The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  As her own eyes swept about a wide circle, they took in the bearded man with large, luminous eyes. He was standing quite near. With sudden impulse, she sprang toward him.

  “Please tell me.” Her voice was eager. “Why did you say all this was ‘a form of life’?”

  “That question,” the man spoke slowly, “can best be answered by seeing something other than this. Would you care to go a little way with me?”

  Jeanne gave him a quick look. She was a person of experience, this little French girl. “He can be trusted,” her heart assured her.

  “But I am working.” Her spirits dropped.

  “There are extra ushers.”

  “Yes—yes.”

  “I will have one called.”

  “This man has influence here,” Jeanne thought a moment later, as, side by side, they left the building. “Who can he be?” Her interest increased tenfold.

  “We will go this way.”

  They turned west, went over the bridge, crossed the street to the south, then turned west again.

  “Oh, but this—this is rather terrible!” Jeanne protested. Scarcely five minutes had passed. They had left the glitter and glory of jewels, rich silks and costly furs behind. Now they were passing through throngs of men. Roughly clad men they were, many in rags. Their faces were rough and seamed, their hands knotted and blue with cold. Jeanne drew her long coat tightly about her.

  “No one will harm you.” Her strange companion took her arm.

  The street setting was as drab as were those who wandered there: cheap movies displaying gaudy posters, cheaper restaurants where one might purchase a plate of beans and a cup of coffee for a dime. The wind was rising. Picking up scraps of paper and bits of straw, it sent them in an eddy, whirling them round and round. Like dead souls in some lost world, these bits appeared to find no place to rest.

  “See!” said her companion. “They are like the men who wander here; they have no resting place.”

  Jeanne shuddered.

  But suddenly her attention was arrested by a falling object that was neither paper nor straw, but a pigeon.

  One glance assured her that this was a young bird, fully grown and feathered, who had not yet learned to fly. He fluttered hopelessly on the sidewalk.

  “A beautiful bird,” was her thought. “Such lovely plumage!”

  A passer-by with an ugly, twisted face leered up at her as he said:

  “There’s something to eat.”

  “Some—”

  Jeanne did not finish. To her utter astonishment she saw that a very short man in a long greasy coat had captured the pigeon, tucked it under his coat and was making off.

  “He—he won’t eat it?” she gasped.

  “Come. We will follow.” Her companion hurried her along.

  The short man, with the bird still under his arm, had turned south into a dark and deserted street. Jeanne shuddered and wished to turn back. Then she thought of the pigeon. “He is beautiful even now,” she whispered. “What must he be when he gets his second plumage? How proudly he will strut upon the roof-tops.

  “Tell me truly,” she said to her companion, “he would not eat him?”

  There came no answer.

  Having traveled two blocks south, they crossed the street to find themselves facing a vacant lot. There, amid piles of broken bricks and rusty heaps of sheet-iron, many camp fires burned. Moving about from fire to fire, or sitting huddled about them, were men. These were more ragged and forlorn, if that were possible, than those she had seen upon the street.

  Then, with the force of a bullet, truth entered the very heart of her being. These men were derelicts. These piles of broken bricks and rusting iron were their homes; these camp fires their kitchens. Soon the young pigeon would be simmering in a great tin can filled with water.

  “Wait!” she cried, leaping forward and seizing the short man by the arm. “Don’t—don’t cook him! I will pay you for him. Here! Here is a dollar. Is that enough? If not, I have another.”

  Blinking back at her in surprise, taking in her long coat, her jaunty cap, the man stared at her in silence. Then, as the bearded man hurried up, he blinked at him in turn.

  “I didn’t mean to eat him,” he protested. “Honest I didn’t. But if you want him—” he eyed the dollar bill eagerly “—if you want him, here he is.”

  Thrusting the pigeon into Jeanne’s hands, he seized the bill and muttered:

  “A dollar—a dollar, a whole cartwheel, one big iron man! I didn’t know there was one left in the world!” He seemed about to shed tears.

