The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “Such as it is, you shall have it!” promised Mr. Pangborn.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The Figure in Red

  Arden Blake fairly jumped into her bedside slippers, drew on a dressing gown, and in an instant was at the window.

  “What’s the matter?” sleepily inquired Terry, who was in the other twin bed. “Has anything happened?”

  “It’s snowing again,” Arden answered. “I awoke a little while ago and I heard tiny tappings against the window. I wondered what it was and I waited a decent time, so I shouldn’t awaken you, to find out.”

  “Nothing to do with the mystery, has it?” yawned Terry.

  “No, silly! It’s just snowing. It’s going to be a glorious storm, much better than the other little fairy we had, I believe, and oh, don’t you just love snow for Christmas?”

  “That’s so, Christmas is coming,” Terry admitted as she sat up in her bed and watched Arden, still at the window. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly eight. Too sleepy still to see the faithful clock right before you,” teased Arden.

  “Sim and Dot up yet?”

  “I haven’t heard them moving.” Arden inclined an ear toward the room across the hall where their hostess and the other girl slept.

  “Well, then, come on back to bed,” urged Terry. “No use getting up until Sim does. And we stayed up so late last night, talking to Harry Pangborn, that I’m sleepy yet.”

  “I’m not, and I’m going to dress. I have something to do,” declared Arden with a purposeful look on her face.

  “What? Going to see Harry? I think he’s awfully nice.”

  “He is, but I’m not going to see him. I’m going to the woods to get some holly branches. I noticed a lovely lot of bushes some distance back of the old Hall when I was wandering around by the cellar door that time Betty Howe popped up out of it.”

  “With horror on her face, as they say in books,” drawled Terry.

  “Yes, she was terrified all right,” admitted Arden. “Who wouldn’t be, coming upon what looked like a dead man? And that’s another thing we must do.”

  “My, aren’t we the busy girls!” laughed Terry. “What else, for goodness’ sakes? I might as well get up and dress, I suppose. There’ll be no sleep for me now with you barging around.”

  “Another thing we must do,” said Arden as she began to dress, “is to see to it that Jim Danton’s poor little family gets some relief from Mr. Callahan or somebody. He was hurt while working for the contractor, and the contractor should pay. That’s the law.”

  “It wasn’t exactly his fault, though,” Terry argued. “Mr. Callahan might claim, as they say they do in some insurance policies, that it was an act of God, an unforeseen calamity, and so get out of it—I mean he might say it was the ghost of Jockey Hollow.”

  “I hardly believe he would do that,” remarked Arden, brushing her hair vigorously. “But it surely is puzzling. Well, we’ll see what Harry Pangborn can figure out of it, though I think, since we sort of promised, in a way we should try and do something for the Danton family. There is no social service agency around here.”

  “Yes, somebody must help them, and they seem nice folks, too. But about this holly, what are you going to do with it specially?”

  “Decorate this place for Christmas, of course. Coming with me?”

  “I suppose so. Dot and Sim will, I imagine.”

  “Yes, we’ll make a little party of it. Oh, I do love to walk in the snow, and it’s coming down beautifully!” raved Arden. “Do come and look, Terry!”

  “Wait until I get this shoe on. Though if we’re going to tramp in the snow I suppose I’d better wear heavier ones.”

  “You won’t need them with arctics. But isn’t it a glorious storm!”

  Terry agreed that it was. The two chums finished dressing and went out in the hall to go down for breakfast, which was evidently being prepared by Moselle and her dark daughter, as testified to by the rattling of dishes and the aroma of bacon and coffee floating up.

  As Terry and Arden were walking toward the stairs, they heard the door of Sim’s room open, and Dot came out, wearing a robe. She held her finger on her lips as a signal for silence.

  “What’s the matter?” whispered Arden.

  “She has a bad headache,” Dot replied. “She was awake a good part of the night, and she’s just fallen asleep. I thought I’d slip down and tell Moselle not to make any more noise than she can help. Sim needs quiet.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad!” murmured Terry. “I wonder if there’s anything we can do?”

