In the days that followed Judy learned that the mere mention of the stranger’s name, Dale Meredith, would cause either girl to cease worrying about a home or about a career, as the case might be.
“It’s almost magical,” she said to herself and had to admit that the spell was also upon her. Perhaps a dozen times a day she would puzzle over the torn papers in her pocketbook. But then, it was Judy’s nature to puzzle over things. It was for that reason that she usually chose detective stories whenever she sat down with a book. That hammock up there on the roof garden was an invitation to read, and soon Judy and Irene had finished all the suitable stories in Dr. Faulkner’s library. They had seen a few shows, gazed at a great many tall buildings, and found New York, generally, less thrilling from the street than it had been from the roof garden.
Pauline sensed this and worried about entertaining her guests. “How would you like to go and see Grant’s Tomb today?” she suggested.
“For Heaven’s sake, think of something a little more exciting than that,” Judy exclaimed thoughtlessly. “I’d rather find a library somewhere and then lie and read something in the hammock.”
“So would I,” agreed Irene, relieved that Judy hadn’t wanted to see the tomb.
“Well, if a library’s all you want,” Pauline said, “why not walk along with me and I’ll show you one on my way to school.”
“A big one?” Judy asked.
“No, just a small one. In fact, it’s only a bookshop with a circulating library for its customers.”
Judy sighed. It would seem nice to see something small for a change. She never recognized this library at all until they were almost inside the door. Then her eyes shone.
What an interesting place it was! On the counters were quaint gifts and novelties as well as books. The salesladies all wore smocks, like artists, and had the courtesy to leave the girls alone. Pauline had to hurry on to school but left Judy and Irene to browse. Before long they had discovered a sign reading MYSTERY AND ADVENTURE. That was what Judy liked. Rows and rows of new books, like soldiers, marched along the shelves.
“What a lot of flying stories,” Irene said, absently removing one of them from its place.
“And murder mysteries,” Judy added. “It’s always a temptation to read them. Murders in Castle Stein.…”
She started back as her eye caught the author’s name.
It was Dale Meredith!
CHAPTER III
A DARING SCHEME
Thrilled by her discovery, Judy removed the torn pieces of telegram from her purse and began unraveling the mystery, bit by bit. Irene looked on, trembling with excitement.
“‘CUT ART SHOP ROBBERY STOP FIFTY THOUSAND IS PLENTY STOP.…’ Art Shop Robbery! That sounds like a title! And someone wanted him to cut it to fifty thousand words—just a nice length for a book. That must have been what he was doing on the bus, cutting down the number of words on those typewritten pages.”
“Why, of course,” Irene agreed. “I always knew you were gifted, Judy, but can you explain this?” She pointed.
“‘ONE MAN MURDERED INTERESTS RANDALL.…’ Easy as pie! Another title and a publisher.”
Judy tossed her head with a self-satisfied air of importance. Every one of their questions might be answered in the classified directory.
They found a telephone booth near by and a directory on the shelf beside it. Promptly turning to the list of publishing houses, Judy’s finger traveled down one complete page and half of another, but no Randall could she find. With a sigh of disappointment she turned to look again at the telegram:
DISCUSS TERMS MONDAY
EMILY GRIMSHAW
What sort of person was she? A relative? No. Relatives didn’t discuss terms with authors. Wives and sweethearts didn’t either. They might discuss his books, but not terms. Anyway Irene hoped that Dale Meredith had no wife or sweetheart, certainly not a sweetheart with a name like Emily Grimshaw. That name sounded as harsh to the ears as Dale Meredith sounded musical.
Flipping the pages of the directory, Judy came upon the answer to their question:
AUTHOR’S AGENTS (See Literary Agents).
“That might be it!”
She turned to the place and, beginning at the top of the page, both girls searched eagerly through the G’s.
“Greenspan, Grier, Grimshaw.…”
The name was Emily and the address was a number on Madison Square. Irene was so excited that she declared she could feel her heart thumping under her slip-on sweater.
“I’d give anything to meet him again, Judy! Anything!”
And suddenly Judy wanted to meet him too, not for her own sake but for Irene’s. A bold plan began to take shape in her mind. If she and Irene found positions in Emily Grimshaw’s office Dale Meredith would never know that it had not been a simple coincidence. It would be such fun—this scheming. It would give them something to do and if Judy’s plan worked it might even solve the problem of Pauline’s career.
“Of course Emily Grimshaw may not hire us,” Judy said after she had outlined the scheme and won Irene’s approval. “But, at any rate, it’s worth trying. We won’t need to tell her it’s only for a few weeks when Pauline will be there to step right into the position. I wonder how you get to Madison Square.”
She stopped a policeman to ask him and found it to be within easy walking distance.
“We might as well go now,” Irene agreed.
Perhaps if they thought about it too long they might lose heart and not attempt it.
The literary agent’s office was located in an old hotel on the northeast side of the square. The building looked as if it had been unchanged for a century. In the lobby Judy and Irene paused, surveying the quaint furniture and mural decorations before they mustered enough courage to inquire at the desk for Emily Grimshaw.
