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The Thinking Machine sat silent for several minutes.

"I think that makes everything clear," he went on. "Whatever points I have not explained were merely to confuse the warden and jailers. These things in my bed I brought in to please Mr. Hatch, who wanted to improve the story. Of course, the wig was necessary in my plan. The special-delivery letter I wrote and directed in my cell with Mr. Hatch's fountain pen, then sent it out to him and he mailed it. That's all, I think."

"But your actually leaving the prison grounds and then coming in through the outer gate to my office?" asked the warden.

"Perfectly simple," said the scientist. "I cut the electric light wire with acid, as I said, when the current was off. Therefore when the current was turned on the arc didn't light. I knew it would take some time to find out what was the matter and make repairs. When the guard went to report to you the yard was dark, I crept out the window—it was a tight fit, too—replaced the bars by standing on a narrow ledge and remained in a shadow until the force of electricians arrived. Mr. Hatch was one of them.

"When I saw him I spoke and he handed me a cap, a jumper and overalls, which I put on within ten feet of you, Mr. Warden, while you were in the yard. Later Mr. Hatch called me, presumably as a workman, and together we went out the gate to get something out of the wagon. The gate guard let us pass out readily as two workmen who had just passed in. We changed our clothing and reappeared, asking to see you. We saw you. That's all."

There was silence for several minutes. Dr. Ransome was first to speak.

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Perfectly amazing."

"How did Mr. Hatch happen to come with the electricians?" asked Mr. Fielding.

"His father is manager of the company," replied The Thinking Machine.

"But what if there had been no Mr. Hatch outside to help?"

"Every prisoner has one friend outside who would help him escape if he could."

"Suppose—just suppose—there had been no old plumbing system there?" asked the warden, curiously.

"There were two other ways out," said The Thinking Machine, enigmatically.

Ten minutes later the telephone bell rang. It was a request for the warden.

"Light all right, eh?" the warden asked, through the phone. "Good. Wire cut beside Cell 13? Yes, I know. One electrician too many? What's that? Two came out?"

The warden turned to the others with a puzzled expression.

"He only let in four electricians, he has let out two and says there are three left."

"I was the odd one," said The Thinking Machine.

"Oh," said the warden. "I see." Then through the phone: "Let the fifth man go. He's all right"

MacKinlay Kantor

MacKinlay Kantor (1904- ) is best known as the author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel of the Civil War, Andersonville (1955), but most readers are unaware of his contributions to crime fiction which are considerable. These include the novel Midnight Lace (1948) which was effectively if not faithfully brought to the screen in 1960; the excellent police procedural novel Signal Thirty-two (1950); and a number of strong short stories, some of which were collected as It's About Crime in 1960. Particularly noteworthy among his shorter crime pieces is the oft-reprinted 1935 story "Rogue's Gallery.''

Above the switchboard a little clock ticked nervously away.

There was a certain hesitation in its chatter, as if after each catch of minute cogs it was waiting for something to happen. As if the clock had advance information on something relentless and implacable, and much more portentous than the black water dripping outside.

Its little white hands registered 2:53. The clock was the only active mechanism, apparently, in all that room. Below it, the black surface of the switchboard dozed, unbroken by any gleam of bulbs. Soon, of course, the bulbs would gleam. A woman would need a doctor for her baby. A man would call up his mistress. A long-distance call would come in from Milwaukee. People somewhere in the Allan Court would be living, even at this hour of the night, and even in this cold rain.

Unlike the clock, Shultz wasn't functioning. Mr. Shultz had fallen asleep, leaning back in his chair, the metal band of the headphone gleaming tighdy across his slick black hair. Mr. Shultz was very young and romantic, and just at this moment he was dreaming of a certain ruddy waitress with slender ankles. . . . The job being what it was—night operator and office boy in a large Sheridan Road apartment hotel—Mr. Shultz did not receive any enormous stipend. But he could sleep—and dream.

Suddenly, one red circle exploded amid the waiting rows of flat bulbs. The buzzer sounded, long and insistently. . . . Still the operator slept, stubbornly refusing to turn away from the romance in his dream. Guzzzzzzzz said the buzzer. The sound grew louder in its insistency; the office seemed to be alive with it, and its exasperation was almost visible.

Eddie Shultz came back to the Allan Court with a frantic bound. He blinked, jerked forward, and pawed hurriedly at a switch. His foggy hand found a plug, rammed it in. The red circle winked into blackness.

"Office."

The board waited blankly. Above, the clock chattered and scurried on its ceaseless round. "Office," said Mr. Shultz.

No answer. Then—it might have been his imagination—there was the sound of a receiver going back on its hook. The red bulb glowed instantly. Very much annoyed, Eddie withdrew the plug, and cursed.

Then, with a quick tightening of his muscles, he bent forward and looked searchingly at the offending light and its accompanying hole. ... He could hear his own breath, alarmingly close and alarmingly loud. And he could feel an uncomfortable and cool irritation all up and down the back of his neck.

"God!" he thought That was 22! At least, I guess—but probably it was 20. Yes, it musta been 20." He leaned back and sighed with relief.

Guzzzzzz.

The littie red bulb was gleaming again. And this time there was no mistaking the location. The typewritten numerals in the slot beneath were all too visible: 22.

It might readily be admitted that Eddie Shultz's hand was cold and shaking. Eddie Shultz himself gulped and strangled. But there was nothing else to do; there was that red glow, that waiting connection, and there was the sound of the buzzer.

With one mad lunge, he stuffed in the plug and tore open the switch. The bulb winked out, quickly. Shultz found his voice. He roared, "Office!"

