“There’s one thing you must do for me, Belle,” he said after a moment, more calmly. “This sort of thing doesn’t do any good. Brace up, little girl, and wait—wait for me. Eighteen years is not forever, we’re both young, and—but never mind that. I wish you would please go up to the flat and—do you remember my heavy, brown coat?”
“Yes, the old one?” she asked.
“That’s it,” he answered. “It’s cold here in this cell. Will you please go up to the flat when they let you loose and sew up that tear under the right arm and send it to me here? It’s probably the last favour I’ll ask of you for a long time so will you do it this afternoon?”
“Yes,” she answered, tearfully.
“The rip is under the right arm, and be certain to sew it up,” said Dolan again. “Perhaps, when I am tried, I shall have a chance to see you and—”
The Thinking Machine arose and stretched himself a little.
“That’s all that’s necessary, Mr. Mallory,” he said. “Have her held until I tell you to release her.”
Mallory made a motion to Cunningham and Blanton and the woman was led away, screaming. Hatch shuddered a little, and Dolan, not understanding, flung himself against the bars of his cell like a caged animal.
“Clever, aren’t you?” he snarled as he caught sight of Detective Mallory. “Thought I’d try to tell her where it was, but I didn’t and you never will know where it is—not in a thousand years.”
Accompanied by The Thinking Machine and Hatch the detective went back to his private office. All were silent but the detective glanced from time to time into the eyes of the scientist.
“Now, Mr. Hatch, we have the whereabouts of the money settled,” said Thinking Machine, quietly. “Please go at once to the flat and bring the brown coat Dolan mentioned. I daresay the secret of the hidden money is somewhere in that coat.”
“But two of my men have already searched that coat,” protested the detective.
“That doesn’t make the least difference,” snapped the scientist.
The reporter went out without a word. Half an hour later he returned with the brown coat. It was a commonplace looking garment, badly worn and in sad need of repair not only in the rip under the arm but in other places. When he saw it The Thinking Machine nodded his head abruptly as if it were just what he had expected.
“The money can’t be in that and I’ll bet my head on it,” declared Detective Mallory, flatly. “There isn’t room for it.”
The Thinking Machine gave him a glance in which there was a touch of pity.
“We know,” he said, “that the money isn’t in this coat. But can’t you see that it is perfectly possible that a slip of paper on which Dolan has written down the hiding place of the money can be hidden in it somewhere? Can’t you see that he asked for this coat—which is not as good a one as the one he is wearing now—in order to attract his wife’s attention to it? Can’t you see it is the one definite thing that he mentioned when he knew that in all probability he would not be permitted to see his wife again, at least for a long time?”
Then, seam by seam, the brown coat was ripped to pieces. Each piece in turn was submitted to the sharpest scrutiny. Nothing resulted. Detective Mallory frankly regarded it all as wasted effort and when there remained nothing of the coat save strips of cloth and lining he was inclined to be triumphant. The Thinking Machine was merely thoughtful.
“It went further back than that,” the scientist mused, and tiny wrinkles appeared in the domelike brow. “Ah! Mr. Hatch please go back to the flat, look in the sewing machine drawers, or work basket and you will find a spool of brown thread. Bring it to me.”
“Spool of brown thread?” repeated the detective in amazement. “Have you been through the place?”
“No.”
“How do you know there’s a spool of brown thread there, then?”
“I know it because Mr. Hatch will bring it back to me,” snapped The Thinking Machine. “I know it by the simplest, most rudimentary rules of logic.”
Hatch went out again. In half an hour he returned with a spool of brown thread. The Thinking Machine’s white fingers seized upon it eagerly, and his watery, squint eyes examined it. A portion of it had been used—the spool was only half gone. But he noted—and as he did his eyes reflected a glitter of triumph—he noted that the paper cap on each end was still in place.
“Now, Mr. Mallory,” he said, “I’ll demonstrate to you that in Dolan the police are dealing with a man far beyond the ordinary bank thief. In his way he is a genius. Look here!”
With a penknife he ripped off the paper caps and looked through the hole of the spool. For an instant his face showed blank amazement. Then he put the spool down on the table and squinted at it for a moment in absolute silence.
“It must be here,” he said at last. “It must be, else why did he—of course!”
With quick fingers he began to unwind the thread. Yard after yard it rolled off in his hand, and finally in the mass of brown on the spool appeared a white strip. In another instant The Thinking Machine held in his hand a tiny, thin sheet of paper—a cigarette paper. It had been wound around the spool and the thread wound over it so smoothly that it was impossible to see that it had ever been removed.
The detective and Hatch were leaning over his shoulder watching him curiously. The tiny paper unfolded—something was written on it. Slowly The Thinking Machine deciphered it.
“47 Causeway Street, basement, tenth flagstone from northeast corner.”
And there the money was found—$109,000. The house was unoccupied and within easy reach of a wharf from which a European bound steamer sailed. Within half an hour of sailing time it would have been an easy matter for Dolan to have recovered it all and that without in the least exciting the suspicion of those who might be watching him; for a saloon next door opened into an alley behind, and a broken window in the basement gave quick access to the treasure.
“Dolan reasoned,” The Thinking Machine explained, “that even if he was never permitted to see his wife she would probably use that thread and in time find the directions for recovering the money. Further he argued that the police would never suspect that a spool contained the secret for which they sought so long. His conversation with his wife, today, was merely to draw her attention to something which would require her to use the spool of brown thread. The brown coat was all that he could think of. And that’s all I think.”
Dolan was a sadly surprised man when news of the recovery of the money was broken to him. But a certain quaint philosophy didn’t desert him. He gazed at Detective Mallory incredulously as the story was told and at the end went over and sat down on his cell cot.
“Well, chief,” he said, “I didn’t think it was in you. That makes me owe you a hat.”
The Problem of Convict no. 97
Martha opened the door. Her distinguished master, Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen—The Thinking Machine—lay senseless on the floor. His upturned face, always drawn and pale, was deathly white now, the thin straight lips were colorless, the eyelids drooping, and the profuse yellow hair was tumbled back from the enormous brow in disorder. His arms were outstretched on either side helplessly, and the slender white hands were still and inert. The fading light from the windows over the laboratory table beat down upon the pitifully small figure, and so for the moment Martha stood with distended eyes gazing in terror and apprehension. She was not of the screaming kind, but a great lump rose in her old throat. Then, with