Afternoon Tea Mysteries, Volume Two: A Collection of Cozy Mysteries (Four thrilling novels in one volume!)

by Marion Bryce

  Shane looked at the mischievous face in astonishment. He was experienced in human nature, but this shallow, frivolous attitude toward a tragedy was new to him.

  “I thought you and Mrs, Embury were friends,” he said, reprovingly.

  “Oh, we are—Or rather, we were. I’m not sure I can know her—after this! But, you see, I can’t take it seriously. I can’t really believe you mean that you think Eunice—guilty! Why, I’d a thousand times rather suspect the old aunt person!”

  “You would!” Shane spoke eagerly. “Could that be possible?”

  “It could be possible this way,” Fifi was serious now. “You see, Miss Ames adores Eunice. She found it hard to forgive Sanford for his tyrannical ways—and they were tyrannical. And Miss Ames might have, by way of ridding Eunice from a cruel husband—might have—oh, I can’t say it—it sounds too absurd! But, after all, it’s no more absurd than to suspect Eunice. Why don’t you look for somebody else?”

  “How could anybody get in?”

  “I know,” impatiently; “but I’ve read detective stories, and ’most always, the murder is committed in what they call ‘a hermetically sealed room,’ and yet somebody did get in!”

  “There’s no such thing as a hermetically sealed room! Don’t you know what hermetically sealed means?”

  “Yes, of course I do, literally. But that phrase is used—in detective stories, to mean an inaccessible room. Or a seemingly inaccessible one. But always it comes out that it could be entered.”

  “That’s all very well in fiction, ma’am; but it won’t work in this case. Why, I looked over those door locks myself. Nobody could get in.”

  “Well, leaving aside the way they got in, let’s see whom we can suspect. There’s two men that I know of who are dead in love with Mrs, Embury—and I daresay there are a lot more, who can see a silver lining in this cloud!”

  “What—what do you mean?”

  Shane was fascinated by the lovely personality of Mrs, Desternay, and he began to think that she might be of some real help to him. Though a skilled detective, he was of the plodding sort, and never had brilliant or even original ideas. He had had a notion it would have been better to send Driscoll on this errand he was himself attempting, but a touch of jealousy of the younger and more quick-witted man made him determine to attend to Mrs, Desternay himself.

  “Well, Mr. Stupid, if you were in the presence of Mrs, Embury and Mr. Elliott and Mr. Hendricks,—as you said you were—and didn’t size up how matters stand with those two men, you are a queer sort of detective!”

  Her light laughter rippled pleasantly, and Shane forgave her reproof by reason of her charm.

  “Both of them?” he said, helplessly.

  “Yes, sir, both of them!” She mimicked his tone. “You see, Mr. Shane, it’s an old romance, all ’round. When Eunice Ames was a girl, three men fought for her hand, the two we’ve just mentioned, and Mr. Embury, who was the successful suitor. And he succeeded only by sheer force of will. He practically stole her from the other two and married her out of hand.”

  “I suppose the lady agreed?”

  “Of course, but it was a marriage in haste, and—I imagine that it was followed by the proverbial consequences.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the dull-witted Shane.

  “That they repented at leisure. At least, Eunice did—I don’t believe Sanford ever regretted.”

  “But those two men are Embury’s friends.”

  “Sure they are! Oh, friend Shane, were you born yesterday? I thought detectives were a little more up-to-date than that! Of course, they’re all friends, always have been, since they made mud-pies together in their Boston backyards.”

  “Did you belong to that childish group?

  “Me? Lord, no! I’m Simon Pure Middle West! And I glory in it! I’d hate to be of New England descent—you have to live up to traditions and things! I’m a law unto myself, when it comes to life and living!”

  “And you met Mrs, Embury?”

  “At boarding-school. We spent four years together—chums, and all that. Then after we were both married, we drifted together again, here in New York—and somehow Eunice’s husband didn’t take to poor little Fifi one bit! I wonder why!”

  Her look of injured innocence was charming, and Shane had to make an effort to keep to the subject in hand.

  “So those two men admire Mrs, Embury?”

