“I was foolish enough to offer him whiskey.” Her husband seated himself carefully on the edge of the bed, “Spencer had been drinking before he came to see me, and a very little more made him tipsy. I was fearful that if I took him downstairs he would try and break up your meeting, so persuaded him to go and lie down on the bed in the blue room.”
“Sometimes, Winslow, for a thoughtful man, you ball things up dreadfully,” sighed Mrs. Whitney. “Why did you select that room? You always put your friends in the hall bedroom.”
“Never gave the matter of the rooms a thought.” Whitney moved restlessly; he hated to see a woman cry, and his wife looked perilously upon the point of tears. In spite of his assertion that he did not miss the loss of sleep, his nerves were not under full control. Ordinarily not a drinking man, he had stopped on his way from his bedroom to help himself to the small amount of Scotch left in the bottle.
“Such a scene as I had with Kiametia,” groaned Mrs. Whitney sighing dismally at the recollection. “Finally, I convinced her that I knew nothing of Mr. Spencer’s presence, and she consented to sleep in the hall bedroom.”
“I’m glad Kiametia discovered Spencer in time.” His chuckle developing into a laugh, Whitney rose and walked to the door. “It’s no crying matter, my dear. Kiametia will be the first to enjoy the joke.”
“If it had been anyone but Sinclair Spencer!” Mrs. Whitney shook her head forlornly. “She has developed an intense dislike for him.”
“And Kiametia is usually a woman of discernment.” His sarcasm passed unheeded, and he opened the hall door. “Hurry and dress, Minna, I’ll wait for you in the dining-room. Heavens! What’s that?”
A muffled cry, long drawn out, agonizing, vibrated through the stillness.
Spellbound, husband and wife eyed each other, then Whitney stepped into the hall just as Miss Kiametia tore out of her bedroom.
“What is it?” she demanded. “Oh, stop it, stop it!” clapping her hands over her ears as the cry rose again.
“It comes from the elevator shaft, sir,” panted Vincent, appearing up the stairs, Henry, the chauffeur, close at his heels. Without moving, Whitney stared stupidly at the two servants, and it was Henry who laid a trembling finger on the elevator button. As they heard the automatic car come to a standstill on the other side of the closed mahogany door there was a second’s pause; then Miss Kiametia, summoning all her fortitude, laid her hand on the door knob and pulled it open. A horrified exclamation escaped her as her eyes fell upon Kathleen, whose bloodless face was pressed against the iron grating of the inner door, to which she was clinging for support.
“Let me out,” she pleaded, her eyes dark with horror. “Let me out.”
At sight of his daughter Whitney recovered himself. “Stand back, Kathleen,” he directed. “Then we can slide open the door.” He had to repeat his words twice before she took in their meaning. Releasing her hold upon the grating, she covered her face as if to shut out some terrifying spectacle. As Henry pushed back the door, she collapsed into her father’s arms.
“Bring Kathleen in here,” called Mrs. Whitney from her doorway, where she had stood, too frightened to move. “There are smelling salts on my bureau. What can have brought on this attack of hysterics, Kiametia?”
“The Lord knows. Perhaps the machinery’s out of order and she’s been stuck between floors.” The spinster, suddenly remembering her extremely light attire, backed toward her room.
Whitney, reentering the hall, caught her words. “Go to Kathleen, Minna; she asked for you,” and as his wife turned back into her bedroom, he added, “See if there is anything wrong with the elevator, Henry.”
Obediently the chauffeur stepped through the narrow entrance to the elevator and into the steel cage. The next instant he turned an ashy face toward his companions.
“Look!” he gasped. “Look!” And his shaking hand pointed to that part of the elevator concealed by the solid wall of the shaft from the view of those standing in the hall. With one accord they crowded into the elevator, and a stricken silence prevailed.
Crouching on the floor at the far end of the shallow cage was Sinclair Spencer. The rays of the overhead electric lamp, by which the cage was lighted, showed plainly the gash in his throat, while crimson stains on his white shirt added to the ghastly tableau. Death was stamped upon the marble whiteness of his upturned face.
“Good God!” Whitney reeled back and but for Vincent’s arm would have fallen.
