by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER XIV FIRE DESTROYS ALL
A great wave of loneliness swept over Florence as on the morrow's chillydawn she bade good-bye to her beloved boon companion and to Sandy, thensaw them mount the steps of their plane and watched that plane soar awayinto the blue.
"Isle Royale is hundreds of miles away," she thought to herself. "Theywill be back, I'm sure enough of that. Airplanes are safe enough. Butwhen shall I see them again?"
It was not loneliness alone that depressed her. She was experiencing afeeling of dread. She had dug deeper into the lives and ways of somefortune tellers than they could have wished.
"They are wolves," she told herself, "and wolves are cowards. They fightas cowards fight, in the dark." She told them off on her fingers: thedark-faced gypsy woman was one, Madame Zaran a second, MariannaCristophe, the voodoo priestess, a third. And there were others.
"And now," she thought, "I am alone."
Alone? No! Her spirits rose. There was still Frances Ward. "Good oldgray-haired Frances Ward!" she whispered. "Everybody's grandmother. MayGod bless her!"
It was Frances Ward who helped her over the first difficult hurdle ofthat day. Sandy was gone. She must write her own stories. This seemedeasy enough, until she sat down to the typewriter. Then, all thoughtsleft her.
"My dear, try a pencil," Frances Ward suggested after a time. "A pencilbecomes almost human after you have used it long enough; a typewriternever. And why don't you write the story of your little lost girl, JuneTravis? Use no names, but tell it so well that someone who knew herfather will come to her aid."
"I'll try." Florence was endowed with fresh hope.
With four large yellow pencils before her, she began to write. The firstpencil broke. She threw it at the wall. The second broke. She threw itafter the first. Then thoughts and pencils began flowing evenly.
When, an hour later, Florence presented a typewritten copy of the storyfor Mrs. Ward's inspection she pronounced it, "Capital! The best that hasbeen in your column so far."
It may be that this extravagant praise turned the girl's head, leadingher to commit an act that brought her into great peril. However that maybe, at eight o'clock that night she fell into a trap.
The thing seemed safe enough. True, Florence did the greater part ofinvestigating in the day time. But a "spiritual adviser"--who wouldexpect any sort of danger from such a person?
That was what Professor Alcapar styled himself, "Spiritual Adviser." Hadhis sign hung from a church, Florence would not have given it a secondthought. But the card that fell into her hand said his studio was on oneof the upper floors of a great office building. Perhaps this should havewarned her, but it did not.
"I'll just take the elevator up there and ask a question or two," shetold herself. "Might get a grand story for tomorrow." She did, but shewas not to write it--at least, not yet.
There was no glass in the door of Professor Alcapar's studio. A lightshone through the crack at the edge of the door. She knocked, almosttimidly. The door was opened at once. She stepped inside. The door closeditself. She was there.
Save for one small light in a remote corner, the room was shrouded indarkness.
"More of their usual stuff," she thought to herself without fear."Darkness stands for secrecy, mystery. At least, these people know how toimpress their clients. Spiritual adviser, clothed in darkness."
She became conscious of someone near her. Then of a sudden she caught thedistinct click of a lock, and after that came a flood of light.
She took two backward steps, then stood quite still. With a single sweepof her practiced eye, she took in all within the room. She started as hereyes fell upon--of all persons!--Madame Zaran. She was seated in a chair,smiling a complacent and knowing smile.
The person nearest to Florence was a small dark man with beady eyes.Farther away, with his back to the door, was a powerfully built, swarthyman whose broad neck was covered with bristles.
More interesting than these, and at once more terrifying, was a secondsmall man. He was working at a narrow bench. He wore dark goggles. In hishand he held a sort of torch. The light from this torch, when he switchedit on, was blinding. With it he appeared to be engaged in joining certainbits of metal. There was, however, on his face a look altogetherterrifying.
"I am trapped!" the girl thought to herself. "Ten stories up. And it isnight. Why did I come?"
"You wished to see Professor Alcapar?" a voice asked. It was the littledark man who stood before her.
"Yes. I--" the words stuck in her throat. "They have locked the door!"she was thinking a trifle wildly.
"I am Professor Alcapar," said the little man in a perfectly professionaltone. "Perhaps these good people will excuse me. What can I do for you?"
"Why, I--" again the girl's voice failed her.
Truly angry at herself, she was ready to stamp the floor, when the smoothvoice of Madame Zaran said, "Won't you have a chair? You must have timeto compose yourself. The Professor, I am sure, can quiet your mind. He isconscious of God. He makes others conscious of divine power." The wordswere spoken in an even tone. For all this, there was in them a suggestionof malice that sent a cold shiver coursing up the girl's spine.
"You have been kind enough to visit our other place of--of business,"Madame Zaran went on when Florence was seated. "You see us here in a moreintimate circle. This is our--you might say, our retreat."
"Retreat. Ah, yes, very well said, our retreat," the Professor echoed.
