The Third Girl Detective

by Margaret Sutton

  “She’s only a child in high school.”

  “High school,” he murmured low. “Ah, that is the age of romance, of exquisite grace and beauty. I must meet her,” he repeated.

  For just no real reason at all Florence wished to say, “I hope you never do,” and there came also a temptation to emphasize her thought with two or three words that do not often appear in print. What she did say was, “Won’t you have a seat? You wanted to see me about something?”

  “Yes—yes—ah—” Hugo appeared to dance toward a chair. He sat down with the flourish of an expert rider mounting a horse. “Yes—er—” He was on his feet again, circling about that picture. At last, like a bee that has circled a flower, his gaze came to a center close to the picture. “Ah yes,” he murmured. “A very great artist. A priceless thing!” Heaving a sigh, he tore himself away.

  “Yes, Miss Huyler.” His change of poise and tone was fairly stunning. As he wheeled about he was once more the social conquistador, seeking, the girl knew not what advantage. “Yes, Miss Huyler, we admire you. In fact we enjoyed the party so much we wish you to organize another within a week, a truly wonderful party, a harvest ball. A thing to be done in costume, a masked ball.”

  Florence might have reminded him that she had started her little social meeting as one sort of affair and that he had ended it in quite a different manner. She might have told him that if he wanted any sort of party at all, he was quite free to get it up as he chose. She did nothing of the kind. Instead, she said: “And does Mr. Force approve?”

  “Oh, Force!” Hugo made a dismissing gesture. “He doesn’t mind. He wants this dead old town wakened up!”

  “Does he?” Florence said quietly.

  “Does he?” Hugo stared. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  Florence started. “Yes, yes, I suppose that is why I’m here,” she replied hurriedly. It would never do for any of these people to guess why she was here. “Yes. And I am sure the party will be all right. I can count on your assistance and—and all the others?”

  “Absolutely! Absolutely! That’s the spirit!” Hugo sprang forward to grasp her hand. For Florence that was a disturbing handclasp. Hugo’s hand was hot and trembling. After holding her hand ten seconds too long for her comfort, he suddenly dropped it to do three more turns about the room. Then, making a grab at his hat, and snatching a look at his watch, he exclaimed: “Must be going!” At that he bolted out of the room.

  “What a remarkable person!” she thought a trifle wearily. “He’s a living impersonation of jazz.” He was a great deal more than that, but this she was to discover at a later date.

  In the meantime she went to her room for a look at her mail. This was followed by a few moments of thinking. Those were very solemn thoughts indeed. “How,” she asked herself, “is this affair to end? Shall I discover the spy? If so, how and when? Will the spy be a man or a woman? Will there be a struggle, a trial perhaps?” She shuddered. “After all,” she thought, “perhaps I should have accomplished more by attempting to follow the dark lady’s trail.”

  In time her thoughts began to wander. She thought of Hugo. “At least,” she told herself, “he has good taste in art. That is a lovely picture of Verna.”

  Drawn by this thought, she left her room to wander into the small living room. Instantly her lips parted in a suppressed cry of surprise. The picture was gone!

  “But then,” she thought, “why raise an alarm? I have been out of the room for some time. Perhaps a member of the family has carried it away.” She decided at last upon a course of watchful waiting. “I’ll find it in another room,” she told herself. But would she?

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE RED DEVIL

  Has the little airplane stewardess been quite forgotten? Such vivid personalities as hers are never long forgotten. These were busy days for her. A trip to Boston and return; a day of rest; a sudden call for a special trip to the Arizona desert—she was ever on the wing.

  With all this she had not forgotten her promise to Danby Force. Pictures of the dark lady with a torn ear were made and quietly distributed among her fellow-workers. She was surprised at the results. Ladies resembling this suspected one began, it seemed to her, to travel by air in whole platoons. She heard from one in Dallas, another in Boston. One was seen boarding a plane in Seattle and another in Portland, Maine. One and all were investigated and found lacking in one particular or another. So, at the end of a week the missing lady was still missing.

