Читать книгу 49 Tales of The Thinking Machine (49 detective stories featuring Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, also known as "The Thinking Machine") - Jacques Futrelle - Страница 11

The Thinking Machine blinked at it, grunted, then turned over as if to go back to sleep. Struck with some new idea, however, he opened his eyes for an instant.

“Issue a special bulletin to the press,” he directed drowsily, “to the effect that Prince Otto Ludwig’s condition has taken a sudden turn for the better. He is expected to be up and around again in a few days.”

The sentence ended in a light snore.

All that night Admiral Hausen–Aubier, haggard, vigilant, sat beside the wireless operator in his cabinet on the upper deck, waiting, waiting, he knew not for what. Darkness passed, the stars died, and pallid dawn found him there.

At nine o’clock he ordered coffee; at noon more coffee.

At four in the afternoon the thing he had been waiting for came—only three words:

Followed suggestion. Communicate.

“Very indistinct, sir,” the operator reported. “An amateur sending.”

The Thinking Machine, wide awake now, and below deck discussing high explosives with a gunner’s mate, was summoned. Into the wireless cabinet with him came Baron Von Hartzfeldt. For an instant the three men studied in silence this portentous message from the void.

“Keep in touch with him,” The Thinking Machine instructed the operator. “What’s his range?”

“Hundred miles, sir.”

“Strong or weak?”

“Weak, sir.”

“Reduce the range.”

“I did, sir, and lost him.”

“Increase it.”

With the receiver clamped to his ears, the operator thrust his range key forward, and listened.

“I lose him, sir,” he reported.

“Very well. Set at one hundred.” The scientist turned to Baron Von Hartzfeldt and Admiral Hausen–Aubier. “He is alive, and less than a hundred miles away,” he explained hurriedly. Then to the operator: “Send as I dictate:

“Is—O—L—there?”

The instrument hissed as the message spanned the abyss of space; in the glass drum above, great crackling electric sparks leaped and roared fitfully, lighting the tense faces of the men in the cabinet. Came dead silence—painful silence—then the operator read the answer aloud:

“Yes.”

“Mein Gott ich lobe!” One great exclamation of thanks, and Admiral Hausen–Aubier buried his face in his hands.

To Baron Von Hartzfeldt the whole thing was wizardry pure and simple. The Thinking Machine had summoned the lost out of the void. While a hundred trained men, keen-eyes, indefatigable, wary as ferrets, were searching for the crown prince, along comes this withered, white-faced little man of science, with his monstrous head and his feeble hands, and works a miracle under his very eyes! He listened, fascinated, as The Thinking Machine continued:

“Must—prove—identity—Hausen—Aubier—here—ask—O—L—give—word—or phrase—identify—him.”

Suddenly The Thinking Machine whirled about to face the admiral. The answer should prove once for all whether the prince was alive or dead. Minutes passed. Finally—

“It’s coming, sir, in German,” the operator explained:

“Neujarstag—eine—cigarre.”

“New Year’s Day—a cigar!” Admiral Hausen–Aubier translated, in obvious bewilderment. Swiftly his face cleared. “I understand. He refers to an incident that he and I alone know. When a lad of twelve he tried to smoke a cigar, and it made him deathly ill. I saved him from—”

“Send,” interrupted The Thinking Machine:

“Satisfied—give—terms.”

And the operator read:

“Five—million—dollars!”

“Five million dollars!” exclaimed the admiral and the diplomatist, in a breath. “Does he mean ransom?” Baron Von Hartzfeldt asked, aghast. “Five million dollars!”

“Five million dollars, yes,” the scientist replied irritably. “We’re not dealing with children. We’re dealing with shrewd, daring, intelligent men who have played a big game for a big stake; and if you love your country and your king you’d better thank God it’s only money they want. Suppose they had demanded a constitution, or even the abdication of your emperor? That might have meant revolution, war—anything.” He stared at them an instant, then swung around to the operator. “Send,” he commanded:

“We—accept—terms—”

“Why, man, you are mad!” interposed the diplomatist sharply. “It’s preposterous!”

