The problem of Cell 13 26 – Futrelle · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The problem of Cell 13 26Part 5 · Chapter 2
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The problem of Cell 13 26
Part 5 · Chapter 2
FutrelleEnglish
It was ten o'clock that morning when Hutchinson Hatch called on Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen--The Thinking Machine. The reporter's face was still white, showing that he had slept little, if at all. The Thinking Machine squinted at him a moment through his thick glasses, then dropped into a chair.
"Well?" he queried.
"I'm almost ashamed to come to you, Professor," Hatch confessed, after a minute, and there was a little embarrassed hesitation in his speech. "It's another mystery."
"Sit down and tell me about it."
Hatch took a seat opposite the scientist.
"I've been frightened," he said at last, with a sheepish grin; "horribly, awfully frightened. I came to you to know what frightened me."
"Dear me! Dear me!" exclaimed The Thinking Machine. "What is it?"
Then Hatch told him from the beginning the story of the haunted house as he knew it; how he had examined the house by daylight, just what he had found, the story of the old murder and the jewels, the fact that Ernest Weston was to be married. The scientist listened attentively.
"It was nine o'clock that night when I went to the house the second time," said Hatch. "I went prepared for something, but not for what I saw."
"Well, go on," said the other, irritably.
"I went in while it was perfectly dark. I took a position on the stairs because I had been told the--the THING--had been seen from the stairs, and I thought that where it had been seen once it would be seen again. I had presumed it was some trick of a shadow, or moonlight, or something of the kind. So I sat waiting calmly. I am not a nervous man--that is, I never have been until now.
"I took no light of any kind with me. It seemed an interminable time that I waited, staring into the reception-room in the general direction of the library. At last, as I gazed into the darkness, I heard a noise. It startled me a bit, but it didn't frighten me, for I put it down to a rat running across the floor.
"But after awhile I heard the most awful cry a human being ever listened to. It was neither a moan nor a shriek--merely a--a cry. Then, as I steadied my nerves a little, a figure--a blazing, burning white figure--grew out of nothingness before my very eyes, in the reception-room. It actually grew and assembled as I looked at it."
He paused, and The Thinking Machine changed his position slightly.
"The figure was that of a man, apparently, I should say, eight feet high. Don't think I'm a fool--I'm not exaggerating. It was all in white and seemed to radiate a light, a ghostly, unearthly light, which, as I looked, grew brighter. I saw no face to the THING, but it had a head. Then I saw an arm raised and in the hand was a dagger, blazing as was the figure.
"By this time I was a coward, a cringing, frightened coward--frightened not at what I saw, but at the weirdness of it. And then, still as I looked, the--the THING--raised the other hand, and there, in the air before my eyes, wrote with his own finger--on the very face of the air, mind you--one word: 'Beware!'"
"Was it a man's or woman's writing?" asked The Thinking Machine.
The matter-of-fact tone recalled Hatch, who was again being carried away by fear, and he laughed vacantly.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know."
"Go on."
"I have never considered myself a coward, and certainly I am not a child to be frightened at a thing which my reason tells me is not possible, and, despite my fright, I compelled myself to action. If the THING were a man I was not afraid of it, dagger and all; if it were not, it could do me no injury.
"I leaped down the three steps to the bottom of the stairs, and while the THING stood there with upraised dagger, with one hand pointing at me, I rushed for it. I think I must have shouted, because I have a dim idea that I heard my own voice. But whether or not I did I----"
Again he paused. It was a distinct effort to pull himself together. He felt like a child; the cold, squint eyes of The Thinking Machine were turned on him disapprovingly.
"Then--the THING disappeared just as it seemed I had my hands on it. I was expecting a dagger thrust. Before my eyes, while I was staring at it, I suddenly saw only half of it. Again I heard the cry, and the other half disappeared--my hands grasped empty air.
"Where the THING had been there was nothing. The impetus of my rush was such that I went right on past the spot where the THING had been, and found myself groping in the dark in a room which I didn't place for an instant. Now I know it was the library.
"By this time I was mad with terror. I smashed one of the windows and went through it. Then from there, until I reached my room, I didn't stop running. I couldn't. I wouldn't have gone back to the reception-room for all the millions in the world."
The Thinking Machine twiddled his fingers idly; Hatch sat gazing at him with anxious, eager inquiry in his eyes.
"So when you ran and the--the THING moved away or disappeared you found yourself in the library?" The Thinking Machine asked at last.
"Yes."
"Therefore you must have run from the reception-room through the door into the library?"
"Yes."
"You left that door closed that day?"
"Yes."
Again there was a pause.
"Smell anything?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"No."
"You figure that the THING, as you call it, must have been just about in the door?"
"Yes."
"Too bad you didn't notice the handwriting--that is, whether it seemed to be a man's or a woman's."
"I think, under the circumstances, I would be excused for omitting that," was the reply.
"You said you heard something that you thought must be a rat," went on The Thinking Machine. "What was this?"
"I don't know."
"Any squeak about it?"
"No, not that I noticed."
"Five years since the house was occupied," mused the scientist. "How far away is the water?"
"The place overlooks the water, but it's a steep climb of three hundred yards from the water to the house."
That seemed to satisfy The Thinking Machine as to what actually happened.
"When you went over the house in daylight, did you notice if any of the mirrors were dusty?" he asked.
"I should presume that all were," was the reply. "There's no reason why they should have been otherwise."
"But you didn't notice particularly that some were not dusty?" the scientist insisted.
"No. I merely noticed that they were there."
The Thinking Machine sat for a long time squinting at the ceiling, then asked, abruptly: "Have you seen Mr. Weston, the owner?"
"No."
"See him and find out what he has to say about the place, the murder, the jewels, and all that. It would be rather a queer state of affairs if, say, a fortune in jewels should be concealed somewhere about the place, wouldn't it?"
"It would," said Hatch. "It would."
"Who is Miss Katherine Everard?"
"Daughter of a banker here, Curtis Everard. Was a reigning belle at Newport for two seasons. She is now in Europe, I think, buying a trousseau, possibly."
"Find out all about her, and what Weston has to say, then come back here," said The Thinking Machine, as if in conclusion. "Oh, by the way," he added, "look up something of the family history of the Westons. How many heirs were there? Who are they? How much did each one get? All those things. That's all."
Hatch went out, far more composed and quiet than when he entered, and began the work of finding out those things The Thinking Machine had asked for, confident now that there would be a solution of the mystery.
That night the flaming phantom played new pranks. The town constable, backed by half a dozen villagers, descended upon the place at midnight, to be met in the yard by the apparition in person. Again the dagger was seen; again the ghostly laughter and the awful cry were heard.
"Surrender or I'll shoot," shouted the constable, nervously.
A laugh was the answer, and the constable felt something warm spatter in his face. Others in the party felt it, too, and wiped their faces and hands. By the light of the feeble lanterns they carried they examined their handkerchiefs and hands. Then the party fled in awful disorder.
The warmth they had felt was the warmth of blood--red blood, freshly drawn.
