“Certainly,” Hatch responded, and his tone indicated surprise.
“Not necessarily certain,” said the scientist sharply. “Do you know there is such a grinning god?”
“Yes,” replied the newspaperman emphatically. “It was taken away from Fairbanks when he was locked up. He fought like a fiend for it.”
“Naturally,” was the terse comment. “You have seen it, have you?”
“Yes, I saw it. It’s about six inches tall, seems to be cut from a solid piece of ivory, and—”
“And has shiny eyes?”
“Yes. The eyes are made of amethyst, highly polished.” Again The Thinking Machine walked the length of the room three times. “You came to me, of course, to see if it was possible, by throwing light on this affair, to restore Fairbanks’s mind?” he inquired.
“Well, that was the idea,” Hatch agreed. “Fairbanks was evidently driven to his present condition by the haunting mystery of this thing, by brooding over it, and by the tangible existence of that ivory god, which established a definite connection with an experience which might otherwise have been only a nightmare. It occurred to me that if he could be made to see just what had happened and the underlying causes for its happening, he might be brought back to a normal condition.” The reporter was silent for a moment, with eyes set on the preoccupied face of The Thinking Machine. “Of course,” he added, “I am assuming that the things he wrote down in his manuscript did happen, and if they did, that you won’t believe they were due to other than natural causes.”
“I don’t disbelieve in anything, Mr. Hatch,” and The Thinking Machine regarded the newspaperman quietly. “I don’t even disbelieve in what is broadly termed the supernatural—I merely don’t know. It is necessary, in the solution of material problems, to work from a material basis, and then the things which are conjured up by fear may be dissipated. That is done by logic, Mr. Hatch. Disregard the supernatural, so called, in our material problems, and logic is as inevitable as the fact that two and two make four, not sometimes, but all the time.”
“You don’t deny the possibility of the so-called supernatural, then?”
“I don’t deny anything until I know,” was the response. “I don’t know that there is a supernatural force; therefore,” and he shrugged his slender, stooping shoulders, “I work only from a material basis. If this manuscript states facts, then Fairbanks saw an old man, not a spook; he saw a woman, not a wraith; he jumped to escape a real fire, not a ghost fire. When we disregard the supernatural, we must admit that everything was real, unless it was pure invention, and the sprained ankle and burned clothing are against that. If these were real people, we can find them—that’s all there is to it.”
The Thinking Machine rose from the chair. “Now the first thing to do is to see Fairbanks in person. I think, if he can comprehend at all, that I may be able to help him.”
The Thinking Machine was cordially, even deferentially, received by Dr. Pollock, physician-in-charge of the Westbrook Sanatorium.
“I should like to spend ten minutes in the padded cell with Fairbanks,” Professor Van Dusen announced.
Dr. Pollock regarded him curiously, but without surprise. “It’s dangerous,” he remarked doubtfully. “I have no objection, of course, but I should advise that a couple of keepers go in with you.”
“I’ll go alone,” announced the diminutive man of science. “By the way, you have that little ivory god here, haven’t you? Let me see it, please.”
It was produced and subjected to a searching scrutiny, after which the scientist set it up on a table, dropped into a seat facing it, leaned forward on his elbows, and sat staring straight into the amethyst eyes for a long time. A silence fell upon the watchers as he sat there immovable, minute after minute. Hatch absently glanced at his watch and went over and looked out the window. The thing was getting on his nerves.
At last the scientist rose and thrust the grinning god into his pocket. “Now, please,” he directed curtly, “I shall go into the cell with Fairbanks alone. I want the door closed behind me, and I want that door to remain closed for ten minutes. Under no circumstances must there be any interruption.” He turned upon Dr. Pollock. “Don’t have any fears for me. I’m not a fool.”
Dr. Pollock led the way along the corridor, down some stairs, and paused before a door.
“Just ten minutes—no more, no less,” directed the scientist.