  One day the chief stewardess said to her, “I have a very interesting request for your services. You’ll want to go, I’m sure. A group of very learned people are to visit a little city down east called Happy Vale. Ever hear of it?”

  “Happy Vale.” Rosemary said the words slowly. Then with a sudden start she exclaimed, “That’s the home of Danby Force. That’s where the industrial spies are supposed to be at work. I wonder—”

  She broke off to stare out of the window.

  “Of course,” she said in a changed tone. “Surely, I’ll be glad to go.”

  “Danby Force,” she thought as she left the room. “He must have requested that I come with the party. I wonder if it has anything to do with the dark lady. Wonder if he’s found her, wants me to identify her, or—or something.

  “Anyway,” she concluded, “he’s a fine young man. It will be a real adventure to visit his city.”

  Then, as if Fate had whispered some word of warning in her ear, she made her way slowly toward a certain hangar.

  Arrived at the hangar she sought out a certain airplane, then called:

  “Jerry! Oh Jerry! Come here!”

  “At your service!” said Jerry, a bright young mechanic, grinning broadly as he extended a greasy hand.

  “Thanks, Jerry.” The girl gripped his hand.

  “Jerry,” she said, “have you time to look over this motor a bit?”

  “Sure, Miss Sample. But what—why that plane belongs to Willie VanGeldt, the rich young bum. Why—”

  “Jerry,” Rosemary smiled, “curiosity once killed a cat. Will you look it over while I go in and make my report?”

  “Sure, Miss Sample.”

  Fifteen minutes later when Rosemary reappeared, Jerry made a wry face.

  “Terrible, Miss Sample, just terrible! Carbon in the cylinders, oil in the spark plugs, everything wrong! Wonder it runs at all.

  “It’s a shame!” he went on. “It really is! Here we are keeping everything perfect. Motors dragged out and overhauled every three hundred hours, everything just perfect. And these amateurs!”

  “I know, Jerry,” Rosemary broke in. “But tell me, have you a couple of mechanics who’d like to earn some overtime by overhauling this motor?”

  “That motor? Willie VanGeldt’s? You pay for it? Honest, Miss Sample, he’s not worth it! He ain’t worth much of anything. That’s my guess.”

  “Everyone is worth something,” Rosemary replied soberly. “I don’t want to see him get himself killed. It will be bad for aviation in general. And besides, Jerry, I’ve a feeling about that airplane—one I can’t explain. So you just get that motor fixed up, and I’ll pay the men, pay them tomorrow.”

  “All right, Miss Sample. But—”

  Rosemary had vanished.

  So Rosemary Sample, still dreaming of her approaching visit to Happy Vale, crossed the airport grounds, and entered the low depot to order a sandwich and cup of coffee, and to sit staring absently at the wall until the coffee was cold.

  At the same time, in a far away city coming events were casting their shadows before them, and in that very city the little French girl Petite Jeanne was preparing for a visit to a great concert hall. This visit was to have the most astounding results. So, like some famous stage manager, Fate was getting ready to assemble the cast for the final scenes in our little drama.

  Even while Rosemary Sample sat star
ing at the ceiling, Florence was saying to Danby Force: “I think the Harvest Dance would be a fine thing. Not that we harvest anything but bright prints,” she laughed. “But these golden days surely call for glorious good times. Only—” she hesitated.

  “Only what?” He urged her on.

  “I wish we could lay out a plan and stick to it, in—in spite—”

  “In spite of our good man Hugo,” he laughed. “Well, this time we’ll do just that. We’ll arrange an attractive printed program. On the card every other offering will be an old-fashioned dance. The last shall be a waltz in your artificial moonlight. And I—” he laughed low. “I speak for that last dance right now.”

  “Oh!” Florence flushed in spite of herself. “And I—I accept.

  “Do you know,” she said a moment later, “I’ve thought of something that might be done. The floor, you know, is very large. Why not send out in the country and get a dozen corn shocks and set them up about the room?”

