The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  For a space of seconds there came no answer, then a low whisper:

  “Those eyes! I saw them. Those evil eyes. Back of the mountain. They glared at me.”

  “Eyes?”

  “The dark-faced man. He—he frightens me! The way out! We must find it!”

  Roused by her companion’s fears, Rosemary led the way on tiptoe down the stairs. Still in silence they crossed the broad emptiness of the castle, came to a rear door, tried it, felt it yield to their touch, and passed through, only to hear the intruder come racing down the stairs.

  “He—he did not see us!” Rosemary panted. “For now we are safe. This—come this way!”

  She crowded her way between a stairway lying upon its side and a property porch. Jeanne, whose heart was beating a tattoo against her ribs, followed in silence.

  “What a brave knight I am!” she told herself, and smiled in spite of her deathly fears.

  “The way out,” Rosemary whispered over her shoulder. “If I only can find that!”

  A sound, from somewhere behind, startled them into renewed effort.

  Passing through a low forest of property trees, they crossed a narrow bare space to find themselves confronted by a more formidable forest of chairs and tables. Chairs of all sorts, with feet on the floor or high in air, blocked their way.

  As Rosemary attempted to creep between two great piles, one of these toppled to the floor with a resounding crash.

  “Come!” Her tone was near despair. “We must find the way out!”

  As for Jeanne, she was rapidly regaining her composure. This was not the only time she had been lost in an Opera House. The Paris Opera had once held her a prisoner.

  “Yes, yes. The way out!” She took the lead. “I think I see a light, a tiny red light.”

  For a second she hesitated. What was this light? Was it held in the hand of the unwelcome stranger? Was it an “Exit” light?

  “It’s the way out!” she exulted. A quick turn, a sharp cry and she went crashing forward. Some object had lain in her path. She had stumbled upon it in the dark.

  What was it? This did not matter. All that mattered were Rosemary and the way out.

  Where was Rosemary? Leaping to her feet, she glanced wildly about. A move from behind demoralized her. One more wild dash and she was beneath that red light. Before her was a door. And at that door, pressing the knob, was Rosemary.

  Next instant they had crowded through that door.

  But where were they? Narrow walls hemmed them in on every side.

  “It’s a trap!” Rosemary moaned.

  Not so Jeanne. She pressed a button. They were in a French elevator. They went up.

  Up, up they glided. The light of a door came, then faded, then another and yet another.

  In consternation lest they crash at the top, Jeanne pressed a second button. They came to a sudden halt. A light shone above them. A second, slower upward glide and they were before still another door. The door swung open. Still filled with wild panic, they rushed into a room where all was dark, and lost themselves in a perfect labyrinth where costumes by hundreds hung in rows.

  Crowded together, shoulder to shoulder, with scarcely room to breathe, they stood there panting, waiting, listening.

  Slowly their blood cooled. No sound came to their waiting ears. Still Jeanne felt Rosemary’s heart beating wildly.

  “To her I am a knight,” she thought. “I am Pierre.”

  Then a thought struck her all of a heap. “Perhaps I am not Pierre to her. She may suspect. Yes, she may know!” A cold chill gripped her heart. “If she finds out, what an impostor she will believe me to be!

  “And yet,” she thought more calmly, “I have meant no wrong. I only wanted to be near the opera, to be ready for any great good fortune that might befall me.

  “Besides, how could she know? Who would tell her? The lady in black? But how could she know? No! No! My secret is safe.

  “Come!” she whispered a moment later, “I think we have escaped from those most terrible eyes.”

  Creeping out, they made their way along a corridor that welcomed them with ever-increasing brightness until they stood before a passenger elevator. A moment later they stood in the clear bright light of late autumn afternoon.

  Throwing back her chest, the little French girl, who for a moment was Pierre, drank in three deep breaths, then uttered a long-drawn:

  “Wh-e-w!”

  “This,” said Rosemary, extending her hand as she might had she been leaving a party, “has been delightful. So perfectly wonderful. Let’s do it again sometime.

