by Marion Bryce
“Maybe.” Stone spoke preoccupiedly.
Mason Elliott, too, sat in deep thought. At last he said:
“Aunt Abby, if I were you, I wouldn’t tell that yarn to anybody else. Let’s all forget it, and call it merely a dream.”
“What do you mean, Mason? “The old lady bridled, having no wish to hear her marvelous experience belittled. “It wasn’t a dream—not an ordinary dream—it was a true appearance of Sanford, after his death. You know such things do happen—look at that son of Sir Oliver Lodge. You don’t doubt that, do you?”
“Never mind those things. But I earnestly beg of you, Aunt Abby, to forget the episode—or, at least, to promise me you’ll not repeat it to any one else.”
“Why?”
“I think it wiser for all concerned—for all concerned—that the tale shall not become public property.”
“But why?”
“Oh, my land!” burst out Fibsy; “don’t you see? The ghost was Mrs, Embury!”
The boy had put into words what was in the thoughts of both Stone and Elliott. They realized that, while Aunt Abby’s experience might have been entirely a dream, it was so circumstantial as to indicate a real occurrence, and in that case, what solution so plausible as that Eunice, after committing the crime, wandered into her aunt’s room, and whether purposely or accidentally, dropped the implement of death?
Stone, bent on investigation, plied Miss Ames with questions.
Elliott, sorely afraid for Eunice, begged the old lady not to answer.
“You are inventing!” he cried. “You are drawing on your imagination! Don’t believe all that, Mr. Stone. It isn’t fair to—to Mrs, Embury!”
“Then you see it as I do, Mr. Elliott?” and Stone turned to him quickly. “But, even so, we must look into this story. Suppose, as an experiment, we build up a case against Mrs, Embury, for the purpose of knocking it down again. A man of straw—you know.”
“Don’t,” pleaded Elliott. “Just forget the rigmarole of the nocturnal vision—and devote your energies to finding the real murderer. I have a theory—”
“Wait, Mr. Elliott, I fear you are an interested investigator. Don’t forget that you have been mentioned as one of those with ‘motive but no opportunity.’”
“Since you have raised that issue, Mr. Stone, let me say right here that my regard for Mrs, Embury is very great. It is also honorable and lifelong. I make no secret of it, but I declare to you that its very purity and intensity puts it far above and beyond any suspicion of being ‘motive’ for the murder of Mrs, Embury’s husband.”
Mason Elliott looked Fleming Stone straight in the eye and the speaker’s tone and expression carried a strong conviction of sincerity.
Fibsy, too, scrutinized Elliott.
“Good egg!” he observed to himself; “trouble is—he’d give us that same song and dance if he’d croaked the guy his own self!”
“Furthermore,” Stone went on, “Mrs, Embury shows a peculiarly strong repugnance to hearing this story of Miss Ames’ experience. That looks—”
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” cried Miss Ames, who had been listening in amazement; “it wasn’t Eunice! Why would she rig up in Sanford’s gym jersey?”
“Why wouldn’t she?” countered Stone. “As I said, we’re building up a supposititious case. Assume that it was Mrs, Embury, not at all enacting a ghost, but merely wandering around after her impulsive deed—for if she is the guilty party it must have been an impulsive deed. You know her uncontrollable temper—her sudden spasms of rage—”
“Mr. Stone, a ‘man of straw,’ as you call it, is much more easily built up than knocked down.” Elliott spoke sternly. “I hold you have no right to assume Mrs, Embury’s identity in this story Miss Ames tells.”
“Is there anything that points to her in your discernment by your five senses, Miss Ames?” Stone asked, very gravely. “Has Mrs, Embury a faintly ticking watch?”
“Yes, her wrist-watch,” Aunt Abby answered, though speaking evidently against her will.
“And it is possible that she slipped on her husband’s jersey; and it is possible there was raspberry jam on the sleeve of it. You see, I am not doubting the evidence of your senses. Now, as to the gasoline. Had Mrs, Embury, or her maid, by any chance, been cleaning any laces or finery with gasoline?”
“I won’t tell you!” and Aunt Abby shook her head so obstinately that it was quite equivalent to an affirmative answer!
