The Third Girl Detective

by Margaret Sutton

  “Oh, a mystery!” she cried. “A missing bag. Was it yours? And how was it lost?”

  “Oh! Of course!” he exclaimed. “You don’t know a thing about it! How stupid of me! Sit down and I’ll tell you about it. At least—” he hesitated, “I’ll tell you some things.”

  Madame Bihari had kindled a fire in the huge fireplace. The glow of it lighted up the little French girl’s face. It made her look extraordinarily beautiful. Danby Force took in a long breath before he began.

  That which he told her after all was not so very much—at least he did not tell her why he was so intensely interested in that traveling bag. He did tell her all that had passed in that cabin on the previous day.

  “So you see,” he ended, “that the bag must be here somewhere. You don’t carry away a leather bag a foot high and two feet long in your mouth, nor inside your shoe either.” The little French girl joined him in a low laugh.

  “But no!” she exclaimed. “And yet I cannot see how it could matter so much.”

  “It’s the papers in that bag,” he explained. “She did not steal those papers, that dark lady. She is no common thief. They are hers in a way. And yet she could use them to ruin the prosperity and happiness of three thousand people.”

  “But why would she do such a terrible thing?” The little French girl spread her hands in horror.

  “There are reasons. She is a truly bad woman,” he said briefly.

  “I will help you.” On Petite Jeanne’s face was written a great desire. “And these others I will help if I can.

  “To do something for others—” she spoke slowly. “To really do things and to love doing them! Ah, there is the key to all true happiness! In the terrible times that are passing, if we have learned this, then it is worth while.”

  “Yes,” said Danby Force, taking her slender hand in a solemn grip. “It is worth it.”

  “But come!” Jeanne sprang to her feet. “We must find this so important bag.

  “Where,” she asked a moment later, “did this lady sleep?”

  “In here.” Danby Force led the way to the bunk room.

  “In which bunk?” Jeanne insisted.

  “I think that one. I can’t be sure.” Danby Force pointed to the darkest corner.

  “When we gypsies are camping in tents,” said Jeanne, “when we are afraid of thieves, we put the things we treasure most at the bottom of our bed where no one can touch them without touching our toes.”

  After casting the gleam of a flashlight upon the bunk Danby Force had indicated, she seized the blankets and threw them back.

  At once an exclamation escaped Danby’s lips:

  “The bag!”

  It was true. There, well flattened out beneath the blankets, lay a flexible leather traveling bag. When he had seized upon it, the young man found it unlocked and empty.

  “She tricked me,” he murmured. “The bag was not lost. It was hidden. She put on the extra clothes she carried and wore them beneath a long coat. She carried the papers in some concealed pockets. By pretending that the bag was lost she has thrown me completely off her track.

  “I was not sure—” He was speaking slowly, calmly now. “I could not be sure that she was what we suspected her of being. I had been away from our plant when she was employed there. I did not believe she knew me, so I followed her. This act, this hiding of the bag proves that she is the person we thought her and that she did know me. Now she has escaped me. She is gone. Who can say how or where? The trail is old by now. I cannot follow her.”

  Moving slowly, like one in a dream, he retraced his steps to his place by the fire, then sank gloomily into a chair. For a long time he sat staring into the fire.

  “Do something for someone else,” he murmured after poking the fire until it glowed red. “Yes, that’s the thing. That should be the slogan of our generation—do something for someone else. But when there are those who block all your efforts, what then?”

  He looked up for a moment. By chance his gaze fell upon a broad window. Through that window one’s eyes beheld a magnificent sight—the topmost peak of the mountain’s jagged crest, rearing high in all its glory.

  For a full moment the young man’s gaze remained fixed upon this crown of beauty. Then in a voice mellowed by reverence, he murmured:

  “‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills

  From whence cometh my help.

  My strength cometh from the Lord

  Which made heaven and earth.’

  “I am going to tell you,” he said, turning to the little French girl. “Perhaps you can help me.”

