Читать книгу The Case of the Backward Mule - Erle Stanley Gardner - Страница 5

THE ROOM was entirely free of the taint of the Inquisition. It wasn’t particularly cheerful, but on the other hand there was none of the hostile atmosphere so frequently found in rooms at police headquarters. The place might well have been an office, furnished plainly but efficiently. The machine, of course, dominated the room just as the electric chair dominates the execution chamber but the chair in which Clane was placed was comfortable and, once the various electrodes and gadgets had been adjusted, the machine itself seemed trying to be friendly. It looked perfectly innocuous, something which might have been a radio waiting to be turned on.

There was only one man in the room, in itself a disarming factor and this man seemed anxious to put Clane at ease. Moreover, the manner in which he went about doing it showed that he was a good student of psychology.

“Of course, Mr. Clane,” he said, “with a man of your intelligence, we don’t try to pull any hocus-pocus. We simply ask your cooperation in taking the test. We know that if it weren’t voluntary on your part, you wouldn’t be here. Naturally if you had anything to conceal, knowing that you weren’t obligated take this test, you would have refused it. So, in a way, our examination becomes something of a matter of form.”

Clane nodded.

“And,” his interlocutor went on, “in view of the fact, we don’t try to conduct the examination the way we would that of a suspected criminal, for instance.”

“I see,” Clane said.

“Now, of course,” the man went on, smiling, “I’ve got to turn in a record which will show the examination has been effective. In other words, it will show your emotional reaction to questions. There’s no use trying to persuade a man of your intelligence that that isn’t what we’re after. You know as well as I do that’s the sole object of the machine.”

Clane nodded again.

“By the way,” the man said, “my name’s Maynard – Harry Maynard.”

“I’m very glad to meet you,” Clane said. “I presume you not only have my name but my fingerprints as well.”

Maynard laughed. “Oh, hardly that, Mr. Clane. I understand you’ve had some very interesting experiences in the Orient in connection with psychology.”

Clane merely nodded again.

Maynard laughed. “I’m not even going to look at the needles on the recording devices, Mr. Clane. With you I think it’s an idle gesture, but you must realize that in order to turn in a record showing a fair test, I have to first get some normal reactions.”

Again Clane nodded.

“And,” Maynard said, smiling, “it doesn’t need any glance at the machine to tell me that you’re indignant, that back of the mask of your cold courtesy you are angry at the police for subjecting you to this indignity, perhaps a little angry at yourself for having consented to do something which would prolong the interview and delay getting you settled in your hotel.”

“I don’t think a man needs much knowledge of psychology to reach that conclusion,” Clane said.

Maynard threw back his head and laughed heartily. “After all, Mr. Clane, I merely work here.” Clane smiled.

“So,” Maynard said, “we can’t do anything until you relax, Mr. Clane. If you’ll just have enough confidence in me to relax and forget about this machine and all the inconveniences to which you have been subjected and chat for a few moments, I’ll then be in a position to go on with the test. And please believe me, Mr. Clane, when I tell you that I won’t try to take any unfair advantage of you. I’ll tell you when the test is starting.”

“The machine is running now, is it not?”

“Naturally. The object of the test is to first get the witness in his normal frame of mind. Then we get the normal reactions. In other words, when I feel that you are sufficiently relaxed, I’ll tell you that the test is about to commence. Then I’ll ask you routine questions to which we know the answers. I will ask you when you left the Orient. I will ask you whether you were on board a certain ship. I will ask you whether you docked at a certain time. I will ask you if you know certain people.”

“And then try to startle me?” Clane asked. “Well, to be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Clane, I’ll start mixing the questions up. I’ll ask you rather suddenly if you knew Edward Harold. And, of course, we’ll expect the machine to show that when I suddenly bring up his name there will be a certain rise in your blood pressure. That’s only natural. After all, you know that’s the information the police are after. You’ll realize we’re getting close to the nerve or the matter then. You’ll brace yourself, mentally.” Clane nodded.

“And then I’ll ask you various other questions,” Maynard went on. “And you certainly are enough of a student of applied psychology to realize that those questions will alternate. In other words, I’ll try to ask you the key questions at unexpected moments, and when your mind is occupied with something else, so that I’ll get your normal reaction. Now that’s the program, that’s what I have to do. It’s what I’m being paid to do; it’s part of my job. The questions and answers will be recorded on wax records, the readings of the polygraph will be recorded on a synchronized sound strip. The result will be checked over as a matter of routine, and filed. And that’s all there is to it. Now men, the sooner you relax and get to chatting with me just as you would with some acquaintance in a club, the sooner you give me completely normal reactions, the sooner we can start the test, and the sooner it will be all over.”

