For fifteen minutes Hatch silently looked on as The Thinking Machine
worked over the unconscious man. Once or twice Curtis moved uneasily
and moaned slightly. Hatch had started to explain the situation to The
Thinking Machine, but the irascible scientist glared at him and the
reporter became silent. After ten or fifteen minutes The Thinking
Machine turned to Hatch more genially.
"He'll be all right in a little while now," he said. "What is it?"
"Well, it's a murder," Hatch began. "Marguerite Melrose, an actress,
was stabbed through the heart last night, and----"
"Murder?" interrupted The Thinking Machine. "Might it not have been
suicide?"
"Might have been; yes," said the reporter, after a moment's pause.
"But it appears to be murder."
"When you say it is murder," said The Thinking Machine, "you
immediately give the impression that you were there and saw it. Go
on."
From the beginning, then, Hatch told the story as he knew it; of the
stopping of The Green Dragon at the Monarch Inn, of the events there,
of the whereabouts of Curtis and Reid at the time the girl received
the knife thrust and of the confirmation of Reid's story. Then he
detailed those incidents of the arrival of the men with the girl at
Dr. Leonard's house, of what had transpired there, of the effort
Curtis had made to get possession of the knife.
With finger tips pressed together and squinting steadily upward, The
Thinking Machine listened. At its end, which bore on the actions of
Curtis just preceding his appearance in the room with them, The
Thinking Machine arose and walked over to the couch where Curtis lay.
He ran his slender fingers idly through the unconscious man's thick
hair several times.
"Doesn't it strike you as perfectly possible, Mr. Hatch," he asked
finally, "that Miss Melrose _did_ kill herself?"
"It may be perfectly possible, but it doesn't appear so," said Hatch.
"There was no motive."
"And certainly you've shown no motive for anything else," said the
other, crustily. "Still," he mused, "I really can't say anything until
I talk to him."
He again turned to his patient, and as he looked saw the red blood
surge back into the face.
"Ah, now we're all right," he announced.
Thus it happened, for after another ten minutes the patient sat up
suddenly on the couch and looked at the two men before him,
bewildered.
"What's the matter?" he asked. The thickness was gone from his speech;
he was himself again, although a little shaky.
Briefly, Hatch explained to him what had happened, and he listened
silently. Finally he turned to The Thinking Machine.
"And this gentleman?" he asked. He noted the queer appearance of the
scientist, and stared into the squint eyes frankly.
"Professor Van Dusen, a distinguished scientist and physician," Hatch
introduced. "I brought you here. He has been working with you for an
hour."
"And now, Mr. Curtis," said The Thinking Machine, "if you will tell us
_all_ you know about the murder of Miss Melrose----"
Curtis paled suddenly.
"Why do you ask me?" he demanded.
"You said a great deal while you were unconscious," remarked The
Thinking Machine, as he dreamily stared at the ceiling. "I know that
worry over that and too much alcohol have put you in a condition
bordering on nervous collapse. I think it would be better if you told
it _all_."
Hatch instantly saw the trend of the scientist's remarks, and remained
discreetly silent. Curtis stared at both for a moment, then paced
nervously across the room. He did not know what he might have said,
what chance word might have been dropped. Then, apparently, he made up
his mind, for he stopped suddenly in front of The Thinking Machine.
"Do I look like a man who would commit murder?" he asked.
"No, you do not," was the prompt response. His recital of the story
was similar to that of Hatch, but the scientist listened carefully.
"Details! details!" he interrupted once.
The story was complete from the moment Curtis jumped out of the car
until the return to the hotel of Curtis and Reid. There the narrator
stopped.
"Mr. Curtis, why did you try to induce Dr. Leonard to give up the
knife to you?" asked The Thinking Machine, finally.
"Because--well, because----" He faltered, flushed and stopped.
"Because you were afraid it would bring the crime home to you?" asked
the scientist.
"I didn't know _what_ might happen," was the response.
"Is it your knife?"
Again the tell-tale flush overspread Curtis's face.
"No," he said, flatly.
"Is it Reid's knife?"
"Oh, no," he said, quickly.
"You were in love with Miss Melrose?"
"Yes," was the steady reply.
"Had she ever refused to marry you?"
"I had never asked her."
"Why?"
"Is this a third degree?" demanded Curtis, angrily, and he arose. "Am
I a prisoner?"
"Not at all," said The Thinking Machine, quietly. "You may be made a
prisoner, though, on what you said while unconscious. I am merely
trying to help you."
Curtis sank down in a chair with his head in his hands and remained
motionless for several minutes. At last he looked up.
"I'll answer your questions," he said.
"Why did you never ask Miss Melrose to marry you?"
