The Thinking Machine Collected Stories
Chapter 78 : "I'm sure I don't know," The Thinking Machine confessed frankly. &q

"I'm sure I don't know," The Thinking Machine confessed frankly. "I think, perhaps, it was Monsieur St. Rocheville, so called; but there's nothing to connect him-- Please sit down, Mallory. You annoy me. It would do no good to search his apartment. If he stole anything, it isn't here now; besides--"

The door opened suddenly, and the footman appeared.

"Miss Fayerwether is badly hurt, ma'am," he explained hurriedly. "She seems to have fallen from her window. We found her outside, unconscious."

Mrs. Wardlaw Browne went out hurriedly. Obeying an almost imperceptible nod of The Thinking Machine's head, Detective Mallory followed her. The scientist turned to Detective Blanton.

"Get St. Rocheville," he directed tersely.

Ten minutes later Mallory returned. In one hand he held a small chamois bag. The contents thereof he spilled upon a table. The Thinking Machine glanced around, saw a glittering heap of jewels, then resumed his steady scrutiny of the ceiling.

"The girl had them?"

"Yes," replied the detective. "She tried to escape from her room by sliding down a rope made of sheets. It broke, and she fell."

"Badly hurt?"

"Only a sprained ankle, and shock."

Blanton flung himself in.

"St. Rocheville's gone," he announced hurriedly. "I imagine he cut for it. Went away in one of the automobiles."

When Miss Fayerwether recovered consciousness, and the sharp agony in her ankle had become a mere dull pain, she found herself in some large room, rank with the odor of strange chemical messes. As a matter of fact, it was The Thinking Machine's laboratory; and the three men present were the little scientist in person, Mallory, and Hatch. Blanton had gone on to police headquarters to send out a general alarm for Monsieur St. Rocheville.

"There was no mystery about it," she heard The Thinking Machine saying. "That is, no mystery that the simplest rules of logic wouldn't instantly dissipate. A man, presumably French, but speaking English almost perfectly, comes into this room and betrays himself as an imposter five minutes afterward by using, without a trace of accent, the one phrase in all our language which no Frenchman, unless he is reared from infancy in an English-speaking country, can p.r.o.nounce as it should be p.r.o.nounced. This man used the phrase: 'My father and my father's father;' and he p.r.o.nounced it as either of us would have p.r.o.nounced it. The French can master our 'th' only with difficulty, and then only at the beginning of a word; otherwise their 'th' becomes almost like our 'z.'

"From the beginning, therefore, I imagined our so-called Monsieur St. Rocheville an imposter. Being an imposter, he was a liar. I proved he was a liar when I made him state who his father was. At my suggestion, Mr. Hatch cabled to Paris, demonstrated that there is not, and never has been a Monsieur St. Rocheville connected with the Credit Lyonnaise; and, this much established, St. Rocheville's story collapsed utterly. He had been accused of cheating at cards; and in retaliation he tried to s.h.i.+ft the thefts upon Mr. Miller. He had seen Mr. Miller, so he said, steal the necklace. His obvious purpose in this was to bring about a search of Mr. Miller's apartment, where he had carefully planted the necklace, also his own ring. The remainder of the story you all know."

Miss Fayerwether had listened breathlessly, with closed eyes. The Thinking Machine arose and came over to her. For an instant his slender, cool hand rested on her brow; and in that instant she fought the fight. She was caught. St. Rocheville, alias Van Der Wyde, was free. He had tried to help her. She was to have gathered the jewels together, escaped through her window to avoid attracting attention, and joined him in the waiting automobile. He was free. She would allow him to remain free. Love, be it said, makes martyrs of us all.

"I stole the jewels," she said quietly. "Monsieur St. Rocheville knew nothing of the thefts. My birds--"

That was all. The door opened and closed. Monsieur St. Rocheville stood before them with a vicious-looking, snub-nosed, automatic pistol in his hand.

"Put up your hands!" he commanded curtly. "You, Mallory, you! Put them up, I say! Put them up!" Mallory put them up. "And you, too! Put them up!" The Thinking Machine and Hutchinson Hatch obeyed unanimously. "Now, Miss Fayerwether, can you walk?"

"I think so." She struggled to her feet.