  “Admire is a silly word! They adore her—they worship the ground she walks on! They are, no doubt, decently decorous at the passing of their old friend, but as soon as the funeral baked meats are cold enough, look out for a marriage table on which to serve them!”

  “Did—did Mr. Embury realize that his friends so admired his wife?”

  “Probably. Yes, of course, he did. But he didn’t care. She was his—she gave them no encouragement—such things aren’t done—” Fifi’s eyes rolled upward—“and, I only tell you, to show you that there are, at least, other directions in which to look!”

  “But—let me see—Mr. Hendricks was in Boston at the time of Mr. Embury’s death.”

  “Then that lets him out. And Mr. Elliott? Where was he?”

  “I haven’t made definite inquiry. Probably he—”

  “Probably he has an alibi! Oh, yes, of course he has! And if he killed Sanford Embury, he’s more likely than ever to have a fine alibi! Look here, Mr. Shane, I believe I could give you cards and spades and beat you at your little detective games!”

  “You mix me all up, with your ridiculous suggestions!” Shane tried to speak sternly, but was forced to smile at the roguish, laughing face that mocked him.

  “All right, play your own game. I tried to help, by suggesting more suspects—in a multitude of suspects there is safety—for our dear Eunice! And she never did it! If you can’t contrive a way for either of those two men to get through those bolted doors, then turn your eagle eyes toward Aunt Abby! She’s a queer Dick—if you ask me, and Eunice Embury—well, I admit I resent her coolness last night, but I freely own up that I think her incapable of such a crime.”

  “But you two discussed the poisoning business in the play—”

  “We did. But we discussed lots of other points about that play and compared it with other presentations we have seen, and, oh, you’re too absurd to hang a murder on that woman, just because she saw a murder on the stage—or rather heard the description of one!”

  “But that’s the coincidence! She did hear that murder described fully. She did talk it over with you. She did show a special interest in it. Then, a week or so later, her husband is killed by identically the same method. She, and she alone—except for a mild old lady—has opportunity to do the deed; the instrument of death is found in her cupboard; and she flies into a rage at the first hint of accusation, of the crime! By the way, if as you hint, one of those men did it, would they leave the medicine dropper that conveyed the poison, in Mrs, Embury’s rooms. Would they want to bring suspicion against the woman they love? Answer me that?”

  “There might be another solution,” Fifi nodded her wise little head thoughtfully. “Perhaps whoever did it, tried to throw suspicion on Miss Ames.”

  “That makes him a still more despicable villain. To implicate falsely a harmless old lady—no, I can’t think that.”

  “Yet you think Mrs, Embury did!”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps the two women worked in collusion. Or Miss Ames might have wakened and learned the truth, and agreed to keep the secret. In fact, Miss Ames confessed that she did the murder, but we know she was not telling the truth then. However, she knows who did do it—I’ve no doubt of that. Well, Mrs, Desternay, I can’t subscribe to your original, if rather impossible, suggestions, but I thank you for this interview, and I may say you have helped me.”

  “I have? How? Not against Eunice?”

  “Never mind, ma’am, I must get off by myself, and straighten out my notes, and see where I stand. Are you going to telephone to Mrs, Embury again?”

  “No
!” and the little head was tossed proudly. “If she wants me, let her call me up. I did my part, now I’ll subside. And, too—if she is—is—oh, I can’t say it! But I’ll wait further developments before I decide just where I stand in regard to Eunice Embury!”

  CHAPTER XII. IN HANLON’S OFFICE

  In an office building, away downtown, a little old lady stood in the lobby studying the great bulletin board of room numbers.

  “Can I help you, ma’am? “asked the elevator starter, seeing her perplexity.

  “I want Sykes and Barton, Scenic Sign Painters,” she said, positively enough; “but there are so many S’s, I can’t seem to find them!”

  “All right, ma’am; here they are. Sixth floor, Room 614.”

  “Thank you,” the old lady said, and entered the elevator he indicated.

  She seemed preoccupied, and made no move to leave the car, until the elevator man spoke to her twice.

  “This is the floor you want, lady,” he said. “Room 614. That way, just round that first corner.”

  Miss Ames started off in the way he pointed, and stood for a moment in front of the door numbered 614.

