The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Julia K. Duncan

  “There may be other rooms,” she told herself. She searched in vain for doors leading to them. She looked under the bed.

  Convinced at last that she was alone, she looked with wide-eyed interest at her surroundings. The walls were made of oak paneling, very well executed and polished to the last degree. The fireplace was massive. It was built entirely of the strange honeycomb-like stone that is found in places along the upper bays of Lake Huron.

  “But why does she live where there is no light?” she asked herself in amazement.

  Hardly had she thought this than she became conscious for the first time of a faint flush of yellow light lying on the floor at her feet.

  On looking up to discover its source, she found herself staring at a very broad double skylight some distance above her head.

  “It’s like those one sees on the cabins of ships,” she told herself. “Only higher up.”

  Satisfied with her inspection of the place, she dropped into a commodious chair and at once fell into a reverie which had to do with her past and the very near future.

  How strange her life seemed to her as she reviewed it here in the dim lights of such unusual surroundings!

  Petite Jeanne, as you well know from reading The Gypsy Shawl, was born in France. Her family, one of the country’s best, had been impoverished by the war. The war had left her an orphan. Possessed only of a pet bear, she had looked about for some means of support. A friendly and honorable gypsy, Bihari, had taken her into his family. She had learned to do the gypsy dances with her bear.

  These she had performed so divinely that in a contest she had been chosen from many other dancers to represent the wanderers of France in a charity pageant to be given at the Paris Opera.

  After many perils, brought upon her by the green-eyed jealousy of other gypsies, she had achieved a singular triumph on that great occasion.

  As guests of this pageant, two Americans sat in a box that night. One was a playwright, the other a producer.

  As the dance progressed, as Petite Jeanne, seeming fairly to fly through the air, passed from one movement to another in her bewitching dance, one of these men touched the other lightly on the arm to whisper: “She is the one.”

  “The very one,” the other had whispered back.

  “We must have her.”

  “We will.”

  That was all for the time. But now, after several months, Petite Jeanne, as she sat in this cabin by the side of a great lake, reveled in the dream of flitting through her gypsy dance with two thousand Americans swaying in unconscious rhythm to her every movement, and that not one night, but many nights on end.

  “Nights and nights and nights,” she now murmured, as she clasped her hands before her.

  But suddenly, as if a cloud had fallen over all, she became conscious once more of dim light and night. Not alone that. There came to her now a sense of approaching danger.

  The gypsies are curious people. Who knows what uncanny power they possess? A gypsy, a very old woman, had in some way imparted to Petite Jeanne some of this power. It gave her the ability to divine the presence of those she knew, even when they were some distance away. Was it mental telepathy? Did these others think, and were their thoughts carried by who knows what power, as the radio message is carried over the ether, to this girl’s sensitive brain? Who knows? Enough that a message now came; that it caused her to shudder and glance hurriedly about her.

  “Gypsies,” she said aloud. “There must be gypsies near, French gypsies, my enemies.”

  Yet, even as she said this, the thing seemed absurd. She had inquired of the native population concerning gypsies. They did not so much as know that such people existed. This section of the country, where the greater part of all travel is done on water, and where the people are poor, has seldom been visited by a gypsy caravan.

  “And yet,” she said with conviction, “they are near!”

  CHAPTER IV

  WHY?

  There is that about the woods and water at night which casts upon one a spell of irresistible loneliness and sadness. It is as if all the generations of those who have lived and died in the vicinity, whose canoes have glided silently through rippling waters, whose axes have awakened echoes and whose campfires have brought dark shadows into being, return at this hour to mourn their loss of a beautiful world.

  Florence felt something of this as the mystery lady donned a cloak of somber hue, then pushed a dark rowboat into the water.

  A faint knock of oarlock was the only sound that disturbed the grave-like stillness.

  Some dark bird, awakened from his sleep, rose in their path to go swooping away without a sound.

