Book: Raspberry Jam

C >> Carolyn Wells >> Raspberry Jam




"Always," Eunice declared. "Mr. Embury was not afraid of
burglars, but it was his life-long habit to sleep with a locked
door, and he couldn't get over it."

"Then," and the bird-like little eyes darted from one to another
of his listeners and paused at Aunt Abby; "then, Miss Ames, you
were also locked in, each night with your niece and her husband,
safe from intruders."

"Yes," and Aunt Abby looked a little startled at being addressed.
"I don't sleep with my door locked at home, and it bothered me at
first. But, you see, my room has no outlet except through Mrs,
Embury's bedroom, so as the door between her room and mine was
never locked, it really made little difference to me."

"Oh, is that the way of it?" and Dr. Crowell rose in his hasty
manner and dashed in at Eunice's door. This, the middle room,
opened on the right to the boudoir, and on the left to Embury's
room.

The latter door was closed, and Crowell turned toward the
boudoir--now Aunt Abby's bedroom. A small bed had been put up
for her there, and the room was quite large enough to be
comfortable. It was luxuriously furnished and the appointments
were quite in keeping with the dainty tastes of the mistress of
the house.

Crowell darted here and there about the room. He looked out of
the rear windows, which faced on the court; out of a window that
faced on the side street, peeped into the bathroom, and then
hurried back to Eunice's own room. Here he observed the one
large window, which was a triple bay, and which, of course,
opened on the court.

He glanced at Embury's closed door, and then returned to the
living-room, and again faced his audience.

"Nobody came in from the outside," he announced. "The windows
show a sheer drop of ten stories to the ground. No balconies or
fire-escapes. So our problem resolves itself into two possibilities--
Mr. Embury was given the poison by someone already inside those
locked doors--or, the doors were not locked."

The restless hands were still now. The Examiner bore the aspect
of a bomb-thrower who had exploded his missile and calmly awaited
the result. His darting eyes flew from face to face, as if he
were looking for a criminal then and there. He sat motionless
--save for his constantly moving eyeballs--and for a moment no
word was spoken by anyone.

Then Eunice said, with no trace of anger or excitement, "You mean
some intruder was concealed in there when we went to bed?"

Crowell turned on her a look of undisguised admiration. More, he
seemed struck with a sudden joy of finding a possible loophole
from the implication he had meant to convey.

"I never thought of that," he said, slowly, piercing her with his
intent gaze; "it may be. But Mrs, Embury--in that case, where is
the intruder now? How did he get out?"

"Rubbish!" cried Miss Ames, caustically. "There never was any
intruder--I mean, not in our rooms. Ridiculous! Of course, the
doors were not locked--they were unintentionally left open--I
don't believe they're locked half the time!--and your intruder
came in through these other rooms."

"Yes," agreed Hendricks; "that must have been the way of it. Dr.
Crowell, if you're sure this is a--a--oh, it isn't! Who would
kill Embury? Your theory presupposes a motive. What was it?
Robbery? Is anything missing?"

Nobody could answer this question, and Ferdinand, as one familiar
with his master's belongings was sent into the room of death to
investigate.

Unwillingly, and only after a repeated order, the man went.

"No, ma'am," he said, on his return, addressing Eunice. "None of
Mr. Embury's things are gone. All his pins and cuff-links are in
their boxes and his watch is on the chiffonier where he always
leaves it.

"Then," resumed Hendricks, "what motive can you suggest, Dr.
Crowell?"

"It's not for me, sir, to go so far as that. I see it this way:
I'm positive that the man was killed by foul means. I'm sure he
was poisoned, though I can't say how. I--you see, I haven't been
Medical Examiner very long--and I never had such a hard duty to
perform before. But it is my duty and I must do it. I must
report to headquarters."

"You shan't!" Eunice flew across the room and stood before him,
her whole body quivering with intense rage. "I forbid it! I am
Sanford Embury's wife, and as such I have rights that shall not
be imposed upon! I will have no police dragged into this matter.
Were my husband really murdered--which, of course, he was not--I
would rather never have the murderer discovered or punished, than
to have the degradation, the horrors of--a police case!"

The infinite scorn with which she brought out the last phrase
showed her earnestness and her determination to have the matter
pushed no further.

But Examiner Crowell was by no means the inefficient little man
he looked. His eyes took on a new glitter, and narrowed as they
looked at the angry woman before him.

