The Thinking Machine Collected Stories Part 77

Indignant at the intrusion of the police in what she was pleased to term her personal affairs-the detectives who had been there before were from a private agency-Mrs. Wardlaw Browne bustled into the room where The Thinking Machine and his party waited. Monsieur St. Rocheville effaced himself.

"Pray what does this mean?" Mrs. Wardlaw Browne demanded.

"It means, madam, that we have a search warrant, and intend to go through your house, if necessary." The Thinking Machine informed her crustily. Through the half-open door he caught a glimpse of a slender figure-a mere wisp of a girl with big, wonder-stuck eyes. "Mallory, close that door. You, madam,"-this to Mrs. Wardlaw Browne-"can a.s.sist us by answering a few questions."

Mrs. Wardlaw Browne was of the tall, gaunt, haughty type; thin to scrawniness, enormously rich, and possessed of all the arrogance that riches bring. She studied the faces of the four men contemptuously; then, with a little resigned expression, sat down.

"Just how did you lose your necklace?" The Thinking Machine began abruptly. "Did you drop it? Was it taken from your neck? Are you sure you had it on?"

"I know I had it on," was the reply. "I did not drop it. It was taken from my neck."

"Did you, by any chance, wear a low-neck gown on the evening it was taken?" The little scientist's squinting eyes were fixed upon her tensely.

"I never wear decollete," came the frigid response.

With his great head pillowed upon the back of his chair, his thin fingers tip to tip, and his eyes turned upward, The Thinking Machine sat in silence for a minute or more, the while tiny, cobwebby lines appeared in his domelike brow.

"Can you," he inquired finally, "summon a servant without leaving this room?"

"There is a bell, yes." Mrs. Wardlaw Browne was forgetting to be haughty in a certain fascination which grew upon her as she gazed at this little man.

"Will you ring it, please?"

Mrs. Wardlaw Browne arose, touched a b.u.t.ton, and sat down again. A moment later a footman entered.

"Tell Mr. Rex Miller," The Thinking Machine directed, "that Mrs. Wardlaw Browne would like to see him immediately in this room."

The footman bowed and withdrew. Followed an interminable wait-interminable, at least, to Detective Mallory, who impatiently clicked his handcuffs together. Mrs. Wardlaw Browne yawned to hide the curiosity that was consuming her.

The door opened, and Rex Miller entered. He stood for a moment staring at the silent party, and finally:

"Did you send for me, Mrs. Browne?"

"I did," said The Thinking Machine. "Sit down, please." Rex sank into a chair mechanically. "Mr. Blanton"-the scientist neither raised his voice nor lowered his eyes-"you will undertake to see that Mr. Miller doesn't leave this room. Mr. Mallory, you will search Mt. Miller's apartments. Somewhere there you will find Mrs. Wardlaw Browne's diamond necklace; also a man's diamond ring."

Rex came to his feet with writhing hands, a thundercloud in his face. Mrs. Wardlaw Browne burst into inarticulate expostulations. Blanton drew a revolver and laid it across his knee. Mallory bustled out. Hatch merely waited. Silence came; a silence so tense, so strained that Mrs. Wardlaw Browne was tempted to scream. At last there were footsteps, the door from the hall was thrown open, and Mallory, triumphant, appeared.

"I have them," he announced grimly. The necklace, a radiant, glittering thing, was dangling from one finger. The ring lay in his open palm. "And now, Mr. Rex Miller"-he fished out his handcuffs and started toward the young man-"if you'll hold out your--"

"Oh, sit down, Mallory!" commanded The Thinking Machine impatiently.

Loitering in a hallway, where he could keep an eye on the stairs leading from the lower part of the house, Monsieur St. Rocheville saw Miss Fayerwether creep stealthily up, silent-footed, chalk-white of face, and come racing toward him across the heavy velvet carpet. For the reason that she would surely see him, he walked toward her, amazed and a little perturbed at something in her manner.

"What's the matter?" inquired St. Rocheville calmly.

"Oh, it's you!" Miss Fayerwether's hand flew to her heart. She was frightened, gasping. "Nothing!"

"But something must be the matter," he insisted. "You are white as a sheet."

With an apparent effort the girl regained control of herself, and stood staring at him mutely. 'Twas in that moment that Monsieur St. Rocheville saw for the first time some strange, new expression in the big, innocent eyes-they seemed to grow hard, worldly, all-wise even as he looked.

"There are detectives in the house," she said.

"I know it. What about it?"

"They have a warrant, and intend to search every room."

"Well?" St. Rocheville refused to get excited about it.

"Including, I imagine, yours and mine."

"I'm willing. I dare say you are."

For an instant the girl's self-possession seemed to desert her completely. Her eyes closed as if in pain, and she swayed a little. St. Rocheville thrust out an arm protectingly. When she lifted her face again St. Rocheville read terror therein.

"If-if they search my room," she faltered, "I-I am lost!"

"How? Why? What do you mean?"

"I don't know that I could make any one else understand," she went on swiftly. "The birds, you know-Blitz and Jack and Jill. You saw, and I explained to you, a trick they have of-of thieving; stealing bright things."

She stopped. In his impatience St. Rocheville seized her by the arm and shook her soundly.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Nearly every jewel that has been stolen is hidden now in my room," she confessed. "I knew nothing of it until yesterday, when I came across them. Then, after all the excitement about the thefts, I was afraid to return the things, and I could think of no way to proceed. So, you see, if they search my room it will--"

St. Rocheville was possessed of an agile mind; resourceful as it was agile. Suddenly he remembered two questions the girl had asked the day before-questions about Chicago and Denver. His teeth snapped. He thrust out a hand, and, opening the nearest door-he didn't happen to know whose room it was-he dragged her in, and turned on the electric light. Then their eyes met squarely.

"You are the thief, then?" he demanded. "Don't lie to me! You are the thief?"

"The things are in my room." She was sobbing a little. "The birds--"

"You are the thief!" There was a curious note of exultation in his voice. "And you do know something about Chicago and Denver?"

"I know that you are Wilhelm Van Der Wyde," she flashed defiantly. "I recognized you at once. I saw you in old Charles' 'fence' there once when you were not aware of it. I could never be mistaken in your eyes."

Monsieur St. Rocheville laughed blithely; came a faint answering smile, and he gathered her into his arms.

"I've always needed a partner," he said.

"Mr. Miller," The Thinking Machine was saying placidly, "isn't the thief at all." He raised his hand to still a clamor of e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. "Monsieur Rocheville, so called, stole the necklace, at least, and concealed it, with a ring from his own finger, in Mr. Miller's apartment." Again he raised his hand. "Mr. Miller caught Monsieur St. Rocheville cheating at cards, and practically denounced him. Monsieur St. Rocheville took his revenge by undertaking to fasten the jewel thefts upon Mr. Miller. He imagined, shallowly enough, that if the necklace should be found in Mr. Miller's room the police would look no farther. It is barely possible that the police wouldn't have looked farther."

Mrs. Wardlaw Browne's aristocratic mouth had dropped open in sheer astonishment. Detective Mallory looked bewildered, dazed. Rex Miller's face was an animated interrogation mark.

"Then who is the thief?" Mallory found voice to express the burning question.