“Who’s calling?” the clerk asked tartly.
“Tell her—” Judy hesitated. “Tell her it’s two girls to see her on business.”
The message was relayed over the switchboard and presently the clerk turned and said, “She will see one of you. First stairway to the left. Fourth floor.”
“Only one—” Judy began.
“She always sees one client at a time. The other girl can wait.”
“That’s right. I—I’ll wait,” Irene stammered.
“But you wanted the position—”
“I don’t now. Suppose she asked about experience.”
“You’ve had a little. You stand a better chance than I do.”
“Not with your nerve, Judy,” Irene said. “This place gives me the shivers. You’re welcome to go exploring dark halls if you like. I’d rather sit here in the lobby and read Dale Meredith’s book.”
“Oh, so that’s it? Make yourself comfortable,” Judy advised with a laugh. “I may be gone a long, long time.”
“Not if she finds out how old you are.”
“Hush!” Judy reproved. “Don’t I look dignified?”
She tilted her hat a little more to the left and dabbed a powder puff on her nose. The puff happened not to have any powder on it but it gave her a grown-up, courageous feeling. And she was to have a great need of courage in the hour that followed.
CHAPTER IV
HOW THE SCHEME WORKED
The adventure lost some of its thrill with no one to share it. Judy hadn’t an idea in the world how to find the fourth floor as she could see no stairway and no elevator.
Taking a chance, she opened one of several doors. It opened into a closet where cleaning supplies were kept. Judy glanced at the dusty floor and wondered if anybody ever used them.
This was fun! She tried another door and found it locked. But the third door opened into a long hall at the end of which was the stairway.
“A regular labyrinth, this place,” she thought as she climbed. “I wonder if
Emily Grimshaw will be as queer as her hotel.”
There were old-fashioned knockers on all the doors, and Judy noticed that no two of them were alike. Emily Grimshaw had her name on the glass door of her suite, and the knocker was in the shape of a witch hunched over a steaming caldron. Judy lifted it and waited.
“Who’s there?” called a mannish voice from within.
“Judy Bolton. They told me at the desk that you would see me.”
“Come on in, then. Don’t stand there banging the knocker.”
“I beg your pardon,” Judy said meekly as she entered. “I didn’t quite understand.”
“It’s all right. Who sent you?”
“Nobody. I came myself. I found your name in the classified directory.”
“Oh, I see. Another beginner.”
Emily Grimshaw sat back in her swivel chair and scrutinized Judy. She was a large woman dressed in a severely plain brown cloth dress with sensible brown shoes to match. Her iron-gray hair was knotted at the back of her head. In fact, the only mark of distinction about her whole person was the pair of glasses perched on the high bridge of her nose and the wide, black ribbon suspended from them. Although an old woman, her face was not wrinkled. What few lines she had were deep furrows that looked as if they belonged there. Judy could imagine Emily Grimshaw as a middle-aged woman but never as a girl.
The room was, by no means, a typical office. If it had not been for the massive desk littered with papers and the swivel chair it would not have looked like an office at all. Three of the four walls were lined with bookshelves.
“Is this where you do all your work?” Judy asked.
“And why not? It’s a good enough place.”
“Of course,” Judy explained herself quickly. “But I supposed you would have girls working for you. It must keep you busy doing all this yourself.”
“Hmm! It does. I like to be busy.”
Judy took a deep breath. How, she wondered, was she to put her proposition before this queer old woman without seeming impudent. It was the first time in her life she had ever offered her services to anyone except her father.
“You use a typewriter,” she began.
“Look here, young woman,” Emily Grimshaw turned on her suddenly, “if you’re a writer, say so. And if you’ve come here looking for a position—”
“That’s it exactly,” Judy interrupted. “I’m sure I could be of some service to you.”
“What?”
“I might typewrite letters for you.”
“I do that myself. Haven’t the patience to dictate them.”
“Perhaps I could help you read and correct manuscripts,” Judy suggested hopefully.
The agent seemed insulted. “Humph!” she grunted. “Much you know about manuscripts!”
“I may know more than you think,” Judy came back at her. It was hard to be patient with this irritable old lady. Certainly she would never have chosen such an employer if it had not been for the possibility of meeting Dale Meredith again. Irene had taken such a fancy to him.
“Lucky she doesn’t know that,” thought Judy as she watched her fumbling through a stack of papers on her desk. Finally she produced a closely written page of note paper and handed it to the puzzled girl.
“If you know so much about manuscripts,” she charged. “What would you do with a page like that?”
Half hoping that the handwriting was Dale Meredith’s, Judy reached out an eager hand. The agent was watching her like a cat and, as she read, a hush settled over the room. Emily Grimshaw was putting Judy to a test.
CHAPTER V
THE TEST
The paper that Judy held in her hand was a jumble of morbid poetry written in what could have been a beautiful hand. Actually, it was an almost unreadable scrawl. In some places the rhymes were in perfect sequence, but in others the poet had wandered away from what must have been the theme to play with words that apparently amused her. Finally Judy made out this much:
When Love turns thief, grief, sheaf, oh, disbelief
’Tis memories that sting, ring, cling like anything.
