I Spy

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  “Is that so!” he exclaimed thoughtfully. “That puts a somewhat different complexion on the matter.”

  “It does. Why was Sinclair Spencer gallivanting about this house in his stocking feet?”

  Foster played with his watch chain. “Upon my word, I don’t know,” he replied at last.

  “Well, you might hazard a guess.” But Foster’s only answer was a negative shake of his head. “Pshaw! use your imagination—suppose Spencer was unduly inquisitive about Winslow’s invention—”

  “Stop, Kiametia!” Foster held up a warning hand. “You are treading on dangerous ground. Be sure of your facts before suggesting that a man of Winslow’s known integrity is involved in—murder.”

  “How you men do jump at conclusions,” grumbled Miss Kiametia. “I believe Julie, the maid, killed Spencer because she found him snooping around where he had no business to be.”

  “Why should the maid play watchdog?”

  “Because she’s French, stupid; and I believe, firmly believe, Sinclair Spencer was in the pay of Germany. Both he and the maid were after Winslow’s invention, one to steal, the other to protect.”

  “You have astonishing theories.” Foster leaned back and regarded her in silence, then resumed, “Suppose you give me an exact account of what transpired this morning.”

  He listened with rapt attention to the spinster’s graphic description of the finding of Kathleen and Sinclair Spencer in the elevator.

  “Strange, very strange,” he muttered, as she brought the recital to an end. “How did Kathleen come to enter the elevator without seeing its occupant?”

  “You take it for granted that Spencer was dead at that time?” asked the spinster.

  A look of horror crept into Foster’s eyes. “Kiametia, what do you mean to insinuate? Your question implies—”

  “Nothing,” hastily. “I only want you, with your sane common sense, to kill an intolerable doubt. Kathleen cannot—cannot know anything of this crime.”

  “If you doubt, why not ask Kathleen how and when she came to be in the elevator with Spencer’s dead body?”

  “Kathleen is still under the effects of the opiate, and you heard what Winslow said a few minutes ago about her behavior before the physician’s arrival.”

  “Don’t worry.” Foster laid a soothing hand on hers. “Kathleen’s condition is not surprising under the circumstances; the shock of finding Spencer’s dead body was quite enough to produce hysteria and irrational conduct. When herself, her explanations will clear up the mystery. Therefore, why harbor a doubt of her innocence?”

  “If you had seen the expression of her eyes,” exclaimed Miss Kiametia. “It betrayed more than shock and horror. If ever I saw mental anguish depicted, a naked soul in torment, I saw it then. God help the child!” She paused and stared at Foster. “Why should Kathleen betray such emotion? Sinclair Spencer was less than nothing to her.”

  “He was very attentive,” said Foster slowly. “I have even heard it reported last fall that they were engaged.”

  “Engaged? Fiddlesticks!” Miss Kiametia’s head went up in a style indicative of battle. “Imagine Kathleen caring for a man who openly boasted he had held the best blood of America in his arms—she isn’t that kind of girl!”

  “Come, Spencer wasn’t so unattractive,” protested Foster. “I hold no brief for him; in fact, some of his business transactions were shady; but upon my word, he was exceedingly good-looking, and if I remember rightly, you encouraged him to come to your apartment.”

  “I’ve done some remarkably stupid things occasionally,” said Miss Kiametia composedly. “That was one of them.”

  “Kiametia!” called a voice in the hallway, and the next moment the portieres parted and Mrs. Whitney walked into the library. “Oh, there you are, my dear; I feared you had gone. I am so glad to see you, Senator,” clasping Foster’s extended hand warmly. “Winslow and I both hoped you could come to us. We want your advice.”

  “I am entirely at your disposal.” As he spoke, Foster dragged forward a comfortable chair. “Sit here, Mrs. Whitney; you look quite done up,” and his sympathetic tone and manner brought tears to her hot, tired eyes.

  “It is such a comfort to see two such dear friends,” she said, looking gratefully at them. “And to talk to you openly, away from those dreadful detectives. I haven’t had an opportunity to speak privately to Winslow. Detective Mitchell is his shadow.”

