The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  “I am not opposing you,” protested Sarah Judd, “I’m not a particle interested in whether you trace Hathaway or not. I don’t believe you can do it, though, and that letter you’re so eager for won’t help you a bit. It was written ten years ago.”

  “That makes it more important,” declared the other, “We’ve two things to accomplish; one is to locate Hathaway, and the other to secure absolute proof of his guilt.”

  “I thought he was caught doing the job.”

  “So he was, in a way. But the Department needs more proof.”

  Sarah Judd smiled unbelievingly. Then she chuckled. Presently she laughed outright, in genuine merriment, as the thought that amused her grew and expanded.

  “What fools—” she said, “what perfect fools—we mortals be!”

  All this annoyed Nan Shelley exceedingly. The successful woman detective did not relish being jeered at by a mere girl.

  “You’ve read the letter, I suppose, and are now making fun of me for trying to get it? Perhaps you’ve hidden it yourself—although that isn’t likely. Why can’t you give me an honest tip? We’re both in the same line, it seems, and both trying to earn an honest living. How about that letter? Is it necessary for me to find it?”

  “I’ve read it,” admitted Sarah, “and I know where it is. You might perhaps find it, if you hunted long enough, but it isn’t worth your while. It wouldn’t help in the least to convict Hathaway and of course it couldn’t tell you where he is now hiding.”

  “Is this straight?”

  “True as gospel.”

  “Then why don’t you prove it by showing me the letter?”

  “Because I don’t belong on your side of the fence. You’re working for one organization and I for another. Any little tip I let slip is just for your personal use. Don’t bother about that letter.”

  Susan—or Nan Shelley—sat for a time in thought. Once in a while she would cast a furtive glance around the room and its wall covered with trophies, and then she would turn to Sarah Judd’s placid face.

  “Where did the boy go?” she asked abruptly.

  “What boy?”

  “Bub; in the automobile.”

  “To Millbank.”

  “What for?”

  “To send a telegram.”

  “Your report?”

  “Yes.”

  “Important?”

  “I think it’ll bring things to a climax.”

  “The Hathaway case?”

  “You can guess anything, Nan, if you guess long enough.”

  Nan rose and put the revolver in her pocket. Then she held out her hand frankly to Sarah Judd.

  “If you’ve beaten me in this affair,” she said, with no apparent resentment, “you’re clever enough to become famous some day. I’m going to take your advice about the letter and if that climax you’re predicting arrives on schedule time I’ll not be sorry to quit this dreary, dragging case and pick up a more interesting one.”

  The tone was friendly and frank. Sarah stretched out her hand to meet that of Nan and in a flash a handcuff snapped over her wrist. With a cry she drew back, but a dextrous twist of her opponent’s free hand prisoned her other wrist and she at once realized that she was fairly caught.

  “Fine!” she cried admiringly, as she looked at her bonds, “What next, Nan?”

  But Nan was too busy to talk. She deftly searched the girl’s pocket and found the notebook. The shorthand writing caught her eye at once but the characters were unknown to her.

  “Cipher, eh?” she muttered.

  “A little code of my own invention,” said Sarah. “Sometimes I can’t make it out myself.”

  Nan restored the book and examined Sarah Judd’s purse.

  “They keep you well supplied with funds, it seems.”

  “Comes handy in emergencies,” was the reply.

  “Now let’s go to your room.”

  Sarah, handcuffed, led the way. Nan Shelley made a wonderfully rapid search through every article in the maid’s room. The lining of her clothes was inspected, her hair-brush tested for a sliding back, the pictures on the wall, the rug and the bed-clothing examined minutely. Yet all this consumed but a brief period of time and resulted in no important discovery.

  “Feel better?” asked Sarah cheerfully.

  “You know I do. I’m going to remove these handcuffs, now, and then I’m going home. Come and see me, some time when you feel lonesome. I’ve only that fool Agatha to talk to and I’ve an idea you and I might interest each other.”