  As he turned his face up to Jeanne’s she noticed that he had but one eye.

  “What’s your name?” the bearded one asked.

  “Mostly they call me the one-eyed shrimp.”

  Pocketing the money, he walked away.

  “This, too,” said the bearded one solemnly, “is a form of life.”

  “But why such cruel, cruel contrasts?” In her mind’s eye Jeanne was seeing jewels, silks and furs. There were tears in her voice.

  “To that question no answer has been found,” the bearded man answered solemnly. “The world is very old. It has always been so. Perhaps it is necessary. It gives contrast. Lights and shadows. We must have them or nothing could be seen.

  “I am a sculptor, a very poor one, but one nevertheless. Perhaps you may visit my studio. There you will find things I have done in lovely white marble, yet the beauty of the marble can only be brought out by shadows.

  “Come! You are cold.” He turned Jeanne about. “We will go back to the Opera House. Always we must be going back.”

  Strange as it may seem, Jeanne did not wish to return. That magnificent palace of art and song had suddenly become abhorrent to her.

  “The contrasts,” she murmured, “they are too great!”

  “Yes. There you have discovered a great truth. Come to my studio some day. I will show you more.” The bearded one pressed a card into her hand. Without looking at it, she thrust it deep into her trousers pocket.

  In silence they returned to the Opera House. Once inside, Jeanne experienced a miracle. The dark, cold, bitter world outside had vanished. In her mind, for the moment, not a trace of it remained. For her, now, there was only light and life, melody, color—romance in fact, and opera at its best.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  AN EXCITING MESSAGE

  Petite Jeanne was a sun-worshipper and a fire-worshipper of the best sort. She worshipped the One Who created fire and Who sends us light to dispel the gloom of night. The day following her unusual experiences in the lower regions of the Opera House found her curled up in a big chair. The chair stood before a large window of their living room. Here she was completely flooded with light. On bright days, for a space of two hours, the sunlight always succeeded in finding its way through the labyrinth of chimneys and skyscrapers, to fall like a benediction upon this blonde-haired girl. And Jeanne rejoiced in it as a kitten does the warm spot before the hearth.

  “It’s God looking down upon His world,” she murmured now.

  “Jeanne,” Florence stood in the door of her room, “did that man, the dark-faced one with the evil eye, did he have a scar on his chin?”

  “Y-e-s. Let me see.” She closed her eyes to invite a picture. It came. “Yes, now I see him as I did only yesterday. Yes, there was a scar.”

  “You saw him yesterday?”

  Reluctantly Jeanne turned her face from the sunlight. “I’ll tell you about it. It was exciting, and—and a bit terrible. What can he want?”

  She told Florence about the previous day’s adventure. “But why did you ask about the scar?” It was her turn to ask questions.

  “I was out at the island last night. You’d never dream of the discovery I made there. But then, you’ve never seen Aunt Bobby—probably not so much as heard of her.”

  Florence had described her experiences up to the time when Meg invited her to inspect her stateroom, when the phone rang.

  “I’ll answer it.
” Florence took down the receiver.

  “It’s for you,” she said, half a minute later.

  With a deep sigh Jeanne deserted her spot in the sun.

  For all that, her face was flushed with excitement when she put the receiver down.

  “It’s the little old lady of the cameo.”

  In her excitement she found herself talking in a hoarse whisper. “She has persuaded Hop Long Lee, the rich Chinaman, to let us see the magic curtain. Better still, his people will stage a little play for us. They will use the magic curtain.”

  “When?”

  “Next Friday, at midnight.”

  “Midnight? What an hour!”

  “Night is best. And what other hour could one be sure of? There is Marjory Dean. She must see it. And we must find Angelo.”

  “Angelo? Have you seen him?”

  “Not for months. He went to New York to make his fortune.”

  Angelo, as you will recall, was the youthful dreamer who had created a fascinating light opera role for Jeanne.

  “But only two days ago,” Jeanne went on, “I heard that he had been seen here in the city.”