  The lady of the island did not speak. From time to time she glanced over her shoulder to sweep the water with her eye. When some object a little darker than the water appeared in the distance, she pursued a course that led directly to it.

  “There,” she said, as they bumped against the object, “is your boat. It doesn’t seem large, nor heavy. You are strong. Perhaps we can right it.”

  Ten minutes of muscle testing struggle and the boat, half filled with water, lay alongside.

  As Florence settled back to catch her breath before assisting in bailing out the boat, she exclaimed:

  “How can rich people be so thoughtless, reckless and cruel?”

  “Why!” said her hostess in a mild tone, “I haven’t found them so.”

  “Didn’t they rush our boat, then laugh as it went over?”

  “Did they? Tell me about it.” The young lady’s tone suddenly took on a note of lively interest.

  Florence told her exactly what had happened.

  “That is queer,” said the lady, as she finished. “Your boat is dark; your friend wore a dark cape. Until tonight I have spent every evening for a week in this bay, sitting just as your companion was sitting, in an attitude of meditation, you might say. Since you were lying stretched out in the stern, you would be practically hidden by darkness. One might easily conclude that I was the intended victim of this little joke, if it may be called that, and that you had stepped in the way of it.”

  “But why should they run you down?” The question slipped unbidden from Florence’s lips.

  It went unanswered.

  They bailed out the boat, took it in tow, then rowed back as they had come, in silence.

  “Why should anyone wish to run you down?” The lady of the island asked this question quite abruptly the moment they entered the cabin.

  “Why I—I don’t know.” Florence remained silent for a moment before she added, “We have heard that there is an actress visiting the Eries, those rich people over on the far point. From the description, it might be Green Eyes.”

  “Green Eyes? What a name!” The mystery lady opened her eyes wide.

  “It’s not her real name,” Florence hastened to assure her. “She’s Jensie Jameson.”

  “Oh! I have seen her. She is quite marvelous. But why do you call her Green Eyes?”

  “Perhaps we’re not quite fair to her. She seems jealous of my friend here. Green-eyed, as we have a way of saying. Besides, in some lights her eyes are truly green.”

  “Green Eyes.” The tone of the mystery lady became reflective. “How terrible! What can be worse than jealousy? Hatred is bad. But jealousy! How many beautiful friendships have been destroyed, how many happy homes wrecked by jealousy. If I were given to that terrible sin, I should fight it day and night.

  “As for this affair—” She changed the subject abruptly. “I think you may feel at ease. Unless I miss my guess, this bit of misfortune was not meant for you at all.

  “And now—” She swung about. “What of tonight? Your clothes are not dry. I can loan you some. But are you not afraid to return to camp at this late hour?”

  “We have little to fear.” Florence smiled in a strange way. “We have a bear.”

  “A bear?”

  “A pet bear.”

  “But you?” said Petite Jeanne. “Are you not afraid to st
ay here alone?”

  “I have never been afraid.” The strange lady’s tone was quiet, full of assurance. “Besides, I trust God and keep my powder dry.” She glanced at the two guns hanging above her bed. “I have no right to be afraid. It is my business not to be.

  “You may leave these on the little dock to-morrow,” she said, as she helped the girls into some loose fitting house dresses. “You will find your own there.”

  A moment later Florence saw the door to the cabin close as she pushed away from the dock.

  A dark bulk greeted them at their own door. This was Tico, Petite Jeanne’s bear, her companion in the gypsy dance which, they hoped, was to make her famous. They had brought him along in order that, alone and quite unmolested in natural surroundings, the heart of the north woods, Jeanne might practice her part in the forthcoming play.

  Next morning Jeanne and Tico, the bear, wandered away into the forest.

  Florence went fishing. There is a type of fishing for every mood. This day Florence wished to think. Since she was in no mood for silent meditation she fastened a large spoon-hook to her fifty yard line, dropped rod and reel in the bottom of the boat, wrapped the line about her right hand, then went trolling along the edge of a weed bed.