  As she spoke she unlocked the manacles and dropped them with a slight click into a concealed pocket of her dark skirt.

  “I imagine Agatha isn’t REAL brilliant,” returned Sarah; “but neither am I. When I’m your age, Nan, I hope to be half as clever. Just now you can twist me around your finger.”

  Nan regarded her seriously.

  “I wish I knew what you are up to,” she remarked suspiciously. “You can scarcely conceal your joy, my girl, and that proves I’ve overlooked something. You’ve puzzled me, youngster as you are, but you must remember that I’m working in the dark while some mysterious gleam of knowledge lights your way. Put us side by side, on the same track, and I wouldn’t be afraid of you, Sarah Judd.”

  “Don’t apologize, Nan; it makes me feel ashamed.”

  Nan’s frown, as she looked into the blue eyes, turned to a smile of appreciation. Sarah also smiled, and then she said:

  “Let me make you a cup of tea before you go.”

  “A good idea. We’re friends, then?”

  “Why not? One friend is worth a thousand enemies and it’s absurd to quarrel with one for doing her duty.”

  “That’s what O’Gorman is always saying. Ever hear of O’Gorman?”

  “Yes; he’s one of the old stand-bys in the secret service department; but they say he’s getting old. Slipped a good many cogs lately, I hear.”

  “He’s the Chief’s right hand man. O’Gorman used to have this case—the branch of it I’m now working—but he gave it up and recommended the Chief to put me on the job. Said a woman could trail Mary Louise better than any man and with less chance of discovery; and he was right, for I’ve lived half a block from her in Dorfield and she never saw my face once. But O’Gorman didn’t suspect you were coming into the case and the thing’s getting altogether too complicated to suit me.”

  Sarah was brewing the tea and considered an answer unnecessary. The conversation drifted away from the Hathaway case and into less personal channels. When Nan Shelley finally rose to go there was sincere friendliness in Sarah’s “good-bye” and the elder woman said in parting:

  “You’re the right sort, Sarah. If ever you drift into Washington and need work, come to me and I’ll get the Chief to take you on. I know he’d be glad to get you.”

  “Thank you, Nan,” said Sarah meekly.

  But there was a smile on her freckled face as she watched her recent acquaintance walk down the road, and it lingered there while she returned to her kitchen and finally washed and put away the long neglected lunch dishes.

  Bub dashed into the yard and tooted his horn. Sarah went out to him.

  “Ye kin call me lucky, ef ye don’t mind,” he said with a grin. “Sent yer tel’gram, found out the tenner ye guv me were good, an’ got back without the folks gett’n’ a single blink at me.”

  “You’re some driver, Bub, and you’ve got a wise head on your shoulders. If you don’t talk about this trip, and I don’t, no one will ever know, except we two, that the car has been out of the garage.”

  CHAPTER XXI

  BAD NEWS

  Peter Conant had told his wife that he wouldn’t be at the Lodge this week until Saturday, as business would prevent his coming earlier, yet the Thursday afternoon
train brought him to Millbank and Bill Coombs’ stage took him to Hillcrest.

  “Why, Peter!” exclaimed Aunt Hannah, when she saw him, “what on earth brought you—”

  Then she stopped short, for Peter’s eyes were staring more roundly than usual and the hand that fumbled at his locket trembled visibly. He stared at Aunt Hannah, he stared at Irene; but most of all he stared at Mary Louise, who seemed to sense from his manner some impending misfortune.

  “H-m,” said the lawyer, growing red and then paling; “I’ve bad news.”

  He chopped the words off abruptly, as if he resented the necessity of uttering them. His eyes, which had been fixed upon the face of Mary Louise, suddenly wavered and sought the floor.

