The Problem of the Hidden Million by Jacques Foutrell. The gray hand of death
had already left its ashen mark upon the wrinkled, venomous face of the old
man, who lay huddled up in bed. Save for the feverishly brilliant eyes,
cunning, vindictive, hateful, there seemed to be no spark of life
in the aged form. The withered lips were mute, and the thin,
yellow claw like hands lay helplessly outstretched on the white sheets. All physical power
was gone. Only the brain remained doggedly alive. Two men and two women
stood beside the death bed upon each and turned the glittering eyes rested with the
merciless, unreasoning hatred of age. Crouched on the floor was a huge Saint
Bernard dog, and on a perch across the room was a parrot, which
screeched abominably. The gloom of the wretched little room was suddenly relieved by a
ruddy sunbeam, which shot athwart the bed and lighted the scene fantastically. The
old man noted it, and his lips curled into a hideous smile. That's
the last son I'll ever see, he piped feebly. I'm dying dying,
do you hear, And you're all glad of it, every one of you.
Yes, you are. You are glad of it because you want my
money. You came here to make me believe you were paying a last tribute
of respect to your old grandfather. But that isn't it. It's the money.
You want the money. But I've got a surprise for you. You
never get the money. It's hidden safely. You'll never get it. You
all hate me, you have hated me for years, and after this sun
dies, you'll all hate me worse, but not more than I hate you.
You'll all hate me worse then, because I'll be gone, and you'll
never know where the money is hidden. It will lie there safely where I
put it, rotting and crumbling away. But you shall never warm your fingers
with it. It's hidden, hidden, hidden. There was a rasping in
the shrunken throat, a deeply drawn breath. Then the figure stiffened, and
a distorted soul passed out upon the eternal way. Martha held a card within
the blinding light of the reflector, and Professor Augustus s f X von Duson,
with his hands immersed to the elbows in some chemical mess. Squinted at
it a Doctor Walter Ballard, he read, show him in. After a
moment, Doctor Ballard entered. The scientist was still absorbed in his labors,
but paused long enough to jerk his head toward a chair. Doctor Ballard accepted
this as an invitation, and sat down, staring curiously at the singular,
childlike figure of the eminent man of science, at the mop of tangled straw,
yellow hair, the enormous brow, and the peering blue eyes. Well
demanded the scientist abruptly. I beg your pardon, began Doctor Ballard, with
a little start. Your name was mentioned to me some time ago by a
newspaper reporter, a Hutchinson Hatch, whom I chanced to meet in his professional
capacity. He suggested then that I come and see you, but I thought
it useless. Now the affair in which we were both interested at that time
seems hopelessly beyond solution, so I came to you for aid. We want
to find one million dollars in gold and United States bonds, which were hidden
by my grandfather, John Walter Ballard some time before his death just a month
ago. The circumstances are altogether out of the ordinary, the thinking machine abandoned
his labors and dried his hands carefully, after which he took a seat facing
doctor Ballard. Tell me about it, he commanded, well, began Doctor
Ballard reminiscently, as he settled back in his chair. The old man,
my grandfather, died, as I said a month ago. He was nearly
eighty six. In the last five or six years of his life he spent
as a recluse in a little hut twenty miles from the city, a place
some distance from any other house. He had a spot of ground there half
an acre or so, and lived like a pauper, despite the fact that
he was worth at least a million dollars. Previous to the time he went
there to live, there had been an estrangement with my family, his sole
heirs. My family consists of myself, wife, son, and daughter.
My grandfather lived in the house with me for ten years before he went out
to this hut, and why he left us then is not clear to any
member of my family, unless and he shrugged his shoulders. He was mentally
unbalanced. Anyway he went, he would neither come to see us, nor
would he permit us to go see him. As far as we know,
he owned no real property of any sort except this miserable little place, worth
altogether furnishing, in all, not more than a thousand or twelve hundred dollars.
Well, about a month ago some one stopped at the hut for something
and found he was ill. I was notified, and with my wife,
son and daughter, went to see what we could do. He took occasion,
on his death bed to heap the tuperation upon us, and incidentally to
state that something like a million dollars was left behind, but hidden. For
the sake of my son and daughter. I undertook to recover this money.
I consulted attorneys, private detectives, and in fact exhausted every possible method.