  “A dance among the corn shocks!” Danby Force exclaimed. “A great idea! We’ll do it. We’ll have the place lighted with imitation jack-o-lanterns. That will be a grand ball indeed.”

  And it was, even for Florence, up to a certain point. Then something happened, as things have a way of doing, that for a time at least spoiled her fun.

  The mixed program of modern and old-fashioned dances served to hold the hilarity to a moderate level. More than once a man in a red devil costume, whom Florence recognized as Hugo, attempted to bribe the musicians into changing the program, but it was no go. They had their orders. They would follow them.

  It was this same red devil who caused all of Florence’s trouble, which in the end turned into quite a joy. She was standing on the side line between dances when the red devil peeked round a corn shock, then as he approached her whispered, “I am told that this beautiful child who lives at your house is here. Do me the favor to tell me how she is dressed.”

  “I—I really don’t know.” Florence was both surprised and frightened. She had not known that Verna was to be there. Indeed she was under the impression that her parents had forbidden her coming.

  “Oh yes you know!” the red devil hissed in her ear. “You know well enough, but you won’t tell. It’s all right. I’ll find out. I take what I want!” There was a serpent-like hiss in his voice. Then he was gone.

  Florence stared at the corn shock behind which he had vanished. Her mind was in a whirl. Was Verna truly here? If she was, she must find and warn her. The words of Rosa, tragic words, came to her: “He is a bad, bad man!” His own words still rang in her ears: “I take what I want.”

  “Does he?” she asked herself fiercely. “Perhaps he does.” Strangely enough, she saw in her mind’s eye at that moment the picture of Verna.

  Florence had developed an unusual gift. She had discovered long ago that she could recognize friends, even at some distance, by their habitual movements. If they were walking, rowing or playing a game, it was all the same. She had developed this gift until now she could recognize people instantly under any circumstances. “I must find Verna,” she whispered, gripping at her heart to still its wild panic.

  A dance began. Her partner came to claim her. It chanced to be a waltz. As she floated about among the corn shocks, she was looking, looking, looking.

  And then she saw her. “A fairy!” she whispered to herself. “Verna is dressed as a fairy, all in white, with wings. How exquisite!”

  She wanted to break away and warn her at once. This might make a scene. She would wait until the dance was over. She lost sight of her entirely.

  Never before had a waltz seemed so long. She glided in and out among the corn shocks, in and out, in and out, until it seemed to her that dawn must come and a new day begin.

  When at last the music stopped she fairly tore herself from her partner and was away on her quest. But where was that white fairy? Ten minutes of frantic search convinced her that she was too late. Verna was not there. Neither was the red devil.

  Sick at heart, she crept away to the dressing room. There she sank into a chair to surrender herself to despair. But not for long. Before her was a wooden bench. On this bench lay a large suit of rough coveralls, a pair of cotton gloves and an ugly mask. This was a corn husker’s outfit abandoned by one of the masqueraders. Ten minutes later Florence had vanished; so too had the coveralls, mask and gloves.

  Fifteen minutes later the red devil and the exquisite fairy might have been seen walking along a narrow bridle path, lined on either side by tall bushes. The red devil, if observed by some old, wise person, would have been said to be in the act of practicing his art. He was doing, at that moment, nothing that might be called reprehensible. He was in the act of beguiling the exquisite fairy. That was all.

  Surely no more perfect setting could have been found for a love tryst. The moon, full and golden, hung over great masses of dark foliage. The air was filled with faint noises, the chirp of a cricket, the rasping of a katydid, the call of some bird in his sleep, the distant bay of a hound. The air touched the fairy’s cheek like a faint caress.

  “You are beautiful,” the red devil murmured low.

  “Oh!” the fairy breathed.

  “More lovely than a flower, more delicate than a rose, more graceful than—”

  The red devil broke off suddenly to listen. “Thought I heard a sound.” His voice took on a sudden gruffness.

