The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  Before the girls had finished their ice cream, Mr. and Mrs. Brady returned home from the bridge party.

  “Remember, not a word about what happened,” Jane warned as footsteps were heard on the porch.

  Mr. and Mrs. Brady greeted the girls cordially. Themselves youthful in spirit, they enjoyed the society of young people and never objected when Madge overran the house with her friends. If they noticed that Cara looked pale and slightly ill at ease, they made no mention of it.

  A few minutes later the girls departed, gratefully accepting Mr. Brady’s offer to drive them home in his car. Madge had hoped to speak alone with Cara before she left, but the opportunity did not present itself.

  “I’ll see her tomorrow at school,” she thought. “I mean to find out more about what happened tonight at the Swenster mansion. Cara isn’t the sort to be frightened over nothing. I’m inclined to think something queer may be going on there.”

  Madge had a certain instinct for adventure; her many thrilling experiences were the envy of her friends. Each summer she was privileged to spend many pleasant months at her uncle’s fishing lodge at Loon Lake, Canada. There she had met Jack French, a young forest ranger, who had taken more than an ordinary interest in her. Her friendship for an orphan, Anne Faraday, had plunged her into a baffling search for a valuable paper. The story of this interesting adventure is related in the first volume of the Madge Sterling series, entitled “The Missing Formula.”

  More recently, she had been involved in a strange kidnapping case. Arriving at Cheltham Bay to visit her friend Enid, she had found the Burnett yacht abandoned. In trying to discover what became of Mr. Burnett she was brought into dangerous contact with a fanatical group of Zudi Drum worshipers. This story is recounted in the volume “The Deserted Yacht.”

  “I’ve often wondered why the Swenster mansion has been kept boarded up all these years,” Madge reflected as she undressed for bed. “It must have been quite a show place at one time.”

  She was still thinking of the old estate when she tumbled into bed. Perhaps Cara’s tale of “ghosts” had disturbed her more than she knew for her dreams were of the wildest sort. It seemed to her that she had slept half the night when she was awakened by a loud cry from the basement. Actually, she had been asleep only a few minutes.

  “What was that?” she asked herself nervously, sitting up in bed. “I hope it isn’t a burglar!”

  The sound was not repeated but she could hear something banging about in the basement. After a moment of indecision she decided to investigate. Slipping into her bathrobe, she stole softly down the stairway. She could hear someone coming up the basement steps and scarcely knew whether to retreat or stand her ground.

  Suddenly the cellar door was flung open and Uncle George stomped angrily into the kitchen.

  “Say, who left a tub of water at the foot of the stairs?” he demanded crossly. “Look at me!”

  The sight struck Madge as extremely funny and she made the mistake of laughing.

  “If this is your idea of a joke—” Mr. Brady began threateningly.

  Madge hastily assured him that the tub of water had not been intended for him, but it was some time before she could clear herself. She finally coaxed him into a better humor and left him foraging contentedly in the refrigerator.

  The next day she did not forget her resolution to question Cara Wayne. During algebra class, when the teacher’s back was turned, she passed a note, asking Cara to wait for her after school.

  “I want you to tell me more about the Swenster ghost,” Madge commanded as they linked arms and started away from the building.

  “Oh, dear, I suppose I’ll never hear the last of it,” Cara sighed. “I’m willing to admit it couldn’t have been a ghost, but there was somebody in that yard!”

  “I have a splendid idea!” Madge confided, watching her friend mischievously. “Let’s go to the old mansion now and see what we can discover.”

  Cara shrank away.

  “No, thanks. I don’t care for the place.”

  “It’s broad daylight,” Madge insisted. “And remember, for a week you’re supposed to obey the commands of any member of Skull and Crossbones.”

  “Oh, all right,” Cara submitted unwillingly, “but I don’t see what you expect to find there.”

  Madge did not respond. In truth, she could not have told what she hoped to learn. It was pure intuition that had inspired the little adventure. Turning down Summit Street, she urged Cara to a faster pace.

