The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  Twenty seconds later this lady felt a tug at her arm as a girl in a low but excited whisper said: “You are the Spirit of Christmas.”

  “What?” the lady stared at her for a second, then a smile lighted her face. “Oh yes, why to be sure! So I am. In the excitement of the moment I had quite forgotten. Surely I am. So it is you who win? I am glad, so very, very glad! I do believe you recognized me five minutes ago, and that you’ve been working over that brave young policeman ever since, when I might easily have slipped away. What wonderful unselfishness! Here is the gold!”

  Lucile felt a hard lump of something pressed into her hand and without looking down knew that it was ten double eagles. A warm glow crept over her.

  “I did see you,” she said, after murmuring her thanks, “but you see Patrick O’Hara was wounded trying to rescue a friend of mine. So how could I desert him for gold?”

  “Yes, yes, how could you? Who was your friend?”

  “Cordie.”

  “Oh! Cordie? Was she in danger?” the lady exclaimed excitedly. “Where is she? I must go to her at once!”

  “Here! Here I am, Auntie!” cried an excited and tremulous young voice. The next moment little Cordie was enfolded in the arms of the Mystery Lady, Spirit of Christmas. And this lady was also Miss Diurno, the great virtuoso, and Cordie had called her Auntie!

  * * * *

  At exactly a half hour before midnight on this most exciting Christmas Eve, four people sat at a round table in the Butler House. There was a distinguished looking lady, a young man with a bump on his head that made his hair stand up in a circle, a young lady of college age, and a girl in her teens. They were the Mystery Lady, Laurie Seymour, Lucile and Cordie.

  Ice cream and cakes had been served; coffee was on the way. Laurie had finished explaining to Miss Diurno the ancient custom of some long forgotten land, that of answering, truthfully, three questions round.

  “But Laurie, old dear,” she protested, “why should I ask three questions of you? I already know far too much about you for my own good peace of mind; and as for Cordie, I fancy I know more about her than she knows about herself. I move we amend the custom a little. How would it do to allow our friend Lucile to ask all the questions—three around for each of us?”

  “Oh! That would be darling!” exclaimed Lucile, fairly leaping from her chair. “You are all so very, very mysterious. There are so many, many things I’d like to know.”

  “Agreed!” exclaimed Laurie.

  “I don’t mind,” smiled Cordie.

  “Good. That’s settled,” said Miss Diurno, whose very greatness as a musician so affected Lucile that she found it very difficult to be her usual frank and friendly self. “Miss Lucile, you may have ten minutes for thinking up questions. Then, over our coffee, we will answer them. But remember, only three questions, three around.”

  “Only three,” Lucile whispered to herself. “And there is so much I want to know! So much I just must know!”

  As she sat there, with her head all in a whirl, trying in vain to form the questions she wished to ask, one conviction was borne in upon her. She had been the center of a plot, a very friendly plot, she was sure of that, and one that had been entered into the truest of Christmas spirit. Cordie had known Miss Diurno all the time, in fact had only a short time ago called her Auntie. Miss Diurno had called Laurie by a familiar name—she had said “Old dear.” She must have known him a long time. Then surely, to be a friend to such an one, he must be something rather great himself. And Cordie? She could scarcely be the simple little country girl she had thought her. Lucile’s mind was in such a daze that when the great pianist tapped her wrist watch and said: “Time’s up. Who’s the first?” she had not formed one question.

  “Age before beauty,” laughed Cordie.

  “Well, that’s me?” smiled Miss Diurno. “I am ready to be questioned.”

  “Why—er—” stammered Lucile. “Why did you, who are such a very great musician, undertake the humble task of assisting in a newspaper stunt?”

  “Dear little girl,” said Miss Diurno, a very mellow note of kindness creeping into her voice, “there are no great people in the world, and there are no truly humble tasks. All people who are truly great are also very humble. Tasks called humble by men may be truly great.

