The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  Three times Rosemary Robinson had invited her to visit her at her home. Three times, as Pierre, politely but firmly, she had refused. “This affair,” she told herself, “has gone far enough. Before our friendship ripens or is blighted altogether, I must reveal to her my identity. And that I am not yet willing to do. It might rob me of my place in this great palace of art.”

  Thanks to Marjory Dean, the little French girl’s training in Grand Opera proceeded day by day. Without assigning a definite reason for it, the prima donna had insisted upon giving her hours of training each week in the role of the juggler.

  More than this, she had all but compelled Jeanne to become her understudy in the forthcoming one-act opera to be known as “The Magic Curtain.”

  At an opportune moment Marjory Dean had introduced the manager of the opera to all the fantastic witchery of this new opera. He had been taken by it.

  At once he had agreed that when the “Juggler” was played, this new opera should be presented to the public.

  So Jeanne lived in a world of dreams, dreams that she felt could never come true. “But I am learning,” she would whisper to herself, “learning of art and life. What more could one ask?”

  Then came a curious invitation. She was to visit the studios of Fernando Tiffin. The invitation came through Marjory Dean. Strangest of all, she was to appear as Pierre.

  “Why Pierre?” she pondered.

  “Yes, why?” Florence echoed. “But, after all, such an invitation! Fernando Tiffin is the greatest sculptor in America. Have you seen the fountain by the Art Museum?”

  “Where the pigeons are always bathing?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is beautiful.”

  “He created that statue, and many others.”

  “That reminds me,” Jeanne sought out her dress suit and began searching its pockets, “an artist, an interesting man with a beard, gave me his card. He told me to visit his studio. He was going to tell me more about lights and shadows.”

  “Lights and shadows?”

  “Yes. How they are like life. But now I have lost his card.”

  * * * *

  Florence returned to the island. There she sat long in the sunshine by the rocky shore, talking with Aunt Bobby. She found the good lady greatly perplexed.

  “They’ve served notice,” Aunt Bobby sighed, “the park folks have. All that is to come down.” She waved an arm toward the cottonwood thicket and the “Cathedral.” “A big building is going up. Steam shovels are working over on the west side now. Any day, now, we’ll have to pack up, Meg and me.

  “And where’ll we go? Back to the ships, I suppose. I hate it for Meg. She ought to have more schoolin’. But poor folks can’t pick and choose.”

  “There will be a way out,” Florence consoled her. But would there? Who could tell?

  She hunted up Meg and advised her to look into that mysterious package. “It may be a bomb.”

  “If it is, it won’t go off by itself.”

  “It may be a gun.”

  “Don’t need a gun. Got two of ’em. Good ones.”

  “It may be stolen treasure.”

  “Well, I didn’t steal it!” Meg turned flashing eyes upon her. And there for a time the matter ended.

  * * * *

  Jeanne attended the great sculptor’s party. Since she had not been invited to accompany Marjory Dean, she went alone. What did it matter? Miss Dean was to be there. That was enough.

  She arrived at three o’clock in the afternoon. A servant answered the bell. She was ushered at once into a vast place with a very high ceiling. All about her were statues and plaster-of-paris reproductions of masterpieces.

  Scarcely had she time to glance about her when she heard a voice, saw a face and knew she had found an old friend—the artist who had spoken so interestingly of life, he of the beard, was before her.

  “So this is where you work?” She was overjoyed. “And does the great Fernando Tiffin do his work here, too?”

  “I am Fernando Tiffin.”

  “Oh!” Jeanne swayed a little.

  “You see,” the other smiled, putting out a hand to steady her, “I, too, like to study life among those who do not know me; to masquerade a little.”

  “Masquerade!” Jeanne started. Did he, then, see through her own pretenses? She flushed.

  “But no!” She fortified herself. “How could he know?”

  “You promised to tell me more about life.” She hurried to change the subject.

  “Ah, yes. How fine! There is yet time.

