by Marion Bryce
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I say! You like me, you’ve always liked me. Now, stand by me, and I’ll stand by you.”
“How?”
“You think I can’t! Well, madame, you’re greatly mistaken! That big blundering fool of a detective person has been to see me—”
“Shane?”
“The same. And—he grilled me pretty thoroughly as to our going to see ‘Hamlet’ and whether we talked the poison scene over—and so forth and so on. In a word, Eunice Embury, I hold your life in my hands!”
Fifi held out her pretty little hands, dramatically. She still stood, her white fur scarf hanging from one shoulder, her small turban of red breast feathers cocked at a jaunty angle above her straight brows, and one tiny slippered foot tapping decidedly on the floor.
“Yes, ma’am, in my two hands,—me—Fifi! If I tell all we said about that poisoning of the old ‘Hamlet’ gentleman, through his ear—you know what we said, Eunice Embury—you know how we discussed the impossibility of such a murder ever being discovered—you know if I should give Shane a full account of that talk of ours—the life of Madame Embury wouldn’t be worth that!”
A snap of a dainty thumb and finger gave a sharp click that went straight through Eunice’s brain, and made her gasp out a frightened “Oh!”
“Yes, ma’am, oh! all you like to—you can’t deny it! Shane came to see me three times. I almost told him all the last time, for you steadily refused to see me—until to-day. And now, to-day, I put it to you, Eunice Embury, do you want me for friend—or foe?”
Fifi’s blue eyes glittered, her red lips closed in a tight line, and her little pointed face was as the face of a wicked sprite. Eunice stood, surveying her. Tall, stately, beautiful, she towered above her guest, and looked down on her with a fine disdain.
Eunice’s eyes were stormy, not glittering—desperate rather than defiant—she seemed almost like a fierce, powerful tiger appraising a small but very wily ferret.
“Is this a bargain?” she cried scathingly. “Are you offering to buy my friendship? I know you, Fifi Desternay! You are—a snake in the grass!”
Fifi clenched her little fists, drew her lips between her teeth, and fairly hissed, “Serpent, yourself! Murderess! I know all—and I shall tell all! You’ll regret the day you scorned the friendship—the help of Fifi Desternay!”
“I don’t want your help, at the price of friendship with you! I know you for what you are! My husband told me—others have told me! I did go to your house for the sake of winning money—yes, and I am ashamed of it! And I am ready to face any accusation, brave any suspicion, rather than be shielded from it, or helped out of it by you!”
“Fine words! but they mean nothing! You know you’re justly accused! You know you’re rightly suspected! But you are clever—you also know that no jury, in this enlightened age, will ever convict a woman! Especially a beautiful woman! You know you are safe from even the lightest sentence—and that though you are guilty—yes, guilty of the murder of your husband, you will get off scot free, because”—Fifi paused to give her last shot telling effect—“because your counsel, Alvord Hendricks, is in love with you! He will manage it, and what he can’t accomplish, Mason Elliott can! With those two influential men, both in love with you, you can’t be convicted—and probably you won’t even be arrested!”
“Go!” said Eunice, and she folded her arms as she gazed at her angry antagonist. “Go! I scorn to refute or even answer your words.”
“Because they’re true! Because there is no answer!” Fifi fairly screamed. “You think you’re a power! Because you’re tall and statuesque and stunning! You know if those men can’t keep you out of the court-room at least you are safe in the hands of any judge or jury, because they are men! You know if you smile at them—pathetically—if you cast those wonderful eyes of yours at them, they’ll grovel at your feet! I know you, Eunice Embury! You’re banking on your femininity to save you from your just fate.”
“You judge me by yourself, Fifi. You are a power among men, most women are, but I do not bank on that—”
“Not alone! You bank on the fact that either Hendricks or Elliott would go through hell for you, and count it an easy journey. You rest easy in the knowledge that those two men can do just about anything they set their minds to—”
“Will you go?”
“Yes, I will go. And when Mr. Shane comes to see me again, I will tell him the truth—all the truth about the’ Hamlet’ play—and—it will be enough!”
