American Sherlocks

by Nick Rennison

  Detective Mallory tugged at his moustache complacently.

  ‘Mrs Oliver heard Knight first say something like, “Please don’t. It won’t be very long.” Her daughter answered something she couldn’t catch after which she heard Knight say positively, “You mustn’t. If you do I shall do something desperate,” or something like that. Now as she remembers it the tone was threatening – it must have been raised in anger to be heard above the anvils. Thus the case is complete.’

  The Thinking Machine and Hatch silently considered this new point.

  ‘Remember this was only three or four minutes before she was found stabbed,’ the detective went on with conviction. ‘It all connects up straight from exclusive opportunity to the ownership of the stiletto; from that to the threat and there you are.’

  ‘No motive of course?’ asked The Thinking Machine.

  ‘Well, the question of motive isn’t exactly clear but our further investigations will bring it out all right,’ the detective admitted. ‘I should imagine the motive to be jealousy. Of course the story of Knight not knowing where his stiletto is has no weight.’

  Detective Mallory was so charmed with himself that he offered cigars to his visitors – an unusual burst of generosity – and Hatch was so deeply thoughtful that he accepted. The Thinking Machine never smoked.

  ‘May I see the stiletto and cane?’ he asked instead.

  The detective was delighted to oblige. He watched the scientist with keen satisfaction as that astute gentleman squinted at the slender blade, still stained with blood, and then as he examined the lower part of the cane. Finally the scientist thrust the long blade into the hollow stick and screwed the handle in. It fitted perfectly. Detective Mallory smiled.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ll try to put a crimp in me this time?’ he asked jovially.

  ‘Very clever, Mr Mallory, very clever,’ replied The Thinking Machine, and with Hatch trailing he left headquarters.

  ‘Mallory will swell like a balloon after that,’ Hatch commented grimly.

  ‘Well, he might save himself that trouble,’ replied the scientist crustily. ‘He has the wrong man.’

  The reporter glanced quickly into the inscrutable face of his companion.

  ‘Didn’t Knight do it?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly not,’ was the impatient answer.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ****

  Together they went on to the theatre from which Miss Oliver had been removed the night before. There a few words with the manager gained permission to look at the Oliver box – a box which the Olivers held only on alternate nights during the opera season. It was on the first balcony level, to the left as they entered the house.

  The first three rows of seats in the balcony ran around to and stopped at the box, one of four on that level and the furthest from the stage. The Thinking Machine pottered around aimlessly for ten minutes while Hatch looked on. He entered the box two or three times, examined the curtains, the partitions, the floor and the chairs after which he led the way into the lobby.

  There he excused himself to Hatch and stopped in the manager’s office. He remained only a few minutes, afterwards climbing into a cab in which he and Hatch were driven back to police headquarters.

  After some wire pulling and a good deal of red tape The Thinking Machine and his companion were permitted to see Knight. They found him standing at the barred cell door, staring out with weary eyes and pallid face.

  The Thinking Machine was introduced to the prisoner by Hatch who had previously tried vainly to induce the young man to talk.

  ‘I have nothing to say,’ Knight declared belligerently. ‘See my attorney.’

  ‘I would like to ask three or four questions to which you can have no possible objection,’ said The Thinking Machine. ‘If you do object of course don’t answer.’

  ‘Well?’ demanded the prisoner.

  ‘Have you ever travelled in Europe?’

  ‘I was there for nearly a year. I only returned to this country three months ago.’

  ‘Have you ever been interested in any other woman? Or has any other woman ever been interested in you?’

  The prisoner stared at his questioner coldly.

  ‘No,’ he responded, emphatically.

  ‘Your answer to that question may mean your freedom within a few hours,’ said The Thinking Machine quite calmly. ‘Tell me the truth.’

  ‘That is the truth – on my honour.’

  The answer came frankly, and there came a quick gleam of hope in the prisoner’s face.

  ‘Just where in Italy did you buy that stiletto cane?’ was the next question.