  “One more thing!” She whispered this. “They have never found my pearls. But it really does not matter, at least not very much. What are pearls among friends?”

  Before Petite Jeanne could recover from her surprise she was gone.

  “I suppose,” she sighed as she turned to go on her way, “that some people have many terrible adventures and want none, and some have none but want many. What a crazy, upside-down world this is, after all.”

  She was well on her way home when a question, coming into her mind with the force of a blow, left her stunned.

  “Why did Rosemary say: ‘The pearls have not been found. It does not matter?’

  “Does she believe I took the pearls?” she asked herself, when she had partially recovered her poise. “And was she telling me I might keep them?

  “How absurd! And yet, what did she mean?

  “And, after all, how could she help believing that I took them? I ran away. There has been no explanation. Unless—unless she knows that I am Petite Jeanne and not Pierre! And how could she know?”

  That night as, once more playing the role of Pierre, she entered the boxes, she found Jaeger, the detective, in his place. And, lurking deep in the shadows was the lady in black. She shuddered anew.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  FLORENCE SOLVES A MYSTERY

  That night, by the light of a fickle moon that ever and anon hid himself behind a cloud, Florence made her way alone to the shores of that curious island of “made land” on the lake front. She had determined to delve more deeply into the mysteries of this island. On this night she was destined to make an astonishing discovery.

  It was not a promising place to wander, this island. There, when the moon hid his face, darkness reigned supreme.

  Yet, even at such times as these, she was not afraid. Strong as a man, endowed with more than the average man’s courage, she dared many things. There were problems regarding that island which needed solving. She meant to solve them. Besides, the place was gloriously peaceful, and Florence loved peace.

  She did not, however, love peace alone. She yearned for all manner of excitement. Most of all she was enchanted by sudden contrast. One moment: silence, the moon, the stars, placid waters, peace; the next: a sound of alarm, darkness, the onrush of adventure and unsolved mystery. This, for Florence, was abundance of life.

  She had come to the island to find peace. But she would also probe into a mystery.

  As she neared the southern end of the island where stood the jungle of young cottonwood trees, she paused to look away at the ragged shore line. There, hanging above the rough boulders, was Snowball’s fishing derrick. Like a slim, black arm, as if to direct the girl’s search out to sea, it pointed away toward black waters.

  “No! No!” Florence laughed low. “Not there. The mystery lies deep in the heart of this young forest.”

  Straight down the path she strode to find herself standing at last before that challenging door of massive oak.

  “Ah!” she breathed. “At home. They can’t deny it.” Light was streaming through the great round eyes above her.

  Her heart skipped a beat as she lifted a hand to rap on that door. What sort of people were these, anyway? What was she letting herself in for?

  She had not long to wait. The door flew open. A flood of white light was released. And in that light Florence stood, open-mouthed, speechless, staring.

  “Wa-all,
” came in a not unfriendly voice, “what is it y’ want?”

  “Aunt—Aunt Bobby!” Florence managed to stammer.

  “Yes, that’s me. And who may you be? Step inside. Let me have a look.

  “Florence! My own hearty Florence!” The aged woman threw two stout arms about the girl’s waist. “And to think of you findin’ me here!”

  For a moment the air was filled with exclamations and ejaculations. After that, explanations were in order.

  If you have read The Thirteenth Ring, you will remember well enough that Aunt Bobby was a ship’s cook who had cooked her way up and down one of the Great Lakes a thousand times or more, and that on one memorable journey she had acted as a fairy godmother to one of Florence’s pals. Florence had never forgotten her, though their journeys had carried them to different ports.

  “But, Aunt Bobby,” she exclaimed at last, “what can you be doing here? And how did such a strange home as this come into being?”

  “It’s all on account of her.” Aunt Bobby nodded toward a slim girl who, garbed in blue overalls, sat beside the box-like stove. “She’s my grandchild. Grew up on the ship, she did, amongst sailors. Tie a knot and cast off a line with the best of them, she can, and skin up a mast better than most.