The key was inserted in the lock, and the door swung on its hinges. Instantly the ears of the three men were assailed by a torrent of screams. The maniac rushed for the door, and Hatch for an instant gazed straight into a distorted, pallid face in which there was no trace of intelligence, or even of humanity. He turned away with a shudder. Dr. Pollock thrust his arm forward to stay the swaying figure, and glanced round at The Thinking Machine doubtfully.
“Look at me! Look at me!” commanded the scientist sharply, and the squint blue eyes fearlessly met the glitter of madness in the eyes of Fairbanks. The Thinking Machine raised his right hand in front of his face, and instantly the incoherent ravings stopped, while some strange, sudden change came over the maniacal face. In the scientist’s right hand was the grinning god. That was the magic which had stilled the ravings. Slowly, with his eyes fixed upon those of the maniac, the scientist edged his way into the cell, Fairbanks retreating almost imperceptibly. Never for an instant did the maniacal eyes leave the ivory image; yet he made no attempt to seize it, he seemed merely fascinated.
“Close the door,” directed The Thinking Machine quietly, without so much as a glance back. “Ten minutes!”
Dr. Pollock closed the door and turned the key in the lock, after which he looked at the newspaperman with an expression of frank bewilderment on his face. Hatch said nothing, only glanced at his watch.
One minute, two minutes, three minutes . . . The secondhand of Hatch’s watch moved at a snail’s pace . . . Four minutes, five minutes, six minutes. Then through the heavy, padded wall came faintly the sound of hoarse cries, of screams, and finally the crash of something falling. Dr. Pollock’s face paled a little and he began to turn the key in the lock.
“No!” and Hatch sprang forward to seize the physician’s hand.
“But he’s in danger,” declared the doctor, “perhaps even killed!” Again he tugged at the door.
“No!” said Hatch again, and he shoved the physician aside. “He said ten minutes, and—and I know the man!”
Eight minutes . . . The screaming had stopped; there was dead silence. Nine minutes . . . Still they stood there, Hatch guarding the door, and his eyes unflinchingly fixed on the physician’s face. Ten minutes—and Hatch opened the door.
Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen was sitting calmly on a padded seat beside Fairbanks, with one slender hand resting on his pulse. Fairbanks himself sat with the ivory image held close to his eyes, babbling and mumbling at it incoherently. An overturned table lay in the middle of the cell. So great had been the power used to upset it that an iron bolt which held the table fast to the floor had been broken off. The scientist rose and came toward them; and Hatch drew a deep breath of relief.
“I would advise that this man be placed in another cell,” said the little scientist quietly. “There is no further need to keep him in a padded cell. Put him somewhere where he can see outside and find something to attract his attention. Meanwhile, let him keep that ivory image, and there’ll be no more raving.”
“What—what did you do to him?” demanded the physician, in perplexity.
“Nothing—yet,” was the enigmatic response. “I’d like him to stay here a couple of days longer, under constant watch as to his physical condition—never mind his mental condition now—and then with your permission I’ll make a little experiment.
William Fairbanks sat beside The Thinking Machine in a huge touring car, with the slender hand of the scientist resting lightly on his wrist. In front of them was the chauffeur, and behind them sat Hutchinson Hatch and Dr. Pollock. They were scudding a
long a smooth road, guided by the ribbons of light which shot out ahead from their forward lamps. The night was perfectly black, with not a light visible save those carried by their own car.
Behind them lay the quiet little village of Pelham, and miles away in front was the town of Millen. From time to time, as the car rushed on, The Thinking Machine peered inquisitively through the darkness into the face of the man beside him; but he could barely make out its general shape—a pallid splotch in the darkness. The hand lay quietly beside his own, and a voice mumbled—that was all. The newspaperman and the physician had nothing to say; they too were peering vainly at Fairbanks.
At last, the outlines of a small building loomed dimly in front of them, just off the road. The Thinking Machine leaned forward and touched the chauffeur on the arm.
“We’ll stop here for gasoline.”
“Gasoline—stop here for gasoline!” babbled the senseless voice beside him.