"I am sorry, Mrs, Embury," he said, gently, but with a strong
decision in his tone, "but your wishes cannot be considered. The
law is inexorable. The mystery of this case is deepened rather
than lessened by your extraordinary behavior and I must--"

But his brave manner quailed before the lightning of Eunice's
eyes.

"What!" she cried; "you defy me! You will call the police
against my desire--my command! You will not, sir! I forbid it!"

Crowell looked at her with a new interest. It would seem he had
discovered a new species of humanity. Doubtless he had never
seen a woman like that in his previous experience.

For Eunice was no shrew. She did not, for a moment, lose her
poise or her dignity. Indeed, she was rather more imperious and
dominating in her intense anger than when more serene. But she
carried conviction. Both Elliott and Hendricks hoped and
believed she could sway the Examiner to her will.

Aunt Abby merely sat nodding her head, in corroboration of
Eunice's speeches. "Yes--yes--that's so!" she murmured,
unheeding whether she were heard or not.

The Examiner, however, paid little attention to the decrees of
the angry woman. He looked at Eunice, curiously, even
admiringly, and then went across the room to the telephone.

Eunice flew after him and snatched the instrument from his hand.

"Stop!" she cried, fairly beside herself with fury. "You shall
not!"

Both Elliott and Hendricks sprang from their chairs, and Dr.
Harper rose to take care of Eunice as an irresponsible patient,
but Crowell waved them all back.

"Sit down, gentlemen," he said; "Mrs, Embury, think a minute. If
you act like that you will--you inevitably will--draw suspicion
on yourself!"

"I don't care!" she screamed; "better that than the--the
publicity--the shame of a police investigation! Oh, Sanford--my
husband!"

It was quite clear that uppermost in her disturbed mind was the
dread of the disgrace of the police inquiry. This had dulled her
poignant grief, her horror, her sadness--all had been lost in the
immediate fear of the impending unpleasantness.

"And, too," the Examiner went on, coldly, "It is useless for you
to rant around like that! I'll simply go to another telephone."

Eunice stepped back and looked at him, more in surprise than
submission. To be told that she was "ranting around" was not the
way in which she was usually spoken to! Moreover, she realized
it was true, that to jerk the telephone away from Dr. Crowell
could not permanently prevent his sending his message.

She tried another tack.

"I beg your pardon, doctor," she said, and her expression was
that of a sad and sorry child. "You're right, I mustn't lose my
temper so. But, you know, I am under a severe mental strain--and
something should be forgiven me--some allowance made for my
dreadful position--"

"Yes, ma'am--oh, certainly, ma'am--" Crowell was again nervous
and restless. He proved that he could withstand an angry woman
far better than a supplicating one. Eunice saw this and followed
up her advantage.

"And, so, doctor, try to appreciate how I feel--a newlymade
widow--my husband dead, from some unknown cause, but which I know
is not--murder," after a second's hesitation she pronounced the
awful word clearly--"and you want to add to my terror and
distress by calling in the police--of all things, the police!"

"Yes, ma'am, I know it's too bad--but, my duty, ma'am--"

"Your duty is first, to me!" Eunice's smile was dazzling. It had
been a callous heart, indeed, that would not be touched by it!

"To you, ma'am?" The Examiner's tone was innocence itself.

"Yes," Eunice faltered, for she began to realize she was not
gaining ground. "You owe me the--don't they call it the benefit
of the doubt?"

"What doubt, ma'am?"

"Why, doubt as to murder. If my husband died a natural death you
know there's no reason to call the police. And as you're not
sure, I claim that you must give me the benefit of your doubt and
not call them."

"Now, ma'am, you don't put that just right. You see, the police
are the people who must settle that doubt. It's that very doubt
that makes it necessary to call them. And, truly, Mrs, Ernbury,
it won't be any such horrible ordeal as you seem to anticipate.
They're decent men, and all they want to get at is the truth."

"That isn't so!" Eunice was angry again. "They're horrible men!
rude, unkempt, low-down, common men! I won't have them in my
house! You have no right to insist on it. They'll be all over
the rooms, prying into everything, looking here, there and all
over! They'll ask impertinent questions; they'll assume all
sorts of things that aren't true, and they'll wind up by coming
to a positively false conclusion! Alvord, Mason, you're my
friends--help me out! Don't, let this man do as he threatens!"