Florence allowed her eyes to wander. They took in the window. At thatmoment a great electric sign, some distance away, burst forth with abrilliant red light. Across this flash of light, running straight up anddown, were two dark lines. She noted this, but for the moment gave it noserious thought. It was of tremendous importance, for all that. A simplefact, lightly observed but later recalled, has more than once saved alife.
"You wished to see the Professor," Madame reminded her. There was an evilglint in her eye. At the same time the torch in the corner hissed, thenflamed white.
"Yes, I--well, you see," the girl explained in a voice that was a trifleweak, "I am interested in religion."
"What kind of religion?" Madame Zaran smiled an evil smile.
"Why, all kinds."
"The Professor," said Madame, "is the sole representative of a religiousorder found only in the hidden places of India. It is a very secretorder. They are mystic, and they worship fire, FIRE."
She repeated that last word in a manner that caused the big girl's cheekto blanch. The torch in the corner went sput-sput-sput.
"Fire," said the Professor in a voice that was extraordinarily deep forone so small, "Fire destroys all, ALL! All that I know, all that _you_know may be destroyed by a single breath of flame."
"Yes, I--"
Florence's throat was dry. To calm her fluttering heart she gazed againat the window. Once more the red light of that street sign flared out. Asbefore, two dark lines cut across it, up and down. Then, like a flash,the girl knew what those lines were. They ran from the roof to theground. She had noted them in a dreamy sort of way as she entered thebuilding. Now they appeared to stand out before her in bold relief.
Then there burst upon her startled ears a sharp cry of anger. She lookedquickly at Madame's face. It was black as the western sky before a storm.
"You do not even listen!" She was fairly choking with anger as she fixedher burning eyes on Florence. "You did not come here to seek spiritualadvice. You came here as a spy. A _spy_!" Her breath failed her. But inthe corner the white-hot torch sputtered, and to Florence's terrifiedvision, written on the wall in letters of flame there appeared the word,SPY!
"He could burn those words upon one's breast," she thought. "With thattorch he could burn out one's heart!" She gripped at her breast to stillthe hard beating of her heart.
"Why do you spy upon us?" Madame was speaking again. "Is it because weare frauds? Because we pretend to know that which we do not know? What ist
hat to you?
"Is it because we take money from those who can well afford to give? Lookyou! We are poor. We have no money. But we must live, and live we will!Why not?" She laughed a hoarse laugh. "Why not? And what is it to you ifwe do live well at the expense of those who are weak and foolish? You andyour paper! Bah!" She arose with a threatening gesture. As she took twosteps forward her hands became claws, her teeth the fangs of a wildthing.
Florence sprang back in sudden terror.
But the woman before her tottered on her feet. Her face turned a sickishpurple.
"No! No!" She gurgled in her throat. "It is not for me! Come, Beppo!"
The man at the bench turned half about. At the same time his torch glowedwith a more terrifying flame.
"Fire! Fire!" the Professor mumbled.
But for Florence there was to be no fire. She was half way across theroom. Ten seconds later she had thrown up the window and was standing onthe ledge.
Caught by surprise, the others in the room stood motionless, like puppetsin a play. What did they think--that she would dash her life out on thepavement below? Or did they just not think at all?
To Florence life had always seemed beautiful; never so much so as at thatmoment. To live, to dream, to hope, to struggle on and on toward someunseen distant goal. Ah, yes, life! Life! To feel the breath of morningon your cheek, to face the rising sun, to throw back your shoulders, todrink in deep breaths of air, to whisper, "God, I thank you for life!"This was Florence always. She would not willingly dash out her ownbrains.
Nor was there the need. Before her, an easy arm's length away, were twostout ropes. The roof was undergoing repairs. Material was drawn up onthese ropes. They ended in a large tub on the sidewalk ten stories below.
There was not a second to lose. The paralysis inside that room would soonpass. And then--
Her two strong arms shot out. She gripped a rope. She swung out overspace. Her feet twisted about the rope. She shot downward. There was asmell of scorching leather. Windows passed her. In one room a char-womanscrubbed a floor, in a second a belated worker kissed his stenographergood-night, and then, plump! she landed at the feet of a young man who,up until that second, had been strolling the street reading a book.
The young man leaped suddenly into the air. The book came down with aloud slap.
"Do--do you do that sort of thing reg--regularly?" the young manstuttered when he had regained a little of his dignity. He looked up atthe rope as if expecting to see a whole bevy of girls, perhaps angelstoo, descending on the rope.
"No," Florence laughed a trifle shakily, "I don't do it often."
"But see here!" the young man exclaimed, "you look all sort of white andshaky, as if you--you'd seen a ghost or something! How about a good cupof java or--or something, on a stool, you know--right around the corner?Perfectly respectable, I assure you."
"As if I cared just now!" Florence thought to herself. "Imagine beingafraid of a young student on a stool, after a thing like that!" Sheglanced up, then once more felt afraid.
"Fire!" She seemed to hear the Professor say, "Fire destroys all."
"Yes! Sure!" She seized the astonished young man's arm. "Sure. Let's gothere. Quick!"
