Raspberry Jam

“Somebody got in, Mr. Stone. You know as well as I do, that neither Mrs. Embury nor Miss Ames committed that murder. We must face that.”

“Nor did Ferdinand do it. I’ll go you all those assumptions.”

“All right, sir; then somebody got in from the outside.”

“How?”

“Mr. Stone, haven’t you ever read detective stories where a murder was committed in a room that was locked and double-locked and yet somebody did get in—and the fun of the story is guessing how he got in.”

“Fiction, my boy, is one thing—fact is another.”

“No, sir; they’re one and the same thing!”

“All right, son; have it your own way. Now, if you’re ready to get ready, skittle off to your chain of drug stores, and run down a henbane purchase by any citizen of this little old town, or adjacent boroughs.”

Fibsy went off. He had recovered from the sense of annoyance at being chaffed by Stone, but it made him more resolved than ever to prove the strange theory he had formed. He didn’t dignify his idea by the name of theory, but he was doggedly sticking to a notion which, he hoped, would bring forth some strange developments and speedily.

Laying aside his own plans for the moment, he went about Stone’s business, and had little difficulty in finding the nearby druggist whom Hendricks frequently patronized.

“Alvord Hendricks? Sure he trades here,” said the dapper young clerk. “He buys mostly shaving-cream and tooth-paste, but here’s where he buys it.”

“Righto! And, say, a month or so ago, he bought some hyoscine—”

“Oh, no, excuse me, he did not! That’s not sold hit or miss. But maybe you mean hyoscyamine. That’s another thing.”

“Why, maybe I do. Look up the sale, can’t you, and make sure.”

“Why should I?”

Fibsy explained that in the interests of a police investigation it might be better to acquiesce than to question why, and the young man proved obliging.

So Terence McGuire learned that Alvord Hendricks bought some hyoscyamine, on a doctor’s prescription, about a month ago—the same to be used to relieve a serious case of earache.

But there was no record of his having bought hyoscyarnus, which was the deadly henbane used in the medicine dropper-nor was there any other record of hyoscyamine against him.

Satisfied that he had learned all he could, Fibsy continued his round of drug-store visits, in an ever-widening circle, but got no information on any henbane sales whatever.

“Nothin’ doin’,” he told himself. “Whoever squirted that henbane from that squirter into that ear—brought said henbane from a distance, which, to my mind, indicates a far-seeing and intelligent reasoning power.”

His present duty done, he started forth on his own tour of investigation. He went to a small boarding house, in an inconspicuous street, the address of which had been given him by Mr. Barton, and asked for Mr. Hanlon.

“He ain’t home,” declared the frowning landlady who opened the door.

“I know it,” returned Fibsy, nonchalantly, “but I gotta go up to his room a minute. He sent me.”

“How do I know that?”

“That’s so, how do you?” Fibsy’s grin was sociable. “Well, look here, I guess this’ll fix it. I’m errand boy to—you know who—” he winked mysteriously, “to the man he takes his acrobat lessons off of.”

“Oh,” the woman looked frightened. “Hush up—it’s all right. Only don’t mention no names. Go on upstairs—third floor front.”

“Yep,” and Fibsy went quietly up the stairs.

Hanlon’s room was not locked, but a big wardrobe inside was—and nothing else was of interest to the visitor. He picked at the lock with his knife, but to no avail.

As he stood looking wistfully at the wardrobe door, a cheerful voice sounded behind him:

“I’ll open it for you—what do you want out of it?”

Fibsy looked up quickly, to see Hanlon himself, smiling at him. Quick to take a cue, the boy didn’t show any embarrassment, but putting out his hand said, “How do you do, Mr. Hanlon?”

“Fine. How’s yourself? And why the sneak visit, my boy?”

Fibsy looked his questioner square in the eye, and then said, “Oh, well, I s’pose I may as well speak right out.”

“You sure may. Either tell the truth, or put up such a convincing lie that I’ll think it’s the truth. Go ahead.”

“Here goes, then,” Fibsy made a quick decision, that Hanlon was too keen to stand for any lie. “I’m engaged on the Embury murder case.”

“I know that’s true—though it’s hard to believe.”

Fibsy chose to ignore this dig, and went on. “I’m here because I want to see how you’re mixed up in it.”

“Oh, you do! Why not ask me?”

“All right, I ask you. How are you connected with the murder of Sanford Embury?”

“Will anything I say be used against me?” Hanlon’s tone was jocular, but he was staring hard at Fibsy’s face.

“If it’s usable,” was the nonchalant reply.

