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 17

The Thinking Machine answered the telegraphic summons immediately, but instead of elation on his face there was another expression—possibly surprise. On the train he read and reread the telegram.

“Have trace of baby,” he mused. “Why, it’s perfectly astonishing.”

White-faced from exhaustion, and with eyes drooping from lack of sleep, Hutchinson Hatch met The Thinking Machine in the hotel lobby and they immediately went to a room, which the reporter had engaged on the third floor.

The Thinking Machine listened without comment as Hatch told the story of what he had done. He had placed the bundle, then hired a room overlooking the vacant lot and had remained there at the window for hours. At last night came, but there were clouds which effectively hid the moon. Then Hatch had gone out and secreted himself near the trash pile.

Here from six o’clock in the evening until four in the morning he had remained, numbed with cold and not daring to move. At last his long vigil was rewarded. A man suddenly appeared near the trash heap, glanced around furtively, and then picked up the newspaper package, felt of it to assure himself that it contained something, and then started away quickly.

The work of following him Hatch had not found difficult. He had gone straight to a tenement in the eastern end of Lynn and disappeared inside. Later in the morning, after the occupants of the house were about, Hatch made inquiries which established the identity of the man without question.

His name was Charles Gates and he lived with his wife on the fourth floor of the tenement. His reputation was not wholly savory, and he drank a great deal. He was a man of some education, but not of such ignorance as the letters he had written would indicate.

“After learning all these facts,” Hatch went on, “my idea was to see the man and talk to him or to his wife. I went there this morning about nine o’clock, as a book agent.” The reporter smiled a little. “His wife, Mrs. Gates, didn’t want any books, but I nearly sold her a sewing machine.

“Anyway, I got into the apartments and remained there for fifteen or twenty minutes. There was only one room which I didn’t enter, of the four there. In that room, the woman explained, her husband was asleep. He had been out late the night before, she said. Of course I knew that.

“I asked if she had any babies and received a negative. From other people in the house I learned that this was true so far as they knew. There was not and has not been a baby in the apartments so far as anyone could tell me. And in spite of that fact I found this.”

Hatch drew something from his pocket and spread it on his open hand. It was a baby stocking of fine texture. The Thinking Machine took it and looked at it closely.

“Baby Blake’s?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied the reporter. “Both Mrs. Blake and the nurse, Miss Barton, identify it.”

“Dear me! Dear me!” exclaimed the scientist, thoughtfully. Again the puzzled expression came into his face.

“Of course, the baby hasn’t been returned?” went on the scientist.

“Of course not!” said Hatch.

“Did Mrs. Gates behave like a woman who had suddenly received a share of twenty-five thousand dollars?” asked The Thinking Machine.

“No,” Hatch replied. “She looked as if she had attended a mixed ale party. Her lip was cut and bruised and one eye was black.”

“That’s what her husband did when he found out what was in the newspaper,” commented The Thinking Machine, grimly.

“It wasn’t money, at all, then?” asked Hatch.

“Certainly not.”

Neither said anything for several minutes. The Thinking Machine sat idly twisting the tiny stocking between his long, slender fingers with the little puzzled line in his brow.

“How do you account for that stocking in Gates’s possession?” asked the reporter at last.

“Let’s go talk to Mrs. Blake,” was the reply. “You didn’t tell her anything about this man Gates getting the package?”

“No,” said the reporter.

“It would only worry her,” explained the scientist. “Better let her hope, because—”

Hatch looked at The Thinking Machine quickly, startled.

“Because, what?” he asked.

“There seems to be a very strong probability that Baby Blake is dead,” the other responded.

Pondering that, yet conceiving no motive which would cause the baby’s death, Hatch was silent as he and the scientist together went to the house of Mrs. Blake. Miss Barton, the nurse, answered the door.

“Miss Barton,” said The Thinking Machine, testily as they entered, “just when did you give this stocking,”—and he produced it—“to Charles Gates?”

The girl flushed quickly, and she stammered a little.

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “Who is Charles Gates?”

“May we see Mrs. Blake?” asked the scientist. He squinted steadily into the girl’s eyes.

“Yes—of course—that is, I suppose so,” she stammered.

She disappeared, and in a few minutes Mrs. Blake appeared. There was an eager, expectant look in her face. It was hope. It faded when she saw the solemn face of The Thinking Machine.

“What recommendations did Miss Barton have when you engaged her?” he began pointedly.

“The best I could ask,” was the reply. “She was formerly a governess in the family of the Governor–General of Canada. She is well educated, and came to me from that position.”

“Is she well acquainted in Lynn?” asked the scientist.

“That I couldn’t say,” replied Mrs. Blake. “If you are thinking that she might have some connection with this affair—”

“Ever go out much?” interrupted her questioner.

“Rarely, and then usually with me. She is more of a companion than servant.”

“How long have you had her?”

“Since a week or so after my baby”—and the mother’s lips trembled a little—“was born. She has been devoted to me since the death of my husband. I would trust her with my life.”

“This is your baby’s stocking?”

“Beyond any doubt,” she replied as she again examined it.

“I suppose he had several pairs like this?”

“I really don’t know. I should think so.”

“Will you please have Miss Barton, or someone else, find those stockings and see if all the pairs like this are complete,” instructed The Thinking Machine.

Wonderingly, Mrs. Blake gave the order to Miss Barton, who as wonderingly received it and went out of the room with a quick, resentful look at the bowed figure of the scientist.

“Did you ever happen to notice, Mrs. Blake, whether or not your baby could open a door? For instance, the front door?”

“I believe he could,” she replied. “He could reach them because the handles are low, as you see,” and she indicated the knob on the front door, which was visible through the reception hall room where they stood.

The Thinking Machine turned suddenly and strode to the window of the library, looking out on the back yard. He was debating something in his own mind. It was whether or not he should tell this mother his fear of her son’s death, or should hide it from her until such time as it would appear itself. For some reason known only to himself he considered the child’s death not only a possibility, but a probability.

Whatever might have resulted from this mental debate was not to be known then, for suddenly, as he stood staring out the rear window overlooking the spot where the baby’s tracks had been seen in the snow—now melted—he started a little and peered eagerly out. It was the first sight he had had of the yard since the night he had examined it by moonlight.

“Dear me, dear me,” he exclaimed suddenly.

Turning abruptly he left the room, and a moment later Hatch saw him in the back yard. Mrs. Blake at the window watched curiously. Outside The Thinking Machine walked straight out to the spot where the baby’s tracks had been, and from there Hatch saw him stop and stare at the slightly raised box which covered the water connections.

From this box the scientist took five steps toward a flat-topped stone—the one he had noticed previously—and Hatch saw that it was about ten feet. Then from this he saw The Thinking Machine take four steps to where the sagging clothes-line hung. It was probably eight feet. Then the bowed figure of The Thinking Machine walked on out toward the rear wall of the enclosure, under the clothes-line.

When he stopped at the end of the line he was within fifteen feet of the dangling swing which had been Baby Blake’s. This swing was attached to a limb twenty feet above—a stout limb which jutted straight out from the tree trunk for fifteen feet. The Thinking Machine studied this for a moment, then passed on beyond the tree, still looking up, until he disappeared.

Fifteen minutes later he returned to the library where Mrs. Blake awaited him. There was a question in Hatch’s eyes.

“I’ve got it,” snapped The Thinking Machine, much as if there had been a denial. “I’ve got it.”