  “But you have asked me a question. The reason I accepted that newspaper task was this: Marie Caruthers, my very best school chum and lifetime friend, went in for newspaper work. She was to have done the stunt, but just when the time came she was taken to the hospital. So I volunteered to take her place. And it was fun, heaps of it! Just imagine having the whole city looking for you and yet to be walking in and out among the people every day and not a single one of them recognizing you at all.

  “But there were times enough when I got into plenty of trouble. That night in the department store was a scream!”

  “Not so much of a scream for me,” grumbled Laurie. “I gave you my pass-out. Then after knocking nearly all the skin off my hand going down the bundle chute, I had to sleep in the basement, with corrugated paper for mattress and covers.”

  “Poor old Laurie!” smiled Miss Diurno. “But you deserved all you got. Think of the role you have been playing! Think! Just think!” laughed the pianist.

  “You see,” she said, turning to Lucile to explain her presence in the store that night, “I had promised to be in the store six hours that day. Then I allowed myself to become absorbed in some new music, and the first thing I knew it was getting late in the afternoon and my six hours not yet begun. Of course there was nothing for it but to remain in the store after closing hours. I hid in that long narrow place, wedged myself between book shelves and stands, then stuck there until the clock struck ten.

  “I hadn’t realized that it would be hard to get out. When I did think of it I was terror-stricken. To think of remaining in that great vault of a store all night! Ugh! It gives me the shivers to think of it, even now. I haven’t the least notion what I would have done if I hadn’t come upon good old Laurie. He gave me his pass-out. You saw him do it. I knew this at the time, and I think you were a great little sport not to raise a big rumpus, especially after I took your coat.”

  “Why did you take my coat?” asked Lucile.

  “I was afraid I couldn’t get out in that fur cape. And besides, I wanted just such a coat as yours for the next day’s stunt. So I traded with you. That was fair enough, wasn’t it?”

  “Traded? What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said, just traded, and thanked you for the opportunity. And now, my dear, that makes three questions.”

  “Three,” Lucile cried excitedly. “Why no, I’ve only asked one.”

  “Leave it to the crowd,” beamed the great little lady.

  “Three! Three!” agreed Laurie and Cordie with one voice.

  “Why—why then I shall be obliged to take up someone else.”

  “Heads I’m next, tails I’m not,” said Laurie, tossing a coin in air. “Heads! I’m it. Do your worst.”

  “Who is Jeffrey Farnsworth?” Lucile asked.

  “See!” exclaimed Laurie. “See what I get into right away! Well, since it is Christmas Eve, I dare not tell a lie. I am forced to inform you that the only gentleman at this table was given that name at his birth.”

  “You—you are Jeffrey Farnsworth?”

  “Quite right.”

  “Be careful,” warned Cordie, “You’ve used up two questions already.”

  Lucile was silent for a moment, then with a smile she said:

  “Why did you take an assumed name, and who was Sam, and did he have anything to do with your selling books, and why were you afraid of him?”

  “That business of hanging your question on a string is great stuff,” laughed Laurie. “I recommend that you try it out on Cordie.”

  Then in a more sober tone, he said:

  “You see it was this way: My publishers saw that my book was going to go across rather big and, since I was to benefit financi
ally in its success, they thought it would be nice for me to have a part in making it a still greater—um—um, triumph. So they cooked up that idea about my speaking to ladies’ clubs. I knew I couldn’t do it, but I knew also that Sam would make me do it if I stuck around. Everyone does what Sam wants them to do; that is, they do if they stay where he is.

  “So I said to myself, ‘If I must help sell my books, I’ll do it in a straightforward way right over the counter. I’ll get a job.’ I did. And just so Sam couldn’t find me and drag me away, I came to this city and took an assumed name.

  “Sam’s a sort of salesman for my publishers; that is, he sells books when he isn’t promoting authors. When I saw him in the store that time I just naturally had to disappear.

  “I think, though,” he added, “that even Sam is satisfied. We sold two thousand copies of ‘Blue Flames,’ you and Donnie and Rennie and all the rest.

