CHAPTER III
Faithfully, phonographically even, Hatch repeated to The Thinking Machine the conversation he had had with Doctor Walpole, indicating on the person of the eminent scientist the exact spot of the wound as Doctor Walpole had indicated it to him. The scientist listened without comment to the recital, casually studying meanwhile the three crimson drops on the glass.
"Every step I take forward is a step backward," the reporter declared in conclusion with a helpless grin. "Instead of showing that Dick Herbert might not have stolen the plate I am proving conclusively that he was the thief – nailing it to him so hard that he can't possibly get out of it." He was silent a moment. "If I keep on long enough," he added glumly, "I'll hang him."
The Thinking Machine squinted at him aggressively.
"You still don't believe him guilty?" he asked.
"Why, I – I – I – " Hatch burst out savagely. "Damn it, I don't know what I believe," he tapered off. "It's absolutely impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible, Mr. Hatch," snapped The Thinking Machine irritably. "The worst a problem can be is difficult, but all problems can be solved as inevitably as that two and two make four – not sometimes, but all the time. Please don't say things are impossible. It annoys me exceedingly."
Hatch stared at his distinguished friend and smiled whimsically. He was also annoyed exceedingly on his own private, individual account – the annoyance that comes from irresistibly butting into immovable facts.
"Doctor Walpole's statement," The Thinking Machine went on after a moment, "makes this particular problem ludicrously simple. Two points alone show conclusively that Mr. Herbert was not the man in the automobile. I shall reach the third myself."
Hatch didn't say anything. The English language is singularly inadequate at times, and if he had spoken he would have had to invent a phraseology to convey even a faint glimmer of what he really thought.
"Now, Mr. Hatch," resumed the scientist, quite casually, "I understand you graduated from Harvard in ninety-eight. Yes? Well, Herbert was a classmate of yours there. Please obtain for me one of the printed lists of students who were in Harvard that year – a complete list."
"I have one at home," said the reporter.
"Get it, please, immediately, and return here," instructed the scientist.
Hatch went out and The Thinking Machine disappeared into his laboratory. He remained there for one hour and forty-seven minutes by the clock. When he came out he found the reporter sitting in the reception-room again, holding his head. The scientist's face was as blankly inscrutable as ever.
"Here is the list," said Hatch as he handed it over.
The Thinking Machine took it in his long, slender fingers and turned two or three leaves. Finally he stopped and ran a finger down one page.
"Ah," he exclaimed at last. "I thought so."
"Thought what?" asked Hatch curiously.
"I'm going out to see Mr. Meredith now," remarked The Thinking Machine irrelevantly. "Come along. Have you met him?"
"No."
Mr. Meredith had read the newspaper accounts of the arrest of Dick Herbert and the seizure of the gold plate and jewels; he had even taunted his charming daughter with it in a fatherly sort of a way. She was weeping, weeping her heart out over this latest proof of the perfidy and loathsomeness of the man she loved. Incidentally, it may be mentioned here that the astute Mr. Meredith was not aware of any elopement plot – either the first or second.
When a card bearing the name of Mr. Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen was handed to Mr. Meredith he went wonderingly into the reception-room. There was a pause as the scientist and Mr. Meredith mentally sized each other up; then introductions – and The Thinking Machine came down to business abruptly, as always.
"May I ask, Mr. Meredith," he began, "how many sons you have?"
"One," replied Mr. Meredith, puzzled.
"May I ask his present address?" went on the scientist.
Mr. Meredith studied the belligerent eyes of his caller and wondered what business it was of his, for Mr. Meredith was a belligerent sort of a person himself.
"May I ask," he inquired with pronounced emphasis on the personal pronoun, "why you want to know?"
Hatch rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He was wondering what would happen to him when the cyclone struck.
"It may save him and you a great deal of annoyance if you will give me his address," said The Thinking Machine. "I desire to communicate with him immediately on a matter of the utmost importance – a purely personal matter."
"Personal matter?" repeated Mr. Meredith. "Your abruptness and manner, sir, were not calculated to invite confidence."
The Thinking Machine bowed gravely.
"May I ask your son's address?" he repeated.
Mr. Meredith considered the matter at some length and finally arrived at the conclusion that he might ask.
"He is in South America at present – Buenos Ayres," he replied.
"What?" exclaimed The Thinking Machine so suddenly that both Hatch and Mr. Meredith started a little. "What?" he repeated, and wrinkles suddenly appeared in the domelike brow.
"I said he was in South America – Buenos Ayres," repeated Mr. Meredith stiffly, but a little awed. "A letter or cable to him in care of the American Consul at Buenos Ayres will reach him promptly."