But The Thinking Machine said again evenly:

“We—accept—terms—specify—by—mail—place—time—manner—of—settlemen t.”

The crashing of the mighty current in the glass drum ceased as the message was finished, and with strained attention the three men waited. Again a tense pause. At last the operator read:

“Also—assurance—no—prosecution.”

And The Thinking Machine dictated:

“Accept.”

“Wait a minute!” commanded Admiral Hausen–Aubier hotly. “Do you mean we are promising immunity to the men who abducted—”

“Certainly,” replied the scientist. “They’re not fools. If we don’t promise it, all they have to do is break off communication and wait until such time as you will promise it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Or else stick a knife into your prince, and end the affair. Besides, prosecution means publicity.”

With clenched hands, the admiral turned away; no answer seemed possible. Heedless of the things about him, Baron Von Hartzfeldt sat dumbly meditating upon the staggering ransom. It would take days to raise so vast a sum, if he could do it at all; and his private resources, together with those of Admiral Hausen–Aubier, would be drained to the last dollar. Even then it might be necessary to call upon the royal treasury. That would be a confession; out of it would come only dishonor and—death.

The Thinking Machine dictated:

“Accept—we—pledge—Hausen—Aubier’s—word—of honor.”

And the answer came:

“Satisfied—mailing—details—tonight—will—communicate—tomorrow—noon.”

The attenuated thread which had linked them with the unknown was broken. Somewhere off through space they had talked with a man whom human ingenuity had failed to find—’twas another of the many miracles of modern science.

The morrow brought a typewritten letter incapable of misconstruction. It was the usual thing—an open field, some thirty miles out of the city, a lone tree in the center of the field, a suit case containing the money to be left there. The letter concluded with a paragraph after this fashion:

Your prince’s life depends upon rigid adherence to these instructions. If there is any attempt to watch, or to identify us, or molest us, a pistol shot will end the affair; if the bag is there, and the money is in the bag, he will be aboard ship within five hours. Remember, we hold your pledge!

“Crude,” commented The Thinking Machine. “I was led to expect better things of them.”

“But the money, man, the money?” exclaimed Baron Von Hartzfeldt. “It will be absolutely impossible to get it unless—unless we call upon the royal treasury.”

His face was haggard, his eyes inflamed by lack of sleep, and deep furrows lined his usually placid brow. He leaned forward, and stared tensely into the pallid, wizened face of the scientist, who sat with head tilted back, his gaze turned steadily upward, his slender fingers precisely tip to tip.

“Five million dollars in gold,” The Thinking Machine observed ambiguously, “would weight tons. It would take five hundred ten-thousand-dollar notes to make five million dollars, and I doubt if there are that many in existence. It would take five thousand thousand-dollar notes. Absurd! There will have to be two, perhaps three, of the bags.”

“But don’t you understand,” Baron Von Hartzfeldt burst out violently, “that it’s impossible to raise that sum? That there will be none of the bags? That some other scheme—”

“Oh, yes, there will be three of the bags,” The Thinking Machine asserted mildly. “But, of course, there will be no money in them!”

Admiral Hasuen–Aubier and the diplomatist digested the statement in silence.

“But you have pledged my word of honor—” the old sailorman objected.

“Not to prosecute,” the scientist pointed out.

“Absurd!” The ambassador came to his feet. “You have said we are not dealing with children. Why put the empty bags there? If they find they are empty, the prince’s life will pay forfeit; if we attempt to surround them and capture them, the result will be the same; and, besides, we will have broken our pledge.”

“I’ve never seen any one so fussy about their pledges as you gentlemen are,” observed The Thinking Machine acridly. “Don’t worry. I shall not break a pledge; I shall not attempt to surround them and capture them; I shall not, nor shall any one representing me, or any of us, for that matter, be within miles of that particular field after the bags are placed. They shall reach the field unmolested and unwatched.”

