The Problem of Cell 13

by Jacques Futrelle

  None of the rats had gone out the door, yet there were none in the cell. Therefore there must be another way out of the cell, however small. The Thinking Machine, on hands and knees, started a search for this spot, feeling in the darkness with his long, slender fingers.

  At last his search was rewarded. He came upon a small opening in the floor, level with the cement. It was perfectly round and somewhat larger than a silver dollar. This was the way the rats had gone. He put his fingers deep into the opening; it seemed to be a disused drainage pipe and was dry and dusty.

  Having satisfied himself on this point, he sat on the bed again for an hour, then made another inspection of his surroundings through the small cell window. One of the outside guards stood directly opposite, beside the wall, and happened to be looking at the window of Cell 13 when the head of The Thinking Machine appeared. But the scientist didn't notice the guard.

  Noon came and the jailer appeared with the prison dinner of repulsively plain food. At home The Thinking Machine merely ate to live; here he took what was offered without comment. Occasionally he spoke to the jailer who stood outside the door watching him.

  "Any improvements made here in the last few years?" he asked.

  "Nothing particularly," replied the jailer. "New wall was built four years ago."

  "Anything done to the prison proper?"

  "Painted the woodwork outside, and I believe about seven years ago a new system of plumbing was put in."

  "Ah!" said the prisoner. "How far is the river over there?"

  "About three hundred feet. The boys have a baseball ground between the wall and the river."

  The Thinking Machine had nothing further to say just then, but when the jailer was ready to go he asked for some water.

  "I get very thirsty here," he explained. "Would it be possible for you to leave a little water in a bowl for me?"

  "I'll ask the warden," replied the jailer, and he went away. Half an hour later he returned with water in a small earthen bowl.

  "The warden says you may keep this bowl," he informed the prisoner. "But you must show it to me when I ask for it. If it is broken, it will be the last."

  "Thank you," said The Thinking Machine. "I shan't break it."

  The jailer went on about his duties. For just the fraction of a second it seemed that The Thinking Machine wanted to ask a question, but he didn't.

  Two hours later this same jailer, in passing the door of Cell No. 13, heard a noise inside and stopped. The Thinking Machine was down on his hands and knees in a corner of the cell, and from that same corner came several frightened squeaks. The jailer looked on interestedly.

  "Ah, I've got you," he heard the prisoner say.

  "Got what?" he asked, sharply.

  "One of these rats," was the reply. "See?" And between the scientist's long fingers the jailer saw a small gray rat struggling. The prisoner brought it over to the light and looked at it closely. "It's a water rat," he said.

  "Ain't you got anything better to do than to catch rats?" asked the jailer.

  "It's disgraceful that they should be here at all," was the irritated reply. "Take this one away and kill it. There are dozens more where it came from."

  The jailer took the wriggling, squirmy rodent and flung it down on the floor violently. It gave one squeak and lay still. Later he reported the incident to the warden, who only smiled.

  Still later that afternoon the outside armed guard on Cell 13 side of the prison looked up again at the window and saw the prisoner looking out. He saw a hand raised to the barred window and then something white fluttered to the ground, directly under the window of Cell 13. It was a little roll of linen, evidently of white shirting material, and tied around it was a five-dollar bill. The guard looked up at the window again, but the face had disappeared.

  With a grim smile he took the little linen roll and the five-dollar bill to the warden's office. There together they deciphered something which was written on it with a queer sort of ink, frequently blurred. On the outside was this:

  "Finder of this please deliver to Dr. Charles Ransome."

  "Ah," said the warden, with a chuckle. "Plan of escape number one has gone wrong." Then, as an afterthought: "But why did he address it to Dr. Ransome?"

  "And where did he get the pen and ink to write with?" asked the guard.

  The warden looked at the guard and the guard looked at the warden. There was no apparent solution of that mystery. The warden studied the writing carefully, then shook his head.

