"Search him," instructed Dr. Ransome.
The Thinking Machine was searched. Nothing was found on him; the pockets of the trousers were empty; the white, stiff-bosomed shirt had no pocket. The shoes and stockings were removed, examined, then replaced. As he watched all these preliminaries-the rigid search and noted the pitiful, childlike physical weakness of the man, the colourless face, and the thin, white hands-Dr. Ransome almost regretted his part in the affair.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.
"Would you be convinced if I did not?" inquired The Thinking Machine in turn.
"No."
"All right. I'll do it."
What sympathy Dr. Ransome had was dissipated by the tone. It nettled him, and he resolved to see the experiment to the end; it would be a stinging reproof to egotism.
"It will be impossible for him to communicate with any one outside?" he asked.
"Absolutely impossible," replied the warden. "He will not be permitted writing materials of any sort."
"And your jailers, would they deliver a message from him?"
"Not one word, directly or indirectly," said the warden. "You may rest assured of that. They will report anything he might say or turn over to me anything he might give them."
"That seems entirely satisfactory," said Mr. Fielding, who was frankly interested in the problem.
"Of course, in the event he fails," said Dr. Ransome, "and asks for his liberty, you understand you are to set him free?"
"I understand," replied the warden.
The Thinking Machine stood listening, but had nothing to say until this was all ended, then: "I should like to make three small requests. You may grant them or not, as you wish."
"No special favours, now," warned Mr. Fielding.
"I am asking none," was the stiff response. "I would like to have some tooth powder-buy it yourself to see that it is tooth powder-and I should like to have one five-dollar and two ten-dollar bills."
Dr. Ransome, Mr. Fielding and the warden exchanged astonished glances. They were not surprised at the request for tooth powder, but were at the request for money.
"Is there any man with whom our friend would come in contact that he could bribe with twenty-five dollars?" asked Dr. Ransome of the warden.
"Not for twenty-five hundred dollars," was the positive reply.
"Well, let him have them," said Mr. Fielding. "I think they are harmless enough."
"And what is the third request?" asked Dr. Ransome.
"I should like to have my shoes polished."
Again the astonished glances were exchanged. This last request was the height of absurdity, so they agreed to it. These things all being attended to, The Thinking Machine was led back into the prison from which he had undertaken to escape.
"Here is Cell 13," said the warden, stopping three doors down the steel corridor. "This is where we keep condemned murderers. No one can leave it without my permission; and no one in it can communicate with the outside. I'll stake my reputation on that. It's only three doors back of my office and I can readily hear any unusual noise."
"Will this cell do, gentlemen?" asked The Thinking Machine. There was a touch of irony in his voice.
"Admirably," was the reply.
The heavy steel door was thrown open, there was a great scurrying and scampering of tiny feet, and The Thinking Machine passed into the gloom of the cell. Then the door was closed and double locked by the warden.
"What is that noise in there?" asked Dr. Ransome, through the bars.
"Rats-dozens of them," replied The Thinking Machine, tersely.
The three men, with final good nights, were turning away when The Thinking Machine called: "What time is it exactly, warden?"
"Eleven seventeen," replied the warden.
"Thanks. I will join you gentlemen in your office at half-past eight o'clock one week from tonight," said The Thinking Machine. "And if you do not?"
"There is no 'if' about it."
II
Chisholm Prison was a great, spreading structure of granite, four stories in all, which stood in the centre of acres of open space. It was surrounded by a wall of solid masonry eighteen feet high, and so smoothly finished inside and out as to offer no foothold to a climber, no matter how expert. Atop of this fence, as a further precaution, was a five-foot fence of steel rods, each terminating in a keen point. This fence in itself marked an absolute deadline between freedom and imprisonment, for, even if a man escaped from his cell, it would seem impossible for him to pass the wall.
The yard, which on all sides of the prison building was twenty-five feet wide, that being the distance from the building to the wall, was by day an exercise ground for those prisoners to whom was granted the boon of occasional semi-liberty. But that was not for those in Cell 13.
At all times of the day there were armed guards in the yard, four of them, one patrolling each side of the prison building.
By night the yard was almost as brilliantly lighted as by day. On each of the four sides was a great arc light which rose above the prison wall and gave to the guards a clear sight. The lights, too, brightly illuminated the spiked top of the wall. The wires which fed the arc light ran up the side of the prison building on insulators and from the top story led out to the poles supporting the arc lights.
All these things were seen and comprehended by The Thinking Machine, who was only enabled to see out his closely barred cell window by standing on his bed. This was on the morning following his incarceration. He gathered, too, that the river lay over there beyond the wall somewhere, because he heard faintly the pulsation of a motor boat and high up in the air saw a river bird. From that same direction came the shouts of boys at play and the occasional crack of a batted ball. He knew then that between the prison wall and the river was an open space, a playground.
Chisholm Prison was regarded as absolutely safe. No man had ever escaped from it. The Thinking Machine, from his perch on the bed, seeing what he saw, could readily understand why. The walls of the cell, though built he judged twenty years before, were perfectly solid, and the window bars of new iron had not a shadow of rust on them. The window itself, even with the bars out, would be a difficult mode of egress because it was small.
Yet, seeing these things, The Thinking Machine was not discouraged. Instead, he thoughtfully squinted at the great arc light-there was bright sunlight now-and traced with his eyes the wire which led from it to the building. That electric wire, he reasoned, must come down the side of the building not a great distance from his cell. That might be worth knowing.
Cell 13 was on the same floor with the offices of the prison-that is, not in the basement, nor yet upstairs. There were only four steps up to the office floor, therefore the level of the floor must be only three or four feet above the ground. He couldn't see the ground directly beneath his window, but he could see it further out toward the wall. It would be an easy drop from the window. Well and good.
Then The Thinking Machine fell to remembering how he had come to the cell. First, there was the outside guard's booth, a part of the wall. There were two heavily barred gates there, both of steel. At this gate was one man always on guard. He admitted persons to the prison after much clanking of keys and locks, and let them out when ordered to do so. The warden's office was in the prison building, and in order to reach that official from the prison yard one had to pass a gate of solid steel with only a peep-hole in it. Then coming from that inner office to Cell 13, where he was now, one must pass a heavy wooden door and two steel doors into the corridors of the prison; and always there was the double-locked door to Cell 13 to reckon with.