“Much obliged, Captain Miller,” he said. “I owe you a great deal.”
Miller stooped over and picked up the detective’s hat. “Why don’t you chaps arrest such speeders?” he inquired, pointing to the vanishing car.
“We do in most cases,” returned Mitchell, brushing the mud from his trousers, and limping back to the sidewalk. “However, the driver of that car is exempt.”
“Why?”
“We can’t arrest a United States Senator.”
“Ah, then you got his number.” Miller led the way to the sidewalk.
“That car doesn’t need a number to identify it,” grumbled Mitchell. “Its color and shape are too distinctive. We on the force call it the ‘Yellow Streak.’ The car belongs to Senator Randall Foster; when he’s at the wheel, the Lord help the pedestrians!”
“So it would seem,” dryly. “Where are you going, Mitchell?” observing the detective’s rather shaken appearance.
“To the Municipal Building.”
“Suppose you come and lunch with me first at the Occidental,” and the smile which accompanied the invitation was very persuasive. “It’s near where you are going.”
Mitchell had not lunched, and a hurried breakfast had been consumed before six o’clock. It was his hunger which had occasioned his haste to reach the Municipal Building and later a near-by cafe. His official business was not very pressing, and since meeting Miller at the Whitneys’ two days before, he had heard of his attentions to Kathleen Whitney. The rumor had interested him as much as Miller’s personality. Promptly he accepted Miller’s invitation, and the two men boarded the next downtown car.
Within a short time they were both eating an appetizing lunch in the attractive restaurant of the Occidental. Just before the arrival of coffee and cheese, Mitchell sat back in his chair with a sigh of physical content. The Martini had warmed his chilled body, and the lassitude which comes after a hearty meal was stealing over him. Miller had proved an agreeable companion, able to talk upon any subject—except one, in spite of the detective’s hints in its direction. Their table was in one corner apart from the others, and there was no danger of their conversation being overheard. Taking in their isolated position at a glance, the detective changed his tactics.
“I saw you at the Spencer inquest,” he said abruptly, applying a match to his cigar. “What do you think of the verdict?”
“What every sane man thinks,” answered Miller. “That the prosecution will have to secure more material and tangible proof before it can secure an indictment by the Grand Jury.”
“I’m not so certain of that,” responded the detective, ruffled by Miller’s casual manner. “Our evidence against Miss Whitney was pretty conclusive.”
“It would have been just as conclusive if applied to any other inhabitant of the Whitney house that night.”
“Hardly.” Mitchell smiled broadly. “I fear your friendship blinds you to the danger in which Miss Whitney stands.”
Miller refrained from answering until their waiter had served the coffee and cheese and departed. “Circumstantial evidence will not always convict—fortunately,” he said, helping himself to the Camembert. “What have you proved.…”
“That Spencer was Miss Whitney’s rejected lover,” broke in Mitchell. “That the knife belonged to her; that she tried to remove incriminating blood stains on his shirt with her perfumed handkerchief; and that he held in his hand a flower, possibly broken from the bouquet which she was wearing at the time.”
“It sounds formidable,” commented Miller quietly. “But there are a number of flaws. You have not absolutely proved that the knife belonged to Miss Whitney, only proved that it is probable she might have owned it. Wait”—as Miller started to interrupt. “The deputy coroner testified that Spencer was killed by cyanide of potassium.”
“Which, as Spencer did not swallow it, was administered by aid of the knife,” retorted Mitchell hastily.
“The deputy coroner said he found no trace of the poison on the knife blade.” Miller paused to refill Mitchell’s coffee cup. “Secondly, cyanide of potassium is not a drug which Miss Whitney would be apt to have around.”
“I saw a half-filled bottle of it in Whitney’s work-shop last Wednesday.”
“Quite true, I saw it there myself,” admitted Miller. “I also saw that Whitney kept his studio workshop under lock and key.”
