“Indeed?” Miller made no effort to conceal his eager curiosity. “At what height were they taken?”
“Ah, that I do not feel at liberty to disclose. How, when, and where this new camera can be utilized is of interest to all military men; but as Whitney’s friend, I could not divulge details he may desire kept secret, even if I knew them.”
“Pardon me, I thought you his most intimate friend.…”
“I am, but not his confidant. And as his friend, I cannot discuss his private affairs with you.”
“I don’t agree with you there.” Miller tossed his cigarette stub into the iron grate. “Would it not be a friendly act to place Whitney in a position to coin money?”
“Ah, so that is why you take an interest in his invention?” Foster laid down his cigar and contemplated his companion closely. “You wish to buy …”
“Exactly.”
“Is the purchaser to be the same for whom you are collecting horses and ammunition?”
“Yes.”
Foster did not answer at once, and Miller, without seeming to do so, took silent note of the handsome appointments of the dining-room. The silver service on the sideboard, the cut-glass decanters and liqueurs seemed somewhat out of place in a bachelor apartment. Somewhat puzzled, Miller looked more fully at his host, hoping to find an answer to his unspoken doubts. Careful of his dress, deportment, and democracy, Foster had early gained the sobriquet “Dandy,” but there was nothing effeminate in his spare though muscular form, and his long under jaw indicated bulldog obstinacy. Confessing to fifty, Foster did not look his age by ten years.
“I shall have to ponder your question, Miller.” As he spoke Foster rose. “Frankly, I’ve been striving to interest our Government in Whitney’s invention, and that is one of the things which has kept me in Washington. Suppose we go and see Whitney now. I know that he is anxious to dispose of his invention—he is hard pressed for money,”
“Indeed!” The pupils of Miller’s eyes contracted suddenly. “Possibly Whitney will give me a hearing, and I need not offer”—he stopped, looked at his cigarette case, returned it to his pocket, and followed Foster out of the room—“a large sum,” he finished, helping the Senator into his overcoat.
Foster laughed shortly. “You will get no bargain. Whitney’s politeness is on the surface; underneath he is as hard as nails, and suspicious—” The Senator’s cough cut short his speech and echoed down the corridor as he closed the door to his apartment. “Won’t even let me look at the camera, much less let me examine the lens, specifications, drawings, plate, et cetera. In fact, refused to give me any details, although he knows I must have the information so as to interest others in his invention.”
“But surely he has had the camera tested thoroughly?”
“Oh, yes. It has leaked out that the lens is so powerful and the mechanical parts of the camera so perfect that maps of the country taken at a remarkable height depict fortifications to the minutest detail. No one knows the method employed to bring about such a result. That is the secret locked inside Whitney’s studio and his brain. Whitney is a genius, and unlike others of his ilk, is extremely modest about his own achievements. He covers his real nature under a mantle of eccentricity. I doubt if his wife and daughter really gauge his capabilities.” A violent fit of coughing interrupted him, and he did not speak again for some minutes. As the elevator reached the ground floor, Foster saw his chauffeur standing near the office. “My car at the door?” he asked, as the man approached.
“Yes, sir,” touching his cap. “Will you drive, sir?”
“Not today, too much cold, don’t want pneumonia. Jump in, Miller.” Foster signed to him to enter first. “Take us to the Whitneys’, Mason,” he directed, and sprang into the tonneau.
Five minutes later they stopped in front of the Whitney house, and directing his chauffeur to wait, Foster accompanied Miller up the steps, but before either could touch the bell, the door was opened by Vincent whose white face brightened at the sight of the Senator.
“Step right in, sir,” he begged. “The master was just telephoning for you, sir.” Vincent paused and looked doubtfully at Miller. “Did you wish to see Miss Kathleen, sir?”
“Yes,” taking out his visiting card.
“Miss Kathleen is sick in bed.” Vincent appeared still more confused, but Foster, standing somewhat in shadow, caught Miller’s look of alarm which the butler missed.
“What is the matter with Miss Kathleen?” demanded Miller, and there was no mistaking the feeling in his voice and manner.
