I Spy

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  “Why did you not deliver them to me last night?” he asked curtly.

  “I started to, sir, but seeing you walking with Baron von Fincke down Massachusetts Avenue, sir, I.…” Henry’s eyes wavered and fell before Miller’s scrutiny.

  “Followed me?” prompted the latter, bending forward.

  “Only a little way”—quickly. “I did not like to intrude, sir, and by following hoped to get a chance to give you Miss Kathleen’s package and note. I lost sight of you at Thomas Circle, sir, and went home. That is the gospel truth, sir, as sure as my name is—Heinrich.”

  Miller viewed the chauffeur in silence. “So!” he exclaimed, and a pleased smile brightened his face. “Naturalized, or born in this country?”

  “Born here, sir, of naturalized parents.” The chauffeur twisted his cap nervously. “German-American, sir.”

  “There is no such thing, Heinrich.” Miller’s voice deepened. “The hyphen cannot be recognized. You are either American or German.”

  The chauffeur straightened himself, and his heels clicked together as he raised his hand in salute.

  “Hoch der Kaiser!”

  The words were echoed by Miller as he sprang forward and grasped the chauffeur’s hand. “For the Fatherland!” he added in German. “Why have you not declared yourself before?”

  “Until last night, Herr Captain, I was not absolutely sure you were one of us. But later in the evening Baron von Fincke.…”

  “Stood sponsor for me,” finished Miller, thrusting his hand in his pajama pocket, and thereby pushing an envelope still deeper in it. “What have you to report? Wait, speak English; the walls have ears.”

  The chauffeur whitened and moved closer to Miller. “Was Mr. Spencer in your confidence?”

  “No.”

  “And the Baron did not trust him,” said Heinrich, reflectively. “If he was not one of us, how came he to be killed?”

  “God knows.” Miller threw out his hands in a hopeless gesture. “I don’t.”

  “But there must be some motive for the crime,” argued the chauffeur. “Miss Kathleen must have suspected something before taking …” Powerful hands on his throat choked his utterance.

  “Never mention Miss Kathleen’s name in that connection again,” commanded Miller, his voice low and stern. “You hear me, you dog!” and he shook Heinrich until his teeth rattled, then released him.

  “Pardon,” gasped the badly frightened man. “I meant no offense.”

  “See that you follow my instructions hereafter.”

  “Yes, sir”—Heinrich caressed his throat tenderly, and looked at Miller with a new respect. “I was only going to mention, sir, that Mr. Spencer meddled in what did not concern him. I believe he suspected what I have come to believe.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That this photography business is only a blind.”

  “A blind?” Miller looked thoughtfully at his companion. “Suppose you pull up a chair; wait, first hang your cap over the keyhole of the hall door.” While waiting for Heinrich to follow his instructions Miller seated himself. “A blind?” he repeated. “No, no, Heinrich, you are mistaken; Mr. Whitney has invented a very perfect aeroplane camera, of that I am thoroughly convinced. And our country needs it.…”

  “Undoubtedly, sir,” Heinrich almost stuttered in his growing excitement. “But he has invented something that we need more.…”

  “What is that?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  Miller, who had been leaning forward in his eagerness, drew back. “Don’t waste my time, Heinrich,” he said roughly.

  “Your time won’t be wasted,” protested the German. “Have patience and let me explain. I cannot manage this affair alone, I need assistance—and—you are a frequent caller at the Whitney house.…”

  “Well, what then?”

  “Mr. Whitney may be persuaded to take you to his studio …” the chauffeur hesitated.

  “Proceed,” directed Miller shortly. “You can count on me.”

  “Good,” the chauffeur hitched his chair closer. “Day before yesterday I carried a telegram up to the studio. Not hearing any sound in the room, I carefully turned the knob of the door and found it unlocked. For months I have tried that door, hoping for just such luck,” he interpolated. “Opening it very softly, I saw Mr. Whitney standing with his back to me, and facing the muzzle of a rifle. I had only time to note that the rifle was braced on two iron brackets and that Mr. Whitney was holding a string which was attached to the trigger; when I saw a flash, the rifle’s recoil—and Mr. Whitney still standing just where he was.”