I ascertained beyond question that the money was not in a bank anywhere, and
hardly think he would have left it there, because, of course, if
he had, even with a will disinheriting us, the law would have turned
it over to us. He had no safe deposit vault as far as one
month's close search revealed, and the money was not hidden in the house or
grounds. He stated on his death bed that it was in bonds and gold,
and that we should never find it. He was just vindictive enough not
to destroy it, but to leave it somewhere, believing we should never find
it. Where did he hide it? The thinking machine sat silent for several
minutes, with his enormous yellow head tilted back and slender fingers pressed together.
The house and the grounds were searched, he asked. The house was searched
from cellar to garrett. Was the reply. Workmen, under my directions,
practically wrecked the building, floors, ceilings, walls, chimney stairs, everything,
little cubby holes in the roof, the foundation of the chimney, the
pillars, even the flagstones leading from the gate to the door. Everything was
examined. The joists were sounded to see if they were solid, and a
dozen of them were cut through. The posts on the verandah were cut to
pieces, and every stick of furniture was dissected, mattresses, beds, chairs,
tables, bureaus, all of it. Outside in the grounds the search
was just as thorough, not one square inch, but what was overturned.
We dug it all up to a depth of ten feet. Still nothing,
of course, said the scientist. At last, the search of the house
and grounds was useless. The old man was shrewd enough to know that they
would be searched. Also, it would appear that the search of banks and
safety deposit vaults was equally useless. He was shrewd enough to foresee that too.
We shall, for the present assume that he did not destroy the money
or give it away, So it is hidden. If the brain of man
is clever enough to conceal a thing, the brain of man is clever enough
to find it. It's a little problem in subtraction, doctor Ballard, He
was silent for a moment. Who was your grandfather's attending physician? I was.
I was present at his death. Nothing could be done. It was
merely the collapse consequent upon old age. I issued the burial certificate, where
any special directions lie left as to the place or manner of burial. No,
have all his papers been examined for a clue as to the possible hiding
place everything. There were no papers to amount to anything. Have you those
papers now? Doctor Ballard silently produced a packet and handed it to the scientist.
I shall examine these at my leisure, said the thinking machine. It
may be a day or so before I communicate with you. Doctor Ballard went
his way. For a dozen hours, the thinking machine sat with the papers
spread out before him, and the keen, squinting blue eyes dissected them,
every paragraph, every sentence, every word. At the end he arose and
bundled up the papers impatiently. Dear me, dear me, he exclaimed,
irritably, there's no cipher. That's certain. Then, what devastating hands had
wrought the wreck of the little hut where the old man died. Standing in
the midst of its litter, the thinking machine regarded it closely and dispassionately.
For a long time, the work of destruction had been well done. Can
you suggest anything, asked doctor Ballard, impatiently. One mind may read another
mind, said the thinking machine. When there is some external thing upon which
there can come concentration as a unit. In other words, when we have
a given number, the logical brain can construct either backward or forward. There
are so many thousands of ways in which your grandfather could have disposed of this
money that the task becomes tremendous in view of the fact that we have no
starting point. It is a case for patients rather than any other quality.
Therefore, for greater speed we must proceed psychologically. The question then becomes not
one of where the money is hidden, but one of where that sort of
man would hide it. Now, what sort of man was your grandfather,
the scientist continued, He was crabbed, eccentric, and possibly not mentally sound.
The cunning of a diseased brain is greater than the cunning of a normal
one. He boasted to you that the money was in existence, and his
last words were intended to arouse your curiosity, to hang over you all the
rest of your life and torment you. You can imagine the vindictive, petty
brain like that putting a thing safely beyond your reach, but just beyond it,
near enough to tantalize, and yet far enough to remain undiscovered. This
seems to me to be the mental attitude in this case. Your grandfather knew
that you would do just what you have done here, that is, search
the house. And he knew too that you would search banks and safety deposit
vaults, and with a million at stake, he knew it would be done
thoroughly. Knowing this, naturally he would not put the money in any of
those places. Then what he doesn't own any other property as far as we
know, and we shall assume that he did not buy property in the name
of some other persons. Therefore, what have we left? Obviously, if
the money is still in existence, it is hidden on somebody else's property.
And the minute we say that we had the whole wide world to search.
But again, doesn't the devil tree and maliciousness of the old man narrow that
down? Wouldn't he have liked to remember, as a dying thought that the
money was always just within your reach and yet safely beyond it. Wouldn't it
have been a keener revenge to have you you dig over the whole place while
the money was hidden just six feet outside in a spot where you would never
dig. It might be sixty or six hundred or six thousand. But then
we have the law of probability to narrow those limits. So Professor von Duson
turned suddenly and strolled across the uneven ground to the property line, Walking slowly
and scrutinizing the ground as he went, he circled the lot, returning to
the starting point. Doctor Ballard had followed along behind him. Are all your
grandfather's belongings still in the house, asked the scientist. Yes, everything just
as he left it, that is, except his dog and a parrot.
