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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 formula, 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!”

“He does! Then we are undone! What a revelation! And, now, Fibs, if you’ll explain to me the significance of Hanlon’s aspiring ambitions and his weird taste for motor-cycles, I’ll be obliged.”

Fibsy was extremely, even absurdly, sensitive to irony. Sometimes it didn’t affect him seriously, and then, again, he would be so hurt and embarrassed by it, that it fairly made him unable to talk.

In this instance, it overcame him utterly, and his funny little freckled face turned red, and his eyes lost their eagerness and showed only chagrin.

“Come, come,” said Stone, regretting his teasing, but determined to help the boy overcome his sensitiveness to it, “brace up, Fibs; you know I meant no harm. Forgive a chap, can’t you—and begin all over again. I know you have something in your noddle—and doubtless, something jolly well worth while.”

“Well—I—oh, wait a minute, Mr. Stone—I’m a fool, but I can’t help it. When you come at me like that, I lose all faith in my notions. For it’s only a notion—and a crazy one at that, and—well, sir, you wait till I’ve worked it up a little further—and if there’s anything to it—I’ll expound. Now, what’s my orders for to-day?”

Fibsy had an obstinate streak in his make-up, and Fleming Stone was too wise to insist on the boy’s “expounding” just then.

Instead, he said, pleasantly: “To-day, Fibs, I want you to make a round of the drug stores. It’s not a hopeful job—indeed, I can’t think it can amount to anything—but have a try at it. You remember, Mr. Hendricks had the earache—”

“I do, indeed! He had it a month ago—and what’s more, he denied it—at first.”

“Yes; well, use your discretion for all it’s worth—but get a line on the doctor that prescribed for him—it was a bad case, you know—and find out what he got to relieve him and where he got it.”

“Yessir. Say, Mr. Stone, is Mr. Hendricks implicated, do you think?”

“In the murder? Why, he was in Boston at the time—a man can’t be in two places at once, can he?”

“He cannot! He has a perfect alibi—hasn’t he, Mr. Stone?”

“He sure has, Fibsy. And yet—he was in the party that discussed the possibilities of killing people by the henbane route.”

“Yessir—but so was Mr. Patterson—Mis’ Desternay said so.”

“The Patterson business must be looked into. I’ll attend to that to-day—I’ll also see Mr. Elliott about that matter of personal loans that Mr. Embury seemed to be conducting as a side business.”

“Yes, do, please. Mr. Stone, it would be a first-class motive, if Mr. Embury had a strangle-hold on somebody who owed him a whole lot and couldn’t pay, and—”

“Fine motive, my boy—but how about opportunity? You forget those bolted doors.”

“And Mr. Patterson had borrowed money of Mr. Embury—”

“How do you know that?”

“I heard it—oh, well, I got it from one of the footmen of the apartment house—”

“Footmen! What do you mean?”

“You know there’s a lot of employees—porters, rubbish men, doormen, hallmen, pages and Lord knows what! I lump ‘em all under the title of footmen. Anyway, one of those persons told me—for a consideration—a lot about the private affairs of the tenants. You know, Mr. Stone, those footmen pick up a lot of information—overhearing here and there—and from the private servants kept by the tenants.”

“That’s true, Fibs; there must be a mine of information available in that way.”

“There is, sir. And I caught onto a good deal—and specially, I learned that Mr. Patterson is in the faction—or whatever you call it—that didn’t want Mr. Embury to be president of that club.”

“And so you think Mr. Patterson had a hand in the murder?”

Stone’s face was grave, and there was no hint of banter in his tone, so Fibsy replied, earnestly, “Well, he is the man who has lots of empty jam jars go down in the garbage pails.”

“But he has lots of children.”

“Yes, sir—four. Oh, well, I suppose a good many people like raspberry jam.”

“Go on, Fibsy; don’t be discouraged. As I’ve often told you, one scrap of evidence is worth considering. A second, against the same man—is important—and a third, is decidedly valuable.”

“Yessir, that’s what I’m bankin’ on. You see, Mr. Patterson, now—he’s over head and ears in debt to Embury. He was against Embury for club president. He was present at the henbane discussion. And—he’s an habitual buyer of raspberry jam.”