“She had a shock, sir, a most awful shock.” While speaking Vincent tiptoed toward the library; he felt that he could never make a loud noise in that house again. “An awful shock,” he repeated. “We all felt it.”
“What do you mean?” Foster laid an impatient hand on the old servant’s shoulder.
“Why, sir, he’s dead.…”
“Whitney?” The question sprang simultaneously from Foster and Miller.
“No, no, sir. Mr. Sinclair Spencer, sir. He was murdered”—Vincent shuddered as the last word crossed his lips.
His hearers stared stupidly at each other, and then at the butler. “Who murdered him?” asked Miller, the first to recover speech.
“We don’t know—they say Julie; leastways we only know for positive that Miss Kathleen was with him …”
Miller turned first white then red, and an angry gleam lit his eye as he stepped nearer the agitated servant.
“That will do. Go tell Mr. Whitney we are here,” and his tone caused Vincent to hurry away in deep resentment.
Foster gazed dazedly at Miller. “What can have happened?” he asked. “Was Spencer so foolish as to bait Winslow …”
“Careful,” cautioned Miller, his quick ear detecting a footstep in the adjoining drawing-room. An instant later Miss Kiametia Grey stepped into the library.
“Thank goodness you have come,” she exclaimed, darting toward Foster. “I’ve wanted you so much …”
“My darling”—Foster, forgetful of Miller’s presence, clasped her hand in both of his.
“There—there—this isn’t any time for sentiment,” and Miss Kiametia’s chilly tone recalled the Senator to the fact that they were not alone. Looking a trifle foolish, he dropped her hand and stepped back.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, coldly. “You said you needed me.”
“Well, so I do, as legal adviser,” with unflattering emphasis. “Good morning, Captain Miller; I did not recognize you at first. I suppose you have both heard of Sinclair Spencer’s tragic death.”
“Yes, but none of the particulars,” answered Miller. “And also that Kathleen is ill. Do tell me how she is,” and though he strove to conceal his anxiety, his manner betrayed his emotion to the sharp-eyed spinster.
“The doctor gave her an opiate,” she said quickly. “She will be herself again when she awakes. Her condition does not worry me.” She hesitated, shot a quick furtive look at Miller’s intent face, and added: “But I am alarmed by the mystery surrounding Sinclair Spencer’s death.”
“Tell us the details,” urged Foster.
“Details,” echoed the spinster. “There are none. We were awakened this morning by Kathleen’s screams, rushed into the hall and found her in the elevator with Sinclair Spencer’s dead body. She appeared completely unstrung, could make no coherent statement, and when the doctor came, was given an opiate.” She paused and looked hopelessly at the two men. “We know no more of the murder than that.”
“We must wait until Kathleen awakens,” said Whitney, and Miss Kiametia started violently at the sound of his voice; so absorbed had the others been in her remarks that his quiet entrance a few minutes before had passed unnoticed. “I trust that she will then be more composed.”
“Did she say nothing to you and Minna when you were with her before the doctor arrived?” questioned Miss Kiametia, smothering her eagerness with difficulty.
“Nothing that made sense.” Whitney ran his fingers through
his gray hair until it stood upright. “She babbled Spencer’s name, alternating with the moaning cry, ‘Kaiser blumen!”
“‘Kaiser blumen! What in the world—” The spinster checked her hasty speech on catching sight of Detective Mitchell loitering just inside the library door. “Do you want to see Mr. Whitney?” she asked, raising her voice a trifle, and all turned to face the detective as he advanced toward them. Bowing gravely to Senator Foster and Captain Miller, Mitchell stopped opposite the spinster, but his first remark was directed to Whitney.
“Your wife tells me, sir, that the French maid, Julie, has been in your employ over four years.”
“She has,” acknowledged Whitney, making no effort to conceal his impatience. “Will you kindly postpone your questions, Mitchell, until later; I desire to converse with my friends now.”
“I will intrude but a moment longer.” Mitchell slipped one hand inside his coat pocket. “When will it be convenient, sir, for you to take me into your studio?”
Whitney looked at the detective as if he did not believe his ears.
