The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “A figured taffeta dress,” she thought. “I’ve always wanted one, and a new hat, and new pumps. I’ll have them, too. Life is a joke.”

  Had she truly convinced herself that it was not worth while to look upon the business of living as a serious matter? Who can say? Perhaps she did not know herself.

  As for Don and Pearl, they hurried back and were soon busily engaged in the business of preparing to salvage the wreck.

  To Pearl, who kept repeating to herself, “If we can only do it. If only we can!” the moments consumed by Don in rolling barrels and carrying chains to the sloop seemed endless. But at last with the meager deck of the Foolemagin piled high, they headed once more for Witches Cove.

  The cove, as they neared it this time, seemed more fearsome and ghostly than ever before. The moon was under a cloud. The clump of firs hung like a menacing thing over the cliff. The light from the mysterious stranger’s cabin was gone. Pearl shuddered as she caught the long drawn wail of a prowling cat.

  She shook herself free from these fancies. There was work to be done. Would they succeed? She prayed that they might. The tide was still rising. That would help. The empty barrels, once they were sunk beneath the surface and chained to the broken hull, would help to buoy the sailboat up.

  With practiced hand Don began the task that lay before him. Pearl helped when she could.

  The first gray streaks of dawn were showing across the water when, with a little sigh of satisfaction, Don beached the disabled boat on their own sandy shore.

  “With a line from shore,” said Don, “she’ll be safe here until noonday tide. Then I’ll get her drawn up high and dry.”

  Pearl did not reply. Curled up in the prow of his motor boat, she had fallen fast asleep.

  “Brave girl,” he whispered. “If we can make that boat tight and seaworthy she shall be all your own.”

  * * * *

  At eleven o’clock of a moonless, starlit night Pearl lay on the deck of the boat, her own first sailing boat. The work of repair was done. The Flyaway, as they had rechristened her, had gone on her maiden trip ’round the island and down the bay. She had proven herself a thing of unspeakable joy. Speed, quick to pick up, with a keel of lead that held her steady in a heavy blow, responsive to the lightest touch on rudder or sail, she was all that mind might ask or heart desire.

  Already Pearl loved her as she might a flesh and blood companion. To lie on her deck here beneath the stars was like resting in the arms of her mother.

  Three hours before, Ruth had rowed Pearl out in her new punt. Then, because there was work to do ashore, she had rowed back again.

  One “Whoo-o! Whoo-o!” through cupped lips and she would come for her.

  The night was still. Scarcely a vessel was stirring on the bay. Only once, a half hour or so before, she had caught the creak of oars. She had not so much as risen on elbow to see what boat it might be. Had she done so, she would have experienced a shock.

  “Getting late,” she told herself. “Have to go in.”

  Rising on her knees, she cupped her hands to utter the old familiar call, “Whoo-oo-ee.”

  A call came echoing back. She listened for the sound of Ruth’s shoving off. Instead she caught low exclamations of surprise.

  “Oh, Pearl,” came in troubled tones, “the punt’s gone! Did you see anybody?”

  “No.” The girl was on her feet, fumbling the sail. “But I heard them. They were headed for Portland Harbor. They must have stolen it. Quick! Get some boat and come out. There’s a stiff breeze. We’ll catch them yet.”

  “Right!” Ruth went racing down the beach.

  For a girl Pearl displayed an astonishing amount of skill with sail and rigging. Before Ruth in a borrowed dory bumped alongside she had the sail up and was winding away at the anchor rope. A minute more and they were gliding silently through the night.

  “Nothing like a sailboat for following a thief,” Ruth whispered. “Silent.”

  “Not a sound. Slip right onto them.”

  “Hope we can!” The older girl’s work-hardened fingers gripped a long oar. If they overhauled the thief there’d be no tardy justice. He’d get it good and plenty right on the side of the head. It was the way of the bay. They were heartless wretches, these Portland wharf rats. On the sea boat stealing is bad as horse stealing on land. Yet if one of these men missed the last ferry he took the first rowboat he came upon, rowed across the bay, then cut her adrift. The owner was not likely to see his boat again.

