The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  Dorothy, in a spirit of bravado, lifted the knocker up and rapped it down smartly. They waited a second and, still defiant, Dorothy put her hand on the bronze knob to open the door.

  No one knew just how it happened. Dorothy said she had not yet tried to open the door when it swung back of its own motion, and instantly the dim old hallway stretched before them. At that the reassuring sound of hammering suddenly stopped and, gathering courage, the girls were about to enter when a shout—half scream, half moan—echoed through the old mansion.

  The girls stood transfixed with terror, almost breathless. Another cry quickly followed, and then the sound of loud, hurrying footsteps could be heard. There was a rush of bodies, and three men in working clothes, powdered white with plaster dust, literally jumped down the last few steps of the great staircase and continued their maddened race out of the big front door, brushing by the astonished girls without a word.

  “There!” cried Sim triumphantly. “Something’s happening now!”

  “I should say so!” gasped Terry, looking at Dot, whose eyes showed wonder and who seemed too surprised to speak.

  “Hey! Wait!” Arden shouted, and she turned to pursue the last of the three frightened men still wildly running away. “Wait! Tell us what’s the matter!”

  The workman, beating his hands on his trousers to knock out some of the dust, barely hesitated.

  “Lady, I can’t wait!” he exclaimed. “We saw the dead body of an old woman stretched out on a bed. We saw her in a room below where we were working—saw her through a hole I tore in the floor and that went into the ceiling of her room. We saw her plain! I’m finished on this job!” He had to wait to say all that, but then turned and ran on.

  “Oh, please!” begged Arden. “Just where did you see her? Tell us! Is she really dead?”

  “I didn’t go near her,” he said breathlessly. “I don’t want to get mixed up in no murder case. But she sure looked dead to me—lying flat on her back—in a red dress—or something—and pale—pale as—” He looked toward his retreating companions, now some distance down the road, and then, with a frightened glance up at the old Hall, he turned again and ran away.

  “Well, what do you think of this?” demanded Sim. “Shall we go in?” She turned to Dorothy as though asking her permission.

  “I—er—why, of course!” the visitor decided, perhaps a bit hesitantly. “If there’s anything wrong we ought to notify the police. Yes, we must do that.”

  It was a bold decision. It rather pleased Arden and her chums.

  CHAPTER V

  Baffled

  Still, no one wanted to be the first to enter, and they stood on the step, frightened but intensely curious.

  Arden gave Terry a little push, hinting that she should lead, but Terry sidestepped. Sim sneaked around the others until she was on the edge of the step, nearer the car.

  “Do you think it could be so terrible?” she questioned.

  “We ought to find out. Besides, if it’s someone dead—” Dorothy stopped—“it couldn’t hurt us anyway.”

  She started cautiously just a few steps, but at least they had begun to move. The other three, in close formation, followed. At the foot of the stairs they stopped; listened. There was not a sound. The daylight filtering in through a stained-glass window at the first landing cast eerie shadows and even made the girls’ faces take on a sickish pale color.

  Dorothy put her hand on the worn old stair rail and slid it up ahead of her as though to pull herself after it. A deep indentation checked the sliding hand and acted like a brake.

  Then Terry, growing a little braver, deliberately went up a few steps, and in this fashion, by starting and stopping every second or two, and listening, cautiously they reached the first landing.

  There they halted. But only for a second, for something drew them on; some power they could not resist urged them up almost against all reason, until they were on the second floor of the weird old house.

  There the hall ran the length of the house. All furnishing was gone from the hall except an old dusty chest that stood in a dark, dingy corner.

  Rooms were on either side of the passage, but the doors were all closed except one. Somehow Dorothy felt this was The Room. But to look in would be another matter. What was in there? Nothing at all or—?

  They must find out. The old adage, “safety in numbers,” came back to Dorothy. She motioned to the other frightened girls. They crept forward on tiptoe.