Clane tried to keep the reflexes of his mental efforts from showing in his eyes. Dammit, the man was clever. That business of saying exactly what he was going to do, apparently putting the cards all on the table, and then casually saying that he would suddenly switch the questions to Edward Harold. What had the needle on the machine shown when Maynard had suddenly pulled that? Had the needle given a jump? It had been done cleverly. All the more so because Maynard had asserted that the test had not yet commenced. Had Clane betrayed himself? Was there any way of beating the machine?

“Could you,” Maynard asked, “tell me something of your studies in the Orient while we’re waiting?”

“The Chinese mystics believe that everything is accomplished through concentration,” Clane said. “The difference between man and the lesser animals is that man has the ability inherent within himself to control the thought stream of his consciousness and direct it to certain objectives.”

“That’s very interesting. I certainly envy you your opportunities. As you must realize, Mr. Clane, in order to qualify for a job here it’s necessary for a person to have devoted quite a bit of time to me study of psychology.”

“I can understand,” Clane said.

“And, as such, I think I am perhaps far more curious about the methods by which the Orientals develop their powers of concentration than the police are in this merely routine test.”

“I see.”

“So,” Maynard said, smiling disarmingly, “I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Clane, inasmuch as I’m supposed to get your mind for the moment off the fact that you’re taking a lie-detector test, I’m going to pump you purely for selfish reasons.”

“Go right ahead.”

“The power of concentration is consciously developed among these Orientals?”

“Certainly.”

“Can you explain a little more of what you mean by that?”

Clane said, “First there is the question of the degree of concentration. A person first tries to concentrate with all of his faculties for even a fleeting instant. If he gets so he can do that, then gradually the opportunity is given him to increase the time of concentration. After a while, he gets a period of perhaps one second, then two seconds, or three seconds. Or perhaps with exceptional pupils, four or five seconds.”

“Four or five seconds,” Maynard said. “You surely mean minutes, Mr. Clane.”

“I don’t mean minutes,” Clane said.

“But, good heavens, to concentrate for a matter of seconds...Why, we all of us do that every day. You aren’t, by any chance, spoofing me?”

“Not in the least. Take, for instance, a person suddenly confronted with danger. Suppose you’re driving a motorcar and another car unexpectedly comes round a mountain curve, headed directly towards you. There’s a moment—a brief flashing interval—during which you are concentrating so intently on the thing to do that for that one brief instant you are actually using all of the mental powers which you possess. Then the reaction sets in and your period of concentration is over.”

“You mean the mental reaction?”

“No, the physical reaction. You are first concentrating on what to do. Then the brain orders the muscles to respond. The reaction time is measured in fractions of a second. Once the muscles begin to respond, the mind has ceased to use all of its powers on a contemplation of the mental problem.”

Maynard said, “Until you started pointing out the principles of concentration to me, I would have sworn that I could have concentrated for ten minutes at a time quite easily.”

“Try concentrating on the tip of my finger for just two seconds,” Clane said. “Let me know when you’re ready by moving your right hand just an inch or two.” Clane took a watch from his pocket. “Are you ready?” Maynard stared intently at Clane’s extended finger. “Just a moment,” he said.

There was silence in the room for as much as ten seconds, then slowly Maynard moved his right hand. Instantly Clane pocketed his watch.

“Well?” Maynard asked.

“Will you be perfectly frank with me?” Clane asked.

“Yes.”

“You waited to move your right hand until you had banished all extraneous thoughts from your mind, didn’t you?”

“Naturally.”

“And when you moved your right hand, you felt that you had brought every bit of mental power to bear upon the tip of my finger.”

“Exactly.”

Clane said, smilingly, “Of course, it wasn’t a test, Mr. Maynard. It was merely a demonstration. I was thinking an unfair advantage of you.”

Somewhat nettled, Maynard said, “I don’t think you did. As a matter of fact, Mr. Clane, I think I concentrated on the tip of your finger for a full two seconds at least.”

Clane said, “It wasn’t what they would have called concentration in the Orient, for even as much as a millionth of a second. But as a matter of fact, according to your own definition of concentration, it didn’t last for as much as a tenth of a second.”

“I timed it.”

“I beg your pardon,” Maynard said almost angrily. “How did you know when I ceased concentrating? You put your watch away almost the moment I moved my right hand. You didn’t wait for a full two seconds.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely. The minute I moved my right hand you suddenly snapped your watch back into your pocket.”

“Then you noticed the time element, that it lacked the full period?”

“Yes.”