They are temporarily in charge of a widow down the road. Here. The
scientist looked at Doctor Ballard quickly. What sort of dog is it? He
inquired, A Saint Bernard, I think, replied Doctor Ballard, wonderingly.
Do you happen to have a glove or something that you know your grandfather war?
I have a glove. Yes. From the debris which littered the floor
of the house, a well worn glove was recovered. Now the dog,
please, commanded the scientist. A short walk along the country road brought them
to a house, and here they stopped. The Saint Bernard, a shaggy,
handsome, boisterous old chap with wise eyes, was let out on leash.
The thinking Machine thrust the glove forward, and the dog sniffed at it.
After a moment, he sank down on his haunches, and, with
his head thrust forward and upward, whined softly. It was the call of
the brute soul to its master. The thinking Machine patted the heavy coated head,
and, with the glove still in his hand, made as if to
go away. Again came the wine, but the dog sank down on the
floor with his head between his four paws, Regarding him intently for ten minutes,
the scientists sought to coax the animal to follow him, but still he
lay motionless. I don't mind keeping that dog here, but that parrot is
powerful noisy, said the woman after a moment. She had been standing by
watching the scientist curiously. There ain't no peace in this house. Noisy,
how, asked doctor Ballard. He swears and sings and whistles and does rithmetic
all day long, the woman explained. It nearly drives me distracted. Does
arithmetic, inquired the thinking machine, Yes, replied the woman. And he
swearses terrible. It's almost like having a man bout the house. There he
goes. Now from another room came a sudden, squawking burst of profanity,
followed instantly by a whistle, which caused the dog on the floor to prick
up his ears. Does the parrot talk well, asked the scientist. Just
like a human being, replied the woman. And jes bout as sensible as
some I've seen. I don't mind his whistling, if only he wouldn't swear
so and do all his figurein out loud. For a minute or more,
the scientists stood staring down at the dog in deep thought. Gradually there came
some subtle change in his expression. Doctor Ballard was watching him closely. I
think perhaps it would be a good idea for me to keep the parrot for
a few days, suggested the scientist. Finally, he turned to the woman.
Just what sort of arithmetic does the bird do? All kinds? She
answered promptly, he does all the multiplication table, but he ain't very good
in subtraction. I shouldn't be surprised, commented the thinking machine. I'll take
the bird for a few days, doctor, if you don't mind. And
so it came to pass that when the Thinking Machine returned to his apartments,
he was accompanied by as noisy and vociferous a companion as one would care to
have. Martha, the aged servant, viewed him with horror as he entered
the professor. Do be gettin' old, she muttered, I suppose there will
be a cat next. Two days later, doctor Ballard was called to the
telephone. The Thinking Machine was at the other end of the wire. Take
two men whom you can trust, and go down to your grandfather's place,
instructed the scientist. Curtly. Take picks shovels, a compass, and a
long tape line. Stand on the front steps facing east. To your right
will be an apple tree some distance off that lot on the adjoining property.
Go to that apple tree. A boulder is at its foot measure from the
edge of that stone twenty six feet due north by the compass, and from
that point fourteen feet due west, you will find your money there. Then,
please have someone come and take this bird away. If you don't,
I'll wring its neck. It's the most blasphemous creature I ever heard. Goodbye,
Doctor Ballard slipped the catch on the suitcase and turned it upside down on
the laboratory table. It was packed, literally packed with United States bonds.
The thinking Machine fingered them idly. And there is this too, said doctor
Ballard. He lifted a stout sack from the floor, cut the string,
and spilled out its contents. Beside the bonds, it was gold, thousands
and thousands of dollars. Doctor Ballard was frankly excited about it. The thinking
Machine accepted it as he accepted all material things. How much is there of
it, he asked quietly. I don't know, replied doctor Ballard. And
how did you find it as you directed, twenty six feet north from the
boulder, and fourteen feet west from that point. I knew that, of
course, snapped the thinking machine. But how was it hidden? It's rather
peculiar, explained doctor Ballard. Fourteen feet brought the man who had measured it
to the edge of an old, dried up well twelve or fifteen feet deep.
