The Third Girl Detective

by Margaret Sutton

  She turned about to hide that tear. Next instant she was staring fascinated at three tiny objects lying close to the wall, three tiny sticks, two parallel and one crossing them at a sharp angle. “Jeanne! Petite Jeanne!” she all but cried aloud. “Jeanne has been here, not long ago either. That is her gypsy patteran!”

  “Listen!” In her excitement she grasped the arm of an attendant. “Was there a slim blonde-haired girl here a little while ago?”

  “Plenty of them,” the attendant grinned good-naturedly, “mebby twenty.”

  “No, but one you would not forget. One who dresses in bright clothes like a gypsy. Perhaps there was a gypsy woman with her.”

  “Oh, you mean that gypsy pilot!” The attendant began to show a real interest. “Yes, she was here. She went away with Rosemary Sample and a couple of men.”

  “Who—who’s Rosemary Sample?” Florence could scarcely speak for excitement. Jeanne! She had found her good pal Jeanne—that is, almost.

  “Rosemary Sample is a stewardess,” the attendant explained.

  “Wh—where did they go?”

  “I don’t—yes, come to think of it, I heard Rosemary say they was goin’ to Little Sweden.”

  “Little Sweden? Where’s that?”

  “How should I know?” the man drawled. “You might ask in Norway. That’s close to Sweden, ain’t it?

  “Yes!” His voice rose suddenly. “Coming!” He hurried away, leaving Florence hanging between the heights of heaven and the depths of despair.

  CHAPTER IX

  LITTLE SWEDEN

  Little Sweden, strange to say, is not in Europe, but on the near-north side in Chicago. It is a place to eat, a unique and interesting place. There buxom maidens in white aprons and quaint starched caps do your bidding. It is a place of marvelous abundance. You do not order food. It is there before you on a long table. You pay for a meal, then help yourself. On the long board tables are great circles of chopped meat—beef, veal and chicken cooked in the most delicious manner. Salads, also done in circles, and luscious fruits, strange cakes and curious loaves of brown bread. It is as if all that is best in Sweden had been carried across the sea and reassembled for you and for your guests.

  Our four friends, Rosemary, Jeanne, Danby and Willie had been whisked away from the airport to this remarkable place. A half hour after Florence had asked the question, “Where is Little Sweden?” they might have been found shut away in a small private dining room of the place, holding a conference over cakes and coffee.

  Rosemary was on a forty-eight hour rest period. This is a regular thing for all stewardesses when they arrive at their home port. During the past twelve hours Rosemary had seen much of Petite Jeanne, and she had found her to be a very charming person. Simple in her tastes, modest, kindly, ever ready to serve others, Jeanne was, she thought, altogether lovely. During that twelve hours Danby Force had kept the wires hot in a vain search for some clue that might lead him to the dark-faced woman who had so mysteriously vanished.

  Willie VanGeldt had been admitted to the conference because, as Rosemary had discovered, beneath his apparently happy-go-lucky and altogether haphazard nature there was a foundation of pure gold. He liked folks and was ready to help them, to “go the limit,” as he expressed it, if only they would tell him what might be done. He had been quite entranced with the company of the little stewardess and was more than ready to aid her friends.

  “First of all,” Rosemary was saying, “I want you all to keep in touch with me as far as that is possible. I have a radio in my room. You have radios on your airplanes. We will see that they are in tune. When I am here I’ll be in my room from eight to eleven in the evening. Should you have anything to report or be in need, call the numbers 48—48, give your location if you can, then deliver your message. I’ll not be able to reply by radio, but I’ll help in any way I can.”

  “And I’ll take you round the world in my plane if need be,” said Willie.

  To this he received a strange reply from the little stewardess: “You’ll not take me off the ground, no matter what happens.”

  “Why? Why won’t I?” He stared in unbelief.

  “I’ll answer that later.” She cast him a half apologetic look. “Mr. Force has something to show us.”

  “This,” said Danby Force, “is a picture of the lady who threatens to ruin our happy community.” He held the photograph before them.

