“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 of 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 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!”