“Could you go and see if he is with her, Miss Grey?” urged Mitchell. “Her suite of rooms is the one place where I have not looked.”
“Yes, I—I suppose so,” but the spinster held back.
“Do go,” put in Foster gently. “A clandestine meeting is not wise for either Kathleen or Miller. Think of the construction which may be put upon it.”
“True.” But Miss Kiametia rose reluctantly, and to gain time to collect her ideas, walked over to the table to gather up her scarf and gold mesh purse. As she picked up the latter a slight scream escaped her. Instantly the two men were by her side.
“See, it’s missing!” she cried, raising the gold mesh purse with its dangling vanity box.
“What is missing?” demanded Foster. “Don’t look so distracted, my darling.”
“M-m-my g-gold p-p-pencil,” she stuttered.
“Is that all?” and Foster smiled in relief. “I’ll buy you another tomorrow.”
“Indeed you won’t,” recovering some degree of composure. “I’ll find mine, if I have to search this house from the top to the bottom.”
“But please see Miss Whitney first,” broke in Mitchell.
Miss Kiametia cast him a strange look. “That is the first place I shall go,” she announced, and the two men watched her depart in silence. Foster was about to speak when the electric lights flickered, grew dim, and then went slowly out.
“Trouble in the power house,” grumbled Mitchell, searching his pocket for his electric torch. “I noticed a tie-up in the street cars just before I came in. Can you find any candles on the mantel, sir?” flashing his torch in that direction. “Every light in the house must be out.”
* * * * *
Henry, the chauffeur, paused in indecision on Baron Frederic von Fincke’s doorstep. “You are quite certain the Baron said he would return on the night train?”
“Quite,” answered the valet. “He is due here at seven o’clock in the morning. Good night.”
“Good night,” echoed Henry, and turning went swiftly down the street. He stopped for a moment at a news stand, talked with the proprietor, and then turned his footsteps toward the Whitneys’. As he passed the War, State, and Navy Building the lighted windows attracted his attention. With deepening interest he noted the location of the rooms from which the light shone. Officials of the government were working late.
Turning, Henry sped down a side street and slipping up an alley, entered the Whitney house by the rear entrance. He stood in deep thought outside the kitchen door for a moment before opening it; a flash from his electric torch showed the dark room was totally empty. Satisfied that Rosa had gone to her bedroom, he crept softly up the back stairs and along the front hall of the first bedroom floor. He had almost reached Miss Kiametia Grey’s bedroom door when a slight noise made him pause and glance up the winding front stairs. He shrank farther back in the shadows of the dark hall as a faint light appeared, outlining a white face peering down the staircase.
Henry caught his breath sharply. How came Julie to be back in the house? The she-devil! Spying upon him. By God! The reckoning was close at hand, and he crawled forward a pace, then stopped. Julie had vanished, and with her the light. Henry debated for a moment. With Julie in the house, his plans were changed.
Losing no time, and as noiseless as the shadows about him, Henry made his way down the back stairs, into the kitchen, down another flight of steps into the sub-cellar, past the bottom of the elevator shaft, the motor room, and to the front of the house. With swift, deft fingers he swung aside a panel of shelves containing rows of preserve jars and pickles, and stepped inside a small chamber. Carefully he drew to the panel which, with its strong, well-oiled hinges, made no sound as it slipped into place. A second more and the small chamber was flooded with light as Henry found the switch. Never glancing at the batteries lining the wall, he went direct to the small pine table, and his fingers sought the telegraph instruments and set them in motion.
Upstairs in the library the two candles which Foster had been able to find in the desk drawer burned brightly in their improvised candlesticks. The flame, however, served but to intensify the darkness of the large room. The minutes had ticked themselves away in swift succession, but still Miss Kiametia Grey did not return. Mitchell shut his watch with an impatient snap, and Foster, his nerves not fully under control, looked up at the sound.
“What can be keeping Miss Grey?” he asked.
“Can’t imagine, unless—” The detective never completed the sentence.
“Come quickly,” whispered a voice over his shoulder, and swinging about with a convulsive start, Mitchell recognized Charles Miller. With common impulse he and Foster sprang up, but he was the first to reach Miller’s side, and the candlelight shone on burnished steel. “Put up the handcuffs, Mitchell,” directed Miller contemptuously. “The time has not yet come to use them.”
