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

by Julia K. Duncan

  “It certainly does. Give me some more.”

  “Take it easy, then. I don’t want yer to get sick on this job.” He grinned and allowed her to finish drinking. “I guess yer ain’t used to a dump like this—” he waved his hand toward the litter on the table and included the peeling wall-paper.

  “Still, it’s a heap better than a hole in the ground out in the woods. You certainly are the lucky girl!” He grimaced, then laughed heartily at his joke.

  Dorothy’s tone was stern, “What have they done with Bill?”

  “Who’s Bill? Yer boy friend?”

  “Is he hurt?”

  “I hope so. He sure gave Tony a nasty crack. A rough little guy, he is—some scrapper. It looked like a battle royal to me when I left an’ brung yer up here. But don’t get the wrong idea, kid. By this time, one of the bunch has slipped a knife into him—pretty slick at that sort o’ thing, they are.”

  Dorothy said nothing, but he read her feelings in her face.

  “Cheer up, sister,” he said, heaping a plate with baked beans and sitting down at the table. “Pardon me, if I finish supper. That lad ain’t so hot. You’ve got me now, haven’t yer? I’m a better man than he was, Gunga Din!”

  “Yes, you are—I don’t think!”

  “How do yer get that way?”

  “Well—” Dorothy eyed him uncompromisingly—“why are you afraid of me, then?”

  “Afraid? You little whippet!” He paused, his knife loaded with beans half way to his mouth. “Say—that’s a good one! What are yer givin’ us?”

  “You keep me tied up, don’t you? Why? You’re twice my size and you’ve got a gun—”

  “Two of ’em, little one—my rod and yourn.”

  “Yet you’re afraid to loosen my hands.”

  “No, I’m not—but—”

  “Please,” she begged, changing her tone. “My face itches terribly from all that dust and I—”

  “Well, what do yer think I am? A lady’s maid?”

  “Don’t be silly—I just hate to sit here talking to you, looking such a fright!”

  “So that’s it,” he laughed. “Don’t try yer Blarney on me! I’m as ugly as mud and yer knows it. Though I’ll say yer need a little make-up—and I’ll let yer have it. But just get rid of that idea that you’ve got me buffaloed—yer haven’t!”

  He pushed back his chair and coming round the table, untied the rope that bound her wrists.

  “Thanks.” She began to rub her hands, which were numbed and sore.

  “Don’t mention it,” he leered. “Now yer can doll up to yer heart’s content while I shovel some more chow into me. I sure am empty an’ that’s no lie!”

  “Hey, Mike!” called a man’s voice from the doorway behind her. “Where do they keep the wheelbarrer in this godforsakin’ dump?”

  “In the shed out back,” returned Mike, sliding his chair up to the table again and picking up his knife. “What yer want it for? What’s the trouble?”

  “Trouble enough!” grumbled the other. “There’s a couple o’ guys messed up pretty bad down the line. Need somethin’ to cart ’em up here in. Sling me a hunk o’ bread, will yer? I ain’t had no chow.”

  “Tough luck!” Mike replied callously, his mouth full, and tossed him half a loaf. “So long.”

  “So long—” sang out the other, and Dorothy heard him cross the porch and thump down the steps.

  She was busily engaged in flexing her stiff fingers. She began to feel better, stronger, quite like her old self again. But the news that two men were badly hurt was anything but comforting. Was Bill one of them? she wondered.

  With an effort, she thrust the thought from her, and drawing forth a comb and a compact from a pocket, she commenced the complicated process of making herself presentable. If she was to make her escape before the rest of the gang arrived she must work fast. But not too fast, for every second brought back renewed strength to her cramped arms and fingers.

  “How’s that?” she asked a few minutes later, replacing comb and compact in her pocket and getting to her feet.

  “Say! You’re some looker! I’d never have thought it!”

  Mike pushed back his chair and came toward her, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. “Say! You’ve got Sadie lashed to the silo!”

  “Who’s Sadie? Your steady?” she asked, playfully pointing a forefinger at him.