  “No, I gave her some aspirin. She’ll be all right. If you’re going down, would you mind having that little slave bring me up some coffee? That’s all I want. I’ll be waiting out in the hall so I won’t disturb Sim by opening the door too often.”

  “It’s too bad,” murmured Terry again. “Can’t you come down and have some breakfast with us?”

  “No, coffee is all I’ll take. Some storm, isn’t it?”

  “Terry and I were going out for a walk in it,” whispered Arden, “and to gather some holly branches to decorate the place here for Christmas. We hoped you and Sim would come, but if she has a headache I guess we’ll postpone the trip.”

  “No reason why you should,” Dorothy argued, walking to the head of the stairs with the others to avoid whispering so much outside Sim’s door. “I’ll stay here with her. I don’t feel much like walking in the snow, though I love fresh-grown holly. Get all you can, and by the time you come back I’ll be ready to help decorate, and perhaps Sim’s head will be better.”

  “All right,” agreed Arden. “I have my mind set on it, and I don’t like to change. You’ll come, Terry?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Dot had her coffee, the other girls making a more substantial breakfast, and then, leaving Sim still asleep and Dot on guard, Terry and Arden set out into the storm. The flakes were coming down rapidly now, dry, small flakes that seemed to presage a heavy fall. It was not yet deep, but would be, as none was melting.

  “Oh, it’s so lovely!” murmured Arden raising her face to let the snowflakes melt on it.

  “You seem to have quite a yen on for storms,” remarked Terry, laughing.

  “I always have had. Now we must step out. It’s quite a distance to the old Hall, and it’s slow walking in the snow.”

  “I’m equal to it,” declared Terry, bracing up and dashing forward.

  They trudged along, laughing and talking—talking principally of the advent of Harry Pangborn and his declaration that he would do some real investigating of the mysterious happenings in Jockey Hollow.

  “I wonder if he’ll really discover anything,” said Terry as they neared the place.

  “He might,” was Arden’s opinion. “He has a good head, I believe.”

  “He has nice teeth, anyhow.”

  “To bite ghosts with, I suppose!” laughed Arden.

  “Yep! Well, I can see the place now,” remarked Terry as they topped a little rise. “There doesn’t seem to be any men working there, though—no plaster dust floating out of the windows as usual when men are tearing down an old building.”

  “It is quiet,” Arden admitted as they walked in front of the Hall. “I suppose Mr. Callahan is wondering what sort of workmen to get next, since his white-collar class has left, apparently.”

  “Look!” Terry suddenly exclaimed, pointing. “Footprints in the snow. At least one man has gone in there!”

  “That is very evident, Robinson Crusoe,” laughed Arden. “As your man Friday, I agree with you. Someone has gone in, and one man only, judging by the footprints. And as these are plain footprints and not little scratchy marks in the snow I think we may safely argue that it is no ghost.”

  “Who said it was?” countered Terry. “But what can one workman do in tearing down such a big house?”

  At that moment a head was thrust out of an upper and partly demolished window and a voice cheerily called:

  “Good-m
orning, girls!”

  “Oh, it’s Harry Pangborn!” exclaimed Arden.

  “Hello, Harry!” greeted Terry. Since the episode at Cedar Ridge, the friends had begun to call one another by their first names.

  “What are you doing in there?” Arden called back.

  “Investigating ghosts, as I promised. Want to help me?”

  “We’re after holly,” said Terry, “in the back woods.”

  “Well, you have time for both ghosts and holly too, perhaps.”

  “No, thank you,” Arden decided, shaking some of the snow off her hat. “I think you can do your investigating alone. I mean, you come to it with an open mind. Terry or I might suggest something to you, in our eagerness, and that would throw you off the track.” They were so near the Hall they could talk easily to the young man at the window above.

  “There is something in what you say,” admitted Harry with an assumed judicial air. “I shall take it under consideration. Well, then, I’ll go on investigating by myself, reserving the right to call at Sim’s house to see you all, later, and report.”

  “Yes, do!” invited Terry.