“Well, use it if you can. I’m mixed up in the matter, as you put it, because I’m trying to find the murderer on my own account.”

“Why do you want the murderer on your own account?”

“I didn’t agree to answer more than one question. But I will. I don’t want the murderer particularly—but I’m interested in the case. I’ve the detective instinct myself—and I thought if I could track down the villain—I might get a reward—”

“Is there one offered?”

“Not that I know of—but I daresay either Mr. Elliott or Mr. Hendricks would willingly pay to have the murderer found.”

“Why those two? Why not Mrs. Embury?”

“Innocent child! Those two are deeply, desperately, darkly in love with the—the widow.”

“Let’s leave her out of this!”

“Ha, ha! a squire of dames, eh? and at your age! All right—leave the lady’s name out. But I’ve confessed my hidden purpose. Now tell me what brings you to my domicile, on false pretenses, and why do I find you on the point of breaking into my wardrobe?”

“Truth does it! I wanted to see if I could find a false beard and a white turban.”

“Oh, you did! And what good would that do you? You have cleverly discerned that I assumed an innocent disguise, in order to give aid and comfort to a most worthy dame of advanced years.”

“You did but why?”

“Are you Paul Pry? You’ll drive me crazy with your eternal ‘why?’“

“All right, go crazy, then—but, why?”

“The same old reason,” and Hanlon spoke seriously. “I’m trying, as I said, to find the Embury murderer, and I contrived that session with the old lady in hopes of learning something to help me in finding him.”

“And did you?”

“I learned that she is a harmless, but none the less, positively demented woman. I learned that she deceives herself—in a way, hypnotizes herself, and she believes she sees and hears things that she does not see and hear.”

“And tastes them? and smells them?”

“There, too, she deceives herself. Surely, you don’t take in that story of her ‘vision’?”

“I believe she believes it.”

“Yes, so do I. Now, look here, McGuire; I’m a good-natured sort, and I’m willing to overlook this raid of yours, if you’ll join forces. I can help you, but only if you’re frank and honest in whacking up with whatever info you have. I know something—you know something—will you go in cahoots?”

“I would, Mr. Hanlon,” and Fibsy looked regretful, “if I was my own boss. But, you see, I’m under orders. I’m F. Stone’s helper—and I’ll tell you what he says I may—and that’s all.”

“That goes. I don’t want any more than your boss lets you spill. And now, honest, what did you come here for?”

“To look in that wardrobe, as I said.”

“Why, bless your heart, child, you’re welcome to do that.”

Hanlon drew a key from his pocket, and flung the wardrobe door wide.

“There you are—go to it!”

Swiftly, but methodically, Fibsy took down every article of wearing apparel the wardrobe contained, glanced at it and returned it, Hanlon looking on with an amused expression on his face.

“Any incriminating evidence?” he said at last, as Fibsy hung up the final piece of clothing.

“Not a scrap,” was the hearty reply. “If I don’t get more evidence offen somebody else than I do from you, I’ll go home empty-handed!”

“Let me help you,” and Hanlon spoke kindly; “I’ll hunt evidence with you.”

“Some day, maybe. I’ve got to-day all dated up. And, say, why did you tell me you wasn’t a steeplejack painter, when you are?”

“You’re right, I am. But I don’t want it known, because I’m going to branch out in a new field soon, and I don’t want that advertised at present.”

“I know, Mr. Barton told me. You’re going to be a human fly, and cut up pranks on the edges of roofs of skyscrapers—”

“Hush, not so loud. Yes, I am, but the goal is far distant. But I’m going to have a whack at it—and I know I can succeed, in time.”

Hanlon’s eyes had a faraway, hopeful look, as if gazing into a future of marvelous achievement in his chosen field. “Oh, I say, boy, it’s glorious, this becoming expert in something difficult. It pays for all the work and training and practice!”

The true artist ambition rang in his voice, and Fibsy gazed at him fascinated, for the boy was a hero-worshipper, and adored proficiency in any art.

“When you going to exhibit?” he asked eagerly.

“A little try at it next week. Want’a come?”

“Don’t I. Where?”

“Hush! I’ll whisper. Philadelphia.”

“I’ll be there! Lemme ‘no the date and all.”

“Yes, I will. Must you go? Here’s your hat.”

Fibsy laughed, took the hint and departed.

“What a feller!” he marveled to himself, as he went on his way. “Oh, gee! what a feller!”

Chapter XVIII

The Guilty One

“Alvord, you shock me—you amaze me! How dare you talk to me of love, when my husband hasn’t been dead a fortnight?”