  The water rippled slightly, the rushes nodded now and then to a gust of wind. Her oars made a low dip-dip as she glided across the water. She did not expect to get a bite. She was trolling more for thoughts than for fish.

  Into her mind crowded many questions. Who was the lady of the island? Why did her blue eyes reflect so much of fearless daring? Why this strange retreat? Why the automatics above her bed? Why was she here at all? There was something about this young woman that suggested intrigue, crime, possible violence.

  “And yet, in such surroundings!” She laughed out loud. “Could there be a more peaceful spot in all the world?”

  And indeed, could there be? Half a mile down the bay a tiny village basked in the sun. A general store, a confectionery, a grocery, a post office, a few scattered cabins and cottages; this was Cedar Point. To right and left of her lay deep bays. Bays and points alike were dotted with summer cottages, where tired city people came to rest and fish. Across the bay, half a mile away, were islands. Four of these islands were small, one large. There, too, were cottages. Who lived in those cottages? To this question she could form only a vague answer. Two or three were owned by millionaires with speed boats and yachts.

  “They can have them.” She gave her line a fling. “Gas driven things. Bah!” Her splendid muscles set her boat shooting forward. “What’s better than the good old oars and a boat that’s light and fast?”

  “I wish, though,” she added with a scowl, “that they’d leave us alone.”

  This sent her thoughts off on another tack. Once more her line was forgotten.

  “Those people in that speed boat last night meant to run someone down,” she said with assurance. “Question is, who? And why? Were they after Petite Jeanne? Was it Green Eyes? Or were they after the lady of the island? She believes they were after her. But why were they after her? She didn’t tell me a thing. She—”

  Of a sudden there came a great tug at her line.

  “Wow!” she cried, dropping the oars and snatching at her pole. “Got a fish. Wonder what—

  “Wow, what a yank!”

  She gained possession of her rod in the nick of time. Not ten feet of line were on her reel when she seized the handle and held fast.

  For a space of ten seconds it seemed the stout line would snap. Then it went slack.

  “Dumb! Lost him. I—

  “No.” She reeled in furiously. The fish was coming toward her. Then he whirled about. As the line went taut again the fish leaped high out of the water.

  “A pike or a muskie!” she murmured. “I must have him!”

  A battle royal followed. Now the fish, yielding stubbornly yard by yard, approached the boat. Then, catching sight of her, he leaped away, making the reel sing.

  Again she had him under control. Not for long. A raging demon fighting for freedom he was.

  For fully a quarter of an hour she fought him until, quite worn out, he yielded, and a twenty pound muskie shot head foremost into her landing net.

  “To think,” she exclaimed, “that I could come out to mull things over and should catch such a fish!

  “Ah well, life’s that way. I come to think. I catch a fish. We come here seeking absolute quiet, and what do we find? Mystery, intrigue, and all that promises to keep us up late nights figuring out the next move on the checkerboard of life.”

  CHAPTER V

  THE GYPSY CHILD

  In the meantime, accompanied by the lumbering bear, Petite Jeanne had followed a narrow way that led to the heart of the forest. At first her way was along a grass-grown road that narrowed to a path used in autumn by hunters. This path at last became only a trail for wild animals. In a soft marshy spot she came upon the clean-cut prints of a wild deer’s hoofs and the smaller marks of her fawn. There, too, she measured the footprints of a bear.

  “A small, black brother of yours,” she said to Tico. The bear appeared to understand, for he reared himself on two legs to sniff the air and show his teeth.

  Leaving this path at last, she climbed a low hill. There she entered a narrow grass-grown spot devoid of trees.

  Here, with only the fir and balsam trees standing in a circle at a respectful distance to witness, she robed herself in one of those filmy creations known to Paris alone.

  Then, with all the native grace that the Creator had bestowed upon her, she went through the steps of that weird dance that was to be the climax of the drama in which she had been given a great part.