“I am not so sure of that,” retorted Mitchell. “You are …”
“We can argue the point later.” Miller made for the door. “Both of you come with me; but for God’s sake, make no noise.” His manner impressed them, and after one second’s hesitation, the detective replaced the handcuffs, and in their stead produced a revolver.
“Go ahead,” he said. “But remember, Miller, if you attempt to escape you will be arrested.”
Without replying Miller led the way through the silent house, his torch and occasional whispered direction guiding them to the sub-cellar.
Inside the chamber under the parking of the house, Henry worked with tireless energy, taking down the coded messages as they flashed from the skilled fingers of the Government operators in the great War, State, and Navy Department but a stone’s throw away. Suddenly, above the click of the sounder his abnormal sense of hearing caught a faint noise on the other side of the closed panel. One movement of his hand and the chamber was in darkness and the telegraph instrument stilled. Backing into a corner, Henry waited, his eyes still blinded by the change from light to darkness; but he heard the opening of the panel, and the soft swish of a woman’s skirts.
“Julie!” His lips formed the word, but no sound issued from him as he launched himself forward. For a few seconds he closed with his adversary. Backward and forward they rocked; then a shot rang out and with a sob a figure sank limply across the pine table.
“This way!” shouted Miller, and guided by his voice Mitchell and Foster dashed after him. They stopped just inside the chamber. Miller’s torch cast its beams across the pine table and its silent burden. A gasping cry broke from Foster:
“Mrs. Whitney!”
Chapter XXIV.
Retributive Justice
“Dead!” The detective bent over Mrs. Whitney. “Shot through the heart.” He turned to his silent companions. “Who fired that revolver?” and his own covered Miller menacingly.
Miller, spying the electric lamp, switched it on before answering. Still silent, he pointed to the telegrapher’s outfit which confronted them and to the tell-tale wires leading to the outer world.
“The shot was fired,” he said, “by the man who tunneled out to the conduit in which are the cables running to the White House and War, State, and Navy Building, and tapped them.”
“Where is he?” Mitchell cast a bewildered look about the small chamber.
“I felt someone brush by me on the stairs in the darkness,” volunteered Foster, recovering somewhat from his stupefaction. “I fear he has got safely away.”
“No.” Miller stepped back from Mrs. Whitney’s side. “Chief Connor of the Secret Service has a cordon of operatives about the house. Heinrich Strauss, alias Henry Ross, chauffeur, cannot escape. Listen, isn’t that a shot?”
“I hope to God they’ve caught him alive!” exclaimed Mitchell, looking sorrowfully at the dead woman. “He’ll swing for this murder, if not for the death of Sinclair Spencer.”
“I doubt if he was guilty of that crime,” said Miller quietly.
“What!” Mitchell stared incredulously a
t him. “What leads you to think that?”
“Hush!” Miller held up a warning hand as the sound of hurrying footsteps reached them. A second more and Julie appeared in the sub-cellar, guided by their light. Her eyes were gleaming with a strange excitement. Unnoticed by the others, Miller swiftly removed his coat and threw it over Mrs. Whitney so that it covered her face.
“He is caught, that Henry!” called Julie, catching sight of Foster standing in the opening of the secret chamber. “He was getting away, oh, so softly in the dark, and I tripped him. But yes, and he fired”—touching a red gash in her cheek. “But the others, they pounced upon him. La—la! And they are bringing him here. But what—?” trying to peer past Foster.
Miller stepped forward. “Crouch down behind those barrels, Julie,” he ordered, and the Frenchwoman, startled by his sudden appearance, obeyed mechanically. By sheer force of personality Miller took command. “Go back and wait in the telegraph room,” he whispered hurriedly. “You do the questioning, Mitchell; I’ll keep out of sight here.”
Before Mitchell could ask the question burning on his lips, a number of men made their way down the staircase, Heinrich Strauss in their midst, handcuffed to the tallest operative. Mitchell saluted as he recognized the foremost man.
“This room will interest you, Chief,” he said, making way for him, and Connor took a comprehensive look over the chamber.
“We’ve found the leak,” he acknowledged. “Clever work that,” inspecting the arrangement of the wires. He drew back at the sight of the covered figure stretched across the table. “What’s this—murder?”
