The Thinking Machine Collected Stories Part 76

"Had been cheating," The Thinking Machine supplied crabbedly. "Go on."

"As a result of that little unpleasantness," St. Rocheville continued, "the game ended, and we joined the ladies. Now, please understand that it is not my wish to retaliate upon Mr. Miller. I have explained my motive-I don't want to be made a scapegoat. I do want the actual facts to come out." Some subtle change pa.s.sed across his face. "Mr. Miller," he said measuredly, "stole Mrs. Wardlaw Browne's necklace!"

"Miller," Hatch repeated. "Do you mean Rex Miller?"

"That's his name, yes-Rex Miller."

"Rex Miller? The son of John W. Miller, the millionaire?" Hatch came to his feet excitedly.

"Rex Miller is his name, yes," St. Rocheville shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, that's impossible!" Hatch declared.

"Nothing is impossible, Mr. Hatch," interrupted The Thinking Machine tartly. "Sit down. You annoy me." He shifted his pale-blue eyes, and squinted at Monsieur St. Rocheville through his thick spectacles. "How do you know Mr. Miller stole the necklace?"

"I saw him slip it into the pocket of his dress coat," St. Rocheville declared flatly. "Naturally, I had an idea that, when he drew Mrs. Wardlaw Browne aside immediately after we came out of the card room, it was his intention to-to denounce me as a card sharp. You may imagine that I was watching them both closely, because my honor was at stake. I wanted to see how she took it. It seems that he said nothing whatever to her about the card game; but he did steal the necklace. I saw him hiding it."

Fell a long silence. With inscrutable face The Thinking Machine sat staring at the ceiling. Twice St. Rocheville shifted his position uneasily. He was wondering if his story had been convincing. Adroit mixture of truth and falsehood that it was, he failed to see a single defect in it. Hatch, too, was staring curiously at the scientist.

"I understand perfectly your hesitation in going into details," said The Thinking Machine at last. "Under all the circ.u.mstances your motive might be misconstrued; but I think you have made me understand." He rose suddenly. "That's all," he said. "I'll look into the matter to-morrow."

Monsieur St. Rocheville was about to take his departure, when The Thinking Machine stopped him for a last question.

"You used a phrase just now," he said. "I am anxious to get it exactly-something about your father and your father's father--"

"Oh! I said"-Monsieur St. Rocheville obliged-"that my father and my father's father were bankers in Paris."

"That's it," said the little scientist. "Thanks. Good day."

Monsieur St. Rocheville went out. The Thinking Machine scribbled something on a sheet of paper and handed it to the reporter.

"Attend to that when you get to your office," he directed. Hatch read it, and his eyes opened wide. "Also, do you happen to know a native Frenchman who speaks perfect English?"

"I do; yes."

"Look him up, and ask him to repeat the phrase, 'My father and my father's father.' "

"Why?" inquired the reporter blankly.

"When he says it you'll know why. Immediately this other matter is attended to come back here."

Monsieur St. Rocheville's troubled meditations were disturbed by the appearance of Miss Fayerwether around a bend in the walk. Fluttering about her were her pets, Blitz and Jack and Jill. One after another they would swoop down, gobble up a beakful of sugar from her open hand, then sail off in a circle. There was something in the sight of Miss Fayerwether to dispel troubled meditations. She was gowned in a filmy white, clinging stuff, with a wide, flapping sun hat, her cheeks glowing with the sun's reflection, her big, innocent eyes repeating the marvelous blue of the sky.

Monsieur St. Rocheville, at sight of her, arose, bowed formally, and made way for her beside him. She sat down, to be instantly submerged in a fluttering cloud of black wings.

"Go away," she ordered. "I have no more sugar. See?" and she extended her empty hands.

The giant birds wandered off seeking what they might find; and for a time the girl and the young man sat silent. Twice Miss Fayerwether's eyes sought St. Rocheville's; twice she caught him staring straight into her face.

"Detectives were here to-day," she remarked at last.

"Yes, I know," said St. Rocheville.

"They had a long talk with Mrs. Wardlaw Browne, and insisted on searching the house-that is, the rooms of the guests-but she would not permit it."

"She made a mistake."

"You mean that some one of the guests--"

"I mean there is a thief here somewhere," said St. Rocheville; "and he should be unmasked." (And this from Jimmie Jones, erstwhile pickpocket, burglar, and what not-Jimmie Jones, alias Wilhelm Van Der Wyde, alias Hubert Montgomery Wade, alias Jean St. Rocheville.) "I am willing for them to search my room; you are willing for them to search your room-the others should be."

The young man's lips were tightly set; there was an uncompromising glint in his eyes. His simulation had been so perfect that even he was feeling the righteous indignation of the hopelessly moral. Whatever else he felt didn't appear at the moment. Miss Fayerwether was gazing dreamily into the void.

"Have you ever been to Chicago?" she queried irrelevantly at last.

"No," said Monsieur St. Rocheville. As a matter of fact, Chicago was one of the cities in which there was being made even then an industrious search for Wilhelm Van Der Wyde.

"Or Denver?" the girl continued dreamily.

That was another city in which Wilhelm Van Der Wyde was badly wanted. Monsieur St. Rocheville turned upon Miss Fayerwether suspiciously.

"No," he declared. "Why?"

"No reason-I was merely curious," she replied carelessly. And then again irrelevantly: "Nothing has been stolen from you?"

For answer, St. Rocheville held out his left hand. A heavy diamond solitaire which he usually wore on his little finger was missing. The print of the ring on the flesh was still visible.

"Oh!" exclaimed Miss Fayerwether; and again: "Oh!" She looked startled. St. Rocheville didn't recall that he had ever seen just such an expression before. "When was your ring stolen? How?"

"I removed it when I got into my bath," St. Rocheville explained. "My window was closed, but my door was unlocked. When I came out of the bath the ring had disappeared-that's all."

"Well"-and there was a flash of indignation in the girl's eyes-"you can't blame that on Blitz, anyway."

"I'm not trying to," said St. Rocheville. "I said my window was closed. My door was closed but unlocked. I don't think Blitz can open a door, can he?"

Miss Fayerwether didn't answer. Once she was almost on the point of saying something further; and, for an instant, there was mute appeal in the innocent eyes as her slim white hand lay on the young man's arm. Then she changed her mind and went on to her room, the birds fluttering along after.

Strange thoughts came to Monsieur St. Rocheville. The light touch on his arm had thrilled him curiously. He found himself staring off moodily in the direction of her window. Also he caught himself remembering the marvelous blue of her eyes! He didn't recall at the moment that he had ever noticed the color of any one's eyes before.

'Twas an hour after dinner when The Thinking Machine, accompanied by Detective Mallory, the bright light of the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, and one of his satellites, Blanton by name, with Hutchinson Hatch trailing, appeared at Idlewild. It may have been mere accident that St. Rocheville met them as they stepped out of the automobile.

"I neglected to tell you," he remarked to the scientist, "that young Miller has been losing heavily at auction of late; and I hear that he has had some sort of a row with his father about his allowance."

"I understand," The Thinking Machine nodded.

"Also," St. Rocheville ran on, "there has been at least one other theft here since I saw you. A diamond ring of mine was stolen from my room while I was in the bath. I wouldn't venture to say who took it."

"I know," The Thinking Machine a.s.sured him curtly. "I will have it in my hand in ten minutes."