When Joy departs, starts, smarts, makes broken hearts…
Too close I kept you, Joy.
Should I have shared my toy?
Tossed you to human tomcats to destroy?
They say you’re dead. They lie!
You cannot die!
You drifted off in air
To share
Your hair
Your fair white skin,
The very dress you wear.
IT’S MINE! YOU’RE MINE!
I’ll find you if I choke
In smoke…
My Joy my toy my Joy my toy my Joy JOY JOY
My head’s on fire!
’Tis memories that burn.
Better to crumble in a tower of flame
Than sit with ghosts awaiting your return.
How could anyone crumble in a tower of flame, Judy wondered. Oh, well, she supposed it was just a lot of melancholy words jumbled together to give the reader the creeps. Certainly she was not going to give Emily Grimshaw the satisfaction of knowing that it had impressed her.
“With the poet’s permission,” she looked up and said, “I would take out a few lines and then type the poem on a clean sheet of paper.”
“I have the poet’s permission,” Emily Grimshaw replied shortly. And, after a pause, “What lines would you take out?”
“Half of some of them and all of this one.” Judy pointed. “The words ‘Joy’ and ‘toy’ are repeated too many times.”
“That’s the first thing one notices,” the old lady replied, evidently pleased with Judy’s suggestion. “How do you like that poetry?”
“I don’t like it,” the girl replied frankly. “It sounds as if the writer had a distorted idea of life. It depresses a person just to read it.”
“There are people who like to be depressed.”
“I suppose so,” Judy answered wearily. She could see that the conversation was getting them nowhere, and Irene must be dreadfully tired of waiting. Besides, she did not care to stand and argue with as queer a person as Emily Grimshaw seemed to be. Why, she was more peculiar, even, than the matron at camp or the queer old lady who ran the dog and cat hospital.
“Would you like me to sit down and type the poem for you now?” Judy suggested. “Then you could see exactly what I mean.”
The old lady consented with a wave of her hand, and Judy set to work. The task was not an easy one, and when she had finished cutting out all the queer-sounding lines the poem was about half its original length. Hardly knowing whether to expect praise or criticism, she handed the revised poem to Emily Grimshaw and waited while she read:
When Love turns thief ’tis memories that sting;
When Joy departs ’tis memories that burn.
Better to crumble in a tower of flame
Than sit with ghosts awaiting your return.
“These are the four best lines,” Judy pointed out when she had finished reading. “I took out parts of the first three lines and switched the last three over toward the beginning. It’s more coherent that way if anyone should ever try to figure it out. But the middle stanza must either stay as it is or be taken out entirely. Which do you think, Miss Grimshaw?”
“I’d take it out,” she declared. “There’s too much truth in it.”
Too much truth? A person who could not die! Who drifted off in air! Judy would have said exactly the opposite. It was too impossible.
“Didn’t the poet explain what she meant when the manuscript was delivered?” she asked.
“Explain it! Humph! Jasper Crosby expects me to explain it. He’s the poet’s brother,” the agent pointed out. “He brings me the stuff in just such a jumble as this.”
The pile before her on
the desk eloquently illustrated the word “jumble.” Old envelopes, bills, sales sheets, anything that happened to be about, had been used for the poet’s snatches of verse.
“It must take a lot of time to rearrange them,” Judy ventured.
“Time! That’s just it. Time and patience, too. But Jasper Crosby cares as much about the value of my time as a newborn baby. He never talks except in terms of dollars and cents. ‘What can you make out of this?’ ‘How much do we get out of that?’ And expects me to rewrite half of it! It’s trying my patience to the limit, I can tell you. If I weren’t so fond of the poet I would have given it up years ago. Her verses used to be of quite a different type. You know Golden Girl?”
“You mean the popular song? Of course I do.”
“Well, she wrote that twenty years ago. It’s just recently been set to music.”
Judy was becoming interested. As well as holding a promise of many new and charming acquaintances for herself and the other two girls the work was sure to be fascinating. Emily Grimshaw seemed pleased with the changes she had made in the poem, but it was best not to hurry her decision. Judy could see that she needed an assistant, but to make the agent see it also would require tact and patience.
In the course of another half hour Emily Grimshaw had made up her mind. Judy was to report at her office the following day. No mention had been made of Irene as Judy knew her chances of holding the position were slim enough without asking an additional favor. But she felt sure that her new employer would not object to the presence of both girls in the office after she had grown accustomed to the idea of being helped.
“And if she does object,” Irene said cheerfully, “I’ll apply for a position with Dale Meredith’s publisher.”
Eager to tell Pauline of their adventure, they walked toward the subway entrance and arrived just as the school girls were coming home.
“We found out who that man we met on the bus is,” Judy announced the moment she saw Pauline. “He’s an author and has written stacks and stacks of books. We bought one to read in our spare time.”
“Really?”
“It’s the honest truth,” Irene declared. “I read ten chapters today while I was waiting for Judy. And what do you think? She has accepted a position in Emily Grimshaw’s office.”
The Third Girl Detective Page 29