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<h3 align="center">Chapter XI Fifi</h3> “Oh, yes, indeed, Mr. Shane, Mrs. Embury is a dear friend of mine—a very, very dear friend—and I’d so gladly go to see her—and comfort her—console with her—and try to cheer her up—but—well, I asked her last night, over the telephone, to let me go to see her to-day—and—she—she—” Mrs. Desternay’s pretty blue eyes filled with tears, and her pretty lips quivered, and she dabbed a sheer little handkerchief here and there on her countenance. Then she took up her babbling again. “Oh, I don’t mean she was unfriendly or—or cross, you know—but she was a little—well, curt, almost—I might say, cool. And I’m one of her dearest friends—and I can’t quite understand it.” “Perhaps you must make allowances for Mrs. Embury,” Shane suggested. “Remember the sudden and mysterious death of her husband must have been a fearful shock—” “Oh, terrible! Yes, indeed, I do appreciate all that! And of course when I telephoned last evening, she had just had that long interview with you—and your other detective, Mr. What’s-his-name—and—oh, yes, Mr. Elliott answered my call and he told me just how things were—but I did think dear Eunice would want to see me—but it’s all right—of course, if she doesn’t want my sympathy. I’m the last one to intrude on her grief! But she has no one—no one at all—except that old aunt, who’s half foolish, I think—” “What do you mean, half foolish?” “Oh, she’s hipped over those psychic studies of hers, and she’s all wrapped up in Spiritualism and occult thingamajigs—I don’t know what you call ‘em.” “She seems to me a very sane and practical lady.” “In most ways—yes; but crazy on the subject of spooks, and mediums and things like that! Oh, Mr. Shane, who do you suppose killed Mr. Embury? How awful! To have a real murder right in one’s owns circle of acquaintances—I had almost said friends—but dear Eunice doesn’t seem to look on me as her friend—” The blue eyes made a bid for sympathy, and Shane, though not always at ease in the presence of society ladies, met her half way. “Now, that’s a pity, Mrs. Desternay! I’m sure you’d be the greatest help to her in her trouble.” Fifi Desternay raised her hands and let them fall with a pretty little gesture of helplessness. She was a slip of a thing, and—it was the morning of the day after the Embury tragedy—she was garbed in a scant but becoming negligee, and had received the detective in her morning room, where she sat, tucked into the corner of a great davenport sofa, smoking cigarettes. Her little face was delicately made up, and her soft, fair hair was in blobs over her ears. For the rest, the effect was mostly a rather low V’d neck and somewhat evident silk stockings and beribboned mules. She continually pulled her narrow satin gown about her, and it as continually slipped away from her lace petticoat, as she crossed and recrossed her silken legs. She was entirely unself-conscious and yet, the detective felt instinctively that she carefully measured every one of the words she so carelessly uttered. “Well, Mr. Shane,” she said, suddenly, “we’re not getting anywhere. Just exactly what did you come here for? What do you want of me?” The detective was grateful for this assistance. “I came,” he stated, without hesitation, “to ask you about the circumstances of the party which Mrs. Embury attended here night before last, the night her husband—died.” “Oh, yes; let me see—there isn’t much to tell. Eunice Embury spent the evening here—we had a game of cards—and, before supper was served, Mr. Embury called for her and took her home—in their car. That’s all I know about it.” “What was the card game?” “Bridge.” “For high stakes?” “Oh, mercy, no! We never really gamble!” The fluttering little hands deprecated the very idea. “We have just a tiny stake—to—why, only to make us play a better game. It does, you know.” “Yes’m. And what do you call a tiny stake? Opinions differ, you know.” “And so do stakes!” The blue eyes flashed a warning. “Of course, we don’t always play for the same. Indeed, the sum may differ at the various tables. Are you prying into my private affairs?” “Only so far as I’m obliged to, ma’am. Never mind the bridge for the moment. Was Mr. Embury annoyed with his wife—for any reason—when he called to take her home?” “Now, how should I know that?” a pretty look of perplexity came into the blue eyes. “I’m not a mind reader!” “You’re a woman! Was Mr. Embury put out?” Fifi laughed a ringing peal. “Was he?” she cried, as if suddenly deciding to tell the truth. “I should say he was! Why, he was so mad I was positively afraid of him!” “What did he say?” “That’s just it! He didn’t say anything! Oh, he spoke to me pleasantly—he was polite, and all that, but I could see that he was simply boiling underneath!” “You are a mind reader, then!” “I didn’t have to be, to see that!” The little figure rocked back and forth on the sofa, as, with arms clasped round one knee, Fifi gave way to a dramatic reconstruction of the scene. “‘Come, Eunice,’ he said, just like that! And you bet Eunice went!” “Was she angry, too?” “Rather! Oh, you know her temper is something fierce! When she’s roused, she’s like a roaring lion and a raging bear—as it says in the Bible—or Shakespeare, or somewhere.”