RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE
"Dead!" The detective bent over Mrs. Whitney. "Shot through the heart."
He turned to his silent companions. "Who fired that revolver?" and his
own covered Miller menacingly.
Miller, spying the electric lamp, switched it on before answering. Still
silent, he pointed to the telegrapher's outfit which confronted them and
to the tell-tale wires leading to the outer world.
"The shot was fired," he said, "by the man who tunneled out to the
conduit in which are the cables running to the White House and War,
State, and Navy Building, and tapped them."
"Where is he?" Mitchell cast a bewildered look about the small chamber.
"I felt someone brush by me on the stairs in the darkness," volunteered
Foster, recovering somewhat from his stupefaction. "I fear he has got
safely away."
"No." Miller stepped back from Mrs. Whitney's side. "Chief Connor of
the Secret Service has a cordon of operatives about the house.
Heinrich Strauss, alias Henry Ross, chauffeur, cannot escape. Listen,
isn't that a shot?"
"I hope to God they've caught him alive!" exclaimed Mitchell, looking
sorrowfully at the dead woman. "He'll swing for this murder, if not for
the death of Sinclair Spencer."
"I doubt if he was guilty of that crime," said Miller quietly.
"What!" Mitchell stared incredulously at him. "What leads you to
think that?"
"Hush!" Miller held up a warning hand as the sound of hurrying footsteps
reached them. A second more and Julie appeared in the sub-cellar, guided
by their light. Her eyes were gleaming with a strange excitement.
Unnoticed by the others, Miller swiftly removed his coat and threw it
over Mrs. Whitney so that it covered her face.
"He is caught, that Henry!" called Julie, catching sight of Foster
standing in the opening of the secret chamber. "He was getting away, oh,
so softly in the dark, and I tripped him. But yes, and he
fired"--touching a red gash in her cheek. "But the others, they pounced
upon him. La--la! And they are bringing him here. But what--?" trying to
peer past Foster.
Miller stepped forward. "Crouch down behind those barrels, Julie," he
ordered, and the Frenchwoman, startled by his sudden appearance, obeyed
mechanically. By sheer force of personality Miller took command. "Go back
and wait in the telegraph room," he whispered hurriedly. "You do the
questioning, Mitchell; I'll keep out of sight here."
Before Mitchell could ask the question burning on his lips, a number of
men made their way down the staircase, Heinrich Strauss in their midst,
handcuffed to the tallest operative. Mitchell saluted as he recognized
the foremost man.
"This room will interest you, Chief," he said, making way for him, and
Connor took a comprehensive look over the chamber.
"We've found the leak," he acknowledged. "Clever work that," inspecting
the arrangement of the wires. He drew back at the sight of the covered
figure stretched across the table. "What's this--murder?"
"Yes," answered Mitchell. "Henry, here," jerking his thumb toward the
erstwhile chauffeur, "killed the woman before we could interfere."
"Did I?" demanded Heinrich. "How are you going to prove it? I wasn't in
this room ..."
"You waste time," said a cool voice behind him, and Miller stepped into
the circle. "The game is up, Heinrich."
"You renegade!" Heinrich was livid with fury.
"This man is Heinrich Strauss," continued Miller quietly. "One of the
most expert electricians and telegraph operators in Germany. He could be
described as an electrical genius."
"His work shows that," acknowledged Chief Connor.
A slight stir in the doorway caused Heinrich to turn, and he smiled
evilly at sight of Kathleen and Miss Kiametia Grey.
"I'm glad you've come," he said, addressing Kathleen directly, as she
shrank back at sight of him. "That man there," pointing to Miller, "is
Karl von Mueller, captain in the Secret Service." A low moan broke from
Kathleen, and she looked anywhere but at Miller, who had stepped forward
to stand between her and the pine table with its pathetic burden. "Von
Mueller," continued Heinrich, "killed Sinclair Spencer."
"I deny it," exclaimed Miller.
"Lies won't help," retorted Heinrich. "Miss Whitney, did you not attempt
to rub off with your handkerchief from Spencer's blood-stained shirt,
Captain von Mueller's finger print?"
The question from that source was unexpected. Twice Kathleen strove to
answer. She cast an agonized look about the circle of men, but their set,
stern faces gave her no help.
"Yes," and the monosyllable was little more than a murmur.
"Ah, take that down, Detective Mitchell," exclaimed Heinrich,
triumphantly. "And von Mueller was in the house that night--do you deny
it?"
"No." Miller's clear voice did not falter nor did his gaze, and Mitchell,
handcuffs in evidence, looked perplexedly at Chief Connor. The latter was
watching Miller like a lynx, and the Secret Service operatives closed up
in the entranceway--there was no chance to escape, handcuffs seemed
unnecessary.
