Raspberry Jam Part 46

"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 embarra.s.sment, 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 a.s.sumed 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?"