  “I can but try,” Petite Jeanne’s tone was deep and serious.

  “I told you of the man who made priceless discoveries regarding color.”

  Jeanne leaned far forward to listen. In the corner the gypsy woman sat stolid in silence. The child was playing with some bright feathers in a spot of sunlight on the floor. The place was very still.

  “Yes—yes,” the little French girl whispered.

  “Perhaps I told you he returned to his home town to find it in desolation and that he gave his precious secrets to his town, and how it prospered after that.”

  “You have told me,” replied Petite Jeanne, “but you have not told all. Were you the discoverer of these rare colors?”

  “I—?” The word came in shocked surprise. “No, it was not I.”

  There was a period of silence. Then in a voice raised scarcely above a whisper he said:

  “It was my father.”

  “Oh!” the little French girl breathed.

  “He made these discoveries while serving as an industrial chemist in the Great War,” Danby Force went on after a time. “The war was terrible for him. He was gassed. He did not live many years. There—there’s a library in his town now, a splendid tribute to his memory.

  “And I—” he spoke slowly. “I, his only son, have tried to guard his secrets well. But now it seems I am about to fail.”

  “But you have not. Not yet?” The little French girl’s tone was eager.

  “No, perhaps not yet.”

  “Then you shall not!” Petite Jeanne sprang to her feet. “I shall help you. We all can help. This young lady, this stewardess you have told me of, she travels far. She can watch. But tell me,” she demanded eagerly, “tell me of this dark-faced woman. One must know much if one is to be truly helpful.” She sank back into her chair.

  “That woman!” Danby’s tone became animated. “I am convinced that she is an industrial spy.”

  “An industrial spy?” Jeanne’s eyes opened wide.

  “Yes. An industrial spy is one who makes it his business to spy out the secret processes of his fellow workers, then to sell these secrets to others.

  “Sometimes he is one of your fellow countrymen. More often he is from another land. In these days of extreme difficulty and great struggle to make goods cheaply and to sell in many markets, there are many, many spies.

  “At first we trusted this woman. For three months she was employed in our factory. And to think—” springing to his feet, he began pacing the floor. “To think that all that time she was spying out secrets that rightly belong to our people!

  “These spies!” he exclaimed bitterly. “They fasten cameras beneath their jackets. A tiny lens is concealed as a button. They take pictures, hundreds of them. They make drawings. If they may, they carry away secret receipts.”

  “Did that woman do all this?” Jeanne asked.

  “I am not sure that she has the secret formula. If she has not, then all may not be lost. And yet, she may have all the information needed. If she has, she will carry it back to her own country and we are ruined, for hers is a land where the poor slave long hours for little pay.”

  “We must find her!” the little French girl exclaimed. “We shall, I am sure of that.”

&
nbsp; “Yes, we must find her,” Danby agreed. “It is known that she is an alien in this country without passport. If only she can be found, she may be sent back to her own country with pockets empty as far as industrial secrets are concerned.”

  Then, as if he wished to forget it all for a little space of time, that he might revel in the comfort and natural beauty of his surroundings, Danby Force shook himself, glanced away at the snow-capped mountains, then dropped into a chair to sit musing before the glowing fire.

  The little French girl had wandered to the back of the cabin. Presently he heard her light footsteps approaching. Looking up suddenly, he caught a vision of pure loveliness. Jeanne had slipped over her shoulders the purple cape with its faultless white fox collar. Just at that instant she was standing by a window where the light turned her hair into pure gold.

  “How—how perfect!” he breathed. “But why so pensive?” he asked as he caught a glimpse of her face.

  “I was thinking,” said Jeanne slowly. “Wondering. Should you lose your precious secrets, then perhaps I might coax the secret of this royal purple from my gypsy friends. That would help you. Is it not so?”

  “Yes, yes,” he agreed eagerly. “It would help a great deal!”

  “But would it be right?” Jeanne’s brow wrinkled. “In France there are many poor gypsies, thousands perhaps, who weave cloth and dye it too. If the secret were lost to them, then perhaps they would go hungry.”

