The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  On the night when the great raid was to be made Dunne met Wise and his assistants. All the plans were completed and Wise said, at a proper moment:

  “Dunne, you are the detective of the age.”

  At the proper time the detectives one by one stole over to Hoboken. They took up their station, waiting for signals. Oscar had fallen into the wiles of the siren. She had arranged with him to take him to the house—she had played as she supposed a great card. She believed she had the name of every detective engaged on the “shadow” and she became bolder; told our hero she had in the interest of her brother and the detective beguiled one of the gang; informed him that she could introduce him into the house where the whole gang was to meet; that she would be able to identify every man of them. She even professed to have fallen in love with Oscar, played the alluring siren to perfection, and it was in her company that our hero proceeded to Hoboken to be introduced into the house and hidden at a point where he could see and overhear. In talking to Girard the woman had said:

  “I’ve got him dazzled. The man believes in me as he does in his own mother. He is like wax in my hands. I can do with him as I choose.”

  “Are you sure he is not fooling you?”

  “Am I sure? Yes, I am sure. I will have him in that house to-night. You will discover him and drag him forth. The plan will be carried out: At the proper time the riot will commence and in the mêlée down he goes.”

  “I hope it is as you say. I would not chance even on your positive assurance, but Redalli says it is all right, and he is the boss. He takes the responsibility.”

  As intimated, Oscar started for Hoboken in company with the siren and two trusty men followed his steps. Our hero was determined that there should be no miss. He had provided against every possible contingency. He arrived at the house. Oscar had been seemingly persuaded that the siren’s brother was to be their guide, that she had fooled him for his own eventual good. Arrived at the house the siren signaled and a young man, supposed to be the woman’s brother, opened the door. The woman asked:

  “Have they arrived?”

  “No one has arrived yet.”

  “Then I can secrete my friend.”

  “Certainly; but, sister, remember, I am trusting you and believe it is for your and my eventual good that I consent to act in this matter.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “If not you, whom can I trust?”

  “I am acting for your good.”

  To Oscar the woman explained after they had entered the house that she had her brother deceived on a false “steer,” but she added: “You know it is to save him.”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  Oscar was led down the stairs, led to the basement and then to the cellar. A lantern was produced and a door was disclosed, showing that an excavation had been made and a room built under the yard of the house. All the arrangements were very cunningly made. When the door was opened our hero hesitated and the woman asked:

  “What is the matter?”

  In a tone of fearfulness Oscar said:

  “I have been betrayed.”

  “Betrayed?” repeated the woman.

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  “You.”

  The woman laughed and said:

  “But I thought you were a man of courage. Go on; I will go with you.”

  Oscar delayed a moment, making some remark, until he heard a signal—a very tiny signal, but it was big and loud in its suggestions to him. He stepped into the passage and a moment later a second door opened. The secret room was disclosed and at least a dozen masked men who had been seated at a long table arose. At the instant, as our hero recoiled, the cold muzzles of two revolvers were placed on either cheek and a voice said:

  “Go ahead; you can’t back out now.”

  It was a supreme moment of peril. Our hero had friends at hand, but alas! ere his friends could announce themselves the deed of horror might have been perpetrated. It was indeed a critical moment, but Oscar was cool. He stepped forward and was pushed toward a seat, and the men gathered at the table. All sat down also.

  There followed a moment’s silence. Oscar looked around. Near him stood the siren who had allured him into the den, and her whole expression of countenance had changed. She looked like a beautiful fiend as her eyes gleamed with delight and the red glow of triumph flushed her features. She was proud. She had promised to deliver the detective into the hands of his intending assassins, and she had made good her word.

  “So you have betrayed me,” said Oscar.

  “Yes,” answered the woman, “I have betrayed you.”

  “The story about your brother was a lie.”

  “All these gentlemen are my brothers.”

  “And what now, woman?”

  “You have just five minutes to live. You were set to destroy us; we will destroy you.”

  “Poor creature,” said Oscar in a tone of deep commiseration.

  The woman glared, for there was a terrible significance in his tones, and she shouted:

  “Down him and make sure.”

  Alas! the arrangements fortunately were run on seconds, not minutes, or our hero would have been a dead man. As the woman shouted “Down him!” there came a second, voice, stern and commanding:

  “Hold! don’t let a man move or every soul of you dies.”

  There was a tableau at that moment such as never has been equaled on the stage under all the complexity of colored lights. It was a scene never to be forgotten by any of the witnesses, a scene awful in its intensity of dramatic effect. The woman suddenly appeared to become frozen with horror. The men removed their masks in their excitement and their pale visages shone like so many corpses as all leaned forward and listened and looked.

  In the doorway stood two men, armed with repeating rifles. Behind them crowded others, and at that instant every one of those wretches know that defeat and capture stared them in the face. All their labor, all their cunning and their skill had come to naught. All realized that the greatest detective feat on record had been accomplished. All knew that there was no escape, unless quickly with their own hands they freed themselves through the grave.

