“An ingenious plan, very,” ejaculated Mitchell, “and one new to me.”
“Mrs. Whitney was wearing them on the night that Sinclair Spencer took it into his besotted brain to investigate this house,” went on Heinrich. “Mrs. Whitney told me afterwards that she was on the way here to see me, when she spied Spencer crouching in the elevator, the door of which was open. She was afraid of being discovered if she went upstairs again, and to stay was equally dangerous.
“She had with her a hypodermic syringe which I had given her to use in an emergency.” Kathleen straightened up, and for the first time stared full at the spy. “The syringe was filled with a solution of cyanide of potassium,” continued Henry. “Adjusting the needle, Mrs. Whitney entered the elevator, and before Spencer could move, thrust it into his neck. Spencer gave one convulsive start, attempted to get up, and his heavy body lurched full against her. She held a knife in her left hand, and as he half arose from his knees, the force of contact against the worn edges of the knife gashed his throat. I had asked Mrs. Whitney to bring me one of the knives which her daughter had for modeling, as I wanted to use some putty down here.
“With great presence of mind,” continued Heinrich, after a brief pause which no one cared to break, “Mrs. Whitney ran the elevator to the attic, and before leaving dipped her wax finger tip in the blood flowing from Spencer’s throat, and made a distinct impression of von Mueller’s finger print on Spencer’s white shirt front. Mrs. Whitney left the elevator at the attic, but Detective Mitchell arrived before she missed the syringe. On discovering Miss Grey had it, she made various attempts to get it back.
“I found the hypodermic syringe,” confessed Miss Kiametia. “It was lying inside the elevator, and I picked it up just after Kathleen was carried from the elevator. The syringe was marked ‘K.W.,’ and some impulse made me keep it, and after the inquest, when I learned cyanide of potassium had killed Spencer, I hardly let it out of my sight”—Kathleen turned bewildered, grateful eyes on the spinster—she was not a drug-fiend, but the most loyal of friends. Her hand tightened on the spinster’s, and her pressure was returned twofold. “Did Kathleen’s unnatural mother deliberately have that syringe marked with her daughter’s initials?”
“Put it down to coincidence,” sneered Heinrich. “Or say I had it marked ‘K.W.’ for—Kaiser Wilhelm.”
“I doubt it; malice alone governed your actions to all in my house.” Kathleen faced the spy proudly. “Miss Kiametia, you do Mrs. Whitney one injustice. She was not an unnatural mother—as she was no blood kin of mine, but my father’s second wife. She never told anyone that I was not her child. I don’t know why she kept the matter a secret, but I only learned it accidentally a year ago, and respecting her wishes, never said anything about it.”
“Mrs. Whitney was secretive by nature,” said Heinrich. “And that instinct made her a willing pawn.”
Chapter XXV.
Love Paramount
Pausing only long enough to say a parting word to Coroner Penfield and Chief Connor, Miller hastened up the back stairs and entered the library. Kathleen and Miss Kiametia Grey, utterly unmindful of the hour, sat on the sofa, and near them stood Julie, a neat bandage wound about her cheek and head, while Senator Foster paced agitatedly up and down the room. He stopped on seeing Miller.
“Will you kindly inform us who you are?” he demanded peremptorily. “The Secretary of State showed me a letter tonight from Vincent stating that you were a German spy …”
“Oh, that Vincent!” exclaimed Julie. “I talked too much to him.”
“I came here at once,” went on Foster, paying no attention to Julie, “hoping to elicit some facts about you from Miss Grey and Miss Kathleen. Tell us at once who you are.”
“Charles Miller Trent,” was the calm reply.
“Then why”—Kathleen sprang to her feet—“why were you masquerading as Karl von Mueller when I knew you in Germany?”
“I beg your pardon, you did not know me in Germany.” Kathleen crimsoned at the direct contradiction. “But you did know my cousin, Karl von Mueller.”
