by Marion Bryce
“All right, I won’t tell. His guilty secret is safe with me!”
“Now, you’re laughing at me, Mr. Stone! All right just you wait—and Hanlon goes around on a motor-cycle, too!”
“He does! Then we are undone! What a revelation! And, now, Fibs, if you’ll explain to me the significance of Hanlon’s aspiring ambitions and his weird taste for motor-cycles, I’ll be obliged.”
Fibsy was extremely, even absurdly, sensitive to irony. Sometimes it didn’t affect him seriously, and then, again, he would be so hurt and embarrassed by it, that it fairly made him unable to talk.
In this instance, it overcame him utterly, and his funny little freckled face turned red, and his eyes lost their eagerness and showed only chagrin.
“Come, come,” said Stone, regretting his teasing, but determined to help the boy overcome his sensitiveness to it, “brace up, Fibs; you know I meant no harm. Forgive a chap, can’t you—and begin all over again. I know you have something in your noddle—and doubtless, something jolly well worth while.”
“Well—I—oh, wait a minute, Mr. Stone—I’m a fool, but I can’t help it. When you come at me like that, I lose all faith in my notions. For it’s only a notion—and a crazy one at that, and—well, sir, you wait till I’ve worked it up a little further—and if there’s anything to it—I’ll expound. Now, what’s my orders for to-day?”
Fibsy had an obstinate streak in his make-up, and Fleming Stone was too wise to insist on the boy’s “expounding” just then.
Instead, he said, pleasantly: “To-day, Fibs, I want you to make a round of the drug stores. It’s not a hopeful job—indeed, I can’t think it can amount to anything—but have a try at it. You remember, Mr. Hendricks had the earache—”
“I do, indeed! He had it a month ago—and what’s more, he denied it—at first.”
“Yes; well, use your discretion for all it’s worth—but get a line on the doctor that prescribed for him—it was a bad case, you know—and find out what he got to relieve him and where he got it.”
“Yessir. Say, Mr. Stone, is Mr. Hendricks implicated, do you think?”
“In the murder? Why, he was in Boston at the time—a man can’t be in two places at once, can he?”
“He cannot! He has a perfect alibi—hasn’t he, Mr. Stone?”
“He sure has, Fibsy. And yet—he was in the party that discussed the possibilities of killing people by the henbane route.”
“Yessir—but so was Mr. Patterson—Mis’ Desternay said so.”
“The Patterson business must be looked into. I’ll attend to that to-day—I’ll also see Mr. Elliott about that matter of personal loans that Mr. Embury seemed to be conducting as a side business.”
“Yes, do, please. Mr. Stone, it would be a first-class motive, if Mr. Embury had a strangle-hold on somebody who owed him a whole lot and couldn’t pay, and—”
“Fine motive, my boy—but how about opportunity? You forget those bolted doors.”
“And Mr. Patterson had borrowed money of Mr. Embury—”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard it—oh, well, I got it from one of the footmen of the apartment house—”
“Footmen! What do you mean?”
“You know there’s a lot of employees—porters, rubbish men, doormen, hallmen, pages and Lord knows what! I lump ’em all under the title of footmen. Anyway, one of those persons told me—for a consideration—a lot about the private affairs of the tenants. You know, Mr. Stone, those footmen pick up a lot of information—overhearing here and there—and from the private servants kept by the tenants.”
“That’s true, Fibs; there must be a mine of information available in that way.”
“There is, sir. And I caught onto a good deal—and specially, I learned that Mr. Patterson is in the faction—or whatever you call it—that didn’t want Mr. Embury to be president of that club.”
“And so you think Mr. Patterson had a hand in the murder?”
Stone’s face was grave, and there was no hint of banter in his tone, so Fibsy replied, earnestly, “Well, he is the man who has lots of empty jam jars go down in the garbage pails.”
“But he has lots of children.”
“Yes, sir—four. Oh, well, I suppose a good many people like raspberry jam.”
“Go on, Fibsy; don’t be discouraged. As I’ve often told you, one scrap of evidence is worth considering. A second, against the same man—is important—and a third, is decidedly valuable.”
“Yessir, that’s what I’m bankin’ on. You see, Mr. Patterson, now—he’s over head and ears in debt to Embury. He was against Embury for club president. He was present at the henbane discussion. And—he’s an habitual buyer of raspberry jam.”
“Some counts,” and Fleming Stone looked thoughtful. “But not entirely convincing. How’d he get in?”
“You know his apartment is directly beneath the Embury apartment—but two floors below.”
“Might as well be ten floors below. How could he get in?”
“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 l
andlady 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 o f 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!”