by Roy J. Snell
E-text prepared by Stephen Hutcheson, Rod Crawford, Dave Morgan, and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net)
A Mystery Story for Girls
THE MAGIC CURTAIN
by
ROY J. SNELL
The Reilly & Lee Co.Chicago
Copyright 1932 byThe Reilly & Lee Co.Printed in the U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I A Face in the Dark 11 II Petite Jeanne's Masquerade 22 III On the Verge of Adventure 32 IV A Living Statue 40 V The Secret Place 47 VI The Woman in Black 55 VII Dreams of Other Days 65 VIII An Island Mystery 70 IX Caught in the Act 76 X The One Within the Shadows 88 XI A Dance for the Spirits 100 XII The Lost Cameo 106 XIII A Nymph of the Night 121 XIV The Disappearing Parcel 132 XV Strange Voices 144 XVI Through the Window 156 XVII Startling Revelations 167 XVIII They That Pass in the Night 177 XIX The Unseen Eye 185 XX A Place of Enchantment 191 XXI From the Heights to Despair 197 XXII The Armored Horse 203 XXIII Florence Solves a Mystery 215 XXIV The Black Packet 223 XXV The Bearded Stranger 228 XXVI An Exciting Message 236 XXVII Dreaming 240 XXVIII Florence Crashes In 247 XXIX It Happened at Midnight 259 XXX A Surprise Party 268 XXXI Florence Meets the Lady in Black 278 XXXII Sparkling Treasure 287
THE MAGIC CURTAIN
CHAPTER I A FACE IN THE DARK
It was that mystic hour when witches are abroad in the land: one o'clockin the morning. The vast auditorium of the Civic Opera House was a wellof darkness and silence.
Had you looked in upon this scene at this eerie hour you would mostcertainly have said, "There is no one here. This grandest of allauditoriums 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 aircreeping over a glassy sea at night, it would have arrested yourattention and caused you to focus your eyes upon a pair of exceedinglylong drapes at the side of the opera hall. These drapes might haveconcealed some very long windows. In reality they did not.
Had you fixed your attention upon this spot you might, in that faintlight that was only a little less than absolute darkness, have seen avague, indistinct spot of white. This spot, resting as it did at aposition above the bottom of the drape where a short person's head wouldhave come, might have startled you.
And well it might. For this was in truth the face of a living being. Thismysterious individual was garbed in a dress suit of solemn black. That iswhy only his face shone out in the dark.
This person, seemingly a golden haired youth with features of unusualfineness, had called himself Pierre Andrews when, a short time earlier,he had applied for a position as usher in the Opera. Because of hisalmost startling beauty, his perfect manners and his French accent, hehad been hired on the spot and had been given a position in the boxeswhere, for this "first night" at least, those who possessed the greatwealth of the city had been expected to foregather.
They had not failed to appear. And why should they fail? Was this nottheir night of nights, the night of the "Grand Parade"?
Ah, yes, they had been there in all their bejewelled and sable-coatedsplendor. Rubies and diamonds had vied with emeralds and sapphires onthis grand occasion. Yes, they had been here. But now they had departedand there remained only this frail boy, hovering there on the ledge likea frightened gray bat.
Why was he here? Certainly a timid-appearing boy would not, without somevery pressing reason, remain hidden behind drapes at the edge of a greatempty space which until that night had been practically unknown to him.
And, indeed, at this moment the place, with its big empty spaces, itscovered seats, its broad, deserted stage, seemed haunted, haunted by theghosts of other years, by all those who, creeping from out the past, hadstalked upon its stage; haunted, too, by those who only one or two shortyears before had paraded there on a "first night" in splendor, but whonow, laid low by adverse circumstances, crept about in places of poverty.Yet, haunted or no, here was this frail boy peeking timidly out from hishiding place as the clock struck one.
