The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “What a time to dream of,” sighed Florence. “What an age of mysteries!”

  “Yes, wasn’t it? But there are mysteries quite as wonderful today. Only trouble is, we don’t see them.”

  “And sometimes we do see them but can’t solve them.” Florence was thinking of the mystery that thus far was her property and her chum’s.

  “The maps were sometimes bound in thin books very much like an atlas,” the librarian explained. “Here is one that is very rare.” She indicated a book in a case.

  The book was open at the first map with the inside of the front cover showing. Florence was about to pass it with a glance when something in the upper outside corner of the cover caught and held her attention. It was the picture of a gargoyle with a letter L surrounding two sides of it. It was a bookmark and, though she had not seen the mark in the missing Shakespeare, she knew from Lucile’s description of it that this must be an exact duplicate.

  “Probably from the same library originally,” she thought. “I suppose these charts are worth a great deal of money,” she ventured.

  “Oh! yes. A great deal. One doesn’t really set a price on such things. These were the gift of a rich man. It is the finest collection except one in America.”

  As Florence turned to pass on, she was startled to see the mysterious child who had escaped from her sight nearly an hour before, standing not ten feet from her. She was apparently much interested in the cherubs done in blue ink on one chart and used to indicate the prevailing direction of the winds.

  “Ah, now I have you!” she sighed. “There is but one door to this room. I will watch the door, not you. When you leave the room, I will follow.”

  With the corner of an eye on that door, she sauntered from case to case for another quarter of an hour. Then seized with a sudden desire to examine the chart book with the gargoyle in the corner of its cover, she drifted toward it.

  Scarcely could she believe her eyes as she gave the case a glance. The chart book was gone.

  Consternation seized her. She was about to cry out when the thought suddenly came to her that the book had probably been removed by the librarian.

  The next moment a suggestion that the ancient map book and the presence of the child in the room had some definite connection flashed through her mind.

  Hurriedly her eye swept the room. The child was gone!

  There remained now not one particle of doubt in her mind. “She took it,” she whispered. “I wonder why.”

  Instantly her mind was in a commotion. Should she tell what she knew? At first she thought she ought, yet deliberation led to silence, for, after all, what did she know? She had not seen the child take the book. She had seen her in the room, that was all.

  And now the librarian, sauntering past the case, noted the loss. The color left her face, but that was all. If anything, her actions were more deliberate than before. Gliding to a desk, she pressed a button. The next moment a man appeared. She spoke a few words. Her tone was low, her lips steady. The man sauntered by the case, glanced about the room, then walked out of the door. Not a word, not an outcry. A book worth thousands had vanished.

  Yet as she left the library, Florence felt how impossible it would have been for her to have carried that book with her. She passed four eagle-eyed men before she reached the outside door and each one searched her from head to foot quite as thoroughly as an X-ray might have done.

  “All the same,” she breathed, as she reached the cool, damp outer air of night, “the bird has flown, your Portland chart book is gone, for the time at least.

  “Question is,” she told herself, “what am I going to do about it?”

  CHAPTER VIII

  WHAT WAS IN THE PAPIER-MACHE LUNCH BOX

  “We can tell whether she really took it,” said Lucile after listening to Florence’s story of her strange experiences in the Portland chart room of the famous old library. “We’ll go back to Tyler street and look in at the window with the torn shade. If she took it, it’s sure to be in the empty space in the book-shelf. Looks like he was trying to fill that space.”

  “He’s awfully particular about how it’s filled,” laughed Florence. “He might pick up enough old books in a secondhand store to fill the whole space and not spend more than a dollar.”

  “Isn’t it strange!” mused Lucile. “He might pack a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of old books in a space two feet long, and will at the rate he’s going.”

  “The greatest mystery after all is the gargoyle in the corner of each book they take,” said Florence, wrinkling her brow. “He seems to be sort of specializing in those books. They are taken probably from a private library that has been sold and scattered.”

  “That is strange!” said Lucile. “The whole affair is most mysterious! And, by the way,” she smiled, “I have never taken the trouble to look into that papier-mâché lunch box the child lost on the street, the night we rescued her from that strange and terrible woman. There might possibly be some clue in it.”

  “Might,” agreed Florence.

  Now that the thought had occurred to them, they were eager to inspect the box. Lucile’s fingers trembled as they unloosed the clasps which held it shut. And well they might have trembled, for, as it was thrown open, it revealed a small book done in a temporary binding of vellum.

  Lucile gave it one glance, then with a little cry of surprise, dropped it as if it were on fire.

  “Why! Why! What?” exclaimed Florence in astonishment.

  “It’s Frank Morrow’s book, Walton’s Compleat Angler. The first edition. The one worth sixteen hundred dollars. And it’s been right here in this room all the time!” Lucile sank into a chair and there sat staring at the strangely found book.

  “Isn’t that queer!” said Florence at last.

  “She—she’d been to his shop. Got into the building just the way you said she would, by posing as a scrubwoman’s child, and had made a safe escape when that woman for some mysterious reason grabbed her and tried to carry her off.”

