The Magic Curtain Part 29

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 d.o.g.g.i.ng Jeanne's footsteps!" she muttered. "I must warn her.

"He, too, it was, who sank the package in s...o...b..ll'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.

The short man appeared not to notice. He uttered a few words, waved his hands excitedly, then turned as if expecting to be led away.

"A Frenchman," Florence thought. "Who else would wave his arms so wildly?"

Then a thought struck her all of a heap. "This is Jeanne's little Frenchman, the one who bears a message for her, who has come all the way from France to deliver it."

At once she became wildly excited. She had notions about that message.

Strangely fantastic notions they were; this she was obliged to admit. But they very nearly drove her to committing a strange act. In a moment more she would have dashed up to the little Frenchman. She would undoubtedly have seized him by the arm and exclaimed:

"You are looking for Pet.i.te Jeanne. Come! I will lead you to her!"

This did not happen. There was a moment of indecision. Then, before her very eyes, the dark one, after casting a suspicious glance her way, bundled his prey into a waiting taxi and whisked him away.

"Gone!" Consternation seized her. But, suddenly, her mind cleared.

"What was that number?" She racked her brain. Tom Howe, the young detective who had pointed out the dark-faced one, had given her the street number believed to be his hangout.

"One, three," she said aloud. "One, three, six, four, Burgoyne Place.

That was it!

"Oh, taxi! Taxi!" She went das.h.i.+ng away after a vacant car.

Having overtaken the cab, she gave the driver hasty instructions, and then settled back against the cus.h.i.+ons.

Her head was in a whirl. What was it she planned to do? To follow a dangerous criminal? Alone? To frustrate his plans single-handed? The thing seemed tremendous, preposterous.

"Probably not going to his haunt at all. May not be his haunt."

Pressing her hands against her temples, she closed her eyes. For a s.p.a.ce of several moments she b.u.mped along.

Then she straightened up. The cab had ceased its b.u.mping. They were rolling along on smooth paving. This was not to be expected.

"Driver! Driver!" she exclaimed, sliding the gla.s.s window to one side with a bang. "Where are we?"

"Kinzie and Carpen."

"Oh, oh!" She could have wept. "You're going north. The address I gave you is south."

"It can't be, Miss."

"It is!"

"Then I'm wrong."

"Of course! Turn about and go south to 2200. Then I'll tell you the way."

Once again they glided and jolted along. In the end they pulled up before a stone building. A two-story structure that might once have been a mansion, it stood between two towering warehouses.

"That's the place. There's the number."

She hesitated. Should she ask the driver to remain? "No, they'll see him and make a run for it." She had thought of a better way. She paid him and as if frightened by his surroundings he sped away.

"Not a moment to lose!" she whispered. Some sixth sense seemed to tell her that this was the place--that the dark one and his victim were inside.

Speeding to a corner where a boy cried his papers, she thrust half a dollar into his hand, and whispered a command:

"Bring a policeman to that house!" She poked a thumb over her shoulder.

"You'll need three of 'em!" the boy muttered, as he hurried away. She did not hear. She was speeding back.

"Now!" she breathed, squaring her shoulders.

Up the stone steps, a thrust at the doorbell. Ten seconds. No answer. A vigorous thump. A kick. Still no response.

Examining the door, she found it to be a double one.

"Rusty catches. Easy!

"But then?"

She did not stand on ceremony. Stepping back a pace, she threw her st.u.r.dy form against the door. It gave way, letting her into a hallway. To the right of the hallway was a door.

A man was in the act of springing at her when someone from behind exclaimed:

"Wait! It's a frail!"

The words appeared to upset the other's plans, or at least to halt them for a second.

During that second the girl plunged head foremost. Striking him amids.h.i.+ps, she capsized him and took all the wind from his sail in one and the same instant.

She regained her balance just in time to see a long, blue gun being leveled at her. It was in the hand of the evil-eyed one.

Not for naught had she labored in the gymnasium. Before the gun flashed, it went whirling through s.p.a.ce, crashed a window and was gone.

As for the evil-eyed one, he too vanished. At the same moment three stolid policemen came stamping in. The newsboy had done yeoman duty.

The offender who had been overturned by Florence was duly mopped up. The evil-eyed one was sought in vain. Groaning in a corner was the short Frenchman.

His arms were bound behind him in a curious fas.h.i.+on; in fact they were so bound by ropes and a stick that his arms might have been twisted from their sockets, and this by a few simple turns of that stick.