“Now, you see, Aunt Abby,” protested Elliott, in an agonized voice, “why I want you to shut up about that confounded ‘vision’! You are responsible for this case Mr. Stone is so ingeniously building up against Eunice! You are getting her into a desperate coil, from which it will be difficult to extricate her! If Shane got hold of this absurd yarn—”
“It’s not entirely absurd,” broke in Stone, “but I agree with you, Mr. Elliott; if Shane learns of it—he won’t investigate any further!”
“He shan’t know of it,” was the angry retort. “I got you here, Mr. Stone—”
“To discover the truth, or to free Mrs, Embury?”
There was a pause, and the two men looked at each other. Then Mason Elliott said, in a low voice, “To free Mrs, Embury.”
“I can’t take the case that way,” Stone replied. “I will abandon the whole affair, or—I will find out the truth.”
“Abandon it!” cried a ringing voice, and the door of her bedroom was flung open as Eunice again appeared.
She was in a towering fury, her face was white and her lips compressed to a straight scarlet line.
“Give up the case! I will take my chances with any judge or jury rather than with you!” She faced Stone like the “Tiger” her husband had nicknamed her. “I have heard every word—Aunt Abby’s story—and your conclusions! Your despicable ‘deductions,’ as I suppose you call them! I’ve had enough of the ‘celebrated detective’! Quite enough of Fleming Stone—and his work!”
She stepped back and gazed at him with utter scorn beautiful as a sculptured Medea, haughty as a tragedy queen.
“Independent as a pig on ice!” Fibsy communicated with himself, and he stared at her with undisguised admiration.
“Eunice,” and the pain in Mason Elliott’s voice was noticeable; “Eunice, dear, don’t do yourself such injustice.”
“Why not? When everybody is unjust to me! You, Mason, you and this—this infallible detective sit here and deliberately build up what you call a ‘case’ against me—me, Eunice Embury! Oh—I hate you all!”
A veritable figure of hate incarnate, she stood, her white hands clasping each other tightly, as they hung against her black gown. Her head held high, her whole attitude fiercely defiant, she flung out her words with a bitterness that betokened the end of her endurance—the limit of her patience.
Then her hands fell apart, her whole body drooped, and sinking down on the wide sofa, she sat, hopelessly facing them, but with head erect and the air of one vanquished but very much unsubdued.
“Take that back, Eunice,” Elliott spoke passionately, and quite as if there were no others present; “you do not hate me—I am here to help you!”
“You can’t, Mason; no one can help me. No one can protect me from Fleming Stone!”
The name was uttered with such scorn as to seem an invective of itself!
Stone betrayed no annoyance at her attitude toward him, but rather seemed impressed with her personality. He gave her a glance that was not untinged with admiration, but he made no defence.
“I can,” cried Fibsy, who was utterly routed by Eunice’s imperious beauty. “You go ahead with Mr. F. Stone, ma’am, and I’ll see to it that they ain’t no injustice done to you!”
Stone looked at his excited young assistant with surprise, and then good-naturedly contented himself with a shake of his head, and a
“Careful, Terence.”
“Yes, sir—but, oh, Mr. Stone—” and then, at a gesture from the great detective the boy paused, abashed, and remained silent.
&nb
sp; “Now, Miss Ames,” Stone began, “in Mrs, Embury’s presence, I’ll ask you—”
“You won’t ask me anything, sir,” she returned crisply. “I’m going out. I’ve a very important errand to do.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Elliott said; “it’s almost six o’clock, Aunt Abby. Where are you going?”
“I’ve got an errand—a very important errand—an appointment, in fact. I must go—don’t you dare oppose me, Mason. You’ll be sorry if you do!”
Even as she spoke, the old lady was scurrying to her room, from which she returned shortly, garbed for the street.
“All right,” Stone said, in reply to a whisper from Fibsy, and the boy offered, respectfully:
“Let me go with you, Miss Ames. It ain’t fittin’ you should go alone. It’s ’most dark.”
“Come on, boy,” Aunt Abby regarded him kindly; “I’d be glad of your company.”
At the street door, the old lady asked for a taxicab, and the strangely assorted pair were soon on their way.
