Raspberry Jam

“Not so very dull,” interrupted Aunt Abby. “I know about the signs Mr. Hanlon paints! They’re bigger’n a house! They’re—why, they’re scenery—don’t you know?—like you see along the railroad—I mean along the meadows when you’re riding in the cars.”

“Oh, scenic advertising,” observed Fleming Stone. “And signs on the Palisades—”

“Not on the natural scenery,” laughed Hanlon. “Though I’ve been tempted by high rocks or smooth-sided crags.”

“Are you a steeple-jack?” asked Fibsy, his eyes sparkling; “can you paint spires and things?”

“No;” and Hanlon looked at the boy, regretfully. “I can’t do that. I’m no climber. I make the signs and then they’re put where they belong by other workmen.”

“Oh,” and Fibsy looked disappointed at not finding the daring hero he sought for.

“I must not presume further on your kindness, Mrs. Embury,” Hanlon said, with an attempt at society jargon, “I merely called in for a minute. Mr. Hendricks, are you going my way? I want to see you about that sign-”

“No, Hanlon—sorry, but I’m not going now,” and Hendricks shook his head. “I’m here for the evening.”

“All right see you later, then. Where can I find you? I’m something of an owl, myself.”

“I’ll call you up after I get home—if it isn’t too late,” Hendricks suggested.

“Never too late for me. See that you remember.”

Hanlon looked at Hendricks with more seriousness than the subject appeared to call for, then he went away.

“You got the earache?” asked Fibsy suddenly, of Hendricks, as that gentleman half absently rubbed his ear.

“Bless my soul, no! What do you mean by such a question? Mr. Stone, this boy of yours is too fresh!”

“Be quiet, Terence,” said Stone, paying but slight attention to the matter.

“Oh, all right, no offense meant,” and the boy grinned at Hendricks. “But didn’t you ever have an earache? If not, you don’t know what real sufferin’ is!”

“No, I never had it, that I remember. Perhaps as a child—”

“Why, Alvord,” said Aunt Abby, “you had it fearfully about a month ago. Don’t you recollect? You were afraid of mastoiditis.”

“Oh, that. Well, that was a serious illness. I was thinking of an ordinary earache, when I said I never had one. But I beg of you drop the subject of my ailments! What a thing to discuss!”

“True enough,” agreed Stone, “I propose we keep to the theme under consideration. I’ve been engaged to look into this murder mystery. I’m here for that purpose. I must insist that I conduct my investigation in my own way.”

“That’s the right talk,” approved Elliott. “Now, Mr. Stone, let’s get right down to it.”

“Very well, the case stands thus: Shane says—and it’s perfectly true—there are five possible suspects. But only one of these had both motive and opportunity. Now, the whole five are here present, and, absurd though it my seem, I’m going to ask each one of you the definite question. Ferdinand,” he raised his voice and the butler came in from the dining-room, “did you kill your master?”

“No, God hearing me—I didn’t, sir.” The man was quiet and composed, though his face was agonized.

“That will do, you may go,” said Stone. “Mr. Elliott, did you kill your friend—your partner in business?”

“I did not,” said Elliott, curtly. He was evidently ill-pleased at the question.

“Mr. Hendricks, did you?”

“As I have repeatedly proved, I was in Boston that night. It would be impossible for me to be the criminal—but I will answer your ridiculous query—I did not.”

“Mrs. Embury, did you?”

“N—no—but I would rather be suspected, than to have—”

“You said no, I believe,” Stone interrupted her. “Miss Ames, do you really think you killed your niece’s husband?”

“Oh, sir—I don’t know! I can’t think I did—”

“Of course, you didn’t, Aunt Abby!” Mason Elliott rose from his seat and paced up and down the room. “I must say, Mr. Stone, this is a childish performance! What makes you think any of us would say so, if we had killed Embury? It is utterly absurd!”

“You’re absurd, Elliott,” cut in Hendricks. “Mr. Stone is a psychologist. He learns what he wants to know not from what we say—but the way we say it. Right, Mr. Stone?”

“Right, Mr. Hendricks.” Stone looked grave. “Anything more to say, Mr. Elliott?”

“Yes, I have! And it’s this: I asked you to come here. I asked you to take this case—as you’ve already surmised—to free Mrs. Embury from wrongful suspicion. Wrongful, mind you! I do not want you to clear her if she is guilty. But she isn’t. Therefore, I want you to find the real criminal. That’s what I want!”

“And that’s what I’m doing.”

“Of course he is,” Eunice defended him. “I wish you’d keep still, Mason! You talk too much—and you interfere with Mr. Stone’s methods.”

“Perhaps I’d better go home, Eunice.” Elliott was clearly offended. “If you don’t want me here, I’ll go.”

“Oh, no—” Eunice began, but Hendricks said, “Go on, Elliott, do. There are too many of us here, and as Eunice’s counsel, I can look after her interests.”

Mason Elliott rose, and turned to Eunice.

“Shall I go?” he said, and he gave her a look of entreaty—a look of yearning, pleading love.

“Go,” she said, coldly. “Alvord will take care of me.”

And Elliott went.

Chapter XVI

Fibsy’s Busy Day

“It’s this way, F. Stone,” said Fibsy, earnestly, “the crooks of the situation—”

“The what?”

“The crooks—that’s what they call it—”

“Oh, the crux.” Stone did not laugh.

“Yessir—if that’s how you pronounce it. Guess I’ll stick to plain English. Well, to my way of thinkin’, the little joker in the case is that there raspberry jam. I’m a strong believer in raspberry jam on general principles, but in pertikler, I should say in this present case, raspberry jam will win the war! Don’t eat it!”