The Third Girl Detective

by Margaret Sutton

  “What’s all the shouting about?” he demanded. “What’s the matter here?”

  From the top of his house steps Marshall Bryant told them all to come into the house. “Pay the driver his fare,” he directed the butler, “so he can go.” The policeman herded the rest of them into the house, with Dorothy screaming now at Dorn. Vicki walked in beside Mrs. Heath who looked as if she, too, had slept in her clothes last night. Mrs. Heath scornfully would not even glance in Vicki’s direction.

  They all sat down in the room with the parakeets, where Mrs. Bryant and Lucy waited together. Marshall Bryant explained the situation briefly to the policeman, who said:

  “You’d better phone the precinct for a couple of detectives, Mr. Bryant. This is out of my jurisdiction. I’ll stay until they get here, though.”

  Mr. Bryant instructed the butler to telephone. Then he said to Dorn: “Talk!”

  Thurman Dorn sat crumpled in a chair, head bent. He plucked at his fingers as he almost inaudibly told the whole story.

  He had always had to struggle along and economize, he said, and he felt that as an educated man he was entitled to more than a small-salaried job. His mother and his fiancée, too, were ambitious and resentful of “scrimping along.” They felt they were entitled to wealth just as much as people like the Bryants. Thurman Dorn was determined to get rich as quickly as possible. His attitude was “Once you have a great deal of money, people won’t care or dare ask how you acquired it.”

  When the Bryants engaged him to search for their granddaughter and heir whom they had never seen, Dorn calculated this was his main chance. The Bryant fortune was so big that he was willing to risk committing a crime. He believed that his cleverness and knowledge of the law would protect him. And he believed he had evolved a foolproof scheme: to present his fiancée to the Bryants as their unknown granddaughter, then marry her and through her gain the Bryant fortune. He flew to Chicago and talked his mother and Dorothy into the scheme.

  First, though, Dorn had to learn whether Lucy Rowe could be gotten out of the way. He and Mrs. Heath went on to San Francisco in mid-January and learned—something the Bryants did not then know—that Jack Rowe had died two years earlier. This left Lucy alone in the world, and suited Dora’s scheme perfectly. Dorn also learned that Lucy was working as a secretary at Interstate, had moved several times in the past few years, and had just moved into the women’s hotel.

  The next step was for Mrs. Heath to move to the Hotel Alcott, strike up an acquaintance with Lucy, and offer her a job out of town or “traveling.” At the same time, Mrs. Heath learned a great deal more about Lucy and passed the information along to Dorn. Meanwhile, Dorn located a well-hidden house in the back country and rented it and a car for Mrs. Heath.

  Then Dorn flew alone to Chicago, where for two days he coached Dorothy in the role of Lucy. To do this, he used the information gained by Mrs. Heath, and by himself in talking with the Bryants. Dorothy memorized certain facts of Lucy’s life and acted out a personality designed to please the Bryants. Dorn carefully supplied her with a story about Lucy’s recent past. He promised Dorothy further advice on the role of Lucy.

  Dorn then flew on to New York, and reported to the Bryants that he could not yet find their granddaughter who was away on a month’s trip. He was allowing his mother time to get Lucy out of San Francisco and into hiding. He also borrowed from the Bryants, from the safe in their house, family letters and photographs and Mrs. Bryant’s silver ring, ostensibly to “study” them.

  Actually Dorn in the next hour had the photographs and letters photostated, and he mailed them to Dorothy in Chicago to study for developing her role. The same day he took the silver ring to a jeweler and had it sketched to be copied. Within a few days the third silver ring was ready and he mailed it to Dorothy. Meantime, Dorn had promptly returned all the originals to the Bryants.

  The rest of their scheme was to persuade Lucy to leave the United States and stay abroad.