  Miller stared incredulously at Heinrich, down whose face sweat was running; the man was obviously telling the truth—at least, what he believed to be the truth.

  “Wake up, Heinrich,” he said skeptically, and the chauffeur flushed hotly.

  “It’s God’s truth I’m telling you,” he declared solemnly. “For the sake of the Fatherland, believe me.”

  “I will,” and Miller’s fist came softly down on his desk. “Did you hear no report?”

  “None; there was a Maxim silencer on the rifle.” “I see—and blank cartridges in the breech.” “That is what I first thought on seeing Mr. Whitney still standing,” admitted Heinrich. “I believed he was trying to commit suicide. Then I heard him exclaim: ‘God be thanked! I’ve solved the problem; it stood the test.’”

  “Hardly a suicide’s speech.” Miller stared at Heinrich. “Probably he was testing the Maxim silencer.”

  “No, Herr Captain.” The chauffeur almost jumbled his words over each other in his haste. “An instant after the flash, I saw Mr. Whitney sway upon his feet, recover his balance, and stand upright.”

  “The blast of powder must have caused that.”

  “He was fully the length of the room from the muzzle of the rifle. There were no powder marks on his vest and coat when he opened the door in response to my knock a few minutes later. You see, Herr Captain, as soon as I got back my wits, I closed the door. When Mr. Whitney pulled out his gold pencil from his vest pocket to sign for the telegram I heard something drop on the floor, and letting the receipt slip fall, I stooped over and picked up with it—this—” and he laid on the desk a Mauser bullet.

  Miller examined it curiously. His companion was the first to break the silence. “It is flattened on one side, Herr Captain.”

  “I see it is.” Miller weighed the bullet in his hand. “You have something more to tell me, Heinrich; out with it.”

  “Yes, Herr Captain. That night I bribed Vincent to let me valet Mr. Whitney, and I found the vest he wore that afternoon. In it, over the heart, was a round hole.”

  “Did the bullet fit it?”

  “Exactly.” There was a protracted silence, which the chauffeur broke with a question. “What do you make out of it, sir?”

  Miller did not answer directly. “Was Mr. Whitney wearing his ordinary business suit?” he inquired.

  “Yes, Herr Captain.”

  “You are sure he wore nothing over it?”

  “Absolutely positive.”

  Miller handed back the bullet. “It rather looks as if Mr. Whitney has invented some wearing apparel which Mauser bullets cannot penetrate,” he said slowly, “or else.…”

  “Yes, Herr Captain.”

  “You are a great liar.”

  Chapter XVI.

  At the Morgue

  Shortly before three o’clock on that same afternoon in which Heinrich had confided in Miller, dashing turnouts and limousines, their smartly liveried coachmen and chauffeurs asking now and then the direction from street-crossing policeman, trotted and tooted their way down busy Seventh Street toward the wharves, their destination a modest two-storied stuccoed building bearing the words, “D. C. Morgue.” The inquest on Sinclair Spencer was to be held there at three o’clock.

  Spencer’s tragic death twenty-four hours before had indeed created a sensation in the nation’s Capital. The wildest rumors were afloat. Was it delibe
rate murder or suicide? The press, ever keen to scent sensational news, had devoted much space to the little known facts and hinted at even more startling developments; all of which but whetted the curiosity of the public. The social prominence of the Whitneys had precipitated them still further into the limelight; not often did the smart set have so choice a titbit to discuss, and gossip ran riot. It had few facts to thrive upon, as both the coroner and the police refused to give out the slightest detail.

  “Good gracious!” ejaculated Miss Kiametia, as the touring car in which she and Senator Foster were riding threaded its tooting way through the many vehicles. “This street resembles Connecticut Avenue on Saturday afternoon. Where is the morgue?”

