I Spy

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  “Is it not used for modeling in clay?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Who made the clay models in your studio, Mr. Whitney?”

  “I did.”

  “Unassisted?”

  The question remained unanswered, and after a brief pause the coroner pushed back his chair and rose. “That is all, thank you, Mr. Whitney; kindly wait in the adjoining room to the left; you will find a chair there.”

  With a stiff bow Whitney stepped down from the platform and made his way through the silent crowd to the room indicated.

  As the door closed behind him, Penfield called the deputy coroner to the stand. Laying down his pen, Dr. North took his seat in the witness chair, and after being sworn, turned to face the jurors, chart in hand.

  “You made the autopsy upon Mr. Sinclair Spencer?” questioned Penfield.

  “I did, Doctor, in the presence of the morgue master.”

  “Please state to the jury the result of that autopsy.”

  The deputy coroner glanced at the notes on the back of the chart, then reversed it, holding it aloft so that all in the room could see the anatomical drawing of a human figure.

  “The knife penetrated this section of the neck, just missing the carotid artery,” he began, using his pencil to indicate the spot marked on the chart. “While the wound bled profusely it was superficial and did not cause death.”

  His words created a sensation. Men and women looked at each other, then sat forward in their chairs, the better to view the deputy coroner and his chart.

  “Were there indications of death from extreme alcoholism, then?” questioned the coroner, and his voice sounded unusually loud in the deep silence which prevailed.

  “No. Judging by the contents of the stomach Mr. Spencer had not taken alcohol to excess.”

  “Then if the knife wound was not fatal, and there was no indication of intoxication, what caused Mr. Spencer’s death?” demanded the coroner.

  “On examination,” Dr. North weighed his words carefully, “I found a powerful drug had evidently been used, producing instantaneous death by paralyzing the respiratory center and arresting the heart action.”

  All in the room were giving the deputy coroner rapt attention. Many had come there purely from love of sensation, and they were not being disappointed. The eyes of Charles Miller and Senator Foster met for a second, then quickly shifted back to the deputy coroner. The reporters, their pencils flying across the sheets, were the only ones in the room who had not glanced at the witness.

  “Have you discovered the drug used?” questioned the coroner.

  “By tests I found it to be cyanide of potassium, a most deadly poison, generally instantaneous in its action.”

  “How large a dose was given?”

  “I don’t know, as there were no indications of it in the gastric contents.”

  “Then how was the drug administered?”

  “Through the blood.”

  “By means of the knife?”

  The deputy coroner looked puzzled. “Possibly,” he admitted. “But I could find no trace of the poison left on the knife blade. There was no mark on the body to show how the poison was administered.”

  “At what hour did death occur?”

  “Between three and four in the morning, judging by the condition of the body.”

  “Was there any indication, Doctor, of resistance on the part of the deceased? Did he make an effort to defend himself.”

  “No, Judging from his expression and the condition of the muscles I should say that Mr. Spencer never knew what killed him, never knew even that his life was threatened.”

  “Were his hands opened or clenched?”

  “His right hand was clenched,” acknowledged the deputy coroner. “Not, however, for the purpose of defense, but to retain his grasp upon this—” and drawing an envelope from his pocket he carefully shook into his open palm a crushed and faded flower. “It is a cornflower,” he explained. “Sometimes called bachelor’s button. The stem is broken short off.” And he held the flower so that all might view it.

  Senator Foster, who had followed the testimony with unflagging interest, heard a sudden sharp intake of breath to his right, but glancing quickly at Charles Miller he found his face expressionless.

  Penfield took the cornflower and envelope from the deputy coroner and laid them carefully on his desk, while continuing his examination. No one paid any attention to the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon, and the coroner’s next question was awaited with breathless interest.

  “Is cyanide of potassium used in photography?” he inquired.

  “It is.”

  “That is all, Doctor, you are excused,” and the deputy coroner returned to his seat.

