The Oxford Book of American Det (12 page)

“Who is this fellow? What’s he accused of?” asked the warden.

“Joseph Ballard,” said one of the jailers. “He’s accused of throwing acid in a woman’s face. She died from it.”

“But they can’t prove it,” gasped the prisoner. “They can’t prove it. Please put me in some other cell.”

He was still clinging to the warden, and that official threw his arms off roughly. Then for a time he stood looking at the cowering wretch, who seemed possessed of all the wild, unreasoning terror of a child.

“Look here, Ballard,” said the warden, finally, “if you heard anything, I want to know what it was. Now tell me.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” was the reply. He was sobbing.

“Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know. Everywhere—nowhere. I just heard it.”

“What was it—a voice?”

“Please don’t make me answer,” pleaded the prisoner.

“You must answer,” said the warden, sharply.

“It was a voice—but—but it wasn’t human,” was the sobbing reply.

“Voice, but not human?” repeated the warden, puzzled.

“It sounded muffled and—and far away—and ghostly,” explained the man.

“Did it come from inside or outside the prison?”

“It didn’t seem to come from anywhere—it was just here, here, everywhere. I heard it.

I heard it.”

For an hour the warden tried to get the story, but Ballard had become suddenly obstinate and would say nothing—only pleaded to be placed in another cell, or to have one of the jailers remain near him until daylight. These requests were gruffly refused.

“And see here,” said the warden, in conclusion, “if there’s any more of this screaming I’ll put you in the padded cell.”

Then the warden went his way, a sadly puzzled man. Ballard sat at his cell door until daylight, his face, drawn and white with terror, pressed against the bars, and looked out into the prison with wide, staring eyes.

That day, the fourth since the incarceration of The Thinking Machine, was enlivened considerably by the volunteer prisoner, who spent most of his time at the little window of his cell. He began proceedings by throwing another piece of linen down to the guard, who picked it up dutifully and took it to the warden. On it was written:

“Only three days more.”

The warden was in no way surprised at what he read; he understood that The Thinking Machine meant only three days more of his imprisonment, and he regarded the note as a boast. But how was the thing written? Where had The Thinking Machine found this new piece of linen? Where? How? He carefully examined the linen. It was white, of fine texture, shirting material. He took the shirt which he had taken and carefully fitted the two original pieces of the linen to the torn places. This third piece was entirely superfluous; it didn’t fit anywhere, and yet it was unmistakably the same goods.

“And where—where does he get anything to write with?” demanded the warden of the world at large.

Still later on the fourth day The Thinking Machine, through the window of his cell, spoke to the armed guard outside.

“What day of the month is it?” he asked.

“The fifteenth,” was the answer.

The Thinking Machine made a mental astronomical calculation and satisfied himself that the moon would not rise until after nine o’clock that night. Then he asked another question:

“Who attends to those arc lights?”

“Man from the company.”

“You have no electricians in the building?”

“No.”

“I should think you could save money if you had your own man.”

“None of my business,” replied the guard.

The guard noticed The Thinking Machine at the cell window frequently during that day, but always the face seemed listless and there was a certain wistfulness in the squint eyes behind the glasses. After a while he accepted the presence of the leonine head as a matter of course. He had seen other prisoners do the same thing; it was the longing for the outside world.

That afternoon, just before the day guard was relieved, the head appeared at the window again, and The Thinking Machine’s hand held something out between the bars. It fluttered to the ground and the guard picked it up. It was a five-dollar bill.

“That’s for you,” called the prisoner.

As usual, the guard took it to the warden. That gentleman looked at it suspiciously; he looked at everything that came from Cell 13 with suspicion.

“He said it was for me,” explained the guard.

“It’s sort of a tip, I suppose,” said the warden. “I see no particular reason why you shouldn’t accept—“

Suddenly he stopped. He had remembered that The Thinking Machine had gone into Cell 13 with one five-dollar bill and two ten-dollar bills; twenty-five dollars in all. Now a five-dollar bill had been tied around the first pieces of linen that came from the cell.

