The Third Girl Detective

by Margaret Sutton

  Jeanne was gypsy enough to read that girl’s fortune. All through the bright summer days and on into the glorious autumn, the great Fair had offered her means of making a living. Perhaps she was helping to support her parents. Who could tell? Now it was all over—the last hot-dog sold. “Goodbye Fair,” Jeanne whispered, swallowing hard.

  Stepping silently back, she slipped a bit of green paper into the girl’s hand, then disappeared too quickly to be seen.

  “Life must be beautiful,” she said to Danby Force, “but how can it be, for all?”

  “It must be increasingly beautiful for all.” The young man’s face set in hard lines of determination.

  Jeanne thought of the work he had done for his own little city, thought too of those industrial spies who threatened to destroy it all. “I must help,” she told herself almost fiercely. “I must do all I can. Life,” she whispered reverently, “Life must be beautiful.”

  As for Florence, her mind all this while was so full of the morrow that she had little thought for the passing hour. “Tomorrow,” she was saying to herself, “I shall be speeding through the air with Danby Force on my way to a new field and fresh adventure. I am to help the children, yes, and the grownups, of a small city—to enjoy life. At the same time I am to search for a spy.” She wondered in a vague sort of way what that search would be like and how successful she would be as a lady detective. She was wondering still when Danby Force said:

  “Time for a hot drink before the clock strikes one.”

  “Yes. Oh yes!” Jeanne’s voice rose in sudden eagerness. “I know the very place. It is run by some English gypsies. At this time of night only gypsies will be found there. But, ah my friend, such good tea as they brew! You never could know until you have sipped it.”

  “Ah, a gypsy’s den at one in the morning! Show us the way.” And Danby hailed a taxi.

  Ten minutes later they were entering a long, low basement room such as only Jeanne had seen before. It was finished as the inside of the ancient gypsy vans were finished, in a score of bright colors, red, yellow, orange, blue, silver and gold. There were few lights. Some were like ancient lanterns, and some were mere glimmering tapers. Trophies of the hunt hung against the walls—the head of a deer, the grinning skeleton of a wild boar’s head.

  There were no chairs. Instead all sat, true gypsy fashion, on rugs. Strange rugs they were too, woven of some heavy material and all brightly colored.

  In one corner a group of dark foreign looking people in bright costumes sat smoking long-stemmed pipes and sipping tea. A cloud of smoke, hanging close to the ceiling, created the illusion of low-hanging clouds and the out-of-doors.

  “Perfect!” Danby murmured.

  At sound of his voice, a solidly built woman, wrapped in a bright shawl, turned to look up at him. In her eyes was a dreamy look. Before her on the floor were cards. On the cards were pictures—a snake, a house, a fountain, a lion, a mouse, a burning fire.

  “Madame Bihari!” Florence exclaimed, delighted. “And you have the gypsy witch cards. You shall tell my fortune, for tomorrow I am to begin a splendid new adventure.”

  “You shall find beauty and happiness.” Madame smiled a glad smile. She did not look at the cards. “You have learned a great secret. Health, strength, sunshine, the wide out-of-doors—they are your great joy. With these alone anyone may find happiness. You are a true gypsy at heart, my splendid Florence.”

  “Thank you. That is kind.” Florence favored her with a rare smile. “But Madame, please, my fortune! You have never told it.”

  “There is no need,” the gypsy woman murmured. “It is written in your face.

  “But sit you all down upon my rug. Order me a good cup of black tea and you shall have as good a fortune as I can bring you. But beware, child! You have insisted. If the cards turn up wrong, do not blame your poor old Madame Bihari. It is you who shall shuffle, cut and deal—not I.”

  When tea had been brought on a silver tray, Florence shuffled the cards, cut them with her left hand, then placed them one by one in their proper positions. Then Madame, bending forward, began to study them. The four friends, forgetting their tea, sat upon their feet, waiting in eager expectation. Moving in from their corner, the gypsies too watched in silence.