  “But the captain would have it she must have book learnin’. So here we are, all high and dry on land. And her a-goin’ off to school every mornin’. But when school is over, you should see her—into every sort of thing.

  “Ah, yes,” she sighed, “she’s a problem, is Meg!”

  Meg, who might have been nearing sixteen, smiled, crossed her legs like a man, and then put on a perfect imitation of a sailor contemptuously smoking a cob pipe—only there was no pipe.

  “This place, do you ask?” Aunt Bobby went on. “Meg calls it the cathedral, she does, on account of the pillars.

  “Them pillars was lamp-posts once, broken lamp-posts from the boulevard. Dumped out here, they was. The captain and his men put up the cathedral for us, where we could look at the water when we liked. Part of it is from an old ship that sank in the river and was raised up, and part, like the pillars, comes from the rubbish heap.

  “I do say, though, they made a neat job of it. Meg’ll show you her stateroom after a bit.

  “But now, Meg, get down the cups. Coffee’s on the stove as it always was in the galleys.”

  Florence smiled. She was liking this. Here she was finding contrast. She thought of the richly appointed Opera House where at this moment Jeanne haunted the boxes; then she glanced about her and smiled again.

  She recalled the irrepressible Meg as she had seen her, a bronze statue against the sky, and resolved to know more of her.

  As they sat dreaming over their coffee cups, Aunt Bobby began to speak of the romance of other days and to dispense with unstinting hand rich portions from her philosophy.

  “Forty years I lived on ships, child.” She sighed deeply. “Forty years! I’ve sailed on big ones and small ones, wind-jammers and steamers. Some mighty fine ones and some not so fine. Mostly I signed on freighters because I loved them best of all. They haul and carry.

  “They’re sort of human, ships are.” She cupped her chin in her hands to stare dreamily at the fire. “Sort of like folks, ships are. Some are slim and pretty and not much use except just to play around when the water’s sparklin’ and the sun shines bright. That’s true of folks and ships alike. And I guess it’s right enough. We all like pretty things.

  “But the slow old freighter, smelling of bilge and tar, she’s good enough for me. She’s like the most of us common workers, carrying things, doing the things that need to be done, moving straight on through sunshine and storm until the task is completed and the work is done.

  “Yes, child, I’ve sailed for forty years. I’ve watched the moon paint a path of gold over waters blacker than the night. I’ve heard the ice screaming as it ground against our keel, and I’ve tossed all night in a storm that promised every minute to send us to the bottom. Forty years, child, forty years!” The aged woman’s voice rose high and clear like the mellow toll of a bell at midnight. “Forty years I’ve felt the pitch and toss, the swell and roll beneath me. And now this!” She spread her arms wide.

  “The ground beneath my feet, a roof over my head.

  “But not for long, child. Not for long. A few months now, and a million pairs of feet will tramp past the spot where you now stand. What will these people see? Not the cathedral, as Meg will call it, nothing half as grand.

  “And we, Meg and me, we’ll move on. Fate will point his finger and we’ll move.

  “Ah, well, that’s life for most of us. Sooner or later Fate points and we move. He’s a traffic cop, is Fate. We come to a pause. He blows his whistle, he waves his arm. We move or he moves us.

  “And, after all,” she heaved a deep sigh that was more than half filled with contentment, “who’d object to that? Who wants to sit and grow roots like stupid little cottonwood trees?”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  THE BLACK PACKET

  “Meg, show Florence your stateroom.” Aunt Bobby rose after her soliloquy. “Mine’s more plain-like,” she apologized. “The men set a heap of store on Meg, so they took what was the stateroom of the captain in the balmy days of that old ship and set it up for Meg, right here on the island.

  “It’s all there, walls and cabinet all done in mahogany and gold, wide berth, and everything grand.”

  “It’s not like sleeping on the water with a good hull beneath you.” Meg’s tone was almost sullen. “Just you wait! I’m going back!”