“Yes,” answered Mitchell. “Henry, here,” jerking his thumb toward the erstwhile chauffeur, “killed the woman before we could interfere.”
“Did I?” demanded Heinrich. “How are you going to prove it? I wasn’t in this room …”
“You waste time,” said a cool voice behind him, and Miller stepped into the circle. “The game is up, Heinrich.”
“You renegade!” Heinrich was livid with fury.
“This man is Heinrich Strauss,” continued Miller quietly. “One of the most expert electricians and telegraph operators in Germany. He could be described as an electrical genius.”
“His work shows that,” acknowledged Chief Connor.
A slight stir in the doorway caused Heinrich to turn, and he smiled evilly at sight of Kathleen and Miss Kiametia Grey.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” he said, addressing Kathleen directly, as she shrank back at sight of him. “That man there,” pointing to Miller, “is Karl von Mueller, captain in the Secret Service.” A low moan broke from Kathleen, and she looked anywhere but at Miller, who had stepped forward to stand between her and the pine table with its pathetic burden. “Von Mueller,” continued Heinrich, “killed Sinclair Spencer.”
“I deny it,” exclaimed Miller.
“Lies won’t help,” retorted Heinrich. “Miss Whitney, did you not attempt to rub off with your handkerchief from Spencer’s blood-stained shirt, Captain von Mueller’s finger print?”
The question from that source was unexpected. Twice Kathleen strove to answer. She cast an agonized look about the circle of men, but their set, stern faces gave her no help.
“Yes,” and the monosyllable was little more than a murmur.
“Ah, take that down, Detective Mitchell,” exclaimed Heinrich, triumphantly. “And von Mueller was in the house that night—do you deny it?”
“No.” Miller’s clear voice did not falter nor did his gaze, and Mitchell, handcuffs in evidence, looked perplexedly at Chief Connor. The latter was watching Miller like a lynx, and the Secret Service operatives closed up in the entranceway—there was no chance to escape, handcuffs seemed unnecessary.
The smile that crossed Heinrich’s lips was cruel. “We will swing together, von Mueller,” he said. “Turning state’s evidence will not save you, you traitor!” With an effort he controlled his rage, and spoke more calmly, “Chief Connor, your informer last night stole Whitney’s invention; besides admitting to me that he had it, he left these tell-tale finger prints”—his hand sought his pocket, but a quick jerk on the handcuffs stopped him. “Take it out yourself,” he snarled to the operative next him, “inside pocket.” His request was quickly complied with. “There, that tells the story; open it.”
Detective Mitchell bent eagerly forward and gazed at the sheet, then turned to Miller.
“Let me see your hands,” he directed. Obediently Miller held them palm uppermost, and the detective and Chief Connor examined the half-moon scar on the index finger of his right hand with minute care.
“It tallies,” exclaimed Mitchell. A cry from Kathleen broke the silence. Miller whitened as he heard it.
“The evidence is conclusive, is it not?” mocked Heinrich. “If that dead woman could speak”—pointing to the table—“she would tell you how she saw the crime committed.”
“Suppose we take her mute testimony”—and with a swift movement Miller removed his coat.
“Merciful God!” With eyes starting from his head Heinrich recoiled. “Mrs. Whitney! Why didn’t she let me know she was coming down here?”
“Ah, then she was in the habit of coming?”
Miller’s remark remained unanswered. Heinrich stared and stared again at Mrs. Whitney, great beads of sweat standing on his forehead. “I thought it was Julie—that hell-cat!” he muttered. “Why, why didn’t she speak, and let me know who she was?” Then suddenly he collapsed on the one chair in the chamber and bowed his head.
At sight of Mrs. Whitney a gasping cry escaped Kathleen. Involuntarily her eyes strayed about the chamber, her dazed senses slowly grasping the situation. In the appalling silence one idea became paramount—Henry, the chauffeur, was a spy, and both his words and behavior implicated Mrs. Whitney. She, his accomplice? Oh, impossible! She put the thought from her, but memories, unconsidered trifles, rose to combat Kathleen’s loyalty. Had Mrs. Whitney’s smilingly collected manner and dignified reserve cloaked a cold, calculating, and treacherous nature?