  Over one who has seen them often an indescribable spell is cast by the gypsy witch cards. The serpent striking at some unseen object; the eye, gleaming at you from the half darkness; the fire leaping from the hearth; the mouse; the clasped hands; the lightning—all these and many others appear to take on a special meaning. And so they do in very truth to the teller of fortunes.

  When at last Madame began to speak, an audible sigh rose from the little group of watchers.

  “You have friends.” Her voice was low and even as the murmur of a slow moving stream. “Many friends. It is well, for there shall be perils. There is one you may wish to trust, even to love a little; but you must not, for that one is a traitor.”

  “The spy!” Jeanne whispered in her companion’s ear.

  “The spy!” Florence shuddered.

  “You shall serve and shall be served,” Madame went on. “You shall travel—high in air.”

  “Tomorrow,” Danby laughed a low laugh.

  “You are entering upon a fresh adventure. Will you succeed?” Madame stared long at the cards. “It is not written here. The cards are silent. Perhaps another time.” She looked up with a slow smile on her face.

  “And now, Jeannie, my little one, my tea.”

  A long sighing breath from every pair of lips, a light nervous laugh, then the spell was broken. Florence knew her fortune. They might all drink their tea, then scatter to their homes for a short night of repose. To Florence, at least, the coming day would bring new scenes and fresh promise of adventure.

  CHAPTER XII

  FLYING THROUGH THE NIGHT

  Just twenty-four hours after she had stood disconsolate before the airport depot, watching giant man-made birds sail away into the blue sky, Florence stood, traveling bag in hand, all radiant, waiting for her silver ship to wheel into position for flight. Beside her stood Danby Force and the little French girl. Danby too was going. It was to be a night flight. “All the more thrilling!” had been Jeanne’s instant prediction. “Flying by night! Seeming to play among the stars! Ah, what could be more delightful!”

  Rosemary Sample, whose plane did not go out until the following morning, was there to see them off. So too, quite dried out from the previous night’s adventure, was Willie VanGeldt.

  Florence found herself thrilled to the very tips of her toes. As a blue and gold plane with three motors thundering glided away, then with a roar of thunder rose in air, as a small yellow one followed it into the sky, she counted the moments that remained before the number of her own plane should be called and she, walking with all the care-free indifference of the much air-traveled lady (which she was not at all), should march to the three iron steps leading to the plane and climb on board.

  “You may think it strange,” Danby was saying to Jeanne, “that we should go to so much trouble to catch one industrial spy, and a lady at that.”

  “But no!” Jeanne exclaimed. “Lady spies, they are the most clever and most difficult of all. The great and terrible war proved that.”

  “Yes,” Danby agreed. “And in this peace-time war of industry, when great secrets are being guarded, secrets that might win or lose another great war—which, please God, there may never be—the ladies bear watching, I assure you.

  “And there are secrets—” his tone became animated. “Chemical secrets that have made work for thousands, secret processes for heat-treating steel that have revolutionized an entire industry.”

  “And secrets that give us better and more beautiful dresses. Ah!” Jeanne laughed a merry laugh. “This is the most wonderful secret of all. For where there is color there is beauty. Beauty brings happiness.
Life must be beautiful. So—o, my good friend—” She put forth a slender hand—“I wish you luck! May you and my good friend Florence catch those so very wicked spies and may they be shot at sunrise!

  “And now,” her tone changed, “I must say adieu, for see! There is your silver ship wheeling into position. Do not be surprised if some day you see my own little dragon fly coming to light on the top of your flag pole or the landing field nearby.

  “And now, Florence!” She gave her good pal a merry poke. “Shoulders up, eyes smiling, the good and jaunty air. Tell the world that this is nothing new. And bon voyage to you both. I shall be seeing you. And I shall be watching, always watching for that dark lady, the most terrible spy.”

