Had it not been for the personal interest of a fellow savant in the case it is hardly likely that the problem of the Roswell tiara would ever have come to the attention of The Thinking Machine. And had the problem not come to his attention it would inevitably have gone to the police. Then there would have been a scandal in high places, a disrupted home and everlasting unhappiness to at least four persons. Perhaps it was an inkling of this latter possibility that led The Thinking Machine to take initial steps in the solution of a mystery which seemed to have only an obvious ending.
When he was first approached in the matter The Thinking Machine was in his small laboratory from which had gone forth truths that shocked and partially readjusted at least three of the exact sciences. His enormous head, with its long yellow hair, bobbed up and down over a little world of chemical apparatus, and the narrow, squint eyes peered with disagreeable satisfaction at a blue flame which spouted from a brazier. Martha, an aged woman who was the scientist’s household staff, entered. She was not tall yet she towered commandingly above the slight figure of her eminent master. Professor Van Dusen turned to her impatiently.
“Well? Well?” he demanded shortly.
Martha handed him two cards. On one was the name Charles Wingate Field, and on the other Mrs. Richard Watson Roswell. Charles Wingate Field was a name to juggle with in astronomy — The Thinking Machine knew him well; the name of the woman was strange to him.
“The gentleman said it was very important,” Martha explained, “and the poor lady was crying.”
“What about?” snapped the scientist.
“Lord, sir, I didn’t ask her,” exclaimed Martha.
“I’ll be there in a moment.”
A few minutes later The Thinking Machine appeared at the door of the little reception room, which he regarded as a sort of useless glory, and the two persons there arose to meet him. One was a woman apparently of forty-five years, richly gowned, splendid of figure and with a distinct, matured beauty. Her eyes showed she had been weeping but now her tears were dried and she caught herself staring curiously at the pallid face, the keen blue eyes and the long slender hands of the scientist. The other person was Mr. Field.
There was an introduction and the scientist motioned them to seats. He himself dropped into a large cushioned chair, and looked from one to the other with a question in his eyes.
“I have been telling Mrs. Roswell some of the things you have done, Van Dusen,” began Mr. Field. “Now I have brought her to you because here is a mystery, a problem, an abstruse problem, and it isn’t the kind of thing one cares to take to the police. If you —”
“If Mrs. Roswell will tell me about it?” interrupted the scientist. He seemed to withdraw even further into the big chair. With head tilted back, eyes squinting steadily upward and white fingers pressed tip to tip he waited.
“Briefly,” said Mrs. Roswell, “it has to do with the disappearance of a single small gem from a diamond tiara which I had locked in a vault — a vault of which no living person knew the combination except myself. Because of family reasons I could not go to the police, and —”
“Please begin at the beginning,” requested The Thinking Machine. “Remember I know nothing whatever of you or your circumstances.”
It was not unnatural that Mrs. Roswell should be surprised. Her social reign was supreme, her name was constantly to be seen in the newspapers, her entertainments were gorgeous, her social doings on an elaborate scale. She glanced at Mr. Field inquiringly, and he nodded.
“My first husband was Sidney Grantham, an Englishman,” she explained. “Seven years ago he left me a widow with one child — a son Arthur — now twenty-two years old and just out of Harvard. Mr. Grantham died intestate and his whole fortune together with the family jewels, came to me and my son. The tiara was among these jewels.
“A year ago I was married to Mr. Roswell. He, too, is a man of wealth, with one daughter, Jeanette, now nineteen years old. We live on Commonwealth Avenue and while there are many servants I know it impossible —”
“Nothing is impossible, Madam,” interposed The Thinking Machine positively. “Don’t say that please. It annoys me exceedingly.”
Mrs. Roswell stared at him a moment then resumed:
“My bed room is on the second floor. Adjoining and connecting with it is the bed room of my step-daughter. This connecting door is always left unlocked because she is timid and nervous. I keep the door from my room into the hall bolted at night and Jeanette keeps the hall door of her room similarly fastened. The windows, too, are always secured at night in both rooms.