The Thinking Machine's narrow eyes were screwed down to the disappearing point, the slender white fingers were twiddled jerkily, the corrugations remained in his brow.
"How long has Mr. Meredith been there?" he asked at last.
"Three months."
"Do you know he is there?"
Mr. Meredith started to say something and swallowed it with an effort.
"I know it positively, yes," he replied. "I received this letter dated the second from him three days ago, and to-day I received a cable-dispatch forwarded to me here from Baltimore."
"Are you positive the letter is in your son's handwriting?"
Mr. Meredith almost choked in mingled bewilderment and resentment at the question and the manner of its asking.
"I am positive, yes," he replied at last, preserving his tone of dignity with a perceptible effort. He noted the inscrutable face of his caller and saw the corrugations in the brow suddenly swept away. "What business of yours is it, anyway?" blazed Mr. Meredith suddenly.
"May I ask where you were last Thursday night?" went on the even, steady voice.
"It's no business of yours," Mr. Meredith blurted. "I was in Baltimore."
"Can you prove it in a court of law?"
"Prove it? Of course I can prove it!" Mr. Meredith was fairly bellowing at his impassive interrogator. "But it's nobody's business."
"If you can prove it, Mr. Meredith," remarked The Thinking Machine quietly, coldly, "you had best make your arrangements to do so, because, believe me, it may be necessary to save you from a charge of having stolen the Randolph gold plate on last Thursday night at the masked ball. Good-day, sir."
CHAPTER IV
"But Mr. Herbert won't see anyone, sir," protested Blair.
"Tell Mr. Herbert, please, that unless I can see him immediately his bail-bond will be withdrawn," directed The Thinking Machine.
He stood waiting in the hall while Blair went up the stairs. Dick Herbert took the card impatiently and glanced at it.
"Van Dusen," he mused. "Who the deuce is Van Dusen?"
Blair repeated the message he had received below.
"What does he look like?" inquired Dick.
"He's a shrivelled little man with a big yellow head, sir," replied Blair.
"Let him come up," instructed Dick.
Thus, within an hour after he had talked to Mr. Meredith, The Thinking Machine met Dick Herbert.
"What's this about the bail-bond?" Dick inquired.
"I wanted to talk to you," was the scientist's calm reply. "That seemed to be the easiest way to make you believe it was important, so – "
Dick's face flushed crimson at the trick.
"Well, you see me!" he broke out angrily. "I ought to throw you down the stairs, but – what is it?"
Not having been invited to a seat, The Thinking Machine took one anyway and settled himself comfortably.
"If you will listen to me for a moment without interruption," he began testily, "I think the subject of my remarks will be of deep personal concern to you. I am interested in solving this Randolph plate affair and have perhaps gone further in my investigation than anyone else. At least, I know more about it. There are some things I don't happen to know, however, that are of the greatest importance."
"I tell you – " stormed Dick.
"For instance," calmly resumed the scientist, "it is very important for me to know whether or not Harry Meredith was masked when he came into this room last Thursday night."
Dick gazed at him in surprise which approached awe. His eyes were widely distended, the lower part of his face lax, for the instant; then his white teeth closed with a snap and he sat down opposite The Thinking Machine. Anger had gone from his manner; instead there was a pallor of apprehension in the clean-cut face.
"Who are you, Mr. Van Dusen?" he asked at last. His tone was mild, even deferential.
"Was he masked?" insisted the scientist.
For a long while Dick was silent. Finally he arose and paced nervously back and forth across the room, glancing at the diminutive figure of The Thinking Machine each time as he turned.
"I won't say anything," he decided.
"Will you name the cause of the trouble you and Meredith had in Harvard?" asked the scientist.
Again there was a long pause.
"No," Dick said finally.
"Did it have anything to do with theft?"
"I don't know who you are or why you are prying into an affair that, at least on its face, does not concern you," replied Dick. "I'll say nothing at all – unless – unless you produce the one man who can and shall explain this affair. Produce him here in this room where I can get my hands on him!"
The Thinking Machine squinted at the sturdy shoulders with admiration in his face.
"Did it ever happen to occur to you, Mr. Herbert, that Harry Meredith and his father are precisely of the same build?"
Some nameless, impalpable expression crept into Dick's face despite an apparent fight to restrain it, and again he stared at the small man in the chair.
"And that you and Mr. Meredith are practically of the same build?"
Tormented by unasked questions and by those emotions which had compelled him to silence all along, Dick still paced back and forth. His head was whirling. The structure which he had so carefully guarded was tumbling about his ears. Suddenly he stopped and turned upon The Thinking Machine.
"Just what do you know of this affair?" he asked.
