by Marion Bryce
“Fine!” he ejaculated, somewhat cryptically. “And you quarreled about this last night?”
“Last evening, before we went out.”
“Not after you came home?”
“No; the subject was not then mentioned.”
“H’m. And you two were as friendly as ever? No coolness—sorta left over, like?”
“No!” Eunice spoke haughtily, but the crimson flood that rose to her cheeks gave the lie to her words.
Driscoll came in.
“I’ve found out what killed Mr. Embury,” he said, in his quiet fashion.
“What?” cried the Examiner and Shane, at the same time.
“Can’t tell you—just yet. I’ll have to go out on an errand. Stay here—all of you—till I get back.”
The dapper little figure disappeared through the hall door, and Shane turned back to the group with a grunt of satisfaction.
“That’s Driscoll, all over,” he said. “Put him on a case, and he don’t say much, and he don’t look like he’s doing anything, and then all in a minute he’ll bring in the goods.”
“I’d be glad to hear the cause of that death,” said Dr. Crowell, musingly. “I’m an old, experienced practitioner, and I’ve never seen anything so mysterious. There’s absolutely no trace of any poison, and yet it can be nothing else.”
“Poison’s a mighty sly proposition,” observed Shane. “A clever poisoner can put over a big thing.”
“Perhaps your assumption of murder is premature,” said Hendricks, and he gave Shane a sharp look.
“Maybe,” and that worthy nodded his head. “But I’m still standing pat. Now, here’s the proposition. Three people, locked into a suite—you may say—of three rooms. No way of getting in from this side—those locks are heavy brass snap-catches that can’t be worked from outside. No way, either, of getting in at the windows. Tenth-story apartment, and the windows look straight down to the ground, no balconies or anything like that. Unless an aryoplane let off its passengers, nobody could get in the windows. Well, then, we have those three people shut up alone there all night. In the morning one of ’em is dead—poisoned. What’s the answer?”
He stared at Eunice as he talked. It was quite evident he meant to frighten her—almost to accuse her.
But with her strange contradictoriness, she smiled at him.
“You have stated a problem, Mr. Shane, to which there can be no answer. Therefore, that is not the problem that confronts us.”
“Fine talk—fine talk, lady, but it won’t get you anywhere. To the unbiased, logical mind, the answer must be that it’s the work of the other two people.”
“Then yours is not a logical or unbiased mind,” Hendricks flared out, “and I object to your making implications. If you are making accusations, do so frankly, and let us know where we stand I If not, shut up!”
Shane merely looked at him, without resenting this speech. The detective appeared to be marking time as he awaited the return of his partner.
And Driscoll returned, shortly. His manner betokened success in his quest, whatever it may have been, and yet he looked distressed, too.
“It’s a queer thing,” he said, half to himself, as he fell into a chair Shane pushed toward him. “Mrs, Embury, do you keep an engagement book?”
“Why, yes,” replied Eunice, amazed at the question put to her.
“Let me see it, please.”
Eunice went for it, and, returning, handed the detective a finely bound volume.
Hastily he ran over the dates, looking at notes of parties, concerts and theatres she had attended recently. At last, he gave a start, read over one entry carefully, and closed the book.
Abruptly, then, he went back to Embury’s room, asking Dr. Crowell to go with him.
When they reappeared, it was plain to be seen the mystery was solved.
“There is no doubt,” said the Medical Examiner, “that Sanford Embury met his death by foul play. The means used was the administering of poison—through the ear!”
“Through the ear!” repeated Elliott, as one who failed to grasp the sense of the words.
“Yes; it is a most unusual, almost a unique case, but it is proved beyond a doubt. The poison was inserted in Mr. Embury’s ear, by means—”
He paused, and Driscoll held up to view a small, ordinary glass medicine dropper, with a rubber bulb top. In it still remained a portion of a colorless liquid.
“By means of this,” Driscoll declared. “This fluid is henbane—that is the commercial name of it—known to the profession, however, as hyoscyamus or hyoscyamine. This little implement, I found, in the medicine chest in Miss Ames’ bathroom.”
