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Raspberry Jam

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Год написания книги
2019
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“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Elliott said; “it’s almost six o’clock, Aunt Abby. Where are you going?”

“I’ve got an errand—a very important errand—an appointment, in fact. I must go—don’t you dare oppose me, Mason. You’ll be sorry if you do!”

Even as she spoke, the old lady was scurrying to her room, from which she returned shortly, garbed for the street.

“All right,” Stone said, in reply to a whisper from Fibsy, and the boy offered, respectfully:

“Let me go with you, Miss Ames. It ain’t fittin’ you should go alone. It’s ‘most dark.”

“Come on, boy,” Aunt Abby regarded him kindly; “I’d be glad of your company.”

At the street door, the old lady asked for a taxicab, and the strangely assorted pair were soon on their way.

“You’re a bright lad, Fibsy,” she said; “by the way, what’s your real name—I forget.”

“Terence, ma’am; Terence McGuire. I wish’t I was old enough to be called McGuire! I’d like that.”

“I’ll call you that, if you wish. You’re old for your age, I’m sure. How old are you?”

“Goin’ on about fifteen or sixteen—I think. I sort’a forget.”

“Nonsense! You can’t forget your age! Why do they call you Fibsy?”

“‘Cause I’m a born liar—’scuse me—a congenital prevaricator, I meant to say. You see, ma’am, it’s necessary in my business not always to employ the plain unvarnished. But don’t be alarmed, ma’am; when I take a fancy to anybuddy, as I have to you, ma’am, I don’t never lie to ‘em. Not that I s’pose you’d care, eh, ma’am?”

Aunt Abby laughed. “You are a queer lad! Why, I’m not sure I’d care, if it didn’t affect me in any way. I’m not responsible for your truthfulness—though I don’t mind advising you that you ought to be a truthful boy.”

“Land, ma’am! Don’t you s’pose I know that? But, honest now, are you always just exactly, abserlutely truthful, yourself?”

“Certainly I am! What do you mean by speaking to me like that?”

“Well, don’t you ever touch up a yarn a little jest sort’a to make it more interestin’ like? Most ladies do—that is, most ladies of intelligence and brains—which you sure have got in plenty!”

“There, there, boy; I’m afraid I’ve humored you too much you’re presuming.”

“I presume I am. But one question more, while we’re on this absorbin’ subject. Didn’t you, now, just add a jot or a tittle to that ghost story you put over? Was it every bit on the dead level?”

“Yes, child,” Aunt Abby took his question seriously; “it was every word true. I didn’t make up the least word of it!”

“I believe you, ma’am, and I congratulate you on your clarviant powers. Now, about that raspberry jam, ma’am. That’s a mighty unmistakable taste—ain’t it, now.”

“It is, McGuire. It certainly is. And I tasted it, just as surely as I’m here telling you about it.”

“Have you had it for supper lately, ma’am?”

“No; Eunice hasn’t had it on her table since I’ve been visiting her.”

“Is that so, ma’am?”

Chapter XV

Marigny The Medium

The journey ended at the rooms of Marigny, the psychic recommended by Willy Hanlon.

As Fibsy, his bright eyes wide with wonder, found himself in the unmistakable surroundings of dingy draperies, a curtained cabinet and an odor of burning incense, he exclaimed to himself, “Gee! a clairviant! Now for some fun!”

Aunt Abby, apparently aware of the proprieties of the occasion, seated herself, and waited patiently.

At a gesture from her, Fibsy obediently took a seat near her, and waited quietly, too.

Soon the psychic entered. He was robed in a long, black garment, and wore a heavy, white turban, swathed in folds. His face was olive-colored—what was visible of it for his beard was white and flowing, and a heavy drooping moustache fell over his lips. Locks of white hair showed from the turban’s edge, and a pair of big, rubber-rimmed glasses of an amber tint partially hid his eyes.

The whole make-up was false, it was clear to be seen, but a psychic has a right to disguise himself, if he choose.

Fibsy gave Marigny one quick glance and then the boy assumed an expression of face quite different from his usual one. He managed to look positively vacant-minded. His eyes became lack-luster, his mouth, slightly open, looked almost imbecile, and his roving glance betokened no interest whatever in the proceedings.

“Mr. Marigny?” said Miss Ames, eagerly anxious for the séance to begin.

“Yes, madam. You are three minutes late!”

“I couldn’t help it—the traffic is very heavy at this hour.”

“And you should have come alone. I cannot concentrate with an alien influence in the room.”

“Oh, the boy isn’t an alien influence. He’s a little friend of mine—he’ll do no harm.”

“I’ll go out, if you say, mister,” Fibsy turned his indifferent gaze on the clairvoyant.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” spoke up Miss Ames. “I’m accustomed to séances, Mr. Marigny, and if you’re all right—as I was told you were—a child’s presence won’t interfere.”

Evidently the psychic saw he had no novice to deal with, and he accepted the situation.

“What do you want to know?” he asked his client.

“Who killed Sanford Embury—or, did he kill himself. I want you to get into communication with his spirit and find out from him. But I don’t want any make-believe. If you can’t succeed, that’s all right—I’ll pay your fee just the same. But no poppycock.”

“That’s the way to look at it, madam. I will go into the silence, and I will give you only such information as I get myself.”

The man leaned back in his chair, and gradually seemed to enter a hypnotic state. His muscles relaxed, his face became still and set, and his breathing was slow and a little labored.

Fibsy retained his vacuous look he even fidgeted a little, in a bored way—and rarely glanced toward the man of “clear sight.”

Miss Ames, though anxious for results, was alert and quite on her guard against fraud. Experienced in fake mediums, she believed Willy Hanlon’s assertion that this man was one of the few genuine mystics, but she proposed to judge for herself.

At last Marigny spoke. His voice was low, his tones monotonous and uninflected.

“Aunt Abby—Aunt Westminster Abbey” the words came slowly.
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