by Marion Bryce
“Poor old Fibs, that was an experience! Looks like the Hanlon person is one to be reckoned with. But it doesn’t prove him mixed up in the murder mystery in any way.”
“No, sir, it don’t. It’s only made me sore on him—and sore on my own account, too!” Fibsy grinned ruefully. “Me feet’s that blistered—and I’m lame all over!”
“Poor boy! You see, he’s a sprinter from ’way back. His stunts on that newspaper work prove he can take long walks without turning a hair.”
“Yes, but its croolty to animiles to drag a young feller like me along, too. I’ve got his number. Just you wait, Cele! Remember, Mr. Stone, he played spook-catcher to Miss Ames. That means something, sir.”
“It does, indeed. This is a great old case, Fibsy. Are you getting a line on it?”
“I think so, sir,” and the lad looked very earnest. “Are you?”
“A strange one. But, yet, a line. To-day, Fibs, I want you to interview that Mrs, Desternay. You can do it better than I, jolly her along, and find out if she’s fried or foe of Mrs, Embury.”
“Yessir. An’ kin I do a little sleuthin’ on my own?”
“What sort?”
“Legitermit—I do assure you, sir.”
When Fibsy assumed this deeply earnest air, Stone knew some clever dodge was in his mind, and he found it usually turned out well, so he said, “Go ahead, my boy; I trust you.”
“Thank yer,” and Fibsy devoted himself to the remainder of his breakfast, while Stone read the morning paper.
An hour later Terence McGuire presented himself at the Embury home and asked for Miss Ames.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, as he smiled brightly at her. “Howlja like to join me in a bit of investergation that’ll proberly end up in a s’lution of the mystery?”
“I’d like it first rate,” replied Miss Ames, with enthusiasm. “When do we begin?”
“Immejitly. Where’s Mis’ Embury?”
“In her room.”
“No use a-disturbin’ her, but I want’a see the jersey—the gymnasium jersey your ghost wore.”
Aunt Abby looked disappointed. She had hoped for something more exciting.
But she said, “I’ll get it,” and went at once to Sanford Embury’s room.
“Thank you,” said Fibsy, as he took it. But his eager scrutiny failed to disclose any trace of jam on its sleeves.
“Which arm did you bite?” he asked, briefly.
“I didn’t really bite at all,” Miss Ames returned. “I sort of made a snap at him—it was more a nervous gesture than an intelligent action. And I just caught a bit of the worsted sleeve between my lips for an instant—it was, let me see—it must have been the left arm—”
“Well, we’ll examine both sleeves—and I regret to state, ma’am, there’s no sign of sticky stuff. This is a fine specimen of a jersey—I never saw a handsomer one—but there’s no stain on it, and never has been.”
“Nor has it ever been cleaned with gasoline,” mused Miss Ames, “and yet, McGuire, nothing, to my dying day, can ever convince me that I am mistaken on those two subjects. I’m just as sure as I can be.”
“I’m sure, too. Listen here, Miss Ames. There’s a great little old revelation due in about a: day or so, and I wish you’d lay low. Will you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, don’t do or say much about the affair. Let it simmer. I’m on the warpath, and so’s Mr. Stone, and we’re comin’ out on top, if we don’t have no drawbacks. So, don’t trot round to clarviants or harp on that there ‘vision’ of yours, will you?”
“My boy, I’m only too glad to keep away from the subject. I’m worried to death with it all. And if I can’t do any good by my efforts, I’ll willingly ‘lay low’ as you ask.”
“All right, ma’am. Now, I’m off, and I’ll be back here when I come again. So long.”
Fibsy went down in the service elevator and forthwith proceeded to interview the rubbish man of the house and some other functionaries.
By dint of much prodding of memory, assisted by judicious silver offerings, he finally learned that there was an apartment occupied by a couple with four children, who, it appeared, consumed large quantities of jam of all flavors. At least, their rubbish was bristling with empty jam pots, and the deduction was logical.
Seemingly unimpressed, Fibsy declared it was pickle-fiends he was searching for, and departed, outwardly crestfallen, but inwardly elated.
Going out of doors, he walked to the corner of Park Avenue, and turned into the side street.
Crossing that street to get a better view, he looked up the side of the big apartment house, and his gaze paused at the window in the tenth story which was in Miss Ames’ sleeping-room. Two floors below this was the apartment of the family who were reputed jam eaters.
Fibsy looked intently at all the windows. The one next Miss Ames’ was, he knew, in the Embury’s pantry. Hence, the one two stories below was in the Patterson’s pantry the Patterson being the aforesaid family.
And to the boy’s astonished and delighted eyes, there on the pantry window-sill sat what was unmistakably a jam jar!
So far, so good. But what did it mean? Fibsy had learned that Mr. Patterson was a member of the Metropolitan Athletic Club and was greatly interested in its presidential election—which election, owing to the death of one of the candidates had been indefinitely postponed.
But further investigation of Mr. Patterson was too serious a matter for the boy to undertake. It must be referred to Fleming Stone.
