the animal’s death know that the matter is being investigated. This is presuming, of course, that some one besides the owner killed it. It will be just as well to let the young woman who held you prisoner believe that the affair is at an end. Any other course just now might indirectly endanger the life of some one who has not yet appeared in the case.