The smile that crossed Heinrich's lips was cruel. "We will swing
together, von Mueller," he said. "Turning state's evidence will not save
you, you traitor!" With an effort he controlled his rage, and spoke more
calmly, "Chief Connor, your informer last night stole Whitney's
invention; besides admitting to me that he had it, he left these
tell-tale finger prints"--his hand sought his pocket, but a quick jerk on
the handcuffs stopped him. "Take it out yourself," he snarled to the
operative next him, "inside pocket." His request was quickly complied
with. "There, that tells the story; open it."
Detective Mitchell bent eagerly forward and gazed at the sheet, then
turned to Miller.
"Let me see your hands," he directed. Obediently Miller held them palm
uppermost, and the detective and Chief Connor examined the half-moon scar
on the index finger of his right hand with minute care.
"It tallies," exclaimed Mitchell. A cry from Kathleen broke the silence.
Miller whitened as he heard it.
"The evidence is conclusive, is it not?" mocked Heinrich. "If that dead
woman could speak"--pointing to the table--"she would tell you how she
saw the crime committed."
"Suppose we take her mute testimony"--and with a swift movement Miller
removed his coat.
"Merciful God!" With eyes starting from his head Heinrich recoiled. "Mrs.
Whitney! Why didn't she let me know she was coming down here?"
"Ah, then she was in the habit of coming?"
Miller's remark remained unanswered. Heinrich stared and stared again at
Mrs. Whitney, great beads of sweat standing on his forehead. "I thought
it was Julie--that hell-cat!" he muttered. "Why, why didn't she speak,
and let me know who she was?" Then suddenly he collapsed on the one
chair in the chamber and bowed his head.
At sight of Mrs. Whitney a gasping cry escaped Kathleen. Involuntarily
her eyes strayed about the chamber, her dazed senses slowly grasping the
situation. In the appalling silence one idea became paramount--Henry, the
chauffeur, was a spy, and both his words and behavior implicated Mrs.
Whitney. She, his accomplice? Oh, impossible! She put the thought from
her, but memories, unconsidered trifles, rose to combat Kathleen's
loyalty. Had Mrs. Whitney's smilingly collected manner and dignified
reserve cloaked a cold, calculating, and treacherous nature?
Kathleen shuddered in horror, and reeled back into Miss Kiametia's arms.
The spinster, shaken out of her forced composure, was crying without
realizing it. She placed a protecting arm about Kathleen and held her in
close embrace. Over the shoulders of the men, Julie, who had crawled from
her hiding place behind the barrels, peered at them in mingled curiosity
and incredulity.
"Heinrich!" Miller's voice penetrated even the spy's benumbed brain. "Why
is Mrs. Whitney wearing these finger tips?" and he held up the limp right
hand. Each finger was fitted with a wax tip, and on the index finger,
distinct and plain, was the scar shaped like a half moon.
Stunned, the men and women present looked first at Mrs. Whitney's hand,
then at Miller, and last at Heinrich. No one spoke, and in the heavy
silence the spy's labored breathing was distinct.
"The game is up," he admitted slowly. "I wish I hadn't done that,"
nodding to the silent figure. "She didn't deserve to be shot by me. She
was faithful to Germany ..."
"Do you mean to insinuate that Minna Whitney was a German spy?" asked
Miss Kiametia, shocked into speech.
"Well, yes, you might call it that," taunted Heinrich. "I term it
loyalty to the Fatherland, where she was born and brought up. Her mother
was a German."
"She would never have aided you but for your devilish wiles," broke in
Miller hotly.
"The fact that she was deeply in debt did influence her," admitted
Heinrich insolently. "Money was her god. I had to pay handsomely before
she would engage my services as chauffeur, and let me make use of this
nice little box."
"Did you construct this tunnel under the pavement"--pointing to where the
telegraph wires entered the chamber--"and install this outfit by
yourself?" asked Chief Connor, breaking his long silence.
Heinrich smiled. "You will never learn that from me--and you should
remember that your conduits are laid only seven inches below the surface
of the street; it was hardly a man-sized job." He smiled again, and
continued. "Neither Mrs. Whitney nor I wished to take anyone wholly into
our confidence. She was a perfect assistant; she knew the antecedents of
nearly everyone in society here, and she invariably found out, or got
others to find out, the motives which inspired strangers to come to
Washington. Her husband never interfered with our plans, as he spent most
of his time, both day and night, in his studio. The servants never came
down in this sub-cellar, and with Mrs. Whitney's connivance, I frequently
managed to keep the limousine in the repair shop--and my time was my own.
My surroundings were ideal, even the location of this house favored my
plans ..."
