The Problem of Cell 13

by Jacques Futrelle

  "And where — where does he get anything to write with?" demanded the warden of the world at large.

  Still later on the fourth day The Thinking Machine, through the window of his cell, spoke to the armed guard outside.

  "What day of the month is it?" he asked.

  "The fifteenth," was the answer.

  The Thinking Machine made a mental astronomical calculation and satisfied himself that the moon would not rise until after nine o'clock that night. Then he asked another question: "Who attends to those arc lights?"

  "Man from the company."

  "You have no electricians in the building?"

  "No."

  "I should think you could save money if you had your own man." "None of my business," replied the guard.

  The guard noticed The Thinking Machine at the cell window frequently during that day, but always the face seemed listless and there was a certain wistfulness in the squint eyes behind the glasses. After a while he accepted the presence of the leonine head as a matter of course. He had seen other prisoners do the same thing; it was the longing for the outside world.

  That afternoon, just before the day guard was relieved, the head appeared at the window again, and The Thinking Machine's hand held something out between the bars. It fluttered to the ground and the guard picked it up. It was a five-dollar bill.

  "That's for you," called the prisoner.

  As usual, the guard, took it to the warden. That gentleman looked at it suspiciously; he looked at everything that came from Cell 13 with suspicion.

  "He said it was for me," explained the guard.

  "It's a sort of a tip, I suppose," said the warden. "I see no particular reason why you shouldn't accept — "

  Suddenly he stopped. He had remembered that The Thinking Machine had gone into Cell 13 with one five-dollar bill and two ten-dollar bills; twenty-five dollars in all. Now a five-dollar bill had been tied around the first pieces of linen that came from the cell. The warden still had it, and to convince himself he took it out and looked at it. It was five dollars; yet here was another five dollars, and The Thinking Machine had only had ten-dollar bills.

  "Perhaps somebody changed one of the bills for him," he thought at last, with a sigh of relief.

  But then and there he made up his mind. He would search Cell 13 as a cell was never before searched in this world. When a man could write at will, and change money, and do other wholly inexplicable things, there was something radically wrong with his prison. He planned to enter the cell at night — three o'clock would be an excellent time. The Thinking Machine must do all the weird things he did sometime. Night seemed the most reasonable.

  Thus it happened that the warden stealthily descended upon Cell 13 that night at three -o'clock. He paused at the door and listened. There was no sound save the steady, regular breathing of the prisoner. The keys unfastened the double locks with scarcely a clank, and the warden entered, locking the door behind him. Suddenly he flashed his dark-lantern in the face of the recumbent figure.

  If the warden had planned to startle The Thinking Machine he was mistaken, for that individual merely opened his eyes quietly, reached for his glasses and inquired, in a most matter-of-fact tone:

  "Who is it?"

  It would be useless to describe the search that the warden made. It was minute. Not one inch of the cell or the bed was overlooked. He found the round hole in the floor, and with a flash of inspiration thrust his thick fingers into it. After a moment of fumbling there he drew up something and looked at it in the light of his lantern.

  "Ugh!" he exclaimed.

  The thing he had taken out was a rat — a dead rat. His inspiration fled as a mist before the sun. But he continued the search. The Thinking Machine, without a word, arose and kicked the rat out of the cell into the corridor.

  The warden climbed on the bed and tried the steel bars in the tiny window. They were perfectly rigid; every bar of the door was the same.

  Then the warden searched the prisoner's clothing, beginning at the shoes. Nothing hidden in them! Then the trousers waist band. Still nothing! Then the pockets of the trousers. From one side he drew out some paper money and examined it.

  "Five one-dollar bills," he gasped.

  "That's right," said the prisoner.

  "But the — you had two tens and a five — what the — how do you do it?"

  "That's my business," said the Thinking Machine.

  "Did any of my men change this money for you — on your word of honor?"

  The Thinking Machine paused just a fraction of a second.

  "No," he said.

  "Well, do you make it?" asked the warden. He was prepared to believe anything.

  "That's my business," again said the prisoner.

  The warden glared at the eminent scientist fiercely. He felt — he knew — that this man was making a fool of him, yet he didn't know how. If he were a real prisoner he would get the truth — but, then, perhaps, those inexplicable things which had happened would not have been brought before him so sharply. Neither of the men spoke for a long time, then suddenly the warden turned fiercely and left the cell, slamming the door behind him. He didn't dare to speak, then.

  He glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to four. He had hardly settled himself in bed when again came that heart-breaking shriek through the prison. With a few muttered words, which, while not elegant, were highly expressive, he relighted his lantern and rushed through the prison again to the cell on the upper floor.

  Again Ballard was crushing himself against the steel door, shrieking, shrieking at the top of his voice. He stopped only when the warden flashed his lamp in the cell.

  "Take me out, take me out," he screamed. "I did it, I did it, I killed her. Take it away."

  "Take what away?" asked the warden.

  "I threw the acid in her face — I did it — I confess. Take me out of here."

