Raspberry Jam

“No; the subject was not then mentioned.”

“H’m. And you two were as friendly as ever? No coolness—sorta left over, like?”

“No!” Eunice spoke haughtily, but the crimson flood that rose to her cheeks gave the lie to her words.

Driscoll came in.

“I’ve found out what killed Mr. Embury,” he said, in his quiet fashion.

“What?” cried the Examiner and Shane, at the same time.

“Can’t tell you—just yet. I’ll have to go out on an errand. Stay here—all of you—till I get back.”

The dapper little figure disappeared through the hall door, and Shane turned back to the group with a grunt of satisfaction.

“That’s Driscoll, all over,” he said. “Put him on a case, and he don’t say much, and he don’t look like he’s doing anything, and then all in a minute he’ll bring in the goods.”

“I’d be glad to hear the cause of that death,” said Dr. Crowell, musingly. “I’m an old, experienced practitioner, and I’ve never seen anything so mysterious. There’s absolutely no trace of any poison, and yet it can be nothing else.”

“Poison’s a mighty sly proposition,” observed Shane. “A clever poisoner can put over a big thing.”

“Perhaps your assumption of murder is premature,” said Hendricks, and he gave Shane a sharp look.

“Maybe,” and that worthy nodded his head. “But I’m still standing pat. Now, here’s the proposition. Three people, locked into a suite—you may say—of three rooms. No way of getting in from this side—those locks are heavy brass snap-catches that can’t be worked from outside. No way, either, of getting in at the windows. Tenth-story apartment, and the windows look straight down to the ground, no balconies or anything like that. Unless an aryoplane let off its passengers, nobody could get in the windows. Well, then, we have those three people shut up alone there all night. In the morning one of ‘em is dead—poisoned. What’s the answer?”

He stared at Eunice as he talked. It was quite evident he meant to frighten her—almost to accuse her.

But with her strange contradictoriness, she smiled at him.

“You have stated a problem, Mr. Shane, to which there can be no answer. Therefore, that is not the problem that confronts us.”

“Fine talk—fine talk, lady, but it won’t get you anywhere. To the unbiased, logical mind, the answer must be that it’s the work of the other two people.”

“Then yours is not a logical or unbiased mind,” Hendricks flared out, “and I object to your making implications. If you are making accusations, do so frankly, and let us know where we stand! If not, shut up!”

Shane merely looked at him, without resenting this speech. The detective appeared to be marking time as he awaited the return of his partner.

And Driscoll returned, shortly. His manner betokened success in his quest, whatever it may have been, and yet he looked distressed, too.

“It’s a queer thing,” he said, half to himself, as he fell into a chair Shane pushed toward him. “Mrs. Embury, do you keep an engagement book?”

“Why, yes,” replied Eunice, amazed at the question put to her.

“Let me see it, please.”

Eunice went for it, and, returning, handed the detective a finely bound volume.

Hastily he ran over the dates, looking at notes of parties, concerts and theatres she had attended recently. At last, he gave a start, read over one entry carefully, and closed the book.

Abruptly, then, he went back to Embury’s room, asking Dr. Crowell to go with him.

When they reappeared, it was plain to be seen the mystery was solved.

“There is no doubt,” said the Medical Examiner, “that Sanford Embury met his death by foul play. The means used was the administering of poison—through the ear!”

“Through the ear!” repeated Elliott, as one who failed to grasp the sense of the words.

“Yes; it is a most unusual, almost a unique case, but it is proved beyond a doubt. The poison was inserted in Mr. Embury’s ear, by means—”

He paused, and Driscoll held up to view a small, ordinary glass medicine dropper, with a rubber bulb top. In it still remained a portion of a colorless liquid.

“By means of this,” Driscoll declared. “This fluid is henbane—that is the commercial name of it—known to the profession, however, as hyoscyamus or hyoscyamine. This little implement, I found, in the medicine chest in Miss Ames’ bathroom.”

“No! no!” screamed Aunt Abby. “I never saw it before!”