  “Looks that way,” said Florence. “And I guess that’s a clear enough case against her, if our Shakespeare one isn’t. You’ll tell Frank Morrow and he’ll have her arrested, of course.”

  “I—I don’t know,” hesitated Lucile. “I’m really no surer that that’s the thing to do than I was before. There is something so very strange about it all.”

  The book fell open in her hand. The inside of the front cover was exposed to view. The gargoyle in the corner stared up at her.

  “It’s the gargoyle!” she exclaimed. “Why always the gargoyle? And how could a child with a face like hers consciously commit a theft?”

  For a time they sat silently staring at the gargoyle. At last Lucile spoke.

  “I think I’ll go and talk with Frank Morrow.”

  “Will you tell him all about it?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  Florence looked puzzled.

  “Are you going to take the book?”

  Lucile hesitated. “No,” she said after a moment’s thought, “I think I sha’n’t.”

  “Why—what—”

  Florence paused, took one look at her roommate’s face, then went about the business of gathering up material for a class lecture.

  “Sometimes,” she said after a moment, “I think you are as big a riddle as the mystery you are trying to solve.”

  “Why?” Lucile exclaimed. “I am only trying to treat everyone fairly.”

  “Which can’t be done,” laughed Florence. “There is an old proverb which runs like this: ‘To do right by all men is an art which no one knows.’”

  Lucile approached the shop of Frank Morrow in a troubled state of mind. She had Frank Morrow’s valuable book. She wished to play fair with him. She must, sooner or later, return it to him. Perhaps even at this moment he might have a customer for the book. Time lost might mean a sale lost, yet she did not wish to return it, not at this time. She did not wish even so much as to admit that she had the book in her
possession. To do so would be to put herself in a position which required further explaining. The book had been carried away from the bookshop. Probably it had been stolen. Had she herself taken it? If not, who then? Where was the culprit? Why should not such a person be punished? These were some of the questions she imagined Frank Morrow asking her, and, for the present, she did not wish to answer them.

  At last, just as the elevator mounted toward the upper floors, she thought she saw a way out.

  “Anyway, I’ll try it,” she told herself.

  She found Frank Morrow alone in his shop. He glanced up at her from over an ancient volume he had been scanning, then rose to bid her welcome.

  “Well, what will it be today?” he smiled. “A folio edition of Shakespeare or only the original manuscript of one of his plays?”

  “Oh,” she smiled back, “are there really original manuscripts of Shakespeare’s plays?”

  “Not that anyone has ever discovered. But, my young lady, if you chance to come across one, I’ll pledge to sell it for you for a million dollars flat and not charge you a cent commission.”

  “Oh!” breathed Lucile, “that would be marvelous.”

  Then suddenly she remembered her reason for being there.

  “Please may I take a chair?” she asked, her lips aquiver with some new excitement.

  “By all means.” Frank Morrow himself sank into a chair.

  “Mr. Morrow,” said Lucile, poising on the very edge of the chair while she clasped and unclasped her hands, “if I were to tell you that I know exactly where your book is, the one worth sixteen hundred dollars; the Compleat Angler, what would you say?”

  Frank Morrow let a paperweight he had been toying with crash down upon the top of his desk, yet as he turned to look at her there was no emotion expressed upon his face, a whimsical smile, that was all.

  “I’d say you were a fortunate girl. You probably know I offered a hundred dollar reward for its return. This morning I doubled that.”

  Lucile’s breath came short and quick. She had completely forgotten the reward. She would be justly entitled to it. And what wouldn’t two hundred dollars mean to her? Clothes she had longed for but could not afford; leisure for more complete devotion to her studies; all this and much more could be purchased with two hundred dollars.

  For a moment she wavered. What was the use? The whole proposition if put fairly to the average person, she knew, would sound absurd. To protect two persons whom you have never met nor even spoken to; to protect them when to all appearances they were committing one theft after another, with no excuse which at the moment might be discovered; how ridiculous!

  Yet, even as she wavered, she saw again the face of that child, heard again the shuffling footstep of the tottering old man, thought of the gargoyle mystery; then resolved to stand her ground.

  “I do know exactly where your book is,” she said steadily. “But if I were to tell you that for the present I did not wish to have you ask me where it was, what would you say?”

  “Why,” he smiled as before, “I would say that this was a great old world, full of many mysteries that have never been solved. I should say that a mere book was nothing to stand between good friends.”

  He put out a hand to clasp hers. “When you wish to tell me where the book is or to see that it is returned, drop in or call me on the phone. The reward will be waiting for you.”

  Lucile’s face was flushed as she rose to go. She wished to tell him all, yet did not dare.

  “But—but you might have a customer waiting for that book,” she exclaimed.

  “One might,” he smiled. “In such an event I should say that the customer would be obliged to continue to wait.”

  Lucile moved toward the door and as she did so she barely missed bumping into an immaculately tailored young man, with all too pink cheeks and a budding moustache.

  “I beg your pardon,” he apologized.

  “It was my fault,” said Lucile much confused.

  The young man turned to Frank Morrow.

