They did not hold Lucile’s attention. She had eyes for but one sight, the glimpse of a single face. What that glimpse would mean to her! Room rent paid, term bills paid, a warm coat, other needed clothing, a last minute present which she had been too poor to purchase, and a snug little sum in the bank. All these it would mean, and more; two hundred in gold.
But the face did not appear. For an hour they walked the Boulevard, yet no sight of the Mystery Lady, she of the Christmas Spirit, came to them. One matter troubled Lucile more and more. Often in her search she looked behind her. More than once, four times in fact, she had caught sight of a man who walked always at exactly the same distance behind them. A tall man, it was, with a long gray coat, a high collar turned up and cap pulled low.
“It isn’t just because he happens to be walking in our direction,” she told herself with a little shiver. “Twice we have turned and walked back and once we crossed the street. But all the time he has been directly behind us. I wonder what it could mean?”
At that moment there came the clatter of hoofs and four mounted policemen, clad in bright uniform, came riding down the Boulevard.
“It’s a big night,” exclaimed Laurie. “There’s a special squad of them out.”
“Oh there—there he is!” exclaimed Cordie. “There’s Dick! That’s Patrick O’Hara riding him! Aren’t they splendid? And right beside him is Tim, good old Tim. See! They recognized me. They touched their hats!”
“Who’s Tim?” asked Lucile.
“Don’t you wish you knew?” taunted Cordie. “If only you were going to ask your questions of me you’d be sure to find out.”
“Don’t worry,” smiled Laurie. “I’ve just decided that you shall be the person to answer my three questions.”
“You horrid thing! I shan’t go! I’m off your old party!” In mock anger, she sprang away from her companions and went racing on ahead of them.
Then strange and startling things began to happen. A long, low-built blue roadster, which had been creeping along the curb as if looking for someone, came to a grinding stop. A man leaped out. A second later a piercing scream reached the ears of Laurie and Lucile.
“It’s Cordie!” exclaimed Lucile. “Some—something terrible! C’mon!”
As she said this a gray streak shot past her. Even in this wild moment of excitement, she recognized the man who had been dogging their footsteps and she wondered why she had not recognized him sooner.
The next second they were in the midst of things. With wildly beating heart Lucile stared at the panorama that was enacted before her. Powerless to aid, she saw Cordie, the innocent country girl, the center of a battle, snatched from hand to hand until it seemed the very life must be torn from her.
First she caught a glimpse of her fighting frantically but vainly in the grasp of a man. Lucile recognized him instantly.
“The hawk-eyed man!” she whispered. “The one who claimed to be her brother! Quick!” she exclaimed, gripping Laurie’s arm until her fingers cut into the very flesh. “Quick! They’re taking her to the auto. They’ll carry her away!”
Active as he was, Laurie was not the first to leap at the hawk-eyed one. A man in gray, the man who had been following them, sprang squarely at the captor’s throat.
With a howl of rage and fear the villain loosed one hand to strike out at his mysterious assailant. All in vain; the rescuer came straight on. Striking the captor squarely in the middle, he bowled him over like a ten-pin. So sudden was this attack that Cordie was also thrown to the pavement.
Finding herself free and unharmed, she sprang to her feet. She felt a hand at her elbow and turned to look into the face of Laurie Seymour.
“Ah!” she breathed, “I am safe!”
But even as she said this she saw Laurie collapse like an empty sack, and the next instant grasped from behind by two clutching hands, she was again whirled toward the kidnapper’s car.
Half blinded by terror, she caught a vision of police blue that hovered above her.
“Pat! Patrick O’Hara!” she called.
There came the angry crack of an automatic. Then the figure in blue came hurtling off the horse to fall at her feet. At the same instant there was a second catapult-like blow of the man in gray. Again she was snatched free.
“Jiggers! Beat it! Beat it!” she heard in a hoarse whisper. The next instant the door to the blue car slammed shut and its wheels began to move.
