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?"
"No."
"Did she attend the meeting of your club?"
"No, she is not a member."
"When did you first hear of Mr. Spencer's death?"
"The next morning, when my daughter's screams aroused the household."
"How long has Julie Genet, your French maid, been in your employ?"
"Four years."
"Have you heard from her since her disappearance?"
"No."
"Was she acquainted with Mr. Spencer?"
"I really don't know."
The coroner flushed at her tone. "Was Julie discontented with her place?"
he asked, somewhat harshly.
"I have no reason to suppose so; she never complained."
"How did you come to employ her?"
"A friend of mine brought her to this country, and a year later Julie
came to me; she was highly recommended."
"Has she any relatives in this country to whom she might have gone?"
"None that I ever heard of." Mrs. Whitney reflected for a second, then
added, "Julie told me some months ago that her only near relatives had
been killed in the war in France."
"Was Julie a well trained servant?"
"She was indeed; also good-natured, thoughtful, and obedient."
"When did you last see Julie?"
"Downstairs, when giving final directions to Vincent. I told her to
assist him in closing the house, and then go direct to bed; that I would
undress myself as it was so late."
"Did she appear as usual?"
"Yes."
"Did you go at all to Mr. Spencer's bedroom yesterday morning after
hearing of his death?"
"No."
"We will not detain you longer, Mrs. Whitney," and with a slight bow to
the jurors and the coroner she made her way from the room.
Her place was taken by Vincent, the butler, who testified that he had
gone about his work on Wednesday morning as customary, that all windows
and doors were locked as he had left them the night before, and that he
and Henry, the chauffeur, were busy replacing the drawing-room furniture,
removed the night before to make room for chairs for the meeting of the
Sisters in Unity, when startled by Miss Whitney's screams. He also stated
that having gone to bed very late, he had slept heavily and had not been
awakened until aroused at seven o'clock by the cook. His bedroom was
across the hall from the other servants. He had not realized that Julie
Genet was absent until Mrs. Whitney rang for her; he had supposed the
maid was upstairs waiting upon either her or Miss Whitney. No, Julie was
not quarrelsome; she was quiet, deeply engrossed in her own affairs, and
spent much of her time sewing in Miss Whitney's sitting-room. He had
heard that she was to have been married the previous December, but the
war had taken her fiancé back to the colors, and he had been killed in
the retreat on Paris.
Henry, the chauffeur, was the next to testify. He admitted admiration for
Julie and stated that she had not encouraged his attentions, and the
remainder of his testimony simply corroborated that of Vincent. He did
not sleep in the Whitney residence, but took his meals there.
When giving their testimony the chambermaid, laundress, and scullery
maid also stated they did not sleep at the Whitneys'; that Julie, while
always pleasant, kept very much to herself. They one and all declared
that they had never entered Sinclair Spencer's bedroom Wednesday morning
after the discovery of the tragedy. The coroner quickly dismissed each
one, and Rosa, the cook, looking extremely perturbed, was the last
servant to be questioned. She stated that she had not gone upstairs
Wednesday morning until noon.
"Sure, I dunno whin Julie wint downstairs Wednesday mornin'," she
declared. "I slep' that heavy I niver hear her a'movin' around."
"Was it her habit to get up before you did?" asked Coroner Penfield.
"Yis, sor. She had oneasy nights, like, an' would be off downstairs at
the foist peep o' day. She brooded too much over the papers, I'm feared;
though 'twas natural to read av the divils who killed her kin and
swateheart in France."
"Did Julie ever speak to you of Mr. Spencer?"
"Wance or twice, maybe," admitted Rosa reluctantly.
"Did she ever meet Mr. Spencer away from the house?"
"Niver, sor." Rosa looked shocked. "Julie was real dacent, she niver
sought her betters' society. Nay, she was afeared Miss Kathleen might
listen to his courtin'. She didn't consider no wan good enough for Miss
Kathleen."
"Ah, then she was fond of Miss Kathleen?"
"Sure, fond's not the word; she was daffy about her. An' no wonder, Miss
Kathleen was that good to her; comforted her whin bad news came from the
wars, let her sit and sew wid her, and give her money to sind to France."
"Was Julie on good terms with the other servants?"
"Yis, sor. She and Henry had words now and thin; when Henry got teasin',
she didn't always take ut in good part."
"Have you any idea where Julie went on leaving the Whitneys?"
"No, sor; she has no real frinds in Washington. I dunno where she can be,
an' I'm sick o' worryin' over her." The warm-hearted Irishwoman's eyes
filled with tears. "Julie was excitable like and quicktempered, but she
niver did wrong, an' don't let yourselves be thinkin' ut."
"There, there." The coroner laid a kindly hand on her arm. "We won't keep
you any longer, Mrs. O'Leary. Careful of that step," and as the morgue
master appeared, he asked, "Is Miss Kiametia Grey here?"
"Yes, Doctor."
"Then ask her to come in." He exchanged a few remarks with the deputy
coroner in a tone too low to reach the ears of the attentive reporters,
then turned back to the witness chair as Miss Kiametia seated herself.
"We will only keep you a few minutes," he began, after the preliminary
questions had been asked the spinster. "I understand you were
accidentally shown into the bedroom already occupied by Mr. Spencer."
"I was," stated Miss Kiametia, as the coroner paused. "Neither Mrs.
Whitney nor I was aware he was within a mile of us."
"Did you discover his presence at once?"
"No." The spinster's tone was short. "The bed is in an alcove, and I had
only turned on the electric bulb by the bureau; thus the room was in
partial darkness. I--eh--eh--" then with a rush--"I did not know he was
there until I was ready to get in bed."
"Was Mr. Spencer asleep?"
"I never waited to see."
Coroner Penfield stifled a smile and changed the subject. "Were you
aroused during the night by any noise?"
"No," sharply. "When once in the hall bedroom I took a pretty stiff drink
of whiskey as a nightcap, for I was feeling pretty shaky about then.
Consequently I slept soundly all through the night."
"Was Mr. Spencer a great friend of yours?"
"No," with uncomplimentary promptness. "But I did occasionally ask him to
large entertainments."
"Did you see Miss Whitney before retiring on Tuesday night?"
"No. Her mother told me she had gone to bed early."
"Did you see Mr. Whitney?"
"No."
"Did you see Julie, the French maid?"
"Not upstairs. Mrs. Whitney gave me the whiskey and a dressing-gown."
"Can you tell me if Mr. Spencer was wearing his pajamas in bed?"
"I cannot," dryly.
"Did you enter Mr. Spencer's bedroom the next morning after hearing of
his death?"
"I did not."
"While in his room Tuesday night did you observe his clothes on a
chair or table?
"No, and after discovering his presence, I was too keen to get out of
the room to notice anything in it."
"Then possibly you left the light burning by the bureau?"
"I did nothing of the sort. It is a hobby of mine never to waste gas or
electricity, and I remember distinctly stopping to put out the light
after I had picked up my clothes."
"Quite sure, Miss Gray?" and the spinster bridled at his quizzical
glance.
"I am willing to take my dying oath," she said solemnly, "that I left
that room in total darkness."