"Until you grew too ambitious," added Connor softly.
"Perhaps." Heinrich gnawed at his underlip as he shot a glance full of
venom at Kathleen who stood with head averted, drinking in all that was
said. To hurt her, to lower her pride appealed to Heinrich; his silence
would not benefit the dead woman, while speech would cruelly hurt and
mortify both Kathleen and her father. "My government was anxious to
secure Mr. Whitney's inventions; he would not sell to them, although
Baron--" he stopped and scowled at Miller--"offered him a large sum.
Whitney stuck to it that none but his own country could have the
inventions. Then I suggested to Mrs. Whitney that she get the drawings
and specifications for me; and again I paid her a large sum of money. But
it was as difficult for Mrs. Whitney to get into the studio as for me,
and the danger to herself was not small. Her husband was very suspicious,
and he never permitted her to remain in the room alone.
"However, because she was not aware I had perfected, as I thought,
another plan to secure the invention, and tempted by the sum of money I
held before her to succeed, she made another attempt last night. She
cried out with disappointment when, after entering, she found only blank
paper, and Whitney heard her." He stared at the horrified faces about
him, and clearing his voice, added, "The shock finished Whitney."
"You are the devil incarnate!" exclaimed Miss Kiametia, wrathfully.
"I'm not, but he is." Heinrich raised his manacled hands menacingly
toward Miller. "I never fully trusted you, von Mueller; although I never
found any evidence of your double dealing in your room. But while
outwardly appearing to confide in you, I took the precaution to
incriminate you should my plans miscarry. I observed the peculiar scar on
your finger, and conceived the idea of copying your finger tips in wax.
With Mrs. Whitney's help, I secured an impression of your finger prints
and had it copied in wax. The workman, another German sympathizer,
achieved a wonderful copy of the original, and by my advice Mrs. Whitney
wore the wax finger tips whenever she had work to do."
"An ingenious plan, very," ejaculated Mitchell, "and one new to me."
"Mrs. Whitney was wearing them on the night that Sinclair Spencer took it
into his besotted brain to investigate this house," went on Heinrich.
"Mrs. Whitney told me afterwards that she was on the way here to see me,
when she spied Spencer crouching in the elevator, the door of which was
open. She was afraid of being discovered if she went upstairs again, and
to stay was equally dangerous.
"She had with her a hypodermic syringe which I had given her to use in an
emergency." Kathleen straightened up, and for the first time stared full
at the spy. "The syringe was filled with a solution of cyanide of
potassium," continued Henry. "Adjusting the needle, Mrs. Whitney entered
the elevator, and before Spencer could move, thrust it into his neck.
Spencer gave one convulsive start, attempted to get up, and his heavy
body lurched full against her. She held a knife in her left hand, and as
he half arose from his knees, the force of contact against the worn edges
of the knife gashed his throat. I had asked Mrs. Whitney to bring me one
of the knives which her daughter had for modeling, as I wanted to use
some putty down here.
"With great presence of mind," continued Heinrich, after a brief pause
which no one cared to break, "Mrs. Whitney ran the elevator to the
attic, and before leaving dipped her wax finger tip in the blood flowing
from Spencer's throat, and made a distinct impression of von Mueller's
finger print on Spencer's white shirt front. Mrs. Whitney left the
elevator at the attic, but Detective Mitchell arrived before she missed
the syringe. On discovering Miss Grey had it, she made various attempts
to get it back.
"I found the hypodermic syringe," confessed Miss Kiametia. "It was lying
inside the elevator, and I picked it up just after Kathleen was carried
from the elevator. The syringe was marked 'K.W.,' and some impulse made
me keep it, and after the inquest, when I learned cyanide of potassium
had killed Spencer, I hardly let it out of my sight"--Kathleen turned
bewildered, grateful eyes on the spinster--she was not a drug-fiend, but
the most loyal of friends. Her hand tightened on the spinster's, and her
pressure was returned twofold. "Did Kathleen's unnatural mother
deliberately have that syringe marked with her daughter's initials?"
"Put it down to coincidence," sneered Heinrich. "Or say I had it marked
'K.W.' for--Kaiser Wilhelm."
"I doubt it; malice alone governed your actions to all in my house."
Kathleen faced the spy proudly. "Miss Kiametia, you do Mrs. Whitney one
injustice. She was not an unnatural mother--as she was no blood kin of
mine, but my father's second wife. She never told anyone that I was not
her child. I don't know why she kept the matter a secret, but I only
learned it accidentally a year ago, and respecting her wishes, never said
anything about it."
"Mrs. Whitney was secretive by nature," said Heinrich. "And that instinct
made her a willing pawn."