"About two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," was the reply. "It was to be used under his direction in furthering an investigation into the psychic. He and I had planned just how it was to be spent."
Personally Mr. Varick is no longer interested in the occult.
_________________________.
PROBLEM OF THE DESERTED HOUSE.
The telephone bell rang sharply, twice. Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen-The Thinking Machine-opened his eyes from a sound sleep, rose from the bed, turned on an electric light, and squinted at the clock on the table. It was just half-past one; he had been asleep for only a little more than an hour. He slid his small feet into a pair of soft slippers and went to the telephone.
"Hello!" he called irritably.
"Is that Professor Van Dusen?" came the answer in a man's voice-a voice tense with nervous excitement, and so quick in enunciation that the words tumbled over one another.
"Yes," replied the scientist. "What is it?"
"It's a matter of life and death!" came the hurried response in the same hasty tone. "Can you come at once and--" The instrument buzzed and sputtered incoherently, and the remainder of the question was lost.
For an instant The Thinking Machine listened intently, seeking to interpret the interruption; then the sputtering ceased and the wire was silent. "Who is this talking?" he demanded.
The answer was almost a shout; it was as if the speaker was strangling, and the words came explosively, with a distinct effort. "My name is--"
And that was all. The voice was swallowed up suddenly in the deafening crack of an explosion of some sort-a pistol shot! Involuntarily The Thinking Machine dodged. The receiver sang shrilly in his ear, and the transmitter vibrated audibly; then the instrument was mute again-the connection was broken.
"Hello, hello!" the scientist called again and again; but there was no answer. He moved the hook up and down several times to attract Central's attention. But that brought no response. Whatever had happened had at least temporarily rendered his own line lifeless. "Dear me! Dear me!" he grumbled petulantly. "Most extraordinary!"
For a time he stood thoughtfully staring at the instrument; then went over and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sleep was banished now. Here was a problem, and a strange one! Every faculty of his wonderful brain was concentrated upon it. The minutes sped on as he sat there turning it all over in his mind, analyzing it, regarding it from every possible viewpoint, while tiny wrinkles were growing in the enormous brow. Finally he concluded to try the telephone again. Perhaps it had only been momentarily deadened by the shock. He returned to the instrument and picked up the receiver. The rhythmic buzz of the wire told him instantly that the line was working. Central answered promptly.
"Can you tell me the number which was just connected with this?" he inquired. "We were interrupted."
"I'll see if I can get it," was the reply.
"It's of the utmost importance," he went on to explain tersely; "a matter of life and death, even."
"I'll do what I can," Central assured him; "but there is no record of the calls, you know, and there may have been fifty in the last ten or fifteen minutes, and of course the operators don't remember them." She obligingly gave him a quarter of an hour as she sought some clue to the number.
The Thinking Machine waited patiently for the report, staring dumbly at the transmitter meanwhile, and at last it came. No one remembered the number; there was no record of it. Central was sorry. With a curt word of thanks the scientist called for one of the big newspaper offices and asked for Hutchinson Hatch, reporter.
"Mr. Hatch isn't in," came the response.
"Do you know where he is?" queried the scientist, and there was a shadow of anxiety in the perpetually irritated voice.
"No; home, I suppose."
The man of science drew long, quick breath-it might have been one of uneasiness-and called the newspaper man's home number. Of course the mysterious message over the telephone had not been from Hatch. It was not the reporter's voice, he was positive of that, and yet there was the bare chance that-
"Hello!" Hatch growled amiably but sleepily over the wire.
The Thinking Machine's drawn face showed a vague relief as he recognized the tone. "That you, Mr. Hatch?" he asked.
"Yes."
"In any trouble?"
"Trouble?" repeated the reporter in evident surprise. "No. Who is this?"
"Van Dusen," was the response. "Good night."
Mechanically, unconsciously almost, The Thinking Machine began dressing. The ever active, resourceful brain, plunged so suddenly into this maze of mystery, was fully awake now and was groping through the fog of possibilities and conjecture, feeling for some starting point in this singular problem which had been thrust upon it so strangely. And evidently at last there came some inspiration; for the eminent scientist started hurriedly out the front door into the night, pausing on the steps to remember that in his haste he had forgotten to exchange his slippers for shoes, and that he was bare headed.