  “Have you found anything yet?” Arden wanted to know.

  “I only arrived a few minutes ago. Well, on with the ghost hunt! Stop in if you come past this way, and I’ll help you carry the holly branches home.”

  “Oh, that will be fine!” called Terry. “I was wondering how we could carry enough to make really satisfactory decorations.”

  “But I draw the line at a Yule Log!” stipulated the young millionaire, whose car, the girls now noticed, was parked near a big clump of lilac bushes that nearly concealed it. He had driven in from a direction opposite that which they had traversed and so they had not seen the tire marks.

  “Did you come here this morning just to investigate?” pressed Arden as young Pangborn started away from the window and she and Terry were about to walk on.

  “Well, I came to look into the matter of bird-feeding stations for the sanctuary Dr. Thandu wants to establish here, and so I decided I might also take in the Hall. It’s quite a place.”

  “Killing two birds with one stone,” quoted Terry tritely.

  “Exactly! See you later!”

  He waved a hand to them and disappeared back into the strange old house.

  It was a little farther to the small grove, where the holly trees and bushes grew, than Arden realized and it was perhaps ten minutes after their good-bye to the ghost-hunter that the two girls found a thicket sufficiently large to ensure a good supply of branches with their lovely red berries and dark, prickly, glossy leaves. Holly is always just holly; hard, sharp, but magnificent on its trees.

  They had good pocket knives and soon cut off a quantity—more, Arden suggested, than they could carry even with the help of Mr. Pangborn, when Terry, glancing off toward a little clearing, suddenly cried:

  “Look!”

  There was something in the tone of her voice that startled Arden. But she managed to ask, as she whirled quickly around:

  “What is it?”

  “A figure in red!” whispered Terry, pointing. “There—through the trees—someone in red—moving. Oh, perhaps it’s the ghost of Patience Howe! She is always seen wearing a red cloak, you know!”

  Arden dropped the holly branches from her hand as she looked toward where Terry pointed.

  Something was moving! Red, in all that deep, dark clump of evergreens!

  CHAPTER XIX

  Santa Claus

  Terry and Arden drew closer together, instinctively, for mutual protection. It was uncanny to see this strange, scarlet figure capering about in the little clearing, seen through a screen of fir trees and against a background of gleaming white snow.

  “The ghost of Patience Howe,” murmured Arden, recalling the story Granny had told—recalling what the men had said about seeing an apparently dead woman, in a red cloak, on a bed in the old Hall. And that figure had mysteriously vanished.

  Now it was in sight again—at least, some figure was there. There was no mistaking it, for it was too plain to be anything else but a moving elfin thing.

  “Oh,” whispered Terry, “do you think, Arden, that Harry could have disturbed it?”

  “Disturbed what?”

  “This ghost—I mean, perhaps he came upon the place where it hides in the house and it ran out—no, ghosts don’t run, they sort of float, like smoke, don’t they? Oh, Arden, I’m frightened!”

  Then, fascinated, they watched and saw the red-clad figure seemingly capering about, doing a strange dance in the snow. And suddenly it started toward where they were half hidden by bushes and trees. Coming toward them!

  “Oh!” screamed Terry. “Come on, Arden!” She turned to run, uttered a sudden cry of pain as she clutched her right ankle and sank down helplessly in the snow.

  “Terry! What is it?” begged Arden, dropping to her side.

  “My ankle! I twisted it when I turned to run! Oh, how it hurts! I hope I haven’t broken it!”

  “I don’t believe you did, my dear! Ankles don’t break as easily as that. Oh, I’m so sorry!” She took some snow up in her hand and pressed it on Terry’s forehead, now wrinkled with pain. It flashed into Arden’s mind that she was going to have trouble getting Terry back to Sim’s house—walking with even a slightly sprained ankle was out of the question. Then, with a feeling of relief, she thought of Harry in the ghost house. She would have to leave Terry there in the snow, however, to go get him to come to the rescue.

  “I’m so sorry,” Arden murmured. “Poor Terry!”