  Once inside her stateroom her mood changed. It became evident at once that she was truly proud of this small room with its costly decorations that had come down from the past. Two great lanterns made of beaten bronze hung one at the head and one at the foot of her berth.

  “It’s wonderful!” Florence was truly impressed. “But this island, it is a lonely spot. There must be prowlers about.”

  “Oh, yes. All the time. Some good ones, some bad.”

  “But are you not afraid?”

  “Afraid? No. I laugh at them. Why not?

  “And besides. Look!” Her slender finger touched a secret button. A cabinet door flew open, revealing two revolvers. Their long blue barrels shone wickedly in the light.

  “But you couldn’t fire them.”

  “Oh, couldn’t I? Come over some day just before dark, when the waves are making a lot of noise. I’ll show you.

  “You see,” she explained, “I must be careful. If the police heard, they’d come and take them from me.

  “But on board ship!” Her eyes danced. “I could out-shoot them all. You know how long a freighter is?”

  “Yes.”

  “We used that for a shooting range. I could out-shoot all the men. It was grand! If we missed the target, the bullet went plump into the sea! And that was all.

  “No,” she said thoughtfully as she dropped into a chair, “I’m not afraid. There was one man, though, who had me almost scared. His face was so dark! He had such ugly eyes!”

  “Dark face, ugly eyes!” Florence recalled Jeanne’s description of the man who had hounded her footsteps.

  “But I fooled him!” Meg chuckled. “I fooled him twice. And I laughed in his face, too.”

  Rising, she pressed a second button in the wall to reveal still another secret compartment. “See that!” She pointed to a black packet. “That was his. It’s mine now.

  “I wonder why he put it where he did?” she mused.

  “Where?”

  “In Snowball’s net.”

  “What?”

  “That’s just what he did. I was sitting alone among the rocks at night. He came out, acting mysterious. He poured two buckets of water on Snowball’s windlass so it wouldn’t creak and then he threw this package into the net and lowered away.

  “It is heavy. Went right to the bottom. I slipped into the water and went after it. Got it, too. See! There it is!

  “And do you kno
w,” her voice fell to an excited whisper, “that’s to be my birthday present to myself. It’s to be my surprise.”

  “Surprise! Haven’t you unwrapped it?”

  “No. Why should I? That would spoil my fun.”

  Florence looked at this slim girl in overalls, and smiled. “You surely are an unusual child!”

  “He came back next day.” Meg ignored this last. “He made Snowball dive down and look for his package. He didn’t find it. The man was angry. His face got blacker than ever, and how his eyes snapped! An ugly red scar showed on his chin. Then I laughed, and he chased me.

  “I dropped into the water and came up where there is a hole like a sea grotto. I watched him until he went away. He never came back. So now this is mine!” Pride of ownership was in her voice.

  “But ought you not to open the package? It may have been stolen. It may contain valuables, watches, diamonds, pearls.” Florence was thinking of the lost necklace.

  “Ought!” Meg’s face was twisted into a contemptuous frown. “Ought! That’s a landlubber’s word. You never hear it on a ship. Many things must be done—hatch battened down, boilers stoked, bells rung. Lots of things must be done. But nothing merely ought to be done. No! No! I want to save it for my birthday. And I shall!”

  At that she snapped the cabinet door shut, then led the way out of her stateroom.

  Ten minutes later Florence was on the dark winding path on her way home.

  “What an unusual child!” she thought. And again, “I wonder who that man could be? What does that packet contain?”

  CHAPTER XXV

  THE BEARDED STRANGER

  Though that which happened to Jeanne on this very night could scarcely be called an adventure, it did serve to relieve the feeling of depression which had settled upon her like a cloud after that dramatic but quite terrible moment when the irate director had driven her from the stage. It did more than this; it gave her a deeper understanding of that mystery of mysteries men call life.

  Between acts she stood contemplating her carefully creased trousers and the tips of her shiny, patent leather shoes. Suddenly she became conscious that someone was near, someone interested in her. A sort of sixth sense, a gypsy sense, told her that eyes were upon her.