  "Well, let's see what he was going to say to Dr. Ransome," he said at length, still puzzled, and he unrolled the inner piece of linen.

  "Well, if that — what — what do you think of that?" he asked, dazed.

  The guard took the bit of linen and read this:

  "Epa cseot d'net niiy awe htto n'si sih. "T."

  III

  The warden spent an hour wondering what sort of a cipher it was, and half an hour wondering why his prisoner should attempt to communicate with Dr. Ransome, who was the cause of him being there. After this the warden devoted some thought to the question of where the prisoner got writing materials., and what sort of writing materials he had. With the idea of illuminating this point, he examined the linen again. It was a torn part of a white shirt and had ragged edges.

  Now it was possible to account for the linen, but what the prisoner had used to write with was another matter. The warden knew it would have been impossible for him to have either pen or pencil, and, besides, neither pen nor pencil had been used in this writing. What, then? The warden decided to personally investigate. The Thinking Machine was his prisoner; he had orders to hold his prisoners; if this one sought to escape by sending cipher messages to persons outside, he would stop it, as he would have stopped it in the case of any other prisoner.

  The warden went back to Cell 13 and found The Thinking Machine on his hands and knees on the floor, engaged in nothing more alarming than catching rats. The prisoner heard the warden's step and turned to him quickly.

  "It's disgraceful," he snapped, "these rats. There are scores of them."

  "Other men have been able to stand them," said the warden. "Here is another shirt for you — let me have the one you have on."

  "Why?" demanded The Thinking Machine, quickly. His tone was hardly natural, his manner suggested actual perturbation.

  "You have attempted to communicate with Dr. Ransome," said the warden severely. "As my prisoner, it is my duty to put a stop to it."

  The Thinking Machine was silent for a moment.

  "All right," he said, finally. "Do your duty."

  The warden smiled grimly. The prisoner arose from the floor and removed the white shirt, putting on instead a striped convict shirt the warden had brought. The warden took the white shirt eagerly, and then there compared the pieces of linen on which was written the cipher with certain torn places in the shirt. The Thinking Machine looked on curiously.

  "The guard brought you those, then?" he asked.

  "He certainly did," replied the warden triumphantly. "And that ends your first attempt to escape."

  The Thinking Machine watched the warden as he, by comparison, established to his own satisfaction that only two pieces of linen had been torn from the white shirt.

  "What did you write this with?" demanded the warden.

  "I should think it a part of your duty to find out," said The Thinking Machine, irritably.

  The warden started to say some harsh things, then restrained himself and made a minute search of the cell and of the prisoner instead. He found absolutely nothing; not even a match or toothpick which might have been used for a pen. The same mystery surrounded the fluid with which the cipher had been written. Although the warden left Cell 13 visibly annoyed, he took the torn shirt in triumph.

  "Well, writing notes on a shirt won't get him out, that's certain," he told himself with some complacency. He put the linen scraps into his desk to await developments. "If that man escapes from that cell I'll — hang it — I'll
resign."

  On the third day of his incarceration The Thinking Machine openly attempted to bribe his way out. The jailer had brought his dinner and was leaning against the barred door, waiting, when The Thinking Machine began the conversation.

  "The drainage pipes of the prison lead to the river, don't they?" he asked .

  "Yes," said the jailer.

  "I suppose they are very small?"

  "Too small to crawl through, if that's what you're thinking about," was the grinning response.

  There was silence until The Thinking Machine finished his meal. Then:

  "You know I'm not a criminal, don't you?"'

  "Yes."

  "And that I've a perfect right to be freed if I demand it?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, I came here believing that I could make my escape," said the prisoner, and his squint eyes studied the face of the jailer.

  "Would you consider a financial reward for aiding me to escape?"

  The jailer, who happened to be an honest man, looked at the slender, weak figure of the prisoner, at the large head with its mass of yellow hair, and was almost sorry.

  "I guess prisons like these were not built for the likes of you to get out of," he said, at last.