“No! no!” screamed Aunt Abby. “I never saw it before!”
“I don’t think you did,” said Driscoll, quietly. “But here is a side light on the subject. This henbane was used, in this very manner, we are told, in Shakespeare’s works, by Hamlet’s uncle, when he poisoned Hamlet’s father. He used, the play says, distilled hebenon, supposed to be another form of the word henbane. And this is what is, perhaps, important: Mrs, Embury’s engagement book shows that about a week ago she attended the play of Hamlet. The suggestion there received—the presence of this dropper, still containing the stuff, the finding of traces of henbane in the ear of the dead man—seem to lead to a conclusion—”
“The only possible conclusion! It’s an open-and-shut case!” cried Shane, rising, and striding toward Eunice. “Mrs, Embury, I arrest you for the wilful murder of your husband!”
CHAPTER X. A CONFESSION
“Don’t you dare touch me!” Eunice Embury cried, stepping back from the advancing figure of the burly detective. “Go out of my house—Ferdinand, put this person out!”
The butler appeared in the doorway, but Shane waved a dismissing hand at him.
“No use blustering, Mrs, Embury,” he said, gruffly, but not rudely. “You’d better come along quietly, than to make such a fuss.”
“I shall make whatever fuss I choose—and I shall not ‘come along,’ quietly or any other way! I am not intimidated by your absurd accusations, and I command you once more to leave my house, or I will have you thrown out!”
Eunice’s eyes blazed with anger, her voice was not loud, but was tense with concentrated rage, and she stood, one hand clenching a chair-back while with the other she pointed toward the door.
“Be quiet, Eunice,” said Mason Elliott, coming toward her; “you can’t dismiss an officer of the law like that. But you can demand an explanation. I think, Shane, you are going too fast. You haven’t evidence enough against Mrs, Embury to think of arrest! Explain yourself!”
“No explanation necessary. She killed her husband, and she’s my prisoner.”
“Hush up, Shane; let me talk,” interrupted Driscoll, whose calmer tones carried more authority than those of his rough partner.
“It’s this way, Mr. Elliott. I’m a detective, and I saw at once, that if the doctors couldn’t find the cause of Mr. Embury’s death, it must be a most unusual cause. So I hunted for some clue or some bit of evidence pointing to the manner of his death. Well, when I spied that little medicine dropper, half full of something, I didn’t know what, but—” Here he paused impressively. “But there was no bottle or vial of anything in the cupboard, from which it could have been taken. There was no fluid in there that looked a bit like the stuff in the dropper. So I thought that looked suspicious—as if some one had hidden it there. I didn’t see the whole game then, but I went around to a druggist’s and asked him what was in that dropper. And he said henbane. He further explained that henbane is the common name for hyoscyamin, which is a deadly poison. Now, the doctors were pretty sure that Mr. Embury had not been killed by anything taken into the stomach, so I thought a minute, and, like a flash, I remembered the play of ‘Hamlet’ that I saw last week.
“I guess everybody in New York went to see it—the house was crowded. Anyway, I’ve proved by Mrs, Embury’s engagement book that she went—one afternoon, to a ma
tinee—and what closer or more indicative hint do you want? In that play, the murder is fully described, and though many people might think poison could not be introduced through the intact ear in sufficient quantity to be fatal, yet it can be—and I read an article lately in a prominent medical journal saying so. I was interested, because of the Hamlet play. If I hadn’t seen that, I’d never thought of this whole business. But, if I’m wrong, let Mrs, Embury explain the presence of that dropper in her medicine chest.”
“I don’t know anything about the thing! I never saw or heard of it before! I don’t believe you found it where you say you did!” Eunice faced him with an accusing look. “You put it there yourself—it’s what you call a frame-up! I know nothing of your old dropper!”
“There, there, lady,” Shane put in; “don’t get excited—it only counts against you. Mr. Driscoll, here, wouldn’t have no reason to do such a thing as you speak of! Why would he do that, now?”
