The Thinking Machine Collected Stories Part 149

"I'll tell you when the time comes," responded the scientist, as he glanced at the watch.

At three minutes of one o'clock he handed a sheet of blank paper to the operator, and gave his final instructions. "Hold the telephone receiver to your ear and write on this what you hear," he directed. "It may be several minutes before you hear anything. When you do, tell me so."

There was ludicrous mystification on the operator's face; but he obeyed orders, grinning cheerfully at Hatch as he tilted his cigar up to keep the smoke out of his eyes. The Thinking Machine stood impatiently looking on, watch in hand. Hatch didn't know what was happening; but he was tremendously interested.

And at last the operator heard something. His face became suddenly alert. He continued to listen for a moment, and then came a smile of recognition as he turned to the scientist.

"It's good old Morse, all right," he announced; "but it's the queerest sort of sounder I ever read."

"You mean the Morse telegraphic code?" demanded The Thinking Machine.

"Sure," said the operator.

"Write your message."

Within less than ten minutes after Miss Winthrop had handed over the typewritten letters of instruction to Grayson for signature, and while he still sat turning them over in his hands, the door opened and The Thinking Machine entered. He tossed a folded sheet of paper on the desk before Grayson, and went straight to Miss Winthrop.

"So you did know Mr. Ralph Matthews after all?" he inquired.

The girl arose from her desk, and a flash of some subtle emotion pa.s.sed over her face. "What do you mean, sir?" she demanded.

"You might as well remove the silver box," The Thinking Machine went on mercilessly. "There is no further need of the connection."

Miss Winthrop glanced down at the telephone extension on her desk, and her hand darted toward it. The silver "vanity" box was underneath supporting the receiver, so that all the weight was removed from the hook, and the line was open. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the box, the receiver dropped on the hook, and there was a faint tinkle of a bell somewhere below. The Thinking Machine turned to Grayson.

"It was Miss Winthrop," he said.

"Miss Winthrop!" exclaimed Grayson, and he arose. "I can't believe it!"

"It doesn't really matter whether you believe it or not," retorted The Thinking Machine. "But if your doubt is very serious, you might ask her."

Grayson turned toward the girl and took a couple of steps forward. There was more than surprise in his face; there was doubt, and perhaps regret.

"I don't know what it's all about," she protested feebly.

"Read the paper I gave you, Mr. Grayson," directed The Thinking Machine coldly. "Perhaps that will enlighten her."

The financier opened the sheet, which had remained folded in his hand, and glanced at what was written there. Slowly he read it aloud: "Goldman.-Sell ten thousand shares L. & W. at 97. McCracken Co.-Sell ten thousand shares L. & W., 97." He read on down the list, bewildered. Then gradually, as he realized the import of what he read, there came a hardening of the lines about his mouth.

"I understand, Miss Winthrop," he said at last. "This is the substance of the orders I dictated, and in some way you made them known to persons for whom they were not intended. I don't know how you did it, of course; but I understand that you did do it, so--" He stepped to the door and opened it with grave courtesy. "You may go now. I am sorry."

Miss Winthrop made no plea,-merely bowed and went out. Grayson stood staring after her for a moment, then turned to The Thinking Machine and motioned him to a chair. "What happened?" he asked briskly.

"Miss Winthrop is a tremendously clever woman," replied The Thinking Machine. "She neglected to tell you, however, that besides being a stenographer and typewriter she was a telegraph operator as well. She is so expert in each of her lines that she combined the two, if I may say it that way. In other words, in writing on the typewriter, she was clever enough to be able to give the click of the machine the sounding of the Morse telegraphic code, so that another telegraph operator who heard her machine could translate it into words."

Grayson sat staring at him incredulously. "I still don't understand," he said finally.

"Here," and The Thinking Machine arose and went to Miss Winthrop's desk,-"here is an extension telephone with the receiver on the hook. It just happens that the little silver box which you gave Miss Winthrop is tall enough to support this receiver clear of the hook, and the minute the receiver is off the hook the line is open. When you were at your desk and she was here, you couldn't see this telephone; therefore it was a simple matter for her to lift the receiver, and place the silver box beneath, thus holding the line open permanently. That being true, the sound of the typewriter would go over the open wire to whoever was listening at the other end, wouldn't it? Then, if that typewriter was made to sound the telegraphic code, and an operator held the receiver at the other end, that operator could read a message written at the same moment your letters were being written. That is all. It requires extreme concentration to do the thing-cleverness."

"Oh, I see!" exclaimed Grayson at last.

"When we knew that the leak in your office was not in the usual way," continued The Thinking Machine, "we looked for the unusual. First I was inclined to believe that there was a difference in the sounding quality of the various keys as they were struck, and some one was clever enough to read that. I had Mr. Hatch make experiments, however, which instantly proved that was out of the question,-unless this typewriter had been tuned, I may say. The logic of the thing had convinced me meanwhile that the leak must be by way of the telephone line, and Mr. Hatch and I tapped it one night. He is an electrician. Then I saw the possibility of holding the line open, as I explained; but for hour after hour the actual method of communication eluded me. At last I found it-the telegraphic code. Then it was all simple.

"When I telephoned to you to find out how long Miss Winthrop had had the silver box, and you said seven months, I knew that it was always at hand; when I asked you where you got it, I went there and saw a duplicate. There I measured the box and tested my belief that it would just support the receiver clear of the hook. When I requested you to dictate those orders to-day at one o'clock, I had a telegraph operator listening at a telephone on the top floor of this building. There is nothing very mysterious about it, after all-it's merely clever."