For three seconds she wavered there, watching the car move away. Then catching a glimpse of Patrick O’Hara lying at her feet, wounded, perhaps dead, a great courage came to her.
“They must not escape!” she screamed. “They shall not!”
The next instant she leaped into the saddle of the police horse, Dick. Just as the noble animal dashed away she felt the solid impact of someone mounting behind her.
One glance she cast behind her. “Oh!” she breathed. It was the man in gray. To Dick she whispered: “All right, Dick, old dear, Go! Go fast! For the love of Patrick O’Hara and Laurie Seymour; for the love of all that’s good and true, go; go as you never went before!”
There was no need to talk to Dick. He was away like the wind.
It was a moment of high suspense and swift action; one of those moments when success or failure hinges on the right move at the right second.
CHAPTER XXII
THE FINISH
Dick was no ordinary horse. He was an unusual horse who had very unusual masters. The young policeman had spoken the truth when he said that Pat O’Hara’s horse was the smartest on the force. As Dick felt his young mistress in the saddle and the man in gray behind her, he realized that this was not to be a race, but a fight. He seemed to sense that his task was to keep in sight of that racing blue automobile, and not for one instant to lose sight of it.
Follow it he did, and that at the peril of his own life and the lives of those who rode. Now dashing past a low, closed car, now crowding between two black sedans, now all but run down by a great yellow car, he forged straight ahead.
He not only followed; he actually gained. Leaning far forward in the saddle, Cordie kept her eyes upon the fleeing car. Now they were but three quarters of a block away, now a half, now a quarter.
It was an exciting moment. Beads of perspiration stood out upon the tip of Cordie’s nose. The hand that held the reins trembled. They were gaining, gaining, gaining. Through narrow passages impossible to a car, old Dick crowded forward like a fleet, sure-footed dog. Now a yard he gained, now a rod, and now a long stretch of open. They were gaining, gaining, gaining! What were they to do once the car was overtaken? That Cordie could not tell. She only knew one thing clearly—the men in the car must not escape and she was determined to prevent their escape.
Then, as they neared a cross street, a man stepped out on the running board and flashed an automatic. Aiming deliberately, he fired. The next instant, with the din of a hundred sets of brakes screaming in their ears, Cordie, the horse and the man in gray were piled all in a heap in the middle of the street.
In the midst of all this there came a crash. What was that? Dared she hope it was the villains’ car? At sound of it the man in gray was up and away like mad.
“What’s this?” she heard an unfamiliar voice saying. A man from the nearest car behind them had come to the aid of the girl and the horse.
* * * *
In the meantime, Lucile was passing through experiences quite as strange.
Laurie Seymour had been knocked unconscious by a blow on the head. Patrick O’Hara had been shot from his horse. How serious were the injuries of these, her friends?
To determine this, then to see what might be done for their relief; this appeared to be her duty, even though Cordie was in grave danger still.
Men pressed forward to assist her. They carried the unconscious ones into the lobby of a hotel. There they were stretched out upon davenports and remedies applied by the house physician.
Lucile was engaged in stopping the flow of blood from Patrick
O’Hara’s scalp wound. She chanced to look up and there, at the edge of the davenport, she caught sight of a familiar face.
“Miss Diurno! The Mystery Lady! Spirit of Christmas! Two Hundred in gold!” her mind registered automatically, but her fingers held rigidly to their task.
* * * *
As Cordie struggled to her feet, after being plunged from the back of the fallen horse, she saw the man in gray leap for the side of an automobile that had crashed into the curb. A thrill ran through her as she realized that this was the blue racer. The next instant, after fairly tearing the door from the hinges, the man in gray dragged a man out of the blue car, threw him to the pavement and held him rigidly there.
There came the clatter of horse’s hoofs, and then down sprang good old Tim, the police sergeant, and his fellow officer.
“He’s a bad one,” growled the one in gray. “If you’ve got handcuffs, put ’em on him.”
Tim hesitated. How was an officer to know who was in the right? This might be but a Christmas Eve fight. He had not witnessed the beginning of this affair.