“Here, sir, sit here, sir,” and the butler half lifted him to a chair in the hall. “Go get whiskey, Henry,” noting the pallor of Whitney’s face. “Quick, man!”
“Telephone for a doctor, Vincent,” directed Miss Kiametia, pulling herself together. She had been the first to bolt out of the elevator. “I will stay with Mr. Whitney until you get back,” and flashing her a grateful look, the butler, relieved to have responsibility taken from his shoulders, fled downstairs after Henry.
Miss Kiametia laid trembling hands on Whitney’s bowed shoulders.
“It’s awful, Winslow,” she stammered. “Awful!”
As he paid no attention to her, but stared vacantly at the floor before him, she paced to and fro, always careful, however, never to go in the direction of the elevator. The exercise brought back some semblance of self-control, and her eyes were beginning to take on their wonted snap when Whitney rose unsteadily and stepped toward the elevator. Miss Kiametia’s voice stopped him on its threshold.
“I wouldn’t go in there again,” she advised. “Wait until the coroner comes.”
“The coroner?” staring stupidly at her.
“Yes, hadn’t you better send for him?”
Whitney’s hands dropped to his side with a hopeless gesture. “The coroner,” he muttered. “God help us!”
“Winslow!” Mrs. Whitney appeared in the doorway, tears streaming down her white cheeks. “Kathleen is completely unnerved; come and help me quiet her.”
At that moment Henry arrived, tray in hand. “I couldn’t find the whiskey, sir,” he explained, breathless with hurry. “But here’s some cognac, sir. Let me pour it out,” and he handed a filled liqueur glass to Whitney, who swallowed the stimulant at a gulp.
“Shouldn’t mind having some of that myself,” announced Miss Kiametia. “Bring the tray here, Henry,” walking over to a table. “And, Winslow, take a glass to Kathleen; it will do her good. Henry, did Vincent telephone for the doctor?” she added below her breath, as Whitney and his wife disappeared in the latter’s bedroom and closed the door.
“Yes, Miss Grey, but he was out. So Vincent rang up the hospital and the coroner.”
“Good.” Miss Kiametia debated a moment whether or not to take more cognac, and ended by refilling her glass. “Stay right in this hall, Henry; don’t leave it for a moment until the doctor comes. I’m going in to dress.”
As the door closed behind the spinster, Henry stood in deep thought, then pouring out a glass of cognac he hastily drank it. Setting down the glass, he tiptoed over to the elevator, but one look at the still figure crouching with head thrown back and sightless eyes turned to the ceiling sent him back into the center of the hall. Drawing out his handkerchief, he mopped his damp forehead.
From Mrs. Whitney’s bedroom came the murmur of voices, and Henry, darting a quick, searching look about the empty hall, slipped over to the door and applied his ear to the keyhole. The sound of approaching footsteps and voices warned him of the arrival of the physician, and when Vincent appeared, followed by two men, he was standing on guard near the elevator shaft.
A quick word of explanation sufficed, and then the younger of the newcomers entered the elevator. He recoiled at sight of Spencer, then advancing tested the dead man’s pulse and heart.
“This is a case for you, Penfield,” he exclaimed backing out into the hall, and without a word the coroner took his place beside Spencer. The young physician turned to Vincent. “Didn’t you tell me that someone was ill and required medical assistance? Mr. Spencer is d
ead; I can do nothing for him.”
Without answering, Vincent tapped on Mrs. Whitney’s door, and Whitney’s voice bade him enter. “Dr. Hall, sir,” announced the butler. “Want him to come in, sir?—Yes, sir; this way, Doctor,” and he pulled to the door after the physician. The elevator drew Vincent’s eyes as a magnet draws steel, and he started violently at sight of the coroner beckoning to him from its entrance.
“Call up Police Headquarters,” directed Penfield. “Tell them I am here, and ask to have Detective Mitchell and three plain-clothes men sent over at once. Be quick about it,” and his peremptory tone caused the agitated butler to hasten his usually leisurely gait. Henry started to follow him, but the coroner called him back. “Explain to me exactly what happened when Mr. Spencer was found,” he said, stepping into the hall.
