Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Chase of the Golden Plate by Jacques Futrelle (ebook reader for pc txt) 📖
- Author: Jacques Futrelle
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"May I ask your son's address?" he repeated.
Mr. Meredith considered the matter at some length and finally arrived at the conclusion that he might ask.
"He is in South America at present—Buenos Ayres," he replied.
"What?" exclaimed The Thinking Machine so suddenly that both Hatch and Mr. Meredith started a little. "What?" he repeated, and wrinkles suddenly appeared in the domelike brow.
"I said he was in South America—Buenos Ayres," repeated Mr. Meredith stiffly, but a little awed. "A letter or cable to him in care of the American Consul at Buenos Ayres will reach him promptly."
The Thinking Machine's narrow eyes were screwed down to the disappearing point, the slender white fingers were twiddled jerkily, the corrugations remained in his brow.
"How long has Mr. Meredith been there?" he asked at last.
"Three months."
"Do you know he is there?"
Mr. Meredith started to say something and swallowed it with an effort.
"I know it positively, yes," he replied. "I received this letter dated the second from him three days ago, and to-day I received a cable-dispatch forwarded to me here from Baltimore."
"Are you positive the letter is in your son's handwriting?"
Mr. Meredith almost choked in mingled bewilderment and resentment at the question and the manner of its asking.
"I am positive, yes," he replied at last, preserving his tone of dignity with a perceptible effort. He noted the inscrutable face of his caller and saw the corrugations in the brow suddenly swept away. "What business of yours is it, anyway?" blazed Mr. Meredith suddenly.
"May I ask where you were last Thursday night?" went on the even, steady voice.
"It's no business of yours," Mr. Meredith blurted. "I was in Baltimore."
"Can you prove it in a court of law?"
"Prove it? Of course I can prove it!" Mr. Meredith was fairly bellowing at his impassive interrogator. "But it's nobody's business."
"If you can prove it, Mr. Meredith," remarked The Thinking Machine quietly, coldly, "you had best make your arrangements to do so, because, believe me, it may be necessary to save you from a charge of having stolen the Randolph gold plate on last Thursday night at the masked ball. Good-day, sir."
CHAPTER IV"But Mr. Herbert won't see anyone, sir," protested Blair.
"Tell Mr. Herbert, please, that unless I can see him immediately his bail-bond will be withdrawn," directed The Thinking Machine.
He stood waiting in the hall while Blair went up the stairs. Dick Herbert took the card impatiently and glanced at it.
"Van Dusen," he mused. "Who the deuce is Van Dusen?"
Blair repeated the message he had received below.
"What does he look like?" inquired Dick.
"He's a shrivelled little man with a big yellow head, sir," replied Blair.
"Let him come up," instructed Dick.
Thus, within an hour after he had talked to Mr. Meredith, The Thinking Machine met Dick Herbert.
"What's this about the bail-bond?" Dick inquired.
"I wanted to talk to you," was the scientist's calm reply. "That seemed to be the easiest way to make you believe it was important, so——"
Dick's face flushed crimson at the trick.
"Well, you see me!" he broke out angrily. "I ought to throw you down the stairs, but—what is it?"
Not having been invited to a seat, The Thinking Machine took one anyway and settled himself comfortably.
"If you will listen to me for a moment without interruption," he began testily, "I think the subject of my remarks will be of deep personal concern to you. I am interested in solving this Randolph plate affair and have perhaps gone further in my investigation than anyone else. At least, I know more about it. There are some things I don't happen to know, however, that are of the greatest importance."
"I tell you——" stormed Dick.
"For instance," calmly resumed the scientist, "it is very important for me to know whether or not Harry Meredith was masked when he came into this room last Thursday night."
Dick gazed at him in surprise which approached awe. His eyes were widely distended, the lower part of his face lax, for the instant; then his white teeth closed with a snap and he sat down opposite The Thinking Machine. Anger had gone from his manner; instead there was a pallor of apprehension in the clean-cut face.
"Who are you, Mr. Van Dusen?" he asked at last. His tone was mild, even deferential.
"Was he masked?" insisted the scientist.
For a long while Dick was silent. Finally he arose and paced nervously back and forth across the room, glancing at the diminutive figure of The Thinking Machine each time as he turned.
"I won't say anything," he decided.
"Will you name the cause of the trouble you and Meredith had in Harvard?" asked the scientist.
Again there was a long pause.
"No," Dick said finally.
"Did it have anything to do with theft?"
"I don't know who you are or why you are prying into an affair that, at least on its face, does not concern you," replied Dick. "I'll say nothing at all—unless—unless you produce the one man who can and shall explain this affair. Produce him here in this room where I can get my hands on him!"
The Thinking Machine squinted at the sturdy shoulders with admiration in his face.
"Did it ever happen to occur to you, Mr. Herbert, that Harry Meredith and his father are precisely of the same build?"
Some nameless, impalpable expression crept into Dick's face despite an apparent fight to restrain it, and again he stared at the small man in the chair.
"And that you and Mr. Meredith are practically of the same build?"
Tormented by unasked questions and by those emotions which had compelled him to silence all along, Dick still paced back and forth. His head was whirling. The structure which he had so carefully guarded was tumbling about his ears. Suddenly he stopped and turned upon The Thinking Machine.
"Just what do you know of this affair?" he asked.
"I know for one thing," replied the scientist positively, "that you were not the man in the automobile."
"How do you know that?"
"That's beside the question just now."
