Raspberry Jam

He went on—higher and higher—now pausing to look down and smile at the sea of upturned faces below—and, in a moment of bravado, even daring to pause, and hanging on by one hand and one foot, “scissor out” his other limbs and wave a tiny flag which he carried.

On he went, and on, at last reaching the very top. Over the coping he climbed, and gaily waved his flag as he bowed to the applauding crowds below.

Then, for Hanlon was a daring soul, the return journey was begun.

Even more fascinating than the ascent was this hazardous task.

Fibsy watched him, noted every step, every motion, and was fairly beside himself with the excitement of the moment.

And, then, when half a dozen stories from the ground—when success was almost within his grasp—something happened. Nobody knew what—a misstep—a miscalculation of distance—a slipping stone—whatever the cause, Hanlon fell. Fell from the sixth story to the ground.

Those nearest the catastrophe stepped back—others pushed forward—and an ambulance, ready for such a possible occasion, hurried the wounded man to the hospital.

For Hanlon was not killed, but so crushed and broken that his life was but a matter of hours—perhaps moments.

“Let me in—I must see him!” Fibsy fought the doormen, the attendants, the nurses.

“I tell you I must! In the name of the law, let me in!”

And then a more coherent insistence brought him permission, and he was immediately admitted to Hanlon’s presence.

A priest was there, administering extreme unction, and saying such words of comfort as he could command, but at sight of Fibsy, Hanlon’s dull eyes brightened and he partially revived.

“Yes—him!” he cried out, with a sudden flicker of energy, “I must talk to him!”

The doctor fell back, and made way for the boy. “Let him talk, if he likes,” he said; “nothing matters now. Poor chap, he can’t live ten minutes.”

Awed, but very determined, Fibsy approached the bedside.

He looked at Hanlon—strangely still and white, yet his eyes burning with a desperate desire to communicate something.

“Come here,” he whispered, and Fibsy drew nearer to him.

“You know?” he said.

“Yes,” and Fibsy glanced around as if to be sure of his witnesses to this strange confession, “you killed Sanford Embury.”

“I did. I—I—oh, I can’t—talk. You talk—”

“This is his confession,” Fibsy turned to the priest and the doctor; “listen to it.” Then addressing himself again to Hanlon, he resumed: “You climbed up the side of the apartment house—on the cross street—not on Park Avenue—and you got in at Miss Ames’ window.”

“Yes,” said Hanlon, his white lips barely moving, but his eyes showing acquiescence.

“You went straight through those two rooms—softly, not awakening either of the ladies—and you killed Mr. Embury, and then—you returned through the bedrooms—” Again the eyes said yes.

“And, passing through Miss Ames’ room, she stirred, and thinking she might be awake, you stopped and leaned over her to see. There you accidentally let fall—perhaps from your breast pocket—the little glass dropper you had used—and as you bent over the old lady, she grabbed at you, and felt your jersey sleeve—even bit at it—and tasted raspberry jam. That jam got on that sleeve as you climbed up past the Patterson’s window, where a jar of it was on the window-sill—”

“Yes—that’s right,” Hanlon breathed, and on his face was a distinct look of admiration for the boy’s perception.

“You wore a faintly-ticking wrist-watch—the same one you’re wearing now—and the odor of gasoline about you was from your motor-cycle. You, then, were the ‘vision’ Miss Ames has so often described, and you glided silently away from her bedside, and out at the window by which you entered. Gee! it was some stunt!”

This tribute of praise was wrung from Fibsy by the sudden realization that what he had for some time surmised was really true!

“I guess it was that jam that did for you,” he went on, “but, say, we ain’t got no time for talkin’.”

Hanlon’s eyes were already glazing, his breath; came shorter and it was plain to be seen the end was very near.

“Who hired you?” Fibsy flung the question at him with such force that it seemed to rouse a last effort of the ebbing life in the dying man and he answered, faintly but clearly:

“Alvord Hendricks—ten thousand dollars—” and then Hanlon was gone.

Reminding the priest and the doctor that they were witnesses to this dying confession, Fibsy rushed from the room and back to New York as fast as he could get there.

He learned by telephone that Fleming Stone was at Mrs. Embury’s, and, pausing only to telephone for Shane to go at once to the same house, Fibsy jumped into a taxicab and hurried up there himself.

“It’s all over,” he burst forth, as he dashed into the room where Stone sat, talking to Eunice. Mason Elliott was there, too—indeed, he was a frequent visitor—and Aunt Abby sat by with her knitting.

“What is?” asked Stone, looking at the boy in concern. For Fibsy was greatly excited, his fingers worked nervously and his voice shook.

“The whole thing, Mr. Stone! Hanlon’s dead—and he killed Mr. Embury.”

“Yes—I know—” Fleming Stone showed no surprise. “Did he fall?”

“Yessir. Got up the climb all right, and ‘most down again, and fell from the sixth floor. Killed him—but not instantly. I went to the hospital, and he confessed.”

“Who did?” said Shane, coming in at the door as the last words were spoken.

“Willy Hanlon—a human fly.”

And then Fleming Stone told the whole story—Fibsy adding here and there his bits of information.

“But I don’t understand,” said Shane, at last, “why would that chap kill Mr. Embury?”

“Hired,” said Fibsy, as Stone hesitated to speak; “hired by a man who paid him ten thousand dollars.”

“Hanlon a gunman!” said Shane, amazed.

“Not a professional one,” Fibsy said, “but he acted as one in this case. The man who hired him knew he was privately learning to be a ‘human fly,’ and he had the diabolical thought of hiring him to climb up this house, and get in at the only available window, and kill Mr. Embury with that henbane stuff.”

“And the man’s name?” shouted Shane, “the name of the real criminal?”

Fibsy sat silent, looking at Stone.

“His name is Alvord E. Hendricks,” was Stone’s quiet reply.

An instant commotion arose. Eunice, her great eyes full of horror, ran to Aunt Abby, who seemed about to collapse from sheer dismay.

Mason Elliott started up with a sudden “Where is he?” and Shane echoed, with a roar: “Yes, where is he? Can he get away?”