  Unfortunately for them, Vicki had observed the false Miss L. Rowe on her Chicago-New York flight. By that time Dorothy had devised a make-up and hair style which helped her to resemble, superficially, the faces in the Bryant family photographs. Dorn, who had never taken Vicki seriously and did not bother to remember with what airline she was a stewardess, never told Dorothy to stay off Federal Airlines. On Dorothy’s part, it was a piece of carelessness that on that flight she had worn, and lost, the gold charm inscribed with her own name. Arriving in New York on a Tuesday, Dorothy went to a hotel, and on that day and Wednesday, she and Dorn held a final, thorough rehearsal of her role. On Thursday, Dorn brought her to the Bryants, saying, “Here is your granddaughter who has just flown in from San Francisco.” Dorothy had acted her role so convincingly that the Bryants did not doubt this charming girl was truly their granddaughter.

  “That’s all,” Dorn finished. His voice sounded hollow. “My second trip to San Francisco was just for show, so that I could come back and say ‘I’ve found your granddaughter.’”

  “Lies from start to finish,” Marshall Bryant said angrily. “I’ll see that the three of you pay for this! What a fool you’ve been, Dorn! You threw aside a promising career with Steele and Wilbur—one of the most reputable law firms in the country. When your employers hear about the vicious scheme—”

  Two men quietly came into the room.

  “We’re precinct detectives,” one of them said, and they showed their identification. “We’ve been standing in the hall and heard the whole thing.”

  “Can you arrest these three swindlers at once?” Marshall Bryant demanded. “For what they’ve done to my wife and me and to an innocent girl?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the detective. “You are under arrest, Dorn, and so are you two women, on a conspiracy charge.”

  “I know my rights,” Dorn asserted. “I’m a lawyer, and you can’t—”

  “I can,” said the detective. “Let me quote the law to you, Mr. Dorn. The unlawful acts you three persons planned to commit, and in part did commit, are fraud, misrepresentation, and obtaining money or property under false pretenses.”

  “I object, I vehemently object!” Dorn said. “We may have planned it, but we haven’t actually obtained the inheritance.”

  “That’s beside the point,” the detective said. “Quote: ‘Persons agreeing together to commit a crime can be prosecuted for conspiracy. In a conspiracy it does not matter whether the unlawful act agreed upon is carried out or not.’ You’re under arrest for conspiracy. Get up. All three of you.”

  Dorn shrugged and said no more. He, Mrs. Heath, and Dorothy stood up. The false Lucy pulled the silver ring off her finger and bitterly threw it at Dorn.

  Marshall Bryant said, “You’re being arrested for conspiracy, but I’m going to bring action against you in the courts for a whole lot more. For fraud and misrepresentation, and for detention of Lucy.”

  “They’ll draw heavy sentences,” the detective said. “All right, get going.”

  When they were gone, the Bryants and Lucy and Vicki were unable to speak for a few minutes. They looked at one another.

  “Miserable business,” Marshall Bryant growled.

  Mrs. Bryant went to sit next to Lucy, and put her arm around her. “My child, you don’t have to be afraid any more.”

  “Nor alone any more?” Lucy asked timidly.

  “Nor alone any more,” the grandmother answered. “Will she, Marshall? We shall make up to you for all the hard things you’ve been through. Tell me, my dear, did your mother have a pet name for you?”

  “Yes, it was Lucinda,” Lucy said. “Sometimes Lucinda Belle, just for fun.”

  “That used to be your grandfather’s special name for me” Mrs. Bryant said, and both the old people smiled at Lucy.

  Mrs. Bryant leaned forward to touch Vicki’s hand. “Vicki, how can we ever thank you?” she said. “You and Lucy and all of us must always
be friends.”

  Vicki smiled as she looked at Lucy’s happy face. “I think we will be,” she said.

  THE SLIPPER POINT MYSTERY, by Augusta Huiell Seaman

  Originally published in 1921.

  CHAPTER I

  THE ENCOUNTER

  She sat on the prow of a beached rowboat, digging her bare toes in the sand.

  There were many other rowboats drawn up on the sandy edge of the river—as many as twenty or thirty, not to speak of the green and red canoes lying on the shore, bottoms up, like so many strange insects. A large number of sailboats were also anchored near the shore or drawn up to the long dock that stretched out into the river.

