The Problem of Cell 13 | Page 6

Dr. Ransome," he said at
length, still puzzled, and he unrolled the inner piece of linen.
"Well, if that -- what -- what do you think of that?" he asked, dazed.
The guard took the bit of linen and read this:
"Epa cseot d'net niiy awe htto n'si sih. "T."
Ê
III
The warden spent an hour wondering what sort of a cipher it was, and
half an hour wondering why his prisoner should attempt to
communicate with Dr. Ransome, who was the cause of him being there.
After this the warden devoted some thought to the question of where
the prisoner got writing materials., and what sort of writing materials
he had. With the idea of illuminating this point, he examined the linen
again. It was a torn part of a 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