Raspberry Jam Part 42

"Is he mixed up in the Embury case?"

"He's mixed up with Mr. Hendricks in some way, and he learned from Miss Ames that Hendricks was to be among those present, so he made up foolish excuses and betook himself to the vicinity of said Hendricks."

"Why?"

"Wanted to converse with him, and couldn't get hold of him otherwise.

Hendricks, it would seem, didn't hanker for said conversation."

"I remember Hanlon asked Mr. Hendricks if he were going his way, and Hendricks said he was going to spend the evening where he was."

"Egg-zackly. And did. But all the same, Hanlon waited. And a wait of an hour and a half registers patience and perseverance--to my mind."

"Right you are! And you trailed the pair?"

"Did I?" Fibsy fell back in his chair, as if exhausted. "I followed them to Mr. Hendricks' home, they chatterin' glibly all the way--and then after a few minutes' further remarks on the doorstep Hendricks, he went in--and Hanlon--! You know, Mr. Stone, Hanlon's n.o.body's fool, and he knew I was follerin' him as well as he knew his name! I don't know how he knew it--for I was most careful to keep out'a sight, but all the same, he did know it--and what do you think he did? He led me a chase of miles--and miles--and miles! That's what he did!"

"On purpose?"

"On purpose! Laughin' in his silly sleeve! I was game. I trotted along--but bullieve me! I was mad! And the galoot was so slick about it! Why, he walked up Broadway first--as if he had a business appointment in a desprit hurry. Then, having reached Hunderd an'

Twenty-fi'th Street, he pauses a minute--to be sure I'm trailin', the vilyun and then, he swings East, and across town, and turns South again--oh, well, Mr. Stone, he simpully makes me foller him till I'm that dog-tired, I near drops in my tracks. And, to top the heap, he leads me straight to this hotel, where we're stayin'--yes, sir! right here--and makin' a sharp turn, he says, 'Good-night!' pleasant like, and scoots off. Can you beat it?"

"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 a.s.sure you, sir."

When Fibsy a.s.sumed 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, a.s.sisted by judicious silver offerings, he finally learned that there was an apartment occupied by a couple with four children, who, it appeared, consumed large quant.i.ties 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.