“Yes,” said Meg in an even tone, while the red mounted to the roots of her hair. “We get your kind on the ships too. We get all kinds.”
Then, like a tiger in the jungle, she leaped forward. There followed a resounding thwack; a heavy knife went jangling to the floor. The stranger’s usually dark face turned a sickly white as, gripping a bruised wrist, he backed out of the room.
Stepping to the door Meg closed it, but did not bother to lock it.
Stooping, she picked up the knife and examined it carefully.
“That,” she said in a matter of fact tone, “is a good knife, much better than the one I use for slicing bacon. I shall keep it.
“See,” she said, holding it close to Florence, “it has a six-inch blade that locks when you open it. That’s what made it click.”
Florence shrank from the thing.
“He had no right to carry it,” said Meg, closing it and dropping it into a chest. “It’s a concealed weapon, and they’re against the law. So I’ll keep it. Now what about this bag?” she asked suddenly.
“Why, you see,” smiled Florence, “tomorrow’s Christmas. Since I didn’t expect a surprise from anyone, I decided to buy myself one. So I went down to an auction sale and bought a bag with ‘contents if any.’ I meant to buy a bag anyway, and the ‘contents if any’ was to be my surprise.”
“What did you get?” Meg asked, leaning forward eagerly.
“I didn’t look. I meant to keep the bag until tomorrow. It wouldn’t be a Christmas surprise if I opened it before hand. And now it’s gone!”
“What—what did you expect to find?”
“It might have been anything—silk scarfs, some splendid furs, jewelry, a watch—anything. And then again,” her voice lost its enthusiasm, “it might have contained a man’s collar and a suit of pajamas. I couldn’t tell. Maybe it was just nothing at all. It was awful light.”
“All those things,” said Meg, her eyes shining, “or any of them. What a pity! What fun you would have had!”
For a moment she sat there in silence. Then suddenly, “Where’s it gone?”
“I—I lost it on the pier.”
“Where?” Meg sat up all alert.
Florence told her as best she could.
“I’ll go get it.” Meg dragged her coat from its hanger.
“No! No! Don’t!” Florence exclaimed, springing up. “It’s dangerous.”
“What’s to be afraid of?” laughed Meg. “Don’t everybody on the pier know me? Even the watch-dog knows me? As for your late friend and follower, I’ll just take my belaying pin along. But I guess he’s far enough away by now. Watch me. I’ll be back in half an hour with that bag—you wait and see.”
With a rush that let in a great gust of cold air and snow, she was out of the cabin and away.
The greater part of what she had said to Florence was true. She did know the dock as well as any ship on which she had ever sailed. She knew the watchman and his dog. But, without her knowledge, there was one person in authority by the pier that night who did not know her and this the two girls were to learn to their sorrow.
* * * *
Seeing a heavy dressing gown hanging in the corner, Florence rose and, discarding her blanket, put this robe on. Then, after feeling of her slowly drying clothes and moving her skirt closer to the stove, she walked to the door and locked it.
“Meg may not be afraid of that man,” she whispered to herself, “but I am.”
At once, as she began walking the floor of the narrow cabin, her mind went to work on the many unanswered questions stored away in her mind. Like some scientist examining specimens, she drew these questions one at a time from their mental pigeon holes.
Why did this evil looking man with the scar above his eye want her bag so badly? Suddenly it occurred to her that he might be a thief, or a safe blower, and this bag might contain some of his valuable loot. She remembered reading of criminals who had locked their booty in trunks or bags and stored them in some public place until the police had gotten off their trail.
“In that case,” she told herself, “my surprise will be a disappointment. No matter how wonderful the contents may be, I will not keep the least bit of it, but turn it over to the police.
“But then,” she thought again, “probably Meg will not be able to get the bag. She may not be able to get in. Probably the watchman heard the dog and closed the door and window. And again, she may find it and that terrible man may take it from her.”
