It was thirty-six hours later that the three men met again. The
Thinking Machine had abruptly dismissed Hatch and Doane the last time.
The reporter knew that something wholly unexpected had happened. He
could only conjecture that this had to do with Preston Bell. When the
three met again it was in Detective Mallory's office at police
headquarters. The mysterious woman who had claimed Doane for her
husband was present, as were Mallory, Hatch, Doane and The Thinking
Machine.
"Has this woman given any name?" was the scientist's first question.
"Mary Jones," replied the detective, with a grin.
"And address?"
"No."
"Is her picture in the Rogues' Gallery?"
"No. I looked carefully."
"Anybody called to ask about her?"
"A man--yes. That is, he didn't ask about her--he merely asked some
general questions, which now we believe were to find out about her."
The Thinking Machine arose and walked over to the woman. She looked up
at him defiantly.
"There has been a mistake made, Mr. Mallory," said the scientist.
"It's my fault entirely. Let this woman go. I am sorry to have done
her so grave an injustice."
Instantly the woman was on her feet, her face radiant. A look of
disgust crept into Mallory's face.
"I can't let her go now without arraignment," the detective growled.
"It ain't regular."
"You must let her go, Mr. Mallory," commanded The Thinking Machine,
and over the woman's shoulder the detective saw an astonishing thing.
The Thinking Machine winked. It was a decided, long, pronounced wink.
"Oh, all right," he said, "but it ain't regular at that."
The woman passed out of the room hurriedly, her silken skirts rustling
loudly. She was free again. Immediately she disappeared The Thinking
Machine's entire manner changed.
"Put your best man to follow her," he directed rapidly. "Let him go to
her home and arrest the man who is with her as her husband. Then bring
them both back here, after searching their rooms for money."
"Why--what--what is all this?" demanded Mallory, amazed.
"The man who inquired for her, who is with her, is wanted for a
$175,000 embezzlement in Butte, Montana. Don't let your man lose sight
of her."
The detective left the room hurriedly. Ten minutes later he returned
to find The Thinking Machine leaning back in his chair with eyes
upturned. Hatch and Doane were waiting, both impatiently.
"Now, Mr. Mallory," said the scientist, "I shall try to make this
matter as clear to you as it is to me. By the time I finish I expect
your man will be back here with this woman and the embezzler. His name
is Harrison; I don't know hers. I can't believe she is Mrs. Harrison,
yet he has, I suppose, a wife. But here's the story. It is the
chaining together of fact after fact; a necessary logical sequence to
a series of incidents, which are, separately, deeply puzzling."
The detective lighted a cigar and the others disposed themselves
comfortably to listen.
"This gentleman came to me," began The Thinking Machine, "with a story
of loss of memory. He told me that he knew neither his name, home,
occupation, nor anything whatever about himself. At the moment it
struck me as a case for a mental expert; still I was interested. It
seemed to be a remarkable case of aphasia, and I so regarded it until
he told me that he had $10,000 in bills, that he had no watch, that
everything which might possibly be of value in establishing his
identity had been removed from his clothing. This included even the
names of the makers of his linen. That showed intent, deliberation.
"Then I knew it could _not_ be aphasia. That disease strikes a man
suddenly as he walks the street, as he sleeps, as he works, but never
gives any desire to remove traces of one's identity. On the contrary,
a man is still apparently sound mentally--he has merely forgotten
something--and usually his first desire is to find out who he is. This
gentleman had that desire, and in trying to find some clew he showed a
mind capable of grasping at every possible opportunity. Nearly every
question I asked had been anticipated. Thus I recognized that he must
be a more than usually astute man.
"But if not aphasia, what was it? What caused his condition? A drug? I
remembered that there was such a drug in India, not unlike hasheesh.
Therefore for the moment I assumed a drug. It gave me a working basis.
Then what did I have? A man of striking mentality who was the victim
of some sort of plot, who had been drugged until he lost himself, and
in that way disposed of. The handwriting might be the same, for
handwriting is rarely affected by a mental disorder; it is a physical
function.
"So far, so good. I examined his head for a possible accident.
Nothing. His hands were white and in no way calloused. Seeking to
reconcile the fact that he had been a man of strong mentality, with
all other things a financier or banker, occurred to me. The same
things might have indicated a lawyer, but the poise of this man, his
elaborate care in dress, all these things made me think him the
financier rather than the lawyer.
"Then I examined some money he had when he awoke. Fifteen or sixteen
of the hundred-dollar bills were new and in sequence. They were issued
by a national bank. To whom? The possibilities were that the bank
would have a record. I wired, asking about this, and also asked Mr.
Hatch to have his correspondents make inquiries in various cities for
a John Doane. It was not impossible that John Doane was his name. Now
I believe it will be safe for me to say that when he registered at the
hotel he was drugged, his own name slipped his mind, and he signed
John Doane--the first name that came to him. That is _not_ his name.