‘ “Speaking of Shakespeare, you and Mrs. Embury went to see ‘Hamlet’ recently, I believe.” “Oh, yes; when the Avon Players put it on. Everybody went. Didn’t you? You missed it, if you didn’t! Most marvelous performance. ‘Macbeth,’ too. That was perfectly darling! I went to that with—” “Excuse me. As to ‘Hamlet,’ now. Did you notice particularly the speech about the poisoning of—” “Of Hamlet’s father! I should say I did! Why, that speech by Mr. Postlewaite—he was ‘The Ghost,’ you know—was stunning, as much applauded as the ‘Soliloquy’ itself! He fairly made you see that poisoning scene!” “Was Mrs. Embury interested?” “Oh, we both were! We were at school together, and we both loved Shakespeare—we took it ‘Special.’ And we were terribly interested in the Avon Players’ ‘Hamlet’—it was unlike any representation we had ever seen.” “Ah—yes; and did you—you and Mrs. Embury—discuss the poison used by the wicked uncle?” “Not lately. But in class we discussed that—years ago—oh, that’s one of the regulation Shakespearean puzzles. You can’t trip us up on our Shakespeare—either of us! I doubt if you can find two frivolous society women who know it better than we do!” “Did you know that Mr. Embury was killed in a manner identical with the Hamlet murder?” “No! What do you mean? I’ve really not heard the details. As soon as I heard of his death, I called up Eunice, but, as I said, she wasn’t cordial at all. Then I was busy with my own guests after that—last night and this morning—well, I’m really hardly awake yet!” Fifi rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand—a childish gesture, and daintily smothered a slight yawn. “But I’m awfully interested,” she went on, “only—only I can’t bear to hear about—a—murder! The details, I mean. I should think Eunice would go crazy! I should think she’d be glad to come here—I was going to ask her, when she called me down! But, what do you mean—killed like Hamlet’s father?” “Yes; there was poison introduced into his ear as Mr. Embury slept—” “Really! How tragic; How terrible! Who did it?” “That’s what we’re trying to discover. Could—do you think Mrs. Embury could have had sufficient motive—” “Eunice!” Fifi screamed. “What an idea! Eunice Embury to kill her own husband! Oh, no!” “But only she and that aunt of hers had opportunity. You know how their bedrooms are?” “Oh, yes, I know. Miss Ames is using Eunice’s dressing-room—and a nuisance it is, too.” “Then you know that at night those three bedrooms are shut off from the rest of the house by strong bolts on the inside of the doors.” “Yes, I know.” “Then, don’t you see, as Mr. Embury was killed—the doctors say about daybreak, or earlier—nobody could have done it except somebody who was behind those locked doors.” “The windows?” “Tenth story, and no balconies. And, too, they all have flower-boxes, except one, and the flowers were undisturbed. The one that hasn’t a flower-box is on the side street, in Miss Ames’ room. And that—I looked out myself—has no balcony, nor even a broad ledge. It couldn’t be reached from the next apartment—if that’s what you’re thinking of.” “I’m not thinking of anything,” returned Fifi. “I’m too dazed to think! Eunice Embury! Do you mean she is really suspected?” “I mean that, very decidedly, ma’am. And I am here to ask you if you can give any additional evidence, any—” “Any evidence! Evidence against my dear friend! Why, man, if I knew anything, I wouldn’t tell it, if it would go against Eunice!” “Oh, yes, you would; the law would force you to. But do you know anything definite?” “No, of course, I don’t! I know that Mr. and Mrs. Embury were not always cooing like turtle-doves! She had the devil’s own temper—and he wasn’t much better! I know he drove her frantic because he wouldn’t give her some privileges she wanted—wouldn’t allow her certain latitudes, and was generally pretty dictatorial. I know Eunice resented this, and I know that lots of times she was pretty nearly at the end of her rope, and she said all sorts of things—that, of course, she didn’t mean—but she wouldn’t kill