  “As for my knowing the lady of the hour,” he smiled, touching the arm of Miss Diurno, “I’ve known her for some time. And on some future lovely day in June, when my income has come to be half as much as hers, we’re going to move into a certain lovely little vine covered cottage I know about and set up a nest all for ourselves.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Lucile. “Can’t I come to see you?”

  “My dear,” said the great musician, “you may come and live with us, both you and Cordie, live with us forever.”

  “Cordie, your turn to be questioned,” said Laurie.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Cordie, throwing her arms about Lucile and hiding her face in the folds of her dress. “I don’t want you to ask me questions. I don’t! I don’t! I just want to confess how mean I have been and what an unkind trick I have played on you.”

  “Why Cordie!” Lucile consoled her. “You’ve not been mean to me at all. You—you’ve been the dearest kind of a little pal!”

  “Oh, yes I have! I let you think I was a poor little girl from the country, when I wasn’t at all. I allowed you to spend money on me and pay all the room rent when I just knew you thought you were going to have to live on milk toast all next term of school. And I never even offered to do my share at all.

  “But if you only knew,” she raced on, “how good it seemed to have one friend who wasn’t one bit selfish, who didn’t want a lot of things for herself and who was willing to do things for other people when she really needed just plain ordinary things for herself. If you only knew! If you only did!” Cordie’s voice rose shrill and high. She seemed about to burst into tears.

  “There, there, dear little pal!” whispered Lucile. “I think I understand. But tell me, why did you take a job as wrapper when you really wasn’t poor and didn’t need the money?”

  “Money!” laughed Cordie, now quite herself again. “I’ve never had to ask for any in my whole life! My father owns a third of that big store we worked in, and a lot besides.”

  “But Dick?” said Lucile.

  “I rode Dick on my father’s estate. It nearly broke my heart when they sold him. My father gave up his stables.”

  “But you haven’t told me why you wanted to work in the store.”

  “Well, you see that day, the first day you ever saw me, just for fun I had dressed up in plain old fashioned clothes and had gone downtown for a lark. Then I did that foolish fainting stunt. I really, truly fainted. And that man, that hawk-eyed man—” she shuddered, “must have recognized me. He must have known he could get a lot of money from father if only he could carry me away. Anyway he tried it and you—saved me!” She paused to give Lucile another hug.

  “You are coming to my house for Christmas dinner, and I’ve kept track of everything in a little book and I’m going to pay you every cent, truly I am, and we’ll have the best time.

  “But I was going to tell you,” she paused in her mad ramble, “I was—”

  “Listen!” Miss Diurno held up a hand for silence, “Cordie, someone is paging your name. Here! Over here!” she called to the bell boy.

  “Telephone,” said the boy.

  The three sat in silence until Cordie returned.

  “What do you think!” she exclaimed as she came bounding toward them. “It was James, my friend the bundle carrier at the phone. They’ve worked fast. They raided the room of—of the hawk-eyed man and they found James’ silver fox skins. And Auntie, I’m going to have father buy them as a present for you. Won’t that be g-grand!”

  “I should think it might,” smiled her aunt, giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. “But, my dear, you hadn’t finished telling Lucile.”

  “Oh! That’s a short story now. When I saw how good and kind you were,” Cordie said, turning to Lucile, “when I saw the work there was to do and everything, I was fascinated. I just wanted to play I was just what you thought me to be. So I called up my father and made him let me do it. That was all there was to it.

  “But Auntie!” she exclaimed, turning to Miss Diurno. “Why did you steal my badge of serfdom?”

  “Your what?”

  “My badge of serfdom, the iron ring. In olden days serfs wore iron collars; now it’s an iron ring.”

  “Oh, your iron ring!” laughed her aunt. “I needed it for my stunt. But here it is; you may have it and welcome, diamond and all.”

  “I shall keep you ever and always,” murmured the girl, pressing the ring to her lips. “I shall cherish you in memory of a grand and glorious adventure.”

  “Of course you understood,” said Miss Diurno, turning to Lucile, “that you are to keep the fur lined cape.”

