"You believe, then," Hatch demanded, "that Walpole is innocent?"
"I believe nothing of the sort," snapped the scientist. "He's probably guilty. If we find no bullet mark, I'm merely saying what sort of man we must look for."
"But-but how do you know so much about him-what he looks like?" asked the reporter, in bewilderment.
"How do I know?" repeated the crabbed little scientist. "How do I know that two and two make four, not sometimes, but all the time? By adding the units together. Logic, that's all-logic, logic!"
While Hatch was scrutinizing the shabby walls of the old building where Peter Ordway had lived his miserly life, The Thinking Machine called on Doctor Anderson, who had been Peter Ordway's physician for a score of years. Doctor Anderson couldn't explain the old millionaire's aversion to water, but perhaps if the scientist went farther back in his inquiries there was an old man, John Page, still living who had been Ordway's classmate in school. Doctor Anderson knew of him because he had once treated him at Peter Ordway's request. So The Thinking Machine came to discuss this curious trait of character with John Page. What the scientist learned didn't appear, but whatever it was it sent him to the public library, where he spent several hours pulling over the files of old newspapers.
All his enthusiasm gone, Hatch returned to report.
"Nothing," he said. "No trace of a bullet."
"Any windowpanes changed or broken?"
"Not one."
"There were curtains, of course, over the door through which Mr. X entered Ordway's room." It was not a question.
"There were. They're there yet."
"In that case," and The Thinking Machine raised his squinting eyes to the ceiling, "our sailorman was wounded."
"There is a sailorman, then?" Hatch questioned eagerly.
"I'm sure I don't know," was the astonishing reply. "If there is, he answers generally the description I gave. His name is Ben Holderby. His age is not sixty; it's fifty-eight."
The newspaper man took a long breath of amazement. Surely here was the logical faculty lifted to the nth power! The Thinking Machine was describing, naming, and giving the age of a man whose existence he didn't even venture to assert-a man who never had been in existence so far as the reporter knew! Hatch fanned himself weakly with his hat.
"Odd situation, isn't it?" asked The Thinking Machine. "It only proves that logic is inexorable-that it can only fail when the units fail; and no unit has failed yet. Meantime, I shall leave you to find Holderby. Begin with the sailors' lodging houses, and don't scare him off. I can add nothing to the description except that he is probably using another name."
Followed a feverish two days for Hatch-a hurried, nightmarish effort to find a man who might or might not exist, in order to prevent a legal murder. With half a dozen other clever men from his office, he finally achieved the impossible.
"I've found him!" he announced triumphantly over the telephone to The Thinking Machine. "He's stopping at Werner's, in the North End, under the name of Benjamin Goode. He is clean-shaven, his hair and brows are dyed black, and he is wounded in the left arm."
"Thanks," said The Thinking Machine simply. "Bring Detective Mallory, of the bureau of criminal investigation, and come here to-morrow at noon prepared to spend the day. You might go by and inform the governor, if you like, that Walpole will not be electrocuted Friday."
Detective Mallory came at Hatch's request-came with a mouthful of questions into the laboratory, where The Thinking Machine was at work.
"What's it all about?" he demanded.
"Precisely at five o-clock this afternoon a man will try to murder me," the scientist informed him placidly, without lifting his eyes. "I'd like to have you here to prevent it."
Mallory was much given to outbursts of amazement; he humored himself now:
"Who is the man? What's he going to try to kill you for? Why not arrest him now?"
"His name is Benjamin Holderby," The Thinking Machine answered the questions in order. "He'll try to kill me because I shall accuse him of murder. If he should be arrested now, he wouldn't talk. If I told you whom he murdered, you wouldn't believe it."
Detective Mallory stared without comprehension.
"If he isn't to try to kill you until five o'clock," he asked, "why send for me at noon?"
"Because he may know you, and if he watched and saw you enter he wouldn't come. At half past four you and Mr. Hatch will step into the adjoining room. When Holderby enters, he will face me. Come behind him, but don't lift a finger until he threatens me. If you have to shoot-kill! He'll be dangerous until he's dead."
It was just two minutes of five o'clock when the bell rang, and Martha ushered Benjamin Holderby into the laboratory. He was past middle age, powerful, with deep-bronzed face and the keen eyes of the sea. His hair and brows were dyed-badly dyed; his left arm hung limply. He found The Thinking Machine alone.
"I got your letter, sir," he said respectfully. "If it's a yacht, I'm willing to ship as master; but I'm too old to do much--"
"Sit down, please," the little scientist invited courteously, dropping into a chair as he spoke. "There are one or two questions I should like to ask. First"-the petulant blue eyes were raised toward the ceiling; the slender fingers came together precisely, tip to tip-"first: Why did you kill Peter Ordway?"
Fell an instant's amazed silence. Benjamin Holderby's muscles flexed, the ruddy face was contorted suddenly with hideous anger, the sinewy right hand closed until great knots appeared in the tendons. Possibly The Thinking Machine had never been nearer death than in that moment when the sailorman towered above him-'twas giant and weakling. The tiger was about to spring. Then, suddenly as it had come, anger passed from Holderby's face; came instead curiosity, bewilderment, perplexity.
The silence was broken by the sinister click of a revolver. Holderby turned his head slowly, to face Detective Mallory, stared at him oddly, then drew his own revolver, and passed it over, butt foremost.
No word had been spoken. Not once had The Thinking Machine lowered his eyes.
"I killed Peter Ordway," Holderby explained distinctly, "for good and sufficient reasons."
"So you wrote the governor," the scientist observed. "Your motive was born thirty-two years ago?"
"Yes." The sailor seemed merely astonished.
"On a raft at sea?"
"Yes."
"There was murder done on that raft?"
"Yes."
"Instigated by Peter Ordway, who offered you--"
"One million dollars-yes."
"So Peter Ordway is the second man you have killed?"
"Yes."
With mouth agape, Hutchinson Hatch listened greedily; he had-they had-saved Walpole! Mallory's mind was a chaos. What sort of tommyrot was this? This man confessing to a murder for which Walpole was to be electrocuted! His line of thought was broken by the petulant voice of The Thinking Machine.
"Sit down, Mr. Holderby," he was saying, "and tell us precisely what happened on that raft."
'Twas a dramatic story Benjamin Holderby told-a tragedy tale of the sea-a tale of starvation and thirst torture and madness, and ceaseless battling for life-of crime and greed and the power of money even in that awful moment when death seemed the portion of all. The tale began with the foundering of the steamship Neptune, Liverpool to Boston, ninety-one passengers and crew, some thirty-two years ago. In mid-ocean she was smashed to bits by a gale, and went down. Of those aboard only nine persons reached shore alive.
Holderby told the story simply:
"God knows how many of us went through that storm; it raged for days. There were ten of us on our raft when the ship settled, and by dusk of the second day there were only six-one woman, and one child, and four men. The waves would simply smash over us, and when we came to daylight again there was some one missing. There was little enough food and water aboard, anyway, so the people dropping off that way was really what saved-what saved two of us at the end. Peter Ordway was one, and I was the other.