The Problem of Cell 13 by Jacques Futrelle. Part 7
Watch on KineScope.
CHAPTER FIVE
Countdown to Freedom
On the fifth day of The Thinking Machine’s incarceration, the warden looked tired. He wanted this thing to finish. He wanted his confusion to end. But that day The Thinking Machine threw another piece of linen to the guard. It said “Only two days more”. This time there was a silver half-dollar with it.
Now the warden knew – he knew that the man in Cell 13 didn’t have any half-dollars – he couldn’t have any half-dollars. Just as he couldn’t have pen and ink and linen. But he did have them. It was a fact, not a theory. And that is why the warden looked so tired.
Then there was the voice that Ballard had heard. The word acid. It didn’t mean anything, of course. Ballard was obviously mad. But there were so many things that “didn’t mean anything” now that The Thinking Machine was in the prison.
On the sixth day, the warden received a letter from Dr Ransome. It said:
Dear Sir.
Mr Fielding and I will meet you in your office tomorrow evening. If Professor Van Dasen has not escaped – and we believe he has not because we have not received a letter from him – we will meet him there too.
Yours, Dr Ransome.
That day The Thinking Machine had three more messages for the warden. They were written on the same linen and referred to the meeting with Dr Ransome and Mr Fielding.
On the afternoon of the seventh day the warden passed Cell 13 and looked in. The Thinking Machine was sleeping on his bed. Everything in the cell was completely normal. “He cannot escape between now and half-past eight this evening,” the warden thought.
That evening after six o’clock he saw the guard. “Is everything all right in Cell 13?” he asked. “Yes sir,” replied the guard. “But he didn’t eat much today.” The warden was feeling happy when he met Dr Ransome and Mr Fielding that evening, at seven o’clock. He wanted to show them The Thinking Machine’s messages. He wanted to tell them about the events of the week. But before he could speak, the guard from the river side of the prison yard came into the office.
“The light on my side of the yard is broken,” the guard said. Oh no. Another problem,” said the warden. The guard returned to his post in the dark. The warden called the electric light company.
“Hello. This is Chisholm Prison,” he said into the phone. “One of our lights is broken.
Could you send four men here to repair it? Thank you. Goodbye.” The warden went out into the yard. While Dr Ransome and Mr Fielding were waiting, the guard from the prison gate came into the office. In his hand was a letter. Dr Ransome looked at the letter.
“Incredible!” he said. “What is it?” asked Mr Fielding. The doctor gave him the letter. Fielding looked at it. “It’s a coincidence. It must be,” he said. It was almost eight o’clock when the warden returned to his office.
“The electricians have arrived,” he said. “They are working on the light now.”
The warden telephoned the guard at the prison gate. “How many electricians came in?” he asked. “Four,” was the reply.
“All right. You must be certain that only four men go out of the prison,” said the warden. He put down the phone and took the letter.
“My God! It’s not possible,” he said, shocked.
“What is it?” asked Mr Fielding.
“It’s a letter from Cell 13,” said the warden. “An invitation to dinner!”
“What?” said Ransome.
The three men were silent for a long time. Finally the warden called a guard.
“Go down to Cell 13 immediately,” he said, “and see if the Professor is still there.”
The guard ran down the corridor. Dr Ransome and Mr Fielding examined the letter.
“It’s Van Dusen’s handwriting; there’s no doubt about that,” said Dr Ransome. “I’ve seen too much of it.”
At that moment the telephone rang again. It was the guard at the prison gate. There were two newspaper reporters and they wanted to see the warden. The warden told the guard to let them come in.
“It’s impossible,” he said. “Professor Van Dusen must be in Cell 13.”
Then the guard returned.
“He’s still in his cell, sir,” he said. “I saw him. He’s sleeping.”
“There. I told you.” said the warden. “But if he is still in his cell how did he send the letter?”
There was a knock at the door.
“It’s the reporters,” said the warden. “Come in.”
The door opened and the two men entered.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said one. It was Hutchinson Hatch. The warden knew him well.
Then the second man came in.
“Well, I’m here,” he said. It was The Thinking Machine.
The warden sat with his mouth open. He was paralyzed.
“How – how – how did you do it?” asked the warden, finally.
“Let’s go back to the cell,” said The Thinking Machine.
The men walked down the corridor to the door of Cell 13.
“Look inside,” said The Thinking Machine.
The warden looked inside. Everything looked normal and there – there on the bed was the figure of The Thinking Machine. Certainly! There was his yellow hair! The warden looked again at the man beside him. “I must be mad,” he thought.
Then he unlocked the cell door and The Thinking Machine went inside.
“Look here,” he said.
He put his foot on the steel bars at the bottom of the cell door and three of them fell out.
“And here, too,” The Thinking Machine stood on his bed and put his hand to the bars on the window. All of them came out.
“So what’s this in the bed?” asked the warden.
“It’s a wig,” The Thinking Machine replied. “Take the cover off.”
The warden did this. Under it was a coil of strong rope about ten metres long, a knife, three files, three metres of electric wire, a pair of steel pliers, a hammer and a pistol
“How did you do it?” asked the warden. “You gentlemen have an invitation to dinner with me at half-past nine,” said The Thinking Machine. “Come on, or we shall be late.”
“But how did you do it?” the warden insisted.
“You cannot hold a man in prison who can use his brain,” replied The Thinking Machine. “Come on, or we shall be late.”