"There's a man named Howard Guerin now asleep in his state room aboard the steamer Austriana, which sails at five o'clock this morning-just an hour and a half from now-for Hamburg," began The Thinking Machine without any preface. "Please have him arrested immediately."
"What charge?" asked the detective.
"Really, it's of no consequence," replied The Thinking Machine. "Attempted murder, conspiracy, embezzlement, fraud-whatever you like. I can prove any or all of them."
"I'll go after him myself," said the detective.
"And there is also a young woman aboard," continued The Thinking Machine,-"a Miss Hilda Fanshawe. Please have her detained, not arrested, and keep a close guard on her-not to prevent escape, but to protect her."
"Tell us some of the particulars of it," asked the detective.
"I haven't slept in more than forty-eight hours," replied The Thinking Machine. "I'll explain it all this afternoon, after I've rested a while."
The Thinking Machine, for the benefit of Detective Mallory and his satellites, recited briefly the salient points of the story told by the actor, Watson Richards. His listeners were Howard Guerin, tall, keen faced, and clean shaven; Miss Hilda Fanshawe, whose pretty face reflected her every thought; Hutchinson Hatch, and three or four headquarters men. Every eye was upon the drawn face of the diminutive scientist, as he sat far back in his chair, with squint eyes turned upward, and fingertips pressed together.
"From the facts as he stated them, we know beyond all question, in the very beginning, that Mr. Richards was used as a tool to further some conspiracy or fraud," explained The Thinking Machine. "That was obvious. So the first thing to do was to learn the identity of those persons who played the principal parts in it. From Mr. Richards' story we apparently had nothing, yet it gave us practically the names and addresses of the persons at the bottom of the thing.
"How? To find how, we'll have to consider the purpose of the conspiracy. An actor-an artist in facial impersonation, we might say-is picked up in the street and compelled to go through the mummery of a death bed scene while stupefied with drugs. Obviously this was arranged for the benefit of some person who must be convinced that he or she had witnessed a dissolution and the signature of a will, perhaps,-and a will signed under the eyes of that person for whose benefit the farce was acted.
"So we assume a will was signed. We know, within reason, that the mummery was arranged for the benefit of a young woman-Miss Fanshawe here. From the intricacy and daring of the plot, it was pretty safe to assume that a large sum of money was involved. As a matter of fact, there was-more than a million. Now, here is where we take an abstract problem and establish the identity of the actors in it. That will was signed by compulsory forgery, if I may use the phrase, by an utter stranger-a man who could not have known the handwriting of the man whose name he signed, and who was in a condition that makes it preposterous to imagine that he even attempted to sign that name. Yet the will was signed, and the conspirators had to have a signature that would bear inspection. Now, what have we left?
"When a person is incapable of signing his or her name, physically or by reason of no education, the law accepts a cross mark as a signature, when properly witnessed. We know Mr. Richards couldn't have known or imitated the signature of the old man he impersonated; but he did sign-therefore a cross mark, which could have been established beyond question in a court of law. Now, you see how I established the identity of the persons in this fraud. I got the date of the incident from Mr. Richards, then a trip to the surrogate's office told me all I wanted to know. What will had been filed for probate about that date which bore the cross mark as a signature? The records answered the question instantly-John Wallace Lawrence.
"I glanced over the will. It specifically allowed Miss Hilda Fanshawe a trivial thousand dollars a year, and yet she was Lawrence's adopted daughter. See how the joints began to fit together? Further, the will left the bulk of the property to Howard Guerin, a Mrs. Francis,-since deceased, by the way,-and one Frank Hughes. The men were his nephews, the woman his niece. The joints continued to fit nicely, therefore the problem was solved. It was an easy matter to find these people, once I knew their names. I found Guerin-Mr. Richards knew him as Hallman-and asked him about the matter. From the fact that he locked me up in a room of his house and kept me prisoner for two days I was convinced that he was the principal conspirator, and so it proves."
Again there was silence. Detective Mallory took three long breaths, and asked a question. "But where was John Wallace Lawrence when this thing happened?"
"Miss Fanshawe had been in Europe, and was rushing home, knowing that her adopted father was dying," The Thinking Machine explained. "As a matter of fact, when she returned Mr. Lawrence was dead-he died the day before the farce which had been arranged for her benefit, and at the moment his body lay in an up stairs room. He was buried two days later-a day after the farce had been played-and she attended his funeral. You see there was no reason why she should have suspected anything. I don't happen to know the provisions of Lawrence's real will, but I dare say it left practically everything to her. The thousand-dollar allowance by the conspirators was a sop to stop possible legal action."
The door of the room opened, and a uniformed man thrust his head in. "Mr. Richards wants to see Professor Van Dusen," he announced.
Immediately behind him came the actor. He stopped in the door and stared at Guerin for a moment.
"Why, hello, Hallman!" he remarked pleasantly. Then his eyes fell upon the girl, and a flash of recognition lighted them.
"Miss Fanshawe, permit me, Mr. Richards," said The Thinking Machine. "You have met before. This is the gentleman you saw die."
"And where is Frank Hughes?" asked Detective Mallory.
"In South Africa," replied the scientist. "I learned a great deal while I was a prisoner."
A deeply troubled expression suddenly appeared on Hutchinson Hatch's face that night when he was writing the story for his newspaper, and he went to the telephone and called The Thinking Machine.
"If you were guarded so closely as a prisoner in that room, how on earth did you mail that letter to me?" he inquired.
"Guerin came in to say some unpleasant things," came the reply, "and placed several letters he intended to post on the table for a moment. The letter for you was already written and stamped, and I was seeking a way to mail it, so I put it with his letters and he mailed it for me."
Hatch burst out laughing.
THE JACKDAW.
