The Thinking Machine Collected Stories Part 157

"How about the wedding ring?"

"Ah!" and the detective looked wise. "There's nothing to be said of that now." He saw suddenly that he had made one mistake and he felt his prestige slipping away. The reporters turned a flood of questions upon him: "How did it happen Boyd was undressed?" "Who put out the gas?" "How would a burglar replace an iron bar like that?" "Do you suspect a burglar?"

Mr. Mallory raised his hand. "I will say absolutely nothing else about the case."

"Let's see if we understand you," said Hatch, and there was a mocking smile on his lips. "The police theory briefly is this: A man came here, there was a quarrel, a struggle; Boyd was killed, choked; then the murderer left this room by that door, possibly through the keyhole or a convenient crack. Then, being dead, Boyd got up, took off his clothes, turned out the gas, lay down on the floor, screamed for help and died again. Is that right?"

"Bah!" thundered Mr. Mallory, on the verge of apoplexy. "Perhaps," he added scornfully, "you know more about it than I do."

"Well, yes, I'll confess that," said Hatch. "I know at least the name of the man who was here to-night, and these other reporters will know it when their outside men come in."

"You do, eh," demanded Mr. Mallory. "Who is it?"

"His name is Frank Cunningham, a watchmaker of No. 213 -- Street."

"Then he is Boyd's murderer," Mr. Mallory declared. "We'll have him under arrest in an hour."

"He has disappeared," said Hatch, and he left the room.

III.

From the South Boston tenement house Hutchinson Hatch went to the undertaking establishment where the body of Fred Boyd lay, made a careful examination of the mark which showed that he had been throttled, and then went in a cab to the home of Professor Van Dusen, The Thinking Machine. As he drove up he noticed a bright light in the professor's laboratory. It was just fifteen minutes past 1 o'clock when he ascended the steps.

The Thinking Machine in person answered the door bell, the leonine head with its shock of yellow hair, the clean shaven face, and the perpetually squinted eyes behind thick gla.s.ses standing out boldly and grotesquely in the light from a nearby arc.

"Who is it?" asked The Thinking Machine.

"Hutchinson Hatch," said the reporter. "I saw your light and I was particularly anxious for a little advise, so I thought--"

"Come in," said the scientist, and he extended his long, slender fingers cordially.

Hatch followed the thin, bowed figure of the scientist, which seemed that of a child, into the laboratory where he was motioned to a seat. Then Hatch told the story of the crime, so far as it was known, while the professor sat squinting steadily at him, his long taper fingers pressed together.

"Did you see the man?" asked The Thinking Machine.

"Yes."

"What kind of marks, exactly, were those on his neck?"

"They seemed to be such marks as would be made by a large rope drawn about the throat."

"Was the skin broken?"

"No, but whoever strangled him must have had tremendous strength," said the reporter. "The pressure seemed to have been all around."

The Thinking Machine sat silent for several minutes.

"Door fastened inside with iron bar," he mused, "and no transom, so the bar was not placed back in position. Both windows fastened inside."

"It would have been absolutely impossible for any person to leave that room after Boyd was dead," said the reporter, emphatically.

"Nothing is impossible, Mr. Hatch," said The Thinking Machine, testily. "I thought I had demonstrated that clearly, once. The worst anything can be is extremely difficult-not impossible."

Hatch bowed gravely. He had walked over one of The Thinking Machine's pet hobbies.

"Man was undressed," went on The Thinking Machine. "Bed disordered, chairs overturned, gas out." He paused a moment, then asked: "You reason that the man must have gone to bed after putting out the light, and that his murderer came upon him unawares?"

"That seems to be the only possible thing to imagine," said Hatch.

"And in that case the other man-Cunningham-would not have been there?"

"Precisely."

"What sort of a wedding ring was it?"

"Perfectly new. It didn't seem to have ever been worn."

The Thinking Machine arose from his seat and took down a heavy volume, one of hundreds which lined his walls.

"You don't believe it probable that Cunningham left the room while angry and returned after Boyd was asleep and killed him?" asked The Thinking Machine as he fingered the leaves.

"He couldn't have come back if that door was fastened," said Hatch, doggedly.

"He could have, of course," said The Thinking Machine, "but it is hardly probable. Do you think it reasonable to suppose then that someone hidden in the closet waited until Cunningham was gone and then killed Boyd?"

"That sounds more plausible," said Hatch, after a moment's consideration. "But he couldn't have gone out of that room and fastened the door or window behind him."

"Of course he could have," said The Thinking Machine, irritably. "Don't keep saying he couldn't have done anything. It annoys me exceedingly."

Properly rebuked Hatch sat silent while The Thinking Machine sought something in the book.

"In the event, of course, that somebody was hidden in the room it would make it a premeditated murder, wouldn't it?" asked the scientist.

"Yes, unquestionably," replied the reporter.

"Here is something," said The Thinking Machine, as he squinted into the volume he held. "It is logic reduced to figures. Criminologists agree, practically, that thirty and one-third per cent of all premeditated crimes are committed because of money, directly or indirectly; that two per cent are committed because of insanity; and that the others, sixty-seven and two-thirds per cent, are committed because of women."

Hatch nodded.

"We'll shut out for the time being the matter of insanity-it is only a remote chance; money would hardly enter into the case because of the fact that both men were poor. Therefore, there remains a woman. The wedding ring found in the room also indicates a woman, though in what connection is not clear.

"Now, Mr. Hatch," he continued, glaring at the reporter almost fiercely, "find out all you can about the private life of this man Boyd-it will probably be like every other man of his cla.s.s-and particularly his love affairs; find out also all you can about Cunningham and his love affairs. If the name of any woman appears in the case at all, find out all about her-and her love affairs. You understand?"

"Yes," was the reply.

"Don't delude yourself with the thought that it was impossible for anyone to leave that room after Boyd was dead," went on the scientist, with the stubborn persistence of a child. "Suppose this-I don't offer it as a solution-suppose that Boyd had been engaged to be married, that someone else loved the girl he was to marry, that that someone else had hidden in his room until Cunningham went away, then-you see?"