Through the headphone clamped against his ear came one sound —a slight sound, but one which filled him with icy horror. It was the sound of some unseen person
swallowing
. Then the switch clicked, and the red glare of an uncompleted connection showed before his eyes.

He drew out the plug and rose slowly to his feet. His eyes were riveted on that calm row of electric bulbs. His dry lips shaped the whispered words. "22. Goddamn it. . .22. ."

A moaning gust of wind swept around the corner past the basement window. The dark rain sprayed against it as if flung from some menacing hand. There wasn't any traffic out in the street, not even the welcome sound of one lone car. The neighborhood was dead. And in Apartment 22. . .

Two fifty-eight was what the hands of the clock registered. He had spent a most uncomfortable five minutes. The job was lousy, anyway. Didn't get much money. And these calls . . .

Eddie sighed, and sat down very slowly. Had to stay, that was all. . . . Hell, he oughtn't to be so nervous. He'd quit drinking gin, that's what he'd do. Probably that was what ailed him. There wasn't any such thing as a ghost; any fool would know that. When people were dead, they were done for. Even on a black night in that great U-shaped building, with the oily rain sweeping down in sheets, with—

Guzzzzzz.

He shrieked in his mind: "I won't look! By God, I don't have to look. It isn't so! That place is . . But his eyes twisted in their sockets, led by a hideous fascination. There, in the middle of the row, that same little flat lamp was registering its rosy gleam.

Eddie's lips were as white as his cheeks. He faltered, then nerved himself with one final spurt. It wouldn't be hard. The switch was right there, and the plug. Open it Stick it in. There! The light was gone. It was easy. It—

And that same ghastly whisper came to him, seeming nearer than before. Gargling, choking, like breath come back into the frozen throat of a corpse. He screamed madly: "Office! Answer. Officer And the switch closed, and the fight winked, and. . .

Eddie had had enough. He leaped up, ripping off the head clamp and flinging it down. He plunged across the shadowy little office and opened the front door. The rain poured down at him in a black, blinding spray. He turned up the collar of his coat then faltered. No, no. He couldn't go out. Run around the corner and down water and give it to her in a teaspoon if she won't take her bottle—" And one woman saying vengefully: "... if you go out to any more poker games for a month, my dear sir! All right, stay there and lose—'' Edwards made a wry face and clicked the switches.

He turned to Shultz. Nothing there. You're—you're sure you weren't mistaken?"

"Guess I know one light from another," protested the operator.

Edwards frowned, tapping his white hand on the back of the chair. "Look here. The apartment was locked tighdy inside—every door and window—when we broke in there with the police last night I mean, at three o'clock yesterday morning. Duncan's key was on the inside of the front door. We had to break it open. I had a new lock put on the door afterward, and I've got the only key in my pocket The back door is bolted and has the safety chain on. How could anybody—"

"There may be something else," whispered Shultz. His face was white as a scaled fish.

"Ghosts? Bunk!"

"It registered, Mr. Edwards. The light was on. Four different times it came on and buzzed."

The silence was broken only by the splash of water outside—a hollow, lonely drip that somehow reminded one of water seeping out of an old burial vault In spite of himself, the young manager strove desperately to keep from shuddering.

"Well sit down here, and rest, and watch that board. I don't want to doubt your word, Shultz, but... If that fight comes on again, and I see it with my own eyes, well go up to the apartment"

Shultz huddled in a settee by the inner door. His employer sat down in the chair by the switchboard, an unlighted cigarette between his lips. His brow creased painfully as he reviewed the events of the succeeding twenty-four hours, trying to arrive at some explanation.

Duncan, the tenant in Apartment 22, had lived at the Allan Court three years—a man of evident wealth and refinement, though something of a recluse. He belonged to no clubs, attended but few theaters, and drove an imported roadster. Few people ever called at his apartment; all his tastes seemed ordinary, not to say conventional. He was an ardent collector of old flasks and glassware, and was said to be an authority on Early American glass. The management had permitted him, at his own expense, to install many cupboards and cabinets for the housing of his treasures. Tall, gray-haired and slender, he was the perfect picture of a sedate gentleman.

Some time before three o'clock on the previous morning, adjacent tenants had been aroused by a shot. The sound seemed to come from Mr. Duncan's apartment. The building was old, although remodeled and modernized, the thick walls prevented voices in one apartment from being heard in another. ... A few minutes later the woman in the flat above heard a large automobile drive down the alley.

The manager was notified. When repeated calls to Apartment 22 failed to elicit any response, Edwards summoned the police. The door of the apartment was locked, with Duncan's key inside, and it was impossible to use a passkey. The officers forced the door, and entered the rooms. There was, at first glance, no trace of Duncan. Though every closet and cubbyhole in the place was ransacked, the tenant could not be found.

Every window was solidly fastened. The lights were burning. The back door was locked, with its inner safety chain in place. The unused kitchen (Duncan took his meals in restaurants) offered no clue. Only the parlor proved what had occurred. . . . There was a bullet hole in the wall, and Sergeant Sherris dug out a .45-caliber bullet There were fresh bloodstains, in quantity, over the rugs—and one splotch of yellowish-white, sickening and unmistakable.

So Duncan was dead—he had been murdered. But where was his body? And what was the motive? The rich stores of Stiegel glass and curios were untouched; there were diamond studs and platinum cuff links on the dresser in the bedroom.

A terrified janitor came hammering at the door. He had been attending to boiler fires in the building next door, and his attention was drawn to some minor disturbance in the alley outside. He came out to find several men hoisting the inert body of another man into a big sedan.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Sick man," said one of them ominously. "Get back inside that door, and get back quick!" He had fled, and they had driven away. No, he hadn't seen the license number—he was too frightened. No, he didn't know how many men there were—maybe three or four. . . ."