him! Oh, I don’t think she would do that!” “H’m! So they lived like cats and dogs, did they?” “What an awful way to put it! But, well, Sanford didn’t make Eunice’s life a bed of roses—nor did she go out of her way to please him!” “Mr. Embury was often a guest here?” “He was not! Eunice came here, against his will—against his expressed commands.” “Oho! She did! And her visit here night before last—that was an act of insubordination?” “It was! I wouldn’t tell this—but it’s sure to come out. Yes, he had especially and positively forbidden her to come to that party here, and after he went to his club—Eunice ran away from home and came. Naughty girl! She told us she had played hookey, when she first came in! But, good gracious, Mr. Shane, that was no crime! In this day and generation a wife may disobey her husband—and get away with it!” The arch little face smiled saucily, and Fifi cuddled into her corner, and again fell a-thinking. “I can’t believe you really mean you think Eunice did it!” she broke out. “Why, what are you going to do? Arrest her?” “Not quite. Although she is under strict surveillance at present.” “What! Can’t she go out, if she likes?” “No.” “How perfectly absurd! Oh, I’ve a notion to telephone and ask her to go for a drive. What fun!” Shane looked at the mischievous face in astonishment. He was experienced in human nature, but this shallow, frivolous attitude toward a tragedy was new to him. “I thought you and Mrs. Embury were friends,” he said, reprovingly. “Oh, we are—Or rather, we were. I’m not sure I can know her—after this! But, you see, I can’t take it seriously. I can’t really believe you mean that you think Eunice—guilty! Why, I’d a thousand times rather suspect the old aunt person!” “You would!” Shane spoke eagerly. “Could that be possible?” “It could be possible this way,” Fifi was serious now. “You see, Miss Ames adores Eunice. She found it hard to forgive Sanford for his tyrannical ways—and they were tyrannical. And Miss Ames might have, by way of ridding Eunice from a cruel husband—might have—oh, I can’t say it—it sounds too absurd! But, after all, it’s no more absurd than to suspect Eunice. Why don’t you look for somebody else?” “How could anybody get in?” “I know,” impatiently; “but I’ve read detective stories, and ‘most always, the murder is committed in what they call ‘a hermetically sealed room,’ and yet somebody did get in!” “There’s no such thing as a hermetically sealed room! Don’t you know what hermetically sealed means?” “Yes, of course I do, literally. But that phrase is used—in detective stories, to mean an inaccessible room. Or a seemingly inaccessible one. But always it comes out that it could be entered.” “That’s all very well in fiction, ma’am; but it won’t work in this case. Why, I looked over those door locks myself. Nobody could get in.” “Well, leaving aside the way they got in, let’s see whom we can suspect. There’s two men that I know of who are dead in love with Mrs. Embury—and I daresay there are a lot more, who can see a silver lining in this cloud!” “What—what do you mean?” Shane was fascinated by the lovely personality of Mrs. Desternay, and he began to think that she might be of some real help to him. Though a skilled detective, he was of the plodding sort, and never had brilliant or even original ideas. He had had a notion it would have been better to send Driscoll on this errand he was himself attempting, but a touch of jealousy of the younger and more quick-witted man made him determine to attend to Mrs. Desternay himself. “Well, Mr. Stupid, if you were in the presence of Mrs. Embury and Mr. Elliott and Mr. Hendricks,—as you said you were—and didn’t size up how matters stand with those two men, you are a queer sort of detective!” Her light laughter rippled pleasantly, and Shane forgave her reproof by reason of her charm. “Both of them?” he said, helplessly. “Yes, sir, both of them!” She mimicked his tone. “You see, Mr. Shane, it’s an old romance, all ‘round. When Eunice Ames was a girl, three men fought for her hand, the two we’ve just mentioned, and Mr. Embury, who was the successful suitor. And he succeeded only by sheer force of will. He practically stole her from the other two and married her out of hand.” “I suppose the lady agreed?” “Of course, but it was a marriage in haste, and—I imagine that it was followed by the proverbial consequences.” “What do you mean?” asked the dull-witted Shane. “That they repented at leisure. At least, Eunice did—I don’t believe Sanford ever regretted.” “But those two men are Embury’s friends.” “Sure they are! Oh, friend Shane, were you born yesterday? I thought detectives were a little more up-to-date