The Mystery of the Sycamore

“How?” asked Allen. “That would be magician’s work, I think.”

“A detective has to be a magician,” Stone smiled at him. “We quite often do more astounding tricks than that.”

“Go to it, then!” cried Appleby. “That’s the talk I like to hear. Questions and answers any of us can put over. But the real detecting is like magic. At least, I can’t see how it’s done. Duff in, Mr. Stone. Get busy.”

The group dispersed then, Fleming Stone going to his room and the others straying off by twos or threes.

Burdon, who had said almost nothing during the confab, declared he wanted a talk with the great detective alone, and would await his pleasure.

So Burdon sat by himself, brooding, on the veranda, and presently saw the boy, Fibsy, returning toward the house.

“Come here, young one,” Burdon called out.

“Nixy, old one,” was the saucy retort.

“Why not?” in a conciliatory tone.

“’Cause you spoke disrespectful like. I’m a detective, you know.”

“All right, old pal; come here, will you?”

Fibsy grinned and came, seating himself on a cushioned swing nearby.

“Whatcha want?” he demanded.

“Only a line o’ talk. Your Mr. Stone, now, do you think he’ll show up soon, or has he gone for a nap?”

“Fleming Stone doesn’t take naps,” Fibsy said, disdainfully; “he isn’t that sort.”

“Then he’ll be down again shortly?”

“Dunno. Maybe he’s begun his fasting and prayer over this phenomenal case.”

“Does he do that?”

“How do I know? I’m not of a curious turn of mind, me havin’ other sins to answer for.”

“I know. Mr. Stone told us you have no respect for the truth.”

“Did he, now! Well, he’s some mistaken! I have such a profound respect for the truth that I never use it except on very special occasions.”

“Is this one?”

“It is not! Don’t believe a word I say just now. In fact, I’m so lit up with the beauties and glories of this place, that I hardly know what I am a-saying! Ain’t it the show-place, though!”

“Yes, it is. Looky here, youngster, can’t you go up and coax Mr. Stone to see me – just a few minutes?”

“Nope; can’t do that. But you spill it to me, and if it’s worth it, I’ll repeat it to him. I’m really along for that very purpose, you see.”

“But I haven’t anything special to tell him – ”

“Oh, I see! Just want the glory and honor of chinning with the great Stone!”

As this so nearly expressed Burdon’s intention, he grinned sheepishly, and Fibsy understood.

“No go, old top,” he assured him. “F. Stone will send for you if he thinks you’ll interest him in the slightest degree. Better wait for the sending – it’ll mean a more satisfactory interview all round.”

“Well, then, let’s you and me chat a bit.”

“Oho, coming round to sort of like me, are you? Well, I’m willing. Tell me this: how far from the victim did the shooter stand?”

“The doctor said, as nearly as he could judge, about ten feet or so away.”

“H’m,” and Fibsy looked thoughtful. “That would just about suit all three of the present claimants for the honor, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes; and would preclude anybody not inside the room.”

“Unless he was close to the window.”

“Sure. But it ain’t likely, is it now, that a rank outsider would come right up to the window and fire through it, and not be seen by anybody?”

“No; it isn’t. And, of course, if that had happened, and any one of the three Wheelers had seen it, they would be only too glad to tell of it. I wonder they haven’t made up some such yarn as that.”

“You don’t know the Wheelers. I do, and I can see how they would perjure themselves – any of them – and confess to a crime they didn’t commit, to save each other – but it wouldn’t occur to them to invent a murderer – or to say they saw some one they didn’t see. Do you get the difference?”

“Being an expert in the lyin’ game, I do,” and Fibsy winked.

“It isn’t only that. It’s not only that they’re unwilling to lie about it, but they haven’t the – the, well, ingenuity to contrive a plausible yarn.”

“Not being lying experts, just as I said,” Fibsy observed. “Well, we all have our own kind of cleverness. Now, mine is finding things. Want to see an example?”

“Yes, I do.”

“All right. How far did you say the shooter person stood from his victim?”

“About ten feet – but I daresay it might be two or three feet, more or less.”

“No; they can judge closer’n that by the powder marks. The truth wouldn’t vary more’n a foot or so, from their say. Now, s’posin’ the shooter did throw the revolver out of the bay window, as the three Wheelers agree, severally, they did do, where would it most likely land?”

“In that clump of rhododendrons.”

“Yep; if they threw it straight ahead. I s’pose you’ve looked there for it?”

“Yes, raked the place thoroughly.”

“All right. Now if they slung the thing over toward the right, where would it land?”

“On the smooth lawn.”