  “A little brief authority,” Foster shrugged his shoulders. “How is Kathleen?”

  “Sleeping, thank God!” Mrs. Whitney lowered her voice. “I really feared for her reason before the doctor came. I could not soothe her, or quiet her wild weeping.” She stopped to glance hastily over her shoulder. “Vincent said something about Captain Miller having called—is the Captain here?”

  “He has gone upstairs with your husband and Detective Mitchell,” answered Foster. “Tell me, Mrs. Whitney, was Sinclair Spencer visiting you for any length of time?”

  “Oh, no; his stopping here last night was quite unexpected; in fact so unexpected to me that I accidentally put Kiametia in the same room with him.”

  “I didn’t stay there,” hastily ejaculated the spinster, crimsoning. “The moment I saw him in bed, I fled.”

  “Was he asleep?” questioned Foster; Miss Kiametia had not told him these details in her description of events at the Whitney residence.

  “I presume so; his eyes were closed—thank goodness!” she added under her breath, and quickly changed the subject “Any news of Julie’s whereabouts, Minna?”

  “Apparently not; I telephoned to Police Headquarters half an hour ago, and the desk sergeant said they had found no trace of her.”

  “Where is your maid’s bedroom, Mrs. Whitney?” asked Foster.

  “She rooms with the cook on the third floor.”

  “What does the cook say about Julie’s disappearance?”

  “She is as mystified as the rest of us; declares Julie went to bed at the same time she did, and that when she awoke this morning, the covers on Julie’s bed were thrown back. Thinking Julie had preceded her downstairs, she dressed and attended to her usual duties. It was not until I rang for Julie that the other servants realized that none of them had seen her this morning. Not one, apparently, has the faintest idea as to when she disappeared, and where.”

  “So!” ejaculated Foster unbelievingly. “I imagine the police will jog their memories.”

  “Let us hope they will succeed in finding Julie,” snapped Miss Kiametia. “I confess the situation is getting on my nerves. If she committed the murder, she should suffer for it. If not, she should come forward and prove her innocence.”

  “It is essential that Julie be found,” agreed Foster. “For my part, I.…”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” and Vincent approached. “This note has just come for you,” presenting his silver salver to the Senator. “There’s no answer, sir. The clerk at the Portland sent the messenger here with it, as it was marked ‘Immediate.’”

  With a word of apology to his companions, Foster tore open the envelope and hastily scanned the written lines.

  “I must leave at once,” he announced, carefully placing the note in his leather wallet. “I had forgotten entirely that I had an important business engagement. Please tell Winslow, Mrs. Whitney, that I will come back this evening; and you must both count on me if there is anything I can do for you.”

  “Won’t you wait for Captain Miller?” asked Miss Kiametia, concealing her disappointment at the abrupt termination of the interview.

  “Miller? I’m afraid not. Please tell him I was called away and that I leave my touring car at his service.”

  “If you plan to do that, may I get your chauffeur to take me home?” asked Miss Kiametia quickly.

  “Why, of course; I only wish that I could accompany you.” Foster wavered, he desired most ardently to see the spinster alone, but the note was urgent, and considering the source, could not be ignored. “Good-bye.” Shaking hands warmly
with Mrs. Whitney and Miss Kiametia, he hastily departed.

  Foster’s appointment consumed over an hour, and on leaving the government building where it had taken place, he walked aimlessly through the city streets, so deep in thought that he gave no heed to the direction he was taking. His absorption blinded him to the appearance of an inconspicuously dressed, heavily veiled woman who, at sight of him, shrank back under cover of the archway leading to a movie theater, until he had passed safely up the street. She was about to step out on the sidewalk again when the sight of a man walking rapidly down the street in the direction Foster had disappeared, caused her to remain in partial concealment. The woman peered at the last man irresolutely, while pretending to examine a gaudy, flaring poster of the movie, one hand pressed to her rapidly beating heart. Coming to a sudden decision, she hastened after him, and nearing an intersecting street, overtook him.

