“I shouldn’t be here,” she chided herself. “Something may happen to me. I may be detained. I may not be able to reach the Opera House in time. And then—”
She wondered what that would mean. She realized with a sort of shock that she was strangely indifferent to it all. Truth was, events had so shaped themselves that she was at that moment undecided where her own best good lay. She had ventured something, had begun playing the role of a boy. She had done this that she might gain a remote end. The end now seemed very remote indeed. The perils involved in reaching that end had increased four-fold.
“Why go back at all?” she asked herself. “As Pierre I can die very comfortably. As Petite Jeanne I can live on. And no one will ever know. I am—”
Her thoughts were interrupted, not by a sound nor a movement, but by a sudden great silence that had fallen, like a star from the sky at night, upon the assembled host of little people.
Petite Jeanne was not a stranger to silence. She had stood at the edge of a clearing before an abandoned cabin, far from the home of any living man just as the stars were coming out, when a hush had fallen over all; not a leaf had stirred, not a bird note had sounded, and the living, breathing world had seemed far away. She had called that silence.
She had drifted with idle paddle in a canoe far out upon the glimmering surface of Lake Huron. There, alone, with night falling, she had listened until every tiniest wavelet had gone to rest. She had heard the throb of a motor die away in the distance. She had felt rather than heard the breath of air stirred by the last lone seagull on his way to some rocky ledge for rest. She had at last listened for the faintest sound, then had whispered:
“This is silence.”
It may have been, but never had a silence impressed her as did the silence of this moment as, seated there on the floor, far from her friends, an uninvited guest to some weird ceremony, she awaited with bated breath that which was to come.
She had not long to wait. A long tremulous sigh, like the tide sweeping across the ocean at night, passed over the motionless throng; a sigh, that was all.
But Petite Jeanne? She wished to scream, to rise and dash out of the room crying, “Fire! Fire!”
She did not scream. Something held her back. Perhaps it was the sigh, and perhaps the silence.
The thing that was happening was weird in the extreme. On the stage a curtain was slowly, silently closing. No one was near to close it. It appeared endowed with life. This was not all. The curtain was aflame. Tongues of fire darted up its folds. One expected this fire to roar. It did not. Yet, as the little French girl, with heart in throat and finger nails cutting deep, sat there petrified, flames raced up the curtain again and yet again. And all the time, in great, graceful folds, it was gliding, silently gliding from the right and the left.
“Soon it will close,” she told herself. “And then—”
Only one thought saved Jeanne from a scream that would have betrayed her; not a soul in that impassive throng had moved or spoken. It was borne in upon her that here was some form of magic which she did not know.
“It’s a magic curtain.” These words, formed by her lips were not so much as whispered.
But now from a dark corner of the stage a figure appeared. A weird stooping figure he was, clothed all in white. He moved toward the curtain with slow, halting steps. He seemed desirous of passing between the folds of the curtain before the opening; yet a great fear appeared to hold him back.
At this moment there came to Jeanne’s mind words from a very ancient book:
“Draw not nigh hither. Put off thy shoes from thy feet.”
“The burning bush!” she whispered. “It burned but was not consumed; a magic bush. This is a magic curtain.”
“Remove thy shoes.”
She seemed to hear someone repeat these words.
Her hands went to her feet. They were fully clad. A quick glance to right and left assured her that not another person in the room wore shoes.
“My shoes will betray me!” Consternation seized her. One look backward, a stealthy creeping toward the soft-carpeted stair, another stealthy move and she was on her way out.
But would she make it? Her heart was in her throat. A quarter of the way up she was obliged to pause. She was suffocating with fear.
“I must be calm,” she whispered. “I must! I must!” Of a sudden life seemed a thing of solemn beauty. Somehow she must escape that she might live on and on.
Once again she was creeping upward. Did a hand touch her foot? Was someone preparing to seize her? With an effort, she looked down. No one was following. Every eye was glued upon the magic curtain. The curtain was closed. The white-robed figure had vanished. What had happened? Had he passed through? Had the curtain consumed him? She shuddered. Then, summoning all her courage, she leaped up the stairs, glided silently across the room above, and passed swiftly on until she gained the open air.
Then how she sped away! Never had she raced so swiftly and silently as now.
It was some time before she realized how futile was her flight. No one pursued her.
In time she was able to still her wildly beating heart. Then she turned toward home.
Once she stopped dead in her tracks to exclaim: “The magic curtain! Oh! Why did I run away?”
Then, as another mood seized her, she redoubled her pace. Florence, she hoped, awaited her with a roaring fire, a cup of hot chocolate and a good scolding.
CHAPTER VI
THE WOMAN IN BLACK
By the time she reached the doorway that led to her humble abode, Petite Jeanne was in high spirits. The brisk walk had stirred her blood. Her recent adventure had quickened her imagination. She was prepared for anything.
Alas, how quickly all this vanished! One moment she was a heroine marching forth to face that which life might fling at her; the next she was limp as a rag doll. Such was Petite Jeanne. The cause?
The room she entered was dark; chill damp hung over the place like a shroud. Florence was not there. The fire was dead. Cheer had passed from the place; gloom had come.
