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I Spy

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"Me, monsieur?"

"Yes."

"But--but--" stammered the Frenchwoman, overwhelmed. "I have committed no
crime. I but left because I could not bear to tell what I know."

"Your departure is construed as a confession of guilt." The Captain bent
his handsome face nearer hers. "It is only a question, Julie, of the
depth of your affection for Mademoiselle Kathleen. Are you willing to
shield her at all costs?"

The Frenchwoman faltered for a second, then drew herself proudly erect.
"_Oui, monsieur_. Mademoiselle was kind to me when I lost all--my lover,
my brothers died for France. There is no one who cares for me now but
mademoiselle. I shall not betray her."

"Good!" The Captain wrung her hand. "Come," and he led the way into
the house.




CHAPTER XV

THE GAME, "I SPY"


Barely pausing to dip his pen in the inkstand, Charles Miller covered
sheet after sheet of thin paper with his fine legible writing. As he
reached the final word he laid down his pen and stretched his cramped
fingers and gently rubbed one hand over the other. For the first time
conscious of the chill atmosphere, he rose and moved about the room.
Stopping before the steam heater to turn it on, he walked back to his
desk and carefully read what he had written, correcting a phrase here and
there. Finally satisfied with the result, he selected an envelope and
placing the papers inside, sealed and addressed it. For a second he held
the envelope poised over the unstained blotting-paper, then raising it
gently, breathed on the still wet ink. At last convinced that it was dry,
he placed the envelope in the pocket of his bathrobe, and picking up his
pajamas went into the bathroom which opened out of his bedroom, and
closed the door.

Five seconds, fifteen seconds passed, then the long curtains before the
window alcove gently parted and a man looked into the empty room. With
head and shoulders protruding he waited until the sound of running water
reached his ears, then advanced softly into the room. The desk was his
objective point, and his nimble fingers made quick work of sorting its
meager contents. His search was unrewarded; there was not a scrap of
incriminating writing in any drawer, and the neat pile of blotting-paper
was untouched.

The intruder's expression altered; curiosity gave way to doubt. Without
wasting time he replaced every article where he found it, pausing
occasionally to listen to the sound of splashing coming from behind the
closed bathroom door. Convinced there was no immediate danger of
interruption from that quarter, he walked swiftly to the closet and
minutely examined Miller's clothing. Just as he was leaving the closet a
box-shaped leather bag marked "Underwood" attracted his attention, and
pushing aside a bundle of soiled underclothing, he knelt down and
inserted a skeleton key in the lock, and after a second's work, forced
back the wards and opened the lid of the box. The typewriter it contained
proved uninteresting, and putting back everything as he had found it, he
returned to the window by which he had entered. Pushing it open, he
climbed out on the ledge and, closing the window behind him, by the aid
of ropes swung himself over to a near-by fire escape and disappeared
inside a room opening from it.

The slight sound occasioned by the closing of his bedroom window was
drowned in Miller's cheery whistle as he emerged from the bathroom.
Refreshed and invigorated by his bath, he switched off the lights and
climbed into bed.

The sunlight was streaming in the windows when he awoke, and it was a
full minute before his sleepy senses grasped the fact that someone was
pounding on the hall door. Hastily donning his bathrobe, he turned the
key and opened the door. Henry, the Whitneys' chauffeur, was standing on
the threshold.

"May I have a word with you, sir?" he asked.

"Certainly, come in," and Miller, conscious of his negligé attire and
that two pretty women were passing down the hall, precipitously retreated
into his bedroom. "Shut the door after you." He waited until his order
had been followed, then demanded impetuously: "How is Miss Kathleen?"

"Better, sir."

"Thank God!" The fervid exclamation escaped him unwittingly, and a faint
tinge of red stained his cheeks as he met Henry's attentive regard. "Did
you give her my note?"

"I sent it to her by the nurse, sir; Miss Kathleen still keeps her room,"
said Henry respectfully. "Vincent tells me that she refused even to see
her mother and father."

"Have you an answer for me?" as the servant paused.

"The nurse came to the kitchen and gave me these"--pulling a letter and
package out of his pocket--"to deliver personally to you, sir; Miss
Kathleen asked to have them sent at once."

Taking them Miller examined the addresses; the note was the one he had
written Kathleen, and the package bore the label of a prominent jeweler,
upon which was written Kathleen's full name in Miller's handwriting. Both
were unopened. Miller placed them in his pocket with unmoved face.

"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
deliberate 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.

"Was there anything about the room which especially claimed your
attention?" Mitchell paused and glanced thoughtfully at his polished
shoes. "Let me alter that question," said the coroner hastily. "Did
you find any indication in the room that Mr. Spencer expected to
return to it?"

"His clothes were there, and the electric light by the bureau was
burning, notwithstanding the fact that it was nearly nine o'clock in
the morning."

The coroner consulted his papers, "That is all just now," and Mitchell
departed. "Ask Mr. Whitney to step here," directed Penfield, a second
afterward.

"Beg pardon, sir," and the morgue master stepped before the platform.
"Mr. Whitney went back to his residence to escort his daughter here. Mrs.
Whitney, however, is waiting in the next room."

"Very well, bring Mrs. Whitney here," and the coroner left his seat to
assist her to the platform. Mrs. Whitney's customary self-control and air
of good breeding had not deserted her, and whatever her inward
tribulation at appearing before a coroner's jury, it was successfully
concealed as she repeated the oath after the morgue master.

"Your full name?" questioned Coroner Penfield.

"Minna Caswell Whitney, daughter of the late Judge William Caswell, of
New York."

"You were married to Winslow Whitney in--"

"1896."

"And you have resided in Washington since then?"

"Yes, except in the summer months when we went to our home in
Massachusetts or, occasionally, abroad."

"Will you kindly state what took place at your house on Tuesday evening,
Mrs. Whitney?"

"I entertained the Sisters in Unity, and afterward went to bed." The
concise reply wrung a smile from Foster.

"At what hour did the members of your club depart?"

"A little before one o'clock, Wednesday morning."

"Then did you go direct to bed?"

"No, I first showed Miss Kiametia Grey who, owing to an attack of
faintness, was spending the night at my home, to her room; then I
retired."

"Were you aware that Mr. Spencer was also spending the night under
your roof?"

"Not until Miss Grey informed me of the fact; I had inadvertently
placed her in the same room with Mr. Spencer. I immediately took her to
another room."

"Was Mr. Spencer's bedroom in darkness when you ushered Miss Grey into
it?"

"It was."

"Did not your husband tell you of Mr. Spencer's presence?"

"I did not see my husband until Wednesday morning; he had gone to his
studio in the attic when I went to my bedroom. He frequently works all
night on his inventions."

"Were you awakened during the night by any noise?"

"No."

"Did you see your daughter before retiring?"

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