A hand tugged at his sleeve. “If you please, Tim,” came a girlish voice, “It’s me, the one who stole Patrick O’Hara’s horse. If you’ll believe me you better take his word for it. He’s right.”
“Oh, he is, eh?” rumbled Tim. “Little girl, what you say goes. I’d trust you any time. On they go.”
The hawk-eyed man, for it was he that had been captured (his accomplice had vanished) made one more desperate effort to escape, but failed. The handcuffs were snapped on and he was led away by the younger officer.
“Now,” said Tim in a sterner voice, “tell me how Pat O’Hara’s horse comes to be lyin’ there in the street?”
“He—he shot him,” Cordie gulped, pointing away toward the hawk-eyed man.
“He did, did he? Then he should be hung.”
“Pat—Patrick O’Hara’s sho—shot too,” Cordie was very near to tears. “If it hadn’t been for him,” she nodded to the figure in gray, “we—we wouldn’t have got him, though Dick and I would have done our—our best, for he—he shot our good good friend Pat O’Hara.” At this, Cordie’s long pent up tears came flooding forth as she hid her face on good old Tim’s broad breast.
“That’s all right,” he soothed, patting her on the shoulders. “It’s not as bad as you think. Look! There’s old Dick getting to his feet now.”
It was true. The man in gray had walked over to where Dick lay, had coaxed the horse to get up, and was now leading him limping to the curb.
“It’s only a flesh wound in the leg,” he explained. “Give him a week or ten days and he’ll be on the beat again. Dick, old boy,” he said huskily, “and you too, dear little Cordie, I want to thank you for what you’ve done for me. I—I’ve had my revenge, if a man has a right to revenge. And it might be they’ll find the fox skins among his plunder.”
The eyes of the man in gray, just now brimming with honest tears, were turned toward Cordie. It was James, the seaman and bundle carrier!
For a moment he gripped the girl’s hand, then turning to Tim, said:
“You’ll look after her? See that she gets safely back to her friends?”
“Oh sure! Sure!”
“Then I’ll be getting over to the police station. They’ll be wanting someone to prefer charges.”
He was turning to go, but Cordie called him back. Handing him a slip of paper on which she had scribbled a number and an address, she said:
“Call me on the phone at that number tomorrow, or else at the Butler House before midnight. I want to know whether you get those wonderful silver fox skins back. I—might have a customer for them if you do.”
“It would make a great little old Christmas for me if I did,” he smiled. “But it’s going to be all right anyway.”
Reading the address Cordie had given him, James gave a great start. “Right on the Gold Coast!” was his mental comment. “Out where there is nothing but palaces and mansions!”
CHAPTER XXIII
MEG’S SECRET
And what of Florence and Meg? They had not fared so badly after all. Three minutes after her first meeting with the young policeman, Florence was thinking fine things about Meg.
“This girl Meg certainly has a way about her,” she thought. “She does things to people.”
She wondered what Meg had done to the young policeman. “Surely,” she told herself, “she didn’t use that iron belaying pin on him the way she did on that terrible man who had been following me. No, she didn’t do that, though I suspect she still has it hidden up her sleeve.”
One thing was sure, she had done something to the young policeman. Florence hadn’t heard what Meg had said, but she did know that one moment he was frightening the very life out of her by demanding that she unlock the bag and show him the contents, which was quite as much unknown to her as to him, and the next he had let out a low chuckling laugh and had told her she might run along. How was she to account for that?
She didn’t bother much to account for it. She was too much pleased at being able to go on her way, and carrying with her the bag with its secret securely sealed. She would know about Meg later. Meg had promised to tell.
It was only after they had started on that she noticed that the storm had blown itself out and the stars were shining. They were soon aboard a car bound for home.
An hour later, in the warmth of her room, and with the bag at their feet, Florence and Meg sat dreamily thinking their own thoughts.
Florence was not sure that she did not sleep a little. After the wild experiences of the night, followed by the battle with the storm, this would not be surprising.
