THE BEST LAID PLANS....
MAYNARD, pacing with nervous strides back and forth in Palmer’s
apartment, paused in front of Dr. Hayden.
“Things look black,” he admitted. “Devilish black for René La Montagne.”
Hayden made a last entry in his day book and slipped it inside his
pocket before answering.
“I am afraid they do,” he agreed. “Any news from Police Headquarters?”
“Only to say that Detective Mitchell is still out; I left word for him
to call here.” Maynard flung himself down on the lounge by Hayden. “I
wish I had been with you when Burnham preferred charges against René;
rotten luck being detained down town and missing all the excitement.”
Any comment Hayden might have made was checked by the noisy entrance of
Palmer from his work-shop, a small room at the back of his apartment
which he had fitted up with office appliances and draughtsman’s tools.
“Have you seen Siki?” he asked.
“I have,” replied Maynard, “I sent him on an errand, Palmer. Siki told
me it was his time off so----”
“That’s all right; glad you got some work out of the beggar.” Palmer
wheeled an arm chair forward and dropped wearily into it. “Night work
is playing the devil with me. What is the latest bulletin from the
Burnhams’, Hayden?”
“Burnham ill and Evelyn better,” answered the physician tersely.
Maynard laid down his cigarette case unopened. “Had Jones reported back
when you were there, Hayden?” At the butler’s name Palmer looked up
inquisitively.
“Come to think of it, I didn’t inquire,” exclaimed Hayden. “The
housekeeper, Mrs. Ward, opened the door for me and I went right
upstairs to see my two patients.”
Palmer stared abstractedly at his highly polished shoes then looked
over at Maynard. “Have you notified Chief Connor that Jones has
decamped?” he inquired.
Maynard waited until his cigarette was lighted before replying.
“I have not,” he said. “Chiefly because I am not altogether certain
Jones has decamped. On inquiry I found that Jones has taken ‘French’
leave in the past, always to return some days later with some very pat
explanation for his absence.”
Hayden laughed. “The Burnham household is a singular one,” he said,
“whichever way you take it. There are Mr. and Mrs. Burnham, two totally
opposite characters; there is Evelyn, young, impulsive, and charming;
there is Mrs. Ward----” He hesitated. “A curious sort of woman, morose,
secretive; then there is Jones;” he laughed again. “Jones is an oddity.”
“So odd that I have spent nearly twenty-four hours looking up his past
career,” said Palmer dryly. “And I’ve dug up some interesting facts;
for instance, Jones has never taken out his naturalization papers.”
“His naturalization papers?” Hayden sat bolt upright. “Isn’t Jones an
American?”
“He is not,” replied Palmer. “Some day, Hayden, if this District is
ever declared a barred zone for enemy aliens, many Washington hostesses
will find themselves left servantless and the Kaiser will get just so
much less first hand information about American war preparations.”
“Do you mean Jones is a German?” demanded Maynard, and into his mind
flashed the recollection of his first impression when Jones admitted
him on Tuesday night at the Burnhams’; he had then detected the faint
trace of a foreign accent in his speech, but the butler’s knowledge of
English had made him forget his first impression.
“He is a German.” Palmer was enjoying the surprise his information
was creating. “Not liking his full name of Johannes, the butler, then
about twenty-two years of age, shortened it to Jones and lengthened his
given name, ‘Adolph,’ to Adolphus. Now, Maynard,” Palmer’s manner grew
serious, “we must tell Burnham of his servant’s double dealing.”
“Just a moment, sir, if you please,” put in a voice behind Palmer, and
he jumped at the nearness of Detective Mitchell who had walked in a
second before, unperceived by the three men. “Kindly make no mention of
Jones to Mr. Burnham; Chief Connor is handling the matter now, and it’s
not for us to interfere.”
Palmer colored warmly at the detective’s peremptory tone, but
controlled his anger as he remarked: “So Chief Connor has come around
to my theory that the dead man was a German spy, has he?”
“I can’t say, sir, what Chief Connor thinks; he does not confide in
me,” replied Mitchell. “But I do know that when he requests a person
not to interfere in the handling of a case, it is healthier for the
person to do what he says.”
Seeing the gathering wrath in Palmer’s still flushed countenance,
Maynard hastily broke into the conversation.
