The Third Girl Detective

by Margaret Sutton

  Though, like a ghost, you disappear at will.

  I knew you’d come in answer to my prayer…

  You, gentle sprite, whom love alone can kill…

  She shivered. “Spooky, isn’t it? And,” she added, “like all of her poems, utterly impossible.”

  “Hmmm, you think so—now. But you’ll see. You’ll see.” And the old lady kept on nodding her head as if the gods had given her an uncanny second-sight.

  As far as Judy was concerned, the conversation closed right there. She had learned nothing of importance. In fact, she had learned nothing at all except that her employer believed in spirits. Someone, twenty years ago, had probably looked like Irene. But that wouldn’t help find Irene now.

  CHAPTER XV

  FALSE ASSURANCE

  At noon Judy gave Dale and Pauline what little information she had over sandwiches and coffee in a near-by restaurant. Joy Holiday, she told them, disappeared twenty years ago; and Emily Grimshaw’s only reason for acting strangely was because she believed Irene to be her ghost.

  “If that’s the case,” Dale declared, “we’re simply wasting time questioning her. Irene’s father might know something real.”

  Judy agreed. They telegraphed him at once:

  IRENE MISSING SINCE YESTERDAY STOP IS SHE WITH YOU

  JUDY

  The answer came back early that same afternoon:

  DONT WORRY STOP IRENE WITH RELATIVES IN BROOKLYN STOP ADVISED HER IN LETTER TO LOOK THEM UP

  TOM LANG

  Relief flooded Judy’s face. She waved the telegram excitedly and was on the point of telling the news to Emily Grimshaw. Then she decided that she had better not—not yet, at any rate. The papers were still missing even if Irene was safe. It would be better to clear her chum of all suspicion as quickly as possible.

  Freed of a measure of worry and suspense, Judy’s mind eagerly took up the story of Joy Holiday’s strange disappearance. Now that she felt sure it had nothing to do with Irene she could view the tale dispassionately and take it for what it was worth. Still holding to Dale Meredith’s theory that valuable clues might be found in the poetry, she questioned Emily Grimshaw.

  “Why do you call the girl Joy Holiday when her mother’s name was Glenn?”

  “That’s only a pen name.” The agent explained. “Not any prettier than Holiday, is it? But when she had her first poems published Sarah was so anxious to please the publishers that she agreed to use a name that was short enough to be printed across the back of that thin little book. Humph! And now the publishers are just as anxious to please her!”

  “What happened to her husband?” Judy asked after a pause.

  “Dick Holiday? He left her shortly after their baby was born. Said he’d married a wife, not a nursemaid, and she insisted upon giving all of her time to Joy. When the child finally made a few friends among young folks her own age her mother, in a fit of jealous rage, locked her in the tower.”

  “What tower?” Judy asked, growing more and more interested.

  “It’s a circular tower built onto Sarah’s house. Joy’s room was on the third floor and there’s where her mother locked her up. She wanted Joy all to herself. That’s what I call mothering a girl to death. Though how Joy died is still something of a puzzle to me.”

  “Why? What happened to her?”

  Emily Grimshaw’s expression changed. The lines in her forehead deepened. “I told you she disappeared, vanished completely, just like you say this friend of yours vanished. Some folks think she jumped from a window. How ever it happened, Jasper Crosby identified a body in the morgue as hers. They had a funeral over it and buried it, but her mother declares to this day it wasn’t Joy. It didn’t look like her. That girl was too beautiful to die and Sarah thinks she floats around bodily, mind you. No doubt you gathered that much from reading the poetry.”

  “Oh,” Judy exclaimed. “That.…”

  “Yes, that. But I doubt it.” She shook her head gravely and regarded Judy with a fixed stare. “Yes, I very much doubt it. Joy Holiday must be dead. Otherwise her spirit wouldn’t be coming back to haunt the earth. But what I’ve done that she should haunt me, the good Lord knows!”

  “Published the poetry, perhaps,” Judy suggested wickedly. If Irene’s disappearance hadn’t been such a serious matter she would have laughed at the old lady’s superstitions.