  As the water glided beneath them and the semi-darkness advanced to swallow them up, Ruth kept an eye out for a light or a movement upon the water. Twice she thought they were upon them. Each time, with an intake of breath, she gave Pearl whispered instructions and the boat swerved in its course. Each time they were disappointed. A floating barrel, a clump of eel grass had deceived them.

  And now they were nearing a vast bulk that loomed dark and menacing before them. Old Fort Georges, built of stone before the Civil War, now abandoned save as a storeroom and warehouse, lay directly in their path.

  This fort, that was said by some to be a storing place for enough army explosives to blow the whole group of islands out to sea, had always cast a spell of gloom and half terror over the girl at the helm. She was glad enough when Ruth told her to swing over to the right and give it a wide berth.

  The fort is built on a reef. To pass it one must allow for the reef. Pearl, who knew these waters as well as any man, was swinging far out when her cousin whispered:

  “Wait! Swing her in a bit. I heard a sound over there. Like something heavy being dropped into a boat.”

  As Pearl obeyed her heart was in her mouth. Eerie business, this skulking about an abandoned fort at midnight.

  What followed will always remain a mass of confused memories in Pearl’s mind. As the boat glided along, something appeared before them. With a suddenness that was startling, Ruth cut down the sail, then seized the rudder. Even so they missed the other boat, Ruth’s punt, by a very narrow margin.

  They shot by, but not before Ruth, jumping clear of the sailboat, landed in the punt.

  As she gripped at her breast to still her heart’s mad beating, Pearl caught sounds of blows, then cries for mercy, followed by muttered words of warning. There came a splash, then another. Then save for the labored pant of someone swimming, all was still.

  At once wild questions took possession of Pearl. What if her cousin had been thrown overboard? Here she was with sail down, a girl, defenseless.

  Gripping the rope, she hauled madly at the sail. It went up with a sudden start, then stuck. She threw her whole weight upon it. It gave way suddenly, to drop her sprawling upon the deck. She lost her hold. The sail came down with a bang.

  She was in the midst of her third frantic attempt to get under way, to go for help, when a voice quite near her said:

  “It’s all right. Let the sail go. I’ll hoist it. Catch this painter.”

  “Ruth!” Pearl’s tone voiced her joy.

  A rope struck across the deck. She caught it. The next moment her cousin was climbing on board.

  “It was my punt,” said Ruth quietly.

  “But the men? What did they do?”

  “Went overboard, and swam for the fort. Let ’em shiver there till morning. Do ’em good. Teach ’em a lesson.”

  “Something queer, though,” she said as she made the painter fast. “They seemed terribly afraid I’d beat up their cargo. Must be fresh eggs. Let’s have a flashlight. We’ll take a look.”

  A circle of light fell across the punt. A long drawn breath of excitement escaped the girl’s lips.

  “No wonder they were in a hurry to get away!” There was genuine alarm in her tone.

  “Why? What is it?” Pearl gripped her arm.

  “Dynamite,” Ruth answered soberly. “Enough to blow us all to Glory sixteen times. And if I had struck a stick of it squarely with my oar—” Again she let out a long low sigh.

  “Well, we’ve got it,” she conc
luded. “Next thing is something else.”

  There really was only one thing to be done; that was to take the dynamite to the office of the Coast Guard in Portland and to tell the officer all there was to tell about it. This they did on the next morning. When this was done they considered the matter closed. It was not, however, not by a long mile.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE LITTLE MAN OF WITCHES COVE

  That day, after Ruth had delivered her fear-inspiring cargo, which had doubtless been stolen from Fort Georges, to the proper authorities, she went uptown to shop. There she selected with care a figured taffeta dress, a bright new hat and new shoes.

  “I won’t show them to anyone until Sunday,” she told herself. When an uneasy feeling took possession of her she stilled it by whispering, “Life is a joke.” Had she been asked quite suddenly what that had to do with a figured taffeta dress, she might not, perhaps, have been able to tell.

