“Nothing,” responded Conway promptly. “That’s what’s the matter. I’ve had to give it all up.”
“Instead of nothing we have the answer,” replied The Thinking Machine tartly. “Let’s see. Perhaps I can give you the name and address of the man who has the jewels now, assuming of course that Leighton brought them.”
He arose suddenly and passed into the adjoining room. Conway turned and stared at Hatch inquiringly with a queer expression on his face.
“Is he anything of a joker?” he asked.
“No, but he’s a good deal of a wonder,” replied Hatch.
“Do you mean to say that I have been working on this thing for months and months without learning anything about it and all he’s got to do is to go in there and get the name and address of the man who has the necklace?” demanded Conway in bewilderment.
“If he went into that room and said he’d bring back the Pacific Ocean in a tea cup I’d believe him,” said the reporter. “I know him.”
They were interrupted by the tinkling of the telephone bell in the next room, then for a long time the subdued hum of the scientist’s irritable voice as he talked over the ‘phone. It was twenty-five or thirty minutes before he appeared in the door again. He paused there and scribbled something on a card which he handed to Hatch. The reporter read this: “Henry C. H. Manderling, Scituate, Mass.”
“There is the name and address of the man who probably has the jewels now,” said The Thinking Machine quite as a matter of fact. “Mr. Hatch, you accompany Mr. Conway, let him see the surroundings and act as his judgment dictates. You must search this man’s house. I don’t think you’ll have much trouble finding them because they cannot foresee their danger. The pearls will be unset and you will find them possibly in small oil-silk bags, no larger than your little finger. When you find them take steps to apprehend both this man and Leighton. Call Detective Mallory when you get them and bring them here.”
“But—but—” stammered Conway.
“Come on,” commanded Hatch.
And Conway went.
The sleepy little old town of Scituate sprawls along two or three miles of Massachusetts coast, facing the sea boldly in a series of cliffs which rise up and sink away with the utmost suddenness. The town was settled two or three hundred years ago and nothing has ever happened there since. It was here, atop one of the cliffs, that Henry C. H. Manderling had lived alone for two or three months. He had gone there in the Spring with other city folks who dreamed their Summers away, and occupied a queer little shack through which the salt breezes wandered at will. A tiny barn was attached to the house.
Hutchinson Hatch and the Scotland Yard man found the house without difficulty and entered it without hesitation. There was no one at hand to stop them, or to interfere with the search they made. The simple lock on the door was no obstacle. In less than half an hour the skilful hands of the Scotland Yard man had turned out a score or more small oil-silk bags, no larger than his little finger. He ripped one open and six pearls dropped into his hand.
“They’re the Varron pearls all right,” he exclaimed triumphantly after an examination. He dropped them all into his pocket.
“Sh-h-h-h!” warned Hatch suddenly.
He had heard a step at the door, then two voices as some one inserted a key in the lock. After a moment the door opened and crouching back in the shadow they heard two men enter. It was just at that psychological moment that Conway stepped out and faced them.
“I want you, Leighton,” he said calmly.
Hatch could not see beyond the Scotland Yard man but he heard a shot and a bullet whistled uncomfortably close to his head. Conway leaped forward; Hatch saw his arm swing and one of the men fell. Then came another shot. Conway staggered a little, took another step forward and again swung his great right arm. There was a scurrying of feet, the clatter of a revolver on the floor and the front door slammed.
“Tie up that chap there,” commanded Conway.
He opened the door and Hatch heard him run along the veranda and leap off. He turned his attention to the senseless man on the floor. It was Harry Cheshire. Hatch bound him hand and foot where he lay and ran out.
Conway was racing down the cliff to where a motor boat lay. Hatch saw a man climb into the boat and an instant later it shot out into the water. Conway ran on to where it had been; it was now fifty yards out.
“Not this time, Mr. Conway,” came Leighton’s voice as the boat sped on.
The Scotland Yard man stared after it a minute or more then returned to Hatch. The reporter saw that he was pale, very pale.
“Did you bind him?” Conway asked.
“Yes,” Hatch responded. “Are you wounded?”
“Sure,” replied the Scotland Yard man. “He got me in the left arm. I never knew him to carry a revolver before. It’s lucky those two shots were all he had.”
The Thinking Machine put the finishing touches on the binding of Conway’s wound—it was trivial—then turned to his other visitors. These were Harry Cheshire, or Manderling, and Detective Mallory to whom he had been delivered a prisoner on the arrival of Hatch and Conway in Boston. A general alarm had been sent out for Leighton.
Conway apparently didn’t care anything about the wound but he had a frank curiosity as to just what The Thinking Machine had done and how those things which had happened had been brought to pass.
“It was all ridiculously simple,” began the scientist at last in explanation. “It came down to this: How could one hundred and seventy-two pearls be transferred from a boat forty miles at sea to a safe place ashore? The motor boat did not speak or approach any other vessel; obviously one could not throw them ashore and I have never heard of such a thing as a trained fish which might have brought them in. Now what are the only other ways they could have reached shore with comparative safety?”
He looked from one to another inquiringly. Each in turn shook his head. Manderling, or Cheshire, was silent.
“There are only two possible answers,” said the scientist at last. “One, a submarine boat, which is improbable, and the other birds—homing pigeons.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Conway as he stared at Manderling. “And I did notice dozens of pigeons about the place at Scituate.”
“The jewels were on the ship as you suspected,” resumed the scientist, “unset and probably suspended in a long oil-silk bag in the drain pipe I mentioned. They were thrown into the motor boat, wrapped in the newspapers. Two miles away from the Romanic they were fastened to homing pigeons and one by one the pigeons were released. You, Mr. Conway, could see the boat clearly at that distance but you could not possibly see a bird rise from it. The birds went to their home, Mr. Manderling’s place at Scituate. Homing pigeons are generally kept in automatically closing compartments and each pigeon was locked in as it arrived. Mr. Manderling here and Mr. Leighton removed the pearls at their leisure.
“Of course with homing pigeons as a clue we could get somewhere,” The Thinking Machine went on after a moment. “There are numerous homing pigeon associations and fanciers and it was possible that one of these would know an Englishman who had, say, twenty-five or fifty birds, and presumably lived somewhere near Boston. One did know. He gave me the name of Henry C. H. Manderling. Harry is a corruption of Henry; and Henry C? Henry Cheshire, or Harry Cheshire—the name Mr. Manderling gave when he was searched at the wharf.”
“Can you explain how Leighton was able to get the necklace in the first place?” asked Conway curiously.
“Just as he got the other things,” replied The Thinking Machine, “by boldness and cleverness. Suppose, when Lady Varron fell, Leighton had had a stout elastic fastened high up at the shoulder, say, inside his coat sleeve and the end of this elastic had a clamp of some sort, and was drawn