The Thinking Machine felt the hand he held move spasmodically as the huge car ran off the main roadway and maneuvered back and forth to clear the fairway of its bulk. Finally it stopped, within a few feet of the door of the building.
Hutchinson Hatch and Dr. Pollock rose and got out. Hatch went straight to the little building and rapped sharply on the door. The sound caused Fairbanks to turn vacant, wavering eyes in that direction. After a moment a nightcapped head appeared at the window above. The Thinking Machine shot the beam of a flashlight into Fairbanks face. The eyes, now fixed on the nightcapped head, were wide open, and a glint of childish curiosity lay in them. The babblings were silent for a moment—somewhere in a recess of the maddened brain a germ of intelligence was struggling.
Hatch began and concluded negotiations for five gallons of gasoline. A shrunken old man brought it out in a can, and scuttled back into the house with his safety lantern. Dr. Pollock and Hatch took their seats again, while The Thinking Machine got out and went round to the back, where he spoke to the chauffeur, who was busy at the tank. The chauffeur nodded as if he understood, and followed the scientist to his seat.
“Now for Millen,” directed the scientist quietly.
“Millen!” Fairbanks repeated.
The chauffeur twisted his wheel, backed a little, then whirled his car straight to the road again, and shot out through the darkness. For two or three minutes there was complete silence, save for the whir of the engine and the whish of the tires on the road. Then The Thinking Machine spoke over his shoulder to Hatch and Dr. Pollock.
“Did either of you notice anything peculiar?” he inquired.
“No,” was the simultaneous response. “Why?”
“Mr. Hatch, you have that automobile map,” the scientist continued. “Take this electric light and examine it once more, to satisfy us that there is no road between the little store and Millen.”
“I know there isn’t,” Hatch told him.
“Do as I say!” directed the other. “We can’t afford to make mistakes.”
Obediently enough, Hatch and Dr. Pollock studied the map. There was the road, straight away from the star indicating the gas station, and on to Millen. There was not a bypath or deviation of any kind marked on it.
“Straight as a string,” Hatch announced.
“Now look!” directed The Thinking Machine.
The huge car slowed up and came to a standstill. The glittering lamps of the car showed a fork in the road—two roads, where there were not supposed to be two roads! Hatch glared at them for a moment, then fumbled awkwardly with the automobile map.
“Why, hang it! There can’t be two roads!” he declared.
“But there they are,” replied The Thinking Machine.
He felt Fairbank’s hand flutter, and then it was raised suddenly. Again he threw the light on the pallid face. A strange expression was there; a set, incredible expression which might have meant anything. The eyes were turned ahead to where the road was split by a small clump of trees.
“Keep on to your left,” The Thinking Machine directed the chauffeur, without, however, removing his eyes from the face of the man beside him. “A little more slowly.”
The car started up again and swung off to the left, sharply. Every eye, save the squint, blue ones of the scientist, was turned ahead; he was still staring into the face of his patient. Only the chauffeur realized what a steady turn to the left the car made: but he said nothing, only felt his way along till suddenly the road widened a little where a path cut through the dense forest. The car slowed up.
“Don’t stop!” commanded the scientist sharply. “Go ahead!”
With a sudden spurt the car rushed forward, skimming along easily for a time, and then the heavy jolting told them that the road was growing rougher, and here, dimly ahead of them, they saw an open patch of sky. It was evidently the edge of the forest. The car went steadily on, and out into the open, clear of the forest; then the chauffeur slowed down.
“There isn’t any road here,” he said.
“Go on!” directed The Thinking Machine. “Road or no road—straight ahead!”
The chauffeur took a new grip on his wheel and went straight ahead, over plowed ground, apparently, for the bumping and jolting were terrific, and the steering gear tore at the sockets of his arms. For two or three minutes they proceeded this way, while the scientist’s light still played on Fairbank’s face and the squint eyes unwaveringly watched every tiny change in it.
“There!” shrieked Fairbanks suddenly, and he struggled to rise.