Jeanne could build a fire. This is an art known to all wanderers, and she had been a gypsy. But she lacked the will to put her skill to the test, so, quite in despair, she threw herself in a chair and lay there, looking for all the world like a deserted French doll, as she whispered to herself:
“What can it matter? Life is without a true purpose, all life. Why should one struggle? Why not go down with the tide? Why—”
But in one short moment all this was changed. The door flew open. Florence burst into the room and with her came a whole gust of fresh lake air, or so it seemed to Jeanne.
“You have been to the island!” she exclaimed, as she became a very animated doll.
“Yes, I have been there.” Excitement shone from the big girl’s eyes. “And I have made a surprising discovery. But wait. What ails the fire?”
“There is no fire.”
“But why?”
Jeanne shrugged. “One does not know,” she murmured.
Seizing the antiquated wood-hamper that stood by the hearth, Florence piled shavings and kindling high. Then, after scratching a match, she watched the yellow flames spread as shadows began dancing on the wall.
“You have been surrendering to gloom,” she said reprovingly. “Don’t do it. It’s bad for you. Where there is light there is hope. And see how our fire gleams!”
“You speak truth, my friend.” Jeanne’s tone was solemn.
“But tell me.” Her mood changed. “You have met adventure. So have I.” Her eyes shone.
“Yes.” Florence was all business at once. “But take a look at the clock. There is just time to rush out for a cup of tea, then—”
“Then I go to jail,” replied Jeanne solemnly. “Tell me. What does one wear in jail?”
“You are joking,” Florence replied. “This is a serious affair. But, since you will go, it will not help to be late. We must hurry.”
A moment later, arm in arm, they pas
sed from the outer door and the dull damp of night swallowed them up.
When, a short time later, Petite Jeanne, garbed as Pierre Andrews, stole apprehensively through the entrance to the great opera house, her ever-fearful eyes fell upon two men loitering just within.
The change that came over one of these, a tall, dark young man with a steely eye, as he caught sight of Jeanne was most astonishing. Turning square about like some affair of metal set on wheels, he appeared about to leap upon her. Only a grip on his arm, that of his more stocky companion, appeared to save the girl.
“Watch out!” the other counseled savagely. “Think where you are!”
On the instant the look in those steely eyes changed. The man became a smiling wolf.
“Hey there, boy!” he called to Jeanne.
But Jeanne, in her immaculate suit of black, gave but one frightened backward look, and then sped for the elevator.
Her heart was doing double time as she saw the elevator door silently close.
“Who could that man be?” she questioned herself breathlessly. “He can’t have been a detective. They do not stand on ceremony. He would be here by my side, with a hand on my arm. But if not a detective, what then?” She could form no answer.
In the meantime, the dark, slim man was saying to the stocky one:
“Can you beat it? You can’t! Thought he’d cut for good! My luck. But no! Here he is, going back.”
“What do you care?” the other grumbled. “They’ll take him, and that’s the end of it. Come on outside.” His eyes strayed to the corner. A deep-chested man whose coat bulged in a strange way was loitering there. “Air’s bad in here.”
They passed out into the night. And there we leave them. But not for long. Men such as these are found in curious places and at unheard-of hours.
But Jeanne? With her heart stilled for a brief period of time, she rose to the floor above, only to be thrown into a state of mind bordering on hysteria at thought of facing the ordeal that must lie just before her.
Seeking a dark corner, she closed her eyes. Allowing her head to drop forward, she stood like one in prayer. Did she pray, or did she but surrender her soul and body to the forces of nature all about her? Who can say but that these two are the same, or at least that their effect is the same? However that may be, it was a changed Jeanne who, three minutes later, took up her post of duty in the boxes, for hers was the air of a sentry. Her movements were firm and steady, the look upon her face as calm as the reflection of the moon upon a still pool at midnight.
That which followed was silent drama. Throughout it all, not a word was spoken, no, not so much as whispered. The effect was like a thing of magic. Jeanne will never erase those pictures from her memory.
Scarcely had she taken her place at the door leading to the box than the great magnate, J. Rufus Robinson, and his daughter, she of the lost pearls, appeared. Jeanne caught her breath as she beheld the cape of green velvet trimmed with white fur and the matchless French gown of cream colored silk she wore. There was no lack of jewels despite the lost pearls. A diamond flashed here, a ruby burned there, yet they did not outshine the smile of this child of the rich.
“I am seeing life,” Jeanne whispered to herself. “I must see more of it. I must! I just must!”
Yet, even as she whispered these words she thought of the bearded man with those luminous eyes. She had asked him if all this was life—this wealth, this pomp and circumstance. And he had replied quite calmly: “It is a form of life.”
At that instant Jeanne thought of impending events that hung over her like a sword suspended by a hair, and shuddered.
Assisting the millionaire’s daughter to remove her wrap, she carried it to the cloak-room at the back, then assisted the pair to arrange their chairs. This done, she stepped back, a respectful distance.
While this was being done, a man, gliding forward with silent unconcern, had taken a place in the shadows at the back of the box. Deeper in the shadows stood a woman in black. Jeanne did not see the woman. She did see the man, and shuddered again. He, she realized, was the detective.