  For this was Carter’s Landing, the only place on lovely little Manituck River where pleasure-boats could be hired. Beside the long dock there was, up a wide flight of steps a large pavilion where one could sit and watch the lights and shadows on the river and its many little activities. There were long benches and tables to accommodate picnic-parties and, in an inner room, a counter where candies, ice cream and soda-water were dispensed. And lastly, one part of the big pavilion was used as a dancing-floor where, afternoons and evenings, to the music of a violin and piano, merry couples whirled and circled.

  Down on the sand was a signboard which said:

  CHILDREN MUST NOT PLAY IN THE BOATS.

  Nevertheless, she sat on the prow of one, this girl of fourteen, digging her bare toes aimlessly in the sand, and by her side on the prow-seat sat a tiny child of about three, industriously sucking the thumb of her right hand, while she pulled at a lock of her thick straight hair with her left. So she sat, saying nothing, but staring contentedly out over the water. The older girl wore a blue skirt and a soiled white middy-blouse. She had dark brown eyes and thick auburn hair, hanging down in a ropelike braid. Her face was somewhat freckled, and apart from her eyes and hair she was not particularly pretty.

  The afternoon was hot, though it was only the early part of June, and there was no one else about except one or two helpers of the Landing. The girl stared moodily out over the blue river, and dug her bare toes deeper into the sand.

  “Stop sucking your thumb, Genevieve!” she commanded suddenly, and the baby hastily removed the offending member from her mouth. But a moment later, when the older girl’s attention was attracted elsewhere, she quietly slipped it back again.

  Presently, from around the bend of the river, there slid into sight a red canoe, paddled vigorously by one person sitting in the stern. The girl in the prow of the rowboat sat up and stared intently at the approaching canoe.

  “There it is,” she announced to her younger sister. “The first canoe Dad’s hired this season. Wonder who has it?” The baby made no reply and placidly continued to suck her thumb, her older sister being too absorbed to notice the forbidden occupation.

  The canoe approached nearer, revealing its sole occupant to be a girl of fourteen or fifteen, clad in a dazzlingly white and distinctly tailored linen Russian blouse suit, with a pink satin tie, her curly golden hair surmounted by an immense bow of the same hue. She beached her canoe skilfully not six feet away from the rowboat of the occupied prow. And as she stepped out, further details of her costume could be observed in fine white silk stockings and dainty patent leather pumps. Scarcely stopping to drag her canoe up further than a few inches on the sand, she hurried past the two in the rowboat and up the broad steps to the pavilion.

  “You’d better drag up your canoe further,” called out the barefooted girl. “It’ll float away if you leave it like that.”

  “Oh, I’m coming right back!” replied the other. “I’m only stopping a moment to get some candy.” She disappeared into the pavilion and was out again in two minutes, bearing a large box of candy, of the most expensive make boasted by Carter’s Landing. Down the steps she tripped, and crossed the strip of sand toward her canoe. But in front of the occupied rowboat she stopped, drawn perhaps by the need of companionship on this beautiful but solitary afternoon.

  “Have some?” she asked, proffering the open box of candy. The barefooted girl’s eyes sparkled.

  “Why, yes, thanks!” she answered, and gingerly helped herself to one small piece.

  “Oh, take some more! There’s plenty!” declared her companion, emptying fully a quarter of the box into her new friend’s lap. “And give some to the baby.” The younger child smiled broadly, removed her thumb from her mouth and began to munch ecstatically on a large piece of chocolate proffered by her sister.

  “You’re awfully kind,” remarked the older girl between two bites, “but what’ll your mother say?”

  “Why, she won’t care. She gave me the money and told me to go get it and amuse myself. It’s awfully dull up at the hotel. It’s so early in the season that there’s almost nobody else there—only two old ladies and a few men that come down at night—besides Mother and myself. I hate going to the country so early, before things start, only Mother has been sick and needed the change right away. So here we are—and I’m as dull as dishwater and so lonesome! What’s your name?”

  The other girl had been drinking in all this information with such greedy interest that she scarcely heard or heeded the question which ended it. Without further questioning she realized that this new acquaintance was a guest at “The Bluffs,” the one exclusive and fashionable hotel on the river. She at once became guiltily conscious of her own bare brown toes, still wriggling in the warm sand. She blamed herself fiercely for not taking the trouble to put on her shoes and stockings that afternoon. Up till this moment it had scarcely seemed worth while.