Kathleen shuddered in horror, and reeled back into Miss Kiametia’s arms. The spinster, shaken out of her forced composure, was crying without realizing it. She placed a protecting arm about Kathleen and held her in close embrace. Over the shoulders of the men, Julie, who had crawled from her hiding place behind the barrels, peered at them in mingled curiosity and incredulity.
“Heinrich!” Miller’s voice penetrated even the spy’s benumbed brain. “Why is Mrs. Whitney wearing these finger tips?” and he held up the limp right hand. Each finger was fitted with a wax tip, and on the index finger, distinct and plain, was the scar shaped like a half moon.
Stunned, the men and women present looked first at Mrs. Whitney’s hand, then at Miller, and last at Heinrich. No one spoke, and in the heavy silence the spy’s labored breathing was distinct.
“The game is up,” he admitted slowly. “I wish I hadn’t done that,” nodding to the silent figure. “She didn’t deserve to be shot by me. She was faithful to Germany …”
“Do you mean to insinuate that Minna Whitney was a German spy?” asked Miss Kiametia, shocked into speech.
“Well, yes, you might call it that,” taunted Heinrich. “I term it loyalty to the Fatherland, where she was born and brought up. Her mother was a German.”
“She would never have aided you but for your devilish wiles,” broke in Miller hotly.
“The fact that she was deeply in debt did influence her,” admitted Heinrich insolently. “Money was her god. I had to pay handsomely before she would engage my services as chauffeur, and let me make use of this nice little box.”
“Did you construct this tunnel under the pavement”—pointing to where the telegraph wires entered the chamber—“and install this outfit by yourself?” asked Chief Connor, breaking his long silence.
Heinrich smiled. “You will never learn that from me—and you should remember that your conduits are laid only seven inches below the surface of the street; it was h
ardly a man-sized job.” He smiled again, and continued. “Neither Mrs. Whitney nor I wished to take anyone wholly into our confidence. She was a perfect assistant; she knew the antecedents of nearly everyone in society here, and she invariably found out, or got others to find out, the motives which inspired strangers to come to Washington. Her husband never interfered with our plans, as he spent most of his time, both day and night, in his studio. The servants never came down in this sub-cellar, and with Mrs. Whitney’s connivance, I frequently managed to keep the limousine in the repair shop—and my time was my own. My surroundings were ideal, even the location of this house favored my plans …”
“Until you grew too ambitious,” added Connor softly.
“Perhaps.” Heinrich gnawed at his underlip as he shot a glance full of venom at Kathleen who stood with head averted, drinking in all that was said. To hurt her, to lower her pride appealed to Heinrich; his silence would not benefit the dead woman, while speech would cruelly hurt and mortify both Kathleen and her father. “My government was anxious to secure Mr. Whitney’s inventions; he would not sell to them, although Baron—” he stopped and scowled at Miller—“offered him a large sum. Whitney stuck to it that none but his own country could have the inventions. Then I suggested to Mrs. Whitney that she get the drawings and specifications for me; and again I paid her a large sum of money. But it was as difficult for Mrs. Whitney to get into the studio as for me, and the danger to herself was not small. Her husband was very suspicious, and he never permitted her to remain in the room alone.
“However, because she was not aware I had perfected, as I thought, another plan to secure the invention, and tempted by the sum of money I held before her to succeed, she made another attempt last night. She cried out with disappointment when, after entering, she found only blank paper, and Whitney heard her.” He stared at the horrified faces about him, and clearing his voice, added, “The shock finished Whitney.”
“You are the devil incarnate!” exclaimed Miss Kiametia, wrathfully.
“I’m not, but he is.” Heinrich raised his manacled hands menacingly toward Miller. “I never fully trusted you, von Mueller; although I never found any evidence of your double dealing in your room. But while outwardly appearing to confide in you, I took the precaution to incriminate you should my plans miscarry. I observed the peculiar scar on your finger, and conceived the idea of copying your finger tips in wax. With Mrs. Whitney’s help, I secured an impression of your finger prints and had it copied in wax. The workman, another German sympathizer, achieved a wonderful copy of the original, and by my advice Mrs. Whitney wore the wax finger tips whenever she had work to do.”
I Spy Page 19