“Some counts,” and Fleming Stone looked thoughtful. “But not entirely convincing. How’d he get in?”

“You know his apartment is directly beneath the Embury apartment—but two floors below.”

“Might as well be ten floors below. How could he get in?”

“Somebody got in, Mr. Stone. You know as well as I do, that neither Mrs. Embury nor Miss Ames committed that murder. We must face that.”

“Nor did Ferdinand do it. I’ll go you all those assumptions.”

“All right, sir; then somebody got in from the outside.”

“How?”

“Mr. Stone, haven’t you ever read detective stories where a murder was committed in a room that was locked and double-locked and yet somebody did get in—and the fun of the story is guessing how he got in.”

“Fiction, my boy, is one thing—fact is another.”

“No, sir; they’re one and the same thing!”

“All right, son; have it your own way. Now, if you’re ready to get ready, skittle off to your chain of drug stores, and run down a henbane purchase by any citizen of this little old town, or adjacent boroughs.”

Fibsy went off. He had recovered from the sense of annoyance at being chaffed by Stone, but it made him more resolved than ever to prove the strange theory he had formed. He didn’t dignify his idea by the name of theory, but he was doggedly sticking to a notion which, he hoped, would bring forth some strange developments and speedily.

Laying aside his own plans for the moment, he went about Stone’s business, and had little difficulty in finding the nearby druggist whom Hendricks frequently patronized.

“Alvord Hendricks? Sure he trades here,” said the dapper young clerk. “He buys mostly shaving-cream and tooth-paste, but here’s where he buys it.”

“Righto! And, say, a month or so ago, he bought some hyoscine—”

“Oh, no, excuse me, he did not! That’s not sold hit or miss. But maybe you mean hyoscyamine. That’s another thing.”

“Why, maybe I do. Look up the sale, can’t you, and make sure.”

“Why should I?”

Fibsy explained that in the interests of a police investigation it might be better to acquiesce than to question why, and the young man proved obliging.

So Terence McGuire learned that Alvord Hendricks bought some hyoscyamine, on a doctor’s prescription, about a month ago—the same to be used to relieve a serious case of earache.

But there was no record of his having bought hyoscyarnus, which was the deadly henbane used in the medicine dropper-nor was there any other record of hyoscyamine against him.

Satisfied that he had learned all he could, Fibsy continued his round of drug-store visits, in an ever-widening circle, but got no information on any henbane sales whatever.

“Nothin’ doin’,” he told himself. “Whoever squirted that henbane from that squirter into that ear—brought said henbane from a distance, which, to my mind, indicates a far-seeing and intelligent reasoning power.”

His present duty done, he started forth on his own tour of investigation. He went to a small boarding house, in an inconspicuous street, the address of which had been given him by Mr. Barton, and asked for Mr. Hanlon.

“He ain’t home,” declared the frowning landlady who opened the door.

“I know it,” returned Fibsy, nonchalantly, “but I gotta go up to his room a minute. He sent me.”

“How do I know that?”

“That’s so, how do you?” Fibsy’s grin was sociable. “Well, look here, I guess this’ll fix it. I’m errand boy to—you know who—” he winked mysteriously, “to the man he takes his acrobat lessons off of.”

“Oh,” the woman looked frightened. “Hush up—it’s all right. Only don’t mention no names. Go on upstairs—third floor front.”

“Yep,” and Fibsy went quietly up the stairs.

Hanlon’s room was not locked, but a big wardrobe inside was—and nothing else was of interest to the visitor. He picked at the lock with his knife, but to no avail.

As he stood looking wistfully at the wardrobe door, a cheerful voice sounded behind him:

“I’ll open it for you—what do you want out of it?”

Fibsy looked up quickly, to see Hanlon himself, smiling at him. Quick to take a cue, the boy didn’t show any embarrassment, but putting out his hand said, “How do you do, Mr. Hanlon?”

“Fine. How’s yourself? And why the sneak visit, my boy?”

Fibsy looked his questioner square in the eye, and then said, “Oh, well, I s’pose I may as well speak right out.”