“What matter, Eunice? You never really loved Sanford—”

“I did—I did!”

“Not lately, anyhow. Perhaps just at first—and then, not deeply. He carried you originally by storm—it was an even toss-up whether he or Elliott or I won out. He was the most forceful of the three, and he made you marry him—didn’t he now?”

“Don’t talk nonsense. I married Sanford of my own free will—”

“Yes, and in haste, and repented at leisure. Now, don’t be hypocritical, and pretend to grieve for him. His death was shocking—fearful—but you’re really relieved that he is gone. Why not admit it?”

“Alvord, stop such talk! I command you! I won’t listen!”

“Very well, dearest, I’ll stop it. I beg your pardon—I forgot myself, I confess. Now, let me atone. I love you, Eunice, and I’ll promise not to tell you so, or to talk about it now, if you’ll just give me a ray of hope—a glimmer of anticipation. Will you—sometime—darling, let me tell you of my love? After such an interval as you judge proper? Will you, Eunice?”

“No, I will not! I don’t love you—I never did and never can love you! How did you ever get such an idea into your head?”

The beautiful face expressed surprise and incredulity, rather than anger, and Eunice’s voice was gentle. In such a mood, she was even more attractive than in her more vivacious moments.

Unable to control himself, Hendricks took a step toward her, and folded her in his arms.

She made no effort to disengage herself, but said, in a tone of utter disdain, “Let me go, Alvord; you bore me.”

As she had well known, this angered him far more than angry words would have done.

He released her instantly, but his face was blazing with indignation.

“Oh, I do—do I? And who can make love to you, and not bore you? Elliott?”

“You are still forgetting yourself.”

“I am not! I am thinking of myself only. Oh, Eunice—dear Eunice, I have loved you so long and I have been good. All the time you were Sanford’s wife, I never so much as called you ‘dear’—never gave you even a look that wasn’t one of respect for my friend’s wife. But now—now, that you are free—I have a right to woo you. It is too soon—yes, I know that—but I will wait—wait as long as you command, if you’ll only promise me that I may—sometime—”

“Never! I told you that before—I do not want to be obliged to repeat it! Please understand, once for all, I have no love to give you—”

“Because it is another’s! Eunice—tell me you do not care for Elliott—and I won’t say another word—now. I’ll wait patiently—for a year—two years—as long as you wish—only give me the assurance that you will not marry Mason Elliott.”

“You are impossible! How dare you speak to me of my marriage with anybody, when my husband is only just dead? One word more, Alvord, on the subject, and I shall forbid you my house!”

“All right, my lady! Put on your high and mighty air, if you choose—but before you marry that man—make sure that he did not himself prepare the way for the wedding!”

“What do you mean? Are you accusing Mason of—”

“I make no accusations. But—who did kill Sanford? I know you didn’t do it—and Elliott has engaged Stone to prove that you didn’t. It is absurd, we all know, to suspect Aunt Abby—I was out of town—who is left but Mason?”

“Hush! I won’t listen to, such a suggestion! Mason was at his home that night.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure! And I don’t have to have it proved by a detective either! And now, Alvord Hendricks, you may go! I don’t care to talk to anyone who can make such a contemptible accusation against a lifelong friend!”

But before Hendricks left, Elliott himself came in.

He was grave and preoccupied. He bowed a little curtly to Hendricks, and, as he took Eunice’s hand, he said, “May I see you alone? I want to talk over some business matters—and I’m pressed for time.”

“Oh, all right,” Hendricks said, “I can take a hint. I’m going. How’s your sleuth progressing, Elliott? Has Mr. Stone unearthed the murderer yet?”

“Not yet—but soon,” and Elliott essayed to pass the subject off lightly.

“Very soon?” Hendricks looked at him in a curious manner.

“Very soon, I think.”

“That’s interesting. Would it be indiscreet to ask in what direction one must look for the criminal?”

“It would very.” Elliott smiled a little. “Now run along, Hendricks, that’s a good chap. I’ve important business matters to talk over with Eunice.”

Hendricks went, and Elliott turned to Eunice, with a grave face,—

“I’ve been going over Sanford’s private papers,” he said, “and, Eunice, there’s a lot that we want to keep quiet.”

“Was Sanford a bad man?” she asked, her quiet, white face imploring a negative answer.

“Not so very, but, as you know, he had a love of money—a sort of acquisitiveness, that led him into questionable dealings. He loaned money to any one who would give him security—”

“That isn’t wrong!”