She did not sleep long, however, and soon they fell to talking in the way girls will when the hour is approaching midnight and the strenuous experiences of an exciting night are all at an end.
At an end, did I say? Well, not quite. Perhaps you might say not at all; for did not the mysterious brown leather traveling bag, which had been wondered about and fought over, rest on the floor at their feet? And was not the seal unbroken? Did it not still contain Florence’s Christmas secret? And now it was just twenty-five minutes until midnight, the witching hour when secrets are revealed.
“There is just time for you to finish telling me about yourself before the tower clock strikes midnight,” said Florence, glancing at the small clock on her desk.
“Oh!” laughed Meg with a little shrug of her wonderful shoulders. “There really isn’t much to tell. I’ve already told you that since I was a slip of a child I’ve lived on ships with my uncle. He’s a mate. We’ve been on a lot of ships because he often drinks too much and can’t hold his position. He’s a big gruff man, but kind enough in his way.”
“That man who—”
“No, the man who told you about the train was not my uncle. That was Tim, a sailor. My uncle sent him.
“Well, you know,” she went on, “at first I was just sort of a ship’s mascot and the sailors’ plaything. They rode me on their backs and carried me, screaming with delight, to the top of the mast.
“That didn’t last long. They found I could peel potatoes, so they put me to work. And I’ve been at work ever since.”
She spread out her hands and Florence saw that they were as seamed and hard as a farmer’s wife’s.
“I don’t mind work,” Meg continued. “I love it. But I like to learn things, too; like to learn them out of books, with folks to tell me what it means. I’ve gone to school all I could, but it wasn’t much. I want to go some more.
“Uncle has signed up for a sea voyage through the Canal to England. He wanted me to go along as cook. It’s a lumber ship; sure to be a rough crew. I don’t mind ’em much.”
Something suddenly clattered on the floor. It was Meg’s belaying pin.
“I—I guess you sort of get rough when you go on the sea,” she apologized, smiling. “That’s partly why I didn’t want to go. My uncle would have made me go that day you changed places with
me, if he’d found me. He likes to have me along because he can get a better berth himself if he can bring along a good cook. Good sea cooks are scarce.
“I’m not going now. His train’s gone and he’s gone. He left that day.”
“So that was what the man and the woman meant by the train leaving at eleven-thirty?” asked Florence.
“Yes. That woman was the matron of the Seamen’s Home. She thought I ought to go. She didn’t know everything. She didn’t understand. I’m eighteen. My uncle hasn’t any right to claim me now, and I owe him nothing. Everything that’s been done for me I’ve paid for—paid with hard labor.” Again she spread her seamed hands out on her lap.
“But now,” she said after a moment’s silence, “now I’m not sure that I know how I’m going to school. It costs a lot, I suppose, and besides I’ve got to live. They let me stay on that ship. That’s something, but it’s a long way from any school, and besides—”
“Wait,” Florence broke in. “Let me tell you—”
But just then Meg held up a warning finger. Loud and clear there rang out over the snow the midnight chimes.
“Midnight,” whispered Florence, reaching out a hand for the bewitching bag.
CHAPTER XXIV
THREE QUESTIONS
“He’s coming round all right.” It was the house doctor of the hotel who spoke. Lucile was still bending over Patrick O’Hara. “He’s regaining consciousness. It’s only a scalp wound. A narrow squeak. An inch to the right, and it would have got him. He’d better go to the hospital for a little extra petting and patching, but he’s in no danger—not the least. And as for your friend Laurie—he’s got a bump on his head that’ll do to hang his hat on for a day or two. But outside of perhaps a bit of a headache, he’s O. K. Your friends are riding under a lucky star, I’d say.”
“A lucky star,” thought Lucile. Again she was free. Had the Lady of the Spirit of Christmas vanished? No. For once fortune was with her. As if fascinated by the scene, the lady still stood there, looking down at Patrick O’Hara.
The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 105