“Tell him!” Eunice’s eyes blazed now. “Tell him the truth—and add to it whatever lies your clever brain can invent! Do your worst Fifi Desternay; I am not afraid of you!”
“I am going, Eunice.” Fifi moved slowly toward the door. “I shall tell the truth, but I shall add no lies—that will not be necessary!”
She disappeared, and Eunice stood, panting with excitement and indignation.
Aunt Abby came toward her. The old lady had been a witness of the whole scene—had, indeed, tried several times to utter a word of pacification, but neither of the women had so much as noticed her.
“Go away, Auntie, please,” said Eunice. “I can’t talk to you. I’m expecting Mason at any time now, and I want to get calmed down a little.”
Miss Ames went to her room, and Eunice sat down on the davenport.
She sat upright, tensely quiet, and thought over all Fifi had said—all she had threatened.
“It would have been far better,” Eunice told herself, “for my cause if I had held her friendship. And I could have done it, easily—but—Fifi’s friendship would be worse than her enmity!”
When Mason Elliott came, Detective Driscoll was with him.
The net of the detectives was closing in around Eunice, and though both Elliott and Hendricks—as Fifi had truly surmised—were doing all in their power, the denouement was not far off—Eunice was in imminent danger of arrest at any moment.
“We’ve been talking about the will—Sanford’s will,” Elliott said, in a dreary tone, after the callers were seated, “and, Eunice, Mr. Driscoll chooses to think that the fact that San left practically everything to you, without any restraint in the way of trustees, or restriction of any sort, is another count against you.”
Eunice smiled bravely. “But that isn’t news,” she said; “we all knew that my husband made me his sole—or rather principal—beneficiary. I know the consensus of opinion is that I murdered my husband that I might have his money—and full control of it. This is no new element.”
“No;” said Driscoll, moved by the sight of the now patient, gentle face; “no; but we’ve added a few more facts—and look here, Mrs, Embury, it’s this way. I’ve doped it out that there are five persons who could possibly have committed this—this crime. I’ll speak plainly, for you have continually permitted me—even urged me to do so. Well, let us say Sanford Embury could have been killed by anyone of a certain five. And they size up like this: Mr. Elliott, here, and Mr. Alvord Hendricks may be said to have had motive but no opportunity.”
“Motive?” said Eunice, in a tone of deepest possible scorn.
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Elliott, now, is an admirer of yours—don’t look offended, please; I’m speaking very seriously. It is among the possibilities that he wanted your husband out of his way.”
Mason Elliott listened to this without any expression of annoyance. Indeed, he had heard this argument of Driscoll’s before, and it affected him not at all.
“But, Mrs, Embury, Mr. Elliott had no opportunity. We have learned beyond all doubt that he was at his club or at his home all that night. Next, Mr. Hendricks had a motive. The rival candidates were both eager for election, and we must call that a motive for Mr. Hendricks to be willing to remove his opponent. But again, Mr. Hendricks had no opportunity. He was in Boston from the afternoon of the day before Mr. Embury’s death until noon of the next day. That lets him out positively. Therefore, there are two with motives but no opportunity. Next, we must admit
there were two who had opportunity, but no motive. I refer to Ferdinand, your butler, and Miss Ames, your aunt. These two could have managed to commit the deed, had they chosen, but we can find no motive to attribute to either of them. It has been suggested that Miss Ames might have had such a desire to rid you, Mrs. Embury, of a tyrannical husband, that she was guilty. But it is so highly improbable as to be almost unbelievable.
“Therefore, as I sum it up, the two who had motive without opportunity, and the two who had opportunity without motive, must all be disregarded, because of the one who had motive and opportunity both. Yourself, Mrs. Embury.”
The arraignment was complete. Driscoll’s quiet, even tones carried a sort of calm conviction.
“And so, Eunice,” Mason Elliott spoke up, “I’m going to try one more chance. I’ve persuaded Mr. Driscoll to wait a day or two before progressing any further, and let me get Fleming Stone on this case.”
“Very well,” said Eunice, listlessly. “Who is he?”