  That same day, Pearl took her new dory and rowed away to her favorite fishing ground, Witches Cove.

  She had not been fishing long when she caught sight of the mysterious little man who, with his two great black cats, had come to live in the abandoned cottage above the cove.

  At first he was seated on a tall rock, studying the sea with a great brass telescope. Presently, however, she saw that he had left the rock and was making his way down the fern grown rocks near her. As he came, she studied him out of one corner of her eye. She lost two perfectly good cunners doing this, but it was worth the price. This man was peculiar, a “new type,” one of Pearl’s learned friends would have called him. He was short almost to deformity. He was bow-legged and very broad shouldered. He wore dark glasses which completely hid his eyes. Pearl thought nothing of this last. Many persons living by the ocean wear such glasses to protect their eyes from the dazzling reflection that comes from the mirror-like surface of the sea.

  “Hello, little girl,” he said quietly as he settled himself on a rock overhanging the sea. “How’s the fishing?”

  Pearl resented being called little, though indeed she was small for sixteen. She was a little frightened too. Witches Cove is a lonely spot, and as we have said before, quite spooky with all its black and green reflections and its constant murmuring that seems to come from nowhere.

  But she had come to fish. Between the man and her boat were twenty feet of deep water. Besides, the man intrigued her. So she stayed.

  “The fishing is fine,” she said.

  “Often think I’ll try it.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Too busy.”

  For a moment there was silence. Pearl had caught sight of a great cunner down there among the waving kelp. She was tempting him with a delicious bit of soft clam.

  Up went her line, down again, away to one side.

  “O-o! He got it!” she murmured, drawing in her line. With a deft hand she replaced her bait with a bit of tougher clam meat. Thirty seconds later a three-pounder was beating a tattoo in the bottom of her boat.

  “That is a good one,” said the stranger. “Can you now afford a moment for talk?”

  “Why?”

  “It may be worth your while.”

  “Well.” The girl settled back.

  The man began to speak. In the twenty minutes that followed, this mystery man of the rocky isle told the girl things she had never dreamed of. He had opened up for her a new and quite terrible world. He ended by startling her with his knowledge of recent events.

  “Someone stole your cousin’s punt,” he said quite suddenly, tilting on his tiptoes above the black waters.

  Pearl looked at him in surprise. “Last night.”

  “It was loaded with explosives when you got it back.”

  Again the girl stared.

  “Look out for those men. They’re dangerous. We’ve nearly got them three times. They escaped us. Can’t find out where they stay.”

  Pearl thought of the face-in-the-fire, and old Fort Skammel. Her heart gave a great bounce, but she said nothing.

  “How do you know such things?” she asked after a moment.

  He leaned far forward. “I’ll tell you something, but you must not repeat it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Well, then, I’m a Secret Service man.” Her heart bounced again. She had read books about such men, and they were thrilling and scary.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I won’t tell. And I—I’ll help if I can. It’s my country.”

  “That’s the spirit. Come to me anytime you have a thing to tell.”

  A fish took her bait. She pulled him in. When she looked up, the man was gone.

  Late that evening Betty returned from her yachting party. She had had a glorious time, had traveled aboard the most marvelous yacht, all shining brass and mahogany, satin cushions and lace curtains. She had had as her traveling companions such notable people as she had never hoped to know. A senator, a great yachtsman, a wonderful actress and a real poet had been in the party. For all this she found herself over and over longing to be back at the island where she might confide her marvelous secret to those who had a right to know.

  They ran over to Monhegan. When she found that Ruth and Pearl were gone, her desire to be back increased tenfold.

  Hardly had she raced up to the big cottage on the hill to change from middy and short blue skirt to blouse and knickers than she went tearing at a perilous rate down the hill toward Ruth’s house.

  By great good fortune both Ruth and Pearl were there.

  “Oh, girls!” she exclaimed in an excited whisper. “I have a most beautiful secret! There’s a hole in the floor and it’s all full of the most marvelous silk things!”

  “A hole in the floor!” said Ruth, quite mystified by the girl’s wild rambling.

