Raspberry Jam

“All right, ma’am. Now, I’m off, and I’ll be back here when I come again. So long.”

Fibsy went down in the service elevator and forthwith proceeded to interview the rubbish man of the house and some other functionaries.

By dint of much prodding of memory, assisted by judicious silver offerings, he finally learned that there was an apartment occupied by a couple with four children, who, it appeared, consumed large quantities of jam of all flavors. At least, their rubbish was bristling with empty jam pots, and the deduction was logical.

Seemingly unimpressed, Fibsy declared it was pickle-fiends he was searching for, and departed, outwardly crestfallen, but inwardly elated.

Going out of doors, he walked to the corner of Park Avenue, and turned into the side street.

Crossing that street to get a better view, he looked up the side of the big apartment house, and his gaze paused at the window in the tenth story which was in Miss Ames’ sleeping-room. Two floors below this was the apartment of the family who were reputed jam eaters.

Fibsy looked intently at all the windows. The one next Miss Ames’ was, he knew, in the Embury’s pantry. Hence, the one two stories below was in the Patterson’s pantry the Patterson being the aforesaid family.

And to the boy’s astonished and delighted eyes, there on the pantry window-sill sat what was unmistakably a jam jar!

So far, so good. But what did it mean? Fibsy had learned that Mr. Patterson was a member of the Metropolitan Athletic Club and was greatly interested in its presidential election—which election, owing to the death of one of the candidates had been indefinitely postponed.

But further investigation of Mr. Patterson was too serious a matter for the boy to undertake. It must be referred to Fleming Stone.

So Fibsy glued his eyes once more to that fascinating jam jar up on the eighth-story window-sill, and slowly walked away.

Under his breath he was singing, “Raz Berry Jam! Raz Berry Jam!’—” to the tune of a certain march from Lohengrin, which somehow represented to his idea the high note of triumph.

He proceeded along the cross street, and at Fifth Avenue he entered a bus.

His next errand took him to the home of Fifi Desternay.

By some ingenious method of wheedling, he persuaded the doorman to acquaint the lady with the fact of his presence, and when she came into the room where he awaited her he banked on his nerve to induce her to grant him an interview.

“You know me,” he said, with his most ingratiating smile, and he even went so far as to take her beringed little hand in his own boyish paw.

“I do not!” she declared, staring at him, and then, his grin proving infectious, she added, not unkindly, “Who are you, child?”

“I wish I was a society reporter or a photographer, or anybody who could do justice to your wonderful charms!”

His gaze of admiration was so sincere that Fifi couldn’t resent it.

She often looked her best in the morning, and her dainty negligee and bewitching French cap made her a lovely picture.

She tucked herself into a big, cushioned chair, and drawing a smoking-stand nearer, fussed with its silver appointments.

“Lemme, ma’am,” said Fibsy, eagerly, and, though it was his first attempt, he held a lighted match to her cigarette with real grace.

Then, drawing a long breath of relief at his success, he took a cigarette himself, and sat near her.

“Well,” she began, “what’s it all about? And, do tell me how you got in! I’m glad you did, though it was against orders. I’ve not seen anything so amusing as you for a long time!”

“This is my amusin’ day,” returned the boy, imperturbably. “I came to talk over things in general—”

“And what in particular?”

Fifi was enjoying herself. She felt almost sure the boy was a reporter of a new sort, but she was frankly curious.

“Well, ma’am,” and here Fibsy changed his demeanor to a stern, scowling fierceness, “I’m a special investigator.” He rose now, and strode about the room. “I’m engaged on the Embury murder case, and I’m here to ask you a few pointed questions about it.”

“My heavens!” cried Fifi, “what are you talking about?”

“Don’t scoff at me, ma’am; I’m in authority.”

“Oh, well, go ahead. Why are you questioning me?”

“It’s this way, ma’am.” Fibsy sat down astride a chair, looking over the back of it at his hostess. “You and Mrs. Embury are bosom friends, I understand.”

“From whom do you understand it?” was the tart response; “from Mrs. Embury?”

“In a manner o’ speakin’, yes; and then again, no. But aren’t you?”

“We were. We were school friends, and have been intimates for years. But since her—trouble, Mrs. Embury has thrown me over—has discarded me utterly—I’m so sorry!”

Fifi daintily touched her eyes with a tiny square of monogrammed linen, and Fibsy said, gravely,—

“Careful, there; don’t dab your eyelashes too hard!”

“What!” Mrs. Desternay could scarcely believe her ears.

“Honest, you’d better look out. It’s coming off now.”

“Nothing of the sort,” and Fifi whipped out a vanity case, and readjusted her cosmetic adornment.

“Then I take it you two are not friends?”

“We most certainly are not. I wouldn’t do anything in the world to injure Eunice Embury—in fact, I’d help her, even now—though she scorned my assistance—but we’re not friends—no!”

“All right, I just wanted to know. Ask right out—that’s my motto.”

“It seems to be! Anything else you are thirsting to learn?”

“Yes’m. You know that ‘Hamlet’ performance—you and Mis’ Embury went to?”

“Yes,” said Fifi, cautiously.

“You know you accused her of talkin’ it over with you—”

“She did!”

“Yes’m—I know you say she did—I got that from Mr. Shane—but, lemme tell you, ma’am, friendly like, you want to be careful how you tell that yarn—’cause they’s chance fer a perfectly good slander case against you!”

“What nonsense!” but Fifi paled a little under her delicate rouge.