“Your spy theory doesn’t seem tenable, Palmer,” he remarked. “If the
man was caught spying, why doesn’t the man who killed him come forward
and state the case? No one is going to be condemned these days for
exposing, aye, even killing, a German spy in line of duty.”
“That’s a specious argument,” scoffed Palmer. “It is just as convincing
to say that if the dead man had been a member of the Secret Service
killed by a German, his identity would be known to American officials.”
“Well, so it would,” declared Hayden, glancing in surprise at Maynard
and Palmer. Maynard’s usually tranquil manner had deserted him, while
Palmer’s expression was a clear indication of his feelings. “It may be
that the dead man was a member of the Secret Service, but that does not
necessarily mean that the Secret Service is going to announce that fact
to the public, eh, Mitchell?”
“Quite true, doctor,” answered the detective. “And it may also be that
the dead man was just an ordinary American citizen, a law abiding
gentleman who placed too much confidence in----” Mitchell paused, then
added, “in Captain La Montagne.”
“Nonsense!” protested Maynard vigorously. “You surely don’t place any
credence in Burnham’s charges, Mitchell; the man’s out of his head.”
Mitchell looked dubious. “That remains to be proved, sir; and until the
charges are refuted by Captain La Montagne they will stand against him.”
“Well, why not hurry up and give him a chance to clear himself?”
demanded Maynard. “It strikes me, Mitchell, you are not giving the
captain a square deal.”
Instead of replying, the detective shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve done
my best,” he insisted a moment later. “I’ve tried to find the captain
ever since the scene this morning; but he is not at his quarters or
at the hangar, nor could I find him at the office of the French High
Commission.”
“Did you try the French Embassy?”
“I did, but he had not been there to-day.”
Palmer rose and offered the detective a cigar and match. “Sit down,” he
suggested as Hayden made room for Mitchell on the lounge, then asked,
“Can you arrest a French officer detailed here for murder?”
“If I can prove he’s guilty, yes, Mr. Palmer.” Mitchell puffed
contentedly at his cigar. “I’ve an operative waiting for Captain La
Montagne at his apartment and at his official headquarters. They
will notify me instantly upon his return.” Mitchell turned and gazed
about the room and then at his companions. “I hadn’t an opportunity,
doctor, when helping you carry Miss Preston to her room, to ask what
Mr. Burnham meant when he said Captain La Montagne shot him on Thursday
evening. Can any of you tell me where the shooting took place?”
“Here,” replied Hayden and Maynard in concert. Palmer, whose pipe had
gone out, was having difficulty in making it draw again, and for the
moment listened in silence to his companions.
Mitchell viewed the room with increased interest, and then
inspected the three men. “Why have you never reported the affair to
Headquarters?” he asked.
Maynard answered for the others. “I suggested that we investigate
the affair ourselves first,” he said. “Burnham’s statement that La
Montagne had shot at him appeared to have so little foundation to go
on that----” Recollection of the scene in La Montagne’s apartment, the
Maxim silencer, and the automatic brought him to a halt, confused; but
he recovered himself almost instantly and, making no allusion to what
had disconcerted him, he talked on--“that we decided to keep the affair
quiet until more had developed.”
Mitchell listened with fixed attention and then turned abruptly to
Hayden. “Suppose you tell me exactly what occurred here on Thursday
night,” he suggested.
“Palmer can answer that better than I,” replied Hayden, but as Palmer
remained silent he added, “I found Palmer and Burnham playing chess
when I got back after dinner, and being fagged out I took a nap on the
lounge and only woke up when Maynard arrived.”
“Then we had supper,” concluded Palmer, breaking his long silence.
“That’s our dining table. We had just about finished when a bullet
whistled by Burnham and struck the wall there.”
Springing to his feet, Mitchell went over and inspected the hole.
“Where’s the bullet?” he asked.
“Palmer pried it out,” remarked Hayden, rising. “Where did you put it?”
Palmer leaned forward and tipped up a small bronze vase which stood on
the table and out rolled the bullet. “It’s chipped and mushroomed out
of shape,” he said as Mitchell pounced on it. “But a gunsmith told me
that it was undoubtedly of thirty-two caliber.”
Maynard kept his face expressionless but his heart sank; the bullet,
safely tucked in his pocket, which he had dug out of the outer wall of
La Montage’s apartment, was also of thirty-two caliber. Could it be
that that also was merely a coincidence? Shaking off his depression
with an effort, he joined the others about the dining table just as
Mitchell asked:
“Exactly where were you sitting on Thursday night?”