As she turned her back, the detective moved, prepared without doubt to advance upon her. But a curious thing happened. The woman in the shadows darted forward. Touching the arm of the rich young lady, she pointed at Jeanne and nodded her head. The girl in turn looked at the detective and shook her head. Then both the detective and the woman in black lost themselves in the shadows at the back of the box.
All this was lost to Jeanne. Her back had been turned. Her mind had been filled by a magic panorama, a picture of that which was to pass across the opera stage that night. Thus does devotion to a great art cause us to forget the deepest, darkest trouble in our lives.
All during that long evening Petite Jeanne found herself profoundly puzzled. Why was nothing said to her regarding the pearls? Why was she not arrested?
“They have been found,” she told herself at last. Yet she doubted her own words, as well she might.
Two incidents of the evening impressed her. As she left the box during an intermission the rich girl turned a bright smile full upon her as she said:
“What is your name?”
Caught off her guard, the little French girl barely escaped betraying her secret. The first sound of “Jeanne” was upon her lips when of a sudden, without so much as a stammer or blush, she answered:
“Pierre Andrews, if you please.”
“What a romantic name.” The girl smiled again, then passed on.
“Now why did she do that?” Jeanne’s head was in a whirl.
Scarcely had she regained her composure when a voice behind her asked: “Are you fond of the opera?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, indeed I am.” She turned about.
“Then you may see much of it this season.” The mysterious woman in black was already turned about. She was walking away. Jeanne did not see her face, yet there was that about her voice, a depth, a melodious resonance, a something, that thrilled her to the very tips of her slender toes.
“Will wonders never end?” she asked herself, and found no answer.
CHAPTER VII
DREAMS OF OTHER DAYS
Petite Jeanne left the opera house that night in a brown study. She was perplexed beyond words. The necklace had not been found. She had made sure of that when, between the second and third act, she had discovered on a bulletin board of the lobby a typewritten notice of the loss and an offer of a reward for the return of the pearls.
“If the pearls had been found that notice would have been taken down,” she assured herself. “But if this is true, why did I go unmolested? One would suppose that at least I would be questioned regarding the affair. But no!” She shrugged her graceful shoulders. “They ask me nothing. They look and look, and say nothing. Oh, yes, indeed, they say: ‘What is your name?’ That most beautiful rich one, she says this. And the dark one who is only a voice, she says: ‘Do you like the opera?’ She asks this. And who is she? I know that voice. I have heard it before. It is very familiar, yet I cannot recall it. If she is here again I shall see her face.”
Having thus worked herself into a state of deep perplexity that rapidly ripened into fear, she glided, once her duties were done, down a narrow aisle, across the end of the stage where a score of stage hands were busy shifting scenes, then along a narrow passage-way, with which, as you will know from reading The Golden Circle, she was thoroughly familiar. From this passageway she emerged upon a second and narrower stage.
This was the stage of the Civic Theatre. The stage was dark. The house was dark. Only the faintest gleam of light revealed seats like ghosts ranged row on row.
How familiar it all seemed to her. The time had been when, not many months back, she had stood upon that stage and by the aid of her God-given gift, had stirred the audience to admiration, to laughter and to tears.
As she stood there now a wave of feeling came over her that she could not resist. This stage, this little playhouse had become to her what home means t
o many. The people who had haunted those seats were her people. They had loved her. She had loved them. But now they were gone. The house was dark, the light opera troop was scattered. She thought she knew how a mother robin must feel as she visits her nest long after the fledglings have flown.
Advancing to the center of the stage, she stretched her arms wide in mute appeal to the empty seats. But no least whisper of admiration or disapproval came back to her.
A moment she stood thus. Then, as her hands dropped, her breast heaved with one great sob.
But, like the sea, Jeanne was made of many moods. “No! No!” She stamped her small foot. “I will not come back to this! I will not! The way back is closed. Only the door ahead is open. I will go on.
“Grand Opera, this is all now. This is art indeed. Pictures, music, story. This is Grand Opera. Big! Grand! Noble! Some day, somehow I shall stand upon that most wonderful of all stages, and those people, those thousands, the richest, the most learned, the most noble, they shall be my people!”
Having delivered this speech to the deserted hall, she once again became a very little lady in a trim black dress suit, seeking a way to the outer air and the street that led to home.
She had come this way because she feared that the slender, dark-faced stranger who had accosted her earlier in the evening would await her at the door.
“If he sees me he will follow,” she told herself. “And then—”
She finished with a shudder.
In choosing this way she had counted upon one circumstance. Nor had she counted in vain. As she hurried down the dark aisle toward the back of the theatre which was, she knew, closed, she came quite suddenly upon a man with a flashlight and time clock.
“Oh, Tommy Mosk!” she exclaimed in a whisper. “How glad I am that you are still here!”
The watchman threw his light upon her face.
“Petite Jeanne!” he exclaimed. “But why the masquerade?” Tommy belonged to those other days and, with the rest, had come to love the simple, big-hearted little light opera star. “Petite Jeanne! But why—”
The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 134
