The Third Girl Detective

by Margaret Sutton

  “I’m not,” Irene admitted. “It’s the poetry I like.”

  Judy shuddered. “Those creepy poems! I’d rather read a good murder mystery any day. At least there’s always a solution. What do you suppose this poet means when she says ‘Better to crumble in a tower of flame than sit with ghosts…’? Could the ghosts be memories, too?”

  “They could be,” Irene said thoughtfully. “It’s queer, but Golden Girl mentions a tower.”

  “So it does!” Dale exclaimed, growing excited. “It looks as though there might be some connection. Do you know, girls, we may find the solution to this whole mystery in that poetry!”

  “I have some of the typewritten copies. I’ll hunt through them for clues,” Judy promised.

  CHAPTER XII

  IRENE’S BIRTHDAY

  Unexpectedly, the next day Jasper Crosby came into the office with another lot of his sister’s poems. This time they were in a tin box with padlock attached.

  Judy listened in silence as the earlier manuscripts were discussed, wondering how Emily Grimshaw would break the news of their disappearance. Presently she realized that the poet’s brother was being kept in ignorance of the whole affair. Worse than that, he was being deceived. What did the agent mean by saying the publishers were considering Sarah Glenn’s work?

  Thinking there might be some mistake, Judy refrained from asking questions until she and her employer were alone again. Then she expressed herself frankly.

  “It isn’t right,” she declared, “not to tell him the truth about those poems. We can’t publish them when they’re lost.”

  “Tut, tut, child,” Miss Grimshaw reproved in a patronizing tone that always annoyed Judy. “You must never correct your elders. Haven’t you heard that there are tricks to all trades?”

  “Not dishonest tricks.” Judy’s scruples about deceit and treachery had made her over-bold.

  “Look here, Miss Bolton,” her employer cried. “If this position means anything to you, learn to keep a civil tongue in your head. I have evidence enough against you right now to place the blame on your shoulders if I wanted to. The idea! Talking about dishonest tricks! Wasn’t it a dishonest trick that somebody played on me?”

  “Yes, Miss Grimshaw,” Judy answered penitently. “I shouldn’t have spoken so hastily, and if you blame me.…”

  “But I don’t blame you, child. You’re as innocent as I am. That’s why I hired you—because I knew I could trust you.”

  This unexpected praise brought a flood of color to Judy’s cheeks. She mumbled something intended for an acknowledgment. Not hearing the interruption, her employer went on talking.

  “I know we can’t keep putting Jasper Crosby off forever, but, don’t you see, we must do it until the poems are found? I’m ruined if we don’t.”

  “I suppose he would hold you responsible,” Judy ventured.

  “He would exactly,” the agent declared. “He’d charge me with gross negligence or something of the kind and sue me for more money than Sarah Glenn’s royalties would bring in a lifetime. He’s just crooked enough to get away with it. And,” she finished tragically, “all our time and work will go for nothing. Oh, Miss Bolton, if you can help me, won’t you do it? You’re clever. Perhaps you can figure it out. My mind gets all befuddled of late—ever since Joy Holiday came back. Find her. She’s got the papers.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Judy promised, genuinely moved. She resolved to tackle this new task her employer had given her with all the seriousness it demanded. But whom was there to suspect? Joy Holiday, as far as she could figure out, was a creature of Miss Grimshaw’s imagination, a ghost. Judy refused to believe in ghosts or be frightened by them. That angle of the mystery she dismissed as wholly implausible. She had proved Dale Meredith’s innocence to her own satisfaction, and Irene hadn’t taken the poetry. Judy felt sure of that.

  She was still sure the following Thursday when she and Pauline planned a birthday party for her. Dale happened to come in the office, and Judy told him. Together they arranged a surprise dinner. At first he wanted to take them to an exclusive restaurant but was soon won over when Judy suggested a meal served out on the roof garden. Pauline liked the idea, too, and found a great deal of pleasure in planning the menu. She telephoned to the market and ordered a good-sized capon; nuts, celery and raisins were to go into the dressing. There would be fruit cups and salads, and ice cream for dessert and, of course, a cake with candles. Judy came home early to make the cake. While Pauline helped Mary put on the roast she continued fixing things, waiting for Dale who expected to arrive ahead of Irene.

