“SEDITIOUS UTTERANCES”
PALMER, fussing among his blue prints, looked up as his stenographer
ushered Dan Maynard into his office.
“Sit down,” he exclaimed heartily. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back
after all; you need not wait, Miss Hall,” and the stenographer walked
out, closing the door behind her. Palmer swung his swivel-chair about
so as to face his visitor who had selected a seat near the desk. “I
stopped at the Burnhams’ particularly to see you, but found you had
left to come here.”
“Too bad,” commented Maynard. “I should have telephoned first before
going to the rehearsal of the tableaux at the Belasco, to ask you to
wait for me; my stupidity.” He leaned a little nearer. “Have you seen
the taxi-driver?”
“Not yet.” Maynard’s face fell; he had jumped to the conclusion from
Palmer’s manner that he had news of importance. “The Potomac Taxi
Company reported Sam was engaged to motor a party out to Camp Meade;
they are expected back this evening.” Palmer drummed his fingers on
the desk a second, then asked abruptly: “Did you tell Mrs. Burnham
about the attempt to shoot her husband last night?”
“No.” Maynard balanced his hat on his knee with nice exactness.
“Burnham asked me not to. And to be quite candid, after I had helped
Dr. Hayden put him to bed I departed and left the doctor to tell as
much as he thought fit to Mrs. Burnham when she returned.”
“Was she out?”
“Yes, gone to some Red Cross meeting, so Jones told us.” Maynard smiled
broadly. “I rather imagine from what was said at breakfast this morning
that Mrs. Burnham laid her husband’s condition to too convivial a
disposition.”
Palmer did not smile. “I am afraid she has frequent occasion to think
that and with reason. Frankly, Maynard, Burnham has been going at a
pretty lively clip during the past six months and unless he pulls up he
will be over the precipice,” he said soberly.
Maynard’s mirth vanished. “I am sorry to hear it,” he declared.
“Burnham is a good fellow at bottom, and his wife,” Maynard stooped
over to pick up his hat which had finally over-balanced and rolled to
the floor. There was a pause before he again spoke. “It must be doubly
hard on Mrs. Burnham; aside from her affection for her husband she
is a proud woman, and to have her affairs discussed in public must go
against the grain.”
It was Palmer’s turn to smile. “You weren’t here when their engagement
was announced? Well, my good fellow, Mrs. Burnham was then the
storm-center of criticism, not to say amusement. No, I can’t believe
the public’s opinion, good or bad, influences her actions. She is a law
unto herself.”
Maynard shook his head in unbelief. “What part of the country does she
hail from?” he asked.
“New York; she comes of old Knickerbocker stock.” Palmer tilted
back in his chair. “Her daughter is like her in looks as well as in
disposition; she also has a will of her own,” he sighed, then spoke
carefully, choosing his words. “I hope to marry her.”
Maynard looked at him, but his grave manner precluded jesting. After
all there was not so much difference in Evelyn’s and Palmer’s ages as
to make the match unsuitable. Palmer had money, influence, and came
of a family long distinguished in his country’s annals. Undoubtedly
society’s verdict would commend such an engagement, and yet--Maynard’s
thoughts reverted to René La Montague whose aristocratic carriage and
good looks were in vast contrast to the square-jawed bulldog type of
manhood lolling before him in a swivel-chair.
“I wish you all success in your courtship,” said Maynard, suddenly
conscious that an answer was expected of him. “Do Burnham and his wife
approve?”
“Burnham does.” Palmer examined his fingernails critically. “I have
never been able to get an opinion out of Mrs. Burnham; she can be very
evasive when it suits her.”
“Well, the main thing is to win the girl’s affections,” remarked
Maynard. “Don’t worry about the mother, her opinion is of secondary
importance these days in selecting a husband.”
“Not in this case; Evelyn loses her fortune if she marries without her
mother’s consent.”
“Ah, indeed? And who inherits the fortune in case Mrs. Burnham’s
consent is withheld?”
“Mrs. Burnham.”
“Oh!” Maynard stared blankly at the architect. “An unjust will,” he
said gravely. “It is unfair to Evelyn, very; she has either to marry to
please her mother, or select a wealthy man; or----” He paused.
“Or what?”
“Choose love in a cottage.”