“My maid and my daughter’s maid both sleep in the servants’ quarters. I arranged for this because, as I was about to state, I keep about half a million dollars worth of jewels in my bed room locked in a small vault built into the wall. This little vault opens with a combination. Not one person knows that combination except myself. It so happens that the man who set it is dead.
“Last night, Thursday, I attended a reception and wore the tiara. My daughter remained at home. At four o’clock this morning I returned. The maids had retired; Jeanette was sleeping soundly. I took off the tiara and placed it, with my other jewels, in the vault. I know that the small diamond now missing was in its setting at that time. I locked the vault, shot the bolt and turned the combination. Afterwards I tried the vault door to make certain it was fastened. It was then — then —”
For no apparent reason Mrs. Roswell suddenly burst into tears. The two men were silent and The Thinking Machine looked at her uneasily. He was not accustomed to women anyway, and women who wept were hopelessly beyond him.
“Well, well, what happened?” he asked brusquely at last.
“It was perhaps five o’clock when I fell asleep,” Mrs. Roswell continued after a moment. “About twenty minutes later I was aroused by a scream of ‘Jeanette, Jeanette, Jeanette.’ Instantly I was fully awake. The screaming was that of a cockatoo which I have kept in my room for many years. It was in its usual place on a perch near the window, and seemed greatly disturbed.
“My first impression was that Jeanette had been in the room. I went into her room and even shook her gently. She was asleep so far as I could ascertain. I returned to my own room and then was amazed to see the vault door standing open. All the jewels and papers from the vault were scattered over the floor. My first thought was of burglars who had been frightened away by the cockatoo. I tried every door and every window in both Jeanette’s room and mine. Everything was securely fastened.
“When I picked up the tiara I found that a diamond was missing. It had evidently been torn out of the setting. I searched for it on the floor and inside the vault. I found nothing. Then of course I could only associate its disappearance with some act of — of my step-daughter’s. I don’t believe the cockatoo would have called her name if she had not been in my room. Certainly the bird could not have opened the vault. Therefore I— I—”
There was a fresh burst of tears and for a long time no one spoke.
“Do you burn a night lamp?” asked The Thinking Machine finally.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Roswell.
“Did the bird ever disturb you at any time previous to last night — that is I mean at night?”
“No.”
“Has it any habit of speaking the word ‘Jeanette.’”
“No. I don’t think I ever heard it pronounce the word more than three or four times before. It is stupid and seems to dislike her.”
“Was there anything else missing — any letter or paper or jewels?”
“Nothing but the one small stone.”
The Thinking Machine took down a volume of an encyclopaedia which he studied for a moment.
“Have you any record anywhere of that combination?” he inquired.
“Yes, but it would have been impossi —”
The scientist made a little impatient gesture with his hands.
“Where is this record?”
“The combination begins with the figure three,” Mrs. Roswell hastened to explain. “I jotted it down in a French copy of ‘Les Miserables’ which I keep in my room with a few other books. The first number, three, appears on Page 3, the second on Page 33, and the third on Page 333. The combination in full is 3–14-9. No person could possibly associate the numbers in the book with the combination even if they should notice them.”
Again there was the quick, impatient gesture of the hands. Mr. Field interpreted it aright as annoyance.
“You say your daughter is nervous,” The Thinking Machine said. “Is it serious? Is there any somnambulistic tendency that you know of?”
Mrs. Roswell flushed a little.
“She has a nervous disorder,” she confessed at last. “But I know of no somnambulistic tendency. She has been treated by half a dozen specialists. Two or three times we feared — feared —”
She faltered and stopped. The Thinking Machine squinted at her oddly, then turned his eyes toward the ceiling again.
“I understand,” he said. “You feared for her sanity. And she may have the sleep-walking habit without your knowledge?”
“Yes, she may have,” faltered Mrs. Roswell.
“And now your son. Tell me something about him. He has an allowance, I suppose? Is he inclined to be studious or other wise? Has he any love affair?”
Again Mrs. Roswell flushed. Her entire manner resented this connection of her son’s name with the affair. She looked inquiringly at Mr. Field.
“I don’t see —” Mr. Field began, remonstratingly.