  “Right here,” and Foster sprang out of the car with alacrity as it drew up to the curb. He had been, for his cheery temperament, singularly morose, and Miss Kiametia’s attempt to make conversation during their ride had failed. The spinster’s talkativeness was a sure indication that her nerves were on edge; she usually kept guard upon her tongue.

  “Do you suppose the Whitneys are here?” she asked, adjusting her veil with nervous fingers as she crossed the uneven sidewalk.

  “Probably; I imagine we are late. Look out for that swing door.” Foster put out a steadying hand. “This way,” turning to the left of the entrance.

  “One moment, sir,” and Detective Mitchell, who with several others from the Central Office had been unobtrusively keeping tab on each new arrival, joined them. “Miss Grey, being a witness, must stay with the others in this room. The inquest is being held in that inner room, Mr. Senator. Will you sit over here, Miss Grey.…”

  But the spinster hesitated; she relied upon Foster more than she was willing to admit, and the promise of his presence had reconciled her to the prospect of a trying afternoon.

  “I prefer to go with you,” she objected, turning appealingly to him.

  “But, Kiametia, you can’t,” interposed Foster hurriedly. “The law forbids it. I will be in the next room should you need me.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, then glanced hastily about the room. In one corner the Whitney servants, their inward perturbance showing in their white scared faces, sat huddled together, but there was no sign of Mr. and Mrs. Whitney and Kathleen. Apparently he and Miss Kiametia were earlier than he had at first thought. Turning from Miss Kiametia, he addressed Detective Mitchell in a low tone.

  “Have you caught Julie, the French maid?” he asked.

  “All developments in the case will be brought out at the inquest,” replied Mitchell politely, and Foster, his curiosity unsatisfied, walked away. He found the room used for inquests crowded to the doors, and made his way through the knot of men standing about, to the reporters’ table, where a seat had been reserved for him by the morgue master. Across the east end of the room was the raised platform upon which stood a long table and chairs for the coroner, the deputy coroner, and the witnesses, while to their left were the six chairs for the coroner’s jury. As the Senator seated himself he spied Charles Miller among the men standing at the back of the room. There was a vacant chair next to his, and after a few hurried words with the coroner, Foster beckoned Miller to join him.

  “I called you up repeatedly this morning,” said Miller, pushing his chair closer to the Senator so as to make room for a reporter on his left. “But your servant declared you were not at home.”

  “I spent most of the morning at the Whitneys’ and lunched with Miss Grey. Horrible affair, this; the Whitneys are all unstrung.”

  “Did you see Kathleen?”

  “No,” Foster stroked his chin nervously. “She has steadily refused to see anyone, even her parents. Her conduct is most strange.”

  “I don’t agree with you,” warmly. “She has undergone a great shock, finding a friend dead in an elevator.…”

  “Ah, did she?” The words seemed forced from Foster; he would have given much to recall them on seeing the look that flashed in Miller’s eyes.

  “She did,” he asserted tersely. “Kathleen is the soul of honor—you have but to know her to appreciate that—she and evil can never be associated together.”

  “You are a warm champion,” exclaimed Foster. “I should almost imagine—”

  “That I am engaged to her?” calmly. “Quite true, I am.”

  Foster drew back. “I—I beg pardon,” he stammered in some confusion. “I had no idea affairs had progressed so far—I am sorry I spoke as I did.”

  “You were but echoing what I hear on all sides,” answered Miller bitterly.

  “True,” Foster nodded. “Kathleen’s extraordinary silence, when by a few words she could explain what happened yesterday morning before her screams aroused the household, is causing unfavorable comment and unfortunate conjecture.”

  “The mystery will be explained this afternoon,” and quiet confidence rang in Miller’s pleasantly modulated tones. “Hello, I see some members of the Diplomatic Corps are present.”

  “And the so-called ‘four hundred,’” growled Foster. The close atmosphere had started him coughing, and he scowled at Baron Frederic von Fincke who was seated near by. “Where is the jury?” he asked, as soon as the paroxysm of coughing was over.

  “Viewing the body in that room.” Miller indicated a closed door to his right. “The jury is sworn in there by the morgue master.”

