The Third Girl Detective

by Margaret Sutton

  Hugo had Jeanne’s motor well warmed up and was preparing to fly away when Willie’s airplane came to a standstill squarely in their path.

  As Rosemary leaped from the plane, the woman came to meet her. She recognized her on the instant.

  “That,” she said with no preliminary maneuvers, “is the little French gypsy’s plane. Where is she?”

  “If we knew, we would be glad to tell you,” the woman said coldly.

  “You know,” Rosemary insisted, “there is no need of covering things up. We know who you are and why you are in America. You need not attempt any violence. My companion is fully prepared to meet you.”

  She glanced at Willie who had one hand in his pocket. She hoped he would keep it there. One fears what one does not see. And she believed these people were cowards. There might be a pistol in Willie’s pocket—just might.

  Just how the matter would have ended had not a second plane circled for a landing at that moment, no one can say.

  Rosemary was astonished and immensely relieved to see Danby Force and two uniformed officers alight from the plane. She was doubly astonished thirty seconds later to see Petite Jeanne, well festooned with clover, spring out from the broad barn door and all but throw herself into the arms of Danby Force as she cried:

  “It is saved! My so beautiful big dragon fly is saved! My heart and my happiness, they are saved!”

  This spontaneous burst of joy brought a smile even to the grim-faced dark lady.

  Jeanne’s heart and happiness were indeed saved. So was the heart and happiness of many another. When, confronted with the facts and charged with spying out the secrets of the Happy Vale mill, the strange woman admitted it freely enough.

  “But remember this,” she added, “I am no thief. I had a camera. It was mine. I took pictures. They also were mine. I made drawings with my own hands. Surely that which one creates is his own. I saw things. One cannot be arrested for seeing. And more than this,” she added with a touch of sadness, “I did all this, not for myself, but for thousands in my own land who should be as prosperous as your people in Happy Vale.”

  “I believe this,” said Danby Force, “yet that does not justify your action. To rob one community that another may be prosperous gets us nowhere.

  “I am willing, however—” he spoke slowly. “I am willing to make matters as simple as possible. If you are willing to surrender the pictures and papers you have in your possession, if you will submit to a search and will leave our land empty-handed, we of Happy Vale will forgive and forget.”

  This the dark lady could not refuse. Her papers were surrendered and were taken over by Danby Force.

  “As for you!” Danby Force turned to Hugo. On his face was a look in which was strangely mingled sorrow, pity and scorn. “You are an American citizen. This woman has been doing what she could for her people—doing it in a wrong way, but doing it all the same. You—” he paused. “You have sold out your own countrymen to her for gold. You were given the friendship, love, admiration and loyalty of our people. You sold it for a price. You attempted to steal the labor of another’s brain. For this there is no legal penalty. But to know that you have been a traitor, to know that thousands who have admired you will think of you as a traitor, to live all your life remembering that you have been a traitor, that is punishment enough. You may go.”

  With bowed head, the once magnificent Hugo disappeared from their sight. And at that Petite Jeanne’s heart was heavy with sorrow. Why? Who could tell?

  “And now,” said Willie VanGeldt to the little stewardess when they were alone once more, “what do you think of my motor?”

  “I think,” said Rosemary soberly, “that if I hadn’t spent a month’s pay having it put in order, we would not be here at all. It would never have carried us through the storm had it not been for that. So—o! Chalk up one big mark for the Flying Corntassel from Kansas.”

  “What? You?” Willie stared.

  “Yes,” she smiled. “I did that. But forget it. Only take a solemn vow with yourself and me that you will never, never go into the air again unless a mechanic’s seal of ‘Perfect’ is stamped upon your plane! The little French girl was right—life is God’s most beautiful gift.”

  “I will,” said the boy soberly, “if anyone really cares.”

  “God cares.” Rosemary spoke soberly, too. “Your mother cares, and I care. That should be enough.”

  “Yes,” said Willie huskily, “it is enough.”

