The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  Penny darted inside and softly shut the door. Scarcely had she secreted herself when three men entered the room. Peering out through the keyhole, she distinguished Cron, Hoges, and the man in gray whom she had once followed to the Franklyn Street address. Apparently, the men had returned for something they had forgotten. Hanley Cron searched in a table drawer.

  “Say, who left that window open?” he demanded unexpectedly.

  “I didn’t,” Hoges said.

  “You can’t blame me for it,” the other man growled. “Probably you opened it yourself.”

  “I did not,” Cron retorted. He crossed the room and slammed down the window. “Be careful about things like that. If we’re not more cautious we’ll have the cops on us.”

  “If you ask me, I think it’s about time we blow,” Hoges commented. “This town is getting pretty hot for us.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Cron muttered. “I had a disagreeable hour with that simple minded Mrs. Dillon. She’s still afraid to notify the police, but that Nichols girl has been talking with her, and she may make us trouble.”

  “Christopher Nichols has been assigned to the jewel case too,” Hoges added. “He’s no sloth when it comes to action!”

  “Our game has just about played out,” Cron agreed. “But I have one more good customer lined up. I told him to come here at one-thirty to see the picture.”

  “Maybe we could pull this last job,” Hoges agreed. “Does he know much about painting?”

  “Very little. We ought to nip him for three thousand at least.”

  Hoges glanced at his watch.

  “If your customer is coming at one-thirty we’d better get the stage set.”

  “All right,” Cron nodded. “Let’s clean up the joint.”

  Uncovering the genuine Rembrandt, he took one of the copies, and deftly inserted it in the picture frame behind the original painting, but in such a manner that only the back of the canvas was visible. When the frame was replaced only a person with keen eyesight could detect the trickery.

  “We’ll pull the usual gag about identifying the picture with a signature or a symbol,” Cron muttered. “That always goes big.”

  By this time Penny had seen enough to understand how Mrs. Dillon and other gullible customers had been duped. They had been shown the original stolen Rembrandt, but when invited to place an identifying mark on the back of the canvas to insure that they received the same picture, actually signed the fake copy. It was then a simple matter to remove the two paintings from the frame and send the customer the worthless one which bore his mark.

  “Cron and his confederates have worked a fairly safe racket too,” Penny thought. “Even if a customer learns he has been cheated, he’s afraid to go to the police for fear he’ll expose himself as a person willing to buy stolen property!”

  She was not greatly surprised to learn that Cron was a party to the dishonest scheme, notwithstanding that Mrs. Dillon had denied the art critic was the mysterious agent who had visited her. Now Penny knew that the woman had not spoken the truth. Doubtlessly, she had feared to accuse Cron, lest he in turn expose her to the police.

  A knock sounded on the door. Cron and his confederates froze into tense attitudes, then relaxed.

  “It must be our customer,” Cron whispered. “Open the door.”

  As it swung back, Max Lynch stepped into the room. He smiled blandly.

  “Hello, boys. You don’t look as if you were expecting me.”

  “We weren’t—exactly,” Cron muttered. “What do you want, Max? You know I’ve warned you not to come here.”

  The gambler had been making a quick survey of the room. His eyes came to rest on the Rembrandt. He smiled again, unpleasantly.

  “Say, who are you anyway?” Hoges demanded angrily. “What business do you have with us?”

  “My business is with your pal, Hanley Cron. We’re partners.”

  “Partners?” Hoges echoed, his eyes narrowing. He wheeled toward Cron. “If you’ve been double crossing me—”

  “Oh, calm down,” Cron said sharply. “Lynch and I had a little private business together but it has nothing to do with the picture racket.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” the other retorted. “You’ve been collecting all the money. Maybe you’ve stuck some of it into your pocket.”

  “I didn’t come here to start an argument,” Lynch interposed. “But I’ll not stand for any monkey business either. Hand over the pearls, Cron!”

