"Nerves," he said. "Overwork, and no recreation."
"But, doctor, I have no time for recreation!" the old millionaire whined. "My business--"
"Time!" Doctor Anderson growled indignantly. "You're seventy years old, and you're worth fifty million dollars. The thing you must have if you want to spend any of that money is an ocean trip-a good, long ocean trip-around the world, if you like."
"No, no, no!" It was almost a shriek. Peter Ordway's evil countenance, already pallid, became ashen; abject terror was upon him. ... a lashing, mist-covered sea; a titanic chaos of water, and upon its troubled bosom rode a life raft to which three persons were clinging. ...
"No, no, no!" he mumbled, his talon fingers clutching the physician's hand convulsively. "I'm afraid, afraid!"
The slender thread which held sordid soul to withered body was severed that night by a well-aimed bullet. Promptly at eight o'clock Walpole had arrived, and gone straight to the room where Peter Ordway sat propped up on a sofa. Nearly an hour later the old millionaire's one servant, Mrs. Robinson, answered the doorbell, admitting Mr. Franklin Pingree, a well-known financier. He had barely stepped into the hallway when there came a reverberating crash as of a revolver shot from the room where Peter Ordway and his secretary were.
Together Mr. Pingree and Mrs. Robinson ran to the door. Still propped upon the couch, Peter Ordway sat-dead. A bullet had penetrated his heart. His head was thrown back, his mouth was open, and his right hand dangled at his side. Leaning over the body was his secretary, Walpole. In one hand he held a revolver, still smoking. He didn't turn as they entered, but stood staring down upon the man blankly. Mr. Pingree disarmed him from behind.
Hereto I append a partial transcript of a statement made by Frederick Walpole immediately following his arrest on the charge of murdering his millionaire employer. This statement he repeated in substance at the trial:
I am forty-eight years old. I had been in Mr. Ordway's employ for twenty-two years. My salary was eight dollars a week. ... I went to his apartments on the night of the murder in answer to a note. (Note produced.) I bought the revolver and gave it to him. He loaded it and thrust it under the covering beside him on the sofa. ... He dictated four letters and was starting on another. I heard the door open behind me. I thought it was Mrs. Robinson, as I had not heard the front-door bell ring.
Mr. Ordway stopped dictating, and I looked at him. He was staring toward the door. He seemed to be frightened. I looked around. A man had come in. He seemed very old. He had a flowing white beard and long white hair. His face was ruddy, like a seaman's.
"Who are you?" Mr. Ordway asked.
"You know me all right," said the man. "We were together long enough on that craft." (Or "raft," prisoner was not positive.)
"I never saw you before," said Mr. Ordway. "I don't know what you mean."
"I have come for the reward," said the man.
"What reward?" Mr. Ordway asked.
"One million dollars!" said the man.
Nothing else was said. Mr. Ordway drew his revolver and fired. The other man must have fired at the same instant, for Mr. Ordway fell back dead. The man disappeared. I ran to Mr. Ordway and picked up the revolver. He had dropped it. Mr. Pingree and Mrs. Robinson came in. ...
Reading of Peter Ordway's will disclosed the fact that he had bequeathed unconditionally the sum of one million dollars to his secretary, Walpole, for "loyal services." Despite Walpole's denial of any knowledge of this bequest, he was immediately placed under arrest. At the trial, the facts appeared as I have related them. The district attorney summed up briefly. The motive was obvious-Walpole's desire to get possession of one million dollars in cash. Mr. Pingree and Mrs. Robinson, entering the room directly after the shot had been fired, had met no one coming out, as they would have had there been another man-there was no other egress. Also, they had heard only one shot-and that shot had found Peter Ordway's heart. Also, the bullet which killed Peter Ordway had been positively identified by experts as of the same make and same caliber as those others in the revolver Walpole had bought. The jury was out twenty minutes. The verdict was guilty. Walpole was sentenced to death.
It was not until then that "The Thinking Machine"-otherwise Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, Ph. D., F. R. S., M. D., LL. D., et cetera, et cetera, logician, analyst, master mind in the sciences-turned his crabbed genius upon the problem.
Five days before the date set for Walpole's execution, Hutchinson Hatch, newspaper reporter, introduced himself into The Thinking Machine's laboratory, bringing with him a small roll of newspapers. Incongruously enough, they were old friends, these two-on one hand, the man of science, absorbed in that profession of which he was already the master, small, almost grotesque in appearance, and living the life of a recluse; on the other, a young man of the world, worldly, enthusiastic, capable, indefatigable.