“Then a portion of your mind was thinking about the watch in my hand and about the period of time which had elapsed.”

“Well, I think that’s only natural.”

“It’s only natural,” Clane said, “but surely you must realize that a mind which is thinking about a watch and trying to determine the passing of a time interval is hardly concentrating all of its faculties upon some other matter.”

Maynard frowned, then abruptly laughed. “You win,” he said. “I must devote more time to studying this Oriental concept of concentration.”

“You won’t find it in books.”

“Where will I find it?”

“In yourself.”

“But you went to the Orient. You spent several years in study for the purpose of learning to concentrate for a matter of seconds.”

“That’s right.”

Maynard said, “Well, it certainly is most interesting. It’s something I’d like to discuss with you further, Mr. Clane, but I think you have now sufficiently relaxed so we may proceed with the test. You’ll remember that I told you that I’d be fair with you, that I’d tell you when I was ready to start the test.”

“Thank you, that’s appreciated.”

“And now if you’re ready we’ll begin on the test, Mr. Clane?”

“Quite ready,” Clane said, and then added smilingly, “able and willing.”

“You’re acquainted with Cynthia Renton?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Quite a few years.”

“You have recently arrived in this city?”

“Yes.”

“Just a few hours ago?”

“Yes.”

“You knew that Edward Harold had been convicted of the murder of Horace Farnsworth?”

“I did.”

“Did you know that he had escaped from custody?”

“Not until Captain Jordon announced it to me a short time ago.”

“You have had correspondence with Cynthia Renton in which she has told you something about Edward Harold’s troubles?”

“Yes.”

“Did it surprise you that she didn’t meet you at the boat?”

“Frankly, it did.”

“Then there must have been some extraordinary reason for her absence?”

“Perhaps.”

“And did it occur to you that perhaps the reason she was absent was that she was with Edward Harold?”

Clane realized now the deadly web which was being spun about him. It wasn’t only a question of learning what he knew, but these men with the aid of this machine were intent upon reading his mind, upon using his own mental processes to trap Cynthia Renton. There must be some way of beating a machine of this kind. Clane had read somewhere that the thing could be done by surreptitiously moving a foot, provided it was done at just the right time. That would give a slight rise to the blood pressure. The thing to do was to watch carefully and do it at just the right question. It wouldn’t do to have the blood pressure rise on one of the danger questions. It must be done on one of the minor questions so that the record would be thrown off the normal pattern. Clane waited, feeling certain that Maynard, having probed his mind as far as he felt was feasible on that point, would ask a few casual questions to relax the witness. But Maynard asked one more pertinent highly dangerous question. “Do you have any idea where Miss Renton might be now?”

Clane said, “No.” But even as he spoke, he felt certain that the machine had betrayed him. There was only one thing to do, and that was move his foot on the next question.

“Could you tell us approximately how long Cynthia Renton has been acquainted with Edward Harold?”

“I think about two years.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Clane,” Maynard said. “You moved your foot slightly. I forgot to caution you about that. The thing to do is to remain perfectly relaxed and not twitch or engage in any voluntary muscular motion. You see, we have a device on the machine now which registers voluntary muscular motions, but that doesn’t prevent the needle from giving a slight rise in its reading. It used to be that people could confuse our readings by slight, almost imperceptible twitches of the leg or wiggling of the big toe. So in order to compensate for that it was necessary to arrange to show when some voluntary muscular motion threw our readings off.”

“I see,” Clane said, smiling. “I’m glad you told me. You see, I don’t know too much about these machines.”

“They’re very fascinating. Some time I’ll explain them in detail to you in return for a little more of that interesting explanation of the Oriental development of the mind.”

“Some time when we both have more time,” Clane said.

“Exactly.”

Abruptly Clane thought back to the time when he had been captured by bandits, when the suave Oriental who led the bandit gang had been about to chop off a finger to send with a ransom demand. By conscious effort Clane held that experience in mental abeyance, just behind the threshold of consciousness.

Maynard’s voice went on smoothly, switching to a routine question. “Do you know any of the circumstances in connection with the murder of Horace Farnsworth?” he asked.

Abruptly Clane threw a mental image of those bandits into his consciousness, and so well did he do it that for a moment he experienced emotional tension all over again. Then he let the image fade from his mind.

“No,” he said. I was, of course, out of the country at the time he was murdered.”

Maynard started to ask another question, then checked himself, frowning for a moment in puzzled perplexity.

Clane knew then that the man was so seated that he could study the recording needles of the machine and that Clane’s mental gymnastics had been successful in sending the needle shooting upward into the zone which marked sudden emotional tension.