  “It was silly of me—making so much trouble. But, oh, Arden—the red ghost! Look, it’s coming right for us!” She was facing in the direction of the strange red figure; Arden had her back toward it. But at Terry’s cry Arden looked around, and then she had to laugh, even with all the trouble they seemed to be in. And a moment later Terry also laughed, in spite of her pain.

  For it was no red-cloaked ghost of Patience Howe that was bouncing over the snow toward the two girls. It was—Santa Claus!

  A rotund figure of a jolly little man with a real beard of lovely white hair—no cotton whiskers on this St. Nicholas—came prancing through the underbrush, scattering snow. He was no ghost, the girls were assured of that in a moment, for he addressed them in very human accents. But even with all this reality it was a puzzle.

  “Well, well, young ladies! I thought I heard somebody scream!” began the little man. “I was over in that clearing, practising, and I saw you behind the trees, and I sort of thought you’d think it queer, and I turned to come and explain. Then I heard a scream and—”

  “My friend turned suddenly and sprained her ankle,” Arden interposed. “It is very painful—I’m afraid she can’t walk.”

  “Luckily I can take care of that,” said Santa Claus. “It was partly my fault, I reckon. Gave her a start, naturally—seeing me in this rig. That’s why I came out here to try it on. I knew it would look sort of silly to anybody who didn’t understand. I’m terrible sorry.”

  “But why are you dressed up this way?” asked Arden. Terry was just about able to stand and, resting with her head on her chum’s shoulder, her face showed she was suffering. Really the ankle was very painful.

  “It’s easy explained,” said the little man, pulling at his luxuriant beard, a thing he never would have dared to do had he been wearing a masquerade whiskers. “My name is Janson Henshot, I live over at Bayley Corners, and I’m superintendent of the Sunday-school there. Up to this year we always had, for the Sunday-school children, the little ones, you know, a Santa Claus with a false beard. The part was played, off and on, by Jake Heller or Sam Bendon.

  “But last year one of the little boys gave the beard of Santa Claus a pull when he was handing out the presents, and the beard came off, and it sort of spoiled things. So, when Christmas was talked of this year, somebody said I’d do fine for Santa Claus, as my beard’s real and it’ll stand a lot of pulling and won’t come off!” He demonstrated, l
aughing.

  Even Terry smiled now, for she was listening and had opened her eyes. This, truly, was a comical experience, to find a real Santa Claus in a real wood.

  “So I said I’d be Santa Claus,” went on Mr. Henshot. “All I needed was the uniform, and my wife made this one. Not bad,” and he looked proudly at his red coat and trousers, trimmed with real white rabbit fur, and at his glossy black boots.

  “It’s perfect!” declared Arden.

  “Glad you like it! Well, after I got the uniform and I didn’t have to raise any beard, I decided I needed some practice to act right as Santa Claus, me never having played the part before, though I’ve watched the others. So I put the uniform in my old flivver and came out here in the woods to rehearse, as you might say. This is the second time I’ve done it. I act like I think the old fellow would act with a lot of happy children around him—sort of skipping and prancing. Am I keeping you too long? I wanted to get it down right before I went out into that Sunday-school crowd. And that’s what I was doing—rehearsing—when you saw me. Guess you must have thought it sort of odd.”

  “We—we thought you were a ghost!” murmured Terry.

  “Ghost! My stars!”

  “The ghost of Patience Howe, on account of the red,” explained Arden.

  “Oh—Patience Howe—I see—her as is supposed to have been around Sycamore Hall in the Revolution and hid her horse from the soldiers. Yes, that’s a story around here, but I don’t know—ghosts—no such animals if you ask me!” He laughed heartily.

  “I suppose you have heard,” suggested Arden, “that the ghost of Patience, in her red cloak, is said to wander around the old Hall at times.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve heard that story, but nobody I know ever saw any ghost like that. Though, now you speak of it, I did hear that the contractor who’s tearing down the Hall has been having trouble with his men on account of queer happenings. But I don’t take any stock in ’em. Just rantings of the poor, ignorant laborers, I reckon.”