"While waiting an answer from the bank I tried to arouse his memory by
referring to things in the West. It appeared possible that he might
have brought the money from the West with him. Then, still with the
idea that he was a financier, I sent him to the financial district.
There was a result. The word 'copper' aroused him so that he fainted
after shouting, 'Sell copper, sell, sell, sell.'
"In a way my estimate of the man was confirmed. He was or had been in
a copper deal, selling copper in the market, or planning to do so. I
know nothing of the intricacies of the stock market. But there came
instantly to me the thought that a man who would faint away in such a
case must be vitally interested as well as ill. Thus I had a
financier, in a copper deal, drugged as result of a conspiracy. Do you
follow me, Mr. Mallory?"
"Sure," was the reply.
"At this point I received a telegram from the Butte bank telling me
that the hundred-dollar bills I asked about had been burned. This
telegram was signed 'Preston Bell, Cashier.' If that were true, the
bills this man had were counterfeit. There were no ifs about that. I
asked him if he knew Preston Bell. It was the only name of a person to
arouse him in any way. A man knows his own name better than anything
in the world. Therefore was it his? For a moment I presumed it was.
"Thus the case stood: Preston Bell, cashier of the Butte bank, had
been drugged, was the victim of a conspiracy, which was probably a
part of some great move in copper. But if this man were _Preston
Bell_, how came the signature there? Part of the office regulation? It
happens hundreds of times that a name is so used, particularly on
telegrams.
"Well, this man who was lost--Doane, or Preston Bell--went to sleep in
my apartments. At that time I believed it fully possible that he was a
counterfeiter, as the bills were supposedly burned, and sent Mr. Hatch
to consult an expert. I also wired for details of the fire loss in
Butte and names of persons who had any knowledge of the matter. This
done, I removed and examined this gentleman's shoes for the name of
the maker. I found it. The shoes were of fine quality, probably made
to order for him.
"Remember, at this time I believed this gentleman to be Preston Bell,
for reasons I have stated. I wired to the maker or retailer to know if
he had a record of a sale of the shoes, describing them in detail, to
any financier or banker. I also wired to the Denver police to know if
any financier or banker had been away from there for four or five
weeks. Then came the somewhat startling information, through Mr.
Hatch, that the hundred-dollar bills were genuine. That answer meant
that Preston Bell--as I had begun to think of him--was either a thief
or the victim of some sort of financial conspiracy."
During the silence which followed every eye was turned on the man who
was lost--Doane or Preston Bell. He sat staring straight ahead of him
with hands nervously clenched. On his face was written the sign of a
desperate mental struggle. He was still trying to recall the past.
"Then," The Thinking Machine resumed, "I heard from the Denver police.
There was no leading financier or banker out of the city so far as
they could learn hurriedly. It was not conclusive, but it aided me.
Also I received another telegram from Butte, signed Preston Bell,
telling me the circumstances of the supposed burning of the
hundred-dollar bills. It did not show that they were burned at all; it
was merely an assumption that they had been. They were last seen in
President Harrison's office."
"Harrison, Harrison, Harrison," repeated Doane.
"Vaguely I could see the possibility of something financially wrong in
the bank. Possibly Harrison, even Mr. Bell here, knew of it. Banks do
not apply for permission to reissue bills unless they are positive of
the original loss. Yet here were the bills. Obviously some sort of
jugglery. I wired to the police of Butte, asking some questions. The
answer was that Harrison had embezzled $175,000 and had disappeared.
Now I knew he had part of the missing, supposedly burned, bills with
him. It was obvious. Was Bell also a thief?
"The same telegram said that Mr. Bell's reputation was of the best,
and he was out of the city. That confirmed my belief that it was an
office rule to sign telegrams with the cashier's name, and further
made me positive that this man was Preston Bell. The chain of
circumstances was complete. It was two and two--inevitable result,
four.
"Now, what was the plot? Something to do with copper, and there was an
embezzlement. Then, still seeking a man who knew Bell personally, I
sent him out walking with Hatch. I had done so before. Suddenly
another figure came into the mystery--a confusing one at the moment.
This was a Mr. Manning, who knew Doane, or Bell, as Harry--something;
met him in Pittsburg three years ago, in the Lincoln Club.
"It was just after Mr. Hatch told me of this man that I received a
telegram from the shoemaker in Denver. It said that he had made a shoe
such as I described within a few months for Preston Bell. I had asked
if a sale had been made to a financier or banker; I got the name back
by wire.
"At this point a woman appeared to claim John Doane as her husband.
With no definite purpose, save general precaution, I asked Mr. Hatch
to see her first. She imagined he was Doane and embraced him, calling
him John. Therefore she was a fraud. She did not know John Doane, or
Preston Bell, by sight. Was she acting under the direction of some one
else? If so, whose?"