  “I don’t have them. I told you once that girl—”

  “Yes, you’ve told me a good many things, Cron. But I happen to know you have the necklace. Hand it over or—”

  The threat was left unsaid for at that unfortunate moment Penny felt an overpowering impulse to sneeze. She buried her face in her handkerchief but succeeded in only partially muffling the sound.

  Immediately, the closet door was flung open and she was found cowering there. Cron dragged her from her hiding place.

  “So you’ve been listening!” he sneered.

  “Yes,” said Penny boldly. “And I’ve heard enough to confirm what I’ve always believed. You are the person who stole the Rembrandt from the Gage Galleries! You’re a cheap trickster who pawns himself off as a gentleman!”

  As she uttered the tirade, the girl made a quick dive for the door, but Max Lynch caught her by the arm and flung her back.

  “Not so fast, Miss Nichols,” he muttered. “This is once when you won’t go tattling to the police or to that father of yours!”

  The discovery of Penny hiding in the closet had brought an abrupt end to the quarrel. In the face of the new emergency, the four crooks laid differences aside to consider what must be done.

  “Tie her up!” Cron ordered harshly.

  Penny’s arms and legs were securely bound with stout cord, a gag was drawn over her mouth, and she was unceremoniously thrown back into the closet. But she could still hear the men talking.

  “This changes all our plans,” Cron said. “If this girl knew enough to follow us here, the police may soon be on our trail. We must get out of town.”

  “Not without dividing on that necklace job we planned together,” Lynch interposed angrily. “You’ll never leave town until you cough up.”

  Hoges and his unnamed companion were regarding Cron with open suspicion.

  “You’ve been holding out on us,” they accused the art critic.

  Cron realized that he had placed himself in an awkward position.

  “All right, I’ll admit I have the pearl necklace,” he said shortly. “We’ll split four ways, and then no one can kick.”

  Max Lynch did not like the decision, but after grumbling a little, he unwillingly agreed.

  “Now let’s get out of here!” Cron urged nervously. “The necklace is at my room. We’ll have to go there.”

  “What about the Rembrandt?” Hoges asked, turning to look at it.

  “Take my advice and leave it behind,” Lynch spoke up. “That picture is as hot as a rivet. It’s a bulky thing to tote around the country as luggage too.”

  “How about the girl?” Hoges demanded.

  Cron hesitated only a fraction of an instant. “Leave her in the closet.”

  “Maybe she won’t be found very soon,” Lynch remarked.

  “That’s her hard luck,” Cron retorted. “We have to look out for ourselves.”

  “Okay,” Lynch agreed indifferently. “Let’s go.”

  The men hastily gathered up a few possessions which if left behind might serve to identify them. Then they went out the door, locking it after them.

  Penny heard the key turn in the lock, and her heart sank. With a gag over her mouth, she could not even call for help. She was indeed in a desperate plight.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Fire!

  Penny worked at her bonds, but the cords had been fastened securely and she could not free herself. Exhausted, she lay quiet, trying to think of some way to attract attention. She thumped with her feet on
the floor of the closet, but minutes passed and no one came to her assistance.

  It was useless, she thought miserably. There was scant chance that anyone would discover her until it was too late. How maddening it was to know that while she remained helpless, Cron and his confederates were escaping from the city!

  Now that the knowledge was valueless to her, she comprehended the entire plot. Cron and Hoges had worked together, and the latter had smuggled the genuine Rembrandt from the Gage Galleries just as she had suspected. Then instead of trying to sell the stolen picture they made copies of it, disposing of the duplicate many times and at a handsome profit.

  Penny was not certain as to Max Lynch’s connection with the men, but mention of the pearls suggested to her that Cron and the gambler had relieved Mrs. Dillon of her necklace. She recalled that the art critic had made a point of learning the exact hour when the woman would carry the pearls to the bank vault. Was it not likely that he had proposed the meeting solely as a means of providing an opportunity for the robbery?