"Listen, Eunice," Elliott said, striving to quiet her; "we can't
help the necessity Dr. Crowell sees of notifying the police. But
we can help you. Only, however, if you'll be sensible, dear, and
trust to our word that it can't be helped, and you must let it go
on quietly."

"Oh, hush up, Mason; your talk drives me crazy! Alvord, are you
a broken reed, too? Is there nobody to stand by me?"

"I'll try," and Hendricks went and spoke to Dr. Crowell in low
tones. A whispered colloquy followed, but it soon became clear
that Hendricks' pleas, of whatever nature, were unsuccessful, and
he returned to Eunice's side.

"Nothing doing," he said, with an attempt at lightness. "He
won't listen to reason--nor to bribery and corruption--" this
last was said openly and with a smile that robbed the idea of any
real seriousness.

And then Dr. Crowell again lifted the telephone and called up
Headquarters.




CHAPTER IX

HAMLET


Of the two detectives who arrived in response to the Examiner's
call, one almost literally fulfilled Eunice's prophecy of a rude,
unkempt, common man. His name was Shane and he strode into the
room with a bumptious, self-important air, his burly frame
looking especially awkward and unwieldy in the gentle
surroundings.

His companion, however, a younger man named Driscoll, was of a
finer type, and showed at least an appreciation of the nature of
the home which he had entered.

"We're up from the homicide bureau," Shane said to Dr. Crowell,
quite ignoring the others present. "Tell us all you know."

In the fewest possible words the Medical Examiner did this, and
Shane paid close attention.

Driscoll listened, too, but his glance, instead of being fixed on
the speaker, darted from one to another of the people sitting
round.

He noted carefully Eunice's beautiful, angry face, as she sat,
looking out of a window, disdaining any connection with the
proceedings. He watched Miss Ames, nervously rolling her
handkerchief into a ball and shaking it out again; Mason Elliott,
calm, grave, and earnestly attentive; Alvord Hendricks, alert,
eager, sharply critical.

And in the background, Ferdinand, the well-trained butler,
hovering in the doorway.

All these things Driscoll studied, for his method was judging
from the manners of individuals, whereas, Shane gathered his
conclusions from their definite statements.

And, having listened to Dr. Crowell's account, Shane turned to
Eunice and said bluntly, "You and your husband good friends?"

Eunice gasped. Then, after one scathing glance, she deliberately
turned back to the window, and neglected to answer.

"That won't do, ma'am," said Shane, in his heavy voice, which was
coarse and uncultured but not intentionally rude. "I'm here to
ask questions and you people have got to answer 'em. Mebbe I can
put it different. Was you and Mr. Embury on good terms?"

"Certainly." The word was forced from Eunice's scornful lips,
and accompanied by an icy glance meant to freeze the detective,
but which utterly failed.

"No rows or disagreements, eh? "Shane's smile was unbearable,
and Eunice turned and faced him like an angry thing at bay.

"I forbid you to speak to me," she said, and looked at Shane as
if he were some miserable, crawling reptile. "Mason, will you
answer this man for me?"

"No, no, lady," Shane seemed to humor her. "I must get your own
word for it. Don't you want me to find out who killed your
husband? Don't you want the truth known? Are you afraid to have
it told? Hey?"

Shane's secret theory was that of a sort of third degree applied
at the very beginning often scared people into a quick confession
of the truth and saved time in the long run.

Driscoll knew of this and did not approve.

"Let up, Shane," he muttered; "this is no time for such talk.
You don't know anything yet."

"Go ahead, you," returned Shane, not unwillingly, and Driscoll
did.

"Of course we must ask questions, Mrs, Embury," he said, and his
politeness gained him a hearing from Eunice.

She looked at him with, at least, toleration, as he began to
question her.

"When did you last see Mr. Embury alive, ma'am?"

"Last night," replied Eunice, "about midnight, when we retired."

"He was in his usual health and spirits?"

"Yes."

"You have two bedrooms?"

"Yes."

"Door between?"

"Yes."

"Open or shut--after you said good-night to Mr. Embury?"

"Closed."

"Locked?"

"No."

"Who shut it."

"Mr. Embury."

"Bang it?"

"Sir?"

"Did he bang it shut? Slam it?"

"Mr. Embury was a gentleman."