Monsieur Jean Saint Rocheville lived by his wits, and, being rather witty, he lived rather well. In the beginning he hadn't been Monsieur Jean St. Rocheville at all. Born Jones, christened James Aloysius, nicknamed Jimmie, he had been, first, a pickpocket. Sheer ability lifted him above that; and it came to pass that he graduated from all the cruder professions-second-story work, burglary, and what not-until now, when we meet him, he was a social brigand famous under many names.
For instance, in two cities of the West he was being industriously sought as Wilhelm Van Der Wyde, and was described as of the aesthetic, musical type-young, thick-spectacled, clean-shaven, long-haired, and pale blond, speaking English badly and profusely.
In New York, the police knew him as Hubert Montgomery Wade, card sharp and utterer of worthless checks; and described him as taciturn, past middle age, with fluffy, iron-gray hair, full iron-gray beard, and a singularly pallid face. As we see him, he seemed about thirty, slim, elegant, aristocratic of feature, with close-cut brown hair, carefully waxed mustache, and a suggestion of an imperial. Also, he spoke English with a slight accent.
Monsieur St. Rocheville was smiling as he strode through the spacious estate of Idlewild, whipping his light cane in the early-morning air of a balmy June day. On the whole, he had little to complain of in the way the world was wagging. True, he had failed, at his first attempt, to possess himself of the superb diamond necklace of his hostess, Mrs. Wardlaw Browne; but it had not been a discreditable failure; there had been no unpleasant features connected therewith, no exposure; not even a shadow of suspicion. Perhaps, after all, he had been hasty. His invitation had several weeks to run; and meanwhile here were all the luxuries of a splendid country place at his command-motors, horses, tennis, golf, to say nothing of a house full of charming women and several execrable players of auction, who insisted on gambling for high stakes. And auction, Monsieur St. Rocheville might have said, was his middle name.
Idly meditating upon all these pleasant things, St. Rocheville dropped down upon a seat in the shade of a hedge overlooking the rose garden, lighted a cigarette, and fell to watching the curious evolutions of three great velvet-black birds swimming in the air above him. Now they rose in a vast spiral, up, up until they were mere specks against the blue void, only to drop sheerly almost to the earth before their wings stayed them; now with motionless pinions, floating away in immense circles; again darting hither and yon swiftly as an arrow flies, weaving strange patterns in the air. Something here for the Wright brothers to learn, Monsieur St. Rocheville thought lazily.
Came finally an odd whistle from the direction of the house behind him. The three birds swooped down with a rush and vanished beyond the hedge. Curiously St. Rocheville peered through the thick-growing screen. On a second-story balcony stood a girl with one of the birds perched upon each shoulder, and the third at rest on her hand.
"Well, by George!" exclaimed St. Rocheville.
As he looked, the girl flipped something into the air. The birds dived for it simultaneously, immediately returning to their perches. Fascinated, he looked on as the trick was repeated. So this was she, to whom he had heard some one refer as the Jackdaw Girl-the young lady he had caught staring at him so oddly the night before, just after her arrival. He had been introduced to her between rubbers-a charming, piquant wisp of a creature, with big, innocent eyes and cameo features, much given to gay little bursts of laughter. Her name? Oh, yes. Fayerwether-Drusila Fayerwether.
St. Rocheville ventured into the open. Miss Fayerwether smiled, and flung a titbit of some sort directly at his feet. The birds came for it like huge black projectiles. Involuntarily he took a step backward. She laughed.
"They won't hurt you, really," she assured him mockingly. "They are quite tame. Let me show you." She held aloft a slice of toast; the powerful black wings quivered expectantly. "No," she commanded. The toast fell at St. Rocheville's feet. Neither of the birds stirred. "Hold it in your left hand," she directed. Mechanically the astonished young man obeyed. "Extend your right and keep it steady." He did so. "Now, Blitz!"
It was a command. The bird from her left shoulder, the largest of the three, came hurtling toward St. Rocheville with a shrill scream. For an instant the giant wings beat about his ears, then the talons closed on his right hand in no gentle grip, and man and bird stared at each other. To the young man there was something evil and cruel in the beady, fixed eyes; in the poise of the head on the glistening, snakelike neck; in the merciless claws. And, gad, what a beak! It was a thing to tear with, to mutilate, destroy.
St. Rocheville shuddered. The whole performance was creepy and uncanny. It chilled his blood. It seemed out of all proportion, this exquisite, dainty, pink-and-white girl, and the sinister, somber, winged things--
He drew a breath of relief when Blitz, having solemnly gobbled up his toast, flew away to his mistress.
"They are my pets," she said affectionately. "Aren't they beautiful? Blitz and Jack and Jill I call them."
"Strange pets they are, mademoiselle," remarked St. Rocheville gravely. "How did you come to choose them?"
"Why, I've known them always," she replied. "Blitz here is old enough, and I dare say wise enough, to be my grandfather. He is nearly sixty, and was in my family thirty-five years before I was born. He used to stalk solemnly around my cradle like a soldier on guard, and swear dreadfully. He talks a little when he will-half a dozen words or so. Jack and Jill are younger. From their conduct, I should say they haven't yet reached the age of discretion."
"Would you mind telling me," he questioned curiously, "how a person would proceed to tame a-a flock of flying machines like that?"
"Sugar," replied Miss Fayerwether tersely. "They will do anything for sugar."
"Sugar!" Blitz screamed harshly, ruffling his silky plumage. "Sugar!"
Monsieur St. Rocheville went away to keep a tennis engagement. Miss Fayerwether disappeared into her room, leaving the three birds perched on the rail of the balcony. On the court, Rex Miller was waiting for St. Rocheville with a question:
"Meet the new girl last night? Miss Fayerwether?"
"Yes."