"Very well." There was a deadly calm in his manner. "Take Mallory's gun, his keys, his handcuffs, and his police whistle. Careful now! Stand on the far side of him. I may have to kill him." The girl obeyed deftly. "Are the handcuffs unlocked? Good! Snap one end around his right wrist. Now, Mallory, lower your right hand!"

"I'll be--" the enraged detective began.

"Lower your right hand." The pistol clicked. "Now, Miss Fayerwether, snap the other end of the handcuff around the leg of his chair, above the rungs." It was done, neatly and quickly. "And I think that will hold you for a few minutes, Mallory. Now, Miss Fayerwether, there's an automobile outside. The motor is running. Get in the car. Take your time. Safely in, honk the horn three times."

The girl hobbled out. Monsieur St. Rocheville took advantage of the pause to sneer a little at the three men-Mallory safely shackled to a heavy chair, which would effectually stop immediate pursuit; Hatch with his hands anxiously stretched into the air, The Thinking Machine placidly meeting his gaze, eye to eye.

"I'll get you yet!" Mallory bellowed in impotent rage.

"Oh, perhaps." Outside, the automobile horn sounded thrice. "Until then, au revoir!" and Monsieur St. Rocheville vanished as silently as he had come.

"There's loyalty for you," observed The Thinking Machine, as if astonished.

"Love, not loyalty," Hatch declared. "He's crazy about her. Nothing on earth would have brought him back but love."

"Love!" mused the little scientist. "A most interesting phenomena. I shall have to look into it some time."

As I have said, Monsieur St. Rocheville was a young man of resource and daring. Later that night he burglariously entered the room Miss Fayerwether had occupied at Idlewild, and took Blitz and Jack and Jill away with him, cage and all.

_______________________.

PROBLEM OF THE CRYSTAL GAZER.

With hideous, goggling eyes the great G.o.d Budd sat cross-legged on a pedestal and stared stolidly into the semi-darkness. He saw, by the wavering light of a peac.o.c.k lamp which swooped down from the ceiling with wings outstretched, what might have been a nook in a palace of East India. Draperies hung here, there, everywhere; richly embroidered divans sprawled about; fierce tiger rugs glared up from the floor; grotesque idols grinned mirthlessly in unexpected corners; strange arms were grouped on the walls. Outside the trolley cars clanged blatantly.

The single human figure was a distinct contradiction of all else. It was that of a man in evening dress, smoking. He was fifty, perhaps sixty, years old with the ruddy colour of one who has lived a great deal out of doors. There was only a touch of gray in his abundant hair and moustache. His eyes were steady and clear, and indolent.

For a long time he sat, then the draperies to his right parted and a girl entered. She was a part of the picture of which the man was a contradiction. Her l.u.s.trous black hair flowed about her shoulders; lambent mysteries lay in her eyes. Her dress was the dress of the East. For a moment she stood looking at the man and then entered with light tread.

"Varick Sahib," she said, timidly, as if it were a greeting. "Do I intrude?" Her voice was softly guttural with the accent of her native tongue.

"Oh no, Jadeh. Come in," said the man.

She smiled frankly and sat down on a ha.s.sock near him.

"My brother?" she asked.

"He is in the cabinet."

Varick had merely glanced at her and then continued his thoughtful gaze into vacancy. From time to time she looked up at him shyly, with a touch of eagerness, but there was no answering interest in his manner. His thoughts were far away.

"May I ask what brings you this time, Sahib?" she inquired at last.

"A little deal in the market," responded Varick, carelessly. "It seems to have puzzled Adhem as much as it did me. He has been in the cabinet for half an hour."

He stared on musingly as he smoked, then dropped his eyes to the slender, graceful figure of Jadeh. With knees clasped in her hands she leaned back on the ha.s.sock deeply thoughtful. Her head was tilted upward and the flickering light fell full on her face. It crossed Varick's mind that she was pretty, and he was about to say so as he would have said it to any other woman, when the curtains behind them were thrown apart and they both glanced around.

Another man-an East Indian-entered. This man was Adhem Singh, the crystal gazer, in the ostentatious robes of a seer. He, too, was a part of the picture. There was an expression of apprehension, mingled with some other impalpable quality on his strong face.

"Well, Adhem?" inquired Varick.

"I have seen strange things, Sahib," replied the seer, solemnly. "The crystal tells me of danger."