  As he spoke the door opened and the six men, led by the morgue master, filed into the room and took their places, and the low hum of conversation died away as the coroner, stepping to the platform, stated briefly the reason for the inquest, and summoned Dr. Hall, of the Emergency Hospital, to the witness chair. He was quickly sworn by the morgue master, and in response to the coroner’s question, stated that he had reached the Whitney residence shortly after eight o’clock Wednesday morning in answer to a telephone call.

  “Tell the jury what you found on your arrival,” directed the coroner.

  “I was shown upstairs by the butler, whose incoherent remarks led me to suppose that someone was ill in the elevator. On entering it I found Mr. Spencer, whom I knew slightly, lying there dead.”

  “Did you make a thorough examination?”

  “Only enough to prove that life was extinct. The butler informed me that my services were needed by Miss Whitney, and I went at once to her.”

  “In what condition did you find her?”

  “Hysterical. To quiet her, I finally administered an opiate, and sent for a trained nurse.”

  “Did you consider her case dangerous?”

  “No, but she was completely unstrung; her nervous system had undergone a severe shock, and I feared for her mental condition if not given immediate relief and complete rest.”

  “Have you seen her today?”

  “Yes, this morning.”

  “How was she?”

  “Much improved.”

  “Did Miss Whitney speak to you of Mr. Spencer?”

  “She did not.”

  “Did you question her on the subject of the mystery surrounding Mr. Spencer’s death?”

  “I did not. In her condition I judged it a topic to be avoided. I also cautioned her parents not to discuss it with her unless she voluntarily alluded to it.”

  “How long had Spencer been dead, Doctor, when you saw him?”

  “I cannot answer positively, as I did not make a thorough examination, but judging from appearances, I should say he had been dead at least four hours.”

  Miller shot a triumphant look at Foster, then turned his attention to the coroner, who was scanning his notebook.

  “I think that is all, Doctor,” he announced, “you are excused.”

  There was a slight pause, and the deputy coroner, who had been taking the testimony, laid down his pen and gently massaged his hand. The next instant at the coroner’s direction, the morgue master ushered in Detective Mitchell. The detective, after being duly sworn, told his full name and length of service in the District force, and briefly described his arrival at the Whitney residence.

>   “You examined the body in the elevator?” questioned the coroner.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Was Mr. Spencer dressed?”

  “Yes, sir, except for coat, waistcoat, collar, and shoes.”

  “Are these the clothes he had on at the time of his death?” The coroner pointed to a pile of wearing apparel lying on the desk.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Did you search for the weapon with which Mr. Spencer’s throat was gashed?”

  “At once, sir,” answered Mitchell promptly. “At the back of the elevator near the body I found this”—holding up a short bone—handled knife which he took from his coat pocket. “The blade was covered with blood.”

  Coroner Penfield took the knife and after examining it, handed it to the foreman of the jury who, upon scanning it closely, passed it on to his companions.

  “Have you ever seen such a knife before?” questioned the coroner. “The blade is a peculiar shape.”

  “Yes, sir; that shape of knife is sometimes used in modeling clay and by glaziers when handling putty.”

  Penfield and the deputy coroner exchanged glances, then the coroner resumed his questions. “Did you examine the bedroom Mr. Spencer occupied Tuesday night, Mitchell?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Had the bed been slept in?”

  “Apparently it had, sir. The pillows and covering had been tossed about.”

  “Did you find anything in the room belonging to the deceased?”

  “Yes, the coat and waistcoat of his suit, his collar and shoes.”

  “Was there any indication, besides the tossing of the bedclothes, that the deceased had made preparations to sleep there?”

  “Yes; I found a pair of pajamas lying on the floor near the bed, apparently hastily discarded, as they were turned wrong side out.”

  “Did you examine the deceased’s clothes?’

  “Yes, sir. They were what any gentleman would wear in the evening. In his pockets I found a wallet containing twenty dollars in bills, three dollars in loose change, and his keys. Here they are, sir,” and Mitchell, as he mentioned each ticketed article, laid them on the table before the coroner, who examined them carefully.