  “Don’t look so glum,” she protested gayly. “It will be fun! Before we’re through, I’ll warrant you’ll be glad I brought you along!”

  CHAPTER III

  The Swenster Mansion

  The Swenster mansion was a large, rambling affair, set back some distance from the other modern dwellings on Summit Street. A high, untrimmed hedge at the front and large evergreen trees hid the grounds from view. The windows had been boarded up for years and most persons could not recall when the house had been occupied. It had fast fallen into decay. Shutters dangled loosely on rusty hinges, weeds choked the lawn, everything needed paint. Yet, with the passing years, the old mansion had retained something of its former elegance.

  Madge and Cara paused briefly to survey the place from the front, then walked swiftly around to the rear.

  “We may get into trouble if we’re caught trespassing,” Cara ventured timidly.

  “No danger of that when the owner hasn’t been heard from in years,” Madge returned, undisturbed. She rattled the back gate and was surprised to find it locked. “That’s queer. It was unfastened yesterday afternoon when I stopped.”

  “It wasn’t locked last night,” Cara added with growing uneasiness. “Let’s not try to get in.”

  Madge was not to be so easily discouraged.

  “We can climb over easy as scat!” she declared.

  “But if someone should see us?”

  “Let them. At the worst, we can only be run out. Come on.”

  She swung over the fence with an ease which her friend could not hope to duplicate. Still protesting, Cara permitted herself to be helped over.

  Madge looked about the grounds with keen interest. A winding walk led to a tangled, overgrown rose garden. She saw a tiny cement pool, clogged with old dead leaves and sticks. Beyond, a sundial of peculiar design and construction, attracted her attention.

  “Isn’t it quaint!” she exclaimed admiringly. “Let’s see if we can tell what time it is.”

  “I know I can’t,” Cara insisted. “I never could make head nor tail of them.”

  The dial rested upon a concrete pedestal which reached waist high when the girls stood beside it. Upon the brass face appeared slightly raised Roman numerals and the triangular gnomon cast its shadow across the four.

  “It’s just a little after four o’clock,” Madge announced.

  “That’s a safe guess,” Cara laughed. “You know school lets out at ten till.”

  “You don’t need to guess with a sundial such as this. Half of them won’t tell time accurately. That’s because they’re turned out at the factory and sent all over the country. To be accurate a sundial must be made especially for the section where it is used.”

  “This one does look home made,” Cara acknowledged. “It’s nice work though.”

  Madge would have enjoyed wandering about in the garden but she could tell that her friend was eager to get away. Reluctantly, she gave her attention to the matter which had drawn her to the mansion.

  “Tell me where it was that you saw your ghost,” she commanded.

  “It wasn’t a dozen paces from where we’re standing. Someone was digging here in the garden.”

  For the first time Madge carefully studied the ground. She paused a short distance from the sundial.

  “There’s loose earth here,” she announced, stirring it with the toe of her shoe. “I guess you were right about seeing someone.”

  “Certainly I was right. I hope you don’t think I’m afrai
d of my shadow.”

  “Of course not, Cara. I wonder who could have been digging here and for what purpose?”

  “Maybe someone was burying a dead cat.”

  Madge shook her head and smiled.

  “Folks don’t go to other people’s yards to bury their pets. Think of a better reason.”

  “Gold!” Cara cried promptly. “Perhaps there’s a treasure hidden here.”

  “I’d like to think so, but I’m afraid that only happens in story books. Cara, what did your ghost do when he saw you?”

  “I don’t think he saw me at all. Anyway, I didn’t wait long enough to find out.”

  Madge examined the loose earth but as she had no implement with which to dig, was unable to tell whether or not anything had been buried. Cara displayed slight interest and moved away. Madge completely forgot her until she came back dragging a spade.

  “Here, if you must dig around in the dirt, use this.”

  Madge seized upon the tool, demanding to know where it had been discovered.

