Raspberry Jam

“Then your theory—”

“I have no theory. Mr. Embury was killed—it is for you detectives to find out how. But do not dare to say—or imply—that it was by the hand of his wife—or his relative!”

She glanced fondly at Miss Ames, and then again assumed her look of angry defiance toward the two men who were accusing her.

“It is for you to find out how,” said Mason Elliott, gravely. “It is incredible that Mrs. Embury is the guilty one, though I admit the incriminating appearance of the henbane. But I’ve been thinking it over, and while Mr. Driscoll’s surmise that the deed can possibly be traced to one who recently saw the play of ‘Hamlet,’ yet he must remember that thousands of people saw that play, and that therefore it cannot point exclusively toward Mrs. Embury.”

“That’s so,” agreed Driscoll. “Who went with you to the play, Mrs. Embury?”

“My aunt, Miss Ames; also a friend, Mrs. Desternay. And, I understand you went yourself, Mr. Driscoll. Why single out me for a suspect?”

The haughty face turned to him was quite severely critical.

“True, Mrs. Embury, why should I? The answer is, motive. You must admit that I had neither motive nor opportunity to kill your husband. Mrs. Desternay, let us say, had neither opportunity nor motive. Miss Ames had opportunity but no motive. And so you, we must all admit, are the only human being who had both opportunity—and motive.”

“I did not have motive!” Eunice flushed back. “You talk nonsense! I have had slight differences of opinion with my husband hundreds of time, but that is not a motive for murder! I have a high temper, and at times I am unable to control it. But that does not mean I am a murderess!”

“Not necessarily, but it gives a reason for suspecting you, since you are the only person who can reasonably be suspected.”

“But hold on, Driscoll, don’t go too fast,” said Mason Elliott; “there may be other people who had motives. Remember Sanford Embury was a man of wide public interests outside of his family affairs. Suppose you turn your attention to that sort of thing.”

“Gladly, Mr. Elliott; but when we’ve proved no outsider could get into Mr. Embury’s room, why look for outside motives?”

“It seems only fair, to my mind, that such motives should be looked into. Now, for instance, Embury was candidate in a hotly contested coming election—”

“That’s so,” cried Hendricks; “look for your murderer in some such connection as that.”

“Election to what?” growled Shane.

“President of the Metropolitan Athletic Club—a big organization—”

“H’m! Who’s the opposing candidate?”

“I am,” replied Hendricks, quietly.

“You! Well, Mr. Hendricks, where were you last night, when this man was killed?”

“In Boston.” Hendricks did not smile, but he looked as if the question annoyed him.

“You can prove that?”

“Yes, of course. I stayed at the Touraine, was with friends till well after midnight, and took the seven o’clock train this morning for New York, in company with the same men. You can look up all that, at your leisure; but there is a point in what Mr. Elliott says. I can’t think that any of the club members would be so keen over the election as to do away with one of the candidates, but there’s the situation. Go to it.”

“It leaves something to be looked into, at any rate,” mused Shane.

“Why didn’t you think of it for yourself?” said Hendricks, rather scathingly. “It seems to me a detective ought to look a little beyond his nose!”

“I can’t think we’ve got to, in this case,” Shane persisted; “but I’m willing to try. Also, Mrs. Embury, I’ll ask you for the address of the lady who went with you to see that play.”

“Certainly,” said Eunice, in a cold voice, and gave the address desired.

“And, now, we’ll move on,” said Shane, rising.

“You ain’t under arrest, Mrs. Embury—not yet—but I advise you not to try to leave this house without permission—”

“Indeed, I shall! Whenever and as often as I choose! The idea of your forbidding me!”

“Hush, Eunice,” said Hendricks. “She will not, Mr. Shane; I’m her guaranty for that. Don’t apprehend any insubordination on the part of Mrs. Embury.”

“Not if she knows what’s good for herself!” was Shane’s parting shot, and the two detectives went away.

Chapter XI

Fifi

“Oh, yes, indeed, Mr. Shane, Mrs. Embury is a dear friend of mine—a very, very dear friend—and I’d so gladly go to see her—and comfort her—console with her—and try to cheer her up—but—well, I asked her last night, over the telephone, to let me go to see her to-day—and—she—she—”

Mrs. Desternay’s pretty blue eyes filled with tears, and her pretty lips quivered, and she dabbed a sheer little handkerchief here and there on her countenance. Then she took up her babbling again.

“Oh, I don’t mean she was unfriendly or—or cross, you know—but she was a little—well, curt, almost—I might say, cool. And I’m one of her dearest friends—and I can’t quite understand it.”

“Perhaps you must make allowances for Mrs. Embury,” Shane suggested. “Remember the sudden and mysterious death of her husband must have been a fearful shock—”

“Oh, terrible! Yes, indeed, I do appreciate all that! And of course when I telephoned last evening, she had just had that long interview with you—and your other detective, Mr. What’s-his-name—and—oh, yes, Mr. Elliott answered my call and he told me just how things were—but I did think dear Eunice would want to see me—but it’s all right—of course, if she doesn’t want my sympathy. I’m the last one to intrude on her grief! But she has no one—no one at all—except that old aunt, who’s half foolish, I think—”

“What do you mean, half foolish?”

“Oh, she’s hipped over those psychic studies of hers, and she’s all wrapped up in Spiritualism and occult thingamajigs—I don’t know what you call ‘em.”

“She seems to me a very sane and practical lady.”

“In most ways—yes; but crazy on the subject of spooks, and mediums and things like that! Oh, Mr. Shane, who do you suppose killed Mr. Embury? How awful! To have a real murder right in one’s owns circle of acquaintances—I had almost said friends—but dear Eunice doesn’t seem to look on me as her friend—”

The blue eyes made a bid for sympathy, and Shane, though not always at ease in the presence of society ladies, met her half way.

“Now, that’s a pity, Mrs. Desternay! I’m sure you’d be the greatest help to her in her trouble.”

Fifi Desternay raised her hands and let them fall with a pretty little gesture of helplessness. She was a slip of a thing, and—it was the morning of the day after the Embury tragedy—she was garbed in a scant but becoming negligee, and had received the detective in her morning room, where she sat, tucked into the corner of a great davenport sofa, smoking cigarettes.

Her little face was delicately made up, and her soft, fair hair was in blobs over her ears. For the rest, the effect was mostly a rather low V’d neck and somewhat evident silk stockings and beribboned mules.

She continually pulled her narrow satin gown about her, and it as continually slipped away from her lace petticoat, as she crossed and recrossed her silken legs.

She was entirely unself-conscious and yet, the detective felt instinctively that she carefully measured every one of the words she so carelessly uttered.

“Well, Mr. Shane,” she said, suddenly, “we’re not getting anywhere. Just exactly what did you come here for? What do you want of me?”

The detective was grateful for this assistance.