The Problem of Cell 13 | Page 6

white shirt and had ragged edges.
Now it was possible to account for the linen, but what the prisoner had used to write with was another matter. The warden knew it would have been impossible for him to have either pen or pencil, and, besides, neither pen nor pencil had been used in this writing. What, then? The warden decided to personally investigate. The Thinking Machine was his prisoner; he had orders to hold his prisoners; if this one sought to escape by sending cipher messages to persons outside, he would stop it, as he would have stopped it in the case of any other prisoner.
The warden went back to Cell 13 and found The Thinking Machine on his hands and knees on the floor, engaged in nothing more alarming than catching rats. The prisoner heard the warden's step and turned to him quickly.
"It's disgraceful," he snapped, "these rats. There are scores of them."
"Other men have been able to stand them," said the warden. "Here is another shirt for you -- let me have the one you have on."
"Why?" demanded The Thinking Machine, quickly. His tone was hardly natural, his manner suggested actual perturbation.
"You have attempted to communicate with Dr. Ransome," said the warden severely. "As my prisoner, it is my duty to put a stop to it."
The Thinking Machine was silent for a moment.
"All right," he said, finally. "Do your duty."
The warden smiled grimly. The prisoner arose from the floor and removed the white shirt, putting on instead a striped convict shirt the warden had brought. The warden took the white shirt eagerly, and then there compared the pieces of linen on which was written the cipher with certain torn places in the shirt. The Thinking Machine looked on curiously.
"The guard brought you those, then?" he asked.
"He certainly did," replied the warden triumphantly. "And that ends your first attempt to escape."
The Thinking Machine watched the warden as he, by comparison, established to his own satisfaction that only two pieces of linen had been torn from the white shirt.
"What did you write this with?" demanded the warden.
"I should think it a part of your duty to find out," said The Thinking Machine, irritably.
The warden started to say some harsh things, then restrained himself and made a minute search of the cell and of the prisoner instead. He found absolutely nothing; not even a match or toothpick which might have been used for a pen. The same mystery surrounded the fluid with which the cipher had been written. Although the warden left Cell 13 visibly annoyed, he took the torn shirt in triumph.
"Well, writing notes on a shirt won't get him out, that's certain," he told himself with some complacency. He put the linen scraps into his desk to await developments. "If that man escapes from that cell I'll -- hang it -- I'll resign."
On the third day of his incarceration The Thinking Machine openly attempted to bribe his way out. The jailer had brought his dinner and was leaning against the barred door, waiting, when The Thinking Machine began the conversation.
"The drainage pipes of the prison lead to the river, don't they?" he asked .
"Yes," said the jailer.
"I suppose they are very small?"
"Too small to crawl through, if that's what you're thinking about," was the grinning response.
There was silence until The Thinking Machine finished his meal. Then:
"You know I'm not a criminal, don't you?"'
"Yes."
"And that I've a perfect right to be freed if I demand it?"
"Yes."
"Well, I came here believing that I could make my escape," said the prisoner, and his squint eyes studied the face of the jailer.
"Would you consider a financial reward for aiding me to escape?"
The jailer, who happened to be an honest man, looked at the slender, weak figure of the prisoner, at the large head with its mass of yellow hair, and was almost sorry.
"I guess prisons like these were not built for the likes of you to get out of," he said, at last.
"But would you consider a proposition to help me get out?" the prisoner insisted, almost beseechingly.
"No," said the jailer, shortly.
"Five hundred dollars," urged The Thinking Machine. "I am not a criminal."
"No," said the jailer.
"A thousand?"
"No," again said the jailer, and he started away hurriedly to escape further temptation. Then he turned back. "If you should give me ten thousand dollars I couldn't get you out. You'd have to pass through seven doors, and I only have the keys to two."
Then he told the warden all about it.
"Plan number two fails," said the warden, smiling grimly. "First a cipher, then bribery."
When the jailer was on his way to Cell 13 at six o'clock, again bearing food to The Thinking Machine, he paused, startled by the unmistakable scrape, scrape of steel against steel. It stopped at the sound of his steps, then craftily the