He had asked a curious question on this night, had this boy of goldenlocks and expressive blue eyes. It was during the recess between actswhile the curtain was down and the pomp that was Egypt had for a momentbeen replaced by the pomp that is America. Leaning over the balustrade,this thoughtful boy had witnessed the "Grand Parade" of wealth and pompthat passed below him. Between massive pillars, beneath chandeliers ofmatchless splendor where a thousand lights shone, passed ladies of beautyand unquestioned refinement. With capes of royal purple trimmed in ermineor sable but slightly concealing bare shoulders and breasts where jewelsworth a king's ransom shone, they glided gracefully down the longcorridor. Bowing here and there, or turning to whisper a word to theircompanions, they appeared to be saying to all the throng that beheldthem:
"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 stillhalf hidden by drapes, had asked his question. Turning to a white-haired,distinguished-looking man close beside him, a man whom he had neverbefore seen, he had said:
"Is this life?"
The answer he received had been quite as unusual as the question. Fixingstrangely 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 shadowstimid and terribly afraid, was turning these words over in his mind. "Aform of life."
There had been about him, even as he had performed his simple duties asusher in the boxes on this night, an air of mystery. He had walked--morethan 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, hewas 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. AndPierre, as everyone knows, is the name of a boy.
It was during the curtain before the last act that an incident hadoccurred which, for a few of the resplendent throng, had dimmed the gloryof that night.
No great fuss was made about the affair. A slim girl seated in the boxoccupied by the man whose great wealth had made this opera housepossible, had leaned over to whisper excited words in this gray-hairedmillionaire's ears. With fingers that trembled, she had touched her bareneck.
With perfect poise the man had beckoned to a broad-shouldered person inblack who had until now remained in the shadows. The man had glidedforward. Some words had been spoken. Among these words were: "Searchthem."
One would have said that the golden-haired usher standing directly behindthe box had caught these words for he had suddenly turned white andclutched at the railing to escape falling.
Had you looked only a
moment later at the spot where he had stood youmight 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, heappeared to lose himself in thought.
What were these thoughts? One might suppose that he was recasting in hismind the events of the immediate past, that he read again the look ofsurprise and consternation on the face of the beautiful child of the veryrich when she discovered that the string of beautifully matched pearls,bought by her father in Europe at a fabulous cost, were gone. One mightsuppose that he once again contemplated flight as the stout, hard-faceddetective, who had so opportunely materialized from the shadows, hadsuggested searching the ushers and other attendants; that he shudderedagain as he thought how barely he had escaped capture as, in the darknessattending the last act, he had glided past eagle-eyed sleuth Jaeger, andconcealed himself behind the draperies. One might suppose that he livedagain those moments of suspense when a quiet but very thorough search hadrevealed neither the priceless pearls nor his own humble person.
Yes, one might suppose all this. Yet, if one did, he would suppose invain. Our minds are the strangest creation of God. "The thoughts of youthare long, long thoughts."
The young person still half concealed by draperies and quite hidden bydarkness was living again, not the scenes enacted among the boxes, butthose which had been enacted upon the stage.
In his mind's eye he saw again the glory that once was Egypt. Picturinghimself as the heroine, Aida, he loved the prince of all Egypt'swarriors, and at the same time shuddered for her people.
As Radames, he heard the shouts of his people when he returned as atriumphant victor.
As Amneris, the Egyptian princess in the stately boat of those ancientdays beneath a golden moon, he glided down the blue Nile. And all thetime, as the matchless beauty of the scenes and the exquisite melody ofthe music filled him with raptures that could not be described, he wassaying to himself:
"Oh, for one golden moment to stand before that assembled throng--all therich, the learned of the great of this city--and to feel the glory of thepast about me! To know love and adventure, the daring of a Captain of theGuard, 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 inrapture or in sorrow, as my own! What glory! What matchless joy!"
And yet, even as these last thoughts passed into eternity, the young headwith its crown of gold fell forward. There was a moment of relaxationexpressing pain and all but hopeless despair. Then, like a mouse creepingout from the dark, he slipped from his place to glide stealthily alongamong the shadows and at last disappear into that place of darkness thatis a great auditorium at night.
Having felt his way across a tier of boxes, he vaulted lightly over a lowrail. Passing through a narrow corridor, he touched a door and pushed itnoiselessly 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 wasall 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 theleft of the stage.
The door creaked as he opened it. With one wild start, he dashed acrossthe gaping stage to enter a narrow passageway.
Another moment and he was before a door that led to the outer air. It waslocked, 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 fromwithout streamed in. The door closed. He was gone.