“A celebrated detective. Mr. Driscoll makes no objection—which goes to prove what a good detective he is himself. His partner, Mr. Shane, is not so willing, but has grudgingly consented. In fact, they couldn’t help themselves, for they are not quite sure that they have enough evidence to arrest you. Shane thinks that Stone will find out more, and so strengthen the case against you but Driscoll, bless him! thinks maybe Stone can find another suspect.”
“I didn’t exactly say I thought that, Mr. Elliott,” said Driscoll. “I said I hoped it.”
“We all hope it,” returned Elliott.
“Hope while you may,” and Driscoll sighed. “Fleming Stone has never failed to find the criminal yet. And if his findings verify mine, I shall be glad to put the responsibility on his shoulders.”
CHAPTER XIII. FLEMING STONE
One of the handsomest types of American manhood is that rather frequently seen combination of iron-gray hair and dark, deep-set eyes that look out from under heavy brows with a keen, comprehensive glance.
This type of man is always a thinker, usually a professional man, and almost invariably a man of able brain. He is nearly always well-formed, physically, and of good carriage and demeanor.
At any rate, Fleming Stone was all of these things, and when he came into the Embury living-room his appearance was in such contrast to that of the other two detectives that Eunice greeted him with a pleased smile.
Neither Shane nor Driscoll was present, and Mason Elliott introduced Stone to the two ladies, with a deep and fervent hope that the great detective could free Eunice from the cloud of danger and disgrace that hovered above her head.
His magnetic smile was so attractive that Aunt Abby nodded her head in complete approval of the newcomer.
“And now tell me all about everything,” Stone said, as they seated themselves in a cozy group. “I know the newspaper facts, but that’s all. I must do my work quite apart from the beaten track, and I want any sidelights or bits of information that your local detectives may have overlooked and which may help us.”
“You don’t think Eunice did it, do you, Mr. Stone?” Aunt Abby broke out, impulsively, quite forgetting the man was a comparative stranger.
“I am going to work on the theory that she did not,” he declared. “Then we will see what we can scare up in the way of evidence against some one else. First, give me a good look at those doors that shut off the bedrooms.”
With a grave face, Fleming Stone studied the doors, which, as he saw, when bolted on the inside left no means of access to the three rooms in which the family had slept.
“Except the windows,” Stone mused, and went to look at them. As they all had window boxes, save one in Aunt Abby’s room, and as that was about a hundred feet from the ground, he dismissed the possibility of an intruder.
“Nobody could climb over the plants without breaking them,” said Eunice, with a sigh at the inevitable deduction.
Stone looked closely at the plants, kept in perfect order by Aunt Abby, who loved the work, and who tended them every day. Not a leaf was crushed, not a stem broken, and the scarlet geranium blossoms stood straight up like so many mute witnesses against any burglarious entrance.
Stone returned to Aunt Abby’s side window, and leaning over the sill looked out and down to the street below.
“Couldn’t be reached even by firemen’s ladders,” he said, “and, anyway, the police would have spotted any ladder work.”
“I tried to think some one came in at that window,” said Elliott, “but even so, nobody could go through Miss Ames’ room, and then Mrs, Embury’s room, and so on to Mr. Embury’s room—do his deadly work—and return again, without waking the ladies—”
“Not only that, but how could he get in the window?” said Eunice. “There’s no possible way of climbing across from the next apartment—oh, I’m honest with myself,” she added, as Stone looked at her curiously. “I don’t deceive myself by thinking impossibilities could happen. But somebody killed my husband, and—according to the detectives—I am the only one who had both motive and opportunity!”
“Had you a motive, Mrs Embury?” Stone asked, quietly.
Eunice stared at him. “They say so,” she replied. “They say I was unhappy with him.”
“And were you?” The very directness of Stone’s pertinent questions seemed to compel Eunice’s truthful answers, and she said:
“Of course I was! But that—”
“Eunice, hush!” broke in Elliott, with a pained look. “Don’t say such things, dear, it can do no good, and may injure your case.”
“Not with me,” Stone declared. “My work has led me rather intimately into people’s lives, and I am willing to go on record as saying that fifty per cent of marriages are unhappy—more or less. Whether that is a motive for murder depends entirely on the temper and temperament of the married ones themselves. But—it is very rarely that a wife kills her husband.”