  The detectives filed into the room, but the siren had recovered her nerve. She saw and realized that she had not played but had been played. Quickly she drew a revolver, aimed at Oscar and fired, but our hero’s quick eye detected her movement. It was not the first time he had dodged a bullet. The woman fired but the one shot. The next instant the darbies were on her tender wrists, and we will add that no resistance was offered. The men, as intimated, were well up in their trade. From the first instant they knew that in plain, vulgar language, their “jig was up.” Every man quietly submitted. Life was dear to them. Every man had been behind prison walls. A surrender meant a return to jail; resistance meant death. They, as stated, all accepted the situation and quietly surrendered.

  Immediately the detectives set to work to gather up their spoils and learn the full value of their wondrous victory. It proved to be a complete victory indeed. All the manufactured stock was secured, the flood of counterfeits was averted, for the well-being of the business community. The plates even that had cost thousands and thousands of dollars were captured. They were never buried in the cellar to be found by some future archæologist. To conclude it was the greatest capture of counterfeiters’ outfit ever made, and to Cad Metti and Oscar belonged all the credit; and from the profession and the government they received it. Dudie Dunne went up to the top as a great officer, and in a future narrative we will relate where these two wonderful people once more entered the field and accomplished great results. We will also tell the romance of the life of the bright, beautiful Italian girl who from choice became a female detective strategist.

  MARY LOUISE, by L. Frank Baum

&n
bsp; (writing as Edith Van Dyne)

  TO YOUNG READERS

  You will like Mary Louise because she is so much like yourself. Mrs. Van Dyne has succeeded in finding a very human girl for her heroine; Mary Louise is really not a fiction character at all. Perhaps you know the author through her “Aunt Jane’s Nieces” stories; then you don’t need to be told that you will want to read all the volumes that will be written about lovable Mary Louise. Mrs. Van Dyne is recognized as one of the most interesting writers for girls to-day. Her success is largely due to the fact that she does not write DOWN to her young readers; she realizes that the girl of to-day does not have to be babied, and that her quick mind is able to appreciate stories that are as well planned and cleverly told as adult fiction.

  That is the theory behind “The Bluebird Books.” If you are the girl who likes books of individuality—wholesome without being tiresome, and full of action without being sensational—then you are just the girl for whom the series is being written. “Mary Louise” is more than a worthy successor to the “Aunt Jane’s Nieces Series”—it has merit which you will quickly recognize.

  CHAPTER I

  JUST AN ARGUMENT

  “It’s positively cruel!” pouted Jennie Allen, one of a group of girls occupying a garden bench in the ample grounds of Miss Stearne’s School for Girls, at Beverly.

  “It’s worse than that; it’s insulting,” declared Mable Westervelt, her big dark eyes flashing indignantly.

  “Doesn’t it seem to reflect on our characters?” timidly asked Dorothy Knerr.

  “Indeed it does!” asserted Sue Finley. “But here comes Mary Louise; let’s ask her opinion.”

  “Phoo! Mary Louise is only a day scholar,” said Jennie. “The restriction doesn’t apply to her at all.”

  “I’d like to hear what she says, anyhow,” remarked Dorothy. “Mary Louise has a way of untangling things, you know.”

  “She’s rather too officious to suit me,” Mable Westervelt retorted, “and she’s younger than any of us. One would think, the way she poses as monitor at this second-rate, run-down boarding school, that Mary Louise Burrows made the world.”

  “Oh, Mable! I’ve never known her to pose at all,” said Sue. “But, hush; she mustn’t overhear us and, besides, if we want her to intercede with Miss Stearne we must not offend her.”

  The girl they were discussing came leisurely down a path, her books under one arm, the other hand holding a class paper which she examined in a cursory way as she walked. She wore a dark skirt and a simple shirtwaist, both quite modish and becoming, and her shoes were the admiration and envy of half the girls at the school. Dorothy Knerr used to say that “Mary Louise’s clothes always looked as if they grew on her,” but that may have been partially accounted for by the grace of her slim form and her unconscious but distinctive poise of bearing. Few people would describe Mary Louise Burrows as beautiful, while all would agree that she possessed charming manners. And she was fifteen—an age when many girls are both awkward and shy.

  As she drew near to the group on the bench they ceased discussing Mary Louise but continued angrily to canvass their latest grievance.

  “What do you think, Mary Louise,” demanded Jennie, as the girl paused before them, “of this latest outrage?”

  “What outrage, Jen?” with a whimsical smile at their indignant faces.

  “This latest decree of the tyrant Stearne. Didn’t you see it posted on the blackboard this morning? ‘The young ladies will hereafter refrain from leaving the school grounds after the hour of six p.m., unless written permission is first secured from the Principal. Any infraction of this rule will result in suspension or permanent dismissal.’ We’re determined not to stand for this rule a single minute. We intend to strike for our liberties.”

