Book: Raspberry Jam

C >> Carolyn Wells >> Raspberry Jam




"I know, Mr. Barton told me. You're going to be a human fly, and
cut up pranks on the edges of roofs of skyscrapers--"

"Hush, not so loud. Yes, I am, but the goal is far distant. But
I'm going to have a whack at it--and I know I can succeed, in
time."

Hanlon's eyes had a faraway, hopeful look, as if gazing into a
future of marvelous achievement in his chosen field. "Oh, I say,
boy, it's glorious, this becoming expert in something difficult.
It pays for all the work and training and practice!"

The true artist ambition rang in his voice, and Fibsy gazed at
him fascinated, for the boy was a hero-worshipper, and adored
proficiency in any art.

"When you going to exhibit?" he asked eagerly.

"A little try at it next week. Want'a come?"

"Don't I. Where?"

"Hush! I'll whisper. Philadelphia."

"I'll be there! Lemme 'no the date and all."

"Yes, I will. Must you go? Here's your hat."

Fibsy laughed, took the hint and departed.

"What a feller!" he marveled to himself, as he went on his way.
"Oh, gee! what a feller!"




CHAPTER XVIII

THE GUILTY ONE


"Alvord, you shock me--you amaze me! How dare you talk to me of
love, when my husband hasn't been dead a fortnight?"

"What matter, Eunice? You never really loved Sanford--"

"I did--I did!"

"Not lately, anyhow. Perhaps just at first--and then, not
deeply. He carried you originally by storm--it was an even
toss-up whether he or Elliott or I won out. He was the most
forceful of the three, and he made you marry him--didn't he now?"

"Don't talk nonsense. I married Sanford of my own free will--"

"Yes, and in haste, and repented at leisure. Now, don't be
hypocritical, and pretend to grieve for him. His death was
shocking--fearful--but you're really relieved that he is gone.
Why not admit it?"

"Alvord, stop such talk! I command you! I won't listen!"

"Very well, dearest, I'll stop it. I beg your pardon--I forgot
myself, I confess. Now, let me atone. I love you, Eunice, and
I'll promise not to tell you so, or to talk about it now, if
you'll just give me a ray of hope--a glimmer of anticipation.
Will you--sometime--darling, let me tell you of my love? After
such an interval as you judge proper? Will you, Eunice?"

"No, I will not! I don't love you--I never did and never can
love you! How did you ever get such an idea into your head?"

The beautiful face expressed surprise and incredulity, rather
than anger, and Eunice's voice was gentle. In such a mood, she
was even more attractive than in her more vivacious moments.

Unable to control himself, Hendricks took a step toward her, and
folded her in his arms.

She made no effort to disengage herself, but said, in a tone of
utter disdain, "Let me go, Alvord; you bore me."

As she had well known, this angered him far more than angry words
would have done.

He released her instantly, but his face was blazing with
indignation.

"Oh, I do--do I? And who can make love to you, and not bore you?
Elliott?"

"You are still forgetting yourself."

"I am not! I am thinking of myself only. Oh, Eunice--dear
Eunice, I have loved you so long and I have been good. All the
time you were Sanford's wife, I never so much as called you
'dear'--never gave you even a look that wasn't one o f respect
for my friend's wife. But now--now, that you are free--I have a
right to woo you. It is too soon--yes, I know that--but I will
wait--wait as long as you command, if you'll only promise me that
I may--sometime--"

"Never! I told you that before--I do not want to be obliged to
repeat it! Please understand, once for all, I have no love to
give you--"

"Because it is another's! Eunice--tell me you do not care for
Elliott--and I won't say another word--now. I'll wait patiently
--for a year--two years--as long as you wish--only give me the
assurance that you will not marry Mason Elliott."

"You are impossible! How dare you speak to me of my marriage
with anybody, when my husband is only just dead? One word more,
Alvord, on the subject, and I shall forbid you my house!"

"All right, my lady! Put on your high and mighty air, if you
choose--but before you marry that man--make sure that he did not
himself prepare the way for the wedding!"