Too dazed for utterance, Kathleen stared at him, studying his face as never before, and gradually her incredulity gave place to belief. Feature for feature, coloring matching coloring, the man before her resembled Karl as she remembered him, but the honesty and steadfast purpose to be read in Miller’s square jaw and fine eyes had been lacking in his cousin.
“The likeness is extraordinary,” she stammered.
“Yes,” agreed Miller. “But I do not think you would have been so thoroughly certain of my identity if I had not copied my cousin’s mannerisms as well as his handwriting.”
“Then you were brought up together?” asked Foster.
“In a way, yes. I was never in Germany, but my aunt, Frau von Mueller, spent many winters at my father’s home in Rio Janeiro.…”
“What, are you the son of the coffee importer, Charles M. Trent,” demanded Foster, again interrupting him.
“Yes. As boys Karl and I were perpetually changing identities and confusing our playmates, as well as our parents. To that end I was a willing German scholar, and Karl also became proficient in his English studies.”
“Were you entirely educated in South America?” asked Miss Kiametia.
“Oh, no; I spent a great deal of time in Santa Barbara, my mother’s home, and later attended Stanford University. But I have seldom been in the East, and have few friends here. Last fall I overcame my mother’s objection (she unfortunately sympathized with Germany), and went to England to enlist in the British army,” continued Miller, after a brief pause. “The night of my arrival in London I was arrested, charged with being a spy. I had great difficulty, even with my passport and letters to my bankers, in proving I was not a spy. Finally, I was told that a man resembling me had been arrested, tried at once, and executed that day.”
“They keep such things quiet over there,” commented Foster.
“To cut a long story short, I was taken to see the dead spy, and found he was my cousin, Karl von Mueller”—He hesitated and glanced sorrowfully at Kathleen who sat with head averted. How would she take the news he was imparting—how deep was her affection for the dead spy? Sighing, he continued his statement. “The indorsement of my father’s influential friends, whom I had called upon to establish my identity, evidently carried weight, for on my release it was suggested to me by one high in authority that, instead of enlisting in the army, I use my cousin’s identity and spy upon the Germans. There was a spice of deviltry in the scheme and—I accepted.
“They gave me his papers, clothes, money, and I slipped straight into his place. None of his companions had heard of his arrest and death. Those whom I saw I told I had been out of London on a special mission, and they believed the statement without question. By aid of such papers as my cousin had kept concealed on his person, I learned something of his methods, and contact with his companions in London taught me assurance. No one doubted my identity. Karl had assumed the name of Charles Miller and it was easy for me to drop my surname. Finally I was sent to a certain town in the warring countries, and there I received instructions to come to the United States.”
“Did the Germans accept your identity without question?” asked Foster.
“Apparently so; but I was not in Germany twenty-four hours, and the Herr Chief of the Secret Service was familiar with my cousin’s appearance and never doubted he was talking to Karl,” answered Miller. “On my arrival here I communicated at once with Chief Connor, giving him the credentials I had brought from the London office. By his advice I followed out the instructions given me by the Herr Chief of the German Secret Service, and to all intents and purposes was a German spy. But as I grew to know Baron von Fincke better, I became convinced that another and cleverer man was responsible for the leak in the carefully guarded offices of this government. I suspected everyone,” Miller smiled suddenly, “even you, Senator Foster—your peace propaganda fooled me.…”
“Wait,�
� broke in Miss Kiametia. “Randall shan’t be blamed for that; Minna Whitney insinuated that he would not make a peace speech even for me, so I—I.…”
“Proved her wrong,” Foster laughed ruefully. “Mrs. Whitney was a keen student of human nature; but continue, Miller—er—Trent—I won’t interrupt again.”
“Chief Connor confided to me that messages were being wirelessed to German cruisers, and that while the station at Sayville, Long Island, was under surveillance, they were powerless to check the new use of the wireless.” Miller drew his chair closer. “I made a study of wireless while at college, and the problem here fascinated me. I finally reached the conclusion …”
“Yes, go on,” urged Foster.