  “It is now moonlight at the back of a battlefield,” she whispered softly to herself. “This is a dance to the dead, to the dead who live forevermore, to those beautiful brave souls who loved their land more than life.”

  Should one have happened upon her there, dancing with the bear, he must surely have been tempted to believe in fairies. So light was her step, so lissom and free her slight form, so zephyr-like her flowing costume, so great the contrast between her and the cumbersome bear, that she seemed at this moment a creature of quite another world. Yet this fairy was capable of feeling fatigue. In time she wound her filmy gown about her and threw herself on a bed of moss, to lie there panting from exhaustion brought on by her wild gyrations.

  * * * * * * * *

  Florence, having thought out her problems as far as she was able to follow them, which was not far, and having conquered her muskie, had rowed home, docked her boat and entered the cabin. She remained for a few moments indoors; then she reappeared with a basket on her arm. She took the trail of Jeanne and the bear.

  It was on this same trail that she experienced a severe shock.

  As she trudged along over the moss padded path, her soft soled sneakers made no sound. Thus it happened that, as she rounded a clump of dark spruce trees, she came unobserved upon a little woodland fantasy played by a child and a chipmunk. The chipmunk was in the path, the child at one side. A nut was in the child’s hand, a gleam of desire in the chipmunk’s eye.

  The little striped creature advanced a few steps, whisked his tail, retreated, then advanced again. The statuesque attitude of the child was remarkable. “Like a bronze statue,” Florence told herself.

  The fingers that held the nut did not tremble. One would have said that the child did not so much as wink an eye.

  For a space of ten minutes that bit of a play continued. The thing was remarkable in a child so young.

  “Not a day over seven,” Florence told herself, as she studied the child’s every feature and the last touch of her unusual attire.

  At last patience won. The chipmunk sprang forward to grasp the nut, then went flying away.

  Did Florence utter an unconscious, but quite audible sigh? It would seem so. For suddenly, after one startled upward glance, the child, too, disappeared.

  All uninvited, a startling
conviction pressed itself upon Florence’s senses. The child was a gypsy.

  There could be no questioning this. Her face might have been that of an Indian; her attire, never. Florence had seen too much of these strange people to make any mistake.

  “Not alone that,” she told herself, as she once more took up the trail. “Her people have but recently come from Europe. There is not a trace of America in her costume.

  “Perhaps—” She paused to ponder. “We are near the Canadian border. Perhaps they have entered without permission and are here in hiding.”

  This thought was disturbing. The tribe of gypsies with which Petite Jeanne had traveled so long had many enemies. She had come to know this well enough when the terrible Panna had kidnapped Jeanne and all but brought her to her death. Panna was dead, but her numerous tribesmen were ready enough to inherit and pass on her dark secrets and black hatreds.

  “If Petite Jeanne knew there were gypsies in this forest she would be greatly disturbed,” Florence said to herself with a sigh.

  “After all, what’s the good of telling her?” was her conclusion of the matter. “Gypsies are ever on the move. We will see nothing more of them.” In this she was wrong.

  She did not tell Jeanne. Together they reveled in a feast of blueberry muffins, wild honey and caramel buns.

  After Jeanne had gone through her wild dance once more, they trudged back to camp through the sweet-smelling forest while the sunset turned the woodland trail to a path of gleaming gold.

  CHAPTER VI

  HAUNTING MELODY

  That evening Florence received a shock. The night before they had, through no purpose of their own, been thrown for an hour or two into the company of the young recluse who lived in a windowless cabin on a shadowy island. Since this person very evidently wished to be alone, Florence had not expected to see her again. Imagine her surprise, therefore, when, on stepping to the cabin door for a good-night salute to the stars, she found the lady standing there, motionless and somber as any nocturnal shadow, on their own little dock.

  “I—I beg your pardon,” the mysterious one spoke. “So this is where you live? How very nice!