  Mike leaned back against the table. “Never mind Sadie,” he retorted. “I’ve got an idea.”

  “Spill it.”

  “You wanta breeze—get outa here, don’t yer?”

  “What a mind-reader!”

  “Cut it, kid!” Mike’s tone was tense with earnestness. “That guy you been travelin’ with is either dead or a cripple. Sposin’ you pal up with me. Tell me yer will, kid, and we’ll hop it together, now.”

  “How about the rest of the gang?”

  “What about ’em. I ain’t a regular—just horned in on this deal to make a coupla grand extra.”

  “But I’m expensive—” she laughed.

  “I’ll say you are! What of it? I make good money. I’m no lousy crook. I’ve got a real profession.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m a wrestler, kid, and I ain’t no slouch at it, either.”

  For a moment Dorothy paled. For some reason she seemed taken aback.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  Dorothy straightened her lithe figure.

  “Not a thing,” she shrugged. Then musingly, “So you’re a wrestler, eh?”

  “Sure—what did yer think I was—a gigolo?”

  Dorothy giggled. “Know this hold?” she asked casually.

  And then a startling thing occurred—especially startling to the unsuspecting Mike. There was a flash of brown-sweatered arms, a swirl of darker brown hair and Mike felt himself gripped by one elbow and the side of his neck. He knew the hold, had practiced it in gymnasium, but not for some years. To be seized violently thus aroused the man and it brought an instinctive muscular reaction which was assisted by a stab of pain as Dorothy’s thumb sank upon the nerve which is called the “funny bone.”

  Yes, Mike knew the hold, and how to break it and recover; so as Dorothy swirled him backward onto the table with uncanny strength, he pivoted. Then, clutching her under her arms, he clasped his hands just beneath her shoulder blades, bearing downward with his head against her chest. It was a back-breaking grip, but her slender form twisted in his arms as though he had been trying to hold a revolving shaft. An arm slipped over his shoulder, a hand fastened on his wrist and began to tug it slowly upward with the deliberate strength of a low-geared safe hoist. Then the other hand, stealing around him, encircled the middle finger of his clasped hand and began to force it back—a jiu jitsu trick. If he resisted, the finger would be broken. To release his clasp would mean a probable dislocation of the other arm.

  Mike realized that he had to do not only with a phenomenally strong girl, but with a skilled and practiced exponent of Oriental wrestling tricks. He was by no means ignorant of this school, and countered the attack in the proper technical way—with utter relaxation for the moment—a supple yielding, followed by a swift offensive. Though he was broader of shoulder and heavier, the two were nearly of equal height, possibly of equal strength, but of a different sort. Mike’s was slower, but enduring; Dorothy’s more that of the panther—swift, high of innervation, but incapable of sustained tension.

  Such maneuvers as immediately followed in this curious combat were startling. Mike felt that he was struggling with an opponent far more skilled than himself in jiu jitsu, one trained to the last degree in the scientific application of the levers and fulcrums by which minimum force might achieve maximum results in the straining of ligaments and paralysis of muscles.

  And to give him his due, for all his bluff about striking her with the gun on the way up to the house, Mike had some decent instincts beneath his roughness. Whereas he was striving to overcome without permanently injuring the
girl, Dorothy had no such qualms. She was fighting with deliberate intention of putting him out of the running, for at least such time as would permit her to carry out her plans for escape.

  But for a time Mike’s efforts were purely defensive, his object to save himself from disgraceful defeat. What would the gang say if she bested him, a professional wrestler, and make her getaway?

  They fell across the table, shattering the crockery, then pitched off on to the floor with Mike underneath.

  He writhed over on his face and offered an opening for an elbow twist which was not neglected. There was an instant when he thought the joint would go; but he broke the hold by a headspin at the cost of infinite pain.

  Mike had seen the state in which jiu jitsu wrestlers left their vanquished adversaries. Defeat at this girl’s hands would probably leave him helpless and crippled for three or four hours. It was not a pleasant thought. He would have to hurt her—hurt her badly, if he could.

  He was flat on his face again when suddenly he felt his automatic jerked from its holster and she sprang to her feet.