“But he must have done it,” broke in Miss Ames. “For I use that bathroom of Eunice’s and that thing hasn’t been in it, since I’ve been here.”
“Of course not,” and Shane looked at her as at a foolish child; “why should it be? The lady used it, and then put it away.”
“Hold on, there, Shane,” Hendricks interrupted. “Why would any one do such a positively incriminating thing as that?”
“They always slip up somewhere,” said Driscoll, “after committing a crime, your criminal is bound to do something careless, that gives it all away. Mrs, Embury, how did that dropper get in that medicine chest in your bathroom?”
“I scorn to answer!” The cold tones showed no fear, no trepidation, but Eunice’s white fingers interlaced themselves in a nervous fashion.
“Do you know anything about it, Miss Ames?”
“N—no,” stammered Aunt Abby, trembling, as she looked now at the detectives and then at Eunice.
“Well, it couldn’t have put itself there,” went on Driscoll. “Who else has access to that place?”
Eunice gave no heed to this speech. She gave no heed to the speaker, but stared at him, unseeingly, her gaze seeming to go straight through him.
“Why, the maid,” said Aunt Abby, with a helpless glance toward Elliott and Hendricks, as if beseeching assistance.
“The servants must be considered,” said Hendricks, catching at a straw. “They may know something that will help.”
“Call the maid,” said Shane, briefly, and, as neither of the women obeyed, he turned to Ferdinand, who hovered in the background, and thundered: “Bring her in—you!”
Maggie appeared, shaken and frightened, but when questioned, she answered calmly and positively.
“I put that dropper in the medicine closet,” she said, and every one looked toward her.
“Where did you get it?” asked Shane.
“I found it—on the floor.”
“On the floor? Where?”
“Beside Miss Ames’ bed.” The girl’s eyes were cast down; she looked at nobody, but gave her answers in a dull, sing-song way, almost as if she had rehearsed them before.
“When?”
“This morning—when I made up her room.”
“Had you ever seen it before?”
“No, sir.”
“Why did you think it belonged to Miss Ames?”
“I didn’t think anything about it. I found it there, and I supposed it belonged to Miss Ames, and I put it away.”
“Why did you put it in the medicine chest?”
The girl looked up, surprised.
“That seemed to me the proper place for it. Whenever I find a bottle of camphor or a jar of cold cream—or anything like that—I always put it in the medicine chest. That’s where such things belong. So I thought it was the right place for the little dropper. Did I do wrong?”
“No, Maggie,” Driscoll said, kindly, “that was all right. Now tell us exactly where you found it.”
“I did tell you. On the floor, just beside Miss Ames’ bed. Near the head of the bed.”
“Well, Miss Ames—I guess it’s up to you. What were you doing with this thing?”
“I didn’t have it at all! I never saw it before!”
“Come, come, that won’t do! How could it get there?”
“I don’t know, but I didn’t put it there.” The old lady trembled pitifully, and looked from one to another for help or guidance.
“Of course, she didn’t!” cried Eunice. “You sha’n’t torment my aunt! Cease questioning her! Talk to me if you choose—and as you choose—but leave Miss Ames alone!”
She faced her inquisitors defiantly, and even Shane quailed a little before her scornful eyes.
“Well, ma’am, as you see, I ain’t got much choice in the matter. Here’s the case. You and your aunt and Mr. Embury was shut in those three rooms. Nobody else could get in. Come morning, the gentleman is dead—murdered. One of you two done it. It’s for us to find out which—unless the guilty party sees fit to confess.”
“I do! I confess!” cried Aunt Abby. “I did it, and I’m willing to go to prison!” She was clearly hysterical, and though her words were positive, they by no means carried conviction.
“Now, that’s all bosh,” declared Shane. “You’re sayin’ that, ma’am, to shield your niece. You know she’s the murderer and—”
Eunice flew at Shane like a wild thing. She grasped his arm and whirled him around toward her as she glared into his face, quivering with indignation.
“Coward!” she flung at him. “To attack two helpless women—to accuse me—me, of crime! Why, I could kill yon: where you stand—for such an insinuation!”