  “Show up yet?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Well?”

  “I’ll let you know if it does.”

  “Yes, do. I have a notion I know where there’s another copy.”

  “Well, I’ll be sorry to lose the sale, but I can’t promise delivery at any known date now.”

  “Perhaps not at all?”

  “Perhaps.”

  The young man bowed his way out so quickly that Lucile was still in the shop.

  “That,” smiled Frank Morrow, “is R. Stanley Ramsey, Jr., a son of one of our richest men. He wanted ‘The Compleat Angler.’”

  He turned to his work as if he had been speaking of a mere trifle.

  Lucile was overwhelmed. So he did have a customer who was impatient of waiting and might seek a copy elsewhere? Why, this Frank Morrow was a real sport! She found herself wanting more than ever to tell him everything and to assure him that the book would be on his desk in two hours’ time. She considered.

  But again the face of the child framed in a circle of light came before her. Again on the street at night in the clutches of a vile woman, she heard her say, “I won’t steal. I’ll die first.”

  Then with a sigh she tiptoed toward the door.

  “By the way,” Frank Morrow’s voice startled her, “you live over at the university, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mind doing me a favor?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “The Silver-Barnard binderies are only two blocks from your station. You’ll almost pass them. They bind books by hand; fine books, you know. I have two very valuable books which must be bound in leather. I’d hate to trust them to an ordinary messenger and I can’t take them myself. Would you mind taking them along?”

  “N—no,” Lucile was all but overcome by this token of his confidence in her.

  “Thanks.”

  He wrapped the two books carefully and handed them to her, adding, as he did so:

  “Ask for Mr. Silver himself and don’t let anyone else have them. Perhaps,” he suggested as an afterthought, “you’d like to be shown through the bindery. It’s rather an interesting place.”

  “Indeed I should. Anything that has to do with books interests me.”

  He scribbled a note on a bit of paper.

  “That’ll let you through,” he smiled, “and no thanks due. ‘One good turn,’ you know.” He bowed her out of the room.

  She found Mr. Silver to be a brisk person with a polite and obliging manner. It was with a deep sense of relief that she saw the books safely in his hands. She had seen so much of vanishing books these last few days that she feared some strange magic trick might spirit them from her before they reached their destination.

  The note requesting that she be taken through the bindery she kept for another time. She must hurry back to the university now.

  “It will be a real treat,” she told herself. “There are few really famous binderies in our country. And this is one of them.” Little she realized as she left the long, low building which housed the bindery, what part it was destined to play in the mystery she was attempting to unravel.

  She returned to the university and to her studies. That night she and Florence went once more to Tyler street, to the tumble-down cottage where the two mysterious persons lived, and there the skein of mystery was thrown into a new tangle.

  CHAPTER IX

  SHADOWED

  A cold fog hung low over the city as the two girls stole forth from the elevated station that night on their way to Tyler street. From the trestlework of the elevated there came a steady drip-drip; the streets reeked with damp and chill; the electric lamps seemed but balls of light suspended in space.

  “B-r-r!” said Florence, drawing her wraps more closely about her. “What a night!”

  “Sh!” whispered Lucile, dragging her into a corner. “There’s someone following us again.”

  Scarcely had she spoken the words when
a man with collar turned up and cap pulled low passed within four feet of them. He traveled with a long, swinging stride. Lucile fancied that she recognized that stride, but she could not be sure; also, for the moment she could not remember who the person was who walked in this fashion.

  “Only some man returning to his home,” said Florence. “This place gets on your nerves.”

  “Perhaps,” said Lucile.

  As they reached the street before the cottage of many mysteries they were pleased to see lights streaming from the rent in the shade.

  “At least we shall be able to tell whether they have the book of Portland charts,” sighed Lucile as she prepared to make a dash for the shadows.

  “Now,” she breathed; “there’s no one in sight.”

  Like two lead-colored drifts of fog they glided into a place by the window.

  Lucile was first to look. The place seemed quite familiar to her. Indeed, at first glance she would have said that nothing was changed. The old man sat in his chair. Half in a doze, he had doubtless drifted into the sort of day-dream that old persons often indulge in. The child, too, sat by the table. She was sewing. That she meant to go out later was proved by the fact that her coat and tam-o’-shanter lay on a near-by chair.

  As I have said, Lucile’s first thought was that nothing had changed. One difference, however, did not escape her. Two books had been added to the library. The narrow, unfilled space had been narrowed still further. One book was tall, too tall for the space which it was supposed to occupy, so tall that it leaned a little to the right. The other book did not appear to be an old volume. On the contrary its back was bright and shiny as if just coming from the press. It was highly ornamented with figures and a title done all in gold. These fairly flashed in the lamplight.

  “That’s strange!” she whispered to herself.

  But even as she thought it, she realized that this was no ordinary publishers’ binding.

  “Leather,” she told herself, “rich leather binding and I shouldn’t wonder if the letters and decorations were done in pure gold.”

  Without knowing exactly why she did it, she made a mental note of every figure which played a part in the decorating of the back of that book.