The tale lost nothing in Henry’s telling, and Penfield was gnawing his fingernails, a trick he had if perplexed, when Vincent escorted the detective and plain-clothes policemen into the hall. The coroner rose with alacrity.
“Glad you could come, Mitchell,” he said. “Let me put you in possession of all facts so far known,” and he repeated all that Henry had told him. Mitchell listened in silence; only the gleam in his eyes attested his interest, as his face remained expressionless. And that gleam deepened as he stepped into the elevator and examined Spencer. When he came out he was wrapping his handkerchief around a knife. Exchanging a glance with the coroner, he turned to Vincent.
“Show my men over the house,” he directed, “and you,” addressing Henry, “inform Mr. Whitney that Coroner Penfield and I would like to see him at once.”
“I am here.” Whitney, who had entered the hall unnoticed a second before, joined the group. “What can I do for you?”
“Answer a few questions,” and Penfield, observing the strain under which he was laboring, pushed a chair in his direction. “Sit down, Mr. Whitney.” He turned back to Henry. “You need not wait,” and the chauffeur reluctantly went down the stairs. The coroner waited an appreciable moment before again speaking to Whitney. “Was Mr. Spencer visiting you?” he questioned.
“Only for the night.”
“When did you see him last?”
“About midnight.”
“And where was that?”
“In the bedroom across the way,” pointing to it, and the detective crossed the hall and entered the room, the door of which was closed.
“And what was Mr. Spencer doing the last time you saw him?” asked the coroner, with quiet persistence.
“Falling asleep,” tersely. “Spencer was drunk,” added Whitney after a pause. “His behavior led me to believe that he would intrude upon my wife’s guests if he went downstairs, so I suggested that he spend the night here.” Whitney drew a long breath, “Is Spencer really dead?”
“Yes.”
Whitney shrank back in his chair; he had aged in the past hour, and he was conscious that his hands were trembling. “I feared so,” he muttered, “I feared so. Can”—clearing his throat—“can Spencer be moved?”
“Not just yet; there are certain formalities to be gone through with first.” Penfield paused to make an entry in his notebook. “Of course, there will be an autopsy—at the morgue. Oh, Mitchell,” as the detective returned, “have you any questions to ask Mr. Whitney?”
Before answering the detective drew up a chair near Whitney. “I am told your daughter’s screams aroused the household,” he said. “Can I see Miss Whitney?”
“No, you must wait until she is composed; the doctor is just administering an opiate,” replied Whitney hastily. “Kathleen has been through a most harrowing experience.”
“I see.” Mitchell drummed impatiently on the arm of his chair. Whitney eyed the two men askance. Their manner, combined with the events of the morning, was telling on him. At any price he must break the silence—he could endure it no longer.
“I wish to God,” he exclaimed, “Spencer had chosen any other spot to kill himself in than our elevator!”
The coroner was the first to reply. “The wound was not self-inflicted.”
“What!” Whitney sprang to his feet. “Do you mean—Spencer was murdered?”
“Yes.” Both men never moved their gaze from Whitney’s ashen face. “Were all members of your family on good terms with Mr. Spencer?”
“They were,” Whitney moistened his parched lips, and only the detective caught his furtive glance behind him.
“Did anyone beside your immediate family spend last night in this house, Mr. Whitney?” he asked.
“No—yes,” confusedly. “Miss Kiametia Grey.…”
“Winslow”—Mrs. Whitney, fully dressed, stepped into the hall from her boudoir. “Pardon me,” with a courteous inclination of her head as the coroner and Mitchell rose. “Winslow, I’ve asked the servants, and they tell me she has disappeared.…”
“She? Who?” chorused the three men.
“Julie, my French maid.”
Chapter XIII.
Hide and Seek
Charles Miller was generally an early riser, but the head waiter at the Metropole was surreptitiously scanning his watch before giving the signal to close the dining-room doors, when the Captain walked in and took his accustomed seat at a distant table. Miller had but time to glance at the headline, “Stormy Cabinet Meeting Predicted at White House Today,” in his morning newspaper, when eggs and toast were placed before him. His attentive waiter poured the hot coffee and placed cream and sugar in his cup without waiting for instructions.
