The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “Concealed weapons!” his voice was filled with scorn. “You couldn’t kill a man with that! A twenty-two! Concealed weapons! If I were to search this crowd today I could find a hundred deadlier weapons on the persons who sit before me!” There was a sudden shuffling of the uneasy feet of startled mountaineers.

  “Concealed weapons!” he went on. “I’ve a more deadly one in my own pocket!” He drew a large clasp knife from his pocket and opened it. “I could kill you quicker with that than with a twenty-two.” He put the knife back in his pocket.

  “And yet we arrest a woman, a girl really, who has come among us to help us. As a reward we arrest her! Will you honorable jurymen place a blight on the name of such a one by saying she is guilty of a crime? Something tells me you will not.”

  As the young lawyer sat down there was a stir in the room, a whispering that came near to applause, but the bronze faces of the jurymen never changed. Nor had they changed when, after hearing the Justice give his reasons why the girl should be found guilty, they left the room to retire to the shade of a distant beach tree.

  It was a tense situation that followed. There was no conversation. To many in the room a sentence of “guilty” would mean the end of their hopes of a winter school worthy of the name.

  “If only we can beat old Black Blevens in this trial,” Ransom Turner was whispering to his henchmen. “Hit’s likely there’s men who’ll vote right in the school election this afternoon. It’s a chance, though. It’s a plumb uncertain one. Can’t tell next to nothin’ what men’ll do.”

  So, while the distant mumble of the jurymen floated indistinct through the windows, they waited and whispered among themselves.

  A moment passed, two, three, four. Then the jurors came marching back.

  In the midst of a silence that could be felt, the jurymen took their seats and the Justice said:

  “Gentlemen, what is your verdict?”

  “Jedge,” said a tall, lanky woodsman, rising to his feet, “we came to the conclusion that there weren’t no deadly weapons packed, not nary one.”

  There followed ten seconds more of silence, then came a rush forward to shake the young teacher’s hand.

  In spite of her efforts at self control, Florence felt tears splash upon her hands, nor were hers the only tears shed that morning.

  “But I must be strong,” she told herself, setting her lips tight. “The day is but begun. This is the day of the election.”

  The time for the election came.

  Marion, having finished her short sleep and eaten a hearty dinner, was on hand as fresh and young as if she had not passed through the terrors of the previous night.

  To the two girls, born and bred on the plains, the election, which had reached a high pitch of excitement by early afternoon, was indeed a revelation. There were judges of that election who served without pay, twenty or more of them, not legal judges but men who were there to see that their side had fair play. Ten or more of Black Bleven’s men were constantly present; an equal number of the Ransom Turner clan were there. Not a word was said by any of them, but everyone knew that guns, not lips, would speak if things went wrong.

  These men meant to see that the men of their side were permitted to vote and if trouble arose they were ready to fight.

  All that quiet afternoon, as if before a storm, the air seemed electrified. In every heart deep feelings surged; hatred in some, loyalty in others. To every thinking man the situation held dire possibilities. Here might start a bloody feud that would not end until scores were in their graves.

  Men and women stood in little knots. Questions were asked in whispers. Would they vote? Would some of Black Blevens’ men dare to cross his will? Would they dare? Black Blevens had large logging contracts. He would hire many men during the coming winter. Dared the men, whose very bread and butter depended upon him, desert him?

  At three o’clock the question was beginning to be answered. The election appeared clearly lost for Ransom Turner. At three-thirty he was eleven votes behind, and no apparent chance of a rally.

  Florence stuck grimly to her post, close to the schoolhouse door. Her heart was breaking. She loved the mountain children, had dreamed of a bigger and better school than Laurel Branch had ever known. That was all passing now. In two or three weeks she would be bidding the valley farewell forever. Yet, with the grim determination of a Spartan, she stuck to her post.

  As for Marion, she had learned what seemed to her to be one of the secrets of happiness. When one’s greatest hope seems about to fail, it is well to quickly swing one’s interests to others, less important perhaps, but not less entrancing. As the election appeared lost, she thought once more of the Georgia gold and the attic of the whipsawed house. She it had been who had removed the board from the ceiling. At that time, however, she had been suddenly called to other tasks and, having replaced the board wrong end to, had left without climbing to the attic at all. “There’s time enough now,” she thought, “and who knows what I might discover? There’s no need to stay here any longer. The election is lost.”

  Reaching her room, she at once shoved the bed beneath the loose board, and a moment later, candle in hand, found herself swinging along from beam to beam toward the ancient pounding mill in the corner.

  “Don’t see why it’s here,” she murmured to herself. “Cumbersome old thing. No good up here.”

  She put out her hand to touch it. Then she took it away in disgust. It was black with three decades of accumulated dust.

  “Ugh!” she grunted. “Wonder if I could tip it over?”

  She tried, and failed to move it,—tried once more and failed. Then she looked about her for some sort of a pry. Having secured a loose board, she attacked the task once more.

  This time she was more successful. With a thump that shook the solid old frame from sill to rafter, the cumberstone block rolled over on its side.