"I know for one thing," replied the scientist positively, "that you were not the man in the automobile."
"How do you know that?"
"That's beside the question just now."
"Do you know who was in the automobile?" Dick insisted.
"I can only answer that question when you have answered mine," the scientist went on. "Was Harry Meredith masked when he entered this room last Thursday night?"
Dick sat staring down at his hands, which were working nervously. Finally he nodded.
The Thinking Machine understood.
"You recognised him, then, by something he said or wore?"
Again Dick nodded reluctantly.
"Both," he added.
The Thinking Machine leaned back in his chair and sat there for a long time. At last he arose as if the interview were at an end. There seemed to be no other questions that he desired to ask at the moment.
"You need not be unnecessarily alarmed, Mr. Herbert," he assured Dick as he picked up his hat. "I shall act with discretion in this matter. I am not representing anyone who would care to make it unpleasant for you. I may tell you that you made two serious mistakes: the first when you saw or communicated with Mr. Randolph immediately after the plate was stolen the second time, and again when you undertook something which properly belonged within the province of the police."
Herbert still sat with his head in his hands as The Thinking Machine went out.
It was very late that night – after twelve, in fact – when Hutchinson Hatch called on The Thinking Machine with excitement evident in tone, manner, and act. He was accustomed to calling at any hour; now he found the scientist at work as if it were midday.
"The worst has happened," the reporter told him.
The Thinking Machine didn't look around.
"Detective Mallory and two of his men saw Miss Meredith this evening about nine o'clock," Hatch hurried on, "and bully-ragged her into a confession."
"What sort of a confession?"
"She admitted that she was in the automobile on the night of the ball and that – "
"Mr. Herbert was with her," the scientist supplied.
"Yes."
"And – what else?"
"That her own jewels, valued at twenty thousand dollars, were among those found in Herbert's possession when he was arrested."
The Thinking Machine turned and looked at the reporter, just casually, and raised his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn.
"Well, she couldn't do anything else," he said calmly.
CHAPTER V
Hutchinson Hatch remained with The Thinking Machine for more than an hour, and when he left his head was spinning with the multitude of instructions which had been heaped upon him.
"Meet me at noon in Detective Mallory's office at police headquarters," The Thinking Machine had said in conclusion. "Mr. Randolph and Miss Meredith will be there."
"Miss Meredith?" Hatch repeated. "She hasn't been arrested, you know, and I doubt if she will come."
"She will come," the scientist had replied, as if that settled it.
Next day the Supreme Intelligence was sitting in his private office. He had eaten the canary; mingled triumph and gratification beamed upon his countenance. The smile remained, but to it was added the quality of curiosity when the door opened and The Thinking Machine, accompanied by Dollie Meredith and Stuyvesant Randolph, entered.
"Mr. Hatch called yet?" inquired the scientist.
"No," responded the detective.
"Dear me!" grumbled the other. "It's one minute after twelve o'clock now. What could have delayed him?"
His answer was the clattering rush of a cab and the appearance of Hatch in person a moment later. He came into the room headlong, glanced around, then paused.
"Did you get it?" inquired The Thinking Machine.
"Yes, I got it, but – " began the reporter.
"Nothing else now," commanded the other.
There was a little pause as The Thinking Machine selected a chair. The others also sat down.
"Well?" inquired the Supreme Intelligence at last.
"I would like to ask, Mr. Mallory," the scientist said, "if it would be possible for me to convince you of Mr. Herbert's innocence of the charges against him?"
"It would not," replied the detective promptly. "It would not while the facts are before me, supplemented by the statement of Miss Meredith here – her confession."
Dollie coloured exquisitely and her lips trembled slightly.
"Would it be possible, Miss Meredith," the even voice went on, "to convince you of Mr. Herbert's innocence?"
"I – I don't think so," she faltered. "I – I know."
Tears which had been restrained with difficulty gushed forth suddenly, and The Thinking Machine squinted at her in pained surprise.
"Don't do that," he commanded. "It's – it's exceedingly irritating." He paused a moment, then turned suddenly to Mr. Randolph. "And you?" he asked.
Mr. Randolph shrugged his shoulders.
The Thinking Machine receded still further into his chair and stared dreamily upward with his long, slender fingers pressed tip to tip. Hatch knew the attitude; something was going to happen. He waited anxiously. Detective Mallory knew it, too, and wriggled uncomfortably.
"Suppose," the scientist began, "just suppose that we turn a little human intelligence on this problem for a change and see if we can't get the truth out of the blundering muddle that the police have helped to bring about. Let's use logic, inevitable logic, to show, simply enough, that instead of being guilty, Mr. Herbert is innocent."
