Raspberry Jam

“No nonsense whatsomever. But here’s the point. Was there a witness to that conversation?”

“Why, let me see. We talked it over at the matinee—we were alone then—but, yes, of course—I recollect now—that same evening Eunice was here and Mr. Hendricks was, too, and Mr. Patterson—he lives in their apartment house—the Embury’s, I mean-and we all talked about it! There! I guess that’s witnesses enough!”

“I guess it is. But take it from me, lady, you’re too pretty to get into a bothersome lawsuit—and I advise you to keep on the sunny side of the street, and let these shady matters alone.”

“I’ll gladly do so—honest, I don’t want to get Eunice in bad—”

“Oh, no! we all know you don’t want to get her in bad—unless it can be done with abserlute safety to your own precious self. Well—it can’t, ma’am. You keep on like you’ve begun—and your middle name’ll soon be trouble! Good morning, ma’am.”

Fibsy rose, bowed and left the room so suddenly that Fifi hadn’t time to stop him if she had wanted to. And he left behind him a decidedly scared little woman.

Fibsy then went straight to the offices of Mason Elliott.

He was admitted and given an audience at once.

“What is it, McGuire?” asked the broker.

“A lot of things, Mr. Elliott. First of all—I suppose the police are quite satisfied with the alibis of you and Mr. Hendricks?”

“Yes,” and Elliott looked curiously into the grave, earnest little face. He had resented, at first, the work of this boy, but after Fleming Stone had explained his worth, Elliott soon began to see it for himself.

“They are unimpeachable,” he went on; “I was at home, and Mr. Hendricks was in Boston. This has been proved over and over by many witnesses, both authentic and credible.”

“Yes,” Fibsy nodded. “I’m sure of it, too. And, of course, that lets you two out. Now, Mr. Elliott, the butler didn’t do it F. Stone says that’s a self-evident fact. Bringin’ us back—as per usual to the two ladies. But, Mr. Elliott, neither of those ladies did it.”

“Bless you, my boy, that’s my own opinion, of course, but how can we prove it?”

Fibsy deeply appreciated the “we” and gave the speaker a grateful smile.

“There you are, Mr. Elliott, how can we? Mr. Stone, as you know, is the cleverest detective in the world, but he’s no magician. He can’t find the truth, if the truth is hidden in a place he can’t get at.”

“Have you any idea, McGuire, who the murderer was?”

“No, sir, I haven’t. But I’ve an idea where to get an idea. And I want you to help me.”

“Surely—that goes without saying.”

“You’d do anything for Mrs. Embury, wouldn’t you?”

“Anything.” The simple assertion told the whole story, and Fibsy nodded with satisfaction.

“Then tell me truly, sir, please, wasn’t Mr. Embury a—a—a—”

“Careful there—he’s dead, you know.”

“Yes, I know—but it’s necessary, sir. Wasn’t he a—I don’t know the right term, but wasn’t he a money-grabber?”

“In what way?” Elliott spoke very gravely.

“You know best, sir. He was your partner—had been for some years. But—on the side, now—didn’t he do this? Lend money-sorta personally, you know—on security.”

“And if he did?”

“Didn’t he demand big security—didn’t he get men—his friends even—in his power—and then come down on ‘em—oh, wasn’t he a sort of a loan shark?”

“Where did you get all this?”

“I put together odds and ends of talk I’ve heard—and it must be so. That Mr. Patterson, now—”

“Patterson! What do you know of him?”

“Nothing, but that he owed Mr. Embury a lot, and his household stuff was the collateral—and—”

“Were did you learn that? I insist on knowing!”

“Servants’ gossip, sir. I picked it up in the apartment house. He and the Emburys live in the same one, you know.”

“McGuire, you are on a wrong trail. Mr. Embury may have lent money to his friends—may have had collateral security from them—probably did—but that’s nothing to do with his being killed. And as it is a blot on his memory, I do not want the matter made public.”

“I understand that, Mr. Elliott—neither do I. But sposin’ the discovery of the murderer hinges on that very thing—that very branch of Mr. Embury’s business—then mustn’t it be looked into?”

“Perhaps it—must—but not by you.”

“No, sir, By F. Stone.”

Chapter XVII

Hanlon’s Ambition

An important feature of Fleming Stone’s efficiency was his ability to make use of the services of others. In the present case, he skilfully utilized both Shane and Driscoll’s energies, and received their reports—diplomatically concealing the fact that he was making tools of them, and letting them infer that he was merely their co-worker.

Also, he depended greatly on Fibsy’s assistance. The boy was indefatigable, and he did errands intelligently, and made investigations with a minute attention to details, that delighted the heart of his master.

Young McGuire had all the natural attributes of a detective, and under the tuition of Fleming Stone was advancing rapidly.

When assisting Stone on a case, the two usually lived together at some hotel, Stone going back and forth between there and his own home, which was now in a Westchester suburb.

It was part of the routine that the two should breakfast together and plan the day’s work. These breakfasts were carefully arranged meals, with correct appointments, for Stone had the boy’s good at heart, and was glad to train him in deportment for his own sake; but also, he desired that Fibsy should be presentable in any society, as the pursuit of the detective calling made it often necessary that the boy should visit in well-conducted homes.

Fibsy was, therefore, eating his breakfast after the most approved formula, when Stone said, “Well, Fibs, how about Sykes and Barton? Now for the tale of your call on Willy Hanlon yesterday.”

“I went down there, Mr. Stone, but I didn’t see Hanlon. He was out. But I did a lot better. I saw Mr. Barton, of Sykes and Barton, and I got an earful! It seems friend Willy has ambitions.”

“In what line?”

“Upward! Like the gentleman in the poetry-book, he wants to go higher, higher, ever higher—”

“Aeroplane?”