Hayden and Maynard indicated their seats, and the former added:
“Burnham sat there, almost with his back to the window.”
“And Mr. Palmer sat facing Mr. Burnham.” Mitchell laid his hand on a
chair and looked from where he stood across the room. “Surely, Mr.
Palmer, you had a good view of the window; you must have caught a
glimpse of any one standing in the window.”
“But I wasn’t facing the window,” protested Palmer. “I left the table a
little before the shooting.”
“Where did you go?” asked Mitchell.
“Over to the window.” Palmer joined the group about the table. “It was
an overcast foggy night and I did not see any one on the balcony. I had
just turned my back to the window when the shot was fired at Burnham.”
Mitchell thought for a moment, then walked over to the window and
looked out. The balcony in effect was an Italian loggia, shaded with
Venetian blinds from the glare of the sun, and ran the length of the
living room and on past the French window opening into the hall of
Palmer’s apartment. The balcony was fairly wide and Palmer had fitted
it up with wicker lounging chairs, a canvas couch, a number of pretty
mats, and a table. Several artistic wicker bird-cage swinging electric
lamps added to the attractiveness of the cool little retreat.
“And none of you heard a sound?” asked Mitchell.
“We heard no sound.” Palmer had suddenly become the spokesman. “The man
evidently used a Maxim silencer. Thugs do, you know,” he commented as
Mitchell raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, thugs do,” admitted Mitchell. “But how about Captain La Montagne?
Where does he come in?”
“He didn’t come in.” Palmer, as he spoke, strolled over to the door and
into the reception hall. “When Burnham and I rushed out here we found
La Montagne standing in the corridor just outside my door. The door was
open as well as the hall window opening on the balcony.”
“I see.” Mitchell jotted down several notes in his memorandum book and
then dropped it in his pocket as he turned to Maynard. “Were you the
last person to come into the apartment before the shooting?”
“To the best of my knowledge I was.” Maynard looked at his companions.
“That is right, Palmer, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Mitchell opened the hall door and examined the lock. “Did you happen to
notice, Mr. Maynard, if the door was closed firmly behind you?”
“I never noticed,” admitted Maynard. “Siki closed the door; I didn’t.”
The detective addressed Palmer. “Is it your custom to leave the night
latch down?”
“Sometimes; not often.”
Before closing the outer door Mitchell stepped into the corridor and
surveyed it, after which he reëntered the apartment. “Have any of you
taken up this matter with Captain La Montagne?” he asked.
“We did.” Palmer laid his hand on Maynard’s shoulder. “La Montagne told
us he stopped only to inquire the way to Mrs. Van Ness’ apartment, and
that he saw a chauffeur leave here a second before he arrived, and that
he found the door partly open.”
“Ah, indeed.” Mitchell frowned in indecision before he again spoke.
“Have you taken any steps to prove the truth of his statement?”
There was a faint pause before Maynard spoke. “I’ve tried to locate
the taxi-driver but without success.”
“Too bad.” Mitchell’s frown deepened. “Did Captain La Montagne describe
the man’s appearance?”
“Only to state that he wore a chauffeur’s outfit.” Maynard hesitated
before adding, “Captain La Montagne said he did not obtain a good look
at the man’s face as he ran away from him and up the staircase.”
“But I can describe his looks,” broke in Palmer. “He’s the man we saw
on the next floor--medium height, red hair, and freckles, Mitchell,”
and the detective took down the description. “His first name is Sam,”
added Palmer. “He drives for me quite often and works for the Potomac
Garage.”
“Hold on,” Maynard interrupted in his turn. “I’ve seen Sam and he
declares he did not stop here Thursday night.”
“Oh!” Mitchell stared at Maynard. “That puts a crimp in La Montagne’s
story.”
“Not necessarily,” objected Hayden. “More than one taxi-driver comes to
this apartment house. Have you asked the janitor or the elevator boys,
Maynard, if they saw other chauffeurs than Sam here on Thursday night?”
“Suppose you leave that investigation to me,” suggested Mitchell good
naturedly. “Now I’m in this chase I must handle it; not that your idea
isn’t a good one, doctor, but I can think of a better now. Can I see
your Jap servant, Mr. Palmer?”