“You weren’t in this country at the time of Farnsworth’s murder?” Maynard asked.

“No.

“Are you certain, Mr. Clane, that at that exact time you hadn’t perhaps been here in the United States, in some other part of the country perhaps, but nevertheless here?”

Once more Clane’s mind flashed back to the bandits. “No,” he said shortly.

Maynard shifted his position, then abruptly switched to other things. “You had a pleasant trip across?” he asked.

Clane knew that in order to complete his ruse, he needed to register great relief now that the subject of the questioning had left the murder. He brought to his mind the feeling of triumphant peace he had known when he had learned of the ending of the war. “The boat was rather crowded, of course, but it was a pleasant voyage.”

“You have been in Honolulu?”

“Oh yes.”

“And have spent some time in Japan?”

“Yes.”

“You consider the philosophy of the Chinese superior to our own?”

“I think the Chinese philosopher is able to accomplish comparatively more than the Caucasian philosopher.”

“In what way?”

“He makes a more practical application of his philosophy.”

“You mean he turns it into money-making?”

Clane smiled. “That is the very thing he wishes to avoid. I think you will find the tendency of the Western philosopher is to use his knowledge to monetary advantage. The Chinese is so anxious to avoid doing that that when he takes up philosophy he deliberately courts poverty, living in the most primitive surroundings in the most simple way.”

For a moment Maynard hesitated and Clane felt certain that the next question would be a sudden flash back to the Farnsworth murder, so he held his mind in readiness. There had been the time when he was caught in a typhoon in the Straits of Formosa in a Chinese junk and...

“Did you see Horace Farnsworth shortly before he was killed?”

Clane concentrated on the memory of that typhoon, the surging waves rising abruptly upward, only to have their tops sliced off by the wind as neatly as though some invisible knife had trimmed the mountain of water to a level-topped mesa, the labored creaking of the timbers in the old junk, the shriek of the wind through the rigging.

“No,” Clane said shortly, and then added, “I’ve answered questions about that half a dozen times. I don’t like to have my word doubted. I was in China at that time.”

“We have to ask questions in that way in order to make a fair test,” Maynard explained suavely. “Many times I have to make what might amount to false accusations in order to evaluate the readings of the machine.”

“I see,” Clane said with frigid formality.

Abruptly Maynard produced a map of the city and held it in front of Clane’s eyes. “I’m going to ask you a few questions about this map, Mr. Clane,” he said. “I don’t want you to answer those questions just listen to them.”

Clane mentally braced himself. This was the thing which had worried him. If Cynthia Renton had been in serious trouble, if she had arranged for the rescue of Edward Harold, she would have gone for sanctuary into the depths of Chinatown, to the apartment of Chu Kee, a wealthy, wise Chinese whose business was as mysterious as his personality, but whose friendship had been given to Terry Clane and some years ago through Terry Clane to Cynthia Renton.

That friendship had been extended through Sou Ha, Chu Kee’s Americanized daughter, a sparkling, vivacious young girl who had super-imposed the education of a Western college upon an Oriental background. The result had been a startling mixture of psychological oil and water.

Terry Clane dared not betray the location of Chu Kee’s apartment, not at any rate until after he had scouted the premises.

“Now then,” Maynard went on, “I would like to have you orient yourself on this map, Mr. Clane. You will see that it is a map of the city. We are at the present time located right here. And here is the dock where you landed. This is the main business district over here is the vicinity of the swank shops and the best hotels are around generally in this district. This is waterfront over here is Chinatown and then there is an exclusive residential district in this vicinity. Do you get the general picture?”

“Yes.”

“You will note that the map is divided by heavily inked red lines into four quarters. Then you will notice that each of these quarters is in turn sub-divided by blue lines. And then if you will notice closely, the blue lines are further sub-divided into fine red squares which are numbered. Do you see all that?”

“Yes.”

“For instance, Miss Renton’s apartment is located in this second quarter of the city, in this blue square, and in the very small red square within that blue square, which is numbered twenty-two. Do you follow me?”

“I do.”

“Very well,” Maynard said. “Now I will ask you, Mr. Clane, if you wanted to find Cynthia Renton, or if perhaps you thought that Edward Harold was hiding in the city, where would you look for him?”

Clane laughed. “You must think I have some magical powers, Mr. Maynard. After all, I just arrived....”

“I understand,” Maynard said. “It’s just an experiment.

“Would you look in this quarter? Or this quarter? Or this quarter? Or this quarter?”

In turn, Maynard’s finger indicated the four quarters of the map.

