DETECTIVE MITCHELL ASKS QUESTIONS
CONTRARY to Vera’s idea of a “chatty” motor drive into Washington,
Millicent and her two guests made the trip almost in silence. Hugh
Wyndham, alone, seemed to find the silence irksome, but his efforts to
force conversation met with no encouragement and he finally lapsed into
silence. It was not until the limousine had crossed Long Bridge and was
bowling along the asphalted streets of Washington that Millicent broke
her moody silence.
“Do you wish to go direct to the _Tribune_ office, Dorothy?” she asked,
picking up the speaking-tube.
Dorothy consulted her wrist watch. “Perhaps I had better; it is
later than I thought. If I get through my work early we can stop at
Brentano’s on the way home.”
“Let me go there for you,” suggested Wyndham. “What book do you wish?”
“No book, thanks; Vera wants me to order a hundred of her
visiting-cards struck off.” As she spoke Dorothy opened her handbag and
taking out her purse offered a Treasury bill to Wyndham. He waved it
aside.
“Pay for the cards when they are finished,” he exclaimed.
“Please take it,” insisted Dorothy, closing her bag with a snap. “Vera
objects to charge accounts.”
“If you wish me to.” Wyndham pocketed the money just as the limousine
drew up at the curb, and throwing aside the lap-robe he jumped out and
assisted Dorothy to the sidewalk before the chauffeur could leave his
seat. “Are you coming with me to Brentano’s, Millicent?” he asked,
seeing that his cousin made no move to leave the car.
Millicent contented herself with a nod of assent and Wyndham hastened
after Dorothy who, not waiting, had already entered the office
building. Wyndham’s voice brought her to a stand near the elevator
shaft.
“Dorothy”--he lowered his voice and drew her to one side of the
corridor where there was no danger of their conversation being
overheard--“I implore you not to distrust me.”
“I don’t, Hugh.”
“Then why do you avoid me--why refuse to see me alone?” with suppressed
vehemence. “Your behavior, Dorothy, hurts me cruelly.”
“You are mistaken.” She glanced upward, and her clear eyes did not
falter in their direct gaze, while a wave of color mantled her cheeks.
“I think of you--dream of you--” She checked herself as she saw the
passion which lighted his eyes. “This is no place--go,” as two men
approached. “Don’t keep Millicent waiting.” And with that parting
injunction she turned to greet the city editor.
“You are just in time, Miss Deane,” exclaimed the city editor, as
Wyndham walked away. “Mr. Reynolds,” indicating his companion, “has a
new lot of photographs for you to choose from for the Sunday paper.
Here’s the elevator.” And hardly giving the outgoing passengers an
opportunity to leave, the energetic city editor hustled Dorothy and
the photographer into the elevator, and on arriving at their floor
he accompanied them into Dorothy’s office. “Have you a photograph of
Millicent Porter?” he asked, taking up the prints which Reynolds laid
on Dorothy’s desk.
“No,” was the photographer’s glum response. “Mr. Wyndham called at the
studio early Tuesday morning and forbade us giving copies to the press.”
The city editor dropped the prints in disgust and turned to Dorothy.
“Are you sure you have no picture of Miss Porter in your desk?”
“I am positive that I have not.” Dorothy pulled up a chair and examined
the glossy photographs. “Perhaps my predecessor used one of Miss
Porter. If so, the cut will be on file with the others.”
“Her name is in the card index, but the cut itself is missing,”
grumbled the city editor. “Wish I knew who took it. I’d fire him. We
haven’t had such a sensational murder as Brainard’s in years, and I
can’t lay my hands on a single photograph of the principals involved.”
“Who are chiefly involved?” Dorothy’s face was screened by the large
print which she was studying with interest.
“Chiefly involved?” The city editor knitted his brows. “Well, I
should say all the Porter household is involved more or less, but I
believe that English doctor, Noyes, who skipped out of the country
so opportunely, knows a thing or two which might aid in tracing the
murderer. And,” he added, warming to his subject, “if I’d been on that
coroner’s jury I would have made Millicent Porter talk.”
Dorothy smiled with her lips only, her eyes fixed steadily on the
pretty woman in the photograph. “Possibly the jury found Miss Porter
had nothing to say,” she remarked.
“Nothing to say? A girl whose fiancé has just been murdered?” The city
editor laughed loudly as if enjoying a huge joke. “Miss Deane, you’re
dippy.”
“Perhaps; but I fail to see a reason for dragging Miss Porter further
into the limelight. Why center publicity about her?”