“Not in itself—but, oh, Eunice, I can’t explain it to you—or, at least, I don’t want to—but Sanford lent money to men—to his friends—who were in great exigency—who gave their choicest belongings, their treasures as security—and then—he had no leniency—no compassion for them—”

“Why should he have?”

“Because—well, there is a justice, that is almost criminal. Sanford was a—a Shylock! There, can you understand now?”

“Who were his debtors? Alvord?”

“Yes; Hendricks was one who owed him enormous sums—and he was going to make lots of trouble—I mean Sanford was—why, Eunice, in Sanford’s private safe are practically all of Hendricks’ stocks and bonds, put up as collateral. Sanford holds mortgages on all Hendricks’ belongings—real estate, furniture—everything. Now, just at the time Sanford died these notes were due—this indebtedness of Hendricks to Sanford had to be paid, and merely the fact of San’s death occurring just when it did saved Alvord from financial ruin.”

“Do you mean Sanford would have insisted on the payment?”

“Yes.”

“Then—oh, Mason I can’t say it—I wouldn’t breathe it to any one but you but could Alvord have killed Sanford?”

“Of course not, Eunice. He was in Boston, you know.”

“Yes, I know. But—Mason, he hinted to me just now, that that maybe you killed San.”

“Did he, dear? Then he was angry or—or crazy! He doesn’t think so. Perhaps he was—very jealous.”

“Yes, he was! How did you know?”

“I have eyes. You don’t care for him—particularly—do you—Eunice?”

Their eyes met and in one long look, the truth was told. A great love existed between these two, and both had been honest and honorable so long as Eunice was Sanford’s wife. And even now, though Embury was gone, Elliott made no protestation of love to his widow—said no word that might not have been heard by the whole world, but they both knew—no word was necessary.

A beautiful expression came over Eunice’s face—she smiled a little and the love-light in her eyes was unmistakable.

“I shall never lose my temper again,” she said, softly, and Mason Elliott believed her.

“Another big debtor to Sanford is Mr. Patterson,” he went on, forcing himself to calm his riotous pulses, and continue his business talk.

“How is that man mixed into our affars?”

“He’s very much mixed up in San’s affairs. But, Eunice, I don’t want to burden you with all these details. Only, you see, Alvord is your lawyer, and—it’s confoundedly awkward—”

“Look here, Mason, do this—can’t you? Forgive Alvord all Sanford’s claims on him. I mean, wipe the slate clean, as far as he is concerned. I don’t want his money—I mean I don’t want to keep his stocks and things. Give them all back to him, and hush the matter up. You know, we four, Sanford and Alvord and you and I, are the old quartet—the ‘three boys and a girl’ who used to play together. Now one of us is gone—don’t let’s make any trouble for another of the group. I’ve enough money without realizing on Alvord’s securities. Give them all back to him—and forget it. Can’t we?”

“Why, yes, I suppose so—if you so decree. What about Patterson?”

“Oh, those things you and Alvord must look after. I’ve no head for business. And anyway—must it be attended to at once?”

“Not immediately. Sanford’s estate is so large, and his debtors so numerous, it will take months to get it adjusted.”

“Very well, let anything unpleasant wait for a while, then.”

Now, on this very day, and at this very hour, Fibsy was in Philadelphia, watching the initial performance of a new “human fly.”

A crowd was gathered about the tall skyscraper, where the event was to take place, and when Hanlon appeared he was greeted by a roar, of cheering that warmed his applause-loving heart.

Bowing and smiling at his audience, he started on his perilous climb up the side of the building.

The sight was thrilling—nerve-racking. Breathlessly the people watched as he climbed up the straight, sheer facade, catching now at a window ledge—now at a bit of stone ornamentation—and again, seeming to hold on by nothing at all—almost as a real fly does.

When he negotiated a particularly difficult place, the crowd forebore to cheer, instinctively feeling it might disturb him.

He went on—higher and higher—now pausing to look down and smile at the sea of upturned faces below—and, in a moment of bravado, even daring to pause, and hanging on by one hand and one foot, “scissor out” his other limbs and wave a tiny flag which he carried.

On he went, and on, at last reaching the very top. Over the coping he climbed, and gaily waved his flag as he bowed to the applauding crowds below.

Then, for Hanlon was a daring soul, the return journey was begun.

Even more fascinating than the ascent was this hazardous task.

Fibsy watched him, noted every step, every motion, and was fairly beside himself with the excitement of the moment.