  Now in line with the opened doorway, Dorothy forced herself to look in. She saw a large square room with shuttered windows through which the morning light barely seeped in splintered blades. There was the bed.

  The bed! That dreadful possibility!

  How could she look? No longer brave, she shut her eyes. Her buzzing head seemed not to belong to her. But the next moment, of its own accord, it turned again to that dreadful resting place. A deep sigh, a gasp, from one of the girls behind Dorothy startled her further, and she could delay no longer. She opened her eyes.

  The bed was empty!

  A four-poster that must once have boasted a canopied top, the huge old bed stood stark and sinister. A dark bedraggled cloth covered the mattress, but happily—and how glad they were—nothing else was there.

  “Whew!” Terry ran a trembling hand across her forehead. “I feel as if I had just gone through a clothes wringer.”

  “Such suspense! I lived a hundred years coming up those stairs,” declared Sim. “Is my face white?”

  Arden did not feel like joking. She went closer to the bed.

  “Absolutely empty! Those men must have very vivid imaginations,” she declared with a little laugh. “Seeing things, that way.”

  “This time three men saw the same thing, or claim they did. The other time it was two who saw and who also claimed they heard the thudding of the soldier’s boots. Some complications even for ghosts,” Sim remarked.

  “It’s very queer. The spirits of the departed owners of the Hall must be rising in protest against the invasion of the wreckers,” Terry suggested, not too merrily.

  “Are you sure, my dear friends, you had nothing to do with this?” Dorothy asked, once more skeptical.

  That question brought a storm of protest.

  “Dorothy!” exclaimed Arden, “do you really think we could have scared away those workmen?”

  “Well, if you feel that way, Dot,” began Terry. But she didn’t; she told them so. And once more it was a united party that looked for further evidence of ghosts, real or imaginary.

  The inevitable fireplace was built in the wall not far from the suspected bed. An old squat rocker stood lonely and forlorn in the center, and a packing box had gathered dust under a window—that was all. The floor was also dusty, but Dorothy stooped down and, with royal disregard, swept a spot clean with a dainty lace-trimmed handkerchief.

  “Look at the floor, girls,” she said. “See how wide the boards are and the pegs to hold them down. They don’t make floors that way any more. All these boards were cut and planed and the pegs made and fitted in by hand.”

  “I wish I knew more about such things,” Terry remarked, inspecting the floor. “All I know is that this must have been a fine old house, and I wish it wasn’t going to be torn down.”

  “It reminds me of an impending execution.” Sim sighed. “It did its duty, and now it has to give up its life for its country.” That trite remark brought on a giggle, but Sim didn’t mind.

  Arden and Dorothy were snooping about, looking through the cracks in the shutters, and even peered under the bed.

  “If they succeed in demolishing the Hall, I’m going to try and buy the picture of that girl downstairs,” announced Terry. “She fascinates me! I’d like to find out more about her.”

  “Probably Dick’s grandmother could tell you. We must look her up,” said Arden, dusting her hands. “Who’s that?” she asked suddenly as voices in dispute were heard from somewhere.

  “Someone downstairs,” Dorothy answered.
They listened. One voice, a man’s, seemed just very ordinary, not the least bit ghost-like.

  “Let’s go down and see what’s happening,” Terry suggested. “We’re not afraid of workmen.”

  They all trooped down in much different spirits than they had come up in. Now, like weather vanes turning in the wind, their interest was veering to the commotion below.

  In the hallway stood the three workmen who had so recently rushed out of the old mansion. There was another, an older man, obviously their employer, with them now.

  “Are you men telling me that you’re quitting, too?” asked the boss sharply.

  “Yes, sir,” the leader of the three stated emphatically. “I don’t like this place. I’d rather chop down trees all winter than go up on the top floor for a day and start tearing this place down.”

  “But, man, you’re wrong! There’s nothing there. You told me this same story last week, and when I looked in, the room was empty,” the wrecking contractor declared.

  The girls were on the landing above, and he turned to them, seemingly surly and surprised.

