The problem of Cell 13 17 – Futrelle · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The problem of Cell 13 17Part 3 · Chapter 5
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The problem of Cell 13 17
Part 3 · Chapter 5
FutrelleEnglish
For a time there was silence, broken only by sobs, as the woman clung frantically to Hatch, with her face buried on his shoulder. Then:
"Don't you remember me?" she asked again and again. "Your wife? Don't you remember me?"
Hatch could still see the trace of a smile on the scientist's face, and said nothing.
"You are positive this gentleman is your husband?" inquired The Thinking Machine, finally.
"Oh, I know," the woman sobbed. "Oh, John, don't you remember me?" She drew away a little and looked deeply into the reporter's eyes. "Don't you remember me, John?"
"Can't say that I ever saw you before," said Hatch, truthfully enough. "I--I--fact is----"
"Mr. Doane's memory is wholly gone now," explained The Thinking Machine. "Meanwhile, perhaps you would tell me something about him. He is my patient. I am particularly interested."
The voice was soothing; it had lost for the moment its perpetual irritation. The woman sat down beside Hatch. Her face, pretty enough in a bold sort of way, was turned to The Thinking Machine inquiringly. With one hand she stroked that of the reporter.
"Where are you from?" began the scientist. "I mean where is the home of John Doane?"
"In Buffalo," she replied, glibly. "Didn't he even remember that?"
"And what's his business?"
"His health has been bad for some time and recently he gave up active business," said the woman. "Previously he was connected with a bank."
"When did you see him last?"
"Six weeks ago. He left the house one day and I have never heard from him since. I had Pinkerton men searching and at last they reported he was at the Yarmouth Hotel. I came on immediately. And now we shall go back to Buffalo." She turned to Hatch with a languishing glance. "Shall we not, dear?"
"Whatever Professor Van Dusen thinks best," was the equivocal reply.
Slowly the glimmer of amusement was passing out of the squint eyes of The Thinking Machine; as Hatch looked he saw a hardening of the lines of the mouth. There was an explosion coming. He knew it. Yet when the scientist spoke his voice was more velvety than ever.
"Mrs. Doane, do you happen to be acquainted with a drug which produces temporary loss of memory?"
She stared at him, but did not lose her self-possession.
"No," she said finally. "Why?"
"You know, of course, that this man is not your husband?"
This time the question had its effect. The woman arose suddenly, stared at the two men, and her face went white.
"Not?--not?--what do you mean?"
"I mean," and the voice reassumed its tone of irritation, "I mean that I shall send for the police and give you in their charge unless you tell me the truth about this affair. Is that perfectly clear to you?"
The woman's lips were pressed tightly together. She saw that she had fallen into some sort of a trap; her gloved hands were clenched fiercely; the pallor faded and a flush of anger came.
"Further, for fear you don't quite follow me even now," explained The Thinking Machine, "I will say that I know all about this copper deal of which this so-called John Doane was the victim. I know his condition now. If you tell the truth you may escape prison--if you don't, there is a long term, not only for you, but for your fellow-conspirators. Now will you talk?"
"No," said the woman. She arose as if to go out.
"Never mind that," said The Thinking Machine. "You had better stay where you are. You will be locked up at the proper moment. Mr. Hatch, please 'phone for Detective Mallory."
Hatch arose and passed into the adjoining room. "You tricked me," the woman screamed suddenly, fiercely.
"Yes," the other agreed, complacently. "Next time be sure you know your own husband. Meanwhile where is Harrison?"
"Not another word," was the quick reply.
"Very well," said the scientist, calmly. "Detective Mallory will be here in a few minutes. Meanwhile I'll lock this door."
"You have no right----" the woman began.
Without heeding the remark, The Thinking Machine passed into the adjoining room. There for half an hour he talked earnestly to Hatch and Doane. At the end of that time he sent a telegram to the manager of the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg, as follows:
"Does your visitors' book show any man, registered there in the month of January three years ago, whose first name is Harry or Henry? If so, please wire name and description, also name of man whose guest he was."
This telegram was dispatched. A few minutes later the door bell rang and Detective Mallory entered.
"What is it?" he inquired.
"A prisoner for you in the next room," was the reply. "A woman. I charge her with conspiracy to defraud a man who for the present we will call John Doane. That may or may not be his name."
"What do you know about it?" asked the detective.
"A great deal now--more after awhile. I shall tell you then. Meanwhile take this woman. You gentlemen, I should suggest, might go out somewhere this evening. If you drop by afterwards there may be an answer to a few telegrams which will make this matter clear."
Protestingly the mysterious woman was led away by Detective Mallory; and Doane and Hatch followed shortly after. The next act of The Thinking Machine was to write a telegram addressed to Mrs. Preston Bell, Butte, Montana. Here it is:
"Your husband suffering temporary mental trouble here. Can you come on immediately? Answer."
When the messenger boy came for the telegram he found a man on the stoop. The Thinking Machine received the telegram, and the man, who gave to Martha the name of Manning, was announced.
"Manning, too," mused the scientist. "Show him in."
"I don't know if you know why I am here," explained Manning.
"Oh, yes," said the scientist. "You have remembered Doane's name. What is it, please?"
Manning was too frankly surprised to answer and only stared at the scientist.
"Yes, that's right," he said finally, and he smiled. "His name is Pillsbury. I recall it now."
"And what made you recall it?"
"I noticed an advertisement in a magazine with the name in large letters. It instantly came to me that that was Doane's real name."
"Thanks," remarked the scientist. "And the woman--who is she?"
"What woman?" asked Manning.
"Never mind, then. I am deeply obliged for your information. I don't suppose you know anything else about it?"
"No," said Manning. He was a little bewildered, and after awhile went away.
For an hour or more The Thinking Machine sat with finger tips pressed together staring at the ceiling. His meditations were interrupted by Martha.
"Another telegram, sir."
The Thinking Machine took it eagerly. It was from the manager of the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg:
"Henry C. Carney, Harry Meltz, Henry Blake, Henry W. Tolman, Harry Pillsbury, Henry Calvert and Henry Louis Smith all visitors to dub in month you name. Which do you want to learn more about?"
It took more than an hour for The Thinking Machine to establish long distance connection by 'phone with Pittsburg. When he had finished talking he seemed satisfied.
"Now," he mused. "The answer from Mrs. Preston."
It was nearly midnight when that came. Hatch and Doane had returned from a theater and were talking to the scientist when the telegram, was brought in.
"Anything important?" asked Doane, anxiously.
"Yes," said the scientist, and he slipped a finger beneath the flap of the envelope. "It's clear now. It was an engaging problem from first to last, and now----"
He opened the telegram and glanced at it; then with bewilderment on his face and mouth slightly open he sank down at the table and leaned forward with his head on his arms. The message fluttered to the table and Hatch read this:
"Man in Boston can't be my husband. He is now in Honolulu. I received cablegram from him to-day.