  “No, I—”

  “Oh yes, you must! It was the one extravagance that I made the paper pay for. I traded with you, and have lost yours, so there is really no other way out. Besides,” her voice softened, “I want you to accept it as a gift from me, a little token of appreciation for your many kindnesses to my little niece.”

  Lucile’s head was in a whirl. She found herself unable to think clearly of all her good fortune. A great musician, an author, and a very rich girl for her friends; a magnificent cape of midnight blue and fox skin, and two hundred dollars in gold! Merry Christmas! What a Christmas it would be indeed!

  “Listen,” whispered Miss Diurno. From some distant room there came the slow, sweet chimes of a clock.

  “Striking midnight,” she whispered. Then from far and near there came the clanging of church bells.

  “Christmas morning!” exclaimed Miss Diurno, springing to her feet. “Merry, Merry Christmas to all!”

  “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” they chorused in return.

  CHAPTER XXV

  WHAT THE BROWN BAG HELD

  At the precise moment that the four companions in the great city hotel rose to offer each other their Christmas greetings, Florence and Meg stood over the fascinating bag which had cost Florence so much worry and trouble. As Florence felt in her purse for the key she found herself wondering for the hundredth time what it might contain.

  “Christmas, my Christmas secret,” she whispered. Then, as she felt the key within her grasp, she turned resolutely to the task. Although she had looked forward to this hour with pleasure, now it seemed to hold something of a feeling of fear. She was opening a bag which had belonged to another. What might it not contain?

  With trembling fingers she broke the seal which had so long and faithfully hidden the secret. Then, with a steadier hand, she inserted the key.

  For a full moment after that she stood there in silence. She was saying to herself over and over again: “There is nothing, nothing, nothing in there that I shall care for. Nothing, nothing, nothing.”

  Thus fortified against disappointment, she at last turned the key, pulled the flap and threw the bag wide open.

  The first look brought a glimpse of a bit of negligee. Nothing so exciting in this.

  “Well anyway,” sighed Florence, “it—wasn’t a man’s bag. It could not have belonged to that—that man.”

  “No,” said Meg, “it couldn’t.”

  One by one Florence re
moved the few articles of clothing that had been packed in the bag. These were of fine texture and well made. But beneath these was something to bring an exclamation to her lips.

  Putting out her hand, she lifted to view a roll of silk cloth, of royal blue, and of such thinness and fineness as she had seldom seen in all her life.

  “Yards and yards of it,” she breathed, throwing it before her in bright, billowy waves.

  “And look!” cried Meg. “Batik!”

  It was true; beneath the silk was a bolt of batik. This Meg took to the light and examined it with great care.

  “It’s genuine,” she whispered at last. “Not the sham stuff that is made in American factories, but the kind that dark faced women dye with great skill and much labor, dipping again and again in colors such as we know nothing of.”

  Florence examined the cloth, then spread it over the back of a chair. Then she sat down. There was a puzzled look on her face.

  “It’s very beautiful,” she mused. “One could not hope to buy a more perfect present, sight unseen, but I’m wondering why a man should be willing to trace me down at infinite pains and then follow me in the face of danger and in the teeth of a storm for the sake of getting possession of two rolls of cloth. That seems strange.”

  “Does seem odd,” said Meg. “But wait! Here’s something else.” She drew two long pasteboard tubes from the bottom of the bag.

  “What do you suppose?” whispered Florence. Inserting one finger in the first tube she twisted it about, then began drawing it out. A roll of papers appeared.

  “Papers,” she whispered. “Probably important papers; deeds, stocks and bonds, perhaps.”

  Imagine her surprise when, having drawn the papers out and partly unrolled them, she found them to be pictures.

  “Pictures!” she exclaimed in disgust. “And only printed pictures at that.”

  “But such wonderful pictures!” exclaimed Meg, holding one out to view.

  It was indeed a wonderful picture, one of those vague, misty things that came out of the great war. This one was of a smoke clouded cannon in the foreground, belching black smoke and fire, and in the midst of the smoke, forming herself out of it, a most beautiful black-haired woman, her eyes burning, her hands clawing, leaping straight at the enemy.