And, then, when half a dozen stories from the ground—when success was almost within his grasp—something happened. Nobody knew what—a misstep—a miscalculation of distance—a slipping stone—whatever the cause, Hanlon fell. Fell from the sixth story to the ground.

Those nearest the catastrophe stepped back—others pushed forward—and an ambulance, ready for such a possible occasion, hurried the wounded man to the hospital.

For Hanlon was not killed, but so crushed and broken that his life was but a matter of hours—perhaps moments.

“Let me in—I must see him!” Fibsy fought the doormen, the attendants, the nurses.

“I tell you I must! In the name of the law, let me in!”

And then a more coherent insistence brought him permission, and he was immediately admitted to Hanlon’s presence.

A priest was there, administering extreme unction, and saying such words of comfort as he could command, but at sight of Fibsy, Hanlon’s dull eyes brightened and he partially revived.

“Yes—him!” he cried out, with a sudden flicker of energy, “I must talk to him!”

The doctor fell back, and made way for the boy. “Let him talk, if he likes,” he said; “nothing matters now. Poor chap, he can’t live ten minutes.”

Awed, but very determined, Fibsy approached the bedside.

He looked at Hanlon—strangely still and white, yet his eyes burning with a desperate desire to communicate something.

“Come here,” he whispered, and Fibsy drew nearer to him.

“You know?” he said.

“Yes,” and Fibsy glanced around as if to be sure of his witnesses to this strange confession, “you killed Sanford Embury.”

“I did. I—I—oh, I can’t—talk. You talk—”

“This is his confession,” Fibsy turned to the priest and the doctor; “listen to it.” Then addressing himself again to Hanlon, he resumed: “You climbed up the side of the apartment house—on the cross street—not on Park Avenue—and you got in at Miss Ames’ window.”

“Yes,” said Hanlon, his white lips barely moving, but his eyes showing acquiescence.

“You went straight through those two rooms—softly, not awakening either of the ladies—and you killed Mr. Embury, and then—you returned through the bedrooms—” Again the eyes said yes.

“And, passing through Miss Ames’ room, she stirred, and thinking she might be awake, you stopped and leaned over her to see. There you accidentally let fall—perhaps from your breast pocket—the little glass dropper you had used—and as you bent over the old lady, she grabbed at you, and felt your jersey sleeve—even bit at it—and tasted raspberry jam. That jam got on that sleeve as you climbed up past the Patterson’s window, where a jar of it was on the window-sill—”

“Yes—that’s right,” Hanlon breathed, and on his face was a distinct look of admiration for the boy’s perception.

“You wore a faintly-ticking wrist-watch—the same one you’re wearing now—and the odor of gasoline about you was from your motor-cycle. You, then, were the ‘vision’ Miss Ames has so often described, and you glided silently away from her bedside, and out at the window by which you entered. Gee! it was some stunt!”

This tribute of praise was wrung from Fibsy by the sudden realization that what he had for some time surmised was really true!

“I guess it was that jam that did for you,” he went on, “but, say, we ain’t got no time for talkin’.”

Hanlon’s eyes were already glazing, his breath; came shorter and it was plain to be seen the end was very near.

“Who hired you?” Fibsy flung the question at him with such force that it seemed to rouse a last effort of the ebbing life in the dying man and he answered, faintly but clearly:

“Alvord Hendricks—ten thousand dollars—” and then Hanlon was gone.

Reminding the priest and the doctor that they were witnesses to this dying confession, Fibsy rushed from the room and back to New York as fast as he could get there.

He learned by telephone that Fleming Stone was at Mrs. Embury’s, and, pausing only to telephone for Shane to go at once to the same house, Fibsy jumped into a taxicab and hurried up there himself.

“It’s all over,” he burst forth, as he dashed into the room where Stone sat, talking to Eunice. Mason Elliott was there, too—indeed, he was a frequent visitor—and Aunt Abby sat by with her knitting.

“What is?” asked Stone, looking at the boy in concern. For Fibsy was greatly excited, his fingers worked nervously and his voice shook.

“The whole thing, Mr. Stone! Hanlon’s dead—and he killed Mr. Embury.”

“Yes—I know—” Fleming Stone showed no surprise. “Did he fall?”

“Yessir. Got up the climb all right, and ‘most down again, and fell from the sixth floor. Killed him—but not instantly. I went to the hospital, and he confessed.”

“Who did?” said Shane, coming in at the door as the last words were spoken.

“Willy Hanlon—a human fly.”

And then Fleming Stone told the whole story—Fibsy adding here and there his bits of information.

“But I don’t understand,” said Shane, at last, “why would that chap kill Mr. Embury?”