  “Tell me, what’s your name?” the girl in white and pink reiterated.

  “Sarah,” she answered, “but most every one calls me Sally. What’s yours?”

  “Doris Craig,” was the reply and the girl of the bare toes unconsciously noted that “Doris” was an entirely fitting name for so dainty a creature. And somehow she dreaded to answer the question as to her own.

  “My name’s horrid,” she added, “and I always did hate it. But baby’s is pretty—Genevieve. Mother named her that, ’cause Father had insisted that mine must be ‘Sarah,’ after his mother. She said she was going to have one pretty name in the family, anyway. Genevieve, take your thumb out of your mouth!”

  “Why do you tell her to do that?” demanded Doris, curiously.

  “’Cause Mother says it’ll make her mouth a bad shape if she keeps it up, and she told me it was up to me to stop it. You see I have Genevieve with me most of the time. Mother’s so busy.” But by this time, Doris’s roving eye had caught the sign forbidding children to play in the boats.

  “Do you see that?” she asked. “Aren’t you afraid to be sitting around in that boat?”

  “Huh!” exclaimed Sally scornfully. “That doesn’t mean Genevieve and me.”

  “Why not?” cried Doris perplexedly.

  “’Cause we belong here. Captain Carter’s our father. All these boats belong to him. Besides, it’s so early in the season that it doesn’t matter anyway. Even we don’t do it much in July and August.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Doris, a light beginning to break on her understanding. “Then that—er—lady up at the candy counter is your mother?” She referred to the breathlessly busy, pleasant, though anxious-faced woman who had sold her the candy.

  “Yes. She’s awfully busy all the time, ’cause she has to wait on the soda and candy and ice cream, and see that the freezer’s working all right, and a lot of other things. In July and August we have to have girls from the village to help. We don’t see much of her in the summer—Genevieve and I. We just have to take care of ourselves. And that’s Dad, down on the dock.” She pointed to a tall, lanky, slouchily dressed man who was directing the lowering of a sail in one of the catboats.

  “Yes, I know Captain Carter,” averred Doris. “I hired this canoe of him.”

  “Did you go and hire a c
anoe—all by yourself?” inquired Sally, eyeing her very youthful new acquaintance with some wonder. “How did your mother come to let you?”

  “Well, you see Mother’s been awfully sick and she isn’t at all well yet. Has to stay in bed a good deal of the day and just sits around on the veranda the rest of the time. She couldn’t tend to things like that, so I’ve got used to doing them myself lately. I dress myself and fix my hair all by myself, without the least help from her—which I couldn’t do three months ago. I did it today. Don’t you think I look all right?”

  Again Sally flushed with the painful consciousness of her own unkempt appearance, especially her bare feet. “Oh, yes! You look fine,” she acknowledged sheepishly. And then added, as a concession to her own attire:

  “I hate to get all dressed up these hot days, ’specially when there’s no one around. Mother often makes me during ‘the season,’ ’cause she says it looks bad for the Landing to see us children around so sloppy.”

  “My mother says,” remarked Doris, “that one always feels better to be nicely and cleanly dressed, especially in the afternoons, if you can manage it. You feel so much more self-respecting. I often hate to bother to dress, too, but I always do it to please her.”

  Sally promptly registered the mental vow that she would hereafter array herself and Genevieve in clean attire every single afternoon, or perish in the attempt. But clothes was not a subject that ever interested Doris Craig for any length of time, so she soon switched to another.

  “Can’t you and the baby come out with me in my canoe for a while?” she suggested. “I’m so lonesome. And perhaps you know how to paddle. You could sit in the bow, and Genevieve in the middle.”

  “Yes, I know how to paddle,” admitted Sally. To tell the truth she knew how to run every species of boat her father owned, not even omitting the steam launches. “But we can’t take Genevieve in a canoe. She won’t sit still enough and Mother has forbidden it. Let’s go out in my rowboat instead. Dad lets me use old 45 for myself any time I want, except in the very rush season. It’s kind of heavy and leaks a little, but I can row it all right.” She indicated a boat far down at the end of the line.