“You’re a bright lad, Fibsy,” she said; “by the way, what’s your real name—I forget.”
“Terence, ma’am; Terence McGuire. I wish’t I was old enough to be called McGuire! I’d like that.”
“I’ll call you that, if you wish. You’re old for your age, I’m sure. How old are you?”
“Goin’ on about fifteen or sixteen—I think. I sort’a forget.”
“Nonsense! You can’t forget your age! Why do they call you Fibsy?”
“’Cause I’m a born liar—’scuse me—a congenital prevaricator, I meant to say. You see, ma’am, it’s necessary in my business not always to employ the plain unvarnished. But don’t be alarmed, ma’am; when I take a fancy to anybuddy, as I have to you, ma’am, I don’t never lie to ’em. Not that I s’pose you’d care, eh, ma’am?”
Aunt Abby laughed. “You are a queer lad! Why, I’m not sure I’d care, if it didn’t affect me in any way. I’m not responsible for your truthfulness—though I don’t mind advising you that you ought to be a truthful boy.”
“Land, ma’am! Don’t you s’pose I know that? But, honest now, are you always just exactly, abserlutely truthful, yourself?”
“Certainly I am! What do you mean by speaking to me like that?”
“Well, don’t you ever touch up a yarn a little jest sort’a to make it more interestin’ like? Most ladies do—that is, most ladies of intelligence and brains—which you sure have got in plenty!”
“There, there, boy; I’m afraid I’ve humored you too much you’re presuming.”
“I presume I am. But one question more, while we’re on this absorbin’ subject. Didn’t you, now, just add a jot or a tittle to that ghost story you put over? Was it every bit on the dead level?”
“Yes, child,” Aunt Abby took his question seriously; “it was every word true. I didn’t make up the least word of it!”
“I believe you, ma’am, and I congratulate you on your clarviant powers. Now, about that raspberry jam, ma’am. That’s a mighty unmistakable taste—ain’t it, now.”
“It is, McGuire. It certainly is. And I tasted it, just as surely as I’m here telling you about it.”
“Have you had it for supper lately, ma’am?”
“No; Eunice hasn’t had it on her table since I’ve been visiting her.”
“Is that so, ma’am?”
CHAPTER XV. MARIGNY THE MEDIUM
The journey ended at the rooms of Marigny, the psychic recommended by Willy Hanlon.
As Fibsy, his bright eyes wide with wonder, found himself in the unmistakable surroundings of dingy draperies, a curtained cabinet and an odor of burning incense, he exclaimed to himself, “Gee! a clairviant! Now for some fun!”
Aunt Abby, apparently aware of the proprieties of the occasion, seated herself, and waited patiently.
At a gesture from her, Fibsy obediently took a seat near her, and waited quietly, too.
Soon the psychic entered. He was robed in a long, black garment, and wore a heavy, white turban, swathed in folds. His face was olive-colored—what was visible of it for his beard was white and flowing, and a heavy drooping moustache fell over his lips. Locks of white hair showed from the turban’s edge, and a pair of big, rubber-rimmed glasses of an amber tint partially hid his eyes.
The whole make-up was false, it was clear to be seen, but a psychic has a right to disguise himself, if he choose.
Fibsy gave Marigny one quick glance and then the boy assumed an expression of face quite different from his usual one. He managed to look positively vacant-minded. His eyes became lack-luster, his mouth, slightly open, looked almost imbecile, and his roving glance betokened no interest whatever in the proceedings.
“Mr. Marigny?” said Miss Ames, eagerly anxious for the séance to begin.
“Yes, madam. You are three minutes late!”
“I couldn’t help it—the traffic is very heavy at this hour.”
“And you should have come alone. I cannot concentrate with an alien influence in the room.”
“Oh, the boy isn’t an alien influence. He’s a little friend of mine—he’ll do no harm.”
“I’ll go out, if you say, mister,” Fibsy turned his indifferent gaze on the clairvoyant.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” spoke up Miss Ames. “I’m accustomed to séances, Mr. Marigny, and if you’re all right—as I was told you were—a child’s presence won’t interfere.”
Evidently the psychic saw he had no novice to deal with, and he accepted the situation.
“What do you want to know? “he asked his client.