“Because she’s good material for a ‘sob’ story, if nothing more; but I
have a hunch”--he lowered his voice to a confidential pitch--“that she
is going to be the big feature of the case before the Brainard mystery
is cleared up. So long,” and he left the room.
Reynolds heaved a sigh of relief which was echoed by Dorothy. “Now we
can get along with our work, Miss Deane; how will these photographs do
for a layout of the leaders of the ultra-smart set?” placing a number
of prints together; and Dorothy soon became absorbed in making her
selections.
After the departure of the photographer, twenty minutes later, Dorothy
wrote her directions on the back of each photograph and had just
completed her task when the office boy entered and laid a “flimsy” on
her desk.
“Take these photographs to the engraver and tell him I must have the
cuts by tomorrow afternoon,” she directed, and picked up the “flimsy.”
It proved to be a garbled account of Millicent Porter sent out by one
of the news agencies and laid great stress upon her wealth and the
social prominence of her family. Dorothy frowned as she crumpled it
in her hand, then thinking better of her action she smoothed out the
“flimsy” and carefully pigeonholed it.
Dorothy’s thoughts were far from her work as she mechanically
carried out the daily office routine. A talk with a White House
usher elicited the news that the President was playing golf and
might go to the theater that night; a chat with a confidential clerk
in the Department of State provided her with the list of guests
at a diplomatic dinner to be given that night by the Secretary of
State; but her other telephone calls drew blank; and Dorothy, after
looking over the meager items chronicled in the social columns of the
afternoon papers, welcomed the ring of the telephone. It proved to be
a long-distance call from Albany, N. Y., giving her the information
that a Congressman’s wife was receiving at the Governor’s reception,
describing the gown which she would wear, and stating that she desired
to have it fully written up in the _Morning Tribune_.
Half an hour later Dorothy was correcting her typewritten copy when
the door was jerked unceremoniously open, and the city editor walked
in, followed by Detective Mitchell. Dorothy’s heart sank at sight of
the city editor’s aggressive air; previous encounters had given her an
inkling of his bullying disposition, and the presence of Mitchell did
not look propitious.
“See here, Miss Deane, why haven’t you informed me that you are
visiting Millicent Porter?” demanded the city editor.
“I did not think the news would interest you.” Dorothy laid down
her copy and nodded coolly to the detective. “Good afternoon, Mr.
Mitchell.”
“Interest me?” stormed the city editor. “Here I’ve been trying vainly
to get a line on what’s doing out at the Porter mansion; every reporter
refused admission, and you staying there--” He swallowed hard. “Write a
fifteen-hundred-word human interest story for tomorrow’s paper, get an
interview if possible from Mrs. Porter and her daughter--but remember,
I want a story with meat in it--and don’t you come back to this office
without it.” And his clenched fist, descending on the desk by way of
emphasis, jarred the scissors and paste pot out of their accustomed
places.
Dorothy’s expression changed. “I must remind you, Mr. Harding, that I
am the head of my department and responsible to the managing editor
only. If you desire to detail me to a special assignment you must speak
to him first.” There was truth in what she said, and Harding hesitated.
Dorothy turned to Mitchell. “Do you wish to see me?”
Mitchell cast an amused glance at the indignant city editor whose
florid complexion rivaled his red necktie in point of vivid color, then
pulled forward a chair and made himself comfortable. Harding glanced
about, and, finding no other chair in the small room, propped himself
against the side of the desk and the wall.
“Go ahead, Mitchell,” he said pugnaciously. “Tell her what you told me.”
Dorothy glanced from one to the other, her calm demeanor covering a
rapidly beating heart. What had the detective confided to Harding? What
had he really discovered relating to Bruce Brainard’s death?
Mitchell took a paper from his pocket and, reaching up, bent the
portable electric lamp so that its light fell directly upon the
desk and incidentally shone full in Dorothy’s face. If she detected
the maneuver she gave no indication of it as she leaned back in her
revolving-chair and waited politely for the detective to speak.
“Miss Deane, you understand wireless?” questioned Mitchell.
“I do.”
“And Miss Millicent Porter also?”
“Yes. We were both taught wireless at the National Service School, the
woman’s preparedness camp at Chevy Chase, Maryland.”
“Have you kept up wireless instruction since then?”
“Yes, we both took the commercial examination last fall.”
“And you can operate the marine wireless at the Porter mansion?”
Dorothy looked at Mitchell steadily. What was he driving at?
“Yes, we have practiced on the wireless there,” she acknowledged.
“When was the marine wireless outfit installed there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Last summer?” persisted Mitchell, annoyed by the curtness of her tone.