Dolly Meredith suddenly leaned forward in her chair with flushed face, eyes widely opened and lips slightly parted. Detective Mallory also leaned forward in his chair, but there was a different expression on his face – oh, so different.
"Miss Meredith, we know you were in the automobile with the Burglar who stole the plate," The Thinking Machine went on. "You probably knew that he was wounded and possibly either aided in dressing the wound – as any woman would – or else saw him dress it himself?"
"I bound my handkerchief on it," replied the Girl. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
"Where was the wound?"
"In the right shoulder," she replied.
"Back or front?" insisted the scientist.
"Back," she replied. "Very near the arm, an inch or so below the level of the shoulder."
Except for The Thinking Machine himself Hatch was the only person in the room to whom this statement meant anything, and he restrained a shout with difficulty.
"Now, Mr. Mallory," the scientist went on calmly, "do you happen to know Dr. Clarence Walpole?"
"I know of him, yes," replied the detective. "He is a man of considerable reputation."
"Would you believe him under oath?"
"Why, certainly, of course."
The Supreme Intelligence tugged at his bristly moustache.
"If Doctor Walpole should dress a wound and should later, under oath, point out its exact location, you would believe him?"
"Why, I'd have to, of course."
"Very well," commented The Thinking Machine tersely. "Now I will state an incontrovertible scientific fact for your further enlightenment. You may verify it anyway you choose. This is, briefly, that the blood corpuscles in man average one-thirty-three hundredths of an inch in diameter. Remember that, please: one-thirty-three hundredths of an inch. The system of measurement has reached a state of perfection almost incomprehensible to the man who does not understand."
He paused for so long that Detective Mallory began to wriggle again. The others were leaning forward, listening with widely varied expressions on their faces.
"Now, Mr. Mallory," continued The Thinking Machine at last, "one of your men shot twice at the Burglar in the automobile, as I understand it?"
"Yes – two shots."
"Mr. Cunningham?"
"Yes, Detective Cunningham."
"Is he here now?"
The detective pressed a button on his desk and a uniformed man appeared. Instructions were given, and a moment later Detective Cunningham stood before them wonderingly.
"I suppose you can prove beyond any shadow of a doubt," resumed the scientist, still addressing Mr. Mallory, "that two shots —and only two– were fired?"
"I can prove it by twenty witnesses," was the reply.
"Good, very good," exclaimed the scientist, and he turned to Cunningham.
"You know that only two shots were fired?"
"I know it, yes," replied Cunningham. "I fired 'em."
"May I see your revolver?"
Cunningham produced the weapon and handed it over. The Thinking Machine merely glanced at it.
"This is the revolver you used?"
"Yes."
"Very well, then," remarked the scientist quietly, "on that statement alone Mr. Herbert is proven innocent of the charge against him."
There was an astonished gasp all around. Hatch was beginning to see what The Thinking Machine meant, and curiously watched the bewitchingly sorrowful face of Dollie Meredith. He saw all sorts of strange things there.
"Proven innocent?" snorted Detective Mallory. "Why, you've convicted him out of hand so far as I can see."
"Corpuscles in human blood average, as I said, one-thirty-three hundredths of an inch in diameter," resumed the scientist. "They vary slightly each way, of course. Now, the corpuscles of the Burglar in the automobile measured just one-thirty-one-forty-seven hundredths of an inch. Mr. Herbert's corpuscles, tested the same way, with the same instruments, measure precisely one-thirty-five-sixty hundredths." He stopped as if that were all.
"By George!" exclaimed Mr. Randolph. "By George!"
"That's all tommy-rot," Detective Mallory burst out. "That's nothing to a jury or to any other man with common sense."
"That difference in measurement proves beyond question that Mr. Herbert was not wounded while in the automobile," went on The Thinking Machine as if there had been no interruption. "Now, Mr. Cunningham, may I ask if the Burglar's back was toward you when you fired?"
"Yes. He was going away from me."
"Well, that statement agrees with the statement of Miss Meredith to show that the Burglar was wounded in the back. Doctor Walpole dressed Mr. Herbert's wound between two and three o'clock Friday morning following the masked ball. Mr. Herbert had been shot, but the wound was in the front of his right shoulder."
Delighted amazement radiated from Dollie Meredith's face; she clapped her hands involuntarily as she would have applauded a stage incident. Detective Mallory started to say something, then thought better of it and glared at Cunningham instead.
"Now, Mr. Cunningham says that he shot the Burglar with this revolver." The Thinking Machine waved the weapon under Detective Mallory's nose. "This is the usual police weapon. Its calibre is thirty-eight. Mr. Herbert was shot with a thirty-two calibre. Here is the bullet." And he tossed it on the desk.