  Ballard's condition was pitiable; it was only an act of mercy to let him out into the corridor. There he crouched in a corner, like an animal at bay, and clasped his hands to his ears. It took half an hour to calm him sufficiently for him to speak. Then he told incoherently what had happened. On the night before at four o'clock he had heard a voice — a sepulchral voice, muffled and wailing in tone.

  "What did it say?" asked the warden, curiously.

  "Acid — acid — acid!" gasped the prisoner. "It accused me. Acid! I threw the acid, and the woman died. Oh!" It was a long, shuddering wail of terror.

  "Acid?" echoed the warden, puzzled. The case was beyond him.

  "Acid. That's all I heard — that one word, repeated several times. There were other things, too, but I didn't hear them."

  "That was last night, eh?" asked the warden. "What happened to-night — what frightened you just now?"

  "It was the same thing," gasped the prisoner. "Acid — acid — acid!" He covered his face with his hands and sat shivering. "It was acid I used on her, but I didn't mean to kill her. I just heard the words. It was something accusing me — accusing me." He mumbled, and was silent.

  "Did you hear anything else?"

  "Yes — but I couldn't understand — only a little bit — just a word or two."

  "Well, what was it?"

  "I heard 'acid' three times, then I heard a long, moaning sound, then — then — I heard 'No. 8 hat.' I heard that twice."

  "No. 8 hat," repeated the warden. "What the devil — No. 8 hat? Accusing voices of conscience have never talked about No. 8 hats, so far as I ever heard. "

  "He's insane," said one of the jailers, with an air of finality.

  "I believe you," said the warden. "He must be. He probably heard something and got frightened. He's trembling now. No. 8 hat! What the—"

  V

  When the fifth day of The Thinking Machine's imprisonment rolled around the warden was wearing a hunted look. He was anxious for the end of the thing. He could not help but feel that his distinguished prisoner had been amusing himself. And if this were so, The Thinking Machin
e had lost none of his sense of humor. For on this fifth day he flung down another linen note to the outside guard, bearing the words: "Only two days more." Also he flung down half a dollar.

  Now the warden knew — he knew — that the man in Cell 13 didn't have any half dollars — he couldn't have any half dollars, no more than he could have pen and ink and linen, and yet he did have them. It was a condition, not a theory; that is one reason why the warden was wearing a hunted look.

  That ghastly, uncanny thing, too, about "Acid" and "No. 8 hat" clung to him tenaciously. They didn't mean anything, of course, merely the ravings of an insane murderer who had been driven by fear to confess his crime, still there were so many things that "didn't mean anything" happening in the prison now since The Thinking Machine was there.

  On the sixth day the warden received a postal stating that Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding would be at Chisholm Prison on the following evening, Thursday, and in the event Professor Van Dusen had not yet escaped — and they presumed he had not because they had not heard from him — they would meet him there.

  "In the event he had not yet escaped!" The warden smiled grimly. Escaped!

  The Thinking Machine enlivened this day for the warden with three notes. They were on the usual linen and bore generally on the appointment at half-past eight o'clock Thursday night, which appointment the scientist had made at the time of his imprisonment.

  On the afternoon of the seventh day the warden passed Cell 13 and glanced in. The Thinking Machine was lying on the iron bed, apparently sleeping lightly. The cell appeared precisely as it always did to a casual glance. The warden would swear that no man was going to leave it between that hour — it was then four o'clock — and half-past eight o'clock that evening.

  On his way back past the cell the warden heard the steady breathing again, and coming close to the door looked in. He wouldn't have done so if The Thinking Machine had been looking, but now — well, it was different.

  A ray of light came through the high window and fell on the face of the sleeping man. It occurred to the warden for the first time that his prisoner appeared haggard and weary. Just then The Thinking Machine stirred slightly and the warden hurried on up the corridor guiltily. That evening after six o'clock he saw the jailer.

  "Everything all right in Cell 13?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir," replied the jailer. "He didn't eat much, though."

  It was with a feeling of having done his duty that the warden received Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding shortly after seven o'clock. He intended to show them the linen notes and lay before them the full story of his woes, which was a long one. But before this came to pass, the guard from the river side of the prison yard entered the office.

  "The arc light in my side of the yard won't light," he informed -the warden.

  "Confound it, that man's a hoodoo," thundered the official. "Everything has happened since he's been here."

  The guard went back to his post in the darkness, and the warden 'phoned to the electric light company.

  "This is Chisholm Prison," he said through the 'phone. "Send three or four men down here quick, to fix an arc light."

  The reply was evidently satisfactory, for the warden hung up the receiver and passed out into the yard. While Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding sat waiting the guard at the outer gate came in with a special delivery letter. Dr. Ransome happened to notice the address, and, when the guard went out, looked at the letter more closely.

  "By George!" he exclaimed.

  "What is it?" asked Mr. Fielding.

  Silently the doctor offered the letter. Mr. Fielding examined it closely.

  "Coincidence," he said. "It must be."

  It was nearly eight o'clock when the warden returned to his office. The electricians had arrived in a wagon, and were now at work. The warden pressed the buzz-button communicating with the man at the outer gate in the wall.

  "How many electricians came in?" he asked, over the short 'phone. "Four? Three workmen in jumpers and overalls and the manager? Frock coat and silk hat? All right. Be certain that only four go out. That's all."

