Professor Augustus Van Dusen: 49 Detective Mysteries in One Edition. Jacques Futrelle

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СКАЧАТЬ “You didn’t tell her anything about this man Gates getting the package?”

      “No,” said the reporter.

      “It would only worry her,” explained the scientist. “Better let her hope, because—”

      Hatch looked at The Thinking Machine quickly, startled.

      “Because, what?” he asked.

      “There seems to be a very strong probability that Baby Blake is dead,” the other responded.

      Pondering that, yet conceiving no motive which would cause the baby’s death, Hatch was silent as he and the scientist together went to the house of Mrs. Blake. Miss Barton, the nurse, answered the door.

      “Miss Barton,” said The Thinking Machine, testily as they entered, “just when did you give this stocking,”—and he produced it—“to Charles Gates?”

      The girl flushed quickly, and she stammered a little.

      “I—I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “Who is Charles Gates?”

      “May we see Mrs. Blake?” asked the scientist. He squinted steadily into the girl’s eyes.

      “Yes—of course—that is, I suppose so,” she stammered.

      She disappeared, and in a few minutes Mrs. Blake appeared. There was an eager, expectant look in her face. It was hope. It faded when she saw the solemn face of The Thinking Machine.

      “What recommendations did Miss Barton have when you engaged her?” he began pointedly.

      “The best I could ask,” was the reply. “She was formerly a governess in the family of the Governor–General of Canada. She is well educated, and came to me from that position.”

      “Is she well acquainted in Lynn?” asked the scientist.

      “That I couldn’t say,” replied Mrs. Blake. “If you are thinking that she might have some connection with this affair—”

      “Ever go out much?” interrupted her questioner.

      “Rarely, and then usually with me. She is more of a companion than servant.”

      “How long have you had her?”

      “Since a week or so after my baby”—and the mother’s lips trembled a little—“was born. She has been devoted to me since the death of my husband. I would trust her with my life.”

      “This is your baby’s stocking?”

      “Beyond any doubt,” she replied as she again examined it.

      “I suppose he had several pairs like this?”

      “I really don’t know. I should think so.”

      “Will you please have Miss Barton, or someone else, find those stockings and see if all the pairs like this are complete,” instructed The Thinking Machine.

      Wonderingly, Mrs. Blake gave the order to Miss Barton, who as wonderingly received it and went out of the room with a quick, resentful look at the bowed figure of the scientist.

      “Did you ever happen to notice, Mrs. Blake, whether or not your baby could open a door? For instance, the front door?”

      “I believe he could,” she replied. “He could reach them because the handles are low, as you see,” and she indicated the knob on the front door, which was visible through the reception hall room where they stood.

      The Thinking Machine turned suddenly and strode to the window of the library, looking out on the back yard. He was debating something in his own mind. It was whether or not he should tell this mother his fear of her son’s death, or should hide it from her until such time as it would appear itself. For some reason known only to himself he considered the child’s death not only a possibility, but a probability.

      Whatever might have resulted from this mental debate was not to be known then, for suddenly, as he stood staring out the rear window overlooking the spot where the baby’s tracks had been seen in the snow—now melted—he started a little and peered eagerly out. It was the first sight he had had of the yard since the night he had examined it by moonlight.

      “Dear me, dear me,” he exclaimed suddenly.

      Turning abruptly he left the room, and a moment later Hatch saw him in the back yard. Mrs. Blake at the window watched curiously. Outside The Thinking Machine walked straight out to the spot where the baby’s tracks had been, and from there Hatch saw him stop and stare at the slightly raised box which covered the water connections.

      From this box the scientist took five steps toward a flat-topped stone—the one he had noticed previously—and Hatch saw that it was about ten feet. Then from this he saw The Thinking Machine take four steps to where the sagging clothes-line hung. It was probably eight feet. Then the bowed figure of The Thinking Machine walked on out toward the rear wall of the enclosure, under the clothes-line.

      When he stopped at the end of the line he was within fifteen feet of the dangling swing which had been Baby Blake’s. This swing was attached to a limb twenty feet above—a stout limb which jutted straight out from the tree trunk for fifteen feet. The Thinking Machine studied this for a moment, then passed on beyond the tree, still looking up, until he disappeared.

      Fifteen minutes later he returned to the library where Mrs. Blake awaited him. There was a question in Hatch’s eyes.

      “I’ve got it,” snapped The Thinking Machine, much as if there had been a denial. “I’ve got it.”

      5

      On the following day, by direction of The Thinking Machine, Mrs. Blake ordered the following advertisement inserted in all Boston and Lynn newspapers, to occupy one quarter of a page.

      To the Persons who now Hold Douglas Blake:

      “Your names, residence and place of concealment of Douglas Blake, fourteen months old, and the manner in which he came into your possession are now known. Mrs. Blake, the mother, does not desire to prosecute for reasons you know, and will give you twenty-four hours in which to return the baby safely to its home in Lynn. Any attempt to escape of either person concerned will be followed instantly by arrest. Meanwhile you are closely watched, and will be for twenty four hours, at which time arrest and prosecution will follow. No questions will be asked when the child is returned and your names will be fully protected. There will also be a reward of $1,000 for the person who returns the baby.”

      Hutchinson Hatch read this when The Thinking Machine had completed it and had stared at the scientist in wonderment.

      “Is it true?” he asked.

      “I am afraid the child is dead,” repeated The Thinking Machine evasively. “I am very much afraid of it.”

      “What gives you that impression?” Hatch asked.

      “I know now how the child was taken from that back yard, СКАЧАТЬ