"Do you know who was in the automobile?" Dick insisted.
"I can only answer that question when you have answered mine," the scientist went on. "Was Harry Meredith masked when he entered this room last Thursday night?"
Dick sat staring down at his hands, which were working nervously. Finally he nodded.
The Thinking Machine understood.
"You recognised him, then, by something he said or wore?"
Again Dick nodded reluctantly.
"Both," he added.
The Thinking Machine leaned back in his chair and sat there for a long time. At last he arose as if the interview were at an end. There seemed to be no other questions that he desired to ask at the moment.
"You need not be unnecessarily alarmed, Mr. Herbert," he assured Dick as he picked up his hat. "I shall act with discretion in this matter. I am not representing anyone who would care to make it unpleasant for you. I may tell you that you made two serious mistakes: the first when you saw or communicated with Mr. Randolph immediately after the plate was stolen the second time, and again when you undertook something which properly belonged within the province of the police."
Herbert still sat with his head in his hands as The Thinking Machine went out.
It was very late that night—after twelve, in fact—when Hutchinson Hatch called on The Thinking Machine with excitement evident in tone, manner, and act. He was accustomed to calling at any hour; now he found the scientist at work as if it were midday.
"The worst has happened," the reporter told him.
The Thinking Machine didn't look around.
"Detective Mallory and two of his men saw Miss Meredith this evening about nine o'clock," Hatch hurried on, "and bully-ragged her into a confession."
"What sort of a confession?"
"She admitted that she was in the automobile on the night of the ball and that——"
"Mr. Herbert was with her," the scientist supplied.
"Yes."
"And—what else?"
"That her own jewels, valued at twenty thousand dollars, were among those found in Herbert's possession when he was arrested."
The Thinking Machine turned and looked at the reporter, just casually, and raised his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn.
"Well, she couldn't do anything else," he said calmly.
CHAPTER VHutchinson Hatch remained with The Thinking Machine for more than an hour, and when he left his head was spinning with the multitude of instructions which had been heaped upon him.
"Meet me at noon in Detective Mallory's office at police headquarters," The Thinking Machine had said in conclusion. "Mr. Randolph and Miss Meredith will be there."
"Miss Meredith?" Hatch repeated. "She hasn't been arrested, you know, and I doubt if she will come."
"She will come," the scientist had replied, as if that settled it.
Next day the Supreme Intelligence was sitting in his private office. He had eaten the canary; mingled triumph and gratification beamed upon his countenance. The smile remained, but to it was added the quality of curiosity when the door opened and The Thinking Machine, accompanied by Dollie Meredith and Stuyvesant Randolph, entered.
"Mr. Hatch called yet?" inquired the scientist.
"No," responded the detective.
"Dear me!" grumbled the other. "It's one minute after twelve o'clock now. What could have delayed him?"
His answer was the clattering rush of a cab and the appearance of Hatch in person a moment later. He came into the room headlong, glanced around, then paused.
"Did you get it?" inquired The Thinking Machine.
"Yes, I got it, but——" began the reporter.
"Nothing else now," commanded the other.
There was a little pause as The Thinking Machine selected a chair. The others also sat down.
"Well?" inquired the Supreme Intelligence at last.
"I would like to ask, Mr. Mallory," the scientist said, "if it would be possible for me to convince you of Mr. Herbert's innocence of the charges against him?"
"It would not," replied the detective promptly. "It would not while the facts are before me, supplemented by the statement of Miss Meredith here—her confession."
Dollie coloured exquisitely and her lips trembled slightly.
"Would it be possible, Miss Meredith," the even voice went on, "to convince you of Mr. Herbert's innocence?"
"I—I don't think so," she faltered. "I—I know."
Tears which had been restrained with difficulty gushed forth suddenly, and The Thinking Machine squinted at her in pained surprise.
"Don't do that," he commanded. "It's—it's exceedingly irritating." He paused a moment, then turned suddenly to Mr. Randolph. "And you?" he asked.
Mr. Randolph shrugged his shoulders.
The Thinking Machine receded still further into his chair and stared dreamily upward with his long, slender fingers pressed tip to tip. Hatch knew the attitude; something was going to happen. He waited anxiously. Detective Mallory knew it, too, and wriggled uncomfortably.
"Suppose," the scientist began, "just suppose that we turn a little human intelligence on this problem for a change and see if we can't get the truth out of the blundering muddle that the police have helped to bring about. Let's use logic, inevitable logic, to show, simply enough, that instead of being guilty, Mr. Herbert is innocent."
Dolly Meredith suddenly leaned forward in her chair with flushed face, eyes widely opened and lips slightly parted. Detective Mallory also leaned forward in his chair, but there was a different expression on his face—oh, so different.
"Miss Meredith, we know you were in the automobile with the Burglar who stole the plate," The Thinking Machine went on. "You probably knew that he was wounded and possibly either aided in dressing the wound—as any woman would—or else saw him dress it himself?"
"I bound my handkerchief on it," replied the Girl. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
"Where was the wound?"
"In the right shoulder," she replied.
"Back or front?" insisted the scientist.
"Back," she replied. "Very near the arm, an inch or so below the level of the shoulder."
Except for The Thinking Machine himself Hatch was the only person in the room to whom this statement meant anything, and he restrained a shout with difficulty.
"Now, Mr. Mallory," the scientist went on calmly, "do you happen to know Dr. Clarence Walpole?"
"I know of him, yes," replied the detective. "He is a man of considerable reputation."
"Would you believe him
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