The warden still had it, and to convince himself he took it out and looked at it. It was five dollars; yet here was another five dollars, and The Thinking Machine had only had ten-dollar bills.

“Perhaps somebody changed one of the bills for him,” he thought at last, with a sigh of relief.

But then and there he made up his mind. He would search Cell 13 as a cell was never before searched in this world. When a man could write at will, and change money, and do other wholly inexplicable things, there was something radically wrong with his prison. He planned to enter the cell at night—three o’clock would be an excellent time.

The Thinking Machine must do all the weird things he did some time. Night seemed the most reasonable.

Thus it happened that the warden stealthily descended upon Cell 13 that night at three o’clock. He paused at the door and listened. There was no sound save the steady, regular breathing of the prisoner. The keys unfastened the double locks with scarcely a clank, and the warden entered, locking the door behind him. Suddenly he flashed his dark-lantern in the face of the recumbent figure.

If the warden had planed to startle The Thinking Machine he was mistaken, for that individual merely opened his eyes quietly, reached for his glasses and inquired, in a most matter-of-fact tone:

“Who is it?”

It would be useless to describe the search that the warden made. It was minute. Not one inch of the cell or the bed was overlooked. He found the round hole in the floor, and with a flash of inspiration thrust his thick fingers into it. After a moment of fumbling there he drew up something and looked at it in the light of his lantern.

“Ugh!” he exclaimed.

The thing he had taken out was a rat—a dead rat. His inspiration fled as a mist before the sun. But he continued the search.

The Thinking Machine, without a word, arose and kicked the rat out of the cell into the corridor.

The warden climbed on the bed and tried the steel bars in the tiny window. They were perfectly rigid; every bar of the door was the same.

Then the warden searched the prisoner’s clothing, beginning at the shoes. Nothing hidden in them! Then the trousers waistband. Still nothing! Then the pockets of the trousers. From one side he drew out some paper money and examined it.

“Five one-dollar bills,” he gasped.

“That’s right,” said the prisoner.

“But the—you had two tens and a five—what the—how do you do it?”

“That’s my business,” said The Thinking Machine.

“Did any of my men change this money for you—on your word of honour?” The Thinking Machine paused just a fraction of a second.

“No,” he said.

“Well, do you make it?” asked the warden. He was prepared to believe anything.

“That’s my business,” again said the prisoner.

The warden glared at the eminent scientist fiercely. He felt—he knew—that this man was making a fool of him, yet he didn’t know how. If he were a real prisoner he would get the truth—but, then, perhaps, those inexplicable things which had happened would not have been brought before him so sharply. Neither of the men spoke for a long time, then suddenly the warden turned fiercely and left the cell, slamming the door behind him. He didn’t care to speak, then.

He glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to four. He had hardly settled himself in bed when again came that heart-breaking shriek through the prison. With a few muttered words, which, while not elegant, were highly expressive, he relighted his lantern and rushed through the prison again to the cell on the upper floor.

Again Ballard was crushing himself against the steel door, shrieking, shrieking at the top of his voice. He stopped only when the warden flashed his lamp in the cell.

“Take me out, take me out,” he screamed. “I did it, I did it, I killed her. Take it away.”

“Take what away?” asked the warden.

“I threw the acid in her face—I did it—I confess. Take me out of here.” Ballard’s condition was pitiable; it was only an act of mercy to let him out into the corridor. There he crouched in a corner, like an animal at bay, and clasped his hands to his ears. It took half an hour to calm him sufficiently for him to speak. Then he told incoherently what had happened. On the night before at four o’clock he had heard a voice—a sepulchral voice, muffled and wailing in tone.

“What did it say?” asked the warden, curiously.

“Acid—acid—acid!” gasped the prisoner. “It accused me. Acid! I threw the acid, and the woman died. Oh!” It was a long, shuddering wail of terror.

“Acid?” echoed the warden, puzzled. The case was beyond him.

“Acid. That’s all I heard—that one word, repeated several times. There were other things, too, but I didn’t hear them.”

“That was last night, eh?” asked the warden. “What happened tonight—what frightened you just now?”