  As it fell the girl’s heart skipped a beat. What was that she heard? Could it have been a metallic clinking? Had her ears deceived her? She hoped not. But if she had heard aright, from whence had it come? From some dark corner among the rafters, or from within the very heart of the old pounding mill?

  At that moment there came to her ears the sound of hoarse shouting. What did it mean? Was there to be trouble? Would there be shots? Would women be fleeing, men dying?

  None of these. A strange and stirring scene was being enacted at the schoolhouse at the mouth of Laurel Branch.

  A short time after Marion left the school building, as Florence stood looking away at the lovely blue of the hills and trying in vain to tell it all an affectionate goodbye, she heard someone exclaim:

  “Look a’yonder!”

  “Hit’s them quare folks from up yonder beyond the stone gateway,” said another.

  At once the girl found herself staring in wonder at a strange procession moving slowly down the road. A score of mountain men and women, some on horseback, most on foot, led by a one-armed giant and a boy with an arm in a sling, were advancing on the schoolhouse.

  “Bud Wax!” the girl breathed. “Bud, and the folks from beyond the gates. What can it mean?”

  The distance was short. She soon knew. As the giant’s huge form darkened the schoolhouse door his deep voice rumbled a question:

  “’Lection goin’ on here?”

  There came no answer from the surprised onlookers.

  “Reckon I’ll vote,” said the giant.

  At this move, every man of the watchers grew rigid. Whose man was this? Many a hand shifted to a pistol grip. The election hung in the balance. As this man voted, so would all that motley throng. There was no questioning their right. They lived within the district. Their votes could be sworn in. How would they vote? They had come with Bud Wax. That looked bad for Ransom Turner’s clan. But there had been strange whisperings about Bud. He had been heard to say things about the teachers from the outside that were far from unkind. Could it be that, having been fairly conquered by one of these, he had learned a re
spect for them that he had felt for no other one?

  As for Florence, her heart was in her mouth. Would they do it? Could they crush her hopes after she had done so much for little Hallie? They might. There was no accounting for the ways of these strange people.

  There was a hush of silence as the giant, having given his name and sworn in his vote, seized the ballot and made his mark.

  Out of the silence there came a whisper:

  “Hit’s for Ransom.”

  The next moment the silence was shattered by a round of hoarse shouts. The election was won by Ransom Turner. The people from “up yonder” had turned the balance.

  As for Florence, it was too much for her overwrought nerves. Dashing away into a thicket, she threw herself flat upon the ground to give vent to violent sobs.

  A half hour later the two young teachers, each hurrying toward the other, met half way between the whipsawed house and the school.

  “Oh, Florence! I’ve found it!” Marion exclaimed.

  And Florence at the same instant cried, “Marion, we won! We won!”

  Throwing themselves into each others arms, they laughed and cried together. After that they sat side by side on a log and calmly told their stories.

  To Florence, the thrilling climax of the election had been a revelation. Bud Wax had provided the great surprise. Won over by who knows what course of reasoning, he had taken the side of his teachers. Having seen Florence entering the forbidden gateway, he had followed as her protector. While playing this role, he had broken his arm. He had spent the past few days convincing those strange people “up yonder” that it was their duty to come down to the mouth of the creek and vote in the school election. Convinced by his argument, and Florence’s watchful care over Hallie, they had consented to come.

  “And just when we thought all was lost,” Florence exclaimed, “here they came, everyone of them, to vote for Ransom Turner.

  “And now,” she hurried on, “they’ve decided that the folks at the mouth of the creek are not such bad neighbors after all. They’re going to send their children down to our school.”

  “Oh, Florence!” Marion clasped her hands in an ecstasy of joy. “It’s going to be such a school! A real new school building with two rooms, new seats and stoves and everything!”

  “Why! How—”

  “I found the gold!”

  “Where?”

  “It was in the heart of the pounding mill. I tipped it over, and it sort of clinked. I thumped it here and there until I found that the hole where they pounded the corn had a false bottom. I pried it up and there was the gold!”

  “Confederate gold?”

  “No, not Confederate gold, but Georgia and Carolina gold. There never was any Confederate gold. None ever was coined. I received a letter about that from the museum this morning. The Confederate States coined a few silver half-dollars. All the rest of their money was paper.”

  For a moment the two girls sat in silent contemplation of their great good fortune and the joyous future that lay before them.

  “There isn’t such a lot of gold,” Marion said at last. “Forty or fifty pieces, that’s all, but each piece is worth several times its value in gold, so there will be enough.”

  “Quite enough,” murmured Florence contentedly. “And we shall have a school! Such a school!”

  The schoolhouse was yet to be built. That this might be accomplished, grateful mountaineers sent their teams over the mountains for windows, doors, seats and hardware, while others, manning a small sawmill, got out the lumber. When the time came for beginning the construction, there was a “workin’.” Mountain folks came for miles around; men with hammers, axes and saws, women with pots and pans and all manner of good things to eat. Men worked, women cooked. They made a holiday of it, and before the sun went down that day the two room school building was two-thirds done.

  “Hit’s the way us mountain folks be,” said old Uncle Billie, rubbing his hands together. “If’n we all likes, you we likes you a right smart, an’ if’n we all don’t take to you, we can be meaner ’n poisen.”