"What do you mean? Are you accusing Mason of--"

"I make no accusations. But--who did kill Sanford? I know you
didn't do it--and Elliott has engaged Stone to prove that you
didn't. It is absurd, we all know, to suspect Aunt Abby--I was
out of town--who is left but Mason?"

"Hush! I won't listen to, such a suggestion! Mason was at his
home that night."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure! And I don't have to have it proved by a
detective either! And now, Alvord Hendricks, you may go! I
don't care to talk to anyone who can make such a contemptible
accusation against a lifelong friend!"

But before Hendricks left, Elliott himself came in.

He was grave and preoccupied. He bowed a little curtly to
Hendricks, and, as he took Eunice's hand, he said, "May I see you
alone? I want to talk over some business matters--and I'm
pressed for time."

"Oh, all right," Hendricks said, "I can take a hint. I'm going.
How's your sleuth progressing, Elliott? Has Mr. Stone unearthed
the murderer yet?"

"Not yet--but soon," and Elliott essayed to pass the subject off
lightly.

"Very soon?" Hendricks looked at him in a curious manner.

"Very soon, I think."

"That's interesting. Would it be indiscreet to ask in what
direction one must look for the criminal?"

"It would very." Elliott smiled a little. "Now run along,
Hendricks, that's a good chap. I've important business matters
to talk over with Eunice."

Hendricks went, and Elliott turned to Eunice, with a grave face,

"I've been going over Sanford's private papers," he said, "and,
Eunice, there's a lot that we want to keep quiet."

"Was Sanford a bad man?" she asked, her quiet, white face
imploring a negative answer.

"Not so very, but, as you know, he had a love of money--a sort of
acquisitiveness, that led him into questionable dealings. He
loaned money to any one who would give him security--"

"That isn't wrong!"

"Not in itself--but, oh, Eunice, I can't explain it to you--or,
at least, I don't want to--but Sanford lent money to men--to his
friends--who were in great exigency--who gave their choicest
belongings, their treasures as security--and then--he had no
leniency--no compassion for them--"

"Why should he have?"

"Because--well, there is a justice, that is almost criminal.
Sanford was a--a Shylock! There, can you understand now?"

"Who were his debtors? Alvord?"

"Yes; Hendricks was one who owed him enormous sums--and he was
going to make lots of trouble--I mean Sanford was--why, Eunice,
in Sanford's private safe are practically all of Hendricks'
stocks and bonds, put up as collateral. Sanford holds mortgages
on all Hendricks' belongings--real estate, furniture--everything.
Now, just at the time Sanford died these notes were due--this
indebtedness of Hendricks to Sanford had to be paid, and merely
the fact of San's death occurring just when it did saved Alvord
from financial ruin."

"Do you mean Sanford would have insisted on the payment?"

"Yes."

"Then--oh, Mason I can't say it--I wouldn't breathe it to any one
but you but could Alvord have killed Sanford?"

"Of course not, Eunice. He was in Boston, you know."

"Yes, I know. But--Mason, he hinted to me just now, that that
maybe you killed San."

"Did he, dear? Then he was angry or--or crazy! He doesn't think
so. Perhaps he was--very jealous."

"Yes, he was! How did you know?"

"I have eyes. You don't care for him--particularly--do you
--Eunice?"

Their eyes met and in one long look, the truth was told. A great
love existed between these two, and both had been honest and
honorable so long as Eunice was Sanford's wife. And even now,
though Embury was gone, Elliott made no protestation of love to
his widow--said no word that might not have been heard by the
whole world, but they both knew--no word was necessary.

A beautiful expression came over Eunice's face--she smiled a
little and the love-light in her eyes was unmistakable.

"I shall never lose my temper again," she said, softly, and Mason
Elliott believed her.

"Another big debtor to Sanford is Mr. Patterson," he went on,
forcing himself to calm his riotous pulses, and continue his
business talk.

"How is that man mixed into our affars?"

