The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “How terrible!” said Ruth.

  “You think so,” the little man said. “So do I. So do most Americans. And yet that was the principle for which they stood. For this principle they would smuggle, bomb, cast helpless girls adrift in a dismantled boat, destroy all.”

  “That,” said Ruth, “is a terrible way to live.”

  “We think so. We believe that you have done your country a great service. You will not go unrewarded.”

  “The thing I can’t understand,” said Betty, “is why they remained in the old fort and kept their silks there after they knew that Ruth and I had been in that room.”

  “They thought you were at the bottom of the sea where they meant you to be,” the little man smiled. “You would have been, too, had it not been for that chap you call Don and the fearless city boy.”

  “Yes, we would,” Ruth said solemnly.

  “And that,” said the little man, “is the end of the story. You have all been fortunate. You have helped solve mysteries and have known adventures.

  “Your lives from this day may flow as smooth as a river, but the memory of this summer, with its joys and hopes, its perils, despairs, its defeats and victories can never be taken from you.”

  “Tomorrow night,” he said, as he walked with them to their waiting boat, “Witches Cove will be dark. My black cats and I are leaving tomorrow. Good night, good-bye, and good luck.”

  That night Ruth sat looking out once more from her room upon the moonlit bay. Her summer of adventure was over. Betty was returning to Chicago. The cottages were closing. Soon there would be left only the fisher folks and the sea.

  “Life,” she told herself, “is quite wonderful, and not a joke at all.” She doubted if anyone really, truly in the depths of their hearts, ever thought it was.

  So, sitting there in her chair, dreaming in the moonlight, she allowed her head to fall forward and was soon fast asleep.

  THE MAGIC CURTAIN, by Roy Snell

  CHAPTER I

  A FACE IN THE DARK

  It was that mystic hour when witches are abroad in the land: one o’clock in the morning. The vast auditorium of the Civic Opera House was a well of darkness and silence.

  Had you looked in upon this scene at this eerie hour you would most certainly have said, “There is no one here. This grandest of all auditoriums is deserted.” But you would have been mistaken.

  Had you been seated in the box at the left side of this great auditorium, out of that vast silence you might have caught a sound. Faint, indistinct, like the rustle of a single autumn leaf, like a breath of air creeping over a glassy sea at night, it would have arrested your attention and caused you to focus your eyes upon a pair of exceedingly long drapes at the side of the opera hall. These drapes might have concealed some very long windows. In reality they did not.

  Had you fixed your attention upon this spot you might, in that faint light that was only a little less than absolute darkness, have seen a vague, indistinct spot of white. This spot, resting as it did at a position above the bottom of the drape where a short person’s head would have come, might have startled you.

  And well it might. For this was in truth the face of a living being. This mysterious individual was garbed in a dress suit of solemn black. That is why only his face shone out in the dark.

  This person, seemingly a golden haired youth with features of unusual fineness, had called himself Pierre Andrews when, a short time earlier, he had applied for a position as usher in the Opera. Because of his almost startling beauty, his perfect manners and his French accent, he had been hired on the spot and had been given a position in the boxes where, for this “first night” at least, those who possessed the great wealth of the city had been expected to foregather.

  They had not failed to appear. And why should they fail? Was this not their night of nights, the night of the “Grand Parade”?

  Ah, yes, they had been there in all their bejeweled and sable-coated splendor. Rubies and diamonds had vied with emeralds and sapphires on this grand occasion. Yes, they had been here. But now they had departed and there remained only this frail boy, hovering there on the ledge like a frightened gray bat.

  Why was he here? Certainly a timid-appearing boy would not, without some very pressing reason, remain hidden behind drapes at the edge of a great empty space which until that night had been practically unknown to him.