  Cara indicated a large lilac bush only a few feet away. “I found it beneath the branches.”

  “This must be the shovel your ghost was using last night! See, there’s a little dirt still on it. If it had been lying there long, it would be rusty. Cara, I’ll wager a cent—a good Indian cent—that you frightened someone away from here last evening.”

  “Then it was mutual.”

  “Perhaps the person who hid this shovel intends to come back again,” Madge went on reflectively. “Now what I can’t understand is why anyone would come to a boarded-up mansion at midnight to dig up the garden.”

  Cara, who was not particularly imaginative, could not suggest a possible explanation. She watched with hopeful interest as her friend began to turn up the loose earth. After Madge had dug for fifteen minutes she decided it was not worth the effort.

  “Shucks! I’m convinced there’s nothing hidden here. And if anyone should find us digging up the yard it might be hard to explain.”

  She carefully repacked the soil in the hole, and then to Cara’s wonderment, returned the spade to the place where it had been found under the lilac.

  “Why take such pains?” she asked.

  “Because I don’t want your ‘ghost’ to know we’ve used his spade,” Madge explained. “I’m curious to learn what there is worth digging for in this yard. I mean to find out too!”

  “Just how do you propose to go about it?” Cara questioned skeptically.

  “Oh, by keeping my eyes and ears open. You can tell that whoever was here last night didn’t care to be observed. It’s my opinion he’ll come back to do some more digging.”

  “Well, if he does, the occasion will be conspicuous for my absence,” Cara declared feelingly.

  She glanced at her wrist watch and flashed it before her friend’s eyes.

  “Do you see what time it is? I must be getting home.”

  Madge gazed regretfully toward the boarded-up house and wished that she might at least peep inside to see what secrets it guarded. It would be relatively simple to pry loose a board, but of course she had no intention of ever doing that. As it was, she felt somewhat guilty because she had trespassed.

  She followed Cara to the gate and after looking about to see that the alley was deserted, climbed over. They walked thoughtfully toward their homes, parting at the Wayne residence.

  “Better keep this little affair under your hat,” Madge advised. “If you do, we may be able to have some fun out of it.”

  “Trust me,” Cara promised. “But if you’re planning any midnight visits to the mansion or anything of the kind, count me out.”

  Madge laughed and turned away. Already she was planning another trip to the old mansion, but she thought it wise not to mention it just yet.

  “It behooves me to learn a few facts about the Swensters before I jump to hasty conclusions,” she told herself, as she continued home. “Between now and my next visit, I must unearth the family history.”

  CHAPTER IV

  The Swenster Pearls

  School did not keep the following day, and early afternoon found Madge and Cara camped on the Brady front porch, comparing notes.

  “I couldn’t learn a thing about the Swenster mansion except that it’s owned by an old lady who hasn’t been near the place in years,” the latter confessed regretfully.

  “My luck wasn’t a great deal better,” Madge admitted. “However, I did find out the name of a woman who may be able to tell us what we want to know. Her name is Hilda Grandale.”

  “Haven’t I heard of her before?”

  “Probably. She’s a real old lady—eighty or ninety. She is reputed to know all the old residents of the town and their histories. In her day she was considered quite a belle.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “That’s the catch. She moved to the country a few years ago. She’s living on a farm with her sister. It’s in Cahoun County.”

  “Then we’ll have to scratch her off our list.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Uncle George might be persuaded to loan us his coupe. We could drive out there in a couple of hours.”

  The idea seemed an excellent one so the girls went to search for Mr. Brady. They found him in the back yard washing the car. With shrewd calculation they snatched up rags and aided him in polishing the nickel work. Mr. Brady eyed them somewhat suspiciously and was not surprised when Madge inquired: “By the way, Uncle George, will you need your old hack for a few hours?”

  “Just for that, I’ll not let you have it,” he told her sternly, but the next minute he smiled and turned over the keys.

