The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “That’s him!” whispered James, staring as if his eyes would pop out of his head. “That’s the very man.”

  The next instant the man disappeared. There was reason enough for this too, for with every muscle of his face drawn in lines of hate, the stalwart James had leaped square at the door.

  And what of Lucile?

  After gazing for a moment in astonishment at the purple curtain with the touch of crimson shining out from it, (beyond which the Mystery Lady had disappeared,) she stepped close enough to make sure that same purple strand ran through the thread. Then she turned and walked out of the building.

  She found herself more mystified than ever. When would all this maze of mysteries be solved? Why had the Mystery Lady done that? Why the crimson thread? Why the iron ring? That was the fourth time the crimson thread had appeared, and this time there could be no doubt but that it had been she who had held the needle.

  Strangely enough, at this moment there flashed through her mind one sentence in that clipping relating to the lady who called herself the Spirit of Christmas.

  “I am the Spirit of Christmas,” she whispered it as she recalled it. “I am the Spirit of Christmas. Wherever I go I leave my mark which is also my sign.” She wondered vaguely what she could have meant by that.

  This lady of the Christmas Spirit had the whole city on tip-toes. Everyone was looking for her; everyone hoping to come downtown some fine morning to meet her and to claim her bag of gold. Shoppers gazed into faces of fellow shoppers to wonder: “Are you the Spirit of Christmas? Shall I grasp your hand?” News boys, staring up at lady customers who slipped them pennies for papers, wondered: “Are you the Christmas Lady?”

  Every day the paper told how she had been dressed on the previous day, where she had been and what she had done. One day, in the guise of a farmer’s wife, she had visited the stockyards and had spent hours wandering through great buildings or on board-walks above the cattle. The next day found her again among the throngs of shoppers. Here she had purchased a handkerchief and there a newspaper. She described the clerk and the newsboy. The clerk and the boy read it and groaned. For them the great moment had come and was gone forever.

  “Who will discover her? When will it be? Who will get the gold?” These were the questions that were on every tongue.

  There could be no doubt but the paper was reaping a golden harvest from it, for did not everyone in the city buy a paper that they might read of her latest exploits and to discover where she was to be on that day, and to dream that this day he might be the lucky one; this day he might hear the gold coin jingle?

  Lucile thought all this through as she hurried back toward the store. At the same time she chided herself for being so foolish as to miss her appointment with Cordie for such a wild goose chase. She hoped against hope that she would find Cordie still waiting.

  She found the door closed. As she pressed her face against the glass she saw but one person near the entrance—the night watchman. Cordie was not there.

  “Gone,” Lucile murmured. “I only hope nothing has happened to her.”

  At that she turned about and raced away to catch an on-coming elevated train.

  * * * *

  As James disappeared through the door of the furnace room of the department store, Cordie sank down in a chair. The chair was black and greasy, but she had no thought for that. Indeed, so excited and frightened was she that for a time she was unable to think clearly about anything.

  When at last the full meaning of the situation had forced its way into her consciousness, she leaped to her feet, exclaiming:

  “Stop him! Stop him! He’ll be killed!”

  “I bet you he won’t,” a burly furnace tender smiled quietly. “He’s a hard boiled egg, that boy; muscles like steel and quick as a cat. If anybody does him in you’ll have to give him credit. Y’ ought t’ see him box. There ain’t a man among us that can touch him.”

  Somewhat reassured by this glowing description of her companion, the girl settled back again in her seat. She knew that she was safe enough here with these rough but kindly men.

  As she sat there thinking, there came to her mind a question. Why did James go into such a fit of anger at sight of the stranger at the door?

  “Surely,” she told herself, “it could not have been because the man had been following me. That wouldn’t be natural. James scarcely knows me. Why should he suddenly become such a violent champion of my cause? And besides, he had no way of knowing that that was the man who was following me. He did not wait to ask a single question; just whispered: ‘That’s him!’ and rushed right at him.”