  “If you move an eyelash,” said Dorothy, rather breathlessly, “I’ll pull the trigger!”

  “If you don’t drop that rod at once, I’ll blow the top of your head off,” declared a dispassionate voice from the doorway.

  Dorothy dropped the gun.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE DOCTOR

  “And now, Mike,” continued the voice, “I’d like to know how you happened to be caught napping.”

  Dorothy swung round to see a young woman standing in the doorway. With a gasp of consternation she found herself staring down the barrel of a revolver. For a fraction of a second her heart turned over with a sickening thud. Then she recovered her poise.

  “Well, I guess my trick’s over,” she exclaimed as cheerfully as possible.

  Mike scrambled to his feet, catching up his automatic as he did so. Instead of answering the girl who leaned against the door frame, he stared at Dorothy in a sort of amazed wonder. She met his gaze, a malicious little smile at the corners of her mouth. Aside from a flush on her cheeks, she showed not the slightest sign of the ordeal she had just passed through, nor the exhaustion it must have produced. His eyes fell rather stupidly to her feet. If Mike had not so recently staggered under Dorothy’s material weight, he would not have believed her to possess any at all. He drew a deep breath.

  “Who taught you jiu jitsu?”

  “A woman professional in New York. She had a class—the others went in for it in a lady like way. But I took it up seriously because I thought I might need it some day.”

  “Have you—ever?” He had dropped his east side argot, she noticed.

  “Once or twice—but never like this,” she smiled.

  “I should hope not.” Mike was rather pale. He frowned. “Where do you get your appalling strength?”

  “Heredity—and training. I come by it honestly. It’s not so extraordinary as some people seem to think.” Her smile widened. “My father is the strongest man I’ve ever known. Although you’d never guess it by looking at him. He can do all sorts of stunts. He’s trained me—running, boxing, fencing, swimming—”

  “I’ll say he has! I wouldn’t have believed it possible—and you only a kid!”

  Dorothy nodded and looked at him with a curious light in her gray eyes.

  “Perhaps I’m not so strong as you think—I know a little more about Oriental wrestling than you do, that’s all.”

  “Yes, that’s all!” said the woman by the doorway in a mocking tone. She stepped across the threshold and came toward them. “Go over there and sit down.” She motioned Dorothy to a chair. “And not another peep out of you—understand?” Her eyes gleamed at Dorothy through narrowed lids with a light more metallic than the reflection from the barrel of her automatic. It was a strange look—combined of ruthlessness and malicious amusement.

  “Interesting—very interesting, indeed!”

  She turned to Mike, as Dorothy obeyed her and sat down.

  “And now that you and your little lady friend have finished your heart-to-heart, perhaps you’ll tell me what it’s all about—why I find you flat on the floor covered by her gun?”

  “Jealous, Sadie?” Mike’s tone was tantalizing.

  “You fool!”

  She took a step forward. The expression on her face underwent a startling change. Mockery gave way to an exasperated ferocity. Her eyes opened to their full size. Then the volcano of her wrath erupted. Words poured forth with the sharp regularity of a riveting hammer. Mike was given a description of his characteristics, moral, mental and physical, that brought the angry blood to his forehead.

  Whereupon he retorted in like spirit and soon they were going it hammer and tongs, while the fury on Sadie’s face froze into livid hate.

  It was a wicked face, yet beautiful, Dorothy thought as she watched from her chair in the corner; a strangely beautiful face beneath a coiled crown of glorious red hair. But its beauty was distorted, devilish. Her lips were scarlet, slightly parted, showing the double rim of her even teeth as she hurled insult after insult at the man before her. Like some evil goddess, she stood motionless, the rise and fall of her bosom the only token of the deadly emotion she felt as her even tones poured forth vituperation.

  Presently Dorothy’s ears caught the sound of footsteps thumping on the porch. The lame man limped into the room and sized up the situation at a glance.

  “Stop that scrapping, you two!” he commanded. “Stop it, Sadie! Do you hear me? Stop it at once!”