  On the way home Judy tried to figure out why Irene had failed to get in touch with her. That Blackberry had chewed up her note as well as the yellow flower petals seemed likely until she talked it over with Pauline.

  “A cat chew up paper?” the other girl sniffed. “Why, Judy, only goats do that.”

  “I know, but Blackberry is an unusual cat. I thought he might—”

  “Well, he wouldn’t,” Pauline interrupted. “You know, yourself, Irene is sometimes thoughtless. She probably didn’t leave any note. She never breathed a word about those relatives either, and I think she must have had some reason for not wanting us to know where she was going.”

  Judy nodded, unconvinced. Irene wasn’t that sort. The relatives in Brooklyn might have been a surprise to her also. Judy remembered distinctly Irene’s assertion that she didn’t know a soul in the city. Her father must have revealed some family history in his letter. Oh, why did telegrams need to be so brief?

  Vaguely uneasy about the whole affair, Judy showed the telegram to Dale when he called later in the evening. As he read it his face beamed.

  “What more do you want?” he cried. “She’s safe! It’s all of Heaven to know that much.”

  In a little while everything would be explained. Irene hadn’t intended to worry them. And Dale was right. They should forget everything else and simply be thankful that she was safe.

  For a week Judy went about the daily office routine cheered by the hope that Irene would soon come back. After that doubts began to crowd in. Dale had been calling regularly, helping Pauline entertain even if there remained only one guest to pilot through the never-ending wonders of the world’s greatest city. One evening when he called to take them to dinner Judy confided her fears to him.

  “I don’t trust that telegram,” she said in a low voice. “If Irene really is safe why hasn’t she written to tell us where she is?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that for a week,” Dale replied. “Suppose we send another telegram.”

  “And have it answered as briefly as the last one? No,” Judy declared emphatically. “I’m going to find out what has happened if it costs my week’s salary in nickels. Where’s the nearest phone booth?”

  Dale pointed out a cigar store at the next corner and escorted her to it. Together she and Pauline assembled quite a pile of coins and Judy dropped her first nickel in the slot. It was a relief to hear a nurse’s voice, finally, at the other end of the wire.

  “Farringdon Sanitarium?” she asked. “Is Mr. Lang well enough to come to the phone?”

  “Oh, yes indeed,” the voice replied. “Just a moment and I will call him. He is taking a walk around the grounds.”

  “He’s taking a walk,” Judy turned and whispered. “Won’t Irene be glad to hear he’s out of his wheeled chair?”

  Then Mr. Lang’s voice, wonderfully clear, asked who was calling.

  “It’s Judy. I called about Irene.”

  “About Irene!” Instantly the voice changed. Judy could tell that her fears were well founded.

  “Yes, yes. About Irene. She’s still missing. Who are her relatives in Brooklyn?”

  “Why, I—I dunno,” the old man faltered.

  “You don’t know! But you said not to worry. She was with relatives.…”

  “Didn’t I say as she might be?”

  “Then you didn’t know where she was?” Judy demanded.

  “N-no, not for sure. She’d have a purty hard time findin’ abody from jest the looks of thei
r house. But she does have relatives—if they ain’t dead.”

  “Her mother’s relatives?”

  “Yes, my poor Annie’s folks. I told her about them in a letter, but I get all muddled up on the names. Can’t seem to remember. It’s queer how anything like that slips a man’s mind. Can’t you help me, Judy?” he begged. “Ain’t there anything you can do?”

  “There’s everything. Why, we would have turned New York inside out looking for her if it hadn’t been for that telegram—”

  Dale touched her arm. “Go easy, Judy. Her father’s upset, too. Better hang up, and we’ll report it to the police again.”

  At the same time Mr. Lang was saying, “I’ll manage it somehow. The nurses ain’t strong enough to keep me here when my little girl is lost.”

  Through tear-dimmed eyes, Judy fumbled for the pile of coins, put the few that were left back in her pocketbook and stumbled out of the store with Dale and Pauline.

  “All this to go through again,” she moaned, “and after we believed she was safe!”