  “She appears to prefer air travel, and she will travel again,” said Rosemary. “We have a hundred and fifty stewardesses in the air. Why not have a picture made for each of these? If they all keep watch, we may find her quickly.”

  “Grand idea!” Danby exclaimed. “I’ll have them made at once.”

  “I’ll be wandering about, as gypsy people have a way of doing,” Jeanne said with a fine smile. “If I catch sight of that dark lady, I’ll whisper 48—48 into my receiver and things will be doing at once.” Little did Jeanne dream of the strange circumstances under which that mystic signal 48—48 would slip from her lips.

  “But tell us—” Jeanne leaned forward eagerly. “Tell us of these so terrible spies. Shall they be shot at sunrise?”

  “No.” Danby Force smiled. “We don’t shoot industrial spies. In fact I’m afraid it would be difficult to so much as get them put in prison. An idea, however valuable, is not easy to get hold of and prove. You may steal it, yet no one in the world can prove that you have it. That sounds rather strange, doesn’t it?” He laughed a jolly laugh.

  “And by the way!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Just this morning I received a message that proves we still have spies in our plant. A scrap of note-paper with plans drawn on it, picked up off the floor of the mill, proves that. And this,” he added rather strangely, “gives me fresh hope.”

  “Hope! Hope! Hope!” the others cried in chorus.

  “To be sure,” said Danby, “if they are still with us, then they have not yet secured all the secrets needed for their selfish and cowardly plans. You see—”

  He broke short off. There came a movement at the draperies of the door. A head was thrust in. A smiling face looked down upon them. A pair of lips said:

  “Jeanne, I have found you!”

  Ten seconds later Jeanne was in someone’s arms. It was her good pal Florence. They were together once more.

  “This,” said Jeanne, turning a smiling face to her friends at the table, “is Florence Huyler, the best girl friend I have ever known. And,” she added, eagerly nodding at Danby Force, “she’s a fine solver of mysteries as well.”

  “Ah!” Danby’s eyes gleamed. “Come and join us, Miss Huyler.”

  “I shall be back very soon.” Jeanne popped out of the little dining room to reappear in an incredibly short time with a heaping plate of food.

  “This,” she exclaimed, “is Little Sweden, the place where everyone eats all he can.”

  “And now,” said Danby, nodding to Jeanne, “tell me about your friend. Why do you think she is a solver of mysteries?”

  “Because,” Jeanne replied, “she has solved many.” At once she launched into a recital of her friend’s many achievements. She spoke of the mysterious “Crimson Thread,” of the “Thirteenth Ring,” of the “Lady Cop and the Three Rubies.”

  “I am delighted,” said Danby Force. “But then—” his voice dropped, “no doubt you are permanently employed and cannot join us in our search for this dark lady and her companion spies.”

  “On the contrary,” Florence smiled a doubtful smile, “I am very much unemployed.”

  “How fortunate!” Danby extended his hand. “And you are a social worker of a sort, a recreation lady. I have been promising myself for a long time that we should have a social secretary at our plant. I shall appoint you at once and you shall have a double duty—to serve our simple, kindly people, and to search for a spy. What do you say?”

  “What can I s
ay but yes!” The large girl beamed. “What a day!” she was thinking to herself. “I go blundering into a place looking for a job that’s several sizes too small for me. And now I fall upon one that is just exactly my kind.”

  “Life,” she said aloud, “is beautiful.”

  “Yes,” Danby Force agreed, “life is beautiful at times, and should always be so. When we are selfish or unkind we mar the beauty of life for someone. When we are suspicious or unjust, when we lay heavy burdens on the weak, we are destroying life’s beauty.

  “Yes,” he repeated slowly, “life must be beautiful.”

  “Listen!” Rosemary Sample held up a hand. “What was that?”

  “A horn,” said Jeanne. “There’s another and another. This, why this!” She sprang to her feet. “This is the night of Hallowe’en! And this is the last night of the Great Fair, that most beautiful Century of Progress. Florence,” she cried, “do you not remember the ‘Hour of Enchantment’? We must go there tonight. We truly must!”

