The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  So they lingered long, these two. Seated on a broad, hand-hewn bench, looking out over the dark waters, waiting in uncertainty for the possible return of the storm that, having spent its fury in a vain attempt to drown the lake, did not return, they lived for the most part in the past, until a clock striking somewhere in the distance announced the hour of midnight.

  “Twelve!” Petite Jeanne breathed in great surprise. “It will not rain now. We must go.”

  “Yes.” Florence sprang to her feet. “We must go at once.”

  The moon was out now; the storm had passed. Quietly enough they started down the winding stairs. Yet startling developments awaited them just around the corner.

  In the meanwhile on the city streets the voice of the tumult had died to a murmur. Here came the rumble of a passing train; from this corner came the sound of hammers dismantling grandstands that the morning rush might not be impeded. Other than these there was no sign that a great city had left its homes and had for once taken one long interested look at itself only to return to its homes again.

  As Florence and Jeanne stepped from the door of the blockhouse they were startled by the sound of voices in low but animated conversation.

  “Here, at this hour of the night!” At once Florence was on the defensive. The fort, she knew, was not yet open to the public. Even had it been, located as it was on this desolate stretch of “made land,” it would be receiving no visitors at midnight.

  “Come!” she whispered. “They are over there, toward the gate. We dare not try to go out, not yet.”

  Seizing Jeanne by the hand, she led her along the dark shadows of a wall and at last entered a door.

  The place was strange to them; yet to Florence it had a certain familiarity. This was a moment when her passion for the study of history stood her in good stead.

  “This is the officers’ quarters,” she whispered. “There should be a door that may be barred. The windows are narrow, the casements heavy. Here one should be safe.”

  She was not mistaken. Hardly had they entered than she closed the door and let down a massive wooden bar.

  “Now,” she breathed, “we are safe, unless—”

  She broke short off. A thought had struck her all of a heap.

  “Unless what?” Jeanne asked breathlessly.

  “Unless this place has a night watchman. If it has, and he finds us here at this hour of the night we will be arrested for trespassing. And then we will have a ride in a police wagon which won’t be the least bit of fun.”

  “No,” agreed Jeanne in a solemn tone, “it won’t.”

  “And that,” whispered Florence, as she tiptoed about examining things, “seems to be about what we are up against. I had thought the place a mere unfurnished wooden shell. That is the way the blockhouse was. But see! At the end of this room is a fireplace, and beside it are all sorts of curious cooking utensils, great copper kettles, skillets of iron with yard-long handles and a brass cornhopper. Coming from the past, they must be priceless.”

  “And see! There above the mantel are flintlock rifles,” Jeanne put in. “And beside the fireplace are curious lanterns with candles in them. How I wish we could light them.”

  “We dare not,” said Florence. “But one thing we can do. We can sit in that dark corner where the moon does not fall, and dream of other days.”

  “And in the meantime?” Jeanne barely suppressed a shudder.

  “In the meantime we will hope that the guard, if there be one, goes out for his midnight lunch and that we may slip out unobserved. Truly we have right enough to do that. We have meant no harm and have done none.”

  So, sitting there in the dark, dreaming, they played that Florence was the youthful commander of the fort and that the slender Jeanne was his young bride but recently brought into this wilderness.

  “The wild life and the night frighten you,” Florence said to Jeanne. “But I am young and strong. I will protect you. Come! Let us sit by the fire here and dream a while.”

  Jeanne laughed a low musical laugh and snuggled closer.

  But, for Jeanne, the charm of the past had departed. Try as she might, she could not overcome the fear that had taken possession of her upon realizing that they were not alone.

  “Who can these men be?” she asked herself. “Guards? Perhaps, and perhaps not.”

  She thought of the dark-faced man who so inspired her with fear. “We saw him out there on the waste lands,” she told herself, as a chill coursed up her spine. “It is more than probable that he saw us. He may have followed us, watching us like a cat. And now, at this late hour, when a piercing scream could scarcely be heard, like a cat he may be ready to spring.”