“I don’t think you did,” said Driscoll, quietly. “But here is a side light on the subject. This henbane was used, in this very manner, we are told, in Shakespeare’s works, by Hamlet’s uncle, when he poisoned Hamlet’s father. He used, the play says, distilled hebenon, supposed to be another form of the word henbane. And this is what is, perhaps, important: Mrs. Embury’s engagement book shows that about a week ago she attended the play of Hamlet. The suggestion there received—the presence of this dropper, still containing the stuff, the finding of traces of henbane in the ear of the dead man—seem to lead to a conclusion—”

“The only possible conclusion! It’s an open-and-shut case!” cried Shane, rising, and striding toward Eunice. “Mrs. Embury, I arrest you for the wilful murder of your husband!”

Chapter X

A Confession

“Don’t you dare touch me!” Eunice Embury cried, stepping back from the advancing figure of the burly detective. “Go out of my house—Ferdinand, put this person out!”

The butler appeared in the doorway, but Shane waved a dismissing hand at him.

“No use blustering, Mrs. Embury,” he said, gruffly, but not rudely. “You’d better come along quietly, than to make such a fuss.”

“I shall make whatever fuss I choose—and I shall not ‘come along,’ quietly or any other way! I am not intimidated by your absurd accusations, and I command you once more to leave my house, or I will have you thrown out!”

Eunice’s eyes blazed with anger, her voice was not loud, but was tense with concentrated rage, and she stood, one hand clenching a chair-back while with the other she pointed toward the door.

“Be quiet, Eunice,” said Mason Elliott, coming toward her; “you can’t dismiss an officer of the law like that. But you can demand an explanation. I think, Shane, you are going too fast. You haven’t evidence enough against Mrs. Embury to think of arrest! Explain yourself!”

“No explanation necessary. She killed her husband, and she’s my prisoner.”

“Hush up, Shane; let me talk,” interrupted Driscoll, whose calmer tones carried more authority than those of his rough partner.

“It’s this way, Mr. Elliott. I’m a detective, and I saw at once, that if the doctors couldn’t find the cause of Mr. Embury’s death, it must be a most unusual cause. So I hunted for some clue or some bit of evidence pointing to the manner of his death. Well, when I spied that little medicine dropper, half full of something, I didn’t know what, but—” Here he paused impressively. “But there was no bottle or vial of anything in the cupboard, from which it could have been taken. There was no fluid in there that looked a bit like the stuff in the dropper. So I thought that looked suspicious—as if some one had hidden it there. I didn’t see the whole game then, but I went around to a druggist’s and asked him what was in that dropper. And he said henbane. He further explained that henbane is the common name for hyoscyamin, which is a deadly poison. Now, the doctors were pretty sure that Mr. Embury had not been killed by anything taken into the stomach, so I thought a minute, and, like a flash, I remembered the play of ‘Hamlet’ that I saw last week.

“I guess everybody in New York went to see it—the house was crowded. Anyway, I’ve proved by Mrs. Embury’s engagement book that she went—one afternoon, to a matinee—and what closer or more indicative hint do you want? In that play, the murder is fully described, and though many people might think poison could not be introduced through the intact ear in sufficient quantity to be fatal, yet it can be—and I read an article lately in a prominent medical journal saying so. I was interested, because of the Hamlet play. If I hadn’t seen that, I’d never thought of this whole business. But, if I’m wrong, let Mrs. Embury explain the presence of that dropper in her medicine chest.”

“I don’t know anything about the thing! I never saw or heard of it before! I don’t believe you found it where you say you did!” Eunice faced him with an accusing look. “You put it there yourself—it’s what you call a frame-up! I know nothing of your old dropper!”

“There, there, lady,” Shane put in; “don’t get excited—it only counts against you. Mr. Driscoll, here, wouldn’t have no reason to do such a thing as you speak of! Why would he do that, now?”

“But he must have done it,” broke in Miss Ames. “For I use that bathroom of Eunice’s and that thing hasn’t been in it, since I’ve been here.”