  “Here? Why does he not give us a ring?”

  “Who knows?” Jeanne shrugged. “For all that, I will find him. He must come.

  “And to think!” She did a wild fling across the room. “We are to see the magic curtain. We will weave an opera about it. The opera shall be played on that so grand stage.”

  “By whom?”

  Jeanne did not hesitate. “By Marjory Dean! She will have the leading role. I shall insist. And why not? Would she not do so much for me? Truly. And more, much more!

  “As for me!” Again she settled herself in the spot of sunlight. “My time will come.”

  She might have added, “Sooner than you could dream of.” She did not.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  DREAMING

  Angelo must be found. It was he who had written the successful light opera, The Gypsy God of Fire. No other could write as he—or so Jeanne thought. Yes, he must be found, and that without delay. Friday midnight would be here before anyone could dream three dreams.

  And where was one to look for him save in his old haunts? “His garret studio and at night,” Jeanne said to Florence, next morning. “Tomorrow we will go.”

  “But tomorrow I cannot go. My work keeps me out late.”

  “Ah, well, then I shall go alone.”

  “Are you not afraid to be on the streets at night?”

  “As Pierre I am afraid. But I shall be Petite Jeanne. As Jeanne I shall be safe enough.”

  Knowing the futility of an argument with this strange child of France, Florence smiled and went on her way.

  That is how it came about that Jeanne found herself at a late hour climbing the stairway that led to the garret studio that once had witnessed so much lightness and gaiety.

  She had expected to find changes. Times were hard. It had come to her, in indirect ways, that her good friend had met with little success in New York. But she was scarcely prepared for that which met her gaze as the door was thrown open by Angelo himself.

  Advancing into the center of the room, she found bare floors where there had been bright, rich, Oriental rugs. The unique stage, with all its settings of blue, green, red and gold, was bare.

  “Yes,” Angelo spoke slowly, meditatively, as if answering her mood, “they took my things, one at a time. Fair enough, too. I owed money. I could not pay. The piano went first, my old, old friend. A battered friend it was, but its tones were true.

  “And what grand times we had around that piano! Remember?”

  “I remember.” Jeanne’s tone was low.

  “But don’t be sad about it.” Angelo was actually smiling. “They took the piano, the rugs, the desk where I composed your light opera.

  “Ah, yes; but after all, these are but the symbols of life. They are not life itself. They could not carry away the memory of those days, those good brave days when we were sometimes rich and sometimes very, very poor. The memories of those days will be with us forever. And of such memories as these life, the best of life, is made.”

  After some brief, commonplace remarks, came a moment of silence.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Swen, Angelo’s friend, said, “I will go out to search for a bit of cheer.”

  “Yes, yes. He will bring us cheer. Then he will sing us a song.” Jeanne made a brave attempt at being merry.

  When Swen was gone, Angelo motioned her to a place before the fire.

  “We will not despair. ‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast.’ The beautiful spring-time of life will bloom again.

  “And see,” he exclaimed, enthusiastic as a boy, “we still have the fireplace! They could not take that. And there is always wood to be had. I found this on the beach. It was washed up high in the storm at a spot where children romp all summer long. Driftwood. Some from a broken ship and some from who knows where?

  “See how it burns. The flame! The flame!” He was all but chanting now. “What colors there are! Can you see them? There is red and orange, pink, purple, blue. All like a miniature magic curtain.”

  “Yes, like a magic curtain,” Jeanne murmured.

  Then suddenly she awoke from the entrancing spell this remarkable youth had woven.

  “Ah, yes, but those brave days will return for you!” she cried, springing to her feet and leaping away in a wild dance. “The magic curtain, it will bring them back to you!”

  His fine eyes shone as he rose to admire the grace of her rhythmic dance. “Now you are dreaming.”

  “Dreaming?” She stopped dead still. “Perhaps. But my dreams will come true. Allow me to congratulate you. You are about to become famous. You will write a grand opera.”