Clane had been ready for this question. He chose the exclusive residential district for the place where he would register the sudden up-swing of the needle on the machine, and as Maynard’s finger touched that spot on the map, Clane’s mind reverted to one of the few times he had engaged in a fistic encounter.

Maynard indicated that his ruse had been successful by referring to the third quarter. “In this exclusive residential district,” he said, “are there any of these blue squares which would intrigue your attention? For instance, this one, this one, this one, or this one, or...”

By turn, Maynard’s finger covered each one of the blue squares.

Clane let his mind concentrate upon an emotional disturbance when Maynard’s finger touched the seventh blue square.

“Directing your attention to this blue square number seven, Mr. Clane, let’s examine the red squares in turn.”

There were thirty-five small red squares within this blue square, and with the point of a pencil Maynard pointed to each in turn.

Feeling that it would be dangerous to carry the matter further, Clane let his mind remain at ease while the pencil touched each one of the red squares.

Maynard apparently was puzzled. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “we’ll go over this once more.”

Once more his finger pointed out each of the quarters into which the city had been divided. Once more Clane made a conscious effort to recall an experience of danger when Maynard’s finger touched the third square. Once more they went down to the numbered blue squares. Once more the trail was hot until Maynard’s pencil started pointing out the individual red squares, and then Clane permitted himself to relax, serene in the consciousness that he had now diverted Maynard’s attention to a part of the city which meant absolutely nothing.

Maynard said, “Well, I guess that’s all.”

Clane was aware of this trap, a premature announcement of the completion of the test designed to lull the victim into a false sense of security.

Then abruptly Maynard opened a drawer and pulled out a small wooden figure. “Does this mean anything to you?” he asked.

To save his life Clane couldn’t overcome the emotional impact that the figure aroused in his mind.

“I see that it does,” Maynard said dryly.

“Indeed it does,” Clane admitted.

Maynard said, “It seems to be a figure of a very good Chinese on a horse. The peculiar thing is that he is seated backward.”

“It isn’t a horse,” Clane told him. “It’s a mule.”

“Can you tell me something about the figure?”

“He’s Chow Kok Koh, if one uses the Cantonese. Or Chang Kuo-lao, if one prefers the Mandarin designation.”

“Well, let’s stick with the Cantonese since that seems a little easier for me to pronounce,” Maynard said. “Just who is Chow Kok Koh?”

“He is one of the eight Chinese Immortals.”

“Can you tell me anything more about him than that?”

“He is supposed to have supernatural powers of magic. He can make himself invisible at will. The white mule which he is riding can be folded up and put away. You will note that he carries a sun-shade and has on his back, carried by a sling, something which looks like a small bag of golf clubs.”

Maynard nodded.

“That,” Clane said, “is yu, a musical instrument consisting of a bamboo tube. The things which look like golf-clubs are two rods with which the bamboo tube can be beaten. It is a primitive musical instrument, particularly associated with Chow Kok Koh.”

“But surely, Mr. Clane, there is nothing about the symbology of this figure which would account for the very strong emotional reaction which this figure aroused when I produced it.”

Clane made a wry face. “I’m afraid this machine is reading my mind.”

“Perhaps you can assist us by telling us the reason for that emotion.”

“I think,” Clane said, “the particular figure which you are holding in your hand is a figure which I gave to Cynthia Renton just before I left on my last mission to China.”

“Would you mind telling me why you gave it to her?”

“It was a gift.”

“It had some particular significance?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us what that is?”

“I would prefer not to.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with the murder,” Clane said. “It goes into some very secret Chinese philosophy. Properly understood, the figure of Chow Kok Koh represents the Oriental acquiescence in the course of life’s stream which we mistakenly refer to as ‘fatalism’.”

“And why should you hesitate to tell me about that?”

“Because it is something rather fine, something rather sacred. It is knowledge which is closely guarded. Those who will tell you about Chow Kok Koh are usually the ones who don’t know. Those who do know give their information only to the person whose mind has been prepared to receive it.”

“You think perhaps it would be too deep for my intelligence?” Maynard asked, with a patronizing smile.

“I am not certain that your mind is ready to receive the information.”

Maynard accepted defeat. He put the figure back in the drawer of the desk, unfastened the bands which held electrodes and pressure-measuring devices to Clane’s arms. He regarded Clane moodily, thoughtfully.

“Well?” Clane asked.

“I don’t understand it,” Maynard said. “Either there is something in connection with your thought processes which I haven’t accurately diagnosed, or else...”

“Well?” Clane asked. “What’s the rest of it?”

“Or else,” Maynard said calmly, “you surreptitiously returned to this country and murdered Horace Farnsworth. That’s all, Mr. Clane. You may go now.”