  ‘In Rome.’

  ‘Rather expensive?’

  ‘Five hundred lira – that is about one hundred dollars.’

  ‘I suppose they are very common in Italy?’

  ‘Yes, rather.’

  Knight pressed eagerly against the bars of his cell and gazed deeply but uncomprehendingly into the quiet squinting blue eyes.

  ‘There has never been any sort of a quarrel – serious or otherwise – between you and Miss Oliver?’

  ‘Never,’ was the quick response.

  ‘Now, only one more question,’ said The Thinking Machine. ‘I shall not ask it to hurt you.’

  There was a little pause and Hatch waited expectantly. ‘Does it happen that you know whether or not Miss Oliver ever had any other love affair?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ exclaimed the young man, hotly. ‘She was just a girl – only twenty, out of Vassar just a few months ago and – and –’

  ‘You needn’t say any more,’ interrupted The Thinking Machine. ‘It isn’t necessary. Make your plans to leave here tonight, not later than midnight. It is now four o’clock. Tomorrow the newspapers will exonerate you.’

  The prisoner seemed almost overcome by his emotions. He started to speak, but only extended an open hand through the bars. The Thinking Machine laid his slender fingers in it with a slight look of annoyance, said ‘Good day’ mechanically and he and Hatch went out.

  The reporter was in a sort of a trance, not an unusual condition in him when in the company of his scientific friend. They climbed into the cab again and were driven away. Hatch was thinking too deeply to note the destination when the scientist gave it to the cabby.

  ‘Do you actually anticipate that you will be able to get Knight out of this thing so easily?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Certainly,’ was the response. ‘The problem is solved except for one or two minor points. Now I am proving it.’

  ‘But – but –’

  ‘I will make it all clear to you in due time,’ interrupted the other.

  ****

  They were both silent until the cab stopped. Hatch glanced out and recognized the Oliver home. He followed The Thinking Machine up the steps and into the reception hall. There the scientist handed a card to the servant.

  ‘Tell Mr Oliver, please, that I will only take a moment,’ he explained.

  The servant bowed and left them. A short wait and Mr Oliver entered.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you at such a time, Mr Oliver,’ said the scientist, ‘but if you can give me just a little information I think perhaps we may get a full light on this unfortunate affair.’

  Mr Oliver bowed.

  ‘First, let me ask you to confirm what I may say is my knowledge that your daughter, Eleanor, knew this man. I will ask, too, that you do not mention his name now.’

  He scribbled hastily on a piece of paper and handed it to Mr Oliver. An expression of deep surprise came into the latter’s face and he shook his head.

  ‘I can answer that question positively,’ he said. ‘She does not know him. She had never been abroad and he has never been in this country until now.’

  The Thinking Ma
chine arose with something nearly akin to agitation in his face, and his slender fingers worked nervously.

  ‘What?’ he demanded abruptly. ‘What?’ Then, after a pause: ‘I beg your pardon, sir. It startled me a little. But are you sure?’

  ‘Perfectly sure,’ replied Mr Oliver firmly. ‘They could not have met in any way.’

  For a long time The Thinking Machine stood squinting aggressively at his host with bewilderment plainly apparent in his manner. Hatch looked on with absorbed interest. Something had gone wrong; a cog had slipped; the wheels of logic had been thrown out of gear.

  ‘I have made a mistake, Mr Oliver,’ said The Thinking Machine at last. ‘I am sorry to have disturbed you.’

  Mr Oliver bowed courteously and they were ushered out.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Hatch anxiously as they once more took their seats in the cab.

  The Thinking Machine shook his head in frank annoyance.

  ‘What happened?’ Hatch insisted.

  ‘I’ve made a mistake,’ was the petulant response. ‘I’m going home and start all over again. It may be that I shall send for you later.’

  Hatch accepted that as a dismissal and went his way wonderingly. That evening The Thinking Machine called him to the ’phone.