“Why, there are lots of cases in the papers,” said Miss Ames. “And never are the women convicted, either!”
“Oh, not lots of cases,” objected Stone, “but the few that do occur are usually tragic and dramatic and fill a front page for a few days. Now, let’s sift down this remarkably definite statement of ‘motives and opportunities’ that your eminent detectives have catalogued. I’m told that they’ve two people with motive and no opportunity; two more with opportunity and no motive; and one—Mrs, Embury—who fulfills both requirements! Quite an elaborate schedule, to be sure!”
Eunice looked at him with a glimmer of hope. Surely a man who talked like that didn’t place implicit reliance on the schedule in question.
“And yet,” Stone went on, “it is certainly true. A motive is a queer thing—an elusive, uncertain thing. They say—I have this from the detectives themselves-that Mr. Hendricks and Mr. Elliott both had the motive of deep affection for Mrs, Embury. Please don’t be offended, I am speaking quite impersonally, now. Mr. Hendricks, I am advised, also had a strong motive in a desire to remove a rival candidate for an important election. But—neither of these gentlemen had opportunity, as each has proven a perfect and indubitable alibi. I admit the alibis—I’ve looked into them, and they are unimpeachable—but I don’t admit the motives. Granting a man’s affection for a married woman, it is not at all a likely thing for him to kill her husband.”
“Right, Mr. Stone!” and Mason Elliott’s voice rang out in honest appreciation.
“Again, it is absurd to suspect one election candidate of killing another. It isn’t done—and one very good reason is, that if the criminal should be discovered, he has small chance for the election he coveted. And there is always a chance—and a strong one—that ‘murder will out!’ So, personally, I admit I don’t subscribe entirely to the cut-and-dried program of my esteemed colleagues. Now, as to these two people with opportunity but no motive. They are, I’m told, Miss Ames and the butler. Very well, I grant their opportunity—but since they are alleged to have no motive, why consider them at all? This b
rings us to Mrs, Embury.”
Eunice was watching the speaker, fascinated. She had never met a man like this before. Though Stone’s manner was by no means flippant, he seemed to take a light view of some aspects of the case. But now, he looked at Eunice very earnestly.
“I am informed,” he went on, slowly, “that you have an ungovernable temper, Mrs, Embury.”
“Nothing of the sort!” Eunice cried, tossing her head defiantly and turning angry eyes on the bland detective. “I am supposed to be unable to control myself, but it is not true! As a child I gave way to fits of temper, I acknowledge, but I have overcome that tendency, and I am no more hot-tempered now than other people!”
As always, when roused, Eunice looked strikingly beautiful, her eyes shone and her cheeks showed a crimson flush. She drew herself up haughtily, and clenching her hands on the back of a chair, as she stood facing Stone, she said, “If you have come here to browbeat me—to discuss my personal characteristics, you may go! I’ve no intention of being brought to book by a detective!”
“Why, Eunice, don’t talk that way,” begged Aunt Abby. “I’m sure Mr. Stone is trying to get you freed from the awful thing that is hanging over you!”
“There’s no awful thing hanging over me! I don’t know what you mean, Aunt Abby! There can’t be anything worse than to have a stranger come in here and remark on my unfortunate weakness in sometimes giving way to my sense of righteous indignation! I resent it! I won’t have it! Mason, you brought Mr. Stone here—now take him away!”
“There, there, Eunice, you are not quite yourself, and I don’t wonder. This scene is too much for you. I’m sure you will make allowance, Mr. Stone, for Mrs, Embury’s overwrought nerves—”
“Of course,” and Fleming Stone spoke coldly, without sympathy or even apparent interest. “Let Mrs, Embury retire to her room, if she wishes.”
They had all returned to the big living-room, and Stone stood near a front window, now and then glancing out to the trees in Park Avenue below.
“I don’t want to retire to my room!” Eunice cried. “I don’t want to be set aside as if I were a child! I did want Mr. Stone to investigate this whole matter, but I don’t now—I’ve changed my mind! Mason, tell him to go away!”