  His manner said more than his words. Mary Louise grew white and pressed her hands to her heart, regarding the lawyer with eyes questioning and full of fear. Irene turned a sympathetic gaze upon her friend and Aunt Hannah came closer to the girl and slipped an arm around her waist, as if to help her to endure this unknown trial. And Mary Louise, feeling she could not bear the suspense, asked falteringly:

  “Has—Gran’pa Jim—been—”

  “No,” said Mr. Conant. “No, my dear, no.”

  “Then—has anything happened to—to—mother?”

  “Well, well,” muttered the lawyer, with a sort or growl, “Mrs. Burrows has not been in good health for some months, it seems. She—eh—was under a—eh—under a nervous strain; a severe nervous strain, you know, and—”

  “Is she dead?” asked the girl in a low, hard voice.

  “The end, it seems, came unexpectedly, several days ago. She did not suffer, your grandfather writes, but—”

  Again he left his sentence unfinished, for Mary Louise had buried her face in Aunt Hannah’s bosom and was sobbing in a miserable, heart-breaking way that made Peter jerk a handkerchief from, his pocket and blow his nose lustily. Then he turned and marched from the room, while his wife led the hapless girl to a sofa and cuddled her in her lap as if she had been a little child.

  “She’s best with the women,” muttered Peter to himself. “It’s a sorrowful thing—a dreadful thing, in a way—but it can’t be helped and—she’s best with the women.”

  He had wandered into the dining room, where Sarah Judd was laying the table for dinner. She must have overheard the conversation in the living room, for she came beside the lawyer and asked:

  “When did Mrs. Burrows die?”

  “On Monday.”

  “Where?”

  “That’s none of your business, my girl.”

  “Has the funeral been held?”

  He regarded her curiously. The idea of a servant asking such questions! But there was a look in Sarah’s blue eyes that meant more than curiosity; somehow, it drew from him an answer.

  “Mrs. Burrows was cremated on Wednesday. It seems she preferred it to burial.” Having said this, he turned to stare from the window again.

  Sarah Judd stood silent a moment. Then she said with a sigh of relief:

  “It’s a queer world, isn’t it, Mr. Conant? And this death isn’t altogether a calamity.”

  “Eh? Why not?” whirling round to face her.

  “Because,” said Sarah, “it will enable Mr. Hathaway to face the world again—a free man.”

  Peter Conant was so startled that he stood motionless, forgetting his locket but not forgetting to stare. Sarah, with her hands full of forks and spoons, began placing the silver in orderly array upon the table. She paid no heed to the lawyer, who gradually recovered his poise and watched her with newly awakened interest. Once or twice he opened his mouth to speak, and then decided not to. He was bewildered, perplexed, suspicious. In thought he began to review the manner of Sarah’s coming to them, and her subsequent actions. She seemed a capable servant. Mrs. Conant had never complained of her. Yet—what did she know of Hathaway?

  Mary Louise did not appear at dinner. She begged to be left alone in her room. Sarah took her some toast and tea, with honest sympathy in her eyes, but the sorrowing girl shook her head and would not taste the food. Later, however, in the evening, she entered the living room where the others sat in depressed silence and said:

  “Please, Mr. Conant, tell me all you know about—mother.”

  “It is very little, my dear” replied the lawyer in a kindly tone. “This morning I received a message from your grandfather which said: ‘Poor Beatrice passed away on Monday and at her request her body was cremated to-day. Be very gentle in breaking the sad news to Mary Louise.’ That was all, my child, and I came here as quickly as I could. In a day or so we shall have further details, I feel sure. I am going back to town in the morning and will send you any information I receive.”

  “Thank you,” said the girl, and was quietly leaving the room when Irene called to her.

  “Mary Louise!”

  “Yes?” half turning.

  “Will you come with me to my room?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. You know I cannot go up the stairs. And—I lost my own dear mother not long ago, you will remember.”

  Tears started to the girl’s eyes, but she waited until Irene wheeled her chair beside her and then the two went through the den to Irene’s room.

  Mrs. Conant nodded to Peter approvingly.