  Smiling, Florence touched her lips to Jeanne’s fair brow, then putting on her very best air of indifference, which was very good indeed, marched to her plane, climbed the steps, then sank into a soft low seat to let forth a sigh that was half relief and half deep abiding joy.

  Having seen them off, Jeanne went in search of her flying gypsies. They had planned to join in a reunion of their tribe a hundred miles away. Jeanne was to fly them there.

  “Now,” said Willie VanGeldt when he and Rosemary were alone, “You said last night you would not fly with me. Why not?”

  “Because—” an intent look overspread Rosemary’s usually smiling face. “Because you are grown up, and yet you insist on playing about, on making life a joke and because flying with you is not safe.”

  “Not safe!” He stared. “I’ve a pilot’s license. Didn’t get it with a pull either. Earned it, I did.”

  “I’m not questioning that,” she went on soberly. “All the same, it’s flyers like you who are spoiling this whole aviation business. Look at me—I’m a worker. Being a flying stewardess is my job. I work at it every month in the year. The pilots and their helpers, the mechanics in our shops, the radio men on duty all day, every day, depend on it for their living and the support of their families. Together we hope to make our transportation safe, comfortable and inexpensive for all. We—”

  “Well, I—”

  “No! Let me finish,” she insisted. “Look at our planes. Sixty of them, cost seventy thousand dollars apiece. Multiply that and see what it comes to. Shows that men with money believe in us.

  “See how those planes are cared for. Looked over in every port. Least thing wrong, out they go. Motors taken off and overhauled every three hundred hours. Always in perfect condition.

  “And you—” there was a rising inflection in her voice. “You go round the world proclaiming to all the world that life is a joke and that airplanes are grand, good playthings. You flirt with death. And in the end death will get you. Then thousands will say, ‘See! Flying is not safe!’ See what I mean?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Tell you what!” she exclaimed. “It’s a safe guess you don’t even know when your motor was last overhauled and cleaned.”

  “No, I—” the play-boy was not smiling now. “Well now, Miss Sample, you see this crack-up has cost a lot of money. So I—”

  “So you ask me to risk my life flying with you. And I say ‘No!’

  “I—I’ll have to be going.” Her tone changed. “Got a report to make out. I’ll be seeing you. And I only hope it won’t be under a high bank of cut flowers.”

  She was gone, leaving Willie staring.

  “Queer sort of girl!” he grumbled after a time. “But I—she sure is a good one!

  “She might be right at that,” he murmured as he left the building.

  For Florence, speeding away through space with the stars above and the earth below, that was a never-to-be-forgotten night. First the broad expanse of the city’s gleaming lights and after that, in sharp contrast, deep, sullen blue below that suggested eternity of space.

  “We’re over the lake,” Danby Force smiled. “Way over there is the light of a ship.”

  “And still farther there is another,” Florence replied. “How rapidly we leave those lights behind! How strange to be speeding along through the night.”

  Soon the deep blue below changed to varying shadows. They were over land once more. The panorama that passed beneath them never lost its charm. Here, faintly glowing, were the lights of a tiny village. Were they asleep, those people? Probably not. Too early for that. Some were reading, some studying, some playing games, those simple kindly people who live in small villages.

  The village vanished and only a single light, here and there, like reflections of the stars, told where farm houses stood. A city loomed into sight, then passed on into the unknown.

  “It’s like life,” Florence said soberly. “We are always passing from one unknown to another.

  “And speaking of unknowns—” her voice changed. “Do you think the industrial spy who is still in your employ is a man or a woman?”

  “We have no means of knowing.” Danby spoke soberly. “To find this out if you can, this is to be part of your task.”

  “If I can,” Florence whispered to herself, after a time.