  In a great state of agitation she rose and crept noiselessly toward the window.

  “Come,” she whispered. “See yonder! Two men are slinking along before that other log building. One is stooped like a hunchback. He is carrying a well-filled sack upon his back. Surely they cannot be guards.

  “Can it be that this place is left unguarded, and that it is being robbed?”

  Here was a situation indeed. Two girls in this lonely spot, unguarded and with such prowlers about.

  “I am glad the door is b-barred.” Jeanne’s teeth chattered.

  Having gone skulking along the building across the way, the men entered and closed the door. Two or three minutes later a wavering light appeared at one of the narrow windows.

  “Perhaps they are robbing that place of some precious heirlooms!” Florence’s heart beat painfully, but she held herself in splendid control.

  “This buil-building will be next!” Jeanne spoke with difficulty.

  “Perhaps. I—I think we should do something about it.”

  “But what?”

  “We shall know. Providence will guide us.” Florence’s hand was on the bar. It lifted slowly.

  What was to happen? They were going outside, Jeanne was sure of that. But what was to happen after that? She could not tell. Getting a good grip on herself, she whispered bravely:

  “You lead. I’ll follow.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  THROUGH THE WINDOW

  “Come!” Florence whispered, as the door of the ancient barracks swung open and they tiptoed out into the night. “We must find out what those men are doing. This place was built in memory of the past for the good of the public. Generous-hearted people have loaned the rare treasures that are stored here. They must not be lost.”

  Skirting the buildings, gliding along the shadows, they made their way past the powder-magazine all built of stone, moved onward the length of a log building that loomed in the dark, dashed across a corner and arrived at last with wildly beating hearts at the corner of the building from which the feeble, flickering light still shone.

  “Now!” Florence breathed, gripping her breast in a vain attempt to still the wild beating of her heart. “Not a sound! We must reach that window.”

  Leading the way, she moved in breathless silence, a foot at a time along the dark wall. Now she was twenty feet from the window, now ten, now—. She paused with a quick intake of breath. Did she hear footsteps? Were they coming out? And if they did?

  Flattening herself against the wall, she drew Jeanne close to her. A moment passed. Her watch ticked loudly. From some spot far away a hound baying the moon gave forth a long-drawn wail.

  Two minutes passed, three, four.

  “They—they’re not coming out.”

  Taking the trembling hand of the little French girl in her own, she once more led her forward.

  And now they were at the window, peering in with startled eyes.

  What they saw astonished them beyond belief.

  Crouching on the floor, lighted only by a flashlight lantern, was a grown boy and a hunchbacked man. The boy at that moment was in the act of dumping the contents of a large bag upon the log floor of the building.

  “Loot!” whispered Florence.

  “But why do they pour it out?”

  Florence placed two finge
rs on her companion’s lips.

  That the articles had not been taken from the fort they realized at once, for the boy, holding up a modern lady’s shoe with an absurdly high heel, gave forth a hoarse laugh.

  There were other articles, all modern; a spectacle-case with broken lenses inside but gold rims still good, another pair of glasses with horn rims that had not been broken; and there were more shoes.

  And, most interesting of all, there were several purses. That the strange pair regarded these purses with the greatest interest was manifested by the manner in which they had their heads together as the first was opened.

  Shaking the contents into his huge fist, the hunchback picked out some small coins and handed them to the boy. A glittering compact and a folded bill he thrust into the side pocket of his coat. The boy frowned, but said not a word. Instead he seized upon a second pocket-book and prepared to inspect it for himself.

  “Pickpockets!” Jeanne whispered. “They have been working on that helpless throng. Now they have come here to divide their loot.”

  Florence did not answer.

  The crouching boy was about to open the second purse, the hunchback making no protest, when to the girls there came cause for fresh anxiety. From the far side of the enclosure there came the rattle of chains.