“That messages to the German cruisers were being relayed from stations close together; in other words, that the station in the heart of this city had a wave length shorter than Arlington’s minimum wave length, and the Arlington Radio Station was unable to hear—you already know that a transmitting and receiving station can only hear each other when in tune; that is, the wave length of each must be equal. I therefore established a receiving station in my room with a short wave length—and the result justified my reasoning.”
“Good!” ejaculated Foster heartily.
“But at that, while I had the messages to turn over to Chief Connor, I was still in the dark as to the location of the sender. You know it is impossible to determine the direction or distance of a transmitting station by its waves—a ship at sea cannot be found by wireless unless its bearings are given. I concluded that the transmitting station must be in the vicinity of the government buildings, and the next relay within five miles—a greater wave length could be picked up by Arlington.
“On Tuesday night I got on the roof of one of the tall government buildings near here, and examining each roof as I crossed it looking for wireless antennae, I finally reached this house. I suspected I was being watched by Baron von Fincke, but managed to confuse him as to the direction I was taking, and finally clambered down into this attic through the scuttle. I was certain he was not aware of my identity, and for the sake of my plans, could not risk discovery.
“I had never been in your attic before,” went on Miller, addressing Kathleen directly. “I was not even positive this was your house. When trying to find my way about I chanced upon the elevator shaft; I thought I was walking into a closet. At that moment I heard a footstep on the stair.” Julie started and bent eagerly forward. “Desiring to get away as quickly as possible, I pressed the button for the elevator.…”
“But the elevator must have been right there,” interrupted Kathleen. “You could not have opened the outer mahogany door otherwise.”
“So I realized when I had collected my wits,” responded Miller. “Opening both doors, I bolted into the elevator a few minutes before the footsteps reached the attic.”
“Was Spencer in the elevator then?” questioned Foster.
“I don’t know; the elevator was dark, and I only used my flashlight for a second to show me the proper button to push for the first floor. It may be that Spencer was in the elevator, but I did not see him.”
“But I did,” volunteered Julie, coming forward. “And I it was you heard creeping upstairs. I believed that Henry was a spy and feared that he would steal Mr. Whitney’s invention. Oh, monsieur, I was so intent on guarding the studio I never gave a thought to the sub-cellar. Frequently I watched all night in a niche I had fashioned near the wine closet, but on Tuesday, alas! I slept. The soft closing of the elevator door awoke me, and a person whom, by her walk and height, I judged to be mademoiselle, moved away from the elevator and went downstairs. Inspired by curiosity I entered the elevator a moment later, and switched on the light. I was almost overcome by the sight of M. Spencer, and turned out the light to shut away the view. I rushed to my room; but I could not rest. I was in agony for you, mademoiselle; that very afternoon I had warned you against Monsieur Spencer, and I feared—Oh, forgive me! that you had killed him because he had injured your father. After a long interval I crept upstairs to the attic and there tried to puzzle out what would be best to do for mademoiselle. Fearing the police would make me tell what I had seen, I ran away.”
“When did you discover Sinclair Spencer in the elevator, Kathleen?” asked Miss Kiametia.
“When I went to find Julie on Wednesday morning,” began Kathleen. “I was very absent-minded that morning, and after pressing the button for the elevator never noticed whether it was long arriving at my floor or not—the length of time it takes to reach a floor is the only way we have of judging from where it comes,” she explained. “I entered the elevator intent only on pushing the basement button, which I did with my right hand, pulling the folding grille-work steel door to with my left hand. My back was turned to where Sinclair Spencer lay.” She shuddered at the recollection. “Just before the elevator reached the basement I turned around and saw him. At first I was too stunned to move; then impulsively turned on the electric light so that I might see better, and discovered the finger print on his shirt.