  “It looks great!” he exclaimed as soon as he opened the door and saw the table set in the center of the roof garden. It was decorated with yellow candy cups and tall yellow candles. “And isn’t it lucky that I brought yellow flowers?”

  “You knew we’d be decorating in yellow,” Pauline charged as she took the flowers and buried her face in their fragrance. Then, while Dale stood admiring the tasteful arrangement of the table, she placed them as an appropriate centerpiece. Everything was ready, and it was after six o’clock.

  “Irene ought to be here,” Judy said anxiously. “I wonder where she went.”

  Pauline had seen her go out early that morning, carrying a borrowed book.

  “She’d stop in on her way home to return it. Dale, why don’t you and Judy go down to the bookstore and meet her?”

  “Can’t you leave the dinner long enough to come with us?”

  Pauline laughed. “I guess I could if you want me. There’s a chance of missing her, though. She may come from another direction.”

  Dale helped Judy and Pauline with their wraps, and together they walked toward the bookstore. It was only a short distance, but the cool air felt good to Judy after having spent all afternoon over the cake. As they walked they watched for Irene. She would be wearing a brown suit with a close-fitting brown hat to match, Pauline said. The outfit was new and she wondered if, for that reason, they had missed her.

  At the bookstore, however, the girl who took care of lending out books from the circulating library told them that Miss Lang had not been in since morning when she returned a book.

  “What could have happened to her?” Judy exclaimed in real concern.

  “Perhaps she went out shopping to celebrate. I’ve seen girls shop before. They never leave the stores until closing time.”

  “It’s closing time now.”

  “And she’ll probably be waiting for us back at the house,” Dale prophesied cheerfully.

  “Oh,” exclaimed Judy, “I hope she doesn’t peek in the ice box and see her cake. I do believe I forgot to put Blackberry out, and if he smells that chicken.…” She finished the sentence with a gesture of hopelessness.

  Blackberry was out—out on the roof garden—when they returned. Sensing a party in the air, he had taken advantage of his mistress’ absence and upset the vase of yellow flowers. There were bits of chewed flower petals and ferns scattered all about.

  “You bad cat!” cried Judy, shaking him. “Just look what he’s done. And Irene isn’t here yet! Let’s hurry and put the place in order before she comes. Collect the flowers, Dale, won’t you? I think I can save a few of these ferns.”

  She was on her knees, hunting for pieces of them as she spoke.

  “And I’ll get Mary to wipe up the water and put on a clean cloth,” Pauline offered.

  Soon everything was in order again.

  Oliver had hung a string of Japanese lanterns all the way across the roof garden. They were a little too low, and for a few more minutes Dale and the girls busied themselves with a pole, raising them to a higher level.

  Meanwhile it had grown dark, and Judy suggested lighting the candles on the table so that Irene would see them the moment she opened the door. Then they planned to call out, “Surprise!” all at once. Judy could imagine the rest—Irene
laughing, exclaiming, her two eyes like stars as she enjoyed her very first birthday party.

  In the kitchen below a sizzling noise called Mary to the oven. The roast needed basting again. It was too brown already, but she couldn’t take it off and let it get cold. The potatoes had cracked open and their jackets were done to a crisp. She turned the flame as low as she dared and faced about to see Dale and the girls standing in the doorway.

  “Getting hungry?” she asked.

  “A little. Irene ought to be here by now.”

  “I know it,” the housekeeper replied, “and the dinner will be spoiled if we let it wait much longer.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  WAITING

  Eight o’clock came and still no Irene. By nine o’clock Judy was in tears. She felt that something dreadful must have happened and suggested calling up hospitals to see if there had been any accidents. After the calls were completed Dale returned to the kitchen and stood looking at the dinner.