  ‘Mr Hatch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Miss Oliver have any sisters?’

  ‘Yes, one. Her name is Florence. There’s something about her in the afternoon papers in connection with the murder story.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘I don’t know – twenty-two or -three.’

  ‘Ah!’ came a long, aspirated sigh of relief over the wire. ‘Run by and bring Detective Mallory up to my place.’

  ‘All right. But what was the matter?’

  ‘I was a fool, that’s all. Goodbye.’

  Detective Mallory was still delighted with himself when Hatch entered his office.

  ‘What particular line is your friend Van Dusen working?’ he asked a little curiously.

  The reporter shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘He asked me to come by and bring you up,’ he replied. ‘He has evidently reached some conclusion.’

  ‘If it’s anything that doesn’t count Knight in it’s all wind,’ he said loftily. For once in his life he was confident that he could deliver a blow which would obliterate any theory but his own. In this mood, therefore, he went with Hatch. They found The Thinking Machine pacing back and forth across his small laboratory with his slender hands clasped behind his back. Hatch noted that the perplexed wrinkles had gone.

  ‘In adding up a column of figures,’ began the scientist abruptly as he sat down, ‘the oversight of even so trivial a unit as one will make a glaring error in the result. You, Mr Mallory, have overlooked a figure one, therefore your conclusion is wrong. In my first consideration of this affair I also overlooked a figure one and my conclusion toppled over just at the moment when it seemed to be corroborated. So I had to start over; I found the one.’

  ‘But this thing against Knight is conclusive,’ said the detective explosively.

  ‘Except for the figure one,’ added the scientist.

  Detective Mallory snorted politely.

  ‘Now here is the logic of the thing,’ resumed The Thinking Machine. ‘It will show how I overlooked the figure one – that is a vital fact – and how I found it.’

  He dropped back into the reflective attitude which was so familiar to his hearers, squint eyes turned upward and with his fingers pressed tip to tip. For several minutes he was silent while Detective Mallory vented his impatience by chewing his moustache.

  ‘In the beginning,’ began The Thinking Machine at last, ‘we have a girl, pretty, young and wealthy in a box at the opera with her parents and her fiancé. It would seem, at first glance, to be as safe a place as her home would be, yet she is murdered mysteriously. A stiletto is thrust into her heart. We will assume that her death occurred in the box; that the knife thrust came while she was in a dead faint. This temporary unconsciousness would account for the fact that she did not scream, as the heart would have been pierced by a sudden thrust before consciousness of pain was awakened.

  ‘Now the three persons who were with her. There seemed no reason to suspect either the father or mother, so we come to Sylvester Knight, her intended husband. There is always to be found a motive, either real or imaginary, for a man to kill his sweetheart. In this case Knight had the opportunity, but not the exclusive opportunity. Therefore, an unlimited field of speculation was opened up.’

  Detective Mallory raised his hand impressively and started to say something, then thought better of it.

  ‘After Mr Knight’s arrest,’ The Thinking Machine continued, ‘your investigation, Mr Mallory, drew a net about him. That’s what you wanted to say, I believe. There was the stiletto, the other end of the cane and the alleged threats. I admit all these things. On this statement of the case it looked black for Mr Knight.’

  ‘That’s what,’ remarked the detective.

  ‘Now a stiletto naturally suggests Italy. The blade with which Miss Oliver was killed bore an Italian manufacturer’s mark. I presume you noticed it?’

  ‘Oh, that!’ exclaimed the detective.

  ‘Means nothing conclusively,’ added The Thinking Machine. ‘I agree with you. Still it was a suggestion. Then I saw the thing that did mean something. This was the fact that the handle of the stiletto was not of the same wood as the part of the cane you found in Mr Knight’s room. This difference is so slight that you would hardly notice it even now, but it was there and showed a possible clue leading away from Mr Knight.’

  Detective Mallory could not readily place his tongue on words to fittingly express his disgust, so he remained silent.