“I don’t suppose I would have been so quick to recognize the finger mark had not Miss Kiametia called my attention to it the day before when reading Captain M—Trent’s palm,” she resumed, not looking at Miller. “Horrified, I took my handkerchief and strove to make the stain unrecognizable; then suddenly I lost control of myself, and gave vent to scream after scream, and pressed my finger to the button nearest my hand. I was taken to the third floor, but the stopping of the elevator did not bring me self-control, and I think I should have lost my mind if the elevator had not moved of itself; I realized someone had pushed a floor button, but when the elevator stopped again and Miss Kiametia opened the door, I had lost all reason … I.… “She stopped, overcome by the recollection.
“My poor darling!” Miss Kiametia kissed her tenderly.
“How did you get that scar on your finger, Trent?” inquired Foster.
“While on a hunting trio with my father in the interior of South America my cousin and I, then fifteen and sixteen respectively, played a trick on one of our Indian guides. With the assistance of other Indians he branded my finger, saying by the half-moon we would be identified one from the other.”
“That explains.” Kathleen drew a long breath. “I racked my brain to remember whether I had seen the scar on your finger in Germany, and concluded you had perhaps received the injury since—since our last meeting.”
“Tell me, Kathleen,” broke in Miss Kiametia, “how did it happen that Sinclair Spencer had a flower from your bouquet in his hand?”
“I don’t know, except that I wore the flowers the night before, and one may have fallen on the floor of the elevator and he picked it up.”
Julie, who had followed Kathleen’s every word with the closest attention, stepped to Miller Trent’s side. “Monsieur, can you explain this telegram?” handing it to him. “Heinrich dropped it here late this afternoon.”
Miller read the two words, then drew out a pencil. “Divide the word Trenton’ to ‘Trent on’ and it reads: ‘Trent on, hurry.’ Yesterday afternoon I met a man named Hartzmann; he had known Karl intimately, and before I left him I realized something had aroused his suspicions. In New York he communicated with Buenos Ayres, found my whereabouts was unknown to my family, and jumped to the conclusion that I was impersonating my cousin.”
“How do you know that?” demanded Foster.
“The Secret Service operative shadowing Hartzmann notified me of it today,” answered Miller. “Obviously Hartzmann neglected to give any key to his dispatch to Heinrich, and the latter must have been entirely in the dark as to the real meaning of the warning. Von Fincke, whom Hartzmann apparently relied on to enlighten Heinrich, is out of town.”
“Was it the operative’s message to you about Hartzman which brought you here tonight?” asked Foster.
“No; I came hoping for an opportunity to examine Mr. Whitney’s studio, and used a key to the front door which I had had made without He
inrich’s knowledge. I thought by examining the studio I could find out who really went there last night; Heinrich brought me a set of the finger prints, and their startling resemblance to mine convinced me that a plot, devilish in its ingenuity, was being concocted and an attempt made to involve me in their machinations. On my way to the studio I saw Heinrich creeping downstairs and followed him. I never for one moment suspected Mrs. Whitney.”
“Nor did anyone else,” agreed Foster. “Except that Heinrich was shocked into confession by his having unintentionally killed Mrs. Whitney, thinking her Julie, we might never have learned the whole truth. Mitchell, after seeing Vincent’s note to the Secretary of State, was thoroughly convinced you were guilty. By the way, Kiametia, what kept you so long upstairs when Mitchell asked you to find out if Miller was with Miss Kathleen?”
“Searching for that hypodermic needle; I believed Kathleen had taken it back.”
“Did you see Mrs. Whitney upstairs?”
“No, I stopped for a moment in Winslow’s room, and the nurse told me Minna had gone to her bedroom to lie down.”
“What possessed her to go to the sub-cellar?” asked Foster.
“Probably a demon of unrest, or she may have had some message to leave for Heinrich,” suggested Miller. “When he grappled with her in the dark she undoubtedly thought him a detective and dared not call out for fear of disclosing her identity. Probably she thought Heinrich out of the house, and never dreamed of his attacking her.”
I Spy Page 20