  “Come down to the beach.” Betty dragged at their arms. “No one will hear us there. I—I’ll tell you all about it. Oh, girls! We must do something about it! We truly must!”

  Away to the beach they went. There on the golden sand with the dark waters murmuring at their feet, with the lights of Portland Harbor winking and blinking at them, and the moon looking down upon them like some benevolent old grandfather, the two girls listened while Betty unfolded the story of her two visits to old Fort Skammel.

  “A warm room,” she said at the end in a voice that was husky with excitement, “a warm room, all glowing with a weird yellow light, and full of silk things, dresses and dresses, all pink and gold, and blue and green. You never saw any like them.”

  “We’ll go over there,” said Ruth, “but not at night.”

  “No, not at night.” Betty shuddered.

  “When we have all seen it, we’ll tell someone, perhaps Captain O’Connor. Can’t go tomorrow morning,” Ruth said thoughtfully. “I promised to go over and lift Don’s lobster traps. Might get back in time to go over in the afternoon.”

  So they left the beach with the Portland lights still winking and blinking at them, to return home and to their beds.

  As Ruth lay once more in her own bed looking out on the harbor, she caught the slow movement of some great dark bulk, and knew it was the ancient sailing ship, Black Gull. Never before had this ship spoken so clearly of the glorious past of dear old Maine, of ships and the sea, of settlement and glorious conquest, and of her brave sons who in every generation had given their lives for freedom.

  Never before had she so longed to see the old ship, with every patched and time-browned sail set, go gliding out into the free and open sea. Perhaps this longing was prophetic of that which was shortly to come.

  CHAPTER XIII

  UNDER FIRE

  It was another day, another golden link in the wondrous chain that is life. Both Ruth and Betty were some distance away from their island home, from cottage and big summer house. Fort Skammel, with its haunting mysteries, and Witches Cove were far away in the dreamy distance and well nigh forgotten in the charm of rocks, sky, sea and summer fragrance that was all about them. They had come on a little journey all their
own, these two, and for a purpose. At the present moment Ruth was seated upon a rocky ledge completely surrounded by wild sweet peas in full bloom and Betty was somewhere out to sea in a punt.

  Green Island, the rugged bit of broken waste on which Ruth sat, is the home of the seagulls. No one has ever lived on that island, but, as evening falls on Casco Bay, many a seagull, weary with his day’s search for food, may be seen winging his way across the dark waters to this, his haven of rest.

  Of all the spots near Portland Harbor, the rugged shoals off Green Island are best for lobster fishing. Don had set a number of traps here. Having been called to Portland, he had asked Ruth to sail the Foolemagin out to the island to lift the traps and bring in the catch.

  She had asked Betty to go with her. Betty had brought clams and a cod line. There is no better cod fishing to be had than on the shoals by Green Island.

  Betty had asked permission to fish over the shoals from Ruth’s punt. Since the day was calm, Ruth had given consent. Such a thing is always risky, for a sudden fog or a squall may come up at any moment. But perhaps Ruth still held in the back of her head the city boy’s declaration, “Life is a joke.” At any rate, Betty had gone. The weather had continued calm and clear.

  Looking out to sea, Ruth’s eye caught the gleam of Betty’s slender white figure standing up in her punt, fishing. For a time she thought of Betty and almost envied her. She had seen so much of the world and of life.

  “Well, some people are lucky,” she told herself. “No use disliking them for their luck.”

  At that, forgetting Betty, she sank back upon a bed of fragrant wild sweet peas, to stare dreamily at the drifting white clouds. Then, without really intending to, she fell fast asleep.

  She was startled from her sleep a half hour later by a resounding boom that shook the rugged island to its base and set a thousand seagulls soaring and screaming as only seagulls can.

  “Target practice,” she told herself, in no great alarm. “Ten-mile guns. Oh, listen!”

  Came a loud scream as a shell passed at terrific speed through the air, and again a deafening boom.

  “Closer to the island than usual,” she told herself. “Glad I’ve lifted the lobster traps. Guess I’ll get out.”