  When Penny considered Amy Coulter’s part in the affair, she was without a theory. She wondered if she would ever know whether or not the girl was involved with the gang.

  Presently Penny became aware of a crackling noise in the building. At first she paid it slight heed, but as the strange sound became louder, she listened intently. She could hear timbers snapping and cracking and the interior of the closet was growing uncomfortably warm. Even then the horrible truth did not dawn upon her.

  She heard excited shouts and running footsteps. Suddenly Penny distinguished a cry which struck terror to her heart.

  “Fire! Fire!”

  She was momentarily stunned. Then, realizing that she was trapped in a burning building, she struggled desperately to free herself. She kicked with all her strength against the floor and walls of the closet. Finally, she succeeded in loosening her gag.

  “Help! Help!” she screamed.

  Her voice sounded muffled and weak. The top floor was without tenants, and Penny knew that the chance of anyone hearing her was very slight. She was doomed to a horrible fate.

  Her courage failed her for the moment and she sobbed in terror. But she soon had herself in check again and was struggling to free herself. It seemed to her that the cords which held her wrists were a trifle looser—she worked at the knots with her teeth.

  From below she heard a loud clanging, and the shrill whistle of a fire siren. New hope surged over her. Perhaps the firemen who had arrived upon the scene would reach her in time!

  “Even if they shoot a ladder up to the window they’ll never think anyone could be tied up in the closet,” she reasoned. “If I’m to escape, it will be from my own efforts.”

  Penny knew that the fire was rapidly spreading, for she could hear a steady roar which rapidly grew louder. The closet was so warm that she found difficulty in breathing. She could plainly smell smoke.

  Then suddenly, almost when she had given up hope, she was free. Her wrists were bruised and bleeding but that was of no consequence. It required only an instant to untie the cords which bound her ankles.

  A new fear assailed her. The closet door might be locked!

  She turned the knob and laughed aloud in hysterical relief. It had not been locked. But as she darted out into the room she inhaled smoke-laden air and began to cough and choke. Covering her face with her dress, she groped her way to the door.

  It did not give as she tried it. Then she remembered that Cron and his confederates had locked it from the outside.

  She threw herself against the wooden panels with all her strength, but quickly comprehended that she could not break them. She ran to the window and looked down.

  Smoke was swirling upward in such large black clouds that she caught only an indistinct view of the street below. The big red fire engine had pulled up beside the building and rubber-coated men were squirting streams of water on the roaring blaze.

  Penny lifted the window sill and climbed out on the ledge. She clung there, waving one hand to attract attention to her plight.

  Below, when the smoke cleared a little, she could see a solid bank of spectators, edged off neatly by a cordon of police. Others were trying to push their way through the crowd. A great clanging of bells announced the arrival of another fire company. It pulled in alongside the one already on the job.

  With the precision of a war machine, the newcomers drove into action. A hydrant was quickly tapped and a long reel of hose swiftly unwound and connected. A water tower arose from the ground as if by magic, and soon a great stream was pouring from its peak into the blazing building.

  Penny shouted for help, although she knew her voice would not carry above the roar of the flames. Then as she was beginning to despair, she was seen.

  With quick discipline, the firemen placed a ladder directly beneath the window. Slowly it arose, section on section.

  Now that rescue was in sight, Penny suddenly vanished through the window back into the room from which she had escaped. The crowd below groaned in unison, fearing that the girl had lost her courage and was afraid to descend the ladder from such a height.

  But Penny quickly reappeared at the window, bearing two bulky objects in her arms. She had determined to save the stolen Rembrandt and one of the copies which would serve as damaging evidence against Cron and his confederates.

  A fireman swiftly mounted the ladder to help the girl descend.

  “You’ll have to leave those pictures,” he said tersely. “This wall is about ready to fall and we have to work fast.”

  “I can’t leave them behind,” Penny wailed. “This one painting is worth thousands of dollars!”

  “Then give them to me,” the fireman ordered tersely.

  He helped Penny step from the ledge to the ladder.

