“No. She is stopping with her sister. The flat is under lock and key. Mallory has the key. He has shown the utmost care in everything he has done. Dolan has not been permitted to write to or see his wife for fear he would let her know some way where the money is; he has not been permitted to communicate with anybody at all, not even a lawyer. He did see President Ashe and two directors of the bank but naturally he wouldn’t give them a message for his wife.”
The Thinking Machine was silent. For five, ten, twenty minutes he sat with long, slender fingers pressed tip to tip, squinting unblinkingly at the ceiling. Hatch waited patiently.
“Of course,” said the scientist at last, “one hundred and nine thousand dollars, even in large bills would make a considerable bundle and would be extremely difficult to hide in a place that has been gone over so often. We may suppose, therefore, that it isn’t in the flat. What have the detectives learned as to Dolan’s whereabouts after the robbery and before he was taken?”
“Nothing,” replied Hatch, “nothing, absolutely. He seemed to disappear off the earth for a time. That time, I suppose, was when he was disposing of the money. His plans were evidently well laid.”
“It would be possible of course, by the simple rules of logic, to sit still here and ultimately locate the money,” remarked The Thinking Machine musingly, “but it would take a long time. We might begin, for instance, with the idea that he contemplated flight? When? By rail or steamer? The answers to those questions would, in a way, enlighten us as to the probable location of the money, because, remember, it would have to be placed where it was readily accessible in case of flight. But the process would be a long one. Perhaps it would be best to make Dolan tell us where he hid it.”
“It would if he would tell,” agreed the reporter, “but he is reticent to a degree that is maddening when the money is mentioned.”
“Naturally,” remarked the scientist. “That really doesn’t matter. I have no doubt he will inform me.”
So Hatch and The Thinking Machine called upon Detective Mallory. They found him in deep abstraction. He glanced up at the intrusion with an appearance, almost, of relief. He knew intuitively what it was.
“If you can find out where that money is, Professor” he declared emphatically, “I’ll—I’ll—well you can’t.”
The Thinking Machine squinted into the official eyes thoughtfully and the corners of his straight mouth were drawn down disapprovingly.
“I think perhaps there has been a little too much caution here, Mr. Mallory,” he said. “I have no doubt Dolan will inform me as to where the money is. As I understand it his wife is practically without means?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “She is living with her sister.”
“And he has asked several times to be permitted to write to or see her?”
“Yes, dozens of times.”
“Well, now suppose you do let him see her,” suggested The Thinking Machine.
“Lord, that’s just what he wants,” blurted the detective. “If he ever sees her I know he will, in some way, by something he says, by a gesture, or a look inform her where the money is. As it is now I know she doesn’t know where it is.”
“Well, if he informs her won’t he also inform us?” demanded The Thinking Machine tartly. “If Dolan wants to convey knowledge of the whereabouts of the money to his wife let him talk to her—let him give her the information. I daresay if she is clever enough to interpret a word as a clue to where the money is I am too.”
The detective thought that over. He knew this crabbed little scientist with the enormous head of old; and he knew, too, some of the amazing results he had achieved by methods wholly unlike those of the police. But in this case he was frankly in doubt.
“This way,” The Thinking Machine continued. “Get the wife here, let her pass Dolan’s cell and speak to him so that he will know that it is her, then let her carry on a conversation with him while she is beyond his sight. Have a stenographer, without the knowledge of either, take down just what is said, word for word. Give me a transcript of the conversation, and hold the wife on some pretext until I can study it a little. If he gives her a clue I’ll get the money.”
There was not the slightest trace of egotism in the irritable tone. It seemed merely a statement of fact. Detective Mallory, looking at the wizened face of the logician, was doubtfully hopeful and at last he consented to the experiment. The wife was sent for and came eagerly, a stenographer was placed in the cell adjoining Dolan, and the wife was led along the corridor. As she paused in front of Dolan’s cell he started toward her with an exclamation. Then she was led on a little way out of his sight.
With face pressed close against the bars Dolan glowered out upon Detective Mallory and Hatch. An expression of awful ferocity leapt into his eyes.
“What’re you doing with her?” he demanded.
“Mort, Mort,” she called.
“Belle, is it you?” he asked in turn.
“They told me you wanted to talk to me,” explained the wife. She was panting fiercely as she struggled to shake off the hands which held her beyond his reach.
“What sort of a game is this, Mallory?” demanded the prisoner.
“You’ve wanted to talk to her,” Mallory replied, “now go ahead. You may talk, but you must not see her.”
“Oh, that’s it, eh?” snarled Dolan. “What did you bring her here for then? Is she under arrest?”
“Mort, Mort,” came his wife’s voice again. “They won’t let me come where I can see you.”
There was utter silence for a moment. Hatch was overpowered by a feeling that he was intruding upon a family tragedy, and tiptoed beyond reach of Dolan’s roving eyes to where The Thinking Machine was sitting on a stool, twiddling his fingers. After a moment the detective joined them.
“Belle?” called Dolan again. It was almost a whisper.
“Don’t say anything, Mort,” she panted. “Cunningham and Blanton are holding me—the others are listening.”
“I don’t want to say anything,” said Dolan easily. “I did want to see you. I wanted to know if you are getting along all right. Are you still at the flat?”
“No, at my sister’s,” was the reply. “I have no money—I can’t stay at the flat.”
“You know they’re going to send me away?”
“Yes,” and there was almost a sob in the voice. “I—I know it.”
“That I’ll get the limit—twenty years?”
“Yes.”
“Can you—get along?” asked Dolan solicitously. “Is there anything you can do for yourself?”
“I will do something,” was the reply. “Oh, Mort, Mort, why—”
“Oh never mind that,” he interrupted impatiently. “It doesn’t do any good to regret things. It isn’t what I planned for, little girl, but it’s here so—so I’ll meet it. I’ll get the good behaviour allowance—that’ll save two years, and then—”
There was a menace in the tone which was not lost upon the listeners.
“Eighteen years,” he heard her moan.
For one instant Dolan’s lips were pressed tightly together and in that instant he had a regret—regret that he had not killed Blanton and Cunningham rather than submit to capture. He shook off his anger with an effort.
“I don’t know if they’ll permit me ever to see you,” he said, desperately, “as long as I refuse to tell where the money is hidden, and I know they’ll