IV.
Mr. Hassan left Boston that night for Washington. He took the dagger with him. The Thinking Machine made no objection, and the very existence of the man was as yet unknown to the police.
"When it is necessary to produce that dagger," he explained to Hatch, "it can be done through regular channels, if Hassan is still alive. It seems very probable now that international law may have to take a hand in the case."
"Do you consider it possible that Hassan in person had any connection with the affair?" Hatch asked.
"Anything is possible," was the short reply. "By the way, Mr. Hatch, it might be interesting to know a little more about this real estate collector, Clements, who discovered the girl's body. He might have known about the house being unoccupied. There are still possibilities in every direction, but the real problem hangs on the golden dagger."
"In that event, it seems to come back to Hassan," said the reporter doggedly.
"I would advise you, Mr. Hatch, to settle the points I asked about the advertisement. Then see Dr. Loyd; ask him if he still has the dagger. If you get the original copy of the advertisement, turn it over to the police. You need not mention Hassan to them as yet."
It was early that evening when Hatch saw Dr. Loyd.
"Did the burglars get the dagger?" he asked.
"I have nothing to say," was the reply.
"Have you the dagger now?"
"I have nothing to say."
"Did you turn it over to the District Attorney?"
"I have nothing to say."
The result of this was that Hatch went away firmly convinced that Dr. Loyd did not have the dagger; that the burglars, whoever they were, had taken it away; that they were probably in the employ of Hassan and robbed Loyd's house for the specific purpose of regaining possession of the dagger.
Later Hatch made an investigation of the circumstances attending the publication of the advertisement. It had appeared four times on alternate days. The original copy of it was found and given to him. It was the bold handwriting of a man. This he turned over to the police, with all information as to the advertisement.
Then began a long, minute search, which ultimately resulted in the discovery of the whereabouts of half a dozen girls reported missing. But the fact that they were found immediately removed them as possibilities. From the first, the search for Wilkes had been unceasing. It was generally assumed that the name Wilkes was fictitious.
On the morning of the second day Hatch appeared at his office weary, discouraged and disgusted. But weariness fled when the city editor excitedly approached him.
"They have Wilkes," he said. "They got him late last night in Worcester. The real estate clerk has positively identified him. He will be at police headquarters within an hour or so. Get the story."
"Who is he?" asked Hatch.
"I don't know. He doesn't deny his identity, and insists that his name is Wilkes. He was found at a hotel registered as Charles Wingate."
The first editions of the afternoon papers flamed with the announcement of the capture of the supposed murderer. Meanwhile Hatch and the other reporters had heard Wilkes's story at second-hand. The police saw fit to put as much mystery about it as they could. Having heard this story Hatch immediately went with it to see The Thinking Machine.
"They've caught Wilkes," he explained. "His name is Wilkes, so far as anybody knows. He registered as Wingate because he was frightened. He knows the police of the entire country were looking for him."
"What about the house?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"He tells what appears to be a straight story. He says he rented the house for himself and wife intending to remain there for several months. He did not take a lease. On the day he was to move in his wife grew very ill-a more than usually serious attack of the nervous trouble with which she is afflicted. Then on the advice of physicians he took her away to Cuba rather than to start up housekeeping.
"He inserted the advertisement in the newspaper before he knew how serious this illness was. They remained in Cuba together for two or three weeks, and she is still there, he says. On the day after his return this murder affair came up and he considered it advisable, until it was all cleared up, to stay out of sight."
"What is his business?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"He is Eastern agent for a big cutlery concern in Cleveland. His headquarters are in Boston. He has only recently been appointed and is not known in Boston. Almost from the time of his appointment, he had been travelling. It was an oversight, he says, that he did not notify the real estate people of his determination not to occupy the house. He had rented it by the month anyway."
The Thinking Machine was silent. The blue eyes were turned upward and the long, slender fingers pressed tip to tip. Hatch, eagerly watching his face, saw perplexed wrinkles at times, which immediately disappeared. It was the working of the man's brain.
"Does he know the girl?"
"He is confident that he does not. He never saw, so he says, anyone who answered the advertisement."
"Of course he would say that," snapped The Thinking Machine. "Has he seen the body?"
"He is to see it this afternoon."
"Have the police any idea of the identity of the girl?"
"I think not," said Hatch. "There are the usual boasts about being able to clear it up within a few hours, but it means nothing."
Again there was silence as the scientist sat thoughtfully squinting at the ceiling.
"Doe she know Hassan?" he asked, finally.
"I don't know," Hatch replied. "Remember that no one knows Hassan but you and I, and I haven't seen this man Wilkes yet."
"Will you be able to see him?"
"I don't know. It depends upon the gracious goodness of the police."
"We will go and see him now," declared The Thinking Machine emphatically.
A few minutes later, they were ushered into the office of the chief of the State Police. There were mutual introductions, Hatch officiating. The chief had at various times heard of his distinguished visitor, but had never before met him. Instead he had regarded him as an amusing myth.
"Would it be possible for me to see Mr. Wilkes?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"No, not now," was the reply.
"I thought the purpose of this office was to aid justice," snapped the scientist.
"It is," said the chief, and a flush came to his face.
"Well, I know the man who owns the dagger with which the girl was killed," said the scientist emphatically. "I want to see if this is the man."
The chief arose from his desk in astonishment and stood leaning over it toward his visitors.
"You know-you know--" he began. "Who is it?"
"May I see Wilkes?" insisted the other.