  “You see.” He threw a switch. The place was flooded with light. “The thing that stands before you, the ‘Fairy and the Child,’ it is called. It is a reproduction of a great masterpiece: a perfect reproduction, yet in this light it is nothing; a blare of white, that is all.

  “But see!” He touched one button, then another, and, behold, the statue stood before them a thing of exquisite beauty!

  “You see?” he smiled. “Now there are shadows, perfect shadows, just enough, and just enough light.

  “Life is like that. There must be shadows. Without shadows we could not be conscious of light. But when the lights are too bright, the shadows too deep, then all is wrong.

  “Your bright lights of life at the Opera House, the sable coats, the silks and jewels, they are a form of life. But there the lights are too strong. They blind the eyes, hide the true beauty that may be beneath it all.

  “But out there on that vacant lot, in the cold and dark—you have not forgotten?”

  “I shall never forget.” Jeanne’s voice was low.

  “There the shadows were too deep. It was like this.” He touched still another button. The beauty of the statue was once more lost, this time in a maze of shadows too deep and strong.

  “You see.” His voice was gentle.

  “I see.”

  “But here are more guests arriving. You may not be aware of it, but this is to be an afternoon of opera, not of art.”

  Soon enough Jeanne was to know this, for, little as she had dreamed it, hers on that occasion was to be the stellar role.

  It was Marjory Dean who had entered. With her was the entire cast of “The Magic Curtain.”

  “He has asked that we conduct a dress rehearsal here for the benefit of a few choice friends,” Miss Dean whispered in Jeanne’s ear, as soon as she could draw her aside.

  “A strange request, I’ll grant you,” she answered Jeanne’s puzzled look. “Not half so strange as this, however. He wishes you to take the stellar role.”

  “But, Miss Dean!”

  “It is his party. His word is law in many places. You will do your best for me.” She pressed Jeanne’s hand hard.

  Jeanne did her best. And undoubtedly, despite the lack of a truly magic curtain, despite the limitations of the improvised stage, the audience was visibly impressed.

  At the end, as Jeanne sank from sight beneath the stage, the great sculptor leaned over to whisper in Marjory Dean’s ear:

  “She will do it!”

  “What did I tell you? To be sure she will!”

  The operatic portion of the program at an end, the guests were treated to a brief lecture on the art of sculpture. Tea was served. The guests departed. Through it all Jeanne walked about in a daze. “It is as if I had been invited to my own wedding and did not so much as know I was married,” she said to Florence, later in the day.

  Florence smiled and made no reply. There was more to come, much more. Florence believed that. But Jeanne had not so much as guessed.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  FLORENCE MEETS THE LADY IN BLACK

  The great hour came at last. “Tonight,” Jeanne had whispered, “‘The Magic Curtain’ will unfold before thousands! Will it be a success?”

  The very thought that it might prove a failure turned her cold. The happiness of her good friends, Angelo, Swen and Marjory Dean was at stake. And to Jeanne the happiness of those she respected and loved was more dear than her own.

  Nig
ht came quite suddenly on that eventful day. Great dark clouds, sweeping in from the lake, drew the curtain of night.

  Jeanne found herself at her place among the boxes a full hour before the time required. This was not of her own planning. There was a mystery about this; a voice had called her on the telephone requesting her to arrive early.

  “Now I am here,” she murmured, “and the place is half dark. Who can have requested it? What could have been the reason?”

  Still another mystery. Florence was with her. And she was to remain. A place had been provided for her in the box usually occupied by Rosemary Robinson and her family.

  “Of course,” she had said to Florence, “they know that we had something to do with the discovery of the magic curtain. It is, perhaps, because of this that you are here.”

  Florence had smiled, but had made no reply.

  At this hour the great auditorium was silent, deserted. Only from behind the drawn stage curtain came a faint murmur, telling of last minute preparations.

  “‘The Magic Curtain.’” Jeanne whispered. The words still thrilled her. “It will be witnessed tonight by thousands. What will be the verdict? Tomorrow Angelo and Swen, my friends of our ‘Golden Circle,’ will be rich or very, very poor.”