"Yes, I know. Did he slam that door?"

"N--, no."

"He did," and Driscoll nodded his head, as if not minding
Eunice's stammered denial, but not believing it, either.

"Now, as he closed that door with a bang, ma'am, I gather that
you two had a--well, say, a little tiff--a quarrel. Might as
well own up, ma'am,--it'll come out, and it's better you should
tell me the truth."

"I am not accustomed to telling anything else!" Eunice declared,
holding herself together with a very evident effort. "Mr. Embury
and I had a slight difference of opinion, but not enough to call
a quarrel."

"What about?" broke in Shane, who had been listening intently.

Eunice did not speak until Elliott advised her. "Tell all
Eunice--it is the best way."

"We had a slight discussion," Eunice said, "but it was earlier in
the evening. We had spent the evening out--Mr. Embury at his
club, and I at the house of a friend. We came home together--Mr.
Embury called for me in our own car. On reaching home, we had no
angry words--and as it was late, we retired at once. That is
all. Mr. Embury closed the door between our bedrooms, and that
is the last I ever saw of him until--this morning--"

She did not break down, but she seemed to think she had told all
and she ceased speaking.

"And then he was dead," Shane mused. "What doctor did you call?"

Dr. Crowell took up the narrative and told of Dr. Harper and Dr.
Marsden, who were not now present. He told further of the
mysterious and undiscoverable cause of the death.

"Let me see him," said Shane, rising suddenly.

Most of this man's movements were sudden--and as he was in every
respect awkward and uncouth, Eunice's dislike of him grew
momentarily.

"Isn't he dreadful!" she cried, as the two detectives and the
Medical Examiner disappeared into Embury's room.

"Yes," agreed Hendricks, "but, Eunice, you must not antagonize
him. It can't do any good--and it may do harm."

"Harm? How?" and Eunice turned her big, wondering eyes on
Hendrick.

"Oh, it isn't wise to cross a man like that. He's a common clod,
but he represents authority--he represents the law, and we must
respect that fact, however his personal manner offends us."

"All right, Alvord, I understand; but there's no use in my seeing
him again. Can't you and Mason settle up things and let Aunt
Abby and me go to our rooms?"

"No, Eunice," Hendricks' voice was grave. "You must stay here.
And, too, they will go through your room, searching."

"My room! My bedroom! They shan't! I won't have it! Mason,
must I submit to such horrible things?"

"Now, Eunice, dear," Mason Elliott spoke very gently, "we can't
blink matters. We must face this squarely. The police think
Sanford was murdered. They're endeavoring to find out who killed
him. To do their duty in the matter they have to search
everywhere. It's the law, you know, and we can't get away from
it. So, try to take it as quietly as you can."

"Oh, my! oh, my!" wailed Aunt Abby; "that I should live to see
this day! A murder in my own family! No wonder poor Sanford's
troubled spirit paused in its passing to bid me farewell."

Eunice shrieked. "Aunt Abby, if you start up that talk, I shall
go stark, staring mad! Hush! I won't have it!"

"Let up on the spook stuff, Miss Ames," begged Hendricks. "Our
poor Eunice is just about at the end of her rope."

"So am I!" cried Aunt Abby. "I'm entitled to some consideration!
Here's the whole house turned upside down with a murder and
police and all that, and nobody considers me! It's all Eunice!"
Then, with a softened voice, she added, "And Lord knows, she's
got enough to bear!"

"Yes, I have!" Eunice was composed again, now. "But I can bear
it. I'm not going to collapse! Don't be afraid for me. And I
do consider you, Aunt Abby. It's dreadful for you--for both of
us."

Eunice crossed the room and sat by the cider lady, and they
comforted one another.

Shane came back to the living-room.

"Here's the way it is," he said, gruffly. "Those three bedrooms
all open into each other; but when their doors that open out into
these here other rooms are locked they're quite shut off by
themselves, and nobody can get into 'em. Now that last room, the
one the old lady sleeps in, that don't have a door except into
Mrs, Embury's room. What I'm gettin' at is, if Mr. and Mrs,
Embury's room doors is locked--not meanin' the door between--then
those three people are locked in there every night, and can't get
out or in, except through those two locked doors.

"Well, this morning--where's that butler man?"

"Here, sir," and Ferdinand appeared promptly, and with his usual
correct demeanor.