  ‘When I considered what manner of man Mr Knight is and the singular nature of the crime,’ resumed the scientist, ‘I had no hesitancy in assuring Mr Hatch that you had the wrong man.

  ‘After we first saw you we examined the opera box. It was on the left of the theatre and separated from the next box by a latticed partition. It was against this partition that Miss Oliver was leaning.

  ‘Remember, I saw the box after I examined the stiletto and while I was seeking a method by which another person might have stabbed her without entering the box. I found it. By using a stiletto without a guard it would have been perfectly possible for a person in the next box to have killed her by thrusting the blade through the lattice partition. That is exactly what happened.’

  Detective Mallory arose with a mouth full of words. They tumbled out in incoherent surprise and protest, then he sat down again. The Thinking Machine was still staring upward.

  ‘I then took steps to learn who was in the adjoining box at the time of her death,’ he continued quietly. ‘The manager of the theatre told me it was occupied by Mr and Mrs Franklin Dupree, and their guest an Italian nobleman. Italian nobleman! Italian stiletto! You see the connection?

  ‘Then we saw Mr Knight. He assured me, and I believed him, that he had never had any other love affair, therefore no woman would have had a motive in killing Miss Oliver because of him. He was positive, too, that Miss Oliver had never had any other love affair, yet I saw the possibility of some connecting link between her and the nobleman. It was perfectly possible, indeed probable, that he would not know of it. At the moment I was convinced that there had been such an affair.

  ‘Mr Knight also told me that he bought his stiletto cane in Rome; and he paid a price that would seem to guarantee that it would be a perfect one, with the same wood in the handle and lower part, and that he and Miss Oliver had never had any sort of a quarrel.’

  There was a little pause and The Thinking Machine shifted his position slightly.

  ‘Here I had a motive – jealousy of one man who was thrown over for another; the method of death, through the lattice; a clue to the mur
derer in the stiletto, and the name of the man. It seemed conclusive but I had overlooked a figure one. I saw that when Mr Oliver assured me that Miss Eleanor Oliver did not know the nobleman whose name I wrote for him; that she could not have known him. The entire structure tumbled. I was nonplussed and a little rude, I fear, in my surprise. Then I had to reconsider the matter from the beginning. The most important of all the connecting links was missing, yet the logic was right. It is always right.

  ‘There are times when imagination has to bridge gaps caused by the absence of demonstrable facts. I considered the matter carefully, then saw where I had dropped the figure one. I ’phoned to Mr Hatch to know if Miss Oliver had a sister. She had. The newspapers to which Mr Hatch referred me told me the rest of it. It was Eleanor Oliver’s sister who had the affair with the nobleman. That cleared it. There is the name of the murderer.’

  He laid down a card on which was scribbled this name and address: ‘Count Leo Tortino, Hotel Teutonic.’ Hatch and the detective read it simultaneously, then looked at The Thinking Machine inquiringly.

  ‘But I don’t see it yet,’ expostulated the detective. ‘This man Knight –’

  ‘Briefly it is this,’ declared the other impatiently. ‘The newspapers carried a story of Florence Oliver’s love affair with Count Tortino at the time she was travelling in Europe with her mother. According to what I read she jilted him and returned to this country where her engagement to another man was rumoured. That was several months ago. Now it doesn’t follow that because the Count knew Florence Oliver that he knew or even knew of Eleanor Oliver.

  ‘Suppose he came here maddened by disappointment and seeking revenge, suppose further he reached the theatre, as he did, while the anvil chorus was on, the party started into the wrong box and the usher mentioned casually that the Olivers were in there. We presume he knew Mrs Oliver by sight, and saw her. He might reasonably have surmised, perhaps he was told, that the other woman was Miss Oliver – and Miss Oliver meant to him the woman who had jilted him. The lattice work offered a way, the din of the music covered the act – and that’s all. It doesn’t really appear – it isn’t necessary to know – how he carried the stiletto about him, or why.’