  “Captain Miller,” she called timidly, and at sound of his name, Miller turned toward her.

  “Yes?” his hand raised toward his hat at sight of a woman. “You called me?”

  “Yes, Captain.” She drew nearer. “You do not recognize me, but”—sinking her voice—“I am Julie.”

  “Julie?” he echoed.

  “Oui, monsieur” in rapid French. “Mademoiselle Kathleen’s maid. Ah, monsieur, for the love you bear her, advise me now. It is for her sake, not for mine.”

  The Captain eyed her intently. “I don’t catch your meaning,” he said, in her native tongue.

  “You have surely heard, Captain, of the death of that devil, Spencer”—Behind her veil, the Frenchwoman’s eyes sparkled with rage. “Well, Captain, his death was—justified.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” agreed her companion. “But, in the eyes of the law, it will be termed.…”

  “Murder.” Her white lips barely formed the word, and she glanced fearfully behind her. Her half-conscious action recalled the Captain to their surroundings, and he, too, glanced up the street. Apparently they had it to themselves; in that unfrequented part of the city there were few passers—by. The Captain’s eyes narrowed; he preferred never to be conspicuous; a crowded street was more to his liking.

  “Suppose we move on,” he suggested, but the Frenchwoman held back.

  “I have spent all the morning at the moving pictures,” she said. “There it is dark. Let us find another.”

  “Very well; we can talk as we go,” and the Captain suited his step to hers. “And suppose also that we confine our remarks to English.”

  “As monsieur pleases.” She half repented her impulsive act. She had intrusted her secret to another. Would that other prove loyal? A faint shiver crept down her spine, and she pressed one mitted hand over the other. “I seek seclusion, monsieur, because—I know too much.”

  “‘A little knowledge’”—the Captain did not finish the quotation. “Let us turn down here,” and not waiting for her consent, he piloted her up a side street. “You do not, then, wish to make a confidant of the police?”

  “Non, non, monsieur” lapsing again into rapid French. “I think only of Mademoiselle.”

  A sudden gleam lighted the Captain’s eyes. “Kathleen,” his voice lingered on her name. “You think she is in danger?”

  “I do, monsieur, in great danger. Did I not see”—she paused in her hasty speech and bit her tongue; one indiscretion was leading to another. “It matters not what I saw, monsieur—I am sometimes nearsighted.”

  “In that case, your eyes will be examined if testifying in a trial for murder,” and he smiled covertly as he saw the fear tugging at her heart-strings. “Enough, Julie; I will respect your confidences. You know—how, I do not inquire—of my deep affection for Mademoiselle Kathleen.…”

  “Who would not love her?” broke in Julie passionately. “So generous, so fearless and loyal! Ah! she will be faithful to France—she will guard her father’s secret—aye, even to the bitter end.”

  “Hush! not so loud,” admonished the Captain, laying a steadying hand on her arm. “Let me think a moment.” Totally unconscious of the tears which fell one by one on her white cheeks, the excited Frenchwoman kept step with him in silence for three blocks; then the Captain roused himself. “You are willing to shield Mademoiselle Kathleen at all costs?” he asked.

  “Oui, monsieur”

  “And you think you can best accomplish that result by avoiding the police?”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “Have you money?”

  “A little, monsieur.” She turned her troubled countenance toward him. “I cannot travel far.”

  “It is wiser not to travel at all.” The Captain slackened his walk before an unpretentious red brick residence. “The landlady of this house takes paying guests and asks no questions. Here you can remain perdue” with emphasis, “and no one inside will trouble you; but be cautious, Julie, how you venture on the street day or night.”

  “But, monsieur”—Julie drew back—“I do not fear for myself, only for mademoiselle, and I like not to be indoors all day. The police, they will only trouble me with questions should I return to the Whitneys.”

  “If you do not return to the Whitneys, Julie, the police will think you guilty.”

  “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. Th
e 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 neglige 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.