“You sure may. Either tell the truth, or put up such a convincing lie that I’ll think it’s the truth. Go ahead.”

“Here goes, then,” Fibsy made a quick decision, that Hanlon was too keen to stand for any lie. “I’m engaged on the Embury murder case.”

“I know that’s true—though it’s hard to believe.”

Fibsy chose to ignore this dig, and went on. “I’m here because I want to see how you’re mixed up in it.”

“Oh, you do! Why not ask me?”

“All right, I ask you. How are you connected with the murder of Sanford Embury?”

“Will anything I say be used against me?” Hanlon’s tone was jocular, but he was staring hard at Fibsy’s face.

“If it’s usable,” was the nonchalant reply.

“Well, use it if you can. I’m mixed up in the matter, as you put it, because I’m trying to find the murderer on my own account.”

“Why do you want the murderer on your own account?”

“I didn’t agree to answer more than one question. But I will. I don’t want the murderer particularly—but I’m interested in the case. I’ve the detective instinct myself—and I thought if I could track down the villain—I might get a reward—”

“Is there one offered?”

“Not that I know of—but I daresay either Mr. Elliott or Mr. Hendricks would willingly pay to have the murderer found.”

“Why those two? Why not Mrs. Embury?”

“Innocent child! Those two are deeply, desperately, darkly in love with the—the widow.”

“Let’s leave her out of this!”

“Ha, ha! a squire of dames, eh? and at your age! All right—leave the lady’s name out. But I’ve confessed my hidden purpose. Now tell me what brings you to my domicile, on false pretenses, and why do I find you on the point of breaking into my wardrobe?”

“Truth does it! I wanted to see if I could find a false beard and a white turban.”

“Oh, you did! And what good would that do you? You have cleverly discerned that I assumed an innocent disguise, in order to give aid and comfort to a most worthy dame of advanced years.”

“You did but why?”

“Are you Paul Pry? You’ll drive me crazy with your eternal ‘why?’“

“All right, go crazy, then—but, why?”

“The same old reason,” and Hanlon spoke seriously. “I’m trying, as I said, to find the Embury murderer, and I contrived that session with the old lady in hopes of learning something to help me in finding him.”

“And did you?”

“I learned that she is a harmless, but none the less, positively demented woman. I learned that she deceives herself—in a way, hypnotizes herself, and she believes she sees and hears things that she does not see and hear.”

“And tastes them? and smells them?”

“There, too, she deceives herself. Surely, you don’t take in that story of her ‘vision’?”

“I believe she believes it.”

“Yes, so do I. Now, look here, McGuire; I’m a good-natured sort, and I’m willing to overlook this raid of yours, if you’ll join forces. I can help you, but only if you’re frank and honest in whacking up with whatever info you have. I know something—you know something—will you go in cahoots?”

“I would, Mr. Hanlon,” and Fibsy looked regretful, “if I was my own boss. But, you see, I’m under orders. I’m F. Stone’s helper—and I’ll tell you what he says I may—and that’s all.”

“That goes. I don’t want any more than your boss lets you spill. And now, honest, what did you come here for?”

“To look in that wardrobe, as I said.”

“Why, bless your heart, child, you’re welcome to do that.”

Hanlon drew a key from his pocket, and flung the wardrobe door wide.

“There you are—go to it!”

Swiftly, but methodically, Fibsy took down every article of wearing apparel the wardrobe contained, glanced at it and returned it, Hanlon looking on with an amused expression on his face.

“Any incriminating evidence?” he said at last, as Fibsy hung up the final piece of clothing.

“Not a scrap,” was the hearty reply. “If I don’t get more evidence offen somebody else than I do from you, I’ll go home empty-handed!”

“Let me help you,” and Hanlon spoke kindly; “I’ll hunt evidence with you.”

“Some day, maybe. I’ve got to-day all dated up. And, say, why did you tell me you wasn’t a steeplejack painter, when you are?”

“You’re right, I am. But I don’t want it known, because I’m going to branch out in a new field soon, and I don’t want that advertised at present.”

“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!”