LITMIR.BIZ

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“except the name of the man, the manner of death, the motive, the name of his ship, the presence of the handkerchief and the precise reason why the body should be disposed of in this fashion instead of being cast into the sea?”

      The detective snorted. Hatch went away to make some inquiries on his own account. Within half a dozen hours he had satisfied himself by telegraph that no French war craft had been within five hundred miles of Boston for six months. Thus the mystery grew deeper; a thousand questions to which there seemed no answer arose.

      At this point, the day following the events related, the problem of the motor boat came to the attention of Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, The Thinking Machine. The scientist listened closely but petulantly to the story Hatch told.

      “Has there been an autopsy yet?” he asked at last.

      “It is set for eleven o’clock today,” replied the reporter. “It is now after ten.”

      “I shall attend it,” said the scientist.

      Medical Examiner Clough welcomed the eminent Professor Van Dusen’s proffer of assistance in his capacity of M. D., while Hatch and other reporters impatiently cooled their toes on the curb. In two hours the autopsy had been completed. The Thinking Machine amused himself by studying the insignia on the dead man’s uniform, leaving it to Dr. Clough to make a startling statement to the press. The man had not been murdered; he had died of heart failure. There was no poison in the stomach, nor was there a knife or pistol wound.

      Then the inquisitive press poured in a flood of questions. Who had scratched off the name of the boat? Dr. Clough didn’t know. Why had it been scratched off? Still he didn’t know. How did it happen that the name of the maker of the shoes had been ripped out? He shrugged his shoulders. What did the handkerchief have to do with it? Really he couldn’t conjecture. Was there any inkling of the dead man’s identity? Not so far as he knew. Any scar on the body which might lead to identification? No.

      Hatch made a few mental comments on officials in general and skilfully steered The Thinking Machine away from the other reporters.

      “Did that man die of heart failure?” he asked, flatly.

      “He did not,” was the curt reply. “It was poison.”

      “But the Medical Examiner specifically stated that there was no poison in the stomach,” persisted the reporter.

      The scientist did not reply. Hatch struggled with and suppressed a desire to ask more questions. On reaching home the scientist’s first act was to consult an encyclopaedia. After several minutes he turned to the reporter with an inscrutable face.

      “Of course the idea of a natural death in this case is absurd,” he said, shortly. “Every fact is against it. Now, Mr. Hatch, please get for me all the local and New York newspapers of the day the body was found—not the day after. Send or bring them to me, then come again at five this afternoon.”

      “But—but—” Hatch blurted.

      “I can say nothing until I know all the facts,” interrupted The Thinking Machine.

      Hatch personally delivered the specified newspapers into the hands of The Thinking Machine—this man who never read newspapers—and went away. It was an afternoon of agony; an agony of impatience. Promptly at five o’clock he was ushered into Professor Van Dusen’s laboratory. He sat half smothered in newspapers, and popped up out of the heap aggressively.

      “It was murder, Mr. Hatch,” he exclaimed, suddenly. “Murder by an extraordinary method.”

      “Who—who is the man? How was he killed?” asked Hatch.

      “His name is—” the scientist began, then paused. “I presume your office has the book ‘Who’s Who In America?’ Please ‘phone and ask them to give you the record of Langham Dudley.”

      “Is he the dead man?” Hatch demanded quickly.

      “I don’t know,” was the reply.

      Hatch went to the telephone. Ten minutes later he returned to find The Thinking Machine dressed to go out.

      “Langham Dudley is a ship owner, fifty-one years old,” the reporter read from notes he had taken. “He was once a sailor before the mast and later became a ship owner in a small way. He was successful in his small undertakings and for fifteen years has been a millionaire. He has a certain social position, partly through his wife whom he married a year and a half ago. She was Edith Marston Belding, a daughter of the famous Belding family. He has an estate on the North Shore.”

      “Very good,” commented the scientist. “Now we will find out something about how this man was killed.”

      At North Station they took train for a small place on the North Shore, thirty five miles from Boston. There The Thinking Machine made some inquiries and finally they entered a lumbersome carry-all. After a drive of half an hour through the dark they saw the lights of what seemed to be a pretentious country place. Somewhere off to the right Hatch heard the roar of the restless ocean.

      “Wait for us,” commanded The Thinking Machine as the carry-all stopped.

      The Thinking Machine ascended the steps, followed by Hatch, and rang. After a minute or so the door was opened and a light flooded out. Standing before them was a Japanese—a man of indeterminate age with the graven face of his race.

      “Is Mr. Dudley in?” asked The Thinking Machine.

      “He has not that pleasure,” replied the Japanese, and Hatch smiled at the queerly turned phrase.

      “Mrs. Dudley?” asked the scientist.

      “Mrs. Dudley is attiring herself in clothing,” replied the Japanese. “If you will be pleased to enter.”

      The Thinking Machine handed him a card and was shown into a reception room. The Japanese placed chairs for them with courteous precision and disappeared. After a short pause there was a rustle of silken skirts on the stairs, and a woman—Mrs. Dudley—entered. She was not pretty; she was stunning rather, tall, of superb figure and crowned with a glory of black hair.

      “Mr. Van Dusen?” she asked as she glanced at the card.

      The Thinking Machine bowed low, albeit awkwardly. Mrs. Dudley sank down on a couch and the two men resumed their seats. There was a little pause; Mrs. Dudley broke the silence at last.

      “Well, Mr. Van Dusen, if you—” she began.

      “You have not seen a newspaper for several days?” asked The Thinking Machine, abruptly.

      “No,” she replied, wonderingly, almost smiling. “Why?”

      “Can you tell me just where your husband is?”

      The Thinking Machine squinted at her in that aggressive way which was habitual. A quick flush crept into her face; and grew deeper at the sharp scrutiny. Inquiry lay in her eyes.

      “I don’t know,” she replied at last. “In Boston, I presume.”

      “You haven’t seen him since the night of the ball?”

      “No. I think it was half past one o’clock that night.”

      “Is his motor boat here?”

      “Really, I don’t know. I presume it is. May I ask the purpose of this questioning?”

      The Thinking Machine squinted hard at her for half a minute. Hatch was uncomfortable, half resentful even, at the agitation of the woman and the sharp, cold tone of his companion.

      “On the night of the ball,” the scientist went on, passing the question, “Mr. Dudley cut his left arm just above the wrist. It was only a slight wound. A piece of court plaster was put on it. Do you know if he put it on himself? If not, who did?”

      “I put it on,” replied Mrs. Dudley, unhesitatingly, wonderingly.

      “And whose court plaster was it?”

      “Mine—some

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