“You are talking in riddles,” declared the diplomatist impatiently. “What do you mean?”

“I mean merely that the men who go to get the bags of money will wait right there until I come, even if it should happen to take two weeks,” was the enigmatic response. “Also, I’ll say they’ll be glad to see me when I get there, and glad to restore Prince Otto Ludwig to his ship without one penny being paid. There will be no prosecution.”

“But—but I don’t understand,” stammered the ambassador.

“I don’t expect you to,” said The Thinking Machine ungraciously. “Nor do I expect you to understand this.”

Impatiently he spread a newspaper before the two men, and indicated an advertisement in black-faced type. It was on the first page, directly beneath a bulletin announcing a sudden change for the better in Prince Otto Ludwig’s condition. The admiral read it aloud blankly:

“Wireless is only means communication can not be traced. Use it. Safe for all. Communicate with ship immediately. Would advise you erect private station.”

That was all of it. It was addressed to no one, and signed by no one; if it had any meaning at all, it was merely as a curious method of advertising wireless telegraphy. Inquiringly at last the baron and the admiral raised their eyes to those of The Thinking Machine.

“The abductors of Prince Otto Ludwig had not communicated with the ship,” he explained tersely, “because they could devise no way they considered absolutely safe. They knew the secret service would be at work. They didn’t dare to telegraph in the usual way, nor send a messenger, nor even a letter. Our secret service is an able organization; they understood it was not to be trifled with. All these things considered, I didn’t believe the abductors could hit upon a plan of communication which they considered safe. I inserted that advertisement in all the newspapers. It was a suggestion. They understood, and followed it. You will remember their first communication.”

Baron Von Hartzfeldt came to his feet suddenly, then sat down again. The miracle hadn’t been a miracle, after all. It was merely common sense.

“Jeder verruckte konnte davon denken!” exclaimed the admiral bluntly.

“Quite right,” assented The Thinking Machine. “Any fool could have thought of that—but no other fool did!”

Promptly at noon the wireless operator plucked this from the void:

“Is—letter—satisfactory?”

And the scientist dictated an answer:

“Yes—except—we—require—another—day—to—raise—money.”

“Granted—”

“Impossible—put—all—money—one—bag—will—use—three.”

“Satisfactory—remember—our—warning.”

“You—have—our—pledge.”

As the last word of the message went hurtling off into space, The Thinking Machine scrambled down the sea ladder and was rowed ashore. From his own home, half an hour later, he called Hutchinson Hatch on the telephone.

“I want,” he said, “three large suit cases, one pair of extra-heavy rubber gloves, ten miles of electric wire well insulated, three Edison transformers, one fast automobile, permission to tap the Abington trolley wire, and two dozen ham sandwiches.”

Hatch laughed. He was accustomed to the eccentricities of this little man of science.

“You shall have them,” he promised.

“Bring everything to my house at midnight.”

“Right!”

Looking back upon it later, Hatch decided he had never worked so hard in his life as he did that night; in addition to which he had the satisfaction of not knowing just what he was doing. There were telephone poles to be climbed, and shallow trenches to be dug and immediately filled in so no trace of their existence remained, and miles of electric wire to be hauled through thickly weeded fields. Dawn was breaking when everything seemed to be done.

“This,” remarked The Thinking Machine, “is where the ham sandwiches are useful.”

They breakfasted upon them, after which The Thinking Machine went away, leaving Hatch to watch the small dial of some sort of an indicator attached to a wire. At noon the scientist returned, and, without a word, took the reporter’s place at the dial. At thirty-three minutes past four the hand of the indicator suddenly shot around to one side, and the scientist arose.

“We have caught a fish,” he said. “Come on!”

They were in the automobile, speeding along the highway, before Hatch spoke.