  “That your car outside? What are you doing in here?” he asked bruskly.

  “Yes,” answered Sim. “We heard someone shout as we were going past and stopped to see—if we could help.”

  “Well—what did you find?” the contractor asked, apparently hoping that the statement of disinterested young ladies would impress the frightened men favorably.

  “Nothing,” Arden admitted. “The room was empty when we looked in. Although he said,” Arden indicated the man she had questioned, “that there was an old lady up there, dead on the bed.”

  “Yeah—he said,” the contractor shrugged. “I know! He had the same story last week. All right,” he continued, now addressing the men, “go to the office and get your pay. You’re finished! But this house comes down if I have to pull it down myself!”

  The laborers turned away and, talking among themselves, gathered up their lunch boxes and coats and hurriedly walked away.

  “You girls want to be careful in here,” the contractor warned. “Not that I worry about ghosts, but you might get hurt if something fell on you. They were working on the roof today. This is the second time men have laid down on this job. But I’ll have this place leveled to the ground if I have to get my own family to help me.” He looked angrily at the ceiling above him and then, taking a big black cigar from his pocket, he bit the end savagely. Glancing about once more he finally strode after the men, leaving the little group of wondering girls to puzzle it out.

  CHAPTER VI

  Introducing Granny

  The girls just stood there, shocked by the wrecker’s vehement manner. The door was still open, and suddenly, without warning, a face appeared there.

  “Oh!” came in a surprised murmur from Arden and her chums as they huddled closer.

  Then the brown, weather-beaten countenance of an old woman broke into a queer wrinkled smile. It was an old woman—not a ghost. The girls now realized this.

  “Are they gone?” The voice was young and full of amusement as an old lady, wearing a dress which was neat but quaint and old-fashioned, stepped inside the hall.

  “Yes, they’re gone,” answered Sim, the first to fall under the charm of Granny Howe, for it was she coming to investigate, apparently.

  “I came up to see what the trouble was, but I didn’t want to meet that Callahan man,” she declared. “He’s got such a temper, always having trouble with his men.” Then, as though she had just thought of it, she asked who the girls were, what they were doing there, and scarcely giving them time to answer, she told them who she was. Then, still interrupting, Granny Howe guessed they were the “young ladies who had been riding with Dick: he had told her one of them had red hair,” she quaintly revealed.

  Terry blushed a little at that and then smiled; it was impossible to take offense at Granny’s gentle ways.

  “Yes, Dick took us in here yesterday,” Terry answered. “We were frightened away by—”

  “Ghosts, I suppose,” the old lady chuckled. “Dick told me about it.” She laughed heartily. “Everybody but me seems to think this place is haunted. Nonsense!”

  “But there is something queer about it, isn’t there?” pressed Arden. “I’ll be so disappointed if you can explain it all naturally. We have just got to be thrilled, you know.”

  “My dear,” Granny answered, “you’re just like Betty, my granddaughter. She loves to think that Nathaniel Greene or Patience Howe has come back in spirit form to defend the old place.”

  “Who were they?” Dorothy stepped forward. “Won’t you tell us something about them? I’m studying architecture, and, even with the little I know, I can tell that Sycamore Hall must have been designed by a fine artist.”

  “Dick told us it would soon all be torn down,” Sim supplemented. “We’re awfully sorry, and we’re not just curious. If there is anything we could do to help—”

  Granny’s blue eyes swam with tears; she shook her head and looked at each of them in turn, pathetically.

  “You’re dear young things. I can see that. But I’m afraid we’ll have to let Sycamore Hall go.” She sighed and patted the wall beside her. “My grandfather and his father before him were queer men. Never had much faith in banks. If they had, the deed or whatever claim papers we need, would not be missing today, and Betty could go on gallivanting around like you girls, instead of sitting cooped up all day in the town library. And Dick could be in college—” She left the sentence unfinished and looked away sadly.

  Terry decided to change the subject. The old lady seemed so broken. It was too bad, really, that no one could help her.