  And, indeed, at this moment the place, with its big empty spaces, its covered seats, its broad, deserted stage, seemed haunted, haunted by the ghosts of other years, by all those who, creeping from out the past, had stalked upon its stage; haunted, too, by those who only one or two short years before had paraded there on a “first night” in splendor, but who now, laid low by adverse circumstances, crept about in places of poverty. Yet, haunted or no, here was this frail boy peeking timidly out from his hiding place as the clock struck one.

  He had asked a curious question on this night, had this boy of golden locks and expressive blue eyes. It was during the recess between acts while the curtain was down and the pomp that was Egypt had for a moment been replaced by the pomp that is America. Leaning over the balustrade, this thoughtful boy had witnessed the “Grand Parade” of wealth and pomp that passed below him. Between massive pillars, beneath chandeliers of matchless splendor where a thousand lights shone, passed ladies of beauty and unquestioned refinement. With capes of royal purple trimmed in ermine or sable but slightly concealing bare shoulders and breasts where jewels worth a king’s ransom shone, they glided gracefully down the long corridor. Bowing here and there, or turning to whisper a word to their companions, they appeared to be saying to all the throng that beheld them:

  “See! Are we not the glory that is America in all her wealth and power?”

  Then it was that this mysterious boy, poised there upon the ledge still half hidden by drapes, had asked his question. Turning to a white-haired, distinguished-looking man close beside him, a man whom he had never before seen, he had said:

  “Is this life?”

  The answer he received had been quite as unusual as the question. Fixing strangely luminous eyes upon him, the man had said:

  “It is a form of life.”

  “A form of life.” Even at this moment the boy, standing in the shadows timid and terribly afraid, was turning these words over in his mind. “A form of life.”

  There had been about him, even as he had performed his simple duties as usher in the boxes on this night, an air of mystery. He had walked—more than one had noted this—with the short, quick steps of a girl. His hair, too, was soft and fine, his cheeks like the softest velvet. But then, he was French. His accent told this. And who knows what the French are like? Besides, his name was Pierre. He had said this more than once. And Pierre, as everyone knows, is the name of a boy.

  It was during the curtain before the last act that an incident had occurred which, for a few of the resplendent throng, had dimmed the glory of that night.

  No great fuss was made about the affair. A slim girl seated in the box occupied by the man whose great wealth had made this opera house possible, had leaned over to whisper excited words in this gray-haired millionaire’s ears. With fingers that trembled, she had touched her bare neck.

  With perfect poise the man had beckoned to a broad-shouldered person in black who had until now remained in the shadows. The man had glided forward. Some words had been spoken. Among these words were: “Search them.”

  One would have said that the golden-haired usher standing directly behind the box had caught these words for he had suddenly turned white and clutched at the railing to escape falling.

  Had you looked only a moment later at the spot where he had stood you might have noted that he was not there. And now here he was on the ledge, still all but concealed by drapes, poised as if for further flight.

  And yet he did not flee. Instead, dropping farther into the shadows, he appeared to lose himself in thought.

  What were these thoughts? One might suppose
that he was recasting in his mind the events of the immediate past, that he read again the look of surprise and consternation on the face of the beautiful child of the very rich when she discovered that the string of beautifully matched pearls, bought by her father in Europe at a fabulous cost, were gone. One might suppose that he once again contemplated flight as the stout, hard-faced detective, who had so opportunely materialized from the shadows, had suggested searching the ushers and other attendants; that he shuddered again as he thought how barely he had escaped capture as, in the darkness attending the last act, he had glided past eagle-eyed sleuth Jaeger, and concealed himself behind the draperies. One might suppose that he lived again those moments of suspense when a quiet but very thorough search had revealed neither the priceless pearls nor his own humble person.

  Yes, one might suppose all this. Yet, if one did, he would suppose in vain. Our minds are the strangest creation of God. “The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

  The young person still half concealed by draperies and quite hidden by darkness was living again, not the scenes enacted among the boxes, but those which had been enacted upon the stage.