than that! Of course, they’re all friends, always have been, since they made mud-pies together in their Boston backyards.” “Did you belong to that childish group? “Me? Lord, no! I’m Simon Pure Middle West! And I glory in it! I’d hate to be of New England descent—you have to live up to traditions and things! I’m a law unto myself, when it comes to life and living!” “And you met Mrs. Embury?” “At boarding-school. We spent four years together—chums, and all that. Then after we were both married, we drifted together again, here in New York—and somehow Eunice’s husband didn’t take to poor little Fifi one bit! I wonder why!” Her look of injured innocence was charming, and Shane had to make an effort to keep to the subject in hand. “So those two men admire Mrs. Embury?” “Admire is a silly word! They adore her—they worship the ground she walks on! They are, no doubt, decently decorous at the passing of their old friend, but as soon as the funeral baked meats are cold enough, look out for a marriage table on which to serve them!” “Did—did Mr. Embury realize that his friends so admired his wife?” “Probably. Yes, of course, he did. But he didn’t care. She was his—she gave them no encouragement—such things aren’t done—” Fifi’s eyes rolled upward—“and, I only tell you, to show you that there are, at least, other directions in which to look!” “But—let me see—Mr. Hendricks was in Boston at the time of Mr. Embury’s death.” “Then that lets him out. And Mr. Elliott? Where was he?” “I haven’t made definite inquiry. Probably he—” “Probably he has an alibi! Oh, yes, of course he has! And if he killed Sanford Embury, he’s more likely than ever to have a fine alibi! Look here, Mr. Shane, I believe I could give you cards and spades and beat you at your little detective games!” “You mix me all up, with your ridiculous suggestions!” Shane tried to speak sternly, but was forced to smile at the roguish, laughing face that mocked him. “All right, play your own game. I tried to help, by suggesting more suspects—in a multitude of suspects there is safety—for our dear Eunice! And she never did it! If you can’t contrive a way for either of those two men to get through those bolted doors, then turn your eagle eyes toward Aunt Abby! She’s a queer Dick—if you ask me, and Eunice Embury—well, I admit I resent her coolness last night, but I freely own up that I think her incapable of such a crime.” “But you two discussed the poisoning business in the play—” “We did. But we discussed lots of other points about that play and compared it with other presentations we have seen, and, oh, you’re too absurd to hang a murder on that woman, just because she saw a murder on the stage—or rather heard the description of one!” “But that’s the coincidence! She did hear that murder described fully. She did talk it over with you. She did show a special interest in it. Then, a week or so later, her husband is killed by identically the same method. She, and she alone—except for a mild old lady—has opportunity to do the deed; the instrument of death is found in her cupboard; and she flies into a rage at the first hint of accusation, of the crime! By the way, if as you hint, one of those men did it, would they leave the medicine dropper that conveyed the poison, in Mrs. Embury’s rooms. Would they want to bring suspicion against the woman they love? Answer me that?” “There might be another solution,” Fifi nodded her wise little head thoughtfully. “Perhaps whoever did it, tried to throw suspicion on Miss Ames.” “That makes him a still more despicable villain. To implicate falsely a harmless old lady—no, I can’t think that.” “Yet you think Mrs. Embury did!” “I don’t know. Perhaps the two women worked in collusion. Or Miss Ames might have wakened and learned the truth, and agreed to keep the secret. In fact, Miss Ames confessed that she did the murder, but we know she was not telling the truth then. However, she knows who did do it—I’ve no doubt of that. Well, Mrs. Desternay, I can’t subscribe to your original, if rather impossible, suggestions, but I thank you for this interview, and I may say you have helped me.” “I have? How? Not against Eunice?” “Never mind, ma’am, I must get off by myself, and straighten out my notes, and see where I stand. Are you going to telephone to Mrs. Embury again?” “No!” and the little head was tossed proudly. “If she wants me, let her call me up. I did my part, now I’ll subside. And, too—if she is—is—oh, I can’t say it! But I’ll wait further developments before I decide just where I stand in regard to Eunice Embury!” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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