Palmer shrugged his shoulders. “To a girl brought up to expect every
luxury and never count the cost, love in a cottage hasn’t a great
appeal--except in the movies. I know I shan’t have an easy time winning
Evelyn,” he admitted in a sudden burst of candor. “She is very popular,
but in the end,” his jaw snapped, “Americans should marry Americans.”
Maynard’s eyebrows rose slightly; so Palmer was aware of René La
Montagne’s courtship of Evelyn! Had he gained that information the
night before or was the affair common gossip?
“Heard anything further about the mysterious dead man?” he inquired.
Palmer looked glum. “Not a thing,” he admitted. “I called up Coroner
Penfield to-day at Burnham’s request to ask when the inquest would
take place, and was told that a preliminary examination had been held,
the body put in a receiving vault, and upon further developments the
inquest will be continued.”
Maynard whistled. “The delay is unusual; they must be waiting for
witnesses.”
“Or to identify the dead man.”
“Have they made any progress in solving that problem?”
“The coroner did not say.”
“Strange that a man can drop out of existence and not be missed or
inquired about,” mused Maynard. “The dead man must have had some
friends or relatives.”
“Perhaps they are not in this country.”
“They can always cable.”
Palmer tilted still farther back in his chair. “Has it occurred to you
that the dead man’s friends or relatives may reside in Germany?”
“Do you mean that the dead man was a German spy?”
“Yes.” Palmer sat upright. “That to me is the only explanation for the,
as you mention, inexplicable fact that no one has reported such a man
as missing to the police or made inquiries for him. Coroner Penfield
states his photograph has been circulated with a minute description of
his clothes.”
“Has the photograph appeared in the newspapers?”
“I think not. From all accounts he must have looked pretty gruesome,
Maynard; the newspapers wouldn’t want to publish a picture of a dead
man sitting in a chair. It isn’t done.”
“Pretty good publicity if it were done,” retorted Maynard bluntly.
“Have you told Detective Mitchell your theory?”
“Not yet.” Palmer hesitated. “Let the police work out their theories
first. There’s another reason,” and he smiled. “Washington is spy-mad;
and I don’t want to be classed among the men and women who write
anonymously to the Department of Justice or telephone the Secret
Service regarding the, to them, suspicious behavior of their neighbors.
Hot air, most of it.”
“Better hot air than run the risk of letting a spy escape through not
reporting him,” remarked Maynard. “If I were you, Palmer, I wouldn’t
lose any time in seeing Mitchell, and suggest to him that the Secret
Service take a hand in the game.”
“They may be working from that end already,” answered Palmer
doubtfully. “However, if you think it best I’ll step over to the
Treasury Department and see Chief Connor. Would you like to come along?”
“Very much.”
“Good.” Palmer swung about and gathered up the blue prints of all
sizes which littered his desk. He was in the act of placing them in
his drawer when a sharp rap followed instantly by the entrance of his
office boy interrupted him.
“General West is awaitin’ in his car to speak to yo’,” announced the
darkey. “The General’s in a pow’ful big hurry an’ he wants ter see the
plan for the new buildin’ for the Ordnance.”
Palmer selected four blue prints. “I’ll be right back,” he told Maynard
and hurried out into the hall.
Left to himself Maynard gazed about the room and then back at the
disorderly desk. Moving quietly over to it he scanned several drawings
and turned them over. As he did so his eye fell on a small chess
problem diagram half buried among the larger prints and he picked it up
to examine more closely. With lightning speed his trained eyes studied
the diagram and the message beneath it:
[Illustration: WHITE TO PLAY AND MATE IN TWO MOVES.]
A second more and the diagram was tucked safely in an inner pocket
as approaching footsteps heralded the return of Palmer, and when he
entered Maynard was indolently reading the evening newspaper.
“There’s no pleasing some people,” fumed the architect, tossing the
plans he carried into the open drawer and thrusting the others pell
mell on top of them he slammed the drawer shut and locked it securely.
“We’ve got to hurry, Maynard, to get to the Treasury Department before
closing time. Come on.”
Stopping only long enough to push down the safety lock of the door
to his private office and cautioning the boy to take all telephone
messages, Palmer hurried the actor into the street.
“Not a car in sight,” he exclaimed looking up the street. “We’ll have
to walk; all Washington’s doing it,” he added, laughing, and the two
men strode along, unconsciously quickening their pace as they crossed
Lafayette Square into Pennsylvania Avenue. Maynard on reaching the
north front of the Treasury swerved toward the long row of steps
leading to the building but Palmer stopped him.