  In his mind’s eye he saw again the glory that once was Egypt. Picturing himself as the heroine, Aida, he loved the prince of all Egypt’s warriors, and at the same time shuddered for her people.

  As Radames, he heard the shouts of his people when he returned as a triumphant victor.

  As Amneris, the Egyptian princess in the stately boat of those ancient days beneath a golden moon, he glided down the blue Nile. And all the time, as the matchless beauty of the scenes and the exquisite melody of the music filled him with raptures that could not be described, he was saying to himself:

  “Oh, for one golden moment to stand before that assembled throng—all the rich, the learned of the great of this city—and to feel the glory of the past about me! To know love and adventure, the daring of a Captain of the Guard, the tender sentiments of an Aida, and to express it all in song! To do all this and to feel that every heart in that throng beats in rapture or in sorrow, as my own! What glory! What matchless joy!”

  And yet, even as these last thoughts passed into eternity, the young head with its crown of gold fell forward. There was a moment of relaxation expressing pain and all but hopeless despair. Then, like a mouse creeping out from the dark, he slipped from his place to glide stealthily along among the shadows and at last disappear into that place of darkness that is a great auditorium at night.

  Having felt his way across a tier of boxes, he vaulted lightly over a low rail. Passing through a narrow corridor, he touched a door and pushed it noiselessly open. He was met by a thin film of light.

  “Too much,” he murmured. “I shall be seen.”

  Backing away, he retraced his steps.

  Having moved a long way to the right, he tried still another door.

  “Ah, it is better,” he breathed.

  A moment later he found himself on the ground floor.

  “But the way out?” He whispered the words to the vast silence that was all about him. No answer came to him. Yet, even as he paused, uncertainly, a sound reached his ears.

  “A watchman. In the concourse. This is the way.”

  He sprang toward the stage. A mouse could scarcely have made less sound, as, gliding down the carpeted aisle, he at last reached a door at the left of the stage.

  The door creaked as he opened it. With one wild start, he dashed across the gaping stage to enter a narrow passageway.

  Another moment and he was before a door that led to the outer air. It was locked, from within.

  With breath that came short and quick, he stood there listening intently.

  “Footsteps.” He did not so much as whisper the words. “The watchman. There is need for haste.

  “The lock. Perhaps there is a key. Ah, yes, here it is!”

  His skilled fingers fumbled in the darkness for a moment. The light from without streamed in. The door closed. He was gone.

  CHAPTER II

  PETITE JEANNE’S MASQUERADE

  Fifteen minutes after his disappearance into the shadows, the youth, still clad in a dress suit, might have been seen walking between the massive pillars that front the Grand Opera House. Despite the fact that his small white hands clasped and unclasped nervously, he was able to maintain a certain air of nonchalance until a figure, emerging from the shadow cast by a pillar, sprang toward him.

  At that instant he appeared ready for flight. One glance at the other, and he indulged in a low chuckle.

  “It is you!” he exclaimed.

  “It is I. But what could have kept you?” The person who spoke was a girl. A large, strongly built person, she contrasted strangely with her slender companion.

  “Circumstances over which I had no control,” the youth replied. “But come on!” He shuddered. “I am freezing!”

  Having hurried west across the bridge, they entered a long concourse. From this they emerged into a railway station. Having crossed the waiting room, the slim one entered an elevator, leaving the other to wait below.

  When the slim one reappeared he was wrapped from head to toe in a great blue coat.

  “Ah, this is better, ma chere,” he murmured, as he tucked a slender arm into his companion’s own and prepared to accompany her into the chill of night.

  The apartment they entered half an hour later was neither large nor new. It was well furnished and gave forth an air of solid comfort. The living quarters consisted of a narrow kitchen and a fair-sized living-room. At either side of the living-room were doors that led each to a private room.

  The big girl walked to the fireplace where a pile of kindling and firewood lay waiting. Having touched a match to this pile, she stood back to watch it break into a slow blaze, and then go roaring up the chimney.