“Eggs all right, sir?” he asked anxiously, a trace of accent in his pleasant voice.
“Yes, thanks.” Miller looked at him casually. “I haven’t seen you before; where’s Jenkins?”
“Transferred to the cafe, sir,” smoothing a wrinkle out of the tablecloth as he spoke. “I’ll try to give satisfaction, sir.”
Miller nodded absently. “Oh, it’s all right,” he said, stifling a yawn, and propping his newspaper against his coffee pot, ate his breakfast leisurely, so leisurely that the other habitues of the hotel had finished their breakfast and departed before he pushed back his chair. Turning, he signed to his waiter to bring his check, and not appearing to do so, watched his approach with keen interest.
“Been a steward, haven’t you?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir.” The waiter pocketed the tip with alacrity. “Hamburg-American Line, sir.”
“Thought so.” Miller signed his name with careful attention to each stroke of the pencil. “How many of you are employed here?”
“Eight, sir. The lines are tied up; we must have work, and it’s hard to get good berths, sir, with so many ships interned.”
“Quite so,” Miller rose. “Your name—?”
“Lewis. Just a moment, sir,” as Miller started to cross the deserted dining-room, “Shall I reserve the table for you for luncheon, sir?”
“Luncheon?” Miller reflected. “I rather think not.”
“Thank you, sir.” The waiter’s manner was apologetic. “I asked, sir, because, sir, today the Cabinet officers lunch here, and.…”
“They require your undivided attention?” mildly. “I quite understand—Ludwig.” Their eyes met, then Miller turned on his heel. “Auf wiedersehen” he exclaimed under his breath, and the waiter’s stolid expression changed to one of relief.
Miller, who had checked his overcoat and hat before entering the dining-room, wasted no time but entered a public telephone booth. When he emerged he was whistling cheerily, and the doorkeeper watched him hail a street car with curious eyes.
“Always running in and out,” he muttered. “It beats me when he sleeps.”
First stopping at a florist’s and then a jeweler’s establishment, Miller bent his footsteps toward the Portland, and to his satisfaction found Senator Foster enjoying a belated breakfast in his apartment.
“I’m glad to discover a man keeping later hours than I” he remarked, accepting the chair Foster pulled forward. “You must have an easy conscience
to sleep so late in the morning.”
“Or enjoyed the devil of a night—er—mare.” The Senator’s face was flushed and his strong voice husky. “You mistake; this is luncheon, not breakfast Keep me company? No?” Foster pecked viciously at his lamb chop. “I’ve no appetite at all. Caught a beastly cold at the Sisters in Unity meeting last night. Cough all the time—beastly climate, Washington.”
“Why stay here?”
“Oh, Congress.…”
“But that adjourned three weeks ago.”
Foster frowned, then smiled. “A woman’s whim—we are not always independent, Miller”—a shrug completed the sentence. “Change your mind and have some Scotch?”
“No, thanks.” Miller drew his chair closer to his companion, and lowered his voice. “I called this morning, Senator, to ask some questions about Winslow Whitney.”
Foster’s smile vanished, and the glance he shot at Miller was sharp.
“It depends on the questions,” he began stiffly, “whether they are answered or not.”
“Quite right,” with unruffled composure. “I shall ask nothing which cannot be answered with propriety.” Miller ceased speaking to light a cigarette. “All Washington knows Whitney is a man of wealth”—his keen eyes detected the sudden alteration in Foster’s expression—“of standing in the social and business world, but has he achieved success as an inventor?”
“Yes,” was the instant and unqualified response, and Miller’s eyes lighted, but it was some seconds before he put another question.
“Are you familiar with his latest invention?”
“You mean his camera for use in aeroplanes?”
“Yes. Do you think it has any hope of success?”
“I believe so; Whitney declares the experiments are entirely satisfactory.”
“Have you seen results of the tests?”
“Whitney showed me views of New York City and its environs taken from an aeroplane. They were—wonderful—” the Senator puffed nervously at his cigar—“perfect maps.”
I Spy Page 8