“Why the devil should I take you through my studio?” he thundered, his anger rising. “I take no one there—you understand, no one.”
“Pardon me, these are exceptional circumstances. As an officer of the law it is my duty to examine the entire premises where a crime has been committed. On reaching your attic, I found the door leading to your studio locked, and I have come downstairs, sir, to ask you to take me into that room.”
“And I absolutely refuse.”
“In that case, sir,” there was a steely glint in Mitchell’s eyes which betokened trouble, “I shall send for a locksmith and have the bolt forced.”
“Wait,” Foster laid a restraining hand on Whitney’s shoulder as the latter made a hasty step in the detective’s direction. “I assure you, Mitchell, that the so-called studio is Mr. Whitney’s workshop; he is, as you no doubt know, an inventor.” Whitney opened his mouth to speak, then closed his jaws with a snap. “Mr. Whitney is now engaged upon a most important invention. It is quite natural that he does not wish.…”
“It is hardly a matter of wishes, Mr. Senator,” broke in Mitchell. “A murder has been committed here, and it is imperative that everything be done to apprehend and convict the criminal.”
“Ha!” Whitney’s snort was almost a triumphant challenge. His altered demeanor did not escape the shrewd eyes watching him so keenly. “So you think I murdered Spencer?”
“I have not said what I think,” retorted the detective brusquely. “Come, sir, we are wasting time; take me over your studio at once.”
Whitney’s haggard face reddened with anger; twice he opened and shut his mouth, then thinking better of his first impulse, he turned on his heel.
“Follow me,” he directed ungraciously. As he stepped toward the doorway he looked back and encountered Miller’s intent gaze. The Captain’s gray eyes, their devil-may-care sparkle dampened by anxiety for Kathleen, broad forehead, and firm mouth inspired confidence. He looked a man whose word could be relied on. Whitney, harassed by conflicting doubts, and agonizing apprehensions, acted on impulse. “Come with us, Captain. We’ll be right back, Kiametia; you and Foster wait for us here.”
By common consent the three men avoided the elevator and walked up stairs. On reaching the attic, Whitney made at once for his studio and inserting keys in the double lock turned the wards, and opened the door.
“Go in,” he said, and waited until the two men had preceded him in the room, then entered and closed the door, shooting the inner bolt. The detective looked around as the faint click of the metal caught his ear. “Force of habit,” explained Whitney. “Hurry and make your examination, Mitchell; I wish to rejoin my friends downstairs as quickly as possible. Have a seat, Captain?”
But Miller declined, and stood watching Mitchell as he made a thorough search of the apartment. Nothing escaped his attention, and such furniture as the room boasted was minutely scrutinized, even the Cooper Hewitt lights and cylinder arc lights being switched on to assist in the examination. Models, large sink, darkroom, cabinets, tool chest, drawing tables, and small chemical laboratory were subjected to a thorough search. Miller’s silent wonder grew; nowhere did he perceive a model resembling a camera, or the camera itself.
Whitney, sitting astride an ordinary wooden chair, followed the detective’s movements with sardonic amusement, which now and then found vent in a grim smile. Whitney’s expression was not lost upon Miller, who, finding him a more interesting study than Mitchell, watched him intently while appearing to be deeply engaged in examining an elevator model.
“Isn’t this the design copied in building your elevator, Mr. Whitney?” he asked.
“Yes; that is the model I made when the elevator was built. It was one of the first installed in a private residence in Washington.”
“It is somewhat different from others that I have seen,” commented the detective, replacing a bottle carefully on a shelf. “The cage is so very shallow in depth and so long in width.”
“I had to cut my coat according to my cloth,” curtly. “This house is very old and the outer walls are of unusual thickness, also the inner ones, which accounts for the peculiar shape of the elevator. The brick shaft had to be built to conform to the walls and staircase. I also invented that safety air brake catch,” he added, as Miller ran the elevator to the top of the shaft and released the cage with a sudden jerk. The elevator slipped down a flight, then automatically adjusted itself and stopped.