  “That,” said Danby Force, “requires much thinking. We must do no wrong. And we must find that woman!” He sprang from his chair.

  “Yes,” Jeanne agreed. “We must! But first we must eat.” She laughed a merry laugh. “See! Our good Madame Bihari has prepared a gypsy feast. I am sure you will enjoy it.”

  Danby Force did enjoy that feast. A meat pie filled with all sorts of strange and delicious flavors, a drink that was not quite hot chocolate nor quite anything else, thin cakes baked on the coals, and after that fruit and bonbons. What wonder they lingered over the repast—lingered indeed too long, for, when at last they stepped from the doorway all the mellow sunshine had vanished and in its place dark clouds, like massive trains with huge silently rolling wheels were moving up the mountainside.

  “Good!” Jeanne clapped her hands. “Now we shall remain in this most wonderful place all night. And Madame Bihari, she shall tell your fortune.”

  “My fortune?” The young man stared at her.

  “But yes!” Jeanne did not laugh. “You are in trouble. There are many things you wish to know. To be sure you must have your fortune told. And Madame Bihari, she tells fortunes beautifully, I assure you!” She went dancing, light as a fairy across the broad veranda to disappear like some woods sprite along a winding trail.

  CHAPTER VI

  THE GYPSY WITCH CARDS

  So that evening Danby Force consented to have his fortune told. Being a practical young man who thought in terms of dollars and cents, and seldom found time for dreaming, he was not likely to take the matter seriously. Why did he consent? Perhaps it was because he liked Petite Jeanne and wished to please her. And then again there may have been in his nature, as there is in many another practical person’s, a feeling for the mysterious, the thing that cannot be entirely explained. And who can say that this race of wanderers, these gypsies, may not have hidden away in their breasts some secrets unknown to others? Surely, as we have seen, they could make a cape of royal purple such as is known among no other people. Whatever the reason, Danby Force consented to have his fortune told.

  That night the great lounge of the hunting lodge presented to Jeanne a setting both weird and wonderful. She loved it. Flames in the great fireplace sent shadows chasing one another from beam to beam of the ceiling. Two candles, one at each end of the long table, casting each its yellow gleam, brought out the handsome smiling face of Danby Force, but left Madame Bihari in all but complete darkness. From the mantel above the fire came the slow tick-tock of a clock. Once, from without, the girl thought she caught the challenging cry of some wild thing, perhaps a wolf.

  “There,” said Madame Bihari, looking up at Danby Force, “are the cards. You shall shuffle them, my young friend. You shall cut them with your left hand. Then you shall place them on the table in positions I shall tell you of.” Madame Bihari talked at this moment just as Jeanne had always imagined a wooden man might talk, each word spoken in the same low, slow tone.

  “There are the cards,” Jeanne thought to herself. Yes, there they were. How many times she had watched Madame Bihari tell fortunes from those cards! As she closed her eyes she could see some rich and dignified dame, at the steps of a castle in France, spread out those same cards, then sit intent, motionless, expectant as Madame Bihari told her fortune.

  “And how cleverly she tells them!” Jeanne whispered to herself. “There was the Chateau Buraine. Madame said, ‘It will be destroyed by fire.’ Two months later it was in ashes. And the gypsies did not set the fire. Mais no! No! They were all away at the Paris Fair.”

  “Now—” Madame was speaking once more to Danby. “Now you have shuffled, you have cut the cards. You shall now lay them face-up in rows, six in the first row, then eight in a row for five rows, and last, six in a row.”

  Jeanne watched fascinated as the cards were turned up. She knew those cards by heart. Each had its number. On each card was a different picture, a serpent, a sun, a moon, children at play, a house, a cloud, a tree, a mouse, a bear; yes, yes, there were pictures and each picture had its meaning, a good prophecy or a bad one. Health, happiness, riches, love, enemies, failure, deception, sickness, death—all these and many more were prophesied by these pictures.

