The Thinking Machine Collected Stories Part 146

"Therefore, from the very first, we knew the manner of death. When we knew further that hydrocyanic acid is extremely volatile, we see how that single drop on the rose evaporated, was dissipated in the air, as the windows of the room where the young woman was found were open. Still there was a faint odor of it left,-it smells precisely like crushed peach kernels,-and the maid Goodwin was unconsciously affected by it.

"Knowing these things," he continued, "I went to the florist's. Only twelve roses had been bought, paid for, and delivered from there, and the rose that killed Miss Burdock was the thirteenth rose. The roses went from the florist's Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sat.u.r.days for four weeks, making twelve roses. They had all been delivered, as the receipt books there showed; but Miss Burdock was killed on Monday; therefore that was the thirteenth rose, and it didn't come direct from the florist's. It was sent by messenger, and the date didn't correspond with any date in the receipt book; therefore it came from another source.

"Incidentally the fact that the roses were sent in that way,-that is one at a time without a card or suggestion of by whom they were sent,-suggested a clandestine arrangement with the girl. In other words, the roses were being sent by some one she knew, in all probability; but no one else must know. It was, I saw, a method of correspondence, I might say a love token of some sort, which would not attract attention at her home as a letter would.

"Thus I established a relationship between Miss Burdock and some one else-unknown. The logic of it all informed me that the reason that unknown didn't communicate with her was because of some objection in her home. Her father! Do you see? I simply asked him about it, and instantly his hatred for a single individual came out, that individual being Mr. Darrow. Thus, things pointed toward Mr. Darrow, who was away. The letter to the florist was from Washington. The joints were fitting nicely.

"At police headquarters I saw the rose, and by cautious experiments detected a faint odor of peach kernels. Then I saw the handwriting on the box. It seemed to be a man's; yet I knew by the receipt book there that it did not come from the florist's, therefore was not addressed by anyone there. Did Mr. Darrow address it? Mr. Downey got for me a sample of Mr. Darrow's writing (I don't know how he got it), and the two were compared. They seemed to be the same. This fact was connecting with all the others. Clandestine communication-poison-Darrow! Do you see? This development made Darrow's presence necessary, and I told you, Mr. Mallory, that he was the man we must find. Yet, from the fact that the handwriting on the box was his I had a first suggestion that he was not guilty of the crime. No intelligent man would address a box like that in his own handwriting.

"The matter rested at this point. Mr. Burdock accepted a murder theory and offered rewards, and then Mr. Darrow in person came to see me. The moment he stepped inside my door, to tell me an improbable story, I knew he was innocent. Mr. Burdock's hatred of him (the cause of the feud between them is not of consequence) told me why he had disappeared; and his mere appearance before me accounted for his not going to the police. So-so that's all. He told me of calling to see Signorina di Peculini, and she was not in. We came here, found the door locked, went in with a pa.s.s key, and found the things as I delivered them to you, Mr. Mallory." He stopped and sat silently staring for a little while.

"Briefly," he supplemented, "the woman who killed herself knew of the rose being sent regularly, then determined on revenge, bought one, and sent it herself after dropping a single drop of poison in the bloom. The wax paper which surrounded the flower prevented evaporation, and when it was opened,-- We know the rest."

Neither Detective Mallory nor Hatch spoke for a long time. But the reporter had one more question to ask; and at last he put it.

"That peach kernel that you sent me to Goodwin with--" he began.

"Oh, yes," interrupted The Thinking Machine. "That was a little psychological experiment, and the result of it disconcerted me a little. It is one of the many things science doesn't fully understand, Mr. Hatch-like the little experiment with the frog. For instance, nitrite of amyl is a powerful heart stimulant. It smells precisely like banana oil. A person who has used nitrite of amyl, or to whom it has been administered without their knowledge by inhalation, is momentarily affected the same way when they come suddenly upon the odor of banana oil. Prussic acid has an odor like a peach kernel. I sent you to Goodwin, therefore, to prove definitely whether or not prussic acid had been used, and if she had inhaled it unconsciously. The result gave the proof I wanted."

_________________________.

THE SILVER BOX.

"Really great criminals are never found out, for the simple reason that the greatest crimes-their crimes-are never discovered," remarked Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen positively. "There is genius in the perpetration of crime, Mr. Grayson, just as there must be in its detection, unless it is the shallow work of a bungler. In this latter case there have been instances where even the police have uncovered the truth. But the expert criminal, the man of genius,-the professional, I may say,-regards as perfect only that crime which does not and cannot be made to appear a crime at all; therefore one that can never involve him, nor anyone else."

The financier, J. Morgan Grayson, regarded this wizened little man of science-The Thinking Machine-thoughtfully, through the smoke of his cigar.

"It is a strange psychological fact that the casual criminal glories in his crime beforehand, and from one to ten minutes afterward," The Thinking Machine continued. "For instance, the man who kills for revenge wants the world to know it is his work; but at the end of ten minutes comes fear, abject terror, and then, paradoxically enough, he will seek to hide his crime and protect himself by some transparent means utterly inadequate, because of what he has said or done in the pa.s.sion which preceded the act. With fear comes panic, with panic irresponsibility, and then he makes the mistake,-hews a pathway which the trained mind follows from motive to a prison cell.

"These are the men who are found out. But there are men of genius, Mr. Grayson, professionally engaged in crime. We never hear of them, because they are never caught, and we never even suspect them, because they make no mistake,-they are men of genius. Imagine the great brains of history turned to crime. Well, there are to-day brains as great as any of those which make a profession of it; there is murder and theft and robbery under our noses that we never dream of. If I, for instance, should become an active criminal, can you see--" He paused.