“There!”
Hatch and Dr. Pollock saw it at the same instant—a faint, rosy point in the distance; The Thinking Machine didn’t alter the direction of his gaze.
“Straight for the light!” he commanded.
. . . the room showed every evidence of occupancy . . . log fire was burning, and its flickering light showed books here and there . . . directly in front stood a man, tall, angular, aged, and a little bent. . . hands were knotted, toil-worn; and the left forefinger was missing . . . eyes white and glassy . . .
With a choking, guttural exclamation, Fairbanks darted forward and placed the grinning god on the mantel beside the piece of crystal, then turned back to The Thinking Machine and seized him by the arm, as a child might have sought protection. Meanwhile, the strange old man, who seemed oblivious of their presence, stood beside the fire. The scientist moved toward the old man slowly, Fairbanks staring after him as if fascinated. Finally the scientist extended his hand and touched the old man on the shoulder. He started violently and stretched out both hands instinctively.
Then, while Hatch and Dr. Pollock looked on silently, The Thinking Machine stood motionless, while the strange old man’s hands ran up his arm, and the fingers touched The Thinking Machine’s face. The right forefinger paused for an instant at the scientist’s eyes, then was placed lightly across Professor Van Dusen’s thin lips. It remained there.
“You are blind?” asked the scientist.
The strange old man nodded.
“You are deaf?”
Again the old man nodded. His forefinger still rested lightly on The Thinking Machine’s lips.
“You are dumb?” the scientist went on.
Again the nod.
“Deafness, dumbness, blindness, result of disease?”
The nod again.
The Thinking Machine turned, grasped Fairbank’s hand, and lifted it to the old man’s shoulder.
“Real, real!” said The Thinking Machine slowly to Fairbanks. “A man—you understand?”
Fairbanks merely stared back; but it was evident that some great struggle was going on in his mind. There was a growing interest in his face, his mouth was no longer flabby, and his eyes were fixed.
. . then came another sound ... a curdling, nerve-racking scream ... a scream of agony, of pain . . .
At the first sound Fairbanks had straightened up, then slowly he started forward. Three steps, and he fell. Hatch and Dr. Pollock turned him over and found an expression of utter, cringing fear on his face
. The eyes were glittering, and he was babbling again. Only his weakness had prevented flight.
“Stay there!” said The Thinking Machine, and ran out of the room.
Hatch heard him as he went up the steps: then after a moment there came more screams—rather, a sharp, intermittent wailing. Fairbanks struggled feebly, then lay still, flat on his back. A minute more, and The Thinking Machine returned, leading a woman by the hand—a woman in a gingham apron and with her hair flying loose about her face. He went straight to the old man, who had stood motionless through it all, and raised the toil-worn finger to his lips.
“This woman—your wife?” he asked.
The old man shook his head.
“Your sister?”
The old man nodded.
“She is insane?”
Again a nod.
The woman stood for an instant with roving eyes, then rushed toward the mantel with a peculiar sobbing cry. In another instant she had clasped the ugly ivory image to her withered breast, and was crooning to it softly, as a mother to her babe. Fairbanks raised himself from the floor, stared at her dully for a moment, then fell back into the arms of Dr. Pollock and Hatch. He had fainted.
“I think, gentlemen, that is all.” remarked The Thinking Machine.
It was more than a month later that The Thinking Machine called on William Fairbanks at his home. The young man was sitting up in bed, weak but intelligently aware of everything about him. There was still an occasional restlessness in his eyes: but that was all.
“You remember me, Mr. Fairbanks?” began the scientist.
“Yes,” was the reply.
“You remember the events of the night we spent together?”
“Everything, from the time the automobile left the road and the light appeared in the distance,” said Fairbanks. “I remember seeing the old man again, and the woman. I know now that he was deaf and dumb and blind, and that she was insane. That seems to clear the situation a great deal.” He passed a wasted hand across his brow. “But where is the place? I couldn’t find it.”
Death Locked In Page 53