Fifteen minutes later the night operator in chief at the branch telephone exchange was favored with a personal call from Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen. There was a conference of five minutes or so, after which the scientist was led back through the operating room and ushered into a long high ceilinged apartment where thousands of telephone wires were centered-a web woven of thin strands, each of which led ultimately to the long table where a dozen or more girls were on watch. He went into that room at five minutes of two o'clock; he came out at seventeen minutes after four and appeared before the night operator in the outer office.
"I found it," he announced shortly. "Please, now, let me speak to police headquarters-either Detective Mallory or Detective Cunningham."
Detective Cunningham answered.
"This is Van Dusen," the scientist told him. "I should like to know if any murder or attempted murder has been reported to the police to-night?"
"No," replied the detective. "Why?"
"I was afraid not," mused The Thinking Machine enigmatically. "Has there been any call for police assistance anywhere?"
"No."
"Between one and two o'clock?" insisted the scientist.
"There hasn't been a call to-night," was the reply. "What's it all about?"
"I don't know-yet," said the scientist. "Good night."
The Thinking Machine went out after a few minutes, pausing on the curb in the brilliant glare of a street lamp to jot down a number on his cuff. When he looked up a cab was just passing. He hailed it, gave an address to the driver, and a moment later the vehicle went clattering down the street. When it stopped at last before a dark, four-story house, the cabman sat still for a moment expecting his passenger to alight. But nothing happened; so he jumped down and peered into the gloom of the vehicle. Dimly he was able to make out the small figure of the scientist huddled up in a corner of the cab with his huge yellow head thrown back, and slender white fingers pressed tip to tip.
"Here we are, sir," announced the driver.
"Yes, yes, to be sure!" exclaimed the scientist hurriedly. "I quite forgot. You needn't wait."
The vehicle was driven off as The Thinking Machine ascended the brown stone steps of the house and pulled the bell. There was no answer, no sound inside, and he pulled it the second time, then the third. Finally, leaning forward with his ear pressed against the door, he pulled the bell the fourth time. This evidently convinced him that the cord inside was disconnected, and he tried the door. It was locked.
Without an instant's hesitation he ran down the steps to the basement entrance in an areaway. There was no bell there, and he tried the knob tentatively. It turned, and he stepped into a damp, smelly hallway, unrelieved by one glint of light. He closed the door noiselessly behind him, and stood for a little while listening. Then he did peculiar thing. He produced a small electric pocket lamp, and holding it as far to the left as he could reach, with the lens pointing ahead of him, pressed the button. A single white ray cleft the darkness, revealing a bare, littered floor, moldy walls, a couple of doors, and stairs leading up.
He spent five cautious minutes perhaps in the basement. There was no sign of recent human habitation, nothing but accumulated litter, and dust and dirt. Then he went up the stairs to the floor above. Here he spent another five minutes, with only an occasional flash of light, always at arm's length to extreme right or left, to tell him there was yet no sign of occupancy. Then another flight of stairs to the second floor. Still there was no sound, no trace of anyone, no indication of a living thing.
His first glimpse of the third floor confirmed at first glance all those impressions of desertion he had gathered below. The front room was identical with the one below, the front hall room was identical; but there was a difference in the large rear room. The dust and litter of the floor seemed worn into a sort of path from the top of the stairs, and following this path toward the back he came upon-a telephone!
"Forty-one-seventeen," he read, as the instrument stood revealed, bathed in the light from the electric bulb. Then he glanced down at his cuff and repeated, "Forty-one-seventeen."
With every sense alert for one disturbing sound, he spent two full minutes examining the instrument. He seemed to be seeking some mark upon it,-the scar of a bullet, perhaps,-and as the scrutiny continued fruitless, the tiny wrinkles, which had momentarily disappeared from his face, appeared there again, and deepened perceptibly. The receiver was on the hook, the transmitter seemed to be in perfect condition, and the walls round the box were smooth. Finally he allowed the light to fade, then picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. His sensitive fingers instantly became aware of tiny particles of dust on the smooth black surface; and the line was dead. Central did not answer. Yet this was the telephone from which he had been called!