  The school was a success in every way. Long before the term came to an end Laurel Branch was looking forward to better things.

  One day two months after the school began, Florence received a letter from Mr. Dobson, the coal man. With trembling fingers she tore it open. A small bit of paper fell out. Snatching it up, she read:

  “Pay to the order.... Nineteen hundred and sixty dollars!”

  “Oh Marion! Marion!” she fairly screamed. “Here’s our commission!”

  “That money,” said Mrs. McAlpin, as they sat in fireside council that night, “is your own. You earned it fairly. It is no longer needed for the school. If you feel you must give some, give a tenth of it to the school. It is your duty to use the remainder in completing your own education.”

  It was some time before the two girls could be brought to see the matter in this light. Perhaps they feared life would lose its thrill if they were no longer dependent upon their muscles and their wits for their living. In the end they yielded. When, after finishing the winter school, they left the mountains for the University, it was with a full purse.

  Florence found that the possession of money did not necessarily rob one of the thrills that life should have. Had she not been free to wander about the city she would not have wandered into a curious place back of the Ghetto at 777 Monroe Street. Had she not been possessed of an unusual amount of cash, she would not have made an extraordinary purchase there, and having missed the purchase, would have lost an unusually romantic and mysterious adventure as well. But she did make the purchase and the adventure came—but the story is a long one and will be found in our next book entitled “The Thirteenth Ring.”

  WITCHES COVE, by Roy Snell

  CHAPTER I

  MYSTERIES OF THE NIGHT

  It was night on Casco Bay off the coast of Maine. There was no moon. Stars were hidden by a fine haze. The distant harbor lights of Portland, eight of them, gleaming faintly in pairs like yellow cat’s eyes, served only to intensify the blackness of the water and the night.

  Ruth Bracket’s arms moved backward and forward in rhythmic motion. She was rowing, yet no sound came from her oarlocks. Oars and oarlocks were padded. She liked it best that way. Why? Mystery—that magic word “mystery.” How she loved it!

  In the stern of the little punt sat slim, black-haired, dark-eyed Betty Bronson, a city girl from the heart of America who was enjoying her first summer on the coast of Maine.

  Betty, too, loved mystery. And into her life and that of her stout seashore girl companion had come a little mystery that day. At this very moment, as Ruth rested on her muffled oar, there came creeping across the silent waters and through the black of night a second bit of mystery.

  The first mystery had come to them on shore in the hold of a beached three-masted schooner.

  Ruth knew the schooner well enough. She had been on board her a dozen times and thought she knew all about her—but she didn’t.

  The owner, a dark-skinned foreigner who had purchased the schooner six months before, used her for bringing wood to the islands. There is, so they say, an island in Casco Bay for every day in the year. Each island has its summer colony. These summer folks like an open fire to sit by at night and this requires wood. The schooner had been bringing it in from somewhere—from Canada some said. No one seemed to know for sure.

  Being an old schooner the wood-carrying craft must be beached from time to time to have her seams calked. They beached her at high tide. Low tide found her stranded. The return of high tide carried her off again.

  In this there is no mystery. The mystery began when Ruth and Betty, along with other girls and boys of the island, swarmed up a rope ladder to the tilted deck of the beached schooner.

  Being of a bolder nature than the others, having always a consuming desire to see the hold of so ancient a ship, Ruth had led Betty into the very heart of the schooner and had opened a door to pursue her inve
stigation further when a harsh voice called down to her:

  “Here now. Come outta da sheep!”

  It was a foreign skipper.

  Startled, the girls had quickly closed the door and bolted up the gangway. Not, however, until they had seen a surprising thing. They had seen three bolts of bright, red cloth in that cabin back of the hold. Were there others? They could not tell. The place had been quite dark.

  “Looked like silk,” Betty had said a few moments later as they walked down the beach.

  “Can’t tell,” Ruth replied. “Probably only red calico, a present for the wood chopper’s wife.”

  “Three bolts?”

  “Three wood choppers’ wives with seven children apiece,” Ruth laughed.

  She had found this hard to believe. There certainly was something strange about those bolts of cloth, and the foreign skipper’s desire to get them away from the cabin.

  And now, as they listened in the night on the bay with muffled oars at rest, they caught the creak of oarlocks. The schooner had got off the beach with the tide. She was anchored back in the bay. That the dory had come from her they did not doubt.

  “Where are they going?” Betty asked in a faint whisper as the sound of rowing grew louder, then began to fade away in the distance.

  “House Island, perhaps.”

  “There’s nothing over there.”

  “Only an abandoned house and the old fort. No one living there. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Really mysterious,” Betty agreed.

  “We’ll row around the Black Gull, then we’ll go home,” said Ruth.

  Visiting the Black Gull, an ancient six-master that had lain at anchor in the harbor months on end, was one of Ruth’s chief delights.

  Steam and gasoline, together with the high price of canvas, high wages and demand for speed, had brought this slow going craft to anchor for good.

  So there she stood, black and brooding, her masts reaching like bare arms toward heaven, her keel moving with the tide yet ever chafing at the massive anchor chain that was never drawn.