“My son could have nothing —” Mrs. Roswell interrupted.
“Madam, you have presented an abstract problem,” broke in The Thinking Machine impatiently. “I presumed you wanted a solution. Of course, if you do not —” and he made as if to arise.
“Please pardon me,” said Mrs. Roswell quickly, almost tearfully. “My son has an allowance of ten thousand a year; my daughter has the same. My son is inclined to be studious along political lines, while my daughter is interested in charity. He has no love affair except — except a deep attachment for his step-sister. It is rather unfortunate —”
“I know, I know,” interrupted the scientist again. “Naturally you object to any affection in that direction because of a fear for the girl’s mental condition. May I ask if there is any further prejudice on your part to the girl?”
“Not the slightest,” said Mrs. Roswell quickly. “I am deeply attached to her. It is only a fear for my son’s happiness.”
“I presume your son understands your attitude in the matter?”
“I have tried to intimate it to him without saying it openly,” she explained. “I don’t think he knows how serious her condition has been, and is for that matter.”
“Of your knowledge has either your son or the girl ever handled or looked into the book where the combination is written?”
“Not that I know of, or ever heard of.”
“Or any of your servants?”
“No.”
“Does it happen that you have this tiara with you?”
Mrs. Roswell produced it from her hand bag. It was a glittering, glistening thing, a triumph of the jeweller’s art, intricate and marvellously delicate in conception yet wonderfully heavy with the dead weight of pure gold. A single splendid diamond of four or five carats blazed at its apex, and radiating from this were strings of smaller stones. One was missing from its setting. The prongs which had held it were almost straight from the force used to pry out the stone. The Thinking Machine studied the gorgeous ornament in silence.
“It is possible for you to clear up this matter without my active interference,” he said at last. “You do not want it to become known outside your own family, therefore you must watch for this thief — yourself in person. Take no one into your confidence, least of all your son and step-daughter. Given the same circumstances, the A B C rules of logic — and logic is inevitable — indicate that another may disappear.”
Mrs. Roswell was frankly startled, and Mr. Field leaned forward with eager interest.
“If you see how this second stone disappears,” continued The Thinking Machine musingly, without heeding in the slightest the effect of his words on the others, “you will know what became of the first and will be able to recover both.”
“If another attempt is to be made,” exclaimed Mrs. Roswell apprehensively, “would it not be better to send the jewels to a safe deposit? Would I not be in danger myself?”
“It is perfectly possible that if the jewels were removed the vault would be opened just the same,” said The Thinking Machine quietly, enigmatically while his visitors stared. “Leave the jewels where they are. You may be assured that you are in no personal danger whatever. If you learn what you seek you need not communicate with me again. If you do not I will personally investigate the matter. On no condition whatever interrupt or attempt to prevent anything that may happen.”
Mr. Field arose; the interview seemed to be at an end. He had one last question.
“Have you any theory of what actually happened?” he asked. “How was the jewel taken?”
“If I told you you wouldn’t believe it,” said The Thinking Machine, curtly. “Good day.”
It was on the third day following that Mrs. Roswell hurriedly summoned The Thinking Machine to her home. When he arrived she was deeply agitated.
“Another of the small stones has been stolen from the tiara,” she told him hurriedly. “The circumstances were identical with those of the first theft, even to the screaming of the cockatoo. I watched as you suggested, have been watching each night but last night was so weary that I fell asleep. The cockatoo awoke me. Why would Jeanette —”
“Let me see the apartments,” suggested the scientist. Thus he was ushered into the room which was the centre of the mystery. Again he examined the tiara, then studied the door of the vault. Afterwards he casually picked up and verified the record of the combination, locked and unlocked the vault twice after which he examined the fastenings of the door and the windows. This done he went over and peered inquisitively at the cockatoo on its perch.
The bird was a giant of its species, pure white, with a yellow crest which drooped in exaggerated melancholy. The cockatoo resented the impertinence and had not The Thinking Machine moved quickly would have torn off his spectacles.
A door from another room opened and a girl — Jeanette — entered. She was tall, slender and exquisitely proportioned with a great cloud of ruddy gold hair. ............