  Then she looked up and saw Dale’s sober face and resolved to be brave herself.

  “We’re going to the police station, aren’t we?” she asked. “We’ll tell them it was a mistake—that report that she was with relatives—and perhaps, if we hurry, there will still be time for a police broadcast of Irene’s description over the radio tonight!”

  “There must be time,” Dale said between set lips. “And then what?”

  “And then,” Judy declared, “we’re going to take paper and pencil and write down every possible thing that could have happened to Irene. After that we’re going to begin with the most plausible and follow up every clue. We’ll call in the police where necessary but we are the ones to do the brain work. We are the ones who care.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  OVER THE RADIO

  Lieutenant Collins was a big man with a ruddy face and blue eyes that smiled kindly over his massive desk. Like Chief Kelly at home he inspired confidence, and Judy felt relieved to be talking with him instead of the young sergeant they had found at the police station before. With now and then an additional bit of information from Dale and Pauline, she retold the story of Irene’s mysterious disappearance. Then she explained Mr. Lang’s subsequent telegram leading them to suppose Irene was safe and, finally, the discovery that Mr. Lang had merely described a house in Brooklyn.

  “You see, he lives in a small town. He didn’t realize that such a description would be of no use to Irene here. And now,” Judy finished, “we seem to be right back where we started from—without a clue.”

  By this time quite a group of officers and young detectives had gathered around the lieutenant’s desk.

  “It’s beginning to look like an interesting case,” one of them remarked with a smug satisfaction that caused Dale to glare at him. Irene was no case! She was a flesh-and-blood girl—lost, alone. He did not think of the many instances in his own stories where the detective had made similar remarks. It never occurred to him that here was real experience on which to build his imaginative tales. No one had told him that the one thing his stories lacked was an intensity of feeling gained only by living through an actual tragedy.

  Judy thought of it. It seemed irrelevant, almost disloyal to Irene to think of fiction and Dale’s future just then. But if they found Irene, Dale’s future might be hers. How wonderful! And after those high-hat girls in Farringdon had snubbed her so! It would be almost a triumph for Judy, too—that is, if they could only find Irene and give this Cinderella story a chance to come true.

  The printed form Judy had previously filled in was still on file in the police records. This was checked up and once more turned over to the Detective Bureau. The description, Lieutenant Collins promised, would be telephoned to the Bureau of Missing Persons and broadcast over the radio at seven-thirty.

  Dale looked at his watch. Only an hour and the whole country would be hearing about Irene’s disappearance. Surely someone had seen her, and whoever it was couldn’t forget the golden dress and slippers.

  “Girls don’t vanish,” Judy declared as they turned to leave.

  “Oh, but they do,” Pauline cried. “Joy Holiday vanished right out of a locked room. And when they found her she was dead.”

  None of them spoke after that. Automatically they went back to the house and climbed up the three long flights of stairs. Blackberry greeted them as they opened the door, but Judy had no heart for romping with him.

  “Go away!” she said, pushing him gently out of the way. “Cats can’t understand human troubles.”

  But instead of minding her, he rubbed his silky head against her ankles. His soft, crackly purr seemed to say: “Cats do understand human troubles. What you need is someone who loves you to sympathize.”

  Tears came to Judy’s eyes. She thought of her father and mother struggling with an epidemic of influenza when they had wanted a vacation. She thought of her brother, Horace. She thought of Peter and Honey and their two dear grandparents, of Arthur who had once helped hunt for Lorraine Lee in his airplane. How she missed them all! How she needed them! Oh, why had she and Irene ever left Farringdon at all? To find adventure, she supposed. Now she felt sick to death of adventure and only wanted all her friends together the way they used to be. Irene, even the pale overworked Irene, would be better than this awful uncertainty.

  Walking over to the radio, Judy stood watching Dale as he fumbled with the dials. In ten more minutes the police alarms would be on the air.