This last she doubted. Meg appeared abundantly able to take care of herself. Florence could not but admire her strength and bravery. It had been magnificent, the way she had put that villainous intruder to flight. She thought of what the girl had said about being reared on a steamship and wanting more education. She found herself longing to help her. And why not? She roomed alone. Hers was a large bed, large enough for two, and she thought she could get a scholarship for her in the academy connected with the university. Anyway, it could be managed somehow. There were elevators in great hotels close to the school that must be run. Perhaps she could find her a part time position on one of these. She would talk to her about it as soon as opportunity offered.
But who was she, after all? She had been telling her story when that man broke in upon them. Would she have told why she asked Florence to wear her clothes for a half day and play the role of Meg? If she had, what would her reason have been?
During the time that these problems had passed in review in her memory she had been walking the cabin floor. Now she came to a sudden pause. Had she heard footsteps on the deck below? She thought so. Yes, there it was again, more plainly now. They were mounting the stairs. Who could it be? Was it that man? She shuddered. Springing to the corner, she put out a hand for Meg’s belaying pin. It was gone. The door was locked, but the lock looked very weak. What was she to do? It did not seem possible that Meg could be back so soon. She had—
A hand tried the door. What should she do? Should she let the person in?
Certainly she should, for in Meg’s unmistakable voice she heard:
“Let me in.”
When Florence threw open the door she saw at a glance that Meg had the bag and that the seal was unbroken.
“Tell you what,” began Florence, “you go home with me tonight. Tomorrow is Christmas. We don’t have to get up early. We’ll have something hot to drink and some cakes, and we’ll talk a little. Then, just as the clock strikes twelve, we’ll break the seal to the bag. Won’t that be romantic?”
“I should say!” said Meg with gleaming eyes. “That would be spiffy! When do we start?”
“At once,” said Florence, pulling her clothing from the line.
They were not destined to get away so easily, however. Unfortunately for them, there was a person near the entrance to the pier that night whom Meg did not know, had in fact never seen.
The wharf to which the boats were tied lay a distance of about a block south of the entrance to the pier, and the particular boat on which Meg had taken up quarters was tied about two blocks from the end of the pier. In order to reach the car line they were obliged to battle their way against the storm, which had increased in violence, until they were near the entrance to the pier.
They had covered these three blocks and had paused to catch their breath and to watch for the light of a street car boring its way through the whirl of snow, when a gruff voice said:
“Where y’ think y’r goin’?”
“Why, we—” Florence hesitated.
“What you got in that bag?”
Florence turned to find herself looking into the face of a young policeman.
She flashed a glance at Meg. That one glance convinced her that Meg did not know him.
“Where—where’s Tim?” Meg faltered.
“Tim who?”
“Tim McCarty. This is his beat.”
“’T’aint now. It’s mine. He’s been transferred. What’s more,” he paused to lay a gloved hand on the travelling bag, “since
this is my beat, part of my job’s findin’ out what comes off them ships at night. What y’ got in that bag?”
“I—I don’t know,” Florence said the words impulsively, and regretted them the instant they were said.
“Don’t know—” he ceased speaking to stare at her. “Say, sister, you’re good! Don’t know what you’ve got in that bag! In that case all I can do is take you to the station for questioning.
“No,” he said in a kindlier tone after a moment’s thought, “maybe if you’ll unlock it and let me see what’s inside I’ll let you go.”
Open it and let him see what was inside? Florence’s head was in a whirl. Open it? What if her fears proved true? What if it contained stolen goods? Why, then she would see the first light of Christmas morning behind prison bars. Was ever anyone in such a mess? Did ever a girl pay so dearly for her own Christmas surprise?
But Meg was speaking: “Say, you see here,” she said to the young policeman, her voice a low drawl. Florence heard them indistinctly against the roar of the storm. So there she stood with her back to the wind, clinging tightly to the handle of her bag and hoping against hope that she would not be obliged to reveal her secret there and then.
