Raspberry Jam

“Thought you were going to talk plain English. You’re cryptic, my son.”

“All right—here goes. That jam business is straight goods. The old lady says she tasted jam—and she did taste jam. That’s all there is about that. And that sweet, pleasant, innercent raspberry jam will yet send the moiderer of Mr. Embury to the chair!”

“I think myself there’s something to be looked into there, but how are you going about it?”

“Dunno yet—but here’s another thing, Mr. Stone, that I ain’t had time to tell you yet, that—”

“Suppose you begin at the beginning and tell me your story in order.”

“Supposin’ I do!” Fibsy thought a moment before he began. It was the morning after the two had dined at the Embury home, and they were breakfasting together in Stone’s hotel apartment.

“Well, Mr. Stone, as you know, I left Mrs. Embury’s last night d’eckly after Mr. Hendricks took his deeparture. As I s’pected, there was trouble a-waitin’ for him just outside the street doorway, that Hanlon chap was standing and he met up with Mr. Hendricks—much to the dismay of the latter!”

“Your English is fine this morning—go ahead.”

“Well—Hanlon fell into step like with Mr. Henricks, and they walked along, Hanlon doing the talking. I didn’t dare get close enough to overhear them, for they’re both live wires, and I don’t fool either of ‘em into thinking meself a ninkypoop! So I trailed, but well out’a sight—and, hold on, Mr. Stone, while I tell you this. The fake mejum that Miss Ames went to see yesterday afternoon, was none other than friend Hanlon himself!”

“What? Fibs, are you sure?”

“Sure as shootin’! I spotted him the minute he came up to Mrs. Embury’s. I didn’t reckernize him at first as the whiskered Moses, but I did later. You know, Mr. Stone, I saw him do stunts for newspapers in two towns, and I wonder I didn’t tumble to him in the spookshop. But I didn’t—I dessay because when I saw him doing his mind-readin’ tricks outdoors he was blindfolded, which some concealed his natural scenery. Well, he hadn’t more’n tripped over the Embury ‘Welcome’ mat, than I was onto him. Me thinker woiked light lightnin’ and I had him ticketed and pigeonholed in no time.”

“Is he mixed up in the Embury case?”

“He’s mixed up with Mr. Hendricks in some way, and he learned from Miss Ames that Hendricks was to be among those present, so he made up foolish excuses and betook himself to the vicinity of said Hendricks.”

“Why?”

“Wanted to converse with him, and couldn’t get hold of him otherwise. Hendricks, it would seem, didn’t hanker for said conversation.”

“I remember Hanlon asked Mr. Hendricks if he were going his way, and Hendricks said he was going to spend the evening where he was.”

“Egg-zackly. And did. But all the same, Hanlon waited. And a wait of an hour and a half registers patience and perseverance—to my mind.”

“Right you are! And you trailed the pair?”

“Did I?” Fibsy fell back in his chair, as if exhausted. “I followed them to Mr. Hendricks’ home, they chatterin’ glibly all the way—and then after a few minutes’ further remarks on the doorstep Hendricks, he went in—and Hanlon—! You know, Mr. Stone, Hanlon’s nobody’s fool, and he knew I was follerin’ him as well as he knew his name! I don’t know how he knew it—for I was most careful to keep out’a sight, but all the same, he did know it—and what do you think he did? He led me a chase of miles—and miles—and miles! That’s what he did!”

“On purpose?”

“On purpose! Laughin’ in his silly sleeve! I was game. I trotted along—but bullieve me! I was mad! And the galoot was so slick about it! Why, he walked up Broadway first—as if he had a business appointment in a desprit hurry. Then, having reached Hunderd an’ Twenty-fi’th Street, he pauses a minute—to be sure I’m trailin’, the vilyun and then, he swings East, and across town, and turns South again—oh, well, Mr. Stone, he simpully makes me foller him till I’m that dog-tired, I near drops in my tracks. And, to top the heap, he leads me straight to this hotel, where we’re stayin’—yes, sir! right here—and makin’ a sharp turn, he says, ‘Good-night!’ pleasant like, and scoots off. Can you beat it?”

“Poor old Fibs, that was an experience! Looks like the Hanlon person is one to be reckoned with. But it doesn’t prove him mixed up in the murder mystery in any way.”

“No, sir, it don’t. It’s only made me sore on him—and sore on my own account, too!” Fibsy grinned ruefully. “Me feet’s that blistered—and I’m lame all over!”

“Poor boy! You see, he’s a sprinter from ‘way back. His stunts on that newspaper work prove he can take long walks without turning a hair.”

“Yes, but its croolty to animiles to drag a young feller like me along, too. I’ve got his number. Just you wait, Cele! Remember, Mr. Stone, he played spook-catcher to Miss Ames. That means something, sir.”

“It does, indeed. This is a great old case, Fibsy. Are you getting a line on it?”

“I think so, sir,” and the lad looked very earnest. “Are you?”

“A strange one. But, yet, a line. To-day, Fibs, I want you to interview that Mrs. Desternay. You can do it better than I, jolly her along, and find out if she’s friend or foe of Mrs. Embury.”

“Yessir. An’ kin I do a little sleuthin’ on my own?”

“What sort?”

“Legitermit—I do assure you, sir.”

When Fibsy assumed this deeply earnest air, Stone knew some clever dodge was in his mind, and he found it usually turned out well, so he said, “Go ahead, my boy; I trust you.”

“Thank yer,” and Fibsy devoted himself to the remainder of his breakfast, while Stone read the morning paper.

An hour later Terence McGuire presented himself at the Embury home and asked for Miss Ames.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, as he smiled brightly at her. “Howlja like to join me in a bit of investergation that’ll proberly end up in a s’lution of the mystery?”

“I’d like it first rate,” replied Miss Ames, with enthusiasm. “When do we begin?”

“Immejitly. Where’s Mis’ Embury?”

“In her room.”

“No use a-disturbin’ her, but I want’a see the jersey—the gymnasium jersey your ghost wore.”

Aunt Abby looked disappointed. She had hoped for something more exciting.

But she said, “I’ll get it,” and went at once to Sanford Embury’s room.

“Thank you,” said Fibsy, as he took it. But his eager scrutiny failed to disclose any trace of jam on its sleeves.

“Which arm did you bite?” he asked, briefly.

“I didn’t really bite at all,” Miss Ames returned. “I sort of made a snap at him—it was more a nervous gesture than an intelligent action. And I just caught a bit of the worsted sleeve between my lips for an instant—it was, let me see—it must have been the left arm—”

“Well, we’ll examine both sleeves—and I regret to state, ma’am, there’s no sign of sticky stuff. This is a fine specimen of a jersey—I never saw a handsomer one—but there’s no stain on it, and never has been.”

“Nor has it ever been cleaned with gasoline,” mused Miss Ames, “and yet, McGuire, nothing, to my dying day, can ever convince me that I am mistaken on those two subjects. I’m just as sure as I can be.”

“I’m sure, too. Listen here, Miss Ames. There’s a great little old revelation due in about a day or so, and I wish you’d lay low. Will you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, don’t do or say much about the affair. Let it simmer. I’m on the warpath, and so’s Mr. Stone, and we’re comin’ out on top, if we don’t have no drawbacks. So, don’t trot round to clarviants or harp on that there ‘vision’ of yours, will you?”

“My boy, I’m only too glad to keep away from the subject. I’m worried to death with it all. And if I can’t do any good by my efforts, I’ll willingly ‘lay low’ as you ask.”