  "But would you consider a proposition to help me get out?" the prisoner insisted, almost beseechingly.

  "No," said the jailer, shortly.

  "Five hundred dollars," urged The Thinking Machine. "I am not a criminal."

  "No," said the jailer.

  "A thousand?"

  "No," again said the jailer, and he started away hurriedly to escape further temptation. Then he turned back. "If you should give me ten thousand dollars I couldn't get you out. You'd have to pass through seven doors, and I only have the keys to two."

  Then he told the warden all about it.

  "Plan number two fails," said the warden, smiling grimly. "First a cipher, then bribery."

  When the jailer was on his way to Cell 13 at six o'clock, again bearing food to The Thinking Machine, he paused, startled by the unmistakable scrape, scrape of steel against steel. It stopped at the sound of his steps, then craftily the jailer, who was beyond the prisoner's range of vision, resumed his tramping, the sound being apparently that of a man going away from Cell 13. As a matter of fact he was in the same spot.

  After a moment there came again the steady scrape, scrape, and the jailer crept cautiously on tiptoes to the door and peered between the bars. The Thinking Machine was standing on the iron bed working at the bars of the little window. He was using a file, judging from the backward and forward swing of his arms.

  Cautiously the jailer crept back to the office, summoned the warden in person, and they returned to Cell 13 on tiptoes. The steady scrape was still audible. The warden listened to satisfy himself and then suddenly appeared at the door.

  " Well?" he demanded, and there was a smile on his face.

  The Thinking Machine glanced back from his perch on the bed and leaped suddenly to the floor, making frantic efforts to hide something. The warden went in, with hand extended.

  "Give it up," he said.

  "No," said the prisoner, sharply.

  "Come, give it up," urged the warden. "I don't want to have to search you again."

  "No," repeated the prisoner.

  "What was it, a file?" asked the warden.

  The Thinking Machine was silent and stood squinting at the warden with something very nearly approaching disappointment on his face — nearly, but not quite. The warden was almost sympathetic.

  "Plan number three fails, eh?" he asked, goodnaturedly. "Too bad, isn't it?"

  The prisoner didn't say.

  "Search him," instructed the warden.

  The jailer searched the prisoner carefully. At last, artfully concealed in the waist band of the trousers, he found a piece of steel about two inches long, with one side curved like a half moon.

  "Ah," said the warden, as he received it from the jailer. "From your shoe heel," and he smiled pleasantly.

  The jailer continued his search and on the other side of the trousers waist band found another piece of steel identical with the first. The edges showed where they had been worn against the bars of the window.

  "You couldn't saw a way through those bars with these," said the warden.

  "I could have," said The Thinking Machine firmly.

  "In six months, perhaps," said the warden, goodnaturedly.

  The warden shook his head slowly as he gazed into the slightly flushed face of his prisoner.

  "Ready to give it up?" he asked.

  "I haven't started yet," was the prompt reply.

  Then came another exhaustive search of the cell. Carefully the two men went over it, finally turning out the bed and searching that. Nothing. The warden in person climbed upon the bed and examined the bars of the window where the prisoner had been sawing. When he looked he was amused.

  "Just made it a little bright by hard rubbing," he said to the prisoner, who stood looking on with a somewhat crestfallen air. The warden grasped the iron bars in his strong hands and tried to shake them. They were immovable, set firmly in the solid granite. He examined each in turn and found them all satisfactory. Finally he climbed down from the bed.

  "Give it up, professor," he advised.

  The Thinking Machine shook his head and the warden and jailer passed on again. As they disappeared down the corridor The Thinking Machine sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

  "He's crazy to try to get out of that cell," commented the jailer.

  "Of course he can't get out," said the warden. "But he's clever. I would like to know what he wrote that cipher with."

  It was four o'clock next morning when an awful, heart-racking shriek of terror resounded through the great prison. It came from a cell somewhere about the center, and its tone told a tale of horror, agony, terrible fear. The warden heard and with three of his men rushed into the long corridor leading to Cell 13.