“To outsiders; but it is just possible he is not so strict about the members of his household, his testimony to the contrary,” argued Mitchell. “The point is not well taken, Captain, and even if it were,” he stirred his coffee thoughtfully, “Miss Whitney did not need to enter her father’s workshop to secure the cyanide of potassium; I find she buys all his photographic supplies at a shop not far from here, and recently purchased a new supply of cyanide.”
“Purely circumstantial evidence,” responded Miller, keeping his expression unaltered by an effort. The detective’s last statement had startled him. “In regard to the flower which Spencer held in his hand: you say it was probably broken from the bouquet which she wore at the time of committing the crime—I am, for the sake of argument only, admitting that she might be guilty. The medical evidence went to prove that Spencer was killed between three and four in the morning; it is straining probabilities to claim that a young girl, in donning her wrapper, pinned on a bouquet of flowers.”
“How do you know she was not fully dressed? It was not so late in the morning; she could have gone to bed after the crime, or she may not have gone to bed at all.”
“All supposition,” scoffed Miller.
“Not quite all.” The detective, nettled by his jeering smile, spoke hastily. “On further inquiry I learned from one of the servants today that Miss Whitney had on the same dress Wednesday morning, when her screams aroused the household, which she wore at dinner the night before.”
“Ah, indeed?” Miller’s smile had ceased to be skeptical, it was strained. “And which servant imparted that information to you?”
“Henry, the chauffeur.”
“For a chauffeur, Henry seems to know a great deal about what transpires inside the Whitney house,” observed Miller thoughtfully. “Tell me, Mitchell, what motive do you attribute to Miss Whitney for the killing of Sinclair Spencer?”
Mitchell looked uncomfortable, and it was not until Miller repeated his question that he spoke. “I believe Spencer persuaded Miss Whitney to meet him clandestinely that night, and threatened to compromise her if she refused again to marry him.”
“Oh, come!” Miller spoke more roughly than he realized. “Wake up, Mitchell; you’ve been reading penny dreadfuls. Try and think up a motive which will hold water.”
The detective flushed. “That is quite motive enough,” he said. “If Miss Whitney takes the stand in her own defense she can, on that motive, enter a plea of killing to protect her honor.…”
“And any jury in the country would acquit her,” broke in Miller. “She would.…”
“Thus escape the gallows,” finished the detective.
“But I can suggest an even better solution of the problem,” put in Miller suavely, although his fingers itched to choke his companion.
“And that is—?”
“That the detective force find the guilty party.”
Mitchell suppressed a smile. “And where would you suggest that we hunt for this guilty party?” he asked. “Provided he or she is still at large, and not out on bail under indictment.”
“Search among the men and women who spent Wednesday night at the Whitneys’, servants as well as guests.”
“Captain,” in his earnestness Mitchell leaned across the table, “it is contrary to all records of crime that a man or woman will commit murder without motive.…”
“You forget homicidal maniacs.”
“True, but they do not belong in this category,” protested Mitchell. “No person in that house, except Miss Whitney, had a motive for killing Spencer.”
“Motives are not always on the
surface; I advise you to investigate …”
“Yes—?” eagerly.
“Is it true that arc lights have been installed at the United States navy yards and arsenals, which make them as light as day on the darkest night?”
“I believe so.” Mitchell glanced perplexedly at his companion. Why was he changing the conversation?
“And that visitors are not encouraged to loiter on government reservations?”
“I believe such an order has been issued,” conceded the detective.
“Also visitors are forbidden at the Government Radio Station at Arlington?”
“Yes.”
“And still there is a leak—government secrets are secrets no longer.”
“How do you know that, Captain?” and the detective shot a look full of suspicion at him.
“I only know what Senator Foster has told me,” carelessly. “I believe Foster’s advice has been sought in the matter.”
“And why did he confide in you?”
“He desired my help,” responded Miller. “Seemed to think my opinion might be worth something, but, honestly, Mitchell, I can’t see anything to this secret leak business—the Secret Service operatives are putting a scare over on the government.