  “The Magic Curtain.” Surely it had been given a generous amount of publicity. Catching a note of the unusual, the mysterious, the uncanny in this production, the reporters had made the most of it. An entire page of the Sunday supplement had been devoted to it. A crude drawing of the curtains, pictures of Hop Long Lee, of Angelo, Swen, Marjory Dean, and even Jeanne were there. And with these a most lurid story purporting to be the history of this curtain of fire as it had existed through the ages in some little known Buddhist temple. The very names of those who, wrapped in its consuming folds, had perished, were given in detail. Jeanne had read, had shuddered, then had tried to laugh it off as a reporter’s tale. In this she did not quite succeed. For her the magic curtain contained more than a suggestion of terror.

  She was thinking of all this when an attendant, hurrying up the orchestra aisle, paused beneath her and called her name, the only name by which she was known at the Opera House:

  “Pierre! Oh, Pierre!”

  “Here. Here I am.”

  Without knowing why, she thrilled to her very finger tips. “Is it for this that I am here?” she asked herself.

  “Hurry down!” came from below. “The director wishes to speak to you.”

  “The director!” The blood froze in her veins. So this was the end! Her masquerade had been discovered. She was to be thrown out of the Opera House.

  “And on this night of all nights!” She was ready to weep.

  It was a very meek Pierre who at last stood before the great director.

  “Are you Pierre?” His tone was not harsh. She began to hope a little.

  “I am Pierre.”

  “This man—” The director turned to one in the shadows. Jeanne caught her breath. It was the great sculptor, Fernando Tiffin.

  “This man,” the director repeated, after she had recovered from her surprise, “tells me that you know the score of this new opera, ‘The Magic Curtain.’”

  “Y-yes. Yes, I do.” What was this? Her heart throbbed painfully.

  “And that of the ‘Juggler of Notre Dame.’”

  “I—I do.” This time more boldly.

  “Surely this can be no crime,” she told herself.

  “This has happened,” the director spoke out abruptly, “Miss Dean is at the Robinson home. She has fallen from a horse. She will not be able to appear tonight. Fernando Tiffin tells me that you are prepared to assume the leading role in these two short operas. I say it is quite impossible. You are to be the judge.”

  Staggered by this load that had been so suddenly cast upon her slender shoulders, the little French girl seemed about to sink to the floor. Fortunately at that instant her eyes caught the calm, reassuring gaze of the great sculptor. “I have said you are able.” She read this meaning there.

  “Yes.” Her shoulders were square now. “I am able.”

  “Then,” said the director, “you shall try.”

  Ninety minutes later by the clock, she found herself waiting her cue, the cue that was to bid her come dancing forth upon a great stage, the greatest in the world. And looking down upon her, quick to applaud or to blame, were the city’s thousands.

  In the meantime, in her seat among the boxes, Florence had met with an unusual experience. A mysterious figure had suddenly revealed herself as one of Petite Jeanne’s old friends. At the same time she had half unfolded some month-old mysteries.

  Petite Jeanne had hardly disappeared through the door leading to the stage when two whispered words came from behind Florence’s back:

  “Remember me?”

  With a start, the girl turned about to find herself looking into the face of a tall woman garbed in black.

  Reading uncertainty in her eyes, the woman whispered: “Cedar Point. Gamblers’ Island. Three rubies.”

  “The ‘lady cop’!” Florence sprang to her feet. She was looking at an old friend. Many of her most thrilling adventures had been encountered in the presence of this lady of the police.

  “So it was you!” she exclaimed in a low whisper. “You are Jeanne’s lady in black?”

  “I am the lady in black.”

  “And she never recognized you?”

  “I arranged it so she would not. She never saw my face. I have been a guardian of her trail on many an occasion.

  “And now!” Her figure grew tense, like that of a springing tiger. “Now I am about to come to the end of a great mystery. You can help me. That is why I arranged that you should be here.”