So it came about The Thinking Machine curled himself in a great chair, and sat for nearly two hours partially submerged in newspaper accounts of the murder and of the trial. The last paper finished, he dropped his enormous head back against his chair, turned his petulant, squinting eyes upward, and sat for minute after minute staring into nothingness.
"Why," he queried, at last, "do you think he is innocent?"
"I don't know that I do think it," Hatch replied. "It is simply that attention has been attracted to Walpole's story again because of a letter the governor received. Here is a copy of it."
The Thinking Machine read it:
You are about to allow the execution of an innocent man. Walpole's story on the witness stand was true. He didn't kill Peter Ordway. I killed him for a good and sufficient reason.
"Of course," the reporter explained, "the letter wasn't signed. However, three handwriting experts say it was written by the same hand that wrote the 'One million dollar' slips. Incidentally the prosecution made no attempt to connect Walpole's handwriting with those slips. They couldn't have done it, and it would have weakened their case."
"And what," inquired the diminutive scientist, "does the governor purpose doing?"
"Nothing," was the reply. "To him it is merely one of a thousand crank letters."
"He knows the opinions of the experts?"
"He does. I told him."
"The governor," remarked The Thinking Machine gratuitously, "is a fool." Then: "It is sometimes interesting to assume the truth of the improbable. Suppose we assume Walpole's story to be true, assuming at the same time that this letter is true-what have we?"
Tiny, cobwebby lines of thought furrowed the domelike brow as Hatch watched; the slender fingers were brought precisely tip to tip; the pale-blue eyes narrowed still more.
"If," Hatch pointed out, "Walpole's attorney had been able to find a bullet mark anywhere in that room, or a single isolated drop of blood, it would have proven that Peter Ordway did fire as Walpole says he did, and--"
"If Walpole's story is true," The Thinking Machine went on serenely, heedless of the interruption, "we must believe that a man-say, Mr. X-entered a private apartment without ringing. Very well. Either the door was unlocked, he entered by a window, or he had a false key. We must believe that two shots were fired simultaneously, sounding as one. We must believe that Mr. X was either wounded or the bullet mark has been overlooked; we must believe Mr. X went out by the one door at the same instant Mr. Pingree and Mrs. Robinson entered. We must believe they either did not see him, or they lied."
"That's what convicted Walpole," Hatch declared. "Of course, it's impossible--"
"Nothing is impossible, Mr. Hatch," stormed The Thinking Machine suddenly. "Don't say that. It annoys me exceedingly."
Hatch shrugged his shoulders, and was silent. Again minute after minute passed, and the scientist sat motionless, staring now at a plan of Peter Ordway's apartment he had found in a newspaper, the while his keen brain dissected the known facts.
"After all," he announced, at last, "there's only one vital question: Why Peter Ordway's deadly fear of water?"
The reporter shook his head blankly. He was never surprised any more at The Thinking Machine's manner of approaching a problem. Never by any chance did he take hold of it as any one else would have.
"Some personal eccentricity, perhaps," Hatch suggested hopefully. "Some people are afraid of cats, others of--"
"Go to Peter Ordway's place," The Thinking Machine interrupted tartly, "and find if it has been necessary to replace a broken windowpane anywhere in the building since Mr. Ordway's death."
"You mean, perhaps, that Mr. X, as you call him, may have escaped--" the newspaper man began.
"Also find out if there was a curtain hanging over or near the door where Mr. X must have gone out."
"Right!"
"We'll assume that the room where Ordway died has been gone over inch by inch in the search for a stray shot," the scientist continued. "Let's go farther. If Ordway fired, it was probably toward the door where Mr. X entered. If Mr. X left the door open behind him, the shot may have gone into the private hall beyond, and may be buried in the door immediately opposite." He indicated on the plan as he talked. "This second door opens into a rear hall. If both doors chanced to be open--"
Hatch came to his feet with blazing eyes. He understood. It was a possibility no one had considered. Ordway's shot, if he had fired one, might have lodged a hundred feet away.
"Then if we find a bullet mark--" he questioned tensely.
"Walpole will not go to the electric chair."
"And if we don't?"
"We will look farther," said The Thinking Machine. "We will look for a wounded man of perhaps sixty years, who is now, or has been, a sailor; who is either clean-shaven or else has a close-cropped beard, probably dyed-a man who may have a false key to the Ordway apartment-the man who wrote this note to the governor."