“Oh, no, before then.”
“Then it was not erected solely for Miss Porter’s benefit?”
“No. I believe Mr. Craig Porter had it installed before he went abroad
to join the French aviation corps, and Mrs. Porter never had it taken
down.”
“I see.” Mitchell stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Do you know the
instrument’s sending capacity, Miss Deane?”
She thought before answering. “I believe about one hundred miles, but
I am not certain. Miss Porter and I generally used the instrument to
receive messages.”
“But you have sent messages?”
“Yes, occasionally.”
“To whom did you send a message last night, Miss Deane?”
Dorothy’s reply was prompt. “To no one.”
Mitchell smiled, not unkindly. “I’m afraid denial won’t do any good. I
saw you and Miss Porter in the attic at the Porter mansion last night.”
“You saw us?” Dorothy’s surprise was unmistakable, and Mitchell
chuckled. “Where were you?”
“In Dr. Thorne’s dining-room, the window of which overlooks that side
of the Porter mansion.” There was a brief pause, and then Mitchell
repeated his former question. “To whom did you send a message last
night?”
“I sent no wireless message last night,” reiterated Dorothy.
“Oh, so it was Miss Porter.” A self-satisfied smile crossed the
detective’s lips, and Dorothy’s heart sank as she racked her brain in
an effort to puzzle out the meaning of his questioning her on such a
subject. What had the wireless to do with his investigation of the
mystery surrounding Bruce Brainard’s death? She sat forward in her
chair as Mitchell commenced speaking again. “I saw you both in the
attic earlier in the evening, as you did not pull down the shades.
About midnight I saw one of you return, but as only a candle was
burning near the window at that time, I could not be certain whether it
was you or Miss Porter.” He paused and looked inquiringly at Dorothy.
“You say it was about midnight? Are you quite certain, Mr. Mitchell,
that you did not fall asleep and dream all this?”
“I did not,” answered Mitchell shortly, ruffled by her manner of
receiving his news. “In proof of it the Arlington Radio Station caught
Miss Porter’s message, but not the name of the person she was sending
it to.”
“Ah, indeed?” skeptically. “And what was the message?”
“‘Peace and tranquillity.’”
Dorothy’s reception of his answer startled the detective--she burst
into peal on peal of laughter.
“Excuse me,” she stammered as soon as she could speak. “You were so
serious and--and--” Again she laughed whole-heartedly. “You have
unearthed a mare’s nest, Mr. Mitchell.”
Mitchell’s rising color testified to his displeasure. “Kindly tell me
the meaning of those three words, Miss Deane,” he demanded.
“They bear the customary meaning attributed to them,” retorted Dorothy,
her eyes still twinkling. “The phrase you quoted is frequently used by
Miss Porter and myself for practice work in sending messages.”
The detective watched her in angry silence, then started to address her
just as the door was pushed quietly open and Hugh Wyndham stopped on
the threshold. Neither man observed him as they faced Dorothy, their
backs turned to the entrance.
“Your explanation is very pat, Miss Deane,” said Mitchell. “Perhaps you
can also explain what it was Miss Millicent Porter threw into an unused
well late yesterday afternoon.”
Dorothy gazed silently at her questioner, then her glance traveled
upward until it rested on Wyndham, and her breath forsook her. The
gathering wrath in Wyndham’s eyes as he took a menacing step toward
the unconscious detective acted like a douche of cold water on
Dorothy’s benumbed wits.
“I can explain,” she announced, her voice quivering with subdued
excitement. “Miss Porter dreads publicity. She threw a cut into the
well, the only cut ever made from one of her photographs, so that her
picture would not appear in a newspaper.”
“I-n-deed,” drawled Mitchell. “And where did Miss Porter get
this--eh--cut?”
“I gave it to her.”
Her words brought a bellow from Harding. “What! do you mean to say you
stole the cut from this office and gave it to Miss Porter?”
“I did.”
Harding pounded the desk. “Where’s your honesty?” he roared. “Where’s
your loyalty to the newspaper that employs you?”
“My loyalty belongs to the paper so long as it does not conflict with
my loyalty to my friends,” answered Dorothy. “As for my honesty--I have
paid for the cut.”
“D-mn the money! It isn’t a question of money,” he retorted thickly.
“You are fired, understand--fired!”
