Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Locked-Room Mysteries And Impossible Crimes

At North Station they took train for a small place on the North Shore, thirty-five miles from Boston. There The Thinking Machine made some inquiries and finally they entered a lumber-some carry-all. After a drive of half an hour through the dark they saw the lights of what seemed to be a pretentious country place. Somewhere off to the right Hatch heard the roar of the restless ocean.

“Wait for us,” commanded The Thinking Machine as the carry-all stopped.

The Thinking Machine ascended the steps, followed by Hatch, and rang. After a minute or so the door was opened and the light flooded out. Standing before them was a Japanese – a man of indeterminate age with the graven face of his race.

“Is Mr Dudley in?” asked The Thinking Machine.

“He has not that pleasure,” replied the Japanese, and Hatch smiled at the queerly turned phrase.

“Mrs Dudley?” asked the scientist.

“Mrs Dudley is attiring herself in clothing,” replied the Japanese. “If you will be pleased to enter.”

The Thinking Machine handed him a card and was shown into a reception room. The Japanese placed chairs for them with courteous precision and disappeared. After a short pause there was a rustle of silken skirts on the stairs, and a woman – Mrs Dudley – entered. She was not pretty; she was stunning rather, tall, of superb figure and crowned with a glory of black hair.

“Mr Van Dusen?” she asked as she glanced at the card.

The Thinking Machine bowed low, albeit awkwardly. Mrs Dudley sank down on a couch and the two men resumed their seats. There was a little pause; Mr Dudley broke the silence at last.

“Well, Mr Van Dusen, if you -” she began.

“You have not seen a newspaper for several days?” asked The Thinking Machine, abruptly.

“No,” she replied, wonderingly, almost smiling. “Why?”

“Can you tell me just where your husband is?”

The Thinking Machine squinted at her in that aggressive way which was habitual. A quick flush crept into her face, and grew deeper at the sharp scrutiny. Inquiry lay in her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she replied at last. “In Boston, I presume.”

“You haven’t seen him since the night of the ball?”

“No. I think it was half past one o’clock that night.”

“Is his motor boat here?”

“Really, I don’t know. I presume it is. May I ask the purpose of this questioning?”

The Thinking Machine squinted hard at her for half a minute. Hatch was uncomfortable, half resentful even, at the agitation of the woman and the sharp, cold tone of his companion.

“On the night of the ball,” the scientist went on, passing the question, “Mr Dudley cut his left arm just above the wrist. It was only a slight wound. A piece of court plaster was put on it. Do you know if he put it on himself? If not, who did?”

“I put it on,” replied Mrs Dudley, unhesitatingly, wonderingly.

“And whose court plaster was it?”

“Mine – some I had in my dressing room. Why?”

The scientist arose and paced across the floor, glancing once out the hall door. Mrs Dudley looked at Hatch inquiringly and was about to speak when The Thinking Machine stopped beside her and placed his slim fingers on her wrist. She did not resent the action; was only curious if one might judge from her eyes.

“Are you prepared for a shock?” the scientist asked.

“What is it?” she demanded in sudden terror. “This suspense-”

“Your husband is dead – murdered – poisoned!” said the scientist with sudden brutality. His fingers still lay on her pulse. “The court plaster which you put on his arm and which came from your room was covered with a virulent poison which was instantly transfused into his blood.”

Mrs. Dudley did not start or scream. Instead she stared up at The Thinking Machine a moment, her face became pallid, a little shiver passed over her. Then she fell back on the couch in a dead faint.

“Good!” remarked The Thinking Machine complacently. And then as Hatch started up suddenly: “Shut that door,” he commanded.

The reporter did so. When he turned back, his companion was leaning over the unconscious woman. After a moment he left her and went to a window where he stood looking out. As Hatch watched he saw the color coming back into Mrs Dudley’s face. At last she opened her eyes.

“Don’t get hysterical,” The Thinking Machine directed calmly. “I know you had nothing whatever to do with your husband’s death. I want only a little assistance to find out who killed him.”

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Mrs Dudley. “Dead! Dead!”

Suddenly tears leaped from her eyes and for several minutes the two men respected her grief. When at last she raised her face her eyes were red, but there was a rigid expression about the mouth.

“If I can be of any service-” she began.

“Is this the boat house I see from this window?” asked The Thinking Machine. “That long, low building with the light over the door?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs Dudley.

“You say you don’t know if the motor boat is there now?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Will you ask your Japanese servant, and if he doesn’t know, let him go see, please?”

Mrs Dudley arose and touched an electric button. After a moment the Japanese appeared at the door.

“Osaka, do you know if Mr Dudley’s motor boat is in the boat house?” she asked.

“No, honourable lady.”

“Will you go yourself and see?”

Osaka bowed low and left the room, closing the door gently behind him. The Thinking Machine again crossed to the window and sat down staring out into the night. Mrs Dudley asked questions, scores of them, and he answered them in order until she knew the details of the finding of her husband’s body – that is, the details the public knew. She was interrupted by the reappearance of Osaka.

“I do not find the motor boat in the house, honourable lady.”

“That is all,” said the scientist.

Again Osaka bowed and retired.

“Now, Mrs Dudley,” resumed The Thinking Machine almost gently, “we know your husband wore a French naval costume at the masked ball. May I ask what you wore?”

“It was a Queen Elizabeth costume,” replied Mrs Dudley, “very heavy with a long train.”

“And if you could give me a photograph of Mr Dudley?”

Mrs Dudley left the room an instant and returned with a cabinet photograph. Hatch and the scientist looked at it together; it was unmistakably the man in the motor boat.

“You can do nothing yourself,” said The Thinking Machine at last, and he moved as if to go. “Within a few hours we will have the guilty person. You may rest assured that your name will be in no way brought into the matter unpleasantly.”

Hatch glanced at his companion; he thought he detected a sinister note in the soothing voice, but the face expressed nothing. Mrs Dudley ushered them into the hall; Osaka stood at the front door. They passed out and the door closed behind them.

Hatch started down the steps but The Thinking Machine stopped at the door and tramped up and down. The reporter turned back in astonishment. In the dim reflected light he saw the scientist’s finger raised, enjoining silence, then saw him lean forward suddenly with his ear pressed to the door. After a little he rapped gently. The door was opened by Osaka, who obeyed a beckoning motion of the scientist’s hand and came out. Silently he was led off the veranda into the yard; he appeared in no way surprised.

“Your master, Mr Dudley, has been murdered,” declared The Thinking Machine quietly, to Osaka. “We know that Mrs Dudley killed him,” he went on as Hatch stared, “but I have told her she is not suspected. We are not officers and cannot arrest her. Can you go with us to Boston, without the knowledge of anyone here and tell what you know of the quarrel between husband and wife to the police?”