CHAPTER XX
THE GREAT MOMENT
The revelation that had come to Lucile as she sat there listening to the first notes of a great concerto, led by a famous virtuoso, was so unusual, so altogether startling, that she felt tempted to doubt her senses.
“Surely,” she whispered to herself, “I must be mistaken. There is a resemblance, but she is not that woman. Imagine a great virtuoso, one of the famous musicians of our land, being in a department store at two hours before midnight! Fancy her going up and down streets, in and out of the stores and shops dressed in all manner of absurd costumes, playing the star role in a newspaper stunt to increase circulation! How impossible! How—how utterly absurd!”
She paused for reflection and as she paused, as if to join her in quiet thought, the great musician allowed her flying fingers to come to rest on the keyboard while a violin soloist did his part.
Then, quick as light, but not too swiftly for Lucile’s keen eyes, she slipped something from her finger, a something that sent off a brilliant flash of light. This she placed on the piano beside the keyboard.
To Lucile, resting as it did against the black of the ebony piano, this thing stood out like a circle of stars against the deep blackness of night. She felt her lips forming the words:
“Don’t put it there! A hundred people will see it!”
That dull gray circle with the flashing spot of light was a ring; Cordie’s iron ring with its diamond setting. There was no longer a single vestige of doubt in the girl’s mind regarding the identity of the Mystery Lady and the Spirit of Christmas. They were one and the same, and together they were Patricia Diurno, the celebrated virtuoso.
Somehow Lucile got through that two hours without screaming or jumping from her seat to hurl herself upon the platform, but she will never quite know just how she did it. At times she drove the whole affair from her mind to think of other unsolved problems—of Laurie and the lost author; of Cordie, and of Sam. At other times she found herself completely absorbed by the wonderful music which poured forth.
The majesty of the music grew as the evening passed. When at last the orchestra struck out into that masterpiece, Tchaikovsky’s Concerto in B minor, she forgot all else to lose herself in the marvelous rise and fall of cadent sound that resembled nothing so much as a storm on a rockbound coast.
The piano, leading on, called now to the violin to join in, then upon the cello, the bass viols, the cornets, the saxophones, the trombones, the trap-drums, until all together, in perfect unison, they sent forth such a volume of sound as shook the very walls.
The great virtuoso, forgetful of all else, gave herself completely to her music. Turning first this way, then that, she beckoned the lagging orchestra on until a climax had been reached.
Then, after a second of such silence as is seldom experienced save after a mighty clap of thunder, as if from somewhere away in a distant forest there came the tinkle, tinkle of the single instrument as her velvet tipped fingers glided across the keys.
A single violin joined in, then another and another, then all of them, until again the great chorus swelled to the very dome of the vast auditorium.
This was the music that, like the songs of mermaids of old, charm men into forgetfulness; that lifts them and carries them away from all dull care, all sordid affairs of money and all temptation to the mean, the low and the base.
It so charmed Lucile that for a full moment after the last note had been struck and the last echo of applause had died away, she sat there listening to the reverberations of the matchless music that still sounded in her soul.
When she awoke from her reverie it was with a mighty start.
“Where is she?” she exclaimed, leaping from her seat.
“Who?” said Laurie.
“Patricia Diurno! The Mystery Lady! Spirit of Christmas! Where has she gone?”
Staring to right and left, she found her way blocked. Then with the nimbleness of an obstacle racer, she vaulted over four rows of seats to dash away through the milling crowd toward the platform.
“Where is she?” she demanded of an attendant.
“Who, Miss?”
“The—the Mystery Lady. No, No! Miss Diurno, the virtuoso.”
“Most likely in the Green Room, Miss. Who—who—is some of her folks dead?”
“No, no! But please show me where the Green Room is, quick!”
Leading the way, he took her to the back of the stage, through a low door, down a long passage-way to a large room where a number of people stood talking.