  “No he didn’t do it because of me,” she concluded after a few moments of thought. “He’s seen that man before. I wonder when and where. I wonder what he’s done to James?”

  Then came another, more startling question. What would James do to the man if he caught him?

  Instantly her keen imagination was at work. Quickening her sense of hearing, it set her listening to sounds which she told herself were the dull thud of fist-blows, the sickening rush of a blade as it sped through the air, a low groan of pain, and then sharper, more distinct, the pop-pop of an automatic.

  In vain she told herself that with the hiss of steam, the dull thud-thud of revolving grates and the general noises of the boiler-room, it was quite impossible for her to distinguish sounds ten yards away, and that in all probability the two men were hundreds of feet away from her, on some other floor. The illusion still persisted. So certain did she become that a battle was being fought just outside the door that she found herself gripping the arms of her chair to keep from crying out.

  The nickel-plated clock against the wall had ticked away a full half hour. The suspense had grown unbearable when of a sudden, with face grimy, hair tousled, and clothing all awry, James appeared at the door.

  “You—you,” Cordie started up.

  “Yes, miss,” James grinned. “I know I look as if I’d come in from a long and stormy voyage. My deck needs swabbin’ down and my sails a furlin’, but I’ll be shipshape and ready to take another cruise before the clock can strike eight bells.”

  This talk sounded so quaint to the girl that she quite forgot the recent danger James had been in, and sat staring at him as he thrust his head into a huge basin of water and proceeded to scrub it with a course brush, much as one might some huge vegetable.

  By the aid of a comb and whisk broom, he succeeded in making himself presentable.

  “Now,” he smiled a broad smile, “your Uncle James, once a seaman and now a land fighter, is ready to pilot you home. What’s the port?”

  “Sixty-first and Drexel,” said Cordie.

  “All right. Port ’er bow. We’re off.”

  Concerning his recent combat—if there had been a combat—James said not a word. Cordie wondered at this, but eager as she was to know the outcome of the battle, if there had been one, she dreaded quite as much to hear the whole truth. Visions of an inanimate form, lying bruised and bleeding in some dark corner of the stair, set her shuddering. So in the end she asked no question.

  Their passage to the upper floor and out of the building was uneventful. The watchman at the door recognized them and allowed them to pass.

  Previous to this time James had seemed quiet and uncommunicative, but now as they rattled along on the L train he told her many a wild tale of the sea journeys he had made. In his deep mellow drawl he talked of the whale ship Addler in northern seas; of Eskimo and polar bear and the gleaming northern lights; and then he talked of the Cutter Corwin among the palm shadowed South Sea Islands.

  It was with a real feeling of regret that Cordie, hearing her own station announced, realized that their visit was at an end.

  Five minutes later, brimming over with excitement, she burst into Lucile’s room.

  “Wait!” exclaimed Lucile as she read in Cordie’s eyes the story of some thrilling experience. “You’ve had an adventure. So have I. Let’s not spoil ’em in the telling. Let’s se
t the stage for a story. You haven’t had a bite to eat, have you?”

  “No—o,” Cordie admitted, “not a single bite. I’d forgotten.”

  “Neither have I. You’ll find a loaf of bread and a slice of cream pimento cheese in the upper dresser drawer. There are some vanilla wafers, too. You make the sandwiches and I’ll have the cocoa piping hot in a minute. No, I’ll tell you, let’s dress for it first.”

  Fifteen minutes later they sat in their bright colored dressing gowns, sipping the delicious hot beverage and hungrily devouring sandwiches.

  “Now,” said Lucile after the last sandwich had vanished and fresh cups had been poured, “now’s the time for spinning yarns. You tell yours first.”

  With many a gesture and dramatic pause, Cordie told of her startling discovery, her wild dash through the throng, her descent into the depths of the earth, and of the strange doings down there beneath the surface of the city’s streets.