“Say, you’re some tiger!” Shane exclaimed, in a sort of grudging admiration. “But better be careful of your words, ma’am! If you could kill me—ah, there!”
The last exclamation was brought forth by the sudden attack of Eunice, as she shook the big man so violently that he nearly lost his balance.
“Say, you wildcat! Be careful what you do! You are a tiger!”
“Yes,” Aunt Abby giggled, nervously. “Mr. Embury always called her ‘Tiger’.”
“I don’t wonder!” and Shane stared at Eunice, who had stepped back but who still stood, like a wild animal at bay, her eyes darting angry fire.
“Now, Mrs, Embury, let’s get down to business. Who’s your lawyer?
“I am,” declared Alvord Hendricks. “I am her counsel. I represent Mrs, Embury. Eunice, say nothing more. Leave it to me. And, first, Shane, you haven’t enough evidence to arrest this lady. That dropper thing is no positive information against her. It might be the work of the servants—or some intruder. The story of that housemaid is not necessarily law and gospel. Remember, you’d get in pretty bad if you were to arrest Mrs, Sanford Embury falsely! And my influence with your superiors is not entirely negligible. You’re doing your duty, all right, but don’t overstep your authority—or, rather, don’t let your desire to make a sensational arrest cloud your judgment.”
“That’s what I think, Mr. Hendricks,” said Driscoll, earnestly; “we’ve found the method, but I’m by no means sure we’ve found the criminal. Leastways, it don’t look sure to me. Eh, Shane?”
“Clear enough to me,” the big man growled; but he was quite evidently influenced by Hendricks’ words. “However, I’m willing to wait—but we must put Mrs, Embury under surveillance—”
“Under what!” demanded Eunice, her beautiful face again contorted by uncontrollable anger. “I will not be watched or spied upon!”
“Hush, Eunice,” begged Elliott. “Try to keep yourself calm. It does no good to defy these men—they are not really acting on their own initiative, but they are merely carrying out their duty as they see it.”
“Their duty is to find out who killed my husband!” and Eunice gave Shane another stormy glare. “They cannot do that by accusing two innocent women!”
“If you two women can be proved innocent, nobody will be more glad than me,” Shane announced, in a hearty way, that w
as really generous after Eunice’s treatment of him. “But it beats me to see how it can be proved. You admit, ma’am, nobody could get into Mr. Embury’s room, except you and Miss Ames, don’t you?”
“I don’t admit that at all, for the murderer did get in—and did commit the murder—therefore, there must be some means of access!”
“Oho! And just how can you suggest that an intruder got in, and got out again, and left those doors fastened on the inside?”
“That I don’t know—nor is it my business to find out.”
“Maybe you think a flyin’ machine came at the window, ma’am! For nothin’ else could negotiate a ten-story apartment.”
“Don’t talk nonsense! But I have heard of keys that unlock doors from the outside—skeleton keys, I think they are called.”
“Yes, ma’am, there are such, sure! But they’re keys—and they unlock doors. These doors of yours have strong brass catches that work only on the inside, snap-bolts, they are. And when they’re fastened, nothing from the other side of the door could undo ’em. But, I say—here you, Ferdinand!”
The butler came forward, his face surprised rather than alarmed, and stood at attention.
“What do you know of events here last night? “Shane asked him.
“Nothing, sir,” and Ferdinand’s face was blankly respectful.
“You’d better tell all you know, or you’ll get into trouble.”
“Could you—could you make your question a little more definite?”
“I will. When Mr. and Mrs. Embury came home last night, were they in good humor?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You do know! You know your employers well enough to judge by their manner whether they were at odds or not. Answer me, man!”
“Well, sir, they were, I should judge, a little at odds.”
“Oh, they were! In what way did they show it? By quarreling?”
“No, sir.”
“How, then?”
“By not saying anything. But it’s not uncommon for them to be at odds, sir—”
“Speak when you’re spoken to! After Mr. Embury went to his room, did you attend him?”