“Certainly.” Palmer rang the bell impatiently. “I am not sure he has
returned; yes, here he is,” as the Japanese appeared in the hall.
Palmer raised his voice. “Siki, this gentleman,” indicating Mitchell,
“wants to talk to you.”
The servant moved rapidly toward them and bowed profoundly, then stood
silently waiting.
“Siki,” began Mitchell. “Did a taxi-driver stop here about--” he
wheeled back to Palmer. “What was the time?”
“Between nine and ten o’clock, on Thursday night last,” answered
Palmer. “Did he come here, Siki?”
“No, honorable sir,” Siki again bowed, finger-tips together and elbows
aslant.
“No taxi-driver came?” Maynard looked eagerly at the Jap. “Think, Siki;
don’t make a mistake.”
“My memory is of the most good.” Siki spoke with positiveness. “No such
man called. You, honorable Mr. Maynard, were the last that night.”
“See here, Siki.” The Jap turned to face Hayden as the latter addressed
him. “If the taxi-driver didn’t come to this apartment at that hour on
Thursday, what were you doing in the hall just at that moment?”
“I came to answer the bell, honorable doctor,” responded Siki. “It
rang.”
“We did not hear it,” declared Maynard.
“It rang in the pantry.” Siki’s oblique black eyes stared unwinkingly
at his questioners.
“How long a time elapsed between the ringing of the bell and your
answering it?” asked Mitchell.
“Just so long as it take me slip on white jacket and come from pantry
here,” and Siki sped lightly down the hall and back again. “Just so
long, honorable sirs,” he said, and there was no quickening of his
breath, although he had moved with unusual rapidity.
“Obviously La Montagne rang the bell,” commented Palmer, as Mitchell
picked up his hat from the hall stand.
“Obviously, but not proven,” retorted Maynard, and he also took up his
hat. “Wait, Mitchell, I’ll walk along with you. See you later, Palmer.
Will you be at the tableaux to-night, doctor?”
“Yes. Mrs. Burnham has very kindly asked Palmer and me to go with them
in their box.”
“Then we’ll meet at the theater.” Maynard nodded good-bye and stepped
into the corridor; he had taken but a few steps when Siki hurried to
his side.
“Here is the answer, honorable sir,” he said, handing him an envelope.
“Oh, thanks, Siki, I had forgotten.” Maynard slipped some loose change
into the servant’s hand and then hastened down the corridor to where
Mitchell waited for him.
“That’s an odd coincidence,” remarked the detective, keeping step with
him. “Did you notice it?”
“No, what?”
“Why the ringing of a bell preceded the discovery of the dead man in
Burnham’s library, and the ringing of another bell preceded the attempt
to kill Burnham in Palmer’s apartment.”
“It did not precede, it followed in this case,” corrected Maynard.
His attention was caught by the elevator, which shot upward past
their floor, and he paused to wave his hand to Mrs. Burnham, its one
passenger.
Outside the apartment Maynard turned again to Mitchell. “Do me a favor,
will you; lend me a photograph of the dead man?”
“Sure.” Mitchell accompanied him around the corner and stopped in front
of the Burnham house. “Shall I send it here?”
“Y-yes.” Maynard hesitated. “Yes. I have rented permanent quarters;”
he glanced at the unopened letter in his hand. “But I’ll be at the
Burnhams’ a day longer. Don’t forget, Mitchell.”
“I’ll send the photograph by special messenger this afternoon;
good-bye, sir,” and Mitchell swung on down the street.
Maynard, while waiting for the Burnhams’ front door to be opened, took
out the enclosure in the envelope handed him by Siki. The letterhead
bore the firm name of a well known real estate dealer.
“September 19, 1917.
“My dear Mr. Maynard:
“Pursuant to your telephone call this morning, advising us that you
would rent Apartment 25 in the Bellevue, we took up the matter with
the owner. We regret to inform you that the owner had early this
morning leased the apartment to Mrs. Marian Van Ness.
“We understand Mrs. Van Ness plans to furnish and sublet the
apartment, therefore we advise that you get in touch with her----”
Maynard read no further. Thrusting the letter into his pocket he
walked mechanically into the house, totally ignoring Mrs. Ward, who
stood holding the door open with every intention of addressing him if
opportunity offered.