Not expecting any such thing, he tumbled into it. In his efforts
to get out, he stepped upon a stone which protruded from one side,
that fell out and revealed the wooden box which contained all this. In other
words, said the scientist, the money was hidden in such a manner that
it would in time have come to be buried twelve or fifteen feet below the
surface, because the well, being dry, would ultimately, of course have
been filled in. Doctor Ballard had been listening only hazily. His hands had
been plowing in and out of the heap of gold. The Thinking Machine regarded
him with something like contempt about his thin lipped mouth. How how did you
ever do it? Asked doctor Ballard. At last, I am surprised that
you want to know, remarked the thinking machine, cuttingly. You know how
I reached the conclusion that the money was not hidden, either in the house
or lot. The plain logic of the thing told me that even before the
search you made had demonstrated it. You saw how logic narrowed down the search,
and you saw my experiment with the dog. That was purely an experiment.
I wanted to see the instinct of the animal. Would it lead him
anywhere, perhaps to the spot where the money had been hidden? It did
not. But the parrot, that was another matter. It just happens that
once before I had an interesting experience with a bird, a cockatoo, which
figured in a sleep walking case, and naturally was interested in this bird.
Now, what were the circumstances in this case? Here was a bird that
talked exceptionally well. Yet that bird had been living for five years alone with
an old man. It is a fact that no matter how well a parrot
may talk, it will forget in the course of time unless there is someone
around it who talks. This old man was the only person near this bird.
Therefore, from the fact that the bird talks, we know that the
old man talked. From the fact that the bird repeated the multiplication table,
we know that the old man repeated it. From the fact that the bird
whistles, we know that the old man whistled, perhaps to the dog,
and in the course of five years, under these circumstances a bird would have
come to that point where it would repeat only the words or sounds that the
old man used. All this shows two that the old man talked to himself.
Most people who live alone a great deal do. That then came a
question as to whether at any time the old man had ever repeated the secret
of the hiding place within the hearing of the bird, not once, but
many times, because it takes a parrot a long time to learn phrases.
When we know the vindictiveness which lay behind the old man's actions in hiding the
money, when we know how the thing preyed on his mind, coupled with
the fact that he talked to himself and was not wholly sound mentally, we
can imagine him doddering about the place alone, repeating the very thing of which
he made so great a secret. Thus the bird learned it, but learned
it disjointedly, not connectedly. So when I brought the parrot here, my
idea was to know by personal observation what the bird said that didn't connect,
That is, that had no obvious meaning. I hoped to get a clue
which would result, just as the clue I did get did result. The
bird's trick of repeating the multiplication table means nothing except it shows the strange workings
of an unbalanced mind. And yet there is one exception to this. In
a disjointed sort of way, the bird knows all the multiplication tables to ten
except one. For an instance, listen, the thinking machine crept stealthily to
a door and opened it softly. A few inches from somewhere out there came
the screeching of the parrot. For several minutes, they listened in silence.
There was a flood of profanity, a shrill whistle or two. Then the
squawking voice ran off into a monotone six times one or six six time two,
or twelve six times three or eighteen six times four or twenty four and
ad two. That's it, explained the scientist as he closed the door.
Six times four are twenty four and add two. That's the one table the
bird doesn't know. The thing is incoherent, except as applied to a peculiar
method of remembering a number. That number is twenty six. On one occasion
I heard the bird repeat a dozen times twenty six feet to the polar star.
That could mean nothing except the direction of the twenty six feet due north.
One of the first things I noticed the bird saying was something about fourteen
feet to the setting sun or due west. When set down with the twenty
six I could readily see that I had something to go on. But where
was the starting point? Again, logic, There was no tree or stone
inside the lot except the apple tree, which your workmen cut down, and
that was more than twenty six feet from the boundary of the lot. In
all directions. There was one tree in the adjoining lot, an apple tree
with a boulder at its foot. I knew that by observation, and there
was no other tree I knew also within several hundred feet. Therefore that tree
or boulder rather as a starting point, not the tree so much as the
boulder. Because the tree might be cut down or would in time decay,
the chances are the stone would have been allowed to remain there indefinitely. Naturally,
your grandfather would measure from a prominent point the boulder. That is all
I gave you the figures. You know, the rest for a minute or
more. Doctor Ballard stared at him blankly. How was it you knew,
he asked, that the direction should have been first twenty six feet north,
then fourteen feet west, instead of first fourteen west and then twenty six feet
north. I didn't know, replied the thinking machine. If you had failed
to find the money by those directions, I should merely have reversed the order.
Half an hour later, doctor Ballard went away, carrying the money to
parrot in its cage. The bird cursed the thinking machine roundly as doctor Ballard
went down the steps. End of the Problem of the Hidden Million by Jacques Foutrelle