Raspberry Jam

But his brave manner quailed before the lightning of Eunice’s eyes.

“What!” she cried; “you defy me! You will call the police against my desire—my command! You will not, sir! I forbid it!”

Crowell looked at her with a new interest. It would seem he had discovered a new species of humanity. Doubtless he had never seen a woman like that in his previous experience.

For Eunice was no shrew. She did not, for a moment, lose her poise or her dignity. Indeed, she was rather more imperious and dominating in her intense anger than when more serene. But she carried conviction. Both Elliott and Hendricks hoped and believed she could sway the Examiner to her will.

Aunt Abby merely sat nodding her head, in corroboration of Eunice’s speeches. “Yes—yes—that’s so!” she murmured, unheeding whether she were heard or not.

The Examiner, however, paid little attention to the decrees of the angry woman. He looked at Eunice, curiously, even admiringly, and then went across the room to the telephone.

Eunice flew after him and snatched the instrument from his hand.

“Stop!” she cried, fairly beside herself with fury. “You shall not!”

Both Elliott and Hendricks sprang from their chairs, and Dr. Harper rose to take care of Eunice as an irresponsible patient, but Crowell waved them all back.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” he said; “Mrs. Embury, think a minute. If you act like that you will—you inevitably will—draw suspicion on yourself!”

“I don’t care!” she screamed; “better that than the—the publicity—the shame of a police investigation! Oh, Sanford—my husband!”

It was quite clear that uppermost in her disturbed mind was the dread of the disgrace of the police inquiry. This had dulled her poignant grief, her horror, her sadness—all had been lost in the immediate fear of the impending unpleasantness.

“And, too,” the Examiner went on, coldly, “It is useless for you to rant around like that! I’ll simply go to another telephone.”

Eunice stepped back and looked at him, more in surprise than submission. To be told that she was “ranting around” was not the way in which she was usually spoken to! Moreover, she realized it was true, that to jerk the telephone away from Dr. Crowell could not permanently prevent his sending his message.

She tried another tack.

“I beg your pardon, doctor,” she said, and her expression was that of a sad and sorry child. “You’re right, I mustn’t lose my temper so. But, you know, I am under a severe mental strain—and something should be forgiven me—some allowance made for my dreadful position—”

“Yes, ma’am—oh, certainly, ma’am—” Crowell was again nervous and restless. He proved that he could withstand an angry woman far better than a supplicating one. Eunice saw this and followed up her advantage.

“And, so, doctor, try to appreciate how I feel—a newlymade widow—my husband dead, from some unknown cause, but which I know is not—murder,” after a second’s hesitation she pronounced the awful word clearly—”and you want to add to my terror and distress by calling in the police—of all things, the police!”

“Yes, ma’am, I know it’s too bad—but, my duty, ma’am—”

“Your duty is first, to me!” Eunice’s smile was dazzling. It had been a callous heart, indeed, that would not be touched by it!

“To you, ma’am?” The Examiner’s tone was innocence itself.

“Yes,” Eunice faltered, for she began to realize she was not gaining ground. “You owe me the—don’t they call it the benefit of the doubt?”

“What doubt, ma’am?”

“Why, doubt as to murder. If my husband died a natural death you know there’s no reason to call the police. And as you’re not sure, I claim that you must give me the benefit of your doubt and not call them.”

“Now, ma’am, you don’t put that just right. You see, the police are the people who must settle that doubt. It’s that very doubt that makes it necessary to call them. And, truly, Mrs. Ernbury, it won’t be any such horrible ordeal as you seem to anticipate. They’re decent men, and all they want to get at is the truth.”

“That isn’t so!” Eunice was angry again. “They’re horrible men! rude, unkempt, low-down, common men! I won’t have them in my house! You have no right to insist on it. They’ll be all over the rooms, prying into everything, looking here, there and all over! They’ll ask impertinent questions; they’ll assume all sorts of things that aren’t true, and they’ll wind up by coming to a positively false conclusion! Alvord, Mason, you’re my friends—help me out! Don’t, let this man do as he threatens!”

“Listen, Eunice,” Elliott said, striving to quiet her; “we can’t help the necessity Dr. Crowell sees of notifying the police. But we can help you. Only, however, if you’ll be sensible, dear, and trust to our word that it can’t be helped, and you must let it go on quietly.”

“Oh, hush up, Mason; your talk drives me crazy! Alvord, are you a broken reed, too? Is there nobody to stand by me?”

“I’ll try,” and Hendricks went and spoke to Dr. Crowell in low tones. A whispered colloquy followed, but it soon became clear that Hendricks’ pleas, of whatever nature, were unsuccessful, and he returned to Eunice’s side.

“Nothing doing,” he said, with an attempt at lightness. “He won’t listen to reason—nor to bribery and corruption—” this last was said openly and with a smile that robbed the idea of any real seriousness.

And then Dr. Crowell again lifted the telephone and called up Headquarters.

Chapter IX

Hamlet

Of the two detectives who arrived in response to the Examiner’s call, one almost literally fulfilled Eunice’s prophecy of a rude, unkempt, common man. His name was Shane and he strode into the room with a bumptious, self-important air, his burly frame looking especially awkward and unwieldy in the gentle surroundings.

His companion, however, a younger man named Driscoll, was of a finer type, and showed at least an appreciation of the nature of the home which he had entered.

“We’re up from the homicide bureau,” Shane said to Dr. Crowell, quite ignoring the others present. “Tell us all you know.”

In the fewest possible words the Medical Examiner did this, and Shane paid close attention.

Driscoll listened, too, but his glance, instead of being fixed on the speaker, darted from one to another of the people sitting round.

He noted carefully Eunice’s beautiful, angry face, as she sat, looking out of a window, disdaining any connection with the proceedings. He watched Miss Ames, nervously rolling her handkerchief into a ball and shaking it out again; Mason Elliott, calm, grave, and earnestly attentive; Alvord Hendricks, alert, eager, sharply critical.

And in the background, Ferdinand, the well-trained butler, hovering in the doorway.

All these things Driscoll studied, for his method was judging from the manners of individuals, whereas, Shane gathered his conclusions from their definite statements.

And, having listened to Dr. Crowell’s account, Shane turned to Eunice and said bluntly, “You and your husband good friends?”

Eunice gasped. Then, after one scathing glance, she deliberately turned back to the window, and neglected to answer.

“That won’t do, ma’am,” said Shane, in his heavy voice, which was coarse and uncultured but not intentionally rude. “I’m here to ask questions and you people have got to answer ‘em. Mebbe I can put it different. Was you and Mr. Embury on good terms?”

“Certainly.” The word was forced from Eunice’s scornful lips, and accompanied by an icy glance meant to freeze the detective, but which utterly failed.

“No rows or disagreements, eh?” Shane’s smile was unbearable, and Eunice turned and faced him like an angry thing at bay.

“I forbid you to speak to me,” she said, and looked at Shane as if he were some miserable, crawling reptile. “Mason, will you answer this man for me?”

“No, no, lady,” Shane seemed to humor her. “I must get your own word for it. Don’t you want me to find out who killed your husband? Don’t you want the truth known? Are you afraid to have it told? Hey?”

Shane’s secret theory was that of a sort of third degree applied at the very beginning often scared people into a quick confession of the truth and saved time in the long run.

Driscoll knew of this and did not approve.