"Yes, you. Now, this morning, those two doors to the sleeping
rooms was locked, I understand?"

"Yes, sir. They were."

"Usually--what happens?"

"What--what happens, sir?"

"Yes; what's your first duty in the morning? Does Mr. Embury
call you--or ring for you?"

"Oh, that, sir. Why, generally Mr. Embury unlocked his door
about eight o'clock--"

"And you went to help him dress?"

"No, sir. Mr. Embury didn't require that. I valeted his
clothes, like, and kept them in order, but he dressed by himself.
I took him some tea and toast--he had that before the regular
breakfast--"

"And this morning--when he didn't ring or make any sound, what
did you do?"

"I waited a little while and then I rapped at Mrs, Embury's
door."

"Yes; and she--now, be careful, man--" Shane's voice was
impressive. "How did she act? Unusual, or frightened in any
way?"

"Not a bit, sir. Mrs, Embury was surprised, and when I said Mr.
Embury didn't answer my knock, she let me go through her room to
his."

"Exactly. And then you found your master dead?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now-what is your name?"

"Ferdinand."

"Yes. Now, Ferdinand, you know Mr. and Mrs, Embury had a quarrel
last night."

"Yes, sir."

The trap had worked! Shane had brought about the admission from
the servant that Eunice had refused to make. A smile of
satisfaction settled on his ugly features, as he nodded his head
and went on.

"At what time was this?"

"Ferdinand, be quiet," said Eunice, her own voice low and even,
but her face was ablaze with wrath. "You know nothing of such
things!"

"That's right, sir, I don't."

Clearly, the butler, restored to his sense of the
responsibilities of his position, felt he had made a misstep and
regretted it.

"Be quiet, madam!" Shane hurled at Eunice, and turning to the
frightened Ferdinand, said: "You tell the truth, or you'll go to
jail! At what time was this quarrel that you have admitted
took place?"

Eunice stood, superbly indifferent, looking like a tragedy queen.
"Tell him, Ferdinand; tell all you know, but tell only the
truth."

"Yes, ma'am. Yes, sir; why, it was just before they went out."

"Ah, before. Did they go out together?"

"No, sir. Mrs, Embury went later--by herself."

"I told you that!" Eunice interposed. "I gave you a detailed
account of the evening."

"You omitted the quarrel. What was it about?"

"It was scarcely important enough to call a quarrel. My husband
and I frequently disagreed on trifling matters. We were both a
little short-tempered, and often had altercations that were
forgotten as soon as they occurred."


"And that's true," put in Miss Ames. "For two people who loved
each other to distraction, I often thought the Emburys were the
most quarrelsome I ever saw."

Shane looked sharply at the old lady. "Is that so?" he said.
"Did you hear this particular quarrel, ma'am?"

"Not that I remember. If I did, I didn't take' much notice of
it."

"What was it about?"

"Oh, the same old subject. Mrs, Embury wanted--"

"Aunt Abby, hush! What are you talking about! Leave me to tell
my own secrets, pray!"

"Secrets, ma'am?" Shane's cold blue eyes glistened. "Who's
talking of secrets?"

"Nobody," offered Hendricks. "Seems to me, Shane, you're trying
to frighten two nervous women into a confession--"

"Who said anything about a confession? What's to be confessed?
Who's made any accusations?"

Hendricks was silent. He didn't like the man Shane at all, but
he saw plainly that he was a master of his craft, and depended on
his sudden and startling suggestions to rouse antagonism or fear
and so gather the facts he desired.

"I'm asking nobody's secrets," he went on, "except in so far as
I'm obliged to, by reason of my duty. And in that connection,
ma'am, I ask you right here and now, what you meant by your
reference to secrets?"

Eunice looked at him a moment in silence. Then she said, "You
have, I daresay, a right to ask that. And I've not the least
objection to answering. Mr. Embury was the kindest of husbands,
but it did not suit his ideas to give me what is known as an
allowance. This in no way reflects on his generosity, for he
insisted that I should have a charge account at any shops I
wished. But, because of a whim, I often begged that I be given a
stated and periodical allowance. This, I have no reason for not
admitting, was the cause of most of our so-called 'quarrels.'
This is what I should prefer to keep 'secret' but not if it is
for any reason a necessary admission."

Shane looked at her in undisguised admiration.

"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?"

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