So Fibsy glued his eyes once more to that fascinating jam jar up on the eighth-story window-sill, and slowly walked away.
Under his breath he was singing, “Raz Berry Jam! Raz Berry Jam!’—” to the tune of a certain march from Lohengrin, which somehow represented to his idea the high note of triumph.
He proceeded along the cross street, and at Fifth Avenue he entered a bus.
His next errand took him to the home of Fifi Desternay.
By some ingenious method of wheedling, he persuaded the doorman to acquaint the lady with the fact of his presence, and when she came into the room where he awaited her he banked on his nerve to induce her to grant him an interview.
“You know me,” he said, with his most ingratiating smile, and he even went so far as to take her beringed little hand in his own boyish paw.
“I do not!” she declared, staring at him, and then, his grin proving infectious, she added, not unkindly, “Who are you, child?”
“I wish I was a society reporter or a photographer, or anybody who could do justice to your wonderful charms!”
His gaze of admiration was so sincere that Fifi couldn’t resent it.
She often looked her best in the morning, and her dainty negligee and bewitching French cap made her a lovely picture.
She tucked herself into a big, cushioned chair, and drawing a smoking-stand nearer, fussed with its silver appointments.
“Lemme, ma’am,” said Fibsy, eagerly, and, though it was his first attempt, he held a lighted match to her cigarette with real grace.
Then, drawing a long breath of relief at his success, he took a cigarette himself, and sat near her.
“Well,” she began, “what’s it all about? And, do tell me how you got in! I’m glad you did, though it was against orders. I’ve not seen anything so amusing as you for a long time!”
“This is my amusin’ day,” returned the boy, imperturbably. “I came to talk over things in general—”
“And what in particular?”
Fifi was enjoying herself. She felt almost sure the boy was a reporter of a new sort, but she was frankly curious.
“Well, ma’am,” and here Fibsy changed his demeanor to a stern, scowling fierceness, “I’m a special investigator.” He rose now, and strode about the room. “I’m engaged on the Embury murder case, and I’m here to ask you a few pointed questions about it.”
“My heavens!” cried Fifi, “what are you talking about?”
> “Don’t scoff at me, ma’am; I’m in authority.”
“Oh, well, go ahead. Why are you questioning me?”
“It’s this way, ma’am.” Fibsy sat down astride a chair, looking over the back of it at his hostess. “You and Mrs, Embury are bosom friends, I understand.”
“From whom do you understand it?” was the tart response; “from Mrs, Embury?”
“In a manner o’ speakin’, yes; and then again, no. But aren’t you?”
“We were. We were school friends, and have been intimates for years. But since her—trouble, Mrs, Embury has thrown me over—has discarded me utterly—I’m so sorry!”
Fifi daintily touched her eyes with a tiny square of monogrammed linen, and Fibsy said, gravely,
“Careful, there; don’t dab your eyelashes too hard!”
“What!” Mrs, Desternay could scarcely believe her ears.
“Honest, you’d better look out. It’s coming off now.”
“Nothing of the sort,” and Fifi whipped out a vanity case, and readjusted her cosmetic adornment.
“Then I take it you two are not friends?”
“We most certainly are not. I wouldn’t do anything in the world to injure Eunice Embury—in fact, I’d help her, even now—though she scorned my assistance—but we’re not friends—no!”
“All right, I just wanted to know. Ask right out—that’s my motto.”
“It seems to be! Anything else you are thirsting to learn?”
“Yes’m. You know that ‘Hamlet’ performance—you and Mis’ Embury went to?”
“Yes,” said Fifi, cautiously.
“You know you accused her of talkin’ it over with you—”
“She did!”
“Yes’m—I know you say she did—I got that from Mr. Shane—but, lemme tell you, ma’am, friendly like, you want to be careful how you tell that yarn—’cause they’s chance fer a perfectly good slander case against you!”
“What nonsense!” but Fifi paled a little under her delicate rouge.
“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 for
mula, 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?”
“No, not that way—steeplejack.”
“Painting spires?”
“Not only spires, but signs in high places—dangerous places-and, you know, Mr. Stone, he told us—that day at the Embury house—that he didn’t climb—that he painted signs, and let other people put them up.”
“Yes; well? What of it?”
“Only this: why did he try to deceive us? Why, Mr. Barton says he’s a most daring climber—he’s practicing to be a human fly.”
“A human fly? Is that a new circus stunt?”
“You know what I mean. You’ve seen a human fly perform, haven’t you?”
“Oh, that chap who stood on his head on the coping of the Woolworth Building to get contributions for the Red Cross work? Yes, I remember. He wasn’t Hanlon, was he?”
“No, sir; he was the original—or one of the first ones. There are lots of human flies, now. They cut up tricks all over the country. And Willy Hanlon is practicing for that but he doesn’t want it known.”
“All right, I won’t tell. His guilty secret is safe with me!”
“Now, you’re laughing at me, Mr. Stone! All right just you wait—and Hanlon goes around on a motor-cycle, too!”