“It’s more than that, sir. No more coffee,” and the detective, his sudden doubts dispelled by Miller’s sunny smile, leaned back once more in his chair. “It seems that officials here are awakening to the realization that government secrets are being betrayed. If the American troops are ordered to a certain point on the border, the order is known in Mexico before it is executed. It is the same with coded communications to Foreign Powers. The movements of our fleet are known to foreign naval attaches even before the maneuvers are carried out. The whereabouts of the smallest torpedo boat and submarine is no secret—to any but the American people.”
“Is that so?” Miller looked politely incredulous. “And is the Secret Service not investigating the matter?”
“Sure; they’ll handle it all right.” Mitchell twisted about in his chair. “At present, Captain, my entire attention is claimed by the Spencer murder. Where would you suggest that I begin my search among Whitney’s household for a motive which will explain the murder?”
“Why not try and find Julie, the French maid?”
The eagerness died out of Mitchell’s face. “We are trying,” he said. “But we can convict Miss Whitney without her evidence.”
“So you think Julie’s testimony will implicate Miss Whitney still further in the crime?”
“I do. I have no doubt she is accessory after the fact, and, provided with funds by Miss Whitney, stole away so as not to give evidence against her.”
“You have a curious conception of human nature, Mitchell,” was Miller’s only comment as he signed to their waiter to bring his check. He did not speak again until he and the detective were in the street. “You have overlooked a very important point, Mitchell, in your investigation of Spencer’s murder.”
“What is that?”
“You apparently believe that Miss Whitney murdered Spencer between three and four in the morning and then went back to her bedroom …”
“Go on,” urged Mitchell.
“At the inquest all witnesses testified that Miss Whitney was the first to find Spencer and that she was in the elevator with him.” Miller spoke with impressiveness. “Even the most hardened criminal would not have deliberately walked into that elevator and shut himself in with the man he had murdered a short time before—and yet, you argue that a highly strung, delicately nurtured girl did exactly that. It’s preposterous!”
“It does sound cold-blooded,” admitted the detective. “It is just possible that after committing the crime, she lost consciousness and remained in the elevator all night …”
“Talk sense!” ejaculated Miller disgustedly and, without waiting to hear the detective’s thanks for his luncheon, turned on his heel and hurried up Fourteenth Street. Mitchell watched his tall, erect figure out of sight with absorbed attention.
“I’d give a lot to know who he suspects murdered Spencer,” he muttered under his breath, and started for the Municipal Building.
As Miller approached his hotel, he thought he saw Foster’s yellow touring car move away from the ladies’ entrance. After procuring his mail he went at once to his room. He was about to open his letters when his eyes fell on an open drawer of his desk. Putting down the bundle in his hand, he carefully investigated every pigeonhole and drawer. The papers he looked for were missing.
Rising quickly, Miller examined the windows of his room and bathroom. They were securely fastened on the inside. In deep thought he went out into the hall to where the floor chambermaid and a companion were sitting in full view of his door.
“Have you been here long?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied the elder girl. “I’ve been on duty here ever since noon, and Mary,” laying her hand on her companion, “was here all the morning.”
“Has either of you seen anyone enter my bedroom?”
“No, sir, only yourself, sir,” answered the first speaker, and Mary echoed her words.
Chapter XX.
The Awakening
The prospect was uninviting at any time and to Julie, who had stared at the rows of slatternly kept backyards until she grew familiar with each battered garbage can, the sight was hateful. The rain had driven even the starved alley cats to cover, and with a sigh forlorn in its wretchedness, she turned from the window and contemplated her nicely furnished bedroom. The two days she had been there had passed on leaden feet. Captain Miller’s money had secured her a haven of refuge—food and a roof over her head—but had deprived her of liberty and the daily newspaper. The first had been the only restriction he had placed upon her acceptance of his bounty. His plea—protect Kathleen—had found a ready echo in her loyal heart, and blindly she had obeyed him.