  “We shall all go,” said Danby Force. “It will prove a never-to-be-forgotten night, I feel sure.” He spoke the truth, but he did not even so much as dream the half of it.

  CHAPTER X

  ONE WILD NIGHT

  A half hour later the little company had joined the merry mad throng that, combining the enthusiasm of Hallowe’en with a farewell to a beloved play spot, was making the most of one wild night.

  Never had any of them seen anything quite so tremendous, for Chicago, like some young giant, has never learned how big it really is. When a crowd of three hundred thousand persons descends upon one narrow park, things are sure to happen. And even now they were happening fast.

  Already the “Battle of Paris” was on. In the Streets of Paris someone had thrown a bottle through a mirror. At once a hundred bottles were dying, a hundred windows crashing. With wild abandon the throng surged back and forth along the narrow streets.

  All this was quite unknown to our friends. They had not come to revel but to bid a fond farewell to a spot they had learned to love. The Sky Ride, the shimmering waters of the lagoon, Hollywood, Rutledge Tavern—a hundred little corners had played a part in the lives of Florence and Jeanne.

  For all this, the spirit of the mob gripped them and, grasping one another by the shoulders that they might not be separated, they surged on through the crowd.

  “One wild night!” Florence screamed.

  “And it’s not yet begun!” Willie, who was in the lead, called back.

  The Streets of Paris was not the only spot where revelers, getting out of bounds, were rushing shops and collecting souvenirs.

  “Come down from there!” shouted a policeman as a large fat man climbed to the top of a shop-keeper’s shelves for some treasure.

  “Come and get me!” The fat man brandished a cane. The crowd roared applause.

  Three burly policemen marched upon him. One seized his cane, the others caught him by his massive legs, and down he came. Once again the crowd roared. On this night of nights, one moment you were a hero and the next you were forgotten.

  Like great armies of rats, this human throng burrowed in everywhere. A barrel of rootbeer was turned half over, glasses seized and a toast drunk to the departing Fair. When the barrel was drained a long, lank individual sat astride it. Three men gave the barrel a push. Barrel and man went rolling and bouncing down a steep incline and on into the lagoon.

  They were crossing the lagoon bridge, Willie, Danby, Florence, Rosemary and Jeanne, when of a sudden Danby Force exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, “There! There she is! The dark lady, the spy! See that split ear? I’d know her anywhere by that. There can be no doubt of it. Her ears have evidently been pierced for ear-rings, and one of the rings at some time must have been torn through the flesh, leaving a disfigurement. Yes, that’s the spy, I’m sure of it.”

  “The spy! The spy!” came from the others. Could a moment more thrilling and more impossible be imagined? Here they were not twenty feet from the one they sought. And that twenty feet packed tight with writhing, twisting, screaming revelers of Hallowe’en, the end of the Fair!

  Then, as if to redouble the suspense, someone threw a great switch. As if by magic, the entire grounds went dark.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” came the murmurs of surprise, thrill and horror, from the streets many miles long, all packed with humanity.

  The effect was strange. In a crowd of many thousands each individual feels very much alone. Florence felt Rosemary’s grip tighten on her shoulder as she, in turn, clutched at Willie’s coat. Danby Force alone did not lose his poise.

  “Don’t lose her,” he whispered. “This is midnight. The lights will be on again soon. Then we must get her.”

  He was not mistaken. Like the sudden dawn of a tropical day, the lights flashed on. The Sky Ride towers turned to tall stems of light. Masses of red, orange and green shone on every side. From the loud-speaker came the notes of a bugle, the high clear notes of “Taps.” For the moment, so great was the feeling that came welling up from the very center of her being, Florence forgot the spy. Then, with lips that quivered, she whispered to Willie:

  “Where is she?”

  “There! There! Just ahead! I’ll get her.” Willie lunged forward.

  But the crowd still surged about them. He moved slowly. And the dark lady, apparently unconscious of the fate that lurked so near, also moved on with the throng.