"Because--well, because I understood another man, Donald MacLean, was
in love with her, and she might have loved him. I understood she would
have married him had it not been that by doing so she would have
caused his disinheritance. MacLean is now in Boston."
"Ah!" exclaimed The Thinking Machine. "Your friend Reid didn't happen
to be in love with her, too, did he?"
"Oh, no," was the reply. "Reid came here hoping to win the love of
Miss Dow, a society girl. I came with him."
"Miss Dow?" asked Hatch, quickly. "The girl who eloped last night with
Morgan Mason?"
"Yes," replied Curtis. "That elopement and this--crime have put Reid
almost in as bad a condition as I am."
"What elopement?" asked The Thinking Machine.
Hatch explained how Mason had procured a marriage license, how Miss
Dow and Mason had met at the Monarch Inn--where Miss Melrose must have
been killed according to all stories--how Miss Dow had written to her
parents from there of the elopement and then of their disappearance.
The Thinking Machine listened, but without apparent interest.
"Have you such a knife as was used to kill Miss Melrose?" he asked at
the end.
"No."
"Did you ever have such a knife?"
"Well, once."
"Where did you carry it when it was not in your auto kit?"
"In my lower coat pocket."
"By the way, what kind of looking woman was Miss Melrose?"
"One of the most beautiful women I ever met," said Curtis, with a
certain enthusiasm. "Of ordinary height, superb figure--a woman who
would attract attention anywhere."
"I believe she wore a veil and an automobile mask at the time she was
killed?"
"Yes. They covered all her face except her chin."
"Could she, wearing an automobile mask, see either side of herself
without turning?" asked The Thinking Machine, pointedly. "Had you
intended to stab her, say while the car was in motion and had the
knife in your hand, even in daylight, could she have seen it without
turning her head? Or, if she had had the knife, could you have seen
it?"
Curtis shuddered a little.
"No, I don't believe so."
"Was she blonde or brunette?"
"Blonde, with great clouds of golden hair," said Curtis, and again
there was admiration in his tone.
"Golden hair?" Hatch repeated. "I understood Medical Examiner Francis
to say she had dark hair?"
"No, golden hair," was the positive reply.
"Did you see the body, Mr. Hatch?" asked the scientist.
"No. None of us saw it. Dr. Francis makes that a rule."
The Thinking Machine arose, excused himself and passed into another
room. They heard the telephone bell ring and then some one closed the
door connecting the two rooms. When the scientist returned he went
straight to a point which Hatch had impatiently awaited.
"What happened to you this afternoon in Winter Street?"
Curtis had retained his composure well up to this point; now he became
uneasy again. Quick pallor on his face was succeeded by a flush which
crept up to the roots of his hair.
"I've been drinking too much," he said at last. "That and this thing
have completely unnerved me. I am afraid I was not myself."
"What did you _think_ you saw?" insisted The Thinking Machine.
"I went into a store for something. I've forgotten what now. I know
there was a great crowd of women--they were all about me. There I
saw--" He stopped and was silent for a moment. "There I saw," he went
on with an effort, "a woman--just a glimpse of her, over the heads of
the others in the store--and----"
"And what?" insisted The Thinking Machine. "At the moment I would have
sworn it was Marguerite Melrose," was the reply.
"Of course you know you were mistaken?"
"I know it now," said Curtis. "It was a chance resemblance, but the
effect on me was awful. I ran out of there shrieking--it seemed to me.
Then I found myself here."
"And you don't know what you said or did from that time until the
present?" asked the scientist, curiously.
"No, except in a hazy sort of way."
After awhile Martha, the scientist's aged servant, appeared in the
doorway.
"Mr. Mallory and a gentleman, sir."
"Let them come in," said The Thinking Machine. "Mr. Curtis," and he
turned to him gravely, "Mr. Reid is here. I sent for him as if at your
request to ask him two questions. If he answers those questions, as I
believe he will, I can demonstrate that you are not guilty of and have
no connection with the murder of Miss Melrose. Let me ask these
questions, without any hint or remark from you as to what the answer
must be. Are you willing?"
"I am," replied Curtis. His face was white, but his voice was firm.
Detective Mallory, whom Curtis didn't know, and Charles Reid entered
the room. Both looked about curiously. Mallory nodded brusquely at
Hatch. Reid looked at Curtis and Curtis looked away.
"Mr. Reid," said The Thinking Machine, without any preliminary, "Mr.
Curtis tells me that the knife used to kill Miss Melrose was your
property. Is that so?" he demanded quickly, as Curtis faced about
wonderingly.
"No," thundered Reid, fiercely.
"Is it Mr. Curtis's knife?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"Yes," flashed Reid. "It's a part of his auto kit."
Curtis started to speak; The Thinking Machine waved his hand toward
him. Detective Mallory caught the gesture and understood that Jack
Curtis was his prisoner for murder.