There was a pause as The Thinking Machine readjusted himself in the
chair. After a time he went on:
"There are shades of emotion, intuition, call it what you will, so
subtle that it is difficult to express them in words. As I had
instinctively associated Harrison with Bell's present condition I
instinctively associated this woman with Harrison. For not a word of
the affair had appeared in a newspaper; only a very few persons knew
of it. Was it possible that the stranger Manning was backing the woman
in an effort to get the $10,000? That remained to be seen. I
questioned the woman; she would say nothing. She is clever, but she
blundered badly in claiming Mr. Hatch for a husband."
The reporter blushed modestly.
"I asked her flatly about a drug. She was quite calm and her manner
indicated that she knew nothing of it. Yet I presume she did. Then I
sprung the bombshell, and she saw she had made a mistake. I gave her
over to Detective Mallory and she was locked up. This done, I wired to
the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg to find out about this mysterious
'Harry' who had come into the case. I was so confident then that I
also wired to Mrs. Bell in Butte, presuming that there was a Mrs.
Bell, asking about her husband.
"Then Manning came to see me. I knew he came because he had remembered
the name he knew you by," and The Thinking Machine turned to the
central figure in this strange entanglement of identity, "although he
seemed surprised when I told him as much. He knew you as Harry
Pillsbury. I asked him who the woman was. His manner told me that he
knew nothing whatever of her. Then it came back to her as an associate
of Harrison, your enemy for some reason, and I could see it in no
other light. It was her purpose to get hold of you and possibly keep
you a prisoner, at least until some gigantic deal in which copper
figured was disposed of. That was what I surmised.
"Then another telegram came from the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg. The
name of Harry Pillsbury appeared as a visitor in the book in January,
three years ago. It was you--Manning is not the sort of man to be
mistaken--and then there remained only one point to be solved as I
then saw the case. That was an answer from Mrs. Preston Bell, if there
was a Mrs. Bell. She would know where her husband was."
Again there was silence. A thousand things were running through Bell's
mind. The story had been told so pointedly, and was so vitally a part
of him, that semi-recollection was again on his face.
"That telegram said that Preston Bell was in Honolulu; that the wife
had received a cable dispatch that day. Then, frankly, I was puzzled;
so puzzled, in fact, that the entire fabric I had constructed seemed
to melt away before my eyes. It took me hours to readjust it. I tried
it all over in detail, and then the theory which would reconcile every
fact in the case was evolved. That theory is right--as right as that
two and two make four. It's logic."
It was half an hour later when a detective entered and spoke to
Detective Mallory aside.
"Fine!" said Mallory. "Bring 'em in."
Then there reappeared the woman who had been a prisoner and a man of
fifty years.
"Harrison!" exclaimed Bell, suddenly. He staggered to his feet with
outstretched hands. "Harrison! I know! I know!"
"Good, good, very good," said The Thinking Machine.
Bell's nervously twitching hands were reaching for Harrison's throat
when he was pushed aside by Detective Mallory. He stood pallid for a
moment, then sank down on the floor in a heap. He was senseless. The
Thinking Machine made a hurried examination.
"Good!" he remarked again. "When he recovers he will remember
everything except what has happened since he has been in Boston.
Meanwhile, Mr. Harrison, we know all about the little affair of the
drug, the battle for new copper workings in Honolulu, and your partner
there has been arrested. Your drug didn't do its work well enough.
Have you anything to add?"
The prisoner was silent.
"Did you search his rooms?" asked The Thinking Machine of the
detective who had made the double arrest.
"Yes, and found this."
It was a large roll of money. The Thinking Machine ran over it
lightly--$70,000--scanning the numbers of the bills. At last he held
forth half a dozen. They were among the twenty-seven reported to have
been burned in the bank fire in Butte.
Harrison and the woman were led away. Subsequently it developed that
he had been systematically robbing the bank of which he was president
for years; was responsible for the fire, at which time he had
evidently expected to make a great haul; and that the woman was not
his wife. Following his arrest this entire story came out; also the
facts of the gigantic copper deal, in which he had rid himself of
Bell, who was his partner, and had sent another man to Honolulu in
Bell's name to buy up options on some valuable copper property there.
This confederate in Honolulu had sent the cable dispatches to the wife
in Butte. She accepted them without question.
It was a day or so later that Hatch dropped in to see The Thinking
Machine and asked a few questions.
"How did Bell happen to have that $10,000?"
"It was given to him, probably, because it was safer to have him
rambling about the country, not knowing who he was, than to kill him."
"And how did he happen to be here?"
"That question may be answered at the trial."
"And how did it come that Bell was once known as Harry Pillsbury?"
"Bell is a director in United States Steel, I have since learned.
There was a secret meeting of this board in Pittsburg three years ago.
He went incog. to attend that meeting and was introduced at the
Lincoln Club as Harry Pillsbury."
"Oh!" exclaimed Hatch.