“What sort of fish?” he asked curiously.

“I don’t know,” was the reply. “A person, or persons, have picked up one or more of those suit cases to the bottom of which our electric wire is connected. He is unable to let go—he, or they, as the case may be. He will be unconscious when we reach him.”

“Dead, you mean,” said Hatch grimly. “The current from that trolley wire—”

“Unconscious,” The Thinking Machine corrected. “The current is reduced. There is a transformer in each of the suit cases. The wiring extends up through the handles where the insulation is stripped off.”

Three, four, nearly five, miles they went like the wind; then the motor car stopped with a jerk, and Hatch, taking advantage of his longer legs, galloped off through the open field toward the lone tree in the center. The thing he saw caused him to stop suddenly and raise his hands in horror. Upon the ground in front of him was the convulsed figure of a young man, foreign-looking, distinguished even. His distorted face, livid now, was turned upward, and his hands were gripped to the suit case by the powerful electric current.

“Who is it?” queried the scientist.

“Crown Prince Otto Ludwig, of Germania–Austria!”

“What?” The question came violently, a single burst of amazement. And again: “What?” There was an expression on The Thinking Machine’s face the like of which Hatch had never seen there before. “It’s a possibility I had never considered. So he wanted the five million—” Suddenly his whole manner changed. “Let’s get him to the motor.”

With rubber-gloved hands, he cut the wire which held the crown prince prisoner, and the unconscious man fell back limply, as if dead. Five minutes later they had lifted him into the tonneau, and The Thinking Machine bent over him anxiously, with his hand on his wrist.

“Where to?” asked Hatch.

“Anywhere, and fast!” was the reply. “I must think.”

Oblivious of the swaying and clatter of the huge car, The Thinking Machine sat silent for minute after minute as it sped on over the smooth road. Finally he seemed satisfied. He leaned forward, and touched Hatch on the shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he said. “We’ll go aboard ship now.”

Late that night the crown prince, himself again, but with badly burned hands, explained. He had been stupefied by chloroform, kidnaped, and lowered over the battleship rail in utter darkness. His impression was that he had been taken away in a small boat which had muffled oars. When he recovered, he found himself a prisoner in a deserted country house, with two men on guard. He didn’t know the name of either.

Calmly enough, the three of them discussed the affair in all its aspects. They could devise no safe means of communicating with the ship until he suggested the wireless. He even aided in the erection of a station between two tall trees on a remote hill somewhere. One of his guards, meanwhile, had to master the code. He had become fairly proficient when they saw the advertisement in the newspapers.

“But how is it you went to get the money?” the scientist questioned curiously.

“The men feared treachery,” was the explanation. “They were willing to take my word of honor that I would get it and return with it, after which I was to be free. A prince of the royal house of Germania–Austria may not break his word of honor.”

Tiny corrugations in the domelike brow of the scientist caused Hatch to stare at him expectantly; even as he looked they passed.

“Mr. Hatch,” he said abruptly, “I have heard you refer to certain newspaper stories as ‘peaches’ and ‘corkers’ and what not. How would you class this?”

“This,” said the reporter enthusiastically, “this is a bird!”

“It has only one defect,” remarked The Thinking Machine. “It cannot be printed.”

One eminent scientist who had achieved the seemingly impossible, and one disgusted newspaper reporter were rowed ashore at midnight.

“What do you think of it all, anyhow?” demanded Hatch suddenly.

“I have no opinion to express,” declared The Thinking Machine crabbedly. “The prince has come to his own again; that is sufficient.”

Some weeks later Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen was decorated with the Order of the Iron Eagle by Emperor Gustavus, of Germania–Austria. Reflectively he twisted the elaborate jeweled bauble in his slender fingers; then returned to his worktable under the great electric light. For a minute or more tiny corrugations appeared in his forehead; finally they passed as that strange mind of his became absorbed in the thing he was doing.