  “See!” she exclaimed. “How cozy we shall be in just a moment.”

  “Ah, yes, yes, mon ami!” The slight one patted her cheek. “We shall indeed. But anon—”

  The private door to the right closed with a slight rush of air. The slim one had vanished.

  The stout girl’s gown revealed a powerful chest. Every curve of her well-formed body suggested strength, while the blonde-haired one, with all her slender shapeliness, seemed little more than a child—and a girl, at that. Yet, one cannot fully forget the dress suit that at this moment must rest upon a hanger somewhere behind that closed door.

  “Well, now tell me about it,” said the stout one, as, some moments later, the blonde one reappeared in a heavy dressing gown and sat down before the fire.

  “A pearl necklace was stolen,” the slight one said in a quiet tone. “It was worth, oh, untold sacks of gold. Mon Dieu! How is one to say how much? Since I was near, I was suspected. Who can doubt it? I bolted. In the darkness I concealed myself in the drapes that seemed to hide a window and did not.”

  “But why did you run? You could not have done worse.”

  “But, mon Dieu! There was talk of searching us. Could I be searched?”

  “No.” A broad smile overspread the stout girl’s face. “No, you could not.”

  “Ah, my good friend! Ma chere! My beloved Florence.” The slender one patted the other’s cheek with true affection. “You agree with me. What else can matter? You have made me happy for all my life.”

  So now you know that this large, capable girl is none other than an old friend, one you have met many times, Florence Huyler. But wait, there is still more.

  “But how now is it all to end?” Two lines appeared between the large girl’s eyes.

  “I shall return!” the other exclaimed. “Tomorrow night I shall go back. I must go! It is too wonderful for words. All the rich, the great ones. The sable coats, the gowns, the rare jewels. And the stage! Oh, my friend, how perfectly exquisite, how glorious!”

  “Yes, and they’ll arrest you.” The large girl’s tone was matter-of-fact. “And what will you see after that?”

  “For what will they arrest me? Did I
take the necklace? No! No! Nevair!”

  “But you ran away.”

  “Yes, and for a very good reason.” A faint flush appeared on the slim one’s cheek. “I could not be searched.”

  “And will you tell them why?”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Then how can you go back?”

  “Listen, my friend.” The slim one laid an impressive hand on the other’s arm. “Sometimes we have good fortune, is it not so? Yes. It is so. The young lady, that girl who lost the necklace, she will be there. She is kind. Something tells me this. She will not have Pierre Andrews arrested. Something tells me so. For look, now, as Pierre I am—how did you say it?—very handsome!”

  “But, Petite Jeanne!” Florence broke short off. By this exclamation she had betrayed a secret. Since, however, only the walls and her companion heard it, it did not much matter. Our old friend, Petite Jeanne (the little French girl), and Pierre Andrews are one and the same person. On the stage Jeanne had played many a role. Now she was playing one in real life and playing it for a grand prize.

  * * * *

  But we must go back a little. Petite Jeanne, as you will recall if you have read that other book, The Gypsy Shawl, was a little French girl found wandering with the gypsies among the hills of France. Brought by a rich benefactress to America, she had made a splendid showing on the stage as a star in light opera.

  All stage productions, however, have their runs and are no more. Petite Jeanne’s engagement had come to an end, leaving her with a pocketful of money and one great yearning, a yearning to have a place upon the stage in Grand Opera.

  This longing had come to her through contact with a celebrated opera star, Marjory Dean. Through Marjory Dean she had secured the services of a great teacher. For some time after that she had devoted her entire time to the mastering of the technique of Grand Opera and to the business of developing her voice.

  “You will not go far without study abroad,” Marjory Dean had warned her. “Yet, who knows but that some golden opportunity may come to you? You have a voice, thin to be sure, but very clear and well placed. What is still more, you have a feeling for things. You are capable of inspiring your audience with feelings of love, hate, hope, despair. This will carry you far.”