  He turned to Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding. "We have to be careful here — particularly," and there was broad sarcasm in his tone, "since we have scientists locked up."

  The warden picked up the special delivery letter carelessly, and then began to open it.

  "When I read this I want to tell you gentlemen something about how — Great Caesar!" he ended, suddenly, as he glanced at the letter. He sat with mouth open, motionless, from astonishment.

  "What is it?" asked Mr. Fielding.

  "A special delivery from Cell 13," gasped the warden. "An invitation to supper."

  "What?" and the two others arose, unanimously.

  The warden sat dazed, staring at the letter for a moment, then called sharply to a guard outside in the corridor.

  "Run down to Cell 13 and see if that man's in there."

  The guard went as directed, while Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding examined the letter.

  "It's Van Dusen's handwriting; there's no question of that," said Dr. Ransome. "I've seen too much of it."

  Just then the buzz on the telephone from the outer gate sounded, and the warden, in a semi-trance, picked up the receiver.

  "Hello! Two reporters, eh? Let 'em come in." He turned suddenly to the doctor and Mr. Fielding. "Why, the man can't be out. He must be in his cell."

  Just at that moment the guard returned.

  "He's still in his cell, sir," he reported. "I saw him. He's lying down."

  "There, I told you so," said the warden, and he breathed freely again. "But how did he mail that letter?"

  There was a rap on the steel door which led from the jail yard into the warden's office.

  "It's the reporters," said the warden. "Let them in," he instructed the guard; then to the two other gentlemen: "Don't say anything about this before them, because I'd never hear the last of it."

  The door opened, and the two men from the front gate entered.

  "Good-evening, gentlemen," said one. That was Hutchinson Hatch; the warden knew him well.

  "Well?" demanded the other, irritably. "I'm here."

  That was The Thinking Machine.

  He squinted belligerently at the warden, who sat with mouth agape. For the moment that official had nothing to say. Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding were amazed, but they didn't know what the warden knew. They were only amazed; he was paralyzed. Hutchinson Hatch, the reporter, took in the scene with greedy eyes.

  "How — how — how did you do it?" gasped the warden, finally.

  "Come back to the cell," said The Thinking Machine, in the irritated voice which his scientific associates knew so well.

  The warden, still in a condition bordering on trance, led the way.

  "Flash your light in there," directed The Thinking Machine.

  The warden did so. There was nothing unusual in the appearance of the cell, and there — there on the bed lay the figure of The Thinking Machine. Certainly! There was the yellow hair! Again the warden looked at the man beside him and wondered at the strangeness of his own dreams.

  With trembling hands he unlocked the cell door and The Thinking Machine passed inside.

  "See here," he said.

  He kicked at the steel bars in the bottom of the cell door and three of them were pushed out of place. A fourth broke off and rolled away in the corridor.

  "And here, too," directed the erstwhile prisoner as he stood on the bed to reach the small window. He swept his hand across the opening and every bar came out.

  "What's this in the bed?" demanded the warden, who was slowly recovering.

  "A wig," was the reply. "Turn down the cover."

  The warden did so. Beneath it lay a large coil of strong rope, thirty feet or more, a dagger, three files, ten feet of electric wire, a thin, powerful pair of steel pliers, a small tack hammer with its handle, and — and a Derringer pistol.

  "'How did you do it?" demanded the warden.

  "You gen
tlemen have an engagement to supper with me at halfpast nine o'clock," said The Thinking Machine. "Come on, or we shall be late."

  "But how did you do it?" insisted the warden.

  "Don't ever think you can hold any man who can use his brain," said The Thinking Machine. "Come on; we shall be late."

  VI

  It was an impatient supper party in the rooms of Professor Van Dusen and a somewhat silent one. The guests were Dr. Ransome, Albert Fielding, the warden, and Hutchinson Hatch, reporter. The meal was served to the minute, in accordance with Professor Van Dusen's instructions of one week before; Dr. Ransome found the artichokes delicious At last the supper was finished and The Thinking Machine turned full on Dr. Ransome and squinted at him fiercely.

  "Do you believe it now?" he demanded.

  "I do," replied Dr. Ransome.

  "Do you admit that it was a fair test?"

  "I do."

  With the others, particularly the warden, he was waiting anxiously for the explanation.

  "Suppose you tell us how — " began Mr. Fielding.

  "Yes, tell us how," said the warden.

  The Thinking Machine readjusted his glasses, took a couple of preparatory squints at his audience, and began the story. He told it from the beginning logically; and no man ever talked to more interested listeners.

  "My agreement was," he began, "to go into a cell, carrying nothing except what was necessary to wear, and to leave that cell within a week. I had never seen Chisholm Prison. When I went into the cell I asked for tooth powder, two ten and one five-dollar bills, and also to have my shoes blacked. Even if these requests had been refused it would not have mattered seriously. But you agreed to them."

  "I knew there would be nothing in the cell which you thought I might use to advantage. So when the warden locked the door on me I was apparently helpless, unless I could turn three seemingly innocent things to use. They were things which would have been permitted any prisoner under sentence of death, were they not, warden?"