  “Well,” said Mary Louise reflectively, “I’m not surprised. The wonder is that Miss Stearne hasn’t stopped your evening parades before now. This is a small school in a small town, where everyone knows everyone else; otherwise you’d have been guarded as jealously as if you were in a convent. Did you ever know or hear of any other private boarding school where the girls were allowed to go to town evenings, or whenever they pleased out of school hours?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” snapped Mable, addressing the group. “Mary Louise is always on the wrong side. Other schools are not criterions for this ramshackle establishment, anyhow. We have twelve boarders and four day scholars, and how Miss Stearne ever supports the place and herself on her income is an occult problem that the geometries can’t solve. She pays little Miss Dandler, her assistant, the wages of an ordinary housemaid; the furniture is old and shabby and the classrooms gloomy; the food is more nourishing than feastful and the tablecloths are so patched and darned that it’s a wonder they hold together.”

  Mary Louise quietly seated herself upon the bench beside them.

  “You’re looking on the seamy side, Mable,” she said with a smile, “and you’re not quite just to the school. I believe your parents sent you here because Miss Stearne is known to be a very competent teacher and her school has an excellent reputation of long standing. For twenty years this delightful old place, which was once General Barlow’s residence, has been a select school for young ladies of the best families. Gran’pa Jim says it’s an evidence of good breeding and respectability to have attended Miss Stearne’s school.”

  “Well, what’s that got to do with this insulting order to stay in evenings?” demanded Sue Finley. “You’d better put all that rot you’re talking into a circular and mail it to the mothers of imbecile daughters. Miss Stearne has gone a step too far in her tyranny, as she’ll find out. We know well enough what it means. There’s no inducement for us to wander into that little tucked-up town of Beverly after dinner except to take in the picture show, which is our one innocent recreation. I’m sure we’ve always conducted ourselves most properly. This order simply means we must cut out the picture show and, if we permit it to stand, heaven only knows what we shall do to amuse ourselves.”

  “We’ll do something worse, probably,” suggested Jennie.

  “What’s your idea about it, Mary Louise?” asked Dorothy.

  “Don’t be a prude,” warned Mable, glaring at the young girl. “Try to be honest and sensible—if you can—and give us your advice. Shall we disregard the order, and do as we please, or be namby-pambies and submit to the outrage? You’re a day scholar and may visit the picture shows as often as you like. Consider our position, cooped up here like a lot of chickens and refused the only harmless amusement the town affords.”

  “Gran’pa Jim,” observed Mary Louise, musingly, “always advises me to look on both sides of a question before making up my mind, because every question has to have two sides or it couldn’t be argued. If Miss Stearne wishes to keep you away from the pictures, she has a reason for it; so let’s discover what the reason is.”

  “To spoil any little fun we might have,” asserted Mable bitterly.

  “No; I can’t believe that,” answered Mary Louise. “She isn’t unkindly, we all know, nor is she too strict with her girls. I’ve heard her remark that all her boarders are young ladies who can be trusted to conduct themselves properly on all occasions; and she’s right about that. We must look for her reason somewhere else and I think it’s in the pictures themselves.”

  “As for that,” said Jennie, “I’ve seen Miss Stearne herself at the picture theatre twice within the last week.”

  “Then that’s it; she doesn’t like the character of the pictures shown. I think, myself, girls, they’ve been rather rank lately.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “I like pictures as well as you do,” said Mary Louise, “and Gran’pa Jim often takes me to see them. Tuesday night a man shot another in cold blood and the girl the murderer was in love with helped him to escape and married him. I felt like giving her a go
od shaking, didn’t you? She didn’t act like a real girl at all. And Thursday night the picture story told of a man with two wives and of divorces and disgraceful doings generally. Gran’pa Jim took me away before it was over and I was glad to go. Some of the pictures are fine and dandy, but as long as the man who runs the theatre mixes the horrid things with the decent ones—and we can’t know beforehand which is which—it’s really the safest plan to keep away from the place altogether. I’m sure that’s the position Miss Stearne takes, and we can’t blame her for it. If we do, it’s an evidence of laxness of morals in ourselves.”

  The girls received this statement sullenly, yet they had no logical reply to controvert it. So Mary Louise, feeling that her explanation of the distasteful edict was not popular with her friends, quietly rose and sauntered to the gate, on her way home.

  “Pah!” sneered Mable Westervelt, looking after the slim figure, “I’m always suspicious of those goody-goody creatures. Mark my words, girls: Mary Louise will fall from her pedestal some day. She isn’t a bit better than the rest of us, in spite of her angel baby ways, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned out to be a regular hypocrite!”

  CHAPTER II

  GRAN’PA JIM

  Beverly is an old town and not especially progressive. It lies nearly two miles from a railway station and has little attractiveness for strangers. Beverly contains several beautiful old residences, however, built generations ago and still surrounded by extensive grounds where the trees and shrubbery are now generally overgrown and neglected.