Grayson, with a queer expression on his face, puffed steadily at his cigar.

"I could kill you now, here in this room," The Thinking Machine went on calmly, "and no one would ever know, never even suspect. Why not? Because I would make no mistake. In other words, I would immediately take rank with the criminals of genius who are never found out."

It was not a boast as he said it; it was merely a statement of fact. Grayson appeared to be a little startled. Where there had been only impatient interest in his manner, there was now something else-fascination, perhaps.

"How would you kill me, for instance?" he inquired curiously.

"With anyone of a dozen poisons, with virulent germs, or even with a knife or revolver," replied the scientist placidly. "You see, I know how to use poisons; I know how to inoculate with germs; I know how to produce a suicidal appearance perfectly with either a revolver or knife. And I never make mistakes, Mr. Grayson. In the sciences we must be exact-not approximately so, but absolutely so. We must know. It isn't like carpentry. A carpenter may make a trivial mistake in a joint, and it will not weaken his house; but if the scientist makes one mistake the whole structure tumbles down. We must know. Knowledge is progress. We gain knowledge through observation and logic-inevitable logic. And logic tells us that while two and two make four, it is not only sometimes but all the time."

Grayson flicked the ashes off his cigar thoughtfully, and little wrinkles appeared about his eyes as he stared into the drawn, inscrutable face of the scientist. The enormous, straw yellow head was cushioned against the chair, the squinting, watery blue eyes turned upward, and the slender white fingers at rest, tip to tip. The financier drew a long breath. "I have been informed that you were a remarkable man," he said at last slowly. "I believe it. Quinton Fraser, the banker who gave me the letter of introduction to you, told me how you once solved a remarkable mystery, in which--"

"Yes, yes," interrupted the scientist shortly; "the Ralston bank burglary-I remember."

"So I came to you to enlist your aid in something which is more inexplicable than that," Grayson went on hesitatingly. "I know that no fee I might offer would influence you; yet it is a case which--"

"State it," interrupted The Thinking Machine again.

"It isn't a crime-that is, a crime that can be reached by law," Grayson hurried on,-"but it has cost me millions, and--"

For one instant The Thinking Machine lowered his squint eyes to those of his visitor, then raised them again. "Millions!" he repeated. "How many?"

"Six, eight, perhaps ten," was the reply. "Briefly, there is a leak in my office. My plans become known to others almost by the time I have perfected them. My plans are large; I have millions at stake; and the greatest secrecy is absolutely essential. For years I have been able to preserve this secrecy; but half a dozen times in the last eight weeks my plans have become known, and I have been caught. Unless you know the Street, you can't imagine what a tremendous disadvantage it is to have some one know your next move to the minutest detail, and knowing it, defeat you at every turn."

"No, I don't know your world of finance, Mr. Grayson," remarked The Thinking Machine. "Give me an instance."

"Well, take this last case," suggested the financier earnestly. "Briefly, without technicalities, I had planned to unload the securities of the P., Q. & X. railway, protecting myself through brokers, and force the outstanding stock down to a price where other brokers, acting for me, could buy far below the actual value. In this way I intended to get complete control of the stock. But my plans became known, and when I began to unload everything was snapped up by the opposition, with the result that instead of gaining control of the road I lost heavily. The same thing has happened, with variations, half a dozen times."

"I presume that is strictly honest?" inquired the scientist mildly.

"Honest?" repeated Grayson. "Certainly-of course. It's business."

"I shall not pretend to understand all that," said The Thinking Machine curtly. "It doesn't seem to matter, anyway. You want to know where the leak is. Is that right?"

"Precisely."

"Well, who is in your confidence?"

"No one, except my stenographer."

"Of course, there is an exception. Who is he, please?"

"It's a woman-Miss Evelyn Winthrop. She has been in my employ for six years in the same capacity,-more than five years before this leak appeared-and I trust her absolutely."

"No man knows your business?"

"No," replied the financier grimly. "I learned years ago that no one could keep my secrets as I do,-there are too many temptations,-therefore I never mention my plans to anyone-never-to anyone!"

"Except your stenographer," corrected the scientist.

"I work for days, weeks, sometimes months, perfecting plans, and it's all in my head, not on paper-not a scratch of it," explained Grayson. "Therefore, when I say that she is in my confidence I mean that she knows my plans only half an hour or less before the machinery is put into motion. For instance, I planned this P., Q. & X. deal. My brokers didn't know of it; Miss Winthrop never heard of it until twenty minutes before the Stock Exchange opened for business. Then I dictated to her, as I always do, some short letters of instructions to my agents. That is all she knew of it."

"You outlined the plan in those letters?"

"No; they merely told my brokers what to do."

"But a shrewd person, knowing the contents of all those letters, could have learned what you intended to do?"

"Yes; but no one person knew the contents of all those letters. No one broker knew what was in the other letters-many of them were unknown to each other. Miss Winthrop and I were the only two human beings who knew all that was in them."

The Thinking Machine sat silent for so long that Grayson began to fidget in his chair. "Who was in the room besides you and Miss Winthrop before the letters were sent?" he asked at last.

"No one," responded Grayson emphatically. "For an hour before I dictated those letters, until at least an hour afterward, after my plans had gone to smash, no one entered that room. Only she and I work there."

"But when she finished the letters, she went out?" insisted The Thinking Machine.