  “Yes,” said Lucile, sipping her chocolate thoughtfully as Cordie’s narrative ended, “that surely was the young man who attempted to carry you away when you fainted in the Art Museum. Dear little girl, you must be careful, very careful indeed. You must never be left alone; never! Never! Even if the Mystery Woman beckons or the Lady of the Christmas Spirit clinks her gold in my very ears, I will not desert you again.”

  It was a very warm and friendly hand that Lucile felt tucked into her own, and a suspiciously husky voice that said:

  “Thank you, my dear big sister.

  “But,” Cordie exclaimed suddenly, “I must not tell them. It would never do. They wouldn’t let me—”

  Suddenly checking her speech as if about to unwittingly reveal a secret, she changed the subject abruptly. “Please tell me of your adventure,” she said.

  “My adventure?” smiled Lucile. “Compared with yours, it was no adventure at all—merely an episode. However, since it throws some light on a mystery and reveals the whereabouts of a bit of stolen property, I must tell you about it.”

  Then, while Cordie leaned back among the cushions, her eyes half closed as if she were day dreaming, Lucile told of her experience with the Mystery Lady.

  “My iron ring!” exclaimed Cordie, sitting bolt upright as Lucile came to that part of the story. “My iron ring! The old mischief! I might have known! I—”

  Again Cordie checked herself.

  “Might have known what?” asked Lucile.

  “Might have known that someone had stolen it, I suppose,” finished Cordie lamely. “Anyway, someone did, didn’t they? And isn’t it funny that she should have a diamond set in it? Wouldn’t it be a joke to come upon her wearing it? Wouldn’t it, though? I’d march right up and say, ‘Lay-d-e-e give me the ring! You stole it. My precious, my onliest, only iron ring!’” She threw back her head and laughed.

  Lucile joined her in the laugh, and with this forgot for a time that Cordie had said something very unusual about the ring and the lady who had taken it. At last Cordie broke the silence:

  “James is a very unusual person.”

  “Yes, he must be.”

  “Do you suppose he caught that man—the one who had been following me?”

  “I hope so, but perhaps not. You say he was all mussed up when he came back?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But not bruised, nor bloody, nor anything like that?”

  “No, I guess not—no, not a bit.”

  “Then probably he didn’t. When I got through my wild race about the place the other night I was good and mussed up, and I hadn’t been in a fight either. It wouldn’t be easy to catch anyone in that labyrinth.”

  Again there was silence for a little while.

  “Lucile,” whispered Cordie, bending forward eagerly, her face alight with some strange idea. “James is so mysterious. Do you suppose he could be a pirate in hiding?”

  “A pirate! Why child, there aren’t any pirates.”

  “Not any at all?”

  “You don’t read about any, do you?”

  “You don’t read about lots of things. You never read about my wrapping bundles, did you? But I am, just the same. Everything doesn’t get in the papers. I think it would be wonderful if he turned out to be a real pirate. You’d think he was one if you heard some of the stories he told me tonight about the sea.”

  “All right,” laughed her companion, “if you can make him out a pirate, a nice friendly sort of pirate who is kind to ladies and all that, you’re welcome. But for my part, I’d give a lot more to know what that self appointed brother of yours has done to James. It must have been something rather terrible.”

  “Yes,” agreed Cordie, “it surely must.”

  “Listen!” exclaimed Lucile. “There go the chimes! Ten o’clock, and you work in the morning!”

  Leaping from her chair, she began cleaning up the remnants of their little feast. Ten minutes later the room was darkened for the night.

  Though the room was dark, and though Lucile was tired enough for sleep, her eyes did not close at once. She was thinking and her thoughts were not of the most cheerful sort.

  The outlook, she was forced to admit, was gloomy enough. She had hoped to save enough money from her pay at the store to start her in the new term at school. This hope was fast dwindling away. Her own expenses had been greater than she had thought they would be. Added to this was the increase in her room rent due to the presence of Cordie. Her dream that Cordie was saving money had been blighted only the night before, for on that night Cordie had brought home the gorgeous dressing gown she had worn as they sat over the cocoa cups.