  “Irene will comfort her,” she said, “and in a way far better than I might do. It is all very dreadful and very sad, Peter, but the poor child has never enjoyed much of her mother’s society and when the first bitter grief is passed I think she will recover something of her usual cheerfulness.”

  “H-m,” returned the lawyer; “it seems a hard thing to say, Hannah, but this demise may prove a blessing in disguise and be best for the child’s future happiness. In any event, I’m sure it will relieve the strain many of us have been under for the past ten years.”

  “You talk in riddles, Peter.”

  “The whole thing is a riddle, Hannah. And, by the way, have you noticed anything suspicious about our hired girl?”

  “About Sarah? No,” regarding him with surprise.

  “Does she—eh—snoop around much?”

  “No; she’s a very good girl.”

  “Too good to be true, perhaps,” observed Peter, and lapsed into thought. Really, it wouldn’t matter now how much Sarah Judd—or anyone else—knew of the Hathaway case. The mystery would solve itself, presently.

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE FOLKS AT BIGBEE’S

  Mr. Conant decided to take the Friday morning train back to Dorfield, saying it would not be possible for him to remain at the Lodge over Sunday, because important business might require his presence in town.

  “This demise of Mrs. Burrows,” he said confidentially to his wife in the privacy of their room, “may have far-reaching results and turn the whole current of Colonel Weatherby’s life.”

  “I don’t see why,” said Aunt Hannah.

  “You’re not expected to see why,” he replied. “As the Colonel is my most important client, I must be at the office in case of developments or a sudden demand for my services. I will tell you one thing, however, and that is that this vacation at Hillcrest Lodge was planned by the Colonel while I was in New York, with the idea that he and Mrs. Burrows would come here secretly and enjoy a nice visit with Mary Louise.”

  “You planned all that, Peter!”

  “Yes. That is, Weatherby planned it. He knows Will Morrison well, and Will was only too glad to assist him; so they wired me to come to New York, where all was quickly arranged. This place is so retired that we considered it quite safe for the fugitives to come here.”

  “Why didn’t they come, then?”

  “Two reasons prevented them. One was the sudden breaking of Mrs. Burrows’ health; the other reason was the Colonel’s discovery that in some way our
carefully laid plans had become known to the detectives who are seeking him.”

  “Good gracious! Are you sure of that, Peter!”

  “The Colonel seemed sure. He maintains a detective force on his own account and his spies discovered that Hillcrest is being watched by agents of the Secret Service.”

  “Dear me; what a maze of deceit!” wailed the good woman. “I wish you were well out of the whole affair, Peter; and I wish Mary Louise was out of it, too.”

  “So do I, with all my heart. But it’s coming to a focus soon, Hannah. Be patient and it may end better than we now fear.”

  So Bub drove Mr. Conant to Millbank and then the boy took the car to the blacksmith shop to have a small part repaired. The blacksmith made a bungle of it and wasted all the forenoon before he finally took Bub’s advice about shaping it and the new rod was attached and found to work successfully.

  It was after one o’clock when the boy at last started for home and on the way was hailed by a stranger—a little man who was trudging along the road with both hands thrust in his pockets.

  “Going far?” he asked.

  “Up th’ mount’n to Hillcrest,” said Bub.

  “Oh. May I have a lift?”

  “How fer?”

  “Well, I can’t say how far I’ll go. I’m undecided. Just came out here for a little fresh air, you know, with no definite plans,” explained the stranger.

  “Hop in,” said Bub and for a time they rode together in silence.

  “This ’ere’s the Huddle, as we’re comin’ to,” announced the boy. “Ol’ Miss’ Parsons she sometimes takes boarders.”

  “That’s kind of her,” remarked the stranger. “But the air isn’t so good as further up the hill.”

  “Ef ye go up,” said Bub with a grin, “guess ye’ll hev to camp out an’ eat scrub. Nobody don’t take boarders, up th’ mount’n.”

  “I suppose not.”

  He made no demand to be let out at the Huddle, so Bub drove on.