President Fraser reached the bank at ten o'clock and was informed of
the robbery. He retired to his office, and there he sat, apparently
stunned into inactivity by the blow, his head bowed on his arms. Miss
Clarke, at her typewriter, frequently glanced at the aged figure with
an expression of pity on her face. Her eyes seemed weary, too.
Outside, through the closed door, they could hear the detectives.
From time to time employees of the bank and detectives entered the
office to ask questions. The banker answered as if dazed; then the
board of directors met and voted to personally make good the loss
sustained. There was no uneasiness among depositors, because they knew
the resources of the bank were practically unlimited.
Cashier West was not arrested. The directors wouldn't listen to such a
thing; he had been cashier for eighteen years, and they trusted him
implicitly. Yet he could offer no possible explanation of how his
handkerchief had come there. He asserted stoutly that he had not been
in the bank from the moment Miss Clarke and Dunston saw him leave it.
After investigation the police placed the burglary to the credit of
certain expert cracksmen, identity unknown. A general alarm, which
meant a rounding up of all suspicious persons, was sent out, and this
drag-net was expected to bring important facts to light. Detective
Mallory said so, and the bank officials placed great reliance on his
word.
Thus the situation at the luncheon hour. Then Miss Clarke, who, wholly
unnoticed, had been waiting all morning at her typewriter, arose and
went over to Fraser.
"If you don't need me now," she said, "I'll run out to luncheon."
"Certainly, certainly," he responded, with a slight start. He had
apparently forgotten her existence.
She stood silently looking at him for a moment.
"I'm awfully sorry," she said, at last, and her lips trembled
slightly.
"Thanks," said the banker, and he smiled faintly. "It's a shock, the
worst I ever had."
Miss Clarke passed out with quiet tread, pausing for a moment in the
outer office to stare curiously at the shattered steel safe. The
banker arose with sudden determination and called to West, who entered
immediately.
"I know a man who can throw some light on this thing," said Fraser,
positively. "I think I'll ask him to come over and take a look. It
might aid the police, anyway. You may know him? Professor Van Dusen."
"Never heard of him," said West, tersely, "but I'll welcome anybody
who can solve it. My position is uncomfortable."
President Fraser called Professor Van Dusen--The Thinking Machine--and
talked for a moment through the 'phone. Then he turned back to West.
"He'll come," he said, with an air of relief. "I was able to do him a
favor once by putting an invention on the market."
Within an hour The Thinking Machine, accompanied by Hutchinson Hatch,
reporter, appeared. President Fraser knew the scientist well, but on
West the strange figure made a startling, almost uncanny, impression.
Every known fact was placed before The Thinking Machine. He listened
without comment, then arose and wandered aimlessly about the offices.
The employees were amused by his manner; Hatch was a silent looker-on.
"Where was the handkerchief found?" demanded The Thinking Machine, at
last.
"Here," replied West, and he indicated the exact spot.
"Any draught through the office--ever?"
"None. We have a patent ventilating system which prevents that."
The Thinking Machine squinted for several minutes at the window which
had been unfastened--the window in the cashier's private room--with
the steel bars guarding it, now torn out of their sockets, and at the
chalklike softness of the granite about the sockets. After awhile he
turned to the president and cashier.
"Where is the handkerchief?"
"In my desk," Fraser replied. "The police thought it of no consequence,
save, perhaps--perhaps----," and he looked at West.
"Except that it might implicate me," said West, hotly.
"Tut, tut, tut," said Fraser, reprovingly. "No one thinks for a----"
"Well, well, the handkerchief?" interrupted The Thinking Machine, in
annoyance.
"Come into my office," suggested the president.
The Thinking Machine started in, saw a woman--Miss Clarke, who had
returned from luncheon--and stopped. There was one thing on earth he
was afraid of--a woman.
"Bring it out here," he requested.
President Fraser brought it and placed it in the slender hands of the
scientist, who examined it closely by a window, turning it over and
over. At last he sniffed at it. There was the faint, clinging odor of
violet perfume. Then abruptly, irrelevantly, he turned to Fraser.
"How many women employed in the bank?" he asked.
"Three," was the reply; "Miss Clarke, who is my secretary, and two
general stenographers in the outer office."
"How many men?"
"Fourteen, including myself."
If the president and Cashier West had been surprised at the actions of
The Thinking Machine up to this point, now they were amazed. He thrust
the handkerchief at Hatch, took his own handkerchief, briskly scrubbed
his hands with it, and also passed that to Hatch.
"Keep those," he commanded.
He sniffed at his hands, then walked into the outer office, straight
toward the desk of one of the young women stenographers. He leaned
over her, and asked one question:
"What system of shorthand do you write?"
"Pitman," was the astonished reply.
The scientist sniffed. Yes, it was unmistakably a sniff. He left her
suddenly and went to the other stenographer. Precisely the same thing
happened; standing close to her he asked one question, and at her
answer sniffed. Miss Clarke passed through the outer office to mail a
letter. She, too, had to answer the question as the scientist squinted
into her eyes, and sniffed.
"Ah," he said, at her answer.
Then from one to another of the employees of the bank he went, asking
each a few questions. By this time a murmur of amusement was running
through the office. Finally The Thinking Machine approached the cage
in which sat Dunston, the receiving teller. The young man was bent
over his work, absorbed.
"How long have you been employed here?" asked the scientist, suddenly.
Dunston started and glanced around quickly.
"Five years," he responded.
"It must be hot work," said The Thinking Machine. "You're perspiring."
"Am I?" inquired the young man, smilingly.
He drew a crumpled handkerchief from his hip pocket, shook it out, and
wiped his forehead.
"Ah!" exclaimed The Thinking Machine, suddenly.
He had caught the faint, subtle perfume of violets--an odor identical
with that on the handkerchief found in front of the safe.