  Most important of all was one card, the picture of a gentleman in evening coat and tall, starched collar. His number was 19. It was this card that, in the next moment or two, would stand for the young man, Danby Force. Would he be surrounded by cards telling of success, love and happiness, or by those telling of dire misfortune? She held her breath as Danby, his fingers trembling slightly, dealt the cards.

  Did Jeanne believe in all this? Had you asked her, she would perhaps have found no reply. She had lived long with the gypsies, had Petite Jeanne. How could she escape believing? And, after all, who would wish to escape? Who is there in all the world that cares to say, “I know all about these things. There is no truth in them?”

  Anyway, here was Madame Bihari, Danby Force, Petite Jeanne. Here were the dancing shadows. There were the cards. And there—Jeanne caught her breath. Yes, there was the man in evening dress. There was card number 19. Every card placed close to him must have a very special meaning. Leaning back into the shadows, she waited. When all the cards were down, Madame Bihari would study them. There would be a silence, three minutes, four, five minutes long, then Madame would speak.

  In her eagerness to catch every word, Jeanne moved close up beside Danby Force.

  Silence followed, such a silence as makes a roar of the wind singing down the chimney. From the mountainside there came the whisper of spruce trees. Torn, twisted, and tangled by storms, those trees stood there like horrible dwarfs whispering of love and life, of hatred and death. Once Jeanne, moved by who knows what impulse, went tip-toeing from her place to press her nose against the glass and peer into that darkness. Then, as if all the gnarled trees had been shaking fists at her, she sprang back to her place close to Danby Force.

  When at last Madame Bihari broke the silence, she spoke in a deep melodious tone:

  “Ah. The snake!”

  “The snake!” Jeanne murmured low. She shuddered.

  “But he is not too near.” There was a measure of relief in Madame’s tone. “And see! Between Monsieur and the snake is the Book. Ah! That is good! The Book stands for mystery that shall be solved. And the Eye!” Her tone became animated.

  “Oh! The Eye!” Jeanne was smiling now, for well she knew that the Eye betokened great interest taken by friend
s.

  “Friends,” she whispered to Danby Force, when Madame had told of the Eye, “Friends, they are everything!”

  “Yes.” Danby’s tone was full of meaning. “Friends, loyal friends, they are worth more than all else in this life! And, thank God, I have many friends!”

  “And see!” Madame exclaimed. “Here is the Moon. A very good sign.

  “But the fox! Ah, this is bad! This speaks of distrust. There are those, Monsieur, whom you must not trust too much—perhaps some who are very close to you.”

  “Yes, I—”

  Madame did not permit the young man to finish. “The Sun!” Her face darkened. “The Sun tells of future vexation.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder.” Danby Force laughed. “Indeed I have had quite a lot of that already. But come! I shall be having the jitters from all this evil prophecy. Let’s get our little blonde-haired friend to make us a steaming cup of chocolate, and please put in just one spoonful of malted milk and a marshmallow.” He touched Jeanne’s golden locks gently.

  “But one moment!” Madame protested. “Here is the pig close at hand. He tells of great abundance.”

  “Perhaps that means that I am to have two cups of chocolate.” Danby laughed once more.

  “But yes!” Jeanne joined him in the laugh. “Three if you say so.”

  “One moment more, I pray you!” Madame’s tone was very earnest. “I read in these cards that there is one who calls himself your friend. He has dark and curly hair. He smiles. He dances. He is very much alive. But ah! He is a rascal! You must beware!”

  “I shall beware. Thank you,” Danby said soberly.

  “And now!” exclaimed Jeanne, springing to her feet, “Our cup of cheer!”

  When their light repast was over, when Madame sat nodding by the fire that had burned low, Jeanne spoke to Danby Force in words of exceeding soberness. “You must not treat too lightly Madame’s forecast with the cards. Indeed you must not! She is old. She has told fortunes since she was a child. The rich and the very great, they have listened often to her fortunes. Truly they have.