  A moment later he was his own sweet devil of a self again, murmuring: “If I had all the flowers of this beautiful world I would not look at them, but at you. If I might touch the stars I would touch your hand instead. Your lips—”

  They had by this time all but reached the end of the lane. One moment more, and they would have been in the open woods, when something quite terrible occurred.

  A figure that loomed large in the half darkness leaped at the red devil. Startled, the red devil swung out with both fists. He missed. Something very like a sledge-hammer struck him on the side of the jaw. With one wild scream, the exquisite fairy was away. But not the red devil.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE FIRE-BIRD

  Strange as it may seem, it was at this very hour that Petite Jeanne received one of the most unusual thrills of her not uneventful life. She and Madame Bihari were back in Chicago. The Ballet Russe, too, was in that city. And to Jeanne who, as you may know, was one of the finest of gypsy dancers, anything like the Ballet Russe was a call which, if need be, would draw from her purse the last silver coin.

  “The Ballet Russe!” she exclaimed to Madame. “We must go. And ah yes, tonight we must go! This is the last performance.”

  “Impossible, my pretty one,” Madame said with slow regret. “I have promised to say farewell to our good friends of Bohemia. They are leaving tomorrow for their native land.

  “But you, my child, you must go. Put on your bright gown of a thousand beads and your purple cape with the white fox collar, and go. Surely no one, not even the Fire-Bird, shall outshine my Petite Jeanne.”

  So Jeanne went alone. She secured a seat at the side of the gallery where she might look almost directly down upon the dancers. And was that an hour of pure joy for Jeanne! Not for months had she witnessed anything half so charming. The lights were so bright, the costumes so beautiful, the dancers so light-footed and droll, and the music so entrancing that she at times believed herself transported to another world.

  The first piece was a bit of exquisite nonsense. But when the time came for that entrancing story, “The Fire-Bird,” to be told in pantomime, music and dancing, Jeanne sat entranced. Once before, as a small child, she had seen this in Paris. Now it came to her as a thing of renewed and eternal beauty.

  As the lights of the great Auditorium went dark and the orchestra took up an entrancing strain, Jeanne saw at the back of the stage a tree that seemed all aglow with light. And before this tree, dancing like some enchanted fairy, was a
creature that, in that uncertain light, seemed half maiden, half bird.

  “The Fire-Bird!” Jeanne’s lips formed the words they did not speak.

  Soon the beautiful, glimmering Fire-Bird began to seem ill at ease. The shadow of a young man appeared in the background.

  “Prince Ivan,” Jeanne whispered.

  The Prince pursued the Fire-Bird. Round and round they danced. How light was the step of the Fire-Bird! She seemed scarcely a feather’s weight. How Jeanne envied her!

  And yet there were those who would have said, “Petite Jeanne is a more splendid dancer.”

  The Prince seized the Fire-Bird in his arms. She struggled in vain to escape. She entreated him. She attempted to charm and beguile him. He released her only, in beautiful and fantastic dance rhythm, to capture her again. At last, on being given one of her shining feathers as a charm against all evil, he granted her the freedom she asked.

  The Fire-Bird vanishes. Day begins to dawn upon the stage. The music is low and enchanting. Then a bevy of dancing girls emerge from a castle gate. These are Princesses, bewitched and enslaved by a wizard.

  As the thirteen Princesses danced upon the stage, Jeanne received a momentary shock. One of these, the third from their leader, had about her an air of familiarity. Jeanne was a dancer. She had learned to recognize other dancers by their movements. But this one—

  “Where have I seen her?” she whispered.

  Closing her eyes, she attempted to call forth upon the dimly lighted picture gallery of memory some scene of other days, some open air arena, some stage where this one had danced.

  “No, no!” She tapped her small foot. “It will not come. And yet I have seen her!”

  Then again she gave herself over to the story unfolding so beautifully before her.

  In the story played out for Jeanne, Prince Ivan falls in love with the most beautiful of the enchanted Princesses. There follows a marvelous dance done by the maidens. Jeanne as she watched had eyes for but one dancer, the mysterious person she felt she should know, but could not recall.