  “Don’t look down,” he commanded.

  Penny gripped the sides of the ladder, descending very slowly, with the fireman just below to steady her should she grow dizzy. She was not afraid although the ladder weaved under her weight. Even when a cloud of dense smoke caused her to choke and cough, she did not falter.

  As the ground loomed up, she glanced back at the window ledge where she had clung only a moment before. Flames were shooting out, licking greedily at the top rungs of the ladder.

  A great shout went up from the crowd as Penny stepped to the ground uninjured.

  “Here you are, Miss, safe and sound,” the fireman said grimly. “And just in time too!”

  Scarcely had the ladders been removed from the building when the wall fell inward. Penny did not speak for a minute. Now that it was all over, she felt weak and shaken. Her escape had been such a narrow one.

  “Are you all right?” the fireman asked, taking her arm.

  “Quite,” Penny smiled. “You needn’t hold me. I’ll not faint.”

  “You have pluck, Miss. And your wrists are cut too. I’ll call the doctor.”

  “No, don’t bother. It’s nothing,” Penny protested. “Where are my pictures?”

  “Here.” The fireman handed them over to her. “It was foolish going back after them. You might have lost your life.”

  “I realize that now,” Penny responded soberly, “but I just had to get those pictures. Thank you for helping me save them.”

  Before she could add that she felt deeply grateful for her own rescue as well, the fireman was called to another post.

  With a policeman as a bodyguard, Penny pushed her way through the crowd, the precious Rembrandt and the duplicate clutched under her arm.

  “I’ll send you to the hospital where you can have those wrists properly dressed,” the policeman said. “How did you cut them?”

  “Trying to get out of the closet,” Penny answered. “I was bound and gagged and locked in.”

  Tersely, in response to the officer’s questions, she related her terrifying experience in the studio, and displayed the paintings as evidence of the plot in which Cron and his friends were involved.

  “If the police go
to Cron’s studio right away they may be able to capture the entire gang,” she finished. “But there’s not a second to lose!”

  “Leave it to me,” the policeman assured her grimly.

  He communicated with headquarters and in an incredibly short time a squad car picked up Penny and the officer, driving with all speed toward the studio of Hanley Cron.

  CHAPTER XX

  The Secret Revealed

  When Hanley Cron and his three companions abandoned Penny to her fate, they hurriedly left the building. But in passing down the hallway, Hoges carelessly snubbed out a cigarette and dropped it on the floor.

  The cigarette smoldered and did not go out. Soon a tiny flame leaped up, igniting the dirty old carpet which stretched the length of the hall. The fire spread rapidly, fed by wood that was very dry and brittle.

  Unaware that they had started a disastrous blaze, the four men fled to Hanley Cron’s studio apartment to make plans for a hasty departure.

  “The game’s up,” Cron said to his companions. “It Christopher Nichols ever finds his daughter, he’ll put the heat on us right. We can’t get out of this town soon enough.”

  “Divide up the money, and we’ll skip,” Hoges answered gruffly.

  Cron tore the cover from a day bed couch, and with a sharp knife slit open the mattress. He removed a neat, thick roll of bills.

  “How much?” Max demanded.

  “Forty thousand. Not a bad haul for a little over a week’s work.” Cron laughed triumphantly. “We sold that picture seven times, and not one of the suckers dared to squawk. If that Nichols girl hadn’t horned in, the racket would have been good for another twenty thousand at least.”

  “We ought to have kept the picture,” Hoges complained. “Then we could start up in another city and try the same thing over again.”

  Cron shook his head. “Too dangerous. If that Nichols girl should escape—”

  “That’s where we made a big mistake,” Lynch cut in. “We shouldn’t have left anything to chance.”

  “It’s certain enough,” Cron laughed harshly. “She may be a smart girl, but she’s not smart enough to get out of that closet.”

  “Let’s divide up the money and get out of here,” Lynch said nervously. “Forty thousand dollars—that’s ten grand apiece.”