"Clever!" repeated Grayson, and his jaws snapped. "It is more than that. Why, it's criminal! She should be prosecuted."

"I shouldn't advise that, Mr. Grayson," returned the scientist coldly. "If it is honest-merely business-to juggle stocks as you told me you did, this is no more dishonest. And besides, remember that Miss Winthrop is backed by the people who have made millions out of you, and-well, I wouldn't prosecute. It is betrayal of trust, certainly; but--" He arose as if that was all, and started toward the door. "I would advise you, if you want to stop the leak, to discharge the person in charge of your office exchange here," he said.

"Was she in on the scheme?" demanded Grayson. He rushed out of the private office into the main office. At the door he met a clerk coming in.

"Where is Miss Mitch.e.l.l?" demanded the financier hotly.

"I was just coming to tell you that she went out with Miss Winthrop just now without giving any explanation," replied the clerk. "The telephone is without an attendant."

"Good day, Mr. Grayson," said The Thinking Machine.

The financier nodded his thanks, then stalked back into his room, banging the door behind him.

In the course of time The Thinking Machine received a check for ten thousand dollars, signed, "J. Morgan Grayson." He glared at it for a little while, then indorsed it in a crabbed hand, "Pay to Trustees Home for Crippled Children," and sent Martha out to mail it.

_________________________.

PROBLEM OF THE STOLEN BANK NOTES.

There was no mystery whatever about the ident.i.ty of the man who, alone and unaided, robbed the Thirteenth National Bank of $109,437 in cash and $1.29 in postage stamps. It was "Mort" Dolan, an expert safe-cracker albeit a young one, and he had made a clean sweep. Nor yet was there any mystery as to his whereabouts. He was safely in a cell at Police Headquarters, having been captured within less than twelve hours after the robbery was discovered.

Dolan had offered no resistance to the officers when he was cornered, and had attempted no denial when questioned by Detective Mallory. He knew he had been caught fairly and squarely and no argument was possible, so he confessed, with a glow of pride at a job well done. It was four or five days after his arrest that the matter came to the attention of The Thinking Machine. Then the problem was--

But perhaps it were better to begin at the beginning.

Despite the fact that he was considerably less than thirty years old, "Mort" Dolan was a man for whom the police had a wholesome respect. He had a record, for he had started early. This robbery of the Thirteenth National was his "big" job and was to have been his last. With the proceeds he had intended to take his wife and quietly disappear beneath a full beard and an alias in some place far removed from former haunts. But the mutability of human events is a matter of proverb. While the robbery as a robbery was a thoroughly artistic piece of work and in full accordance with plans which had been worked out to the minutest details months before, he had made one mistake. This was leaving behind him in the bank the can in which the nitro-glycerine had been bought. Through this carelessness he had been traced.

Dolan and his wife occupied three poor rooms in a poor tenement house. From the moment the police got a description of the person who bought the explosive they were confident for they knew their man. Therefore four clever men were on watch about the poor tenement. Neither Dolan nor his wife was there then, but from the condition of things in the rooms the police believed that they intended to return so took up positions to watch.

Unsuspecting enough, for his one mistake in the robbery had not recurred to him, Dolan came along just about dusk and started up the five steps to the front door of the tenement. It just happened that he glanced back and saw a head drawn suddenly behind a projecting stoop. But the electric light glared strongly there and Dolan recognized Detective Downey, one of many men who revolved around Detective Mallory within a limited orbit. Dolan paused on the stoop a moment and rolled a cigarette while he thought it over. Perhaps instead of entering it would be best to stroll on down the street, turn a corner and make a dash for it. But just at that moment he spied another head in the direction of contemplated flight. That was Detective Blanton.

Deeply thoughtful Dolan smoked half the cigarette and stared blankly in front of him. He knew of a back door opening on an alley. Perhaps the detectives had not thought to guard that! He tossed his cigarette away, entered the house with affected unconcern and closed the door. Running lightly through the long, unclean hall which extended the full length of the building he flung open the back door. He turned back instantly-just outside he had seen and recognized Detective Cunningham.

Then he had an inspiration! The roof! The building was four stories. He ran up the four flights lightly but rapidly and was half way up the short flight which led to the opening in the roof when he stopped. From above he caught the whiff of a bad cigar, then the measured tread of heavy boots. Another detective! With a sickening depression at his heart Dolan came softly down the stairs again, opened the door of his flat with a latch-key and entered.

Then and there he sat down to figure it all out. There seemed no escape for him. Every way out was blocked, and it was only a question of time before they would close in on him. He imagined now they were only waiting for his wife's return. He could fight for his freedom of course-even kill one, perhaps two, of the detectives who were waiting for him. But that would only mean his own death. If he tried to run for it past either of the detectives he would get a shot in the back. And besides, murder was repugnant to Dolan's artistic soul. It didn't do any good. But could he warn Isabel, his wife? He feared she would walk into the trap as he had done, and she had had no connection of any sort with the affair.

Then, from a fear that his wife would return, there swiftly came a fear that she would not. He suddenly remembered that it was necessary for him to see her. The police could not connect her with the robbery in any way; they could only hold her for a time and then would be compelled to free her for her innocence of this particular crime was beyond question. And if he were taken before she returned she would be left penniless; and that was a thing which Dolan dreaded to contemplate. There was a spark of human tenderness in his heart and in prison it would be comforting to know that she was well cared for. If she would only come now he would tell her where the money--!