The first day had passed in numb resignation, then had followed the reaction. As she recovered from bodily fatigue there came a quickening of the blood, and in spite of the cold driving rain, a longing for the out-of-doors possessed her.
Since the breaking out of the great world war, with its invasion of Belgium and her beloved France, she had become an inveterate newspaper reader, and during the days of “extras” she had formed the habit of depending upon them. From day to day, month to month, she had followed the ever shifting, always fighting forces on the firing line, and her knowledge of the situation in Europe would have shamed some of the students of the times. Her own personal loss and agonizing sorrow had been engulfed in her acceptance of the world’s tragedy, but it had made adamantine her desire to serve France.
Forty-eight hours had passed and she had not seen a daily paper. She had asked her landlady, Mrs. Robinson, for the loan of her Star, only to be told that Mrs. Robinson never took it. She had thereupon presented her with three cents and asked her to secure the morning papers. But Mrs. Robinson, on her return from market earlier in the day, had forgotten to comply with her request. The one servant, when appealed to in the hall, had promised to get her an evening Times, but on inquiry, Mrs. Robinson had informed her that the woman had finished her work and gone home.
What was happening in Europe? Had the Allies attempted the drive hinted at during the winter months? Had Italy cast her lot with the Allies? Julie’s restlessness increased as each question remained unanswered. From whom could she get a newspaper? Mrs. Robinson had assured her that she was the only boarder in the house, and on the one occasion on which she had left her room, she had seen no one but the servant. The latter had gone out, and Mrs. Robinson had not responded to her call ten minutes before. Julie sighed again and gazed wearily out over the backyards; then a thought came to her. Why not go to a front window and hail a newsboy; there might be one in the vicinity?
With brightened eyes Julie left her room and, walking down the hall, turned the knob of the door opposite her own. It would not open. Bethinking herself, Julie rapped timidly on the door panel
; then receiving no reply, she rapped again. No voice nor footstep responded to the summons; apparently the room was empty. Considerably perplexed, Julie turned and made her way to the second bedroom floor. Quickly she rapped at each closed door and tried its knob. Each door was locked and her repeated raps went unanswered. In the fourth floor she met with the same results, and, returning again to the stairs, she made her way down them almost at a run.
The silent and apparently empty house frightened her, and it was with a fast beating heart that she made her way to the ground floor and into the drawing-room. Its sumptuous furnishings astounded her. Mrs. Robinson had neither the air nor the well-dressed appearance of a woman of wealth. From her swarthy skin and black eyes and hair Julie had taken her for a Creole.
The stair door leading to the basement was not locked, and Julie laid a hesitating hand on it. Should she seek Mrs. Robinson in the kitchen? Almost without her own volition she released her hold on the knob and retraced her steps to the front door. She needed air; the silent house was getting on her nerves. She suddenly remembered the noises she had heard in the night and which, in the morning, she had attributed to her feverish condition.
Noiselessly she removed the night latch and slipped into the vestibule. She stood for a moment filling her lungs with the cold refreshing air, then bethinking herself, stepped behind the closed section of the outer door. She must not be seen by a chance policeman. As she stepped back her foot encountered a small bundle, and she looked down. Joy of joys I It was a folded newspaper. As she opened it she saw in the dim light of dusk the red letter stamping: “Subscriber’s copy.” What had Mrs. Robinson meant by telling her she did not take newspapers?
Not pausing to worry further over that problem, she hastily scanned the first page of the five-thirty edition of the Times; and her eyes dilated as she read the scare headings:
SPENCER’S WILL OFFERED FOR PROBATE
KATHLEEN WHITNEY, CONVICTED BY CORONER’S JURY, IS RESIDUARY LEGATEE OF MURDERED CLUBMAN SOCIETY GIRL OUT ON BAIL FURNISHED BY SENATOR FOSTER
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