“Who killed Sanford Embury—or, did he kill himself.” I want you to get into communication with his spirit and find out from him. But I don’t want any make-believe. If you can’t succeed, that’s all right—I’ll pay your fee just the same. But no poppycock.”
“That’s the way to look at it, madam. I will go into the silence, and I will give you only such information as I get myself.”
The man leaned back in his chair, and gradually seemed to enter a hypnotic state. His muscles relaxed, his face became still and set, and his breathing was slow and a little labored.
Fibsy retained his vacuous look he even fidgeted a little, in a bored way—and rarely glanced toward the man of “clear sight.”
Miss Ames, though anxious for results, was alert and quite on her guard against fraud. Experienced in fake mediums, she believed Willy Hanlon’s assertion that this man was one of the few genuine mystics, but she proposed to judge for herself.
At last Marigny spoke. His voice was low, his tones monotonous and uninflected.
“Aunt Abby—Aunt Westminster Abbey” the words came slowly.
Miss Ames gave a startled jump. Her face blanched and she trembled as she clutched Fibsy’s arm.
“That’s what Sanford used to call me!” she whispered. “Can it really be his spirit talking to me through the medium!”
“Don’t worry,” the voice went on, “don’t grieve for me—it’s all right—let it go that I took my own life—”
“But did you, Sanford—did you? “Miss Ames implored.
“It would be better you should never know.”
“I must know. I’ve got to know! Tell me, Sanford. It wasn’t Eunice?
“No—it wasn’t Eunice.”
“Was it—oh, San—was it—I?”
“Yes, Aunt Abby—it was. But you were entirely irresponsible—you were asleep—hypnotized, perhaps—perhaps merely asleep.”
“Where did I get the stuff?”
“I think somebody hypnotized you and gave it to you—”
“When? Where?”
“I don’t know—it is vague—uncertain—But you put it in my ear—remember, Aunt Abby, I don’t blame you at all. And you must not tell this. You must let it go as suicide. That is the only way to save yourself—”
“But they suspect Eunice—”
“They’ll never convict her—nor would they convict you. Tell them yo
u got into communication with my spirit and I said it was suicide.”
“Ask him about the raspberry jam,” put in Fibsy, in a stage whisper.
“What!” the medium came out of his trance suddenly and glared at the boy.
“I told you I could do nothing if the child stayed here,” Marigny cried, evidently in a towering passion. “Put him out. Who is he? What is he talking about?”
“Nothing of importance. Keep still, McGuire. Can you get Mr. Embury’s spirit back, sir?”
“No, the communion is too greatly disturbed. Boy, what do you mean by raspberry jam?”
“Oh, nothin’,” and Fibsy wriggled bashfully. “You tell him, Miss Ames.”
It needed little encouragement to launch Aunt Abby on the story of her “vision” and she told it in full detail.
Marigny seemed interested, though a little impatient, and tried to hurry the recital.
“It was, without doubt, Embury’s spirit,” he said, as Aunt Abby finished; “but your imagination has exaggerated and elaborated the facts. For instance, I think the jam and the gasoline are added by your fancy, in order to fill out the full tale of your five senses.”
“That’s what I thought,” and Fibsy nodded his head. “Raspberry jam! Oh, gee!” he exploded in a burst of silly laughter.
Marigny looked at him with a new interest. The amber-colored glasses, turned toward the boy seemed to frighten him, and he began to whimper.
“I didn’t mean any harm,” he said, “but raspberry jam was so funny for a ghost to have on him!”
“It would have been,” assented Marigny, “but that, I feel sure, existed only in Miss Ames’ fancy. Her mind, upset by the vision, had strange hallucinations, and the jam was one—you know we often have grotesque dreams.”
“So we do,” agreed Fibsy; “why once I drempt that—”
“Excuse me, young sir, but I’ve no time to listen to your dreams. The séance is at an end, madam. Your companion probably cut it off prematurely—but perhaps not. Perhaps the communication was about over, anyway. Are you satisfied, Miss Ames?”
“Yes, Mr. Marigny. I know the appearance of Mr. Embury was a genuine visitation, for he called me by a peculiar name which no one else ever used, and which you could not possibly know about.”