“Only one entrance used now-a-days,” he explained. “That on Fifteenth
Street, this way,” and they hurried along Pennsylvania Avenue and
around the corner.
Paying no attention to the sign “No Visitors Allowed” which hung
conspicuously near the only open door, Palmer led the way inside the
building and was promptly stopped by an attendant, whose peremptory
manner thawed somewhat at sight of Palmer’s visiting card.
“I’ll take you to the Captain of the Watch,” he said. “Here, Tom,” and
signing to another attendant to take his place, he escorted them into a
small room a few steps away. They had to wait until the Captain of the
Watch had interviewed the three men and two women who had reached the
room ahead of them. At Palmer’s request to see the Chief of the Secret
Service the Captain smiled.
“Won’t an assistant do?” he asked. “The Chief’s somewhat busy.”
Palmer, having made up his mind to see Chief Connor, was not to be
sidetracked.
“No,” he said decidedly. “I won’t detain the Chief but a minute; it’s
important. Here’s my card,” and he laid it on the desk. The Captain
pushed over some printed blanks.
“Fill out these forms,” he directed, “both you and your friend,” and he
picked up his telephone receiver and held a subdued conversation which
he discontinued when Palmer and Maynard handed him the filled-in blanks
bearing their signatures and addresses. A touch of the push button and
the attendant returned.
“Take these gentlemen upstairs,” the Captain directed and turned to
interview some newcomers.
As Maynard accompanied Palmer and their guide up the winding staircase
and through the broad corridors he noted the numerous uniformed
attendants pacing up and down. In the outer office of the Secret
Service Headquarters they were met by a polite secretary who invited
them to be seated and confide their business to him, which Palmer,
his obstinacy aroused by what his _amour propre_ took to be a slight
in shelving him with a subordinate when he desired to see the Chief,
declined to do.
The secretary’s patience was wearing thin under Palmer’s irritating
manner and he was about to close the interview when the swing door
leading to an inner office opened and Detective Mitchell stepped out.
He halted at sight of Maynard, who sat with his back toward the door,
and disappeared into the room again. An instant later the call bell
buzzed and, excusing himself, the secretary stepped inside the inner
room.
“Nice business keeping a man of my standing waiting in an anteroom,”
fumed Palmer, turning to Maynard, but the latter’s rejoinder was lost
by the return of the secretary.
“Will you and your friend step this way, Mr. Palmer?” he said. “Chief
Connor will see you.”
Palmer’s walk past the secretary was indicative of his feeling of
triumph; he had gained his point. Maynard, following close at his
heels, smothered a smile as they reached the large table near the
window where sat Chief Connor with Detective Mitchell standing by him.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Palmer,” said Connor cordially, as Palmer
introduced himself and then mentioned Maynard’s name. Chief Connor
rose and extended his hand to the famous actor. “Won’t you sit here?”
indicating chairs to his right. “You already know Mitchell, I believe.”
Palmer nodded curtly; he was somewhat taken aback at the presence of
the detective; he would rather have seen the Chief alone. Maynard, who
had acknowledged Mitchell’s greeting courteously, waited for Palmer to
open the interview, but it was not until Connor remarked pleasantly:
“Well, gentlemen,” that Palmer addressed him.
“I am convinced that the man found dead in Burnham’s library on Tuesday
afternoon was a German spy,” he stated. “I presume from the presence
of Detective Mitchell, who is in charge of the investigation of that
mystery, that you are working along the same lines.”
Connor’s reply took the form of a question. “What leads you to think
the man was a German spy?”
“The fact that no inquiries have been made for him looks to me as if
his relatives and friends are in Germany,” explained Palmer. “If he had
been of any nationality at peace with us, or an American citizen, his
absence would have been reported and the aid of the police sought.”
Connor nodded slightly. “That is a reasonable argument, Mr. Palmer, but
it is not evidence. Any one who dies suddenly these days is a German
spy--in the public’s opinion.” The Chief’s stern mouth relaxed into a
faint smile. “We must have more to go upon than that.”
Maynard looked across at Detective Mitchell. “Have you identified the
man?”