  “Pass the word back,” Willie whispered. “Tell them to get a good grip on the fellow’s shoulders just ahead and then shove. Flying wedge. See?”

  Florence passed the word back. Next instant, urged on by a great push from behind, she sent her solid one hundred and sixty pounds against Willie’s back.

  It worked. They moved forward. A foot, two feet, three, four, five, ten.

  “I’ll get her!” Willie hissed. “You’ll see!”

  She might have heard. Perhaps she did. She turned half about. No matter now, for, just as Willie’s outstretched hand all but touched her, a second flying wedge composed of college boys struck their line at the very center. The result was rout and confusion. Like beads when the string is broken, our friends were scattered far and wide.

  And where was the lady spy?

  For a space of time, no one knew. Then Willie spotted her, farther away and moving rapidly.

  After that things happened so fast that even to Florence’s keen mind they remain a blur. Willie sprang forward. A cleared space just before him was closed as if by magic. Four policemen and a score of revelers closed it. There came the sound of thwacking clubs. Willie tripped and fell. He was up on the instant, but minus his hat. No matter. Someone jammed a hat on his head. Whose hat? He did not know or care. But for the instant after that he cared a lot. It was a policeman’s hat. He wore a dark blue suit. In the crush he was mistaken for an officer.

  He had just sighted the dark lady once more when three strong men seized him, lifted him on high, lunged forward, then tipped him neatly over the rail. As he shot down, down, down to the icy waters of the lagoon, the crowd let out a roar of approval.

  “Crowds,” he grumbled as he swam for the shore, “psychological mobs never have any sense of humor.”

  When he had clambered to the embankment, he turned to see his four friends waving at him from the bridge.

  “Goodbye folks!” he shouted, “I’m going home for my dress suit.”

  Then, realizing they could not hear, he grasped his damp coat tail, gave it a wringing twist, threw up his hands, pointed to the spot where city lights gleamed, and marched away. “Forty above!” he was grumbling again. “No night for a plunge.”

  Then as his mood changed, he began to sing, “Goodbye Fair! Goodbye Paree! Goodbye boys! Goodbye girls! Goodbye everybody! I’m going home to my Mom-ee!”

  As for the lady spy, she had lost herself for good and all. In a crowd of three hundred thousand
you might hope to meet anyone once, but never twice.

  CHAPTER XI

  GOODBYE FAIR

  Rosemary, Florence, Jeanne and Danby did not leave the Fair grounds at once. Indeed they could not because of the crush. They did turn their faces toward the exit.

  As they pressed their way out of the dense throngs to a spot where there was at least space for breathing, their eyes were greeted by strange sights.

  Off to the right a group of thoughtless revelers were tearing up a hedge. Some were carrying away the shrubs as souvenirs, others were using them as mock-weapons for beating one another over the back.

  From a village where imitation towers reared themselves to the sky came cries of laughter and screams of distress. Presently a throng broke through the flimsy walls and came pouring out. They had gone too far in their vandalism. The firemen had thrown a cooling stream of water on their heated brows.

  “They’ll have time enough to cool off now,” Danby Force laughed.

  “But how sad to think that those who so often have come to this place to find beauty and happiness should, on this last night, remain to destroy!” There was a look of distress on the little French girl’s face.

  “Come!” said Danby Force, “There are some things we must try to forget. This is one of them. Let us always think of the great Fair as it was in the height of its glory.”

  As they moved on toward the Aisle of Flags, they came to a spot that, like an eddy in a stream, even on this night of turmoil was at rest.

  “Goodbye.” A boy was clasping a girl’s hand. “Goodbye Mary. See you at the next Fair.”

  Jeanne knew these two a little. They had worked side by side selling orangeade and ice cream cones. Now it was “Goodbye until the next Fair.”

  “And when that comes,” she murmured, “their hair will be gray. Goodbye until the next Fair.”

  As they passed an apparently deserted hot-dog stand, Jeanne caught sight of a figure crumpled up in a dark corner. A young girl, perhaps not yet eighteen, she sat with head on arms, silently sobbing.