  “Ah! The gypsy fortune teller speaks.” He still smiled. Nevertheless he held her hand in a warm clasp.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “I am a gypsy, a fortune teller. Well, perhaps. But, for all that, I only speak of things I have seen. Listen, my good friend!” Her tone was impressive. “I have seen that which will form the background for an Oriental opera. Not a long opera, one act perhaps; but an opera, vivid and living, all the same. And you, my friend, shall write it.”

  “You talk in riddles.” He drew her to a seat beside him. “Explain, my beautiful gypsy.”

  “This much I shall tell you, not more. I have seen a magic curtain that burns but is not consumed. Friday at midnight you shall see it for yourself. And about it you shall weave a story more fantastic than any you have yet dreamed.”

  “And you shall be the leading lady!” He had caught the spirit of the hour. “That shall be glory. Glory for me.”

  “Ah, no, my friend.” Petite Jeanne’s head drooped a little. “I am not known to grand opera. But you shall have a leading lady, such a grand lady! Marjory Dean! What do you say to that?”

  “You are right.” Angelo’s tone was solemn. “She is very grand, marvelous indeed. But, after all, we work best, we write best, we do all things best for those who love us a little.”

  “Ah, you would say that!” Jeanne seized him by the shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.

  “But see!” she cried when she had regained her composure. “Marjory Dean, too, is to see the magic curtain. Tomorrow at midnight, you shall see her. And then I am sure she will love you more than a little. Then all will be more than well.

  “And now see! Here is Swen. He is bringing hot coffee and sweet rolls stuffed, I am sure, with pineapple and fresh cocoanut. On with the feast!”

  Angelo produced two ancient plates and three large cups devoid of handles. They settled themselves comfortably before the hearth to enjoy such a communion of good spirits as had never been granted them in those balmy days when purses were lined with gold.

  “What is poverty when one has friends?” Angelo demanded joyously, as at last he assisted Jeanne to her feet.

  “What, indeed?” Jeanne agreed heartily.

  “Friday at midnight,” Angelo sai
d solemnly, as a moment later Jeanne stood at the doorway.

  “As the clock strikes the hour,” she breathed. Then she was gone.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  FLORENCE CRASHES IN

  At that moment Florence was involved in an affair which threatened to bring her brief career to a tragic end.

  It had begun innocently enough. The back of a man’s head, seen in a crowd, had interested her. She had made a study of men’s heads. “There’s as much character to be read in the back of one’s head as in one’s face,” a psychologist had said to her. Doubting his statement, she had taken up this study to disprove his theory. She had ended by believing. For truly one may read in the carriage of the head stubbornness, indecision, mental and physical weakness; yes, and a capacity for crime.

  It was this last, revealed in the neck of the man in the throng, that had set her on his trail.

  She had not long to wait for confirmation. At a turn in the street the man offered her a side view. At once she caught her breath. This man was dark of visage. He had an ugly red scar on his chin.

  “Jeanne’s shadow!” she whispered to herself. “And such a shadow!” She shuddered at the very thought.

  For this young man was not unknown to her. Not ten days before, in a crowded police court he had been pointed out to her as one of the most dangerous of criminals. He was not, at this time, in custody. Just why he was there she had not been told. Though suspected of many crimes, he had been detected in none of them.

  “And it is he who has been dogging Jeanne’s footsteps!” she muttered. “I must warn her.

  “He, too, it was, who sank the package in Snowball’s net. Meg’s birthday present.” She smiled. Then she frowned. “I must warn her. It may be a bomb. Stranger discoveries have been made.”

  For a moment she considered another theory regarding the package. A moment only—then all this was driven from her mind. Drama was in the making, real drama from life. The evil-eyed one had paused before a doorway. He had remained poised there for a moment like a bird of prey: then the prey appeared, or so it seemed to Florence.

  A short, foreign-appearing man with a military bearing all but came to a position of salute before the dark one of the evil eye. That one essayed a smile which, to the girl, seemed the grin of a wolf.