  “Who was the girl in the picture downstairs? I think she is lovely,” Terry pointed out brightly.

  “She was Patience Howe, an ancestor of mine. She lived here in Washington’s time. She was a modern girl for those times: brave and strong. She kept that horse of hers right in this house when some of the Continental soldiers tried to steal it,” Granny answered Terry, her head high now with a touch of ancestral pride.

  “Could we—would you—” Sim faltered—“would you let us come to see you sometime—just to talk? Or would you rather not tell us things? I can understand that the present condition of this old place must make you very sad, and if you can’t bear to think about it, we’ll know just how you feel.” Sim was trying to be diplomatic, but at the same time she hoped the old lady would answer “yes.”

  “Dick told us a little of your misfortune, though we had to drag it out of him,” Terry added. “That was yesterday, when we heard the footsteps.”

  “Footsteps!” echoed Granny. “That would be Nathaniel Greene walking in his delirium from the wound in his head. Poor fellow! He loved Patience, and she nursed him a long time, but he died.” The old lady was once more lost in ancient memories.

  The girls didn’t know how to proceed now. Sim’s request was still unanswered, and they did so want to learn more. In their hearts they all wanted to help this charming lady and save Sycamore Hall. That would aid Betty and Dick also.

  With a brave effort, Granny checked her dreaming, and putting a tanned old hand on Sim’s arm said: “Of course you may come to see me—if your parents will let you. I’m considered somewhat of a recluse by many folk around here. But I’ll be glad to have you to tea tomorrow afternoon. All of you. You’ll be perfectly safe, and it will brighten things up for me. Do you know where I live?” she asked briskly.

  The girls said that they did not and began thanking her and assuring her that no one would in the least object to their visit. They were all talking at once, so Granny smiled and held up a gentle restraining hand.

  “You sound so alive and gay—I know what you’re trying to tell me. It’s all right. I’ll enjoy having you. But now I must go back. We are baking today, and I stayed longer than I should have.” She stood at the door as if indicating to them that they too must leave.

  The girls were glad enough to walk out into the suns
hine, and presently they climbed back into the car. Granny chuckled as they squeezed in and waved “good-bye” as Sim backed away.

  “There, Dot, how did that strike you?” Arden breathlessly asked when they were safely on their way. “Do you still think it’s a put-up job on our part?”

  “Arden, I’m sorry,” answered the girl. “I’m entirely convinced, and I’m on your side. Wasn’t she fascinating?”

  “Just like someone out of a play,” Terry exclaimed. “Isn’t it a shame? Taking her own house and land away from her! If I were a ghost I’d come to her rescue, too! Even if I did have to break up a wrecking gang.”

  “What could those men have seen?” Sim wondered aloud. “They certainly were scared.”

  “When we get home we’ll have to consider each person, the way detectives do, and reason out who would be likely to know, or be responsible for those manifestations,” Arden suggested. “Shall we? Let’s write it out—and see if we can solve the mystery systematically.”

  This suggestion met with whole-hearted approval, and all the rest of the way home the girls talked of the best method of “detecting.” Sim stepped on the gas and bounced the girls unmercifully, she was so anxious to get home, but they clung together and didn’t complain.

  They had something new to do now and could hardly wait to begin. A first-rate mystery to be unraveled, in the most up-to-date detective fashion. It would be through the method of clues and eliminations of clues, and the girls were “all for it.”

  CHAPTER VII

  Trial by Jury

  Sim’s library was an ideal room for the girls to carry out their plan. Seated at a large desk, where Sim’s father often worked at night, Arden assumed the rôle of judge, or lawyer, they were not quite sure which. Sim, Terry, and Dot, in varying positions of comfort, were perched around her.

  Events had been too exciting to warrant “time out” for Dorothy to change from her traveling clothes, so she simply kicked off her shoes and gave Althea the keys to her bags. The unpacking would be accomplished swiftly and skillfully with everything put neatly away and any wrinkles completely ironed out.