  Next morning there was a gypsy party in Danby Force’s garden. Over a brightly glowing fire luscious steaks were broiling. The aroma of coffee and all manner of good things to eat filled the air. Jeanne was there and Florence, Willie, Rosemary, Madame Bihari, Danby Force and his mother—a very merry party indeed. By the help of all, a cloud had been driven away from the skies above Happy Vale. Why should they not be merry?

  “Tomorrow,” Florence said to Danby Force at the end of the glorious evening, “I shall fly away with my little gypsy friend, Petite Jeanne. I shall not return. But wherever I am, whatever I do, I shall not forget Happy Vale.”

  “Nor shall Happy Vale ever forget you,” Danby replied solemnly.

  And what happened next to all these people who have become your friends? Well, if you watch for a book called The Crystal Ball and read it you will hear more about them.

  THE S. P. MYSTERY, by Harriet Pyne Grove

  CHAPTER I

  HOW IT ALL STARTED

  Jean Gordon rushed into the house, her face all aglow. There was some fire within which made her eyes bright and the sharp wind, which came from lakes not too far away, gave her rosy cheeks and nipped her nose as well.

  Without stopping in the hall to take off her pretty red coat or the close little hat that left little but eyes, nose and mouth to be seen, she opened the door into the dining-room, from which the sound of her mother’s machine could be heard.

  “O Mother! May I have the room in the attic for a club room?”

  Jean had opened this door a little more decorously and now she closed it more softly than she had opened and closed the front door, whose bang her mother must have heard. With an amused smile Mrs. Gordon turned from her work. “Is this my dear hurricane, home from school?”

  “It is,” laughed Jean. “Please excuse the front door, Mother. It slipped out of my hand. And I suppose I should not have shouted right out. Good afternoon, fair lady!” A deep courtesy was made in grave exaggeration before Jean ran to her mother and deposited a quick kiss upon her cheek.

  “Your apology is accepted, Miss Gordon,” said Jean’s mother, with a pat upon the cold hand which Jean laid upon her chair. “Now, what is it that you want?”

  “The attic room for a club—please, Mother!”

  “It is cold up there,” returned Mrs. Gordon, starting to baste the hem of a blouse which she was making for Jean.

  “Oh, that is going to be precious!” exclaimed Jean, stopping to look at the garment. “I’ll be all fixed for school now. I don’t see what makes me get so shabby.”

  “Nor do I,” said Mrs. Gordon with a comical look. “But clothes will wear out.”

  Jean sat on the arm of her mother’s chair to continue the original subject. “There’s a radiator there, isn’t there, Mother? Couldn’t the heat be turned on?”

  “I suppose so; but that one always turned hard, and it has not been used for a long time. But why the pressing need of a club room and who will clean it?”

  Jean laughed. “Ay, there’s the rub! I hope you appreciate my smart remark, Mother. But March is almost time for house-cleaning, isn’t it? Besides, the club members will fix up the room. I promise not to bother you about it. There isn’t much in it. Why couldn’t we have the old chairs that are in the rest of the attic?”

  “You could. You may. Tell me about the club. This is something new, isn’t it?”

  “Rather;
but if you don’t mind, Mother, I’ll tell you more about it tonight. There is a reason why I have to call up the girls right away!”

  “Run along, then.” Mrs. Gordon looked after her daughter with a twinkle in the brown eyes that were so much like Jean’s. What new scheme did those children have now?

  Jean pulled off her hat and hung it upon the hall rack, but without removing her coat she sat down at the little table near to telephone.

  “No, Central, it’s one—O—two—O, please—yes, X.”

  A long pause made Jean tap her feet impatiently while she waited. Why didn’t Central ring again? But here came the “hello” Jean wanted. “Hello, Molly. I’m glad that’s you. Can you call up Phoebe and Bess and Fran for me and all of you come right over? There’s something I have to see you about right away. It’s terribly important and I want to get everybody here the first minute possible, or I wouldn’t ask you to telephone. I’ve just got to see you before the party tonight! Oh, good! Thank you so much. Tell them there’s a mystery and that’ll bring ’em. I’m going to get Nan over and start making fudge. Wasn’t it grand that we got out of school so early?”

  Molly evidently agreed that it was “grand,” and in a moment the receiver was hung up, Jean hanging up her coat in the interval between calls.