  The red-haired girl glared at him, but she obeyed. There was a dangerous finality in his tone that debarred argument. She swept over to the table, and deliberately turning her back upon the others, poured herself a cup of coffee.

  “Mike!” barked the Italian. “Go out and give the others a hand. We’ve got a couple of invalids with us. I’ve already administered first aid, but they will have to be carried upstairs and put to bed. Hustle, now!”

  Mike disappeared through the door without a word. This little lame person seemed to brook no opposition. He was probably the brain and the leader of this gang, thought Dorothy—but he was speaking to her now.

  “Good evening again, Miss Dixon! I felt somehow certain we were fated to meet a third time tonight!” His glance snapped from her to Sadie and back again. “Sorry we had to ‘bag’ you, as it were—hope you suffered no great inconvenience?”

  “Oh, I’m all right,” she replied coolly.

  “But I notice that your sweater is torn in several places. You will excuse me?—but you look rather rumpled. I got the impression that you and the young lady who is at present drinking coffee might have had—a difference of opinion, shall we say?”

  “No. These tears in my sweater were caused by accident. Miss Martinelli had nothing to do with it.”

  “So you know her name! But, of course you would. That bicarbonate of soda proved a boomerang. Too bad she really needed it at the time. It’s a lesson to us, to remember that servant girls are likely to be lazy.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t Lizzie’s fault,” smiled Dorothy. “I caught her before she had had time to wash the glass, that’s all.”

  “You are a very clever young woman.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that—” she drawled. Then she left her chair and took a step toward him. “Tell me—is Bill Bolton very badly hurt?”

  “Just a bit frazzled, that’s all.” Her aviation instructor limped into the room. His coat was gone and his soft shirt, once white, hung from his shoulders in dirty, tattered streamers. One eye, half-closed, was rapidly turning black. Blood streaked his cheeks. Just above his left knee the trouser-leg had been cut away and a blood-soaked bandage was visible. Dorothy saw that his wrists were handcuffed behind his back. At his elbow, a man whose jaw was queerly twisted to one side, stood guard with drawn revolver.

  The lame man grinned. “Here’s your young friend now. You can take him in the kitchen if you like and wash him off a bit.
I’ll come in later with some bandages. You’ll find matches and a lamp on a shelf just inside the door.—Stick that gun in your pocket, Tony,” he added to his henchman. “Come over here. Now that we’ve proper light, I’ll snap that jaw of yours back into place.”

  Dorothy put an arm about Bill without speaking and led him slowly into the dark room. Then as her hand groped for matches on the shelf, there came a loud click from the other room, followed by a scream of anguish. Dorothy felt her hair rise on the back of her neck. There was a momentary silence, then low, breathless moans.

  “What is it, Bill?” she whispered fearfully. “What’s happened?”

  Bill chuckled. “Tony’s dislocated jaw is back in place, now, that’s all. Too bad I didn’t knock it clean off while I was about it. He’s the bird who knifed me a while ago. No fault of his that he only got me in the leg, either. I’m glad to hear he’s getting his, now.”

  “Goodness—” Dorothy found the matches at last and struck one. “Here I stand—and you’re badly hurt—don’t say you aren’t—I know it. Where’s that lamp? He said it was on the shelf. It isn’t. There it is on the table. Dash—there goes the match!”

  “Take it easy, kid!”

  “Oh, I’m all right. That man’s scream kind of set my teeth on edge.”

  She struck another match, then lit the lamp and carried it to a dresser by the sink.

  “Come over here and sit down,” she said, drawing out a chair. “I want to swab out that cut in your leg. The rag is filthy—” She pulled out the drawer in the dresser. “Here’s luck! Towels—clean ones! Who’d have thought it!”

  With deft fingers she unfastened his bandage, then cleaned the wound with fresh water from the pump, using every precaution not to hurt him.

  “You’re certainly good at this kind of thing,” was Bill’s sincere tribute as she turned her attention to the bruised cut on his head.

  “Part of my high school course, you know. I’m better at this than at Latin,” she admitted with a smile. “Tell me what happened in the woods after I got scragged and Mike carted me up here?”