  IV

  As they ran there came again that awful cry. It died away in a sort of wail. The white faces of prisoners appeared at cell doors upstairs and down, staring out wonderingly, frightened.

  "It's that fool in Cell 13," grumbled the warden.

  He stopped and stared in as one of the jailers flashed a lantern. "That fool in Cell 13" lay comfortably on his cot, flat on his back with his mouth open, snoring. Even as they looked there came again the piercing cry, from somewhere above. The warden's face blanched a little as he started up the stairs. There on the top floor he found a man in Cell 43, directly above Cell 13, but two floors higher, cowering in a corner of his cell.

  "What's the matter?" demanded the warden.

  "Thank God you've come," exclaimed the prisoner, and he cast himself against the bars of his cell.

  "What is it?" demanded the warden again.

  He threw open the door and went in. The prisoner dropped on his knees and clasped the warden about the body. His face was white with terror, his eyes were widely distended, and he was shuddering. His hands, icy cold, clutched at the warden's.

  "Take me out of this cell, please take me out," he pleaded.

  "What's the matter with you, anyhow?" insisted the warden, impatiently.

  "I heard something — something," said the prisoner, and his eyes roved nervously around the cell.

  "What did you hear?"

  "I — I can't tell you," stammered the prisoner. Then, in a sudden burst of terror: "Take me out of this cell — put me anywhere — but take me out of here."

  The warden and the three jailers exchanged glances.

  "Who is this fellow? What's he accused of?" asked the warden.

  "Joseph Ballard," said one of the jailers. "He's accused of throwing acid in a woman's face. She died from it."

  "But they can't prove it," gasped the prisoner. "They can't prove it. Please put me in some other cell."

  He was still clinging to the warden, and that official threw his arms off roughly. Then for a
time he stood looking at the cowering wretch, who seemed possessed of all the wild, unreasoning terror of a child.

  "Look here, Ballard," said the warden, finally, "if you heard anything, I want to know what it was. Now tell me."

  "I can't, I can't," was the reply. He was sobbing.

  "Where did it come from?"

  "I don't know. Everywhere — nowhere. I just heard it."

  "What was it — a voice?"

  "Please don't make me answer," pleaded the prisoner.

  "You must answer," said the warden, sharply.

  "It was a voice — but — but it wasn't human," was the sobbing reply.

  "Voice, but not human?" repeated the warden, puzzled.

  "It sounded muffled and — and far away — and ghostly," explained the man.

  "Did it come from inside or outside the prison?"

  "It didn't seem to come from anywhere — it was just here, here, everywhere. I heard it. I heard it."

  For an hour the warden tried to get the story, but Ballard had become suddenly obstinate and would say nothing — only pleaded to be placed in another cell, or to have one of the jailers remain near him until daylight. These requests were gruffly refused.

  "And see here," said the warden, in conclusion, "if there's any more of this screaming, I'll put you in the padded cell."

  Then the warden went his way, a sadly puzzled man. Ballard sat at his cell door until daylight, his face, drawn and white with terror, pressed against the bars, and looked out into the prison with wide, staring eyes.

  That day, the fourth since the incarceration of The Thinking Machine, was enlivened considerably by the volunteer prisoner, who spent most of his time at the little window of his cell. He began proceedings by throwing another piece of linen down to the guard, who picked it up dutifully and took it to the warden. On it was written:

  "Only three days more."

  The warden was in no way surprised at what he read; he understood that The Thinking Machine meant only three days more of his imprisonment, and he regarded the note as a boast. But how was the thing written? Where had The Thinking Machine found this new piece of linen? Where? How? He carefully examined the linen. It was white, of fine texture, shirting material. He took the shirt which he had taken and carefully fitted the two original pieces of the linen to the torn places. This third piece was entirely superfluous; it didn't fit anywhere, and yet it was unmistakably the same goods.