  Again Jean was sitting at the small table. “That you, Nan? Since I saw you something has happened and if you want your old Jean vindicated, as ’twere, come on over and help me out. Just walk right in, because I’ll probably be telephoning, or may be, anyhow. We’ll make some fudge before the girls get here. What? Oh, I’ll ‘splain’ when you get here. I’ve a great scheme—only maybe you won’t like it, of course.”

  Nan must have asserted her interest in Jean’s schemes, for Jean turned from the telephone with a dimple in one cheek fully evident and a funny quirk in her smile. Nan was her chum in chief, and a girl of some originality. What Jean could not think of, Nan proposed. Between them had some interesting experiences, though usually within the bounds imposed by their very sensible parents.

  Next, a number had to be looked up. “I do hate to call the Dudley’s,” Jean was thinking. She stood a moment, thinking, then went on a run through the hall and into the kitchen, neat and clean and orderly. Jean made a dash for the aluminum sauce-pan in which she always made her fudge. Another dash, and she had measured out the sugar, put a cup under the faucet for water, set out another pan, to receive the fudge when done, a bottle of flavoring extract and a big spoon. Then she looked for milk and butter, changing her mind a time or two about the ingredients.

  While Jean was in the midst of these hurried proceedings, the kitchen door opened after a short rap and a girl with a blue coat over her head and shoulders came in, though stopping in the door to take off her rubbers. “My, it’s muddy in your back yard, Jean,” said she. “I just took a notion to come over this way, since you said fudge. Why aren’t you telephoning?”

  The enveloping coat came off as Nan Standish talked, revealing a girl of about Jean’s height, the usual height of girls about fifteen. Nan’s clear eyes were blue and her hair fluffy and yellow. She was as light on her feet as Jean and came dancing over to where Jean stood. “Here, just skeedoodle, Jean Gordon. I’ll start this, while you do whatever else you want to do. I’m dying to know what it’s all about.”

  “I’ve only got one more place to telephone, Nan. I’ve decided to use milk instead of water, since there seems to be plenty. So put in one cup to the three cups of sugar, already measured. See? I’ll be back in a minute and tell you all about it, the plan, I mean, not the fudge.”

  “Yes, I’ve made fudge with you before. Trot along.”

  Jean trotted. “Is this Mrs. Dudley?” she asked, when she had the proper number. “This is Jean Gordon. Would it be too much trouble to ask Leigh to come to the telephone?”

  Jean’s tone was very formal now. She did not know Mrs. Dudley very well, and she stood just a little in awe of the Dudley formality as expressed in Leigh. But Phoebe would not enjoy a club without Leigh, and Leigh was a girl that any club would be glad to have. To do without Phoebe, too, was not to be thought of!

  It was plainly not too much trouble to notify Leigh, for presently she came to talk with Jean. “A little meeting of a few girls, Jean—to do something about something? That’s very clear!” Leigh’s low laugh came over the wire. “Why the mystery? Yes, of course, I’ll come, and stop for Phoebe, too. Oh, it may be fifteen minutes. I’ll have to tell Mother and get my wraps. I’m terribly curious.”

  “Wasn’t that nice, Nan?” asked Jean, in the kitchen again. “Phoebe told me yesterday that Leigh is just shy, being new here this year, you know, and not knowing any of the girls before.”

  “We-ell,” Nan replied, with a spoonful of the hot fudge to try it in a glass of cold water, “I do think that the Dudleys think pretty well of themselves, with that big place and all—but I suppose, for that matter, all of our families do, and Leigh—gracious, Jean, this fudge is ready to come off! Is that the pan of cold water to set this in?”

  The fudge cooling before being beaten, our two girls linked arms and ran upstairs to Jean’s room, where with many giggles Jean imparted her news to her friend. “Do you think it was so awful, Nan?” she asked. “I feel dreadfully guilty, yet I just did it on the spur of the moment and if you girls only do it, it will be a lot of fun.”

  “Of course it will. I’m for it, Jean. Why haven’t we done it before?”

  “But how about the name? Do you suppose—?”