  “A little more to the left if you want the city station,” Pauline directed from her chair beside the desk. He turned the dials and, loud and clear, a familiar dance tune broke upon their senses. It was Golden Girl and a well-known radio artist, Kate South, was singing in an emotional, contralto voice:

  My own golden girl. There is one, only one

  Who has eyes like the stars and hair like the sun.

  In your new yellow gown you’re a dream of delight.

  You have danced in my heart on bright slippers tonight…

  Judy bowed her head and tears smarted in her eyes.

  “Irene’s description,” Dale said fiercely. He shut off the radio and did not turn it on again until the ten minutes were up.

  Gongs sounded and then the announcer’s voice, very cold and matter-of-fact, read through the list of missing persons. Irene’s name came last:

  MISSING SINCE JUNE TWENTIETH: IRENE LANG OF FARRINGDON, PENNSYLVANIA; VISITING AT 120 GRAMERCY PARK, NEW YORK CITY. SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD; HEIGHT: 5 FEET, 4 INCHES; WEIGHT: 110 POUNDS; BLUE EYES; FAIR HAIR; WEARING A YELLOW DRESS AND JACKET, NO HAT, HIGH HEELED GOLD PUMPS AND CARRYING A BROWN HAND BAG.

  That was all. In a few seconds it was over and Judy was left with the sick feeling that no one had heard.

  * * * *

  In the living room of their little apartment two hundred miles away, Mrs. Dobbs settled herself in a comfortable rocker ready to relax and listen to the radio. Mrs. Dobbs loved music. Usually she listened to the old-time melodies but there was something especially appealing about the popular song that Kate South was singing. She called to her grandson.

  “Come here, Peter, and listen.”

  The tall youth entered the room and stretched himself in a chair.

  “Gee, Grandma! It makes a fellow feel lonesome. Why the dickens do you suppose Judy had to spend her vacation so far away from folks who care about her?”

  “She’s with Irene,” Mrs. Dobbs replied, “and from what I hear, Pauline Faulkner has taken a great liking to both of them. Honey was saying only this morning that she wished she’d been invited, too.”

  “I’m glad she wasn’t,” Peter returned with vigor. “At least I have a little to say about what my sister is and isn’t going to do. Where is she now?”

  “Out with Horace. He’s been taking her out alone since Irene went away—”

/>   But Mrs. Dobbs stopped speaking as Peter held up his hand. The music had played out and neither of them had been paying much attention to the announcements that followed until the name, Irene Lang, broke upon their senses. Missing, was she?

  Peter gave a low whistle of surprise and then jumped to his feet.

  “Where are you going?” his grandmother cried.

  “Going to get the car,” he flung over his shoulder. “Judy will be needing me.”

  In the hallway he bumped into Horace and Honey just returning from a short walk through town.

  “Where’s the fire?” Horace greeted him. “If there’s something exciting going on I want to hear about it. The paper’s starving for news.”

  “Irene Lang has disappeared!” Peter gave out the “news” so suddenly that Horace was dumbfounded for a moment.

  “And I’m going to New York to help Judy,” he added. “She’s apt to go too far with her flare for detecting. You might as well come, too. Maybe the paper will finance the trip if we bring back a big scoop—”

  “Sa-ay!” Horace broke in. “Don’t forget it’s Irene Lang who is missing. News or no news, nothing goes into the paper that isn’t on the level.”

  “Don’t I know it!” Peter replied. “Irene wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t on the level and there’s Judy to consider, too.”

  “I want to help,” Honey spoke up. “Won’t you let me come with you?”

  Horace looked at her and shook his head. The trip wouldn’t be a very safe one with Peter in his present mood and his car capable of a speed exceeding sixty.

  “Then can’t we do something here?” she begged. “Can’t we go and see Irene’s father? Maybe he knows where she went.”

  “Gosh!” Horace exclaimed. “That’s a real idea, Honey. You’ll be as good as Judy if you keep on using those little gray cells of yours. Goodbye, Peter! We’re off for the sanitarium.”

  “Backing out, eh?” Peter gibed him.

  “Backing out, nothing! If we learn anything important,” Horace declared, “we can beat your car in Arthur’s airplane.”

  CHAPTER XVII