A glance about the place told her that Miss Diurno was not there.
“Is this the Green Room?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Then where is she?”
“I don’t know, Miss. You might ask him.”
He nodded to a large man in an evening suit.
“Where—where is Miss Diurno?” she asked timidly.
“Miss Diurno did not stay. She left at once.”
“Gone!” Lucile murmured. “And my opportunity gone with it.” Sinking weakly into a chair, she buried her face in her hands.
This lasted but a moment; then she was up and away like the wind. Miss Diurno, the Mystery Woman, Spirit of Christmas, had gone out on the Boulevard. She had promised, through the news columns, to be about the Boulevard until midnight. There was still a chance.
Hurrying back to the now almost deserted hall, she found Laurie and Cordie waiting for her.
“Well now, what does this mean?” Laurie laughingly demanded. “Did you recognize in the hands of some violinist the Stradivarius that was stolen from your grandfather fifty years ago?”
“Not quite that,” Lucile smiled back. “I did discover that someone has vanished, someone I must find. Yes, yes, I surely must!” She clenched her hands tight in her tense excitement. “I want you two to promise to walk the Boulevard with me until midnight, that is, if I don’t find her sooner. Will you? Promise me!”
“‘Oh promise me,’” Laurie hummed. “Some contract! What say, Cordie? Are you in on it?”
“It sounds awfully interesting and mysterious. Let’s do.”
“All right, we’re with you till the clock strikes for Christmas morning.”
Lucile led the way out of the hall. They were soon out in the cool, crisp air of night. There had been a storm but now the storm had passed. The night was bright with stars.
To promenade the Boulevard at this hour on such a night was not an unpleasant task. Out from a midnight blue sky the golden moon shone across a broad expanse of snow which covered the park, while to the left of them, as if extending their arms to welcome jolly old St. Nicholas, the great buildings loomed toward the starry heavens.
The street was gay with light and laughter, for was not this the night of all nights, the night befo
re Christmas?
CHAPTER XXI
THE MAN IN GRAY
“I know of an odd old custom which might prove interesting,” said Laurie as the three of them walked arm in arm along the boulevard. “I’ve forgotten to what little out of the way corner of the world it belongs, but anyway, in the villages of that land, sometime near to midnight, on Christmas Eve, friends gather about small tables in their taverns and over the festive board talk of the year that is gone. The strange part is this: Just to make it a clearing up time of unsolved problems, each member of the group may select one other member of that group and may ask him three questions. Each member is pledged to answer all three questions frankly and truthfully.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Cordie. “I’d not like to get caught in a crowd like that.”
“Too bad,” sighed Laurie. “I was about to propose that a half hour before midnight we get together to celebrate in just that way. I think I can pick up a person or two whose secrets would be of interest to some people I know.”
“That would be wonderful,” exclaimed Lucile. “But must we select one person, only one?”
“One, that’s all.”
“And ask him just three questions; no more?”
“Not another one.”
“Eenie-meenie-minie-mo,” exclaimed Lucile, pointing her finger first at Cordie, then at Laurie,
“Catch a monkey by the toe,
If he hollers, let him go,
Eenie-meenie-minie-mo.
“Laurie, you’re my choice,” she laughed. “I’ll ask three questions of you, though goodness knows I’d like to ask them of Cordie.”
“Wait,” said Laurie holding up a warning finger. “There may be someone there who is more interesting to you than we are.”
“There’s only one such person in the world,” exclaimed Lucile, “and—and I hope I may meet her before that hour comes.”
She was a little surprised at the glances Laurie and Cordie exchanged and greatly puzzled by the fact that they did not ask her who that person was.
Laurie and Cordie gave themselves over to the gaiety of the night. The blazing light, the splendid cars that went gliding down the Boulevard, the magnificent furs worn by those who chose to promenade the broad sidewalk, were sights to catch any eye.
The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 104