  The next witness was the morgue master, and his testimony simply corroborated that of the deputy coroner. He was followed by William Banks and John P. Wilson, respectively, both well known in the financial world of Washington, who testified to Sinclair Spencer’s standing in the community, and stated that his financial condition precluded any suggestion of suicide; and that to their knowledge he had no enemies.

  The lights were burning when the last named witness left the chair, but there was no sign of weariness among the men and women in the room. Although several consulted their watches, no one rose to go. Their already deeply stirred interest was quickened into fever heat as, in obedience to the coroner’s summons, Kathleen Whitney took her place in the witness chair.

  Dressed with the strict attention to detail and taste which made her one of the conspicuous figures in the younger set, Kathleen’s appearance and beauty made instant impression upon juror and spectator alike. But her chic veil failed to hide the pallor of her cheeks, and the unnatural brilliancy of her eyes. Despite every effort at control, her voice shook as she repeated the oath word for word and stated her full name and age.

  “Have you always resided in Washington?” asked the coroner.

  “Yes.”

  “Were you educated in this city?”

  “Yes, except for a winter in Germany.”

  “Did you take up a special study while in Germany, Miss Whitney?”

  “Yes, miniature painting—”

  “And modeling?” as she paused.

  “Oh, no, I never studied that abroad although I occasionally help my father by modeling in clay.”

  “When did you make your debut in Washington society?”

  “Last winter.”

  “Did you then make Mr. Sinclair Spencer’s acquaintance?”

  “No.” She moved involuntarily at the mention of Spencer’s name. “I had known him previously. He was one of father’s friends, and much older than I.”

  “Were you not reported engaged to him last fall?”

  Kathleen flushed at the question. “I never heard of it,” she said coldly. “I do not encourage gossip.”

  “Miss Whitney.” Coroner Penfield surreptitiously scanned a small note handed him before the commencement of the inquest. The handwriting was distinctly foreign. “Miss Whitney,” repeated Penfield. “Did you not refuse Mr. Spencer’s offer of marriage on Tuesday morning?”

  For a moment Kathleen stared at him in speechless surprise. “Where did you get that piece of information?” she demanded, recovering herself.

  “You have not answered my question, Miss Whitney,” and the quiet persistence of his manner impressed Kathleen.

  “Yes, I refused him,” she admitted.

  “Did Mr. Spencer make any attempt to persuade you to reconsider your refusal?”

  “Yes.” Kathleen shot an impatient look at the coroner. “I cannot see what my private affairs have to do with the regrettable death of Mr. Spencer,” she protested.

  Penfield ignored her remark. “Did Mr. Spencer communicate with you Tuesday by letter or telephone?” he asked and waited, but the question remained unanswered. To the disappointment of the reporters, he did not repeat it, but asked instead: “Were you aware on Tuesday evening that Mr. Spencer
was spending the night at your house?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see either your father or your mother that night before retiring?”

  “No.”

  “When did you last see Julie, your mother’s maid?”

  “Before dinner when she came to my bedroom to help me change my dress.”

  “Did she seem discontented with her situation?’” questioned the coroner.

  “No.”

  “Did Julie ever evince dislike to Mr. Spencer?”

  Kathleen’s hand crept to her throat and she plucked nervously at her veil. “Julie was too respectful to discuss our family friends with me,” she said.

  “You have not answered my question, Miss Whitney,” was Penfield’s quick retort, and Kathleen flushed under the rebuke.

  “Because I am aware that you are striving to make me incriminate Julie in Mr. Spencer’s death,” she began heatedly. “Instead, you and the police should make every effort to find Julie and protect her …”

  “From what?”

  “I don’t know,” hopelessly. “Julie has no friends in this city, no one whom she could turn to in trouble but me. I cannot understand her disappearance; I fear, greatly fear, foul play.”

  “Circumstantial evidence points to her having disappeared of her own volition, Miss Whitney, to escape being charged with a heinous crime.”

  “Pardon me, her disappearance is the only scrap of evidence which leads you to think she might possibly have murdered a man whom she knew by sight,” retorted Kathleen.