“A clever idea,” said Miller admiringly. “When I first used your elevator, Mr. Whitney, I was struck by its unexpected capacity to hold six people. Its shallowness is deceptive.”
“That’s so.” Whitney stared at the clock suggestively. “Kathleen, as a child, used to slip in unseen, and as the majority of the people enter the elevator facing the floor button plate with their backs to where she stood, she gave her governesses many scares.”
The detective stopped to examine the elevator model carefully, and pressed the button marked “Attic.” “Persons entering the elevator instinctively pull to the inner door with their left hand and push the floor button with the right, and they would be standing with their backs to where Spencer lay,” he said.
“And anyone could have started the elevator without knowing of his presence,” put in Miller softly, and the detective nodded assent.
“You have no floor indicator connected with the elevator, Mr. Whitney,” commented Mitchell thoughtfully.
“No.” Whitney rose abruptly. “Finished your search?” Not waiting for a reply he prepared to leave, and a covert sneer crossed his lips as he asked, “Found anything criminal?”
“Only these bottles,” indicating the shelves near the laboratory. “There’s enough poison here to kill a regiment.”
“And only for use in photography,” Whitney busied himself in adjusting shades which the detective had raised or lowered the better to see the room. “Rather a commentary on the laws governing the sale of poisons, Mitchell; can’t buy them at a druggist’s, but any man, woman, or child can go into a photographic supply store and buy any quantity of deadly poison and no questions asked.”
“Perhaps,” was Mitchell’s sole comment, as he removed a stopper from a blue glass bottle and sniffed at its contents.
“Hm! You are of an inquiring turn of mind.” Whitney’s eyes contracted suddenly. “May I remind you that Spencer, whose death you are investigating, was stabbed.”
“With a dull knife,” answered Mitchell, setting down the bottle. “And it must have taken muscular force to drive the knife home.”
Whitney was suddenly conscious of both men’s full regard, and his thin, wiry figure stiffened. His eyes snapped with pent-up feeling.
“Is a man to be convicted of crime because it is physically possible for him to commit murder?” he demanded harshly, and not waiting for an answer unbolted the door. “I fear, Mitchell, you have wasted both my time and yours. Remember this, sir.” He step
ped directly in front of the detective. “Those making a charge must prove it. Now go.”
Chapter XIV.
A Question of Loyalty
Miss Kiametia Grey waited until the sound of Whitney’s, Miller’s and the detective’s footsteps had died away down the hall before addressing Senator Foster.
“Suppose we sit over there,” she suggested, indicating a large leather sofa, and not waiting for his assent, walked over to it and seated herself.
The sofa stood with its back to one of the windows, and from its broad seat its occupants would have a complete view of the attractive library with its massive furniture, huge old-fashioned chimney, and bookcase-lined walls. Foster, following Miss Kiametia, was startled by a glimpse of her face as she stepped into the sunlight whose merciless rays betrayed the new lines about her closely compressed lips. A touch of rouge enhanced her pallor. Suddenly conscious of his intent regard she seated herself, turning her back squarely to the light.
“Sit there,” she exclaimed pettishly, pointing to a Morris chair which stood close to the sofa. “I prefer to have the person I’m talking to face me.” Without remark Foster made himself comfortable, first, however, pulling down the shade to protect his eyes from the glare of sunlight.
“We can’t be overheard,” began Miss Kiametia. “At least I don’t think we can,” and her sharp glance roved inquiringly about the room. “What was Sinclair Spencer doing in that elevator?”
“Going downstairs,” hazarded the Senator, “or up.”
“Or waiting.”
“Eh?” Foster shot a quick look at her. “Waiting? What for?”
“That is what we have to discover,” and Miss Kiametia sat back and folded her hands.
“Yours is hardly a reasonable supposition. People do not usually wait in elevators, Kiametia.”
“There’s no law against it,” was her tart reply. “I have very good reason to believe Spencer was not going out of the house.”
“May I ask what that reason is?”
“He wore no shoes,” and for an instant a smile hovered on her lips as she caught his startled expression. She was woman enough to enjoy creating a sensation, and it was not often that she surprised the Senator.
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