  “And it must have cost her every penny she possessed,” groaned Lucile. “How extravagant! How—how—”

  She wanted to say ungrateful, but could not quite do it. The girl appeared so impractical, so lovable, so irresponsible, that she could not find the heart to blame her.

  Quickly she switched her thoughts to a more cheering subject—Laurie Seymour. He had proven such a jolly fellow-worker—so cheerful, so kind and helpful, so ever ready to bear the heavy burdens—that Lucile had all but forgotten the fact that he had given his pass-out to the Mystery Lady on that night when she had in such a surprising manner come into the possession of the valuable fur lined cape. Equally strange was the fact that she had come to think of the Mystery Lady in a new way. She found that she could no longer think of the lady as a thief.

  “And yet,” she mused, “what could have been her reason for haunting our store at that hour of the night? Why should she have left the cape?”

  The cape. Ah yes, there was vexation enough in that! Too precious to be worn to work, it had hung for days in Lucile’s closet while she had gone to work all too scantily clad in a sweater and broad scarf. She wished that she might have her own coat. Poor as it might be, it was at least her own and it was comfortable.

  Next morning, having arrived at the door of the store a full fifteen minutes before the opening hour, the two girls were enjoying a few moments of window shopping before the gorgeous windows of State street. Suddenly, above the rattle of distant elevated trains and the honk of auto horns, Lucile caught clear and distinct the calling neigh of a horse.

  Wheeling quickly about, she stared around her. True enough, there were still many horses on the streets of the city, but where before, in the din and rattle of the streets, had she caught that one clear call of a horse?

  What she saw caused her to start and stare. Cordie was no longer at her side. Instead she was in imminent danger of being run down by a cab as she dashed madly across the street toward the spot where, like a statue in blue, a young policeman sat rigidly erect on his police horse.

  The thing the girl did, once she had safely crossed the street, was even more surprising. Without the least glance at the young policeman, she threw both arms about the horse’s neck and hid her face in his mane.

  Far from objecting to this unusual procedure, the horse appeared to rather enjoy it. As for the stern young minion of the law, he was so overcome by surpri
se that he did not alter his statue-like pose by so much as a movement of a finger.

  Lucile flew across the street.

  “Cordie! Cordie! What in the world are you doing?” she fairly screamed.

  Paying not the least attention to this, Cordie repeated over and over: “Dick, you old darling. Dear old Dick. You knew me, Dick, you did! You did!”

  This lasted for a full moment. Then, appearing to come to herself, the girl dropped her hands and stepped back upon the sidewalk.

  One glance at the stern young officer, and a quite different emotion swept over her. Her face turned crimson as she stammered:

  “Oh, what have I done? I—I beg—beg your pardon.”

  “It’s all right,” grinned the young man, coming to life with a broad smile. “Friend of yours, I take it?”

  “Yes—Oh yes,—a very, very good friend.”

  “My name’s Patrick O’Hara,” there was a comradely tone now in the young officer’s voice. “He’s a friend of mine too, and a mighty good one. Shake.” Solemnly drawing off his gauntlet, he swung half way out of his saddle to grasp the girl’s hand.

  “Thanks. Thanks awfully. Is this—this where you always stay? I—I’d like to see Dick real often.”

  “This is my beat; from here to the next cross street and back again. I’m here every morning from seven to one. We—we—Dick, I mean, will be glad to see you.” The way he smiled as he looked at Cordie’s deep colored, dimpled cheeks, her frank blue eyes, her crinkly hair, said plainer than words: “Dick won’t be the only one who will be glad to see you.”

  “Lucile,” implored Cordie, “I wish you’d do me a favor. I haven’t a lump of sugar for poor old Dick. I can’t leave him this way. I—I never have. Won’t you please talk to this—this policeman until I can go to the restaurant on the corner and get some?”

  “It’s all right, Miss—Miss—”