  Then, with a determined shake of her thin shoulders, she opened the door and walked in.

  “I want to see Mr. Hanlon,” she said to the girl at the first desk.

  “By appointment?”

  “No; but say it is Miss Ames—he’ll see me.”

  “Why, Miss Ames, how do you do?” and the man who had so interested the beholders of his feat in Newark came forward to greet her. “Come right into my office,” and he led her to an inner room. “Now, what’s it all about?”

  The cheery reception set his visitor at ease, and she drew a long breath of relief as she settled herself in the chair he offered.

  “Oh, Mr. Hanlon, I’m so frightened—or, at least, I was. It’s all so noisy and confusing down here! Why, I haven’t been downtown in New York for twenty years!”

  “That so? Then I must take you up on our roof and show you a few of the skyscrapers—”

  “No, no, I’ve not time for anything like that. Oh, Mr. Hanlon—you—have you read in the papers of our—our trouble?”

  “Yes,” and the young man spoke gravely, “I have, Miss Ames. Just a week ago to-day, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes; and they’re no nearer a solution of the mystery than ever. And, oh, Mr. Hanlon, they’re still suspecting Eunice—Mrs, Embury—and I must save her! She didn’t do it—truly she didn’t, and—I think I did.”

  “What!”

  “Yes, I truly think so. But I wasn’t myself, you know—I was—hypnotized—”

  “Hypnotized! By whom?”

  “I don’t know—by some awful person who wanted Sanford dead, I suppose.”

  “But that’s ridiculous, Miss Ames—”

  “No, it isn’t. I’m a very easy subject—”

  “Have you ever been hypnotized?”

  “Not very successfully. But no real hypnotizer ever tried it. I’m sure, though, I’d be a perfect subject—I’m so—so psychic, you know—”

  “Bosh and nonsense! You know, Miss Ames, what I think of that sort of thing! You know how I played on people’s gullibility when I used to do that fake ‘thought-transference’—”

  “I know, Mr. Hanlon,” and Miss Ames was very earnest, “but, and this is why I’m here—you told me that in all the foolery and hocus-pocus there was, you believed, two per cent of genuine telepathy—two per cent of genuine communication with spirits of the dead”

  “But I said that merely in a general way, Miss Ames. I didn’t mean to say it was a proven proposition—”

  “That isn’t the point—you told me there were a few—a very few real, sincere mediums—now I’m here to get the address of the best one you know of. I want to go to him—or her—and have a séance, and I want to get into communication with Sanford—with Mr. Embury’s spirit, and learn from him who killed him. It’s the only way we can ever find out.”

  Miss Ames’ gray eyes took on a strange look; she seemed half hypnotized at the moment, as she looked at Hanlon. He moved uncomfortably under her gaze.

  “Well,” he said, at length, “I can give you the address of the best—the only real medium I know. That I will do with pleasure, but I cannot guarantee his bringing about a materialization of—of Mr. Embury.”

  “Never mind about materialization, if he can get in touch and get a message for me. You see—I haven’t said much about this—but Mr. Embury’s spirit appeared to me as—as he died.”

  “What?”

  “Yes; just at the moment his soul passed from earth, his astral body passed by me and paused at my bedside for a farewell.”

  “You amaze me! You are indeed psychic. Tell me about it.”

  “No; I won’t tell you the story—I’ll tell the medium. But I know I saw him—why, he was discernible to all my five senses—”

  “To your senses! Then it was no spirit!”

  “Oh, yes, it was. Sanford’s body still lay on his own bed, but his passing spirit materialized sufficiently for me to see it—to hear it—to feel it”

  “Miss Ames, you mustn’t go to a medium! You are too imaginative—too easily swayed—don’t go, dear lady, it can do no good.”

  Young Hanlon looked, as he felt, very solicitous for the aged spinster, and he cast an anxious glance at her disturbed face.

  “I must,” she insisted; “it is the only way. I had great trouble to find you, Mr. Hanlon. I had to communicate with Mr. Mortimer, in Newark—and at last we traced you here. Are you all through with your fake tricks?”

  “Yes,” Hanlon laughed. “I wore them out. I’ve gone into a legitimate business.”

  “Sign painting?”