  “Oh, that will be all right. If I were you I’d tell them all about it. What is a secret society without a secret to keep? Jimmy has been awfully smart about his pin, and if we could keep it quiet about our plans—”

  “Especially as we haven’t any,” laughed Jean.

  “Yes, but they need not know that. Oh, there’s the doorbell! The girls are coming. I’ll slip down the back stairs and beat that fudge while you let them all in. But don’t do anything till I get there—please!”

  “Not a word, Nan. It shall remain a mystery till you come in. But don’t you want some help beating that fudge?”

  “Not necessarily, Jean, but send anybody out you like.”

  By this time Jean was at the foot of the front stairs to open the door, and Nan’s quick feet were pattering down the uncarpeted back stairs to the kitchen. The Gordon home was almost like her own.

  The last girl to be reached by telephone was the first to arrive. Leigh Dudley and Phoebe Wood stood at the Gordon door, giving bright greetings to Jean’s welcoming words. “Come right in,” she cordially urged. “Isn’t this a March wind, though?”

  Leigh was taller than Jean, with a vivid color, almost black hair and dark blue eyes. She slipped out of a handsome fur coat, which Jean took from her and put upon a hanger. Phoebe, little and dark and quick, waited upon herself. A wood fire was burning in the living room fireplace and to this the girls betook themselves, warming cold hands.

  As Leigh rubbed her hands together in front of the blaze, she said, “I thought at first that you wanted us for something about the party. Phoebe thought it a birthday party. Do you suppose we ought to give a present?”

  “No,” replied Jean. “I know that it is not a birthday celebration. Excuse me—there come Molly with Bess and Fran. Oh, look at Fran’s new hat. Isn’t it darling?”

  With this Jean flew to the hall again, while Leigh and Phoebe looked out of the window to behold the “darling” hat, a very cocky felt affair. Only girls could have told any difference in the style from those of the other girls. “Isn’t it a shame that Fran had to get a new hat this late in the winter?” asked Phoebe.

  “Why did she? They’re wearing straw hats now in some places.”

  “Why, don’t you know, on the bob-sled last night Fran’s hat got knocked off and Jimmy Standish stepped right into it and through it! Fran managed to fix it up enough to wear to sc
hool this morning. Then at noon Fran went and got a wonderful bargain because it is so late.”

  More raw breezes entered with the newcomers, who talked about how the snow had turned to slush and how raw the wind was and how Fran would have her hat for “next fall” if the styles didn’t change. Then Nan came in with a plate of fudge, divided into squares and still hot. “Your mother came out and gave me the plate, Jean,” said she.

  The girls ate fudge and toasted their toes by the fire. Molly French was a plump, happy looking girl with a way of looking at one and considering a moment before she spoke. “Molly always thinks twice before she speaks,” said the girls sometimes. But then Molly was “the preacher’s” daughter.

  Frances Lockhart was as tall as Leigh and very thin. But her features were good and her humor so jolly that even if her clothes usually hung on her, as she herself declared, “Fran” was very popular in her class at school, as well as with other young friends. Bess or Elizabeth Crane had grown up “next door” to Frances, as Nan and Jean had lived. Now both girls were united in an admiration and friendship that bound them to the capable and friendly Molly, whose father was their minister. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the appearance of Bess. Brown hair, hazel eyes, a nose inclined to turn up a trifle and a slight figure as graceful as Fran’s was awkward, were what one would observe as Bess entered the room.

  Like so many butterflies settling after uncertain movements, Jean’s guests turned from the closer proximity to the fire and took seats. Four of them bounced on the cushion-covered springs of the big davenport that was placed at an angle where the cozy warmth of the fire reached them. Leigh sank into a big over-stuffed chair. Nan perched on its arm, as she happened to be near with the plate of fudge, just passed again. Jean, now thinking thoughts of new presidents or promoters of clubs, stood with her hand on one end of the mantel and surveyed the girls with a smile half embarrassed.

  “What’s the great excitement, Jean?” asked practical Molly, tossing back a flaxen bob and leaning forward on the davenport, with her hands around one knee. “What scheme have you and Nan gotten up now?”