TRAPPED IN THE OLD MUSEUM
Florence had little fear for the outcome of this rather amusing
adventure. She had been trailed over the ice by possible admirers before.
She did not care to allow this one to catch up with her, that was all.
She would skim along down to the far end of the lagoon where, a mile and
a half away, the dome of the old museum loomed, a black bulk in the dark.
She would then make the broad turn which this end of the lagoon afforded.
She would have a clear mile and a half in which to put forth her best
efforts. Surely she could outdistance the stranger and, with skates off,
be away over the slope and down the beach toward the O Moo before he had
reached this end of the lagoon once more.
Saving her strength on the down trip, keeping an even distance from the
mysterious skater, she glided onward toward the old museum.
Just as she neared the broad end, where she was to make the turn, she
glanced back. At that very moment, the flash of a powerful automobile
lamp on the park drive a half mile away fell full upon the stranger's
face.
A little cry escaped her lips. This was no mere youthful enthusiast. His
was the face of one whom few would trust. At that very moment his visage
was twisted into an ugly snarl which said plainer than words:
"Now, young lady, I have you!"
"Why!" she whispered to herself, "that might be the face of a murderer!"
At that same instant, there flashed through her mind the note of warning
tacked on the schooner. Perhaps this was the man who had placed it there.
In her consternation, she missed a stroke. One skate struck a crack in
the ice; the clamp slipped; the skate went flying; disaster impended.
Florence was not a person to be easily defeated. One instant she had
kicked the remaining skate from her foot and the next she was racing away
over the glistening ice. She stumbled and all but fell. But, gaining
courage from the near-by sloping bank, she plunged on.
Now she was ten yards away, now five. The metal cut-cut of skates behind
her grew louder. Redoubling her efforts, she at last flung herself upon
the snowy slope, to climb on hands and knees to the crest, then to race
across a level space and gain the sheltering shadows of the museum.
It had been a hard struggle. For a few seconds she leaned panting against
the wall. One skate was still in her hand. Without thinking why, she
tucked this skate into the belt of her coat.
Her mind was in a whirl. What should she do? She was not safe here. For
the man to remove his skates and scale the bank required but a moment.
They were alone in the frozen park, a mile from any protection she could
be sure of. She was not a good runner.
"No," she whispered, "I couldn't do it."
She chanced to glance up, and her lips parted in a suppressed
exclamation. There was a window open above her. True, it was some fifteen
feet up, but there was an iron grating on the window beneath it.
"If only the grating is not rusted out," she murmured hopefully, and the
next instant she had reached the ledge of brickwork and was shaking the
railing vigorously.
"It'll hold I guess."
Up she went like a monkey climbing the side of a cage. At the top of this
grating there came an agonizing second in which she felt herself in
danger of toppling over before she gained her balance on the window ledge
above. Her splendid training served her well. She threw herself across
the stone casing and, for a few seconds, lay there listening.
Hardly had she dropped noiselessly to the floor, some three feet below,
than she heard the thud-thud of hurrying footsteps on the hard-packed
snow. Holding her breath, she crouched there motionless, hoping beyond
hope that she might hear those footsteps pass on around the building.
In this hope she was disappointed. Like a hound who has lost his scent,
the man doubled back, then paused beneath her window.
The girl's heart raced on. Was she trapped? The man, she felt sure,
would, somehow, gain access to the building. Nevertheless, she might
escape him.
The building had once been a museum, the central building of a great
world exposition. No longer used as a museum, it stood there, an immense,
unused structure, slowly dropping into decay. The floor on which she had
landed was really a broad balcony with a rusty railing at its edge. From
where she crouched she could see down into the main floor where
stretched, twining and inter-twining, mile upon mile of rooms and
corridors.
Slipping out of her shoes, she buttoned them to her belt, then stole
noiselessly along the balcony. Moving ever in the shadow of the wall, she
came to a rusty iron stair. Here she paused.
Would the stair creak, give her away? The man might at this moment be in
the building on the ground floor. Yet, on this narrow balcony, she was
sure sooner or later to be trapped. She must risk it.
Placing one trembling foot on the top step, she allowed her weight to
settle upon it. There followed no sound. Breathing more easily, she began
the descent. Only once did her heart stand still; a bit of loose plaster,
touched by her foot, bounded downward.
She dared not pause. The die was cast.
Once on the ground floor, she sprang across a patch of light and found
herself in the shadows once more.
Moving with the greatest possible speed, yet with even