“It was the same thing,” gasped the prisoner. “Acid—acid—acid.” He covered his face with his hands and sat shivering. “It was acid I used on her, but I didn’t mean to kill her. I just heard the words. It was something accusing me—accusing me.” He mumbled, and was silent.

“Did you hear anything else?”

“Yes—but I couldn’t understand—only a little bit—just a word or two.”

“Well, what was it?”

“I heard ‘acid’ three times, then I heard a long, moaning sound, then—then—I heard

‘No. 8 hat.’ I heard that voice.”

“No. 8 hat,” repeated the warden. “What the devil—No. 8 hat? Accusing voices of conscience have never talked about No. 8 hats, so far as I ever heard.”

“He’s insane,” said one of the jailers, with an air of finality.

“I believe you,” said the warden. “He must be. He probably heard something and got frightened. He’s trembling now. No. 8 hat! What the—“
V

When the fifth day of The Thinking Machine’s imprisonment rolled around the warden was wearing a hunted look. He was anxious for the end of the thing. He could not help but feel that his distinguished prisoner had been amusing himself. And if this were so, The Thinking Machine had lost none of his sense of humour. For on this fifth day he flung down another linen note to the outside guard, bearing the words: “Only two days more.” Also he flung down half a dollar.

Now the warden knew—he knew—that the man in Cell 13 didn’t have any half dollars—he couldn’t have any half dollars, no more than he could have pen and ink and linen, and yet he did have them. It was a condition, not a theory; that is one reason why the warden was wearing a hunted look.

That ghastly, uncanny thing, too, about ‘Acid’ and ‘No. 8 hat’ clung to him tenaciously. They didn’t mean anything, of course, merely the ravings of an insane murderer who had been driven by fear to confess his crime, still there were so many things that ‘didn’t mean anything’ happening in the prison now since The Thinking Machine was there.

On the sixth day the warden received a postal stating that Dr. Ransome and Mr.

Fielding would be at Chisholm Prison on the following evening, Thursday, and in the event Professor Van Dusen had not yet escaped—and they presumed he had not because they had not heard from him—they would meet him there.

“In the event he had not yet escaped!” The warden smiled grimly. Escaped!

The Thinking Machine enlivened this day for the warden with three notes. They were on the usual linen and bore generally on the appointment at half-past eight o’clock Thursday night, which appointment the scientist had made at the time of his imprisonment.

On the afternoon of the seventh day the warden passed Cell 13 and glanced in. The Thinking Machine was lying on the iron bed, apparently sleeping lightly. The cell appeared precisely as it always did from a casual glance. The warden would swear that no man was going to leave it between that hour—it was then four o’clock—and half-past eight o’clock that evening.

On his way back past the cell the warden heard the steady breathing again, and coming close to the door looked in. He wouldn’t have done so if The Thinking Machine had been looking, but now—well, it was different.

A ray of light came through the high window and fell on the face of the sleeping man.

It occurred to the warden for the first time that his prisoner appeared haggard and weary. Just then The Thinking Machine stirred slightly and the warden hurried on up the corridor guiltily. That evening after six o’clock he saw the jailer.

“Everything all right in Cell 13?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” replied the jailer. “He didn’t eat much, though.” It was with a feeling of having done his duty that the warden received Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding shortly after seven o’clock. He intended to show them the linen notes and lay before them the full story of his woes, which was a long one. But before this came to pass the guard from the river side of the prison yard entered the office.

“The arc light in my side of the yard won’t light,” he informed the warden.

“Confound it, that man’s a hoodoo,” thundered the official. “Everything has happened since he’s been here.”

The guard went back to his post in the darkness, and the warden phoned to the electric light company.

“This is Chisholm Prison,” he said through the ‘phone. “Send three or four men down here quick, to fix an arc light.”

The reply was evidently satisfactory, for the warden hung up the receiver and passed out into the yard. While Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding sat waiting, the guard at the outer gate came in with a special delivery letter. Dr. Ransome happened to notice the address, and, when the guard went out, looked at the letter more closely.