"He's very much mixed up in San's affairs. But, Eunice, I don't
want to burden you with all these details. Only, you see, Alvord
is your lawyer, and--it's confoundedly awkward--"

"Look here, Mason, do this--can't you? Forgive Alvord all
Sanford's claims on him. I mean, wipe the slate clean, as far as
he is concerned. I don't want his money--I mean I don't want to
keep his stocks and things. Give them all back to him, and hush
the matter up. You know, we four, Sanford and Alvord and you and
I, are the old quartet--the 'three boys and a girl' who used to
play together. Now one of us is gone--don't let's make any
trouble for another of the group. I've enough money without
realizing on Alvord's securities. Give them all back to him--and
forget it. Can't we?"

"Why, yes, I suppose so--if you so decree. What about
Patterson?"

"Oh, those things you and Alvord must look after. I've no head
for business. And anyway--must it be attended to at once?"

"Not immediately. Sanford's estate is so large, and his debtors
so numerous, it will take months to get it adjusted."

"Very well, let anything unpleasant wait for a while, then."


Now, on this very day, and at this very hour, Fibsy was in
Philadelphia, watching the initial performance of a new "human
fly."

A crowd was gathered about the tall skyscraper, where the event
was to take place, and when Hanlon appeared he was greeted by a
roar, of cheering that warmed his applause-loving heart.

Bowing and smiling at his audience, he started on his perilous
climb up the side of the building.

The sight was thrilling--nerve-racking. Breathlessly the people
watched as he climbed up the straight, sheer facade, catching now
at a window ledge--now at a bit of stone ornamentation--and
again, seeming to hold on by nothing at all--almost as a real fly
does.

When he negotiated a particularly difficult place, the crowd
forebore to cheer, instinctively feeling it might disturb him.

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 f 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?"

"No," said Stone; "he can't. I have him covered day and night by
my men. At present, Mr. Shane, he is--I am quite sure--in his
office--if you want to go there--"

"If I want to go there! I should say I do! He'll get his!"

And in less than half an hour, Shane had taken Alvord Hendricks
into custody, and in due time that arch criminal received the
retribution of justice.

Shane gone, Fibsy went over the whole story once again.

"You see, it was Mr. Stone's keeping at it what did it. He
connected up Hanlon and the jam--he connected up Mr. Hendricks
and the Hamlet business--we connected up Hanlon and the gasoline-
-and Hanlon and the jersey and the motor-cycle and all!" Fibsy
grew excited; "then we connected up Hendricks and his 'perfect
alibi.' Always distrust the perfect alibi--that's one of Mr.
Stone's first maxims. Well, this Hendricks--he had a pluperfect
alibi--couldn't be shaken--so Mr. Stone, he says, the more
perfect the alibi, the more we must distrust it. So he went for
that alibi--and he found that Mr. Hendricks was sure in Boston
that night, but he didn't have any real reason, not any
imperative reason for going--it was a sorta trumped up trip.
Well--that's the way it was. He had to get Mr. Embury out of the
way just then, or be shown up--a ruined man--and, too, he was
afraid Mr. Embury'd be president of the club--and, too--he wanted
to--"

Fibsy gave one eloquent glance at Eunice, and paused abruptly in
his speech. Every one knew--every one realized that love of
Sanford Embury's wife was one reason, at least, for the fatal
deed. Everybody realized that Alvord Hendricks was a villain
through and through--that he had killed his friend--though not by
his own hand.


Eunice never saw Hendricks again. She and Aunt Abby went away
for a year's stay. They traveled in lovely lands, where the
scenery and climate brought rest and peace to Eunice's troubled
heart, and where she learned, by honest effort, to control her
quick temper.

And then, after two of the one-time friendly quartet had become
only a past memory, the remaining two, Eunice and Mason Elliott,
found happiness and joy.

"One of our biggest cases, F. Stone," said Fibsy, one day,
reminiscently.

"It was, indeed, Fibs; and you did yourself proud."

"Great old scheme! Perfect alibi--unknown human fly--bolted
doors--all the elements of a successful crime--if he hadn't
slipped up on that Raspberry jam!"

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