  “You might as well eat some of the chicken,” Mary suggested. She placed it on a platter and carried it up to the roof garden, but they ate only a little, cut from underneath where it wouldn’t show. Then they left the table as it was, waiting for Irene.

  The yellow candles burned lower and lower. Finally they flickered and went out. Pauline gave a little start, but Judy sank back in her chair shaking with sobs.

  “I—I’m not superstitious,” she blurted out. “I’m trying to be sensible about it, but do you think it’s sensible just to wait?”

  “There isn’t anything else to do unless we notify the police, and then, if she had just been to a movie, wouldn’t she have the laugh on us?”

  “But, Pauline, she isn’t thoughtless.”

  “I could tell that,” Dale put in seriously. “She’s a mighty fine little girl. I know how you feel, Judy. I’ll stand by. Didn’t Irene and I wait up that night for you—and nothing had happened except that you took a walk?”

  Dale was comforting. It was nice to have him there, especially when Judy knew that he was as interested as she in Irene’s safe return. But Judy could not help thinking of Farringdon and the enthusiasm with which the boys there would help her if they only knew.

  Pauline thought of Farringdon too.

  “Maybe Irene didn’t like it here in New York and went home,” she suggested.

  “But the house is empty,” Judy objected. “There really isn’t any home in Farringdon for her to go back to. She doesn’t even know where they are going to live when her father is well again. He’s in a sanitarium now, and I hate to notify him if there’s any other way. It really would be better to notify the police.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Dale agreed. “If she isn’t home by midnight we might try it. Things do happen—and especially to pretty girls,” he added gravely.

  It was five minutes to twelve when footsteps were finally heard outside the door. Dale started to his feet, and Judy rushed toward the door, then halted with a cry of disappointment as she recognized the now familiar, “Hit’s Oliver, Miss.”

  Pauline opened the door and urged him to come in.

  “Irene isn’t home yet, and Mr. Meredith was waiting,” she explained. “Did you happen to see her?”

  “Well, let me think a minute.” The English servant passed his fingers through his thinning hair. “Indeed, yes, Miss Pauline, I did see her when the post came this morning. She stood hin the vestibule reading a letter.”

  “Did she seem worried, as if it were bad news?”

  The man shook his head. “Indeed, she seemed quite ’appy over hit. She went out a bit later ’umming a tune, ‘De de-de da de. Da de da. Da de dum’—like that.”

  He had given a crude imitation of the first notes of Golden Girl.

  “She was very fond of that song,” Dale remarked after Oliver had left. He was helping the girls with their wraps preparatory to calling at the police station.

  Again Judy thought about the papers. Could their disappearance and Irene’s, in some way, be connected? She mentioned the possibility to Dale but he thought it unlikely.

  “At any rate we know Irene didn’t take them, and when we make our report to the police we had better leave the papers entirely out of it.”

  “And the name ‘Joy Holiday’?” Pauline questioned.

  “Yes, for the present. We want to do all we can to save her from embarrassment until we have an explanation. I feel sure that, whatever it is, it will be—like Irene—satisfactory.”

  “I’m glad you believe in her, Dale,” Judy said. She hoped, with all her heart, that Irene would prove herself worthy of his loyalty.

  At the police station the sergeant on night duty at the desk did not take their story very seriously. He had a great many such cases, he explained, most of which solved themselves. His questions, however, suggested terrifying possibilities. Did she have any enemies, any rejected suitors, any hostile relatives? Was she wearing any valuable jewels? How much money did she have in her purse?

  Judy thought it was about ten dollars.

  “Ten dollars could take that girl a long way,” the officer said significantly. “What about publicity on the case? We broadcast a general alarm for missing persons every evening over the radio.”

  Undecided, the girls appealed to Dale. “What do you think?”

  “That’s another day. If she’s not home by then, by all means, yes. Anything to find her.”