  “Was it your habit to supply Julie with money?” questioned the coroner.

  “Yes, which she sent to France as her mite toward the war fund,” answered Kathleen heatedly. “I am confident Julie had nothing whatever to do with the death of Mr. Spencer.”

  “Can you tell us who did, Miss Whitney?” asked Penfield, and he saw the terror which crept into her handsome eyes.

  “I cannot,” she answered with unsteady lips. “I never awoke that night.”

  “What took you downstairs at so early an hour yesterday morning?”

  “I had rung the upstairs bell for Julie, and as she did not come, I started to go down and find her,” she hesitated uncertainly.

  “Continue,” directed Penfield. “Tell your story of finding Mr. Spencer’s body in your own way.”

  It was some minutes before Kathleen obeyed his request. “I went to the elevator and pushed the button,” she began slowly. “I was in a hurry, and when I heard the click which indicated the cage was there I opened the outer mahogany door, pushed back the inner steel grille—work door, stepped into the elevator and without looking about me, closed the doors, and pushed the basement button. Then I turned about”—Kathleen moistened her dry lips—“and saw—and saw—Mr. Spencer lying there—the blood”—she closed her eyes as if to shut out the, recollection—“I think for a time I lost my reason. I have no intelligent recollection of anything that occurred until I found myself in bed with a trained nurse in attendance.”

  As her charming voice ceased, Charles Miller, who had never taken his eyes from her face, gently moved his chair so that Foster’s figure cast him in shadow. Never once had Kathleen glanced his way; she sat for the most part with her eyes downcast or looking directly at the coroner. Kathleen was visibly moved by the recital of her experiences in the elevator, and Penfield waited an instant before questioning her further.

  “Could you tell from what floor the elevator came when you pushed your floor button?” he asked.

  “No,” was the disappointing answer. “The elevator runs practically noiselessly, and we have no floor indicator such as you see in stores.”

  “Was the electric light turned on in the elevator when you entered it?”

  “No.”

  “Then how could you see Mr. Spencer so clearly?”

  “The brick elevator shaft is lighted by a skylight,” answered Kathleen. “The electric light is only needed at night.”

  “Do you recognize this knife?” and Penfield held it before her as he spoke. Kathleen’s eyes did not shift their gaze, but her teeth met sharply on her lower lip.

  “I see that it resembles one that I have,” she said.

  “You still have yours?”

  “Yes, you will find it in my desk drawer at home.”

  “Had you only the one knife, Miss Whitney?”

  “I may have had others,” indifferently. “I do not recall; I buy my painting and modeling supplies as I need them.”

  The coroner replaced the knife without further comment.

  “You use azurea perfume, do you not?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What was your object in trying to rub out a blood stain on the front of Mr. Spencer’s white shirt, Miss Whitney, while you were in the elevator?” asked Penfield.

  Kathleen looked at him dully. “Wh-what d-did you say?” she stuttered.

  For answer Penfield took from the pile of clothing on the table a white shirt and pointed to a discoloration on its glazed surface.

  “When I first saw this shirt on Mr. Spencer it reeked of perfume,” he said sternly. “Submitted to chemical tests, I find a blood stain was partially removed by azurea. Again I ask, what was your object in attempting to remove the blood stain?”

  But Penfield spoke to deaf ears. Kathleen had fainted. Excitement waxed high in the room as Kathleen was carried out by Charles Miller, the first to reach her side, and placed in the tender care of Mrs. Whitney and the trained nurse. Waiting only to see her brought back to consciousness by Dr. Hall, Miller slipped back into the inquest room. Detective Mitchell was again in the witness chair.

  “You made a thorough examination of Miss Whitney’s room?” inquired the coroner.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “This torn note”—and the detective held up the pieces in each hand.

  “Read its contents aloud,” ordered Penfield.

  “The Connecticut,

  “Tuesday afternoon.