  “Someone else,” Florence whispered, “and at this hour of the night. But they cannot harm us,” came as an after-thought. “The chain is fastened on the inside.” She was thankful for this, but not for long.

  “But how did these get in?” Petite Jeanne pointed to the crouching pair within.

  “Let’s get out!” Jeanne pleaded. “This is work for an officer. We can send one.”

  “Someone is at the gate,” Florence reminded her.

  Then there happened that which for the moment held them glued to the spot. Having thrust a hand into the second purse, a small one, well worn, the crouching boy drew forth an object that plainly puzzled him. He held it close to the light. As he did so, Florence gave vent to an involuntary gasp.

  “The cameo! The lost cameo!” she exclaimed half aloud. “It must belong to our little old lady of the merry-mad throng.”

  At the same instant there came from behind her a man’s gruff voice in angry words:

  “Here, you! What you doing? Why do you lock the gate? Thought you’d keep me out, eh?

  “But I fooled you!” the voice continued. “I scaled the palisades.”

  Instantly there came sounds of movement from within. The crouching figures were hastily stuffing all that pile back into the sack and at the same time eagerly looking for an avenue of escape.

  Florence caught the gleam of a star on the newcomer’s coat.

  “Oh, please!” she pleaded. “We have taken nothing, meant no harm. The storm—

  “But please, officer,” her tone changed, “that pair within have been doing something, perhaps robbing. They have a precious cameo that belongs to a dear old lady. Please don’t let them escape.”

  In answer to this breathless appeal the officer made no reply. Instead he strode to the window, looked within, then rapped smartly on the sash with his club. At the same time he pointed to his star.

  The strange intruders could not fail to understand. They shouldered their sack and came forth meekly enough.

  “You come with me, all of you!” the officer commanded. “Let’s get this thing straight.

  “Now then,” he commanded, after they had crossed the enclosure in silence and he had lighted a large lamp in a small office-like room, “dump that stuff on the floor.”

  “I want to tell ye,” the hunchback grumbled, “that we hain’t no thieves, me an’ this boy. We hain’t. We—”

  “Dump it out!” The officer’s tone was stern.

  The hunchback obeyed. “We found this, we did; found all of it.”

  “Ye-s, you found it!” The officer bent over to take up a purse. He opened it and emptied a handful of coins on the table at his side.

  “Purses!” he exclaimed. “How many?” He counted silently. “Seven of ’em and all full of change. And you found ’em! Tell that to the judge!”

  “Honest, we found them.” The grown boy dragged a ragged sleeve across his eyes. “We was down to the Jubilee. People was always crushin’ together and losin’ things in the scramble, shoes and purses an’ all this.” He swept an arm toward the pile. “So we just stayed around until they was gone. Then we got ’em.”

  “And you thought because you found ’em they were yours?”

  “Well, ain’t they?” The hunchback grew defiant.

  “Not by a whole lot!” The officer’s voice was a trifle less stern. “If you find a purse or any other thing on the street, if it’s worth the trouble, you’re supposed to turn it in, and you leave your name. If it’s not called for, you get it back. But you can’t gather things up in a sack and just walk off. That don’t go.

  “See here!” He held up a tiny leather frame taken from the purse he had emptied. “That’s a picture of an old lady with white hair; somebody’s mother, like as not. What’s it worth to you? Not that!” He snapped his fingers. “But to the real owner it’s a precious possession.”

  “Yes, yes,” Florence broke in eagerly, “and there’s a ragged little purse in that pile that contains a dear old lady’s only real possession, a cameo.”

  “How’d you know that?” The officer turned sharply upon her.

  “We saw it in his hand.” She held her ground, nodding at the boy. “We were with the lady, helping her out of the crush, when she lost it.”

  “You—you look like that kind,” the officer said slowly, studying her face. “I—I’m going to take a chance. Got her address?”

  “Yes, yes,” eagerly.