  “Yes, as you see.”

  “But such big signs!” and the old lady’s eyes wandered to photographs and sketches of enormous scenic signs, such as are painted on high buildings or built on housetops.

  “That’s the specialty of this firm. I’m only learning, but it strongly appeals to me. It’s really more of an art than a trade. Now, as to this man you want to see, Miss Ames, I’ll give you his address, but I beg of you to think it over before you visit him. Consult with some one—not Mrs, Embury—some man, of good judgment and clear mind. Who is advising you?”

  “Mr. Hendricks and Mr. Elliott—you saw them both the day you were at our house—they advise my niece and myself in all matters. Shall I ask them?”

  Miss Abby was pathetic in her simple inquiry, and Hanlon spoke gently as he replied.

  “Yes, if you are determined to try the experiment. But I do not advise you to see Mr. Marigny, the medium I spoke of. Here is the address, but you talk it over with those two men you mentioned. I know they are both practical, logical business men, and their advice on the subject will be all right. I thank you, Miss Ames, for honoring me with a call. I hope if you do go to see Marigny, it will prove a satisfactory séance, but I also hope you will decide not to go. You are, as I said, too emotional, too easily swayed by the supernatural to go very deeply into those mysteries. Shall I take you to the elevator?”

  “If you please, Mr. Hanlon,” and still in that half oblivious mood, Miss Ames allowed herself to be led through the halls.

  Hanlon went down with her, for he feared to leave her to her own devices. He was relieved to find she had a taxicab in waiting, and as he put her into it, he cautioned the driver to take his fare straight home.

  “But I want to go to Marigny’s now,” objected Miss Ames, as she heard what Hanlon said.

  “Oh, you can’t. You must make an appointment with him—by mail or by telephone. And, too, you promised me you’d put it up to Mr. Hendricks or Mr. Elliott first.”

  “So I did,” and the old head nodded submissively, as the taxi drove away.

  When Ferdinand admitted Aunt Abby to the Embury home, she heard voices in the living-room that were unmistakably raised in anger.

  “You know perfectly well, Fifi,” Eunice was saying, “that your l
ittle bridge games are quite big enough to be called a violation of the law—you know that such stakes as you people play for—”

  “It isn’t the size of the stake that makes gambling!” Fifi Desternay cried, shrilly; “I’ve had the advice of a lawyer, and he says that as long as it’s my own home and the players are invited guests, there’s no possibility of being—”

  “Raided!” said Eunice, scathingly. “Might as well call things by their real name!”

  “Hush up! Some of the servants might hear you! How unkind you are to me, Eunice. You used to love your little Fifi!”

  “Well, she doesn’t now!” said Miss Ames, tartly, as she came in. “You see, Mrs, Desternay, you have been instrumental in bringing our dear Eunice under a dreadful, and absolutely unfounded suspicion—”

  “Dreadful, but far from unfounded!” declared Mrs, Desternay, her little hands uplifted, and her pretty face showing a scornful smile. “You and I, Aunt Abby, know what our dear Eunice’s temper is—”

  “Don’t you ‘Aunt Abby’ me, you good-for-nothing little piece! I am surprised Eunice allows you in this house!”

  “Now, now—if Eunice doesn’t want me, I’ll get out—and jolly well glad to do so! How about it, Eunice? I came here to help, but if I’m not wanted—out goes little Fifi!”

  She rose, shaking her fur stole into place about her dainty person, and, whipping out a tiny mirror from her vanity case, she applied a rouge stick to her already scarlet lips.

  “No—no—” and Eunice wailed despairingly. “Don’t go, Fifi, I—oh, I don’t know how I feel toward you! You see—I will speak plainly—you see, it was my acquaintance with you that caused the trouble—mostly—between me and San.”

  “Thought it was money matters—his stinginess, you know.”

  “He wasn’t stingy! He wouldn’t give me an allowance, but he was generous in every other way. And that’s why—”

  “Why you came to my ‘gambling house’ to try to pick up a little ready cash! I know. But now looky here, Eunice, you’ve got to decide—either you’re with me or agin me! I won’t have any blow hot, blow cold! You’re friends with Fifi Desternay—or—she’s your enemy!”