  “I?” Florence showed her astonishment.

  “Sit down.”

  The girl obeyed.

  “Some weeks ago a priceless necklace was stolen from this very box. You recall that?”

  “How could I forget?” Florence sat up, all attention.

  “Of course. Petite Jeanne, she is your best friend.

  “She cast suspicion upon herself by deserting her post here; running away. Had it not been for me, she would have gone to jail. I had seen through her masquerade at once. ‘This,’ I said to myself, ‘is Petite Jeanne. She would not steal a dime.’ I convinced others. They spared her.

  “Then,” she paused for a space of seconds, “it was up to me to find the pearls and the thief. I think I have accomplished this; at least I have found the pearls. As I said, you can help me. You know the people living on that curious man-made island?”

  “I—” Florence was thunderstruck.

  Aunt Bobby! Meg! How could they be implicated? All this she said to herself and was fearful.

  Then, like a bolt from the blue came a picture of Meg’s birthday package.

  “You know those people?” the “lady cop” insisted.

  “I—why, yes, I do.”

  “You will go there with me after the opera?”

  “At night?”

  “There is need for haste. We will go in Robinson’s big car. Jaeger will go, and Rosemary. Perhaps Jeanne, too. You will be ready? That is all for now.

  “Only this: I think Jeanne is to have the stellar role tonight.”

  “Jeanne! The stellar role? How could that be?”

  “I think it has been arranged.”

  “Arranged?”

  There came no answer. The lady in black was gone.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  SPARKLING TREASURE

  The strangest moment in the little French girl’s career was that in which, as the juggler, she tripped out upon the Opera House stage. More than three thousand people had assembled in this great auditorium to see and hear their favorite, the city’s darling, Marjory Dean, perform in her most famous role. She was not here. They would know this at once. What would the answer be?

  The answer, after perfunctory applause, was a deep hush of silence. It was as if the audience had said: “Marjory Dean i
s not here. Ah, well, let us see what this child can do.”

  Only her tireless work under Miss Dean’s direction saved Jeanne from utter collapse. Used as she was to the smiling faces and boisterous applause of the good old light opera days, this silence seemed appalling. As it was, she played her part with a perfection that was art, devoid of buoyancy. This, at first. But as the act progressed she took a tight grip on herself and throwing herself into the part, seemed to shout at the dead audience: “You shall look! You shall hear! You must applaud!”

  For all this, when the curtain was run down upon the scene, the applause, as before, lacked enthusiasm. She answered but one curtain call, then crept away alone to clench her small hands hard in an endeavor to keep back the tears and to pray as she had never prayed before, that Marjory Dean might arrive prepared to play her part before the curtain went up on the second act.

  But now a strange thing was happening. From one corner of the house there came a low whisper and a murmur. It grew and grew; it spread and spread until, like a fire sweeping the dead grass of the prairies, it had passed to the darkest nook of the vast auditorium.

  Curiously enough, a name was on every lip;

  “Petite Jeanne!”

  Someone, a fan of other days, had penetrated the girl’s mask and had seen there the light opera favorite of a year before. A thousand people in that audience had known and loved her in those good dead days that were gone.

  When Jeanne, having waited and hoped in vain for the appearance of her friend and benefactor, summoned all the courage she possessed, and once more stepped upon the stage, she was greeted by such a round of applause as she had never before experienced—not even in the good old days of yesteryear.

  This vast audience had suddenly taken her to its heart. How had this come about? Ah, well, what did it matter? They were hers, hers for one short hour. She must make the most of this golden opportunity.

  That which followed, the completing of the “Juggler,” the opening of “The Magic Curtain,” the complete triumph of this new American opera, will always remain to Jeanne a beautiful dream. She walked and danced, she sang and bowed as one in a dream.

  The great moment of all came when, after answering the fifth curtain call with her name, “Petite Jeanne! Petite Jeanne!” echoing to the vaulted ceiling, she left the stage to walk square into the arms of Marjory Dean.