  So they rode on through the night. Danby Force seldom spoke. This riding in an airplane appeared to cast a spell of silence over him. Perhaps, at times, he slept. Florence could not tell. She did not sleep. The experience was too novel for that. Twice she caught the gleam of colored lights and knew they were meeting another plane. She tried to imagine what it would be like when everyone traveled by air. But would that time come? Who could tell?

  It was still dark when Danby Force, after looking at his watch, said:

  “We’ll be there in ten minutes. You shall go to my house for ten winks of sleep.”

  True to his prediction, the plane went roaring down to a small landing field. They disembarked, were met by a small man in a green uniform and were led to a powerful car. Having taken their places in the back seat, they were whirled away to at last mount a hill by a winding road and stop before a tall gray stone house surrounded by very tall trees.

  “My mother and I live here,” Danby said. “I should prefer greater simplicity, but a beautiful old lady you call ‘mother’ must always be humored.” Florence could have loved him for that speech.

  She understood more clearly what he meant when, once inside the wide reception room, they were met by a butler and a white-capped maid whisked her away to a spacious bedroom all fitted up with massive furniture.

  Sleep came at once. Before she realized it a rosy dawn ushered in another day. “What shall this day bring forth?” she murmured as, with a chill and a thrill, she leaped from her bed to do a dozen setting-up exercises, and at last to dress herself in her most business-like costume.

  “Mademoiselle the detective,” she laughed as she looked in the mirror. “I surely don’t look the part.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  SUSPECTS

  The small city—scarcely more than a large village—that Florence found herself entering that morning was, at this season of the year, a place of enchanting beauty. Half hidden by the New England hills, its white homes surrounded by trees and shrubs turned by the hand of a master artist, Nature, into things of flaming red and gold, it seemed the setting for some marvelous production in drama or opera.

  “It—it seems so unreal,” she whispered to herself. “The hillside all red, orange and gold, the houses so clean and white. Even the women and children in their bright dresses seem automatic things run by springs and strings.”

  Finding herself half-way up a hill, on one side of which a whole procession of very small houses, all just alike, appeared to be struggling, she paused to stare at a sign which read: “Room for rent.”

  “How could they rent a room?” she asked herself. “The house is little more than a bird’s nest.”

  Consumed by curiosity, she climbed the narrow steps and knocked at the door.

  A small lady with prematurely gray hair appeared. “I came to ask about t
he room,” Florence said in as steady a tone as she could command.

  Next instant she found herself in a house that made her feel very large. The hall was narrow, the doors low, the rooms tiny.

  “This is the room.” She was led to what seemed the smallest of the four rooms.

  “But this is already occupied.” She looked first at the display of simple toilet articles on the dresser, then at the half-filled closet.

  “Oh yes, our daughter Verna has it now,” the little lady hastened to explain. “But she—she’s to sleep in our—our general room.”

  “The one they use for parlor, living room and dining room,” Florence thought to herself. “How terrible!”

  She was about to say politely, “I guess I wouldn’t be interested,” when a young and slender girl of surprising beauty stepped into the doorway.

  “Here is Verna now,” her mother said simply.

  “Yes, here she is,” some imp appeared to whisper in Florence’s ear, “and you are going to take this room. You will have to now. You are going to buy a small bed and share the room with this beautiful child. You will cast your lot with this little family. You have seen her. It is too late to turn back now.”

  Perhaps if he had been a very wise imp he might have added, “This step you are taking now will bring you into grave danger, but that does not matter. You will take the room all the same, and like it.” But the imp, being of a very ordinary sort, did not say this.

  Florence did take the room. She did buy herself a very narrow bed and she did share this small room in this canary-cage of a house with the beautiful girl. And, strangest of all, she became very happy about it almost at once.

  The life into which she found herself thrown was strange indeed. She had lived in a small mid-western city where there was no mill or factory. She had lived in a great city. In each place she had found companions of her own sort. But here she was thrown at once into a community of small homes owned by people whose incomes had always been small and who looked out upon the world beyond their doors with something akin to awe. To Florence all this was strange.