There was a faint pause before Mitchell answered, “No, but our
finger-print experts will make a final report soon,” he answered.
“Slow work,” observed Palmer, and Chief Connor saw the color steal up
in the detective’s face.
“Slow work--but sure,” he remarked with emphasis. “Don’t give yourself
too much concern, Mr. Palmer, the police will solve the riddle. And it
is a case presenting some unique features, I’ll admit.”
“It does,” exclaimed Mitchell eagerly. “Here we have a man, without
an identifying mark on his person or his clothes, poisoned sometime
between two and three Tuesday morning and his body not found until
twelve hours later, and then located in a room which an hour previous
had not contained his body,” Mitchell rumpled his hair, “and no one in
the house but Miss Evelyn Preston who arrived that morning. It’s a very
pretty problem.”
“There was some one else in the house beside Miss Preston,” replied
Palmer warmly. “The man who carried the dead body into the library.
It’s a great pity the house wasn’t searched instantly from top to
bottom.”
“True,” agreed Maynard. “But none of us, the coroner and Dr. Hayden
included, realized there might be a murderer concealed on the premises
until after Penfield’s statement that the man had been dead about
twelve hours, and Miss Preston’s immediate declaration that some one
had rung the library bell just before she came upstairs from the
kitchen and found the dead man sitting there. Our search then, of
course, proved fruitless; the man had made good his escape.”
“There wasn’t a trace of any one having been in the house except Miss
Preston,” added Mitchell. “We searched the entire place.”
“That bears out Burnham’s theory that the man was murdered elsewhere
and carried into his house,” remarked Palmer.
“It is an interesting theory,” commented Chief Connor, and turned to
Palmer directly. “I understand, Mr. Palmer, that you are Mr. Burnham’s
most intimate friend; can you tell me if he has any enemies?”
Palmer glanced involuntarily at Maynard. “I never heard any one
express hatred of Burnham,” he said, speaking slowly. “But he is not
particularly popular.”
“That bears out what I have heard, Chief,” broke in Mitchell.
“Yes.” Connor turned again to Palmer. “You have answered very
concisely, Mr. Palmer; now please tell me if you have heard Burnham
express animosity toward any one.”
Palmer moved restlessly. “That’s a hard question.”
“Why?”
“Because Burnham is very outspoken and frequently exaggerates his
feelings.”
“Mr. Palmer, I will be greatly obliged if you will answer directly;
does Burnham harbor animosity against any one?”
“Well, to be exact,” Palmer avoided Maynard’s eyes, “I believe he
dislikes René La Montagne.”
“René La Montagne?”
“Captain in the French Flying Corps, an ‘Ace,’” explained Maynard,
breaking into the conversation. “The dislike is all on Burnham’s
side; I have never heard La Montagne say anything disagreeable about
Burnham.” He paused, then added, “Burnham’s behavior is peculiar at
times, I understand.”
“So it appears,” replied Chief Connor dryly. “Mitchell has just
informed me that Burnham’s train reached Washington about one thirty
Tuesday morning.”
“It did?” Palmer sat up and stared at the speaker. “Why, Burnham
telephoned me Tuesday _night_ from Union Station that he had just
arrived.”
Maynard, the fingers of his right hand resting in his vest pocket,
thrust a paper deeper down inside the lining as he listened absorbedly
to the conversation.
“There is another point where you can help us, Mr. Palmer,” continued
Chief Connor. “Has Burnham in your presence ever uttered seditious and
disloyal sentiments?”
“Never!” Palmer’s denial was instant.
“Ah!” Chief Connor eyed his visitors sharply. “Your statement
contradicts letters received here in which it is charged that Burnham
is a pronounced pacifist.”
Palmer pushed back his chair and crossed his legs. “You said seditious
utterances,” he began. “Burnham has never made them before me, but I
have heard him state his pacifist views; that was before this country
went into the war. No one paid any attention to him.”
“One person did,” remarked Connor dryly. “Our correspondent.”
“And who is he?”
Chief Connor opened a drawer and took from a file a paper, evidently a
deposition as far as Maynard could make out from where he sat and the
angle at which Connor held the sheet.
“The name signed here,” continued the Chief of the Secret Service, “is
Adolphus Jones.”
“Adolphus Jones,” repeated Palmer. “Who is he?”
“The Burnhams’ butler--Jones,” answered Detective Mitchell.