  “We’ll do our best for you. I’ll assign the case to the Detective Bureau right away, but be sure and telephone at once when she comes home. And take my word for it, she’ll show up before morning,” the sergeant prophesied as they turned to go.

  “He probably thinks she’s only out on a party,” Pauline said later.

  “But he doesn’t know Irene,” Judy reminded her. “She’s not the kind of girl police officers are used to dealing with.”

  “You bet she isn’t,” Dale agreed fervently. He promised to be back as soon as it was daylight and urged the girls to try and get a little rest in the meantime. Judy surprised him a few hours later by announcing that she intended to spend the day at the office.

  “Emily Grimshaw may know something about this,” she explained. “At least I intend to find out all there is to know about this Joy Holiday person. If there really is someone who looks exactly like Irene it might get her into a good deal of trouble.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE IMMORTAL JOY HOLIDAY

  “That’s a good idea of yours,” Dale told Judy just before she left to go to the office. “Have a nice long talk with Her Majesty and I’ll meet you at noon to see what she says. In the meantime I’ll make some more inquiries at the bookstore and of people in the neighborhood.”

  “Oh, and you might tell them at the police station that we gave a wrong description of Irene’s clothes,” Pauline called out to them. She had just been to the closet for her hat and school books and had discovered Irene’s brown suit hanging there. Only the yellow dress and jacket were missing from her wardrobe.

  “It was the same yellow dress that she wore to the dance,” Judy explained.

  “And she wore it that day I discovered you in the office,” Dale remembered. “She certainly looked like the heroine of our popular song then. Do you suppose there is a chance that Golden Girl was written for her?”

  Both girls laughed. “Dale Meredith! How absurd! It was written twenty years ago.”

  But when Emily Grimshaw heard of Irene’s disappearance and made a similar suggestion Judy took it more seriously. She strained her ears to hear every word the agent said as she rocked back and forth in her swivel chair. Apparently she was talking to herself—something about the spirit world and Joy’s song over the radio.

  “Yes,” she went on in a louder tone, “those poems were written for Joy, every last one of them, and she sat right on that sofa while I read Golden Gir
l aloud. That was twenty years ago. Then all of a sudden I see her again after I think she’s dead—same starry eyes, same golden hair, everything the same, even to her dress. Then her mother’s poems turn up missing—”

  “So the poet was Joy Holiday’s mother!” Judy interrupted to exclaim.

  “Bless you, yes,” her employer returned. “I thought you knew. She went stark crazy. Set fire to her own house and tried to burn herself alive.”

  “Who did? The poet? How terrible!” Judy cried, starting from her chair. “Why, it seems impossible that I’ve been correcting a crazy woman’s verses without even knowing it. Tower of flame, indeed! So that’s what she meant!”

  Emily Grimshaw laughed dryly. “Don’t ask me what she meant! I’m no authority on crazy people. The asylum’s the place for them, and, if it weren’t for that mercenary brother of hers, Sarah Glenn would be there yet. He arranged for her release and managed to get himself appointed as her guardian. Handles all of her finances, you see, and takes care of the estate. The poet’s pretty much of a recluse. I haven’t seen her for years.”

  This was beginning to sound more like sense. Hopefully, Judy ventured, “But you have seen her daughter?”

  “Seen her! Seen her!” she cried. “That’s just it. I see her in my dreams. Ordinarily people don’t see spirits and that’s why it gave me such a turn the other day. And Joy did come back! Her mother said so in the last poem she ever wrote. Jasper brought it in only this morning.”

  “He did!” Judy exclaimed. “What did you tell him about the missing poetry?”

  “Nothing. And I intend to tell him nothing. If it becomes necessary to tell anyone we’ll tell the poet herself. Her address is on this envelope. Keep it, Miss Bolton, you may need it. The poem I mentioned is on the other side.”

  Judy turned it over and read:

  Lines to One Who Has Drunk

  from The Fountain of Youth

  Death cannot touch the halo of your hair