  Madge backed the coupe out the driveway, missed a telephone pole by scant inches, and sped down the street. She took a main highway out of the city and soon was in open country. Having previously inquired the way, she thought they would have no difficulty in finding the farmhouse where Hilda Grandale lived. Soon after the speedometer registered thirty miles, Cara spied the name for which they searched upon a roadside mailbox.

  The gate was open and they drove into the barn yard. Squawking chickens darted to safety and a flock of geese waddled off hissing their protest. The commotion proclaimed their approach, and as the girls halted the car, a woman peered out the kitchen door. She hastily straightened her hair and came down the walk to meet them.

  Madge stated their mission, saying that they wished to visit Mrs. Grandale.

  “I’m not sure Mother is awake,” the woman returned doubtfully. “She usually takes a nap about this time. But if she’s up I know she’ll be glad to see you. She does enjoy company and so few people ever get out this far.”

  She led the girls to the house, seating them in a prim, old fashioned living room. They begged her not to disturb Mrs. Grandale, but she went upstairs, returning to say that her mother was awake and would be down shortly.

  In a few minutes, the old lady came slowly down the stairs. She was dressed in severe black, with a long full skirt which swept the floor, and wore a white lace cap. Her face was wrinkled and sunken but her eyes were as bright as those of a young girl. She beamed kindly upon Madge and Cara as they arose to greet her. They did not offer to help her to a chair for they guessed that she was proud of her ability to get around by herself.

  “Let me see, do I know your names?” she inquired, studying their faces intently. “You’re not the Sterling girl, are you?”

  “Yes, I am,” Madge acknowledged in astonishment. She never before had met Mrs. Grandale. “How did you guess?”

  “Didn’t guess,” the old lady cackled in delight. “I could tell those features anywhere. I used to know your father, my dear, and you’re the picture of him.”

  Madge looked a trifle embarrassed at the reference to her father. His name was seldom mentioned in the Brady household although no disgrace was attached to his memory. He had simply disappeared when Madge was a child, and no one had ever heard of him again. Some day she hoped to learn what had taken him away from Claymore, but at
the present she preferred that Mrs. Grandale not dwell upon the subject.

  She introduced Cara Wayne, and for a time it was next to impossible for the girls to get a word in edgewise, as Mrs. Grandale immediately went into a long monologue on the subject of the Wayne family history. By concerted action they finally managed to switch the subject to the Swenster mansion.

  “In my day, it was the house of Claymore,” Mrs. Grandale declared. “And what a pity that it has fallen into decay! Not that folks didn’t say the Swensters would rue the day they built it—it was much too fine for the city even in prosperous times.”

  “Tell us about the Swensters,” Madge encouraged.

  “They were a proud family,” the old lady ruminated, obviously relishing the tale. “At one time, old Mr. Swenster practically ran the town. His daughters were in society and they thought the world depended upon the swish of their skirts. At least Florence did.”

  “How many girls were there?” Cara asked.

  “Two. Rose and Florence. Rose was the younger and the favorite with her father. She was a pretty thing too. Far too handsome to suit Florence. I think I have a picture somewhere.”

  “Oh, never mind,” Madge said hastily. She was interested in the story which she felt Mrs. Grandale was on the verge of telling, and did not wish her to digress lest she forget.

  “What was I saying? Oh, yes, Rose and Florence were rivals and they were both anxious to get their hands on the Swenster pearls.”

  “I never heard about them,” Madge remarked. “Were they valuable?”

  “They were reputed to be worth a small fortune. The pearls had been bought abroad generations before and were perfectly matched. They were to be passed down to the eldest daughter.”

  “Then Florence was to have them,” Cara observed.

  “According to custom, yes. But that was what caused all the trouble. During his lifetime, old Mr. Swenster permitted the girls to take turns wearing the pearls. They were very jealous of their father’s favor in regard to the privilege, or so rumor had it. Florence thought the pearls were hers and resented having her sister even wear them.