  “KATHLEEN, MY DARLING:

  “I implore you to reconsider—before it is too late. Consult your father’s best interests before you reject me.

  “Yours, with undying affection,

  “SINCLAIR.”

  Mitchell paused after reading the signature, then continued. “Here is a sample of Mr. Spencer’s handwriting, attested by his cousin, Captain Dunbar; the handwriting of the notes is identical, sir,” and he placed the papers in Penfield’s hand. Reading them carefully, the coroner passed them along to the jury for examination.

  “Where did you find this note?” he asked Mitchell.

  “Among Miss Whitney’s painting materials in her sitting-room.”

  “What is that in your lap?” and the coroner pointed to a paper box. In answer Mitchell raised the cover and displayed a bouquet of faded cornflowers.

  “I found it in Miss Whitney’s sitting-room also,” he stated. In tipping the box, the better to show its contents, a small piece of white muslin rolled to the floor. Quickly Penfield retrieved it. “I discovered that handkerchief secreted in the folds of Miss Whitney’s blue foulard gown,” added Mitchell, as the coroner spread open the handkerchief. It was badly mussed and its white center bore dark stains. Penfield sniffed the faint perfume still hanging about it; then without comment handed the handkerchief to the foreman of the jury.

  “That is all, Mitchell,” announced Penfield, and as the detective departed, he turned and addressed the jury. His summing up of the case was quick and to the point, and at the end the jurors silently filed into another room. It was long after seven o’clock, but no one stirred in the room, and the silence, which none cared to break, slowly grew oppressive. The long wait was finally terminated by the reappearance of the jury. Coroner Penfield rose and addressed them.

  “Gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “have you reached a verdict?”

  “The jury find,” answered the foreman, “that Kathleen Whitney is responsible for
the death of Sinclair Spencer by poison on the morning of Wednesday, March 24, 1915, in her family residence in the city of Washington.”

  Quickly the crowded room emptied, reporters rushing madly for motors; not often had the district morgue housed a cause celebre, and its sensational details had to be rushed on the wire. Charles Miller, separated from Foster by the sudden crowding of the doorways, waited to one side for him.

  “Americans are an emotional people,” commented a quiet voice at his elbow, and turning hastily Miller recognized Baron Frederic von Fincke. “One death more or less does not create a furore elsewhere.”

  “That depends on who dies,” retorted Miller.

  “True. If it should be a member of the Imperial Family”—Von Fincke’s gesture was eloquent. “To them, all give way. We others are pawns.”

  Chapter XVIII.

  A Proposal

  The atmosphere inside the house matched the leaden skies outside in point of gloom, and even the wood fire, crackling on the hearth, failed to mitigate the air of restraint and cheerlessness which prevailed in the dining-room. The rain, falling in torrents, had brought with it a penetrating cold wind, a last reminder of winter, and Vincent, passing noiselessly to and from the pantry with sundry savory dishes, was grateful for the heat thrown out by the blazing logs.

  Mrs. Whitney, whose eyes were red and inflamed from constant weeping, gave up her attempt to eat her breakfast and pushed her plate away.

  “Let me give you some hot coffee, Winslow,” she suggested. “Your cup must be stone cold, and you haven’t touched your fish balls.”

  Absorbed in his newspaper, Whitney did not at first heed her request, but the pulling back of the portieres aroused him, and glancing over his shoulder, he saw Kathleen entering the room.

  “Good morning, Dad,” laying her hand for a second on his shoulder before taking the chair Vincent pulled out. “Just a cup of coffee, mother dear, that is all,” and Kathleen unfolded her napkin.

  “You told me upstairs you would remain in bed, Kathleen.” Mrs. Whitney looked solicitously at her. “Are you prudent to tax your strength after all you were subjected to yesterday?”

  “I couldn’t stay still a moment longer.” Kathleen’s slender, supple fingers played with a piece of toast. “You need not bother to conceal the newspapers, Dad,” as Whitney surreptitiously tucked the Herald and the Post behind his back. “I read them up in my room.”