Dorothy was on her feet instantly. “It is the managing editor who
dismisses me, Mr. Harding,” she reminded him, and turned with dignity
to Mitchell. “As I must turn in my copy, Mr. Mitchell, you will have to
excuse me.” And closing her roll-top desk she picked up her coat and
hat and joined Wyndham in the city room, where he had preceded her. She
tossed her manuscript to a copy reader, and, after exchanging a word
with the foreman, left the office, Wyndham in tow.
The Porter limousine had driven off but a scant five minutes when
Inspector North entered the Tribune building and went direct to the
managing editor’s office, only to be told that he would not be there
until after dinner. The inspector was making for the society editor’s
office when he spied the city editor emerging from it.
“Hello, Harding,” he hailed. “Miss Deane in?”
“No, just gone.” Harding kicked a chair out of his way as a slight vent
to his feelings. “Anything I can do for you, Inspector?”
“Yes. Tell me, is Miss Dorothy Deane in mourning?”
“Mourning? H--l, no! Say--” But the inspector waved a friendly
farewell as he hastened toward the elevator shaft, and Harding
completed his sentence with another oath.
Inspector North was more fortunate in his next call, and found the
Chief of the Secret Service comfortably seated in his office in the
Treasury Department.
“I don’t usually bring ‘lost and found’ articles to you, Chief,” he
explained, taking a chair by the desk and drawing a leather handbag out
of his overcoat pocket. “But I’m puzzled. What do you think of this?”
Chief Connor turned the bag over and over. “Good leather,” he remarked.
“Unmarked. Where did you get the bag?”
“It was turned in by a conductor on the Mt. Pleasant line who found it
in his car. Open it, Chief.”
Connor started to do so and the catch caught, then as he used more
strength it flew open with such suddenness that half its contents
rolled to the floor. Inspector North instantly retrieved each article.
“Is there nothing but money?” asked Connor, contemplating the Treasury
notes which his companion laid on his desk.
“That’s all, except this.” And the inspector handed him a black-edged
card. Connor read the block lettering with interest:
Miss Vera Deane
Graduate nurse
Making no further comment, Chief Connor sorted each bill in its proper
denomination, and in a few minutes had several neat piles of gold and
greenback certificates of varying amounts stacked in front of him.
Taking up a microscope he examined each bill, testing the quality of
the paper between his fingers, and in certain instances he jotted down
the check letter, series, and charter numbers.
“Has Miss Deane notified Headquarters of the loss of her bag?” he
asked finally. “There is quite a tidy sum of money here--three hundred
dollars.”
“So I observed,” answered Inspector North dryly. “No, Miss Deane has
not notified Headquarters; on the contrary, I telephoned her of its
present whereabouts, and she denied ownership of the bag.”
“Indeed!” Connor sat erect and pressed his desk buzzer, and an
assistant appeared from an inner office. “Examine these bills, Neale,”
he directed, and waited until the operative had disappeared with the
money. “So Miss Deane denies the bag is hers. Did you tell her its
contents?”
“No. I only said it contained her black-edged visiting-card.” North
hesitated. “Miss Deane’s sister is society editor of the _Tribune_. I
have just learned at the office that the young ladies are not now in
mourning. From another source I heard that Judge Deane, their father,
died about seven years ago and his wife did not long survive him. Of
course it is possible that some friend of hers had one of her old
visiting-cards instead of her own in the bag, especially as Miss Deane
declares her bag is in her own possession at home.”
“That is a plausible theory, but--” It was Connor’s turn to hesitate,
and the inspector broke the silence.
“It is strange that the real owner doesn’t claim the bag, considering
that its disappearance involves the loss of three hundred dollars,” he
said thoughtfully. “It’s that puzzle which has brought me to you. Few
people lose such a sum of money in a street car without raising a fuss
about it.”
“My dear North, the presence of the money is obviously the reason why
the bag goes unclaimed,” retorted Connor, and the inspector leaned
forward excitedly.
“You mean--?”
“That many of the bank notes are counterfeit. The owner of that bag
will be the last to claim it. Well, Neale, what have you to report?”
The operative advanced to the desk and placed the Treasury notes again
on the desk with memorandum attached.
“One hundred and seventy-five dollars of this is counterfeit.” Neale
selected a ten-dollar note and showed it to Chief Connor. “This is
apparently printed from photomechanical plates and retouched with a
graver. It is an exceedingly dangerous counterfeit.”
Chief Connor nodded assent as he examined the note, then looked
inquiringly at his assistant. “Well, Neale?”
“‘Gentleman Charlie,’” was the latter’s only comment, and Chief Connor
smiled.
“Exactly, Neale. Issue special warnings to all banks. ‘Gentleman
Charlie’ has resumed operations.”