  “Give it to me.”

  “Here. Write it down.”

  “Good. Now then, you pick out the purse and show me this thing you call a cameo. Never heard of one before, but if it’s different from everything else I’ve seen it must be one of them cameos.”

  “Oh tha-thank you!” Florence choked. She had made a promise to the little old lady. Now the promise was near to fulfillment.

  The purse was quickly found and the cameo exposed to view.

  “That’s a cameo all right,” the officer grinned. “It’s nothing else I ever saw. You take it to her and may God bless you for your interest in an old lady.”

  Florence found her eyes suddenly dimmed.

  “As for you!” The officer’s tone grew stern once more as he turned to the marauding pair. “You give me your names and tell me where you live. I’ll just keep all this stuff as it is, and turn it in. If any of it remains unclaimed we’ll let you know.”

  Glad to know that they were not to be sent to jail for a misdemeanor they had committed in ignorance, the strange pair gave their names and place of residence and then disappeared into the shadows whence they had come.

  The officer, whose duty it was to keep an eye on lake shore property, escorted the girls to the street car line, then bade them good-night.

  There were times when the little French girl could not sleep. On returning to her room, she found that, despite the lateness of the hour, her nerves were all a-tingle, her eyes wide and staring.

  Long after Florence had retired for the night, she lay rolled in a soft, woolly blanket, huddled up in a great chair before the fire.

  At first, as she stared at the fire she saw there only a confusion of blurred impressions. In time these impressions took form and she saw much of her own life spread out before her. The opera, its stage resplendent with color, light and life; the boxes shrouded in darkness; these she saw. The great estate, home of Rosemary Robinson, was there, and the glowing magic curtain that appeared to burn but was not consumed; these were there too.

  As in a dream she heard voices: The lady in black spoke, Jaeger, the detective, and Rosemary. She seemed to catch the low murmur of the hunchback and that boy of his; heard, too, the sharp call of the man with the evil eye.

  “A
ll this,” she said aloud, “fits in somehow. ‘There is a destiny that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we may.’ If I could see it all as it is to be when all is finished they would all have their places, their work to do, the little old lady, the crushing throng, the hooters, yes, even the one with the dark face and evil eye: all these may serve me in the end.

  “Serve me. Poor little me!” She laughed aloud, and, blazing with a merry crackle, the fire appeared to laugh back.

  CHAPTER XVII

  STARTLING REVELATIONS

  The circular fishing net, which had for so unusual a purpose been lowered into the lake at the dead of night and brought up later, quite empty, belonged to a youth, known among his acquaintances as “Snowball.” Snowball was black, very black indeed.

  When Snowball arrived at his net next morning he found a white man sitting by his windlass. This young man’s eye had a glint of blue steel in it that set the black boy’s knees quivering.

  “That your net?” The stranger nodded toward the lake.

  “Yaas, sir!”

  “Deep down there?”

  “Tol’able deep. Yaas, sir.”

  “Swim?”

  “Who? Me? Yaas, sir.”

  “Here.” The man slipped a bill between two boards and left it fluttering there. “Skin off and dive down there. Black package down there. See? Bring it up. See?”

  “Yaas, sir. Oh, yas, yas, sir.” There surely was something strange about the glint of those eyes.

  Snowball struggled out of his few bits of loose clothing and, clad only in trunks, disappeared beneath the surface of the lake.

  A moment later he came to the surface.

  “Got it?” Those eyes again.

  “N—no, sir.” The black boy’s teeth chattered. “Nothin’ down there. Not nothin’ at all.”

  “Go down again. You got poor eyes!” The man made a move. Snowball disappeared.

  He came up again sputtering. “Hain’t nothin’. Tellin’ y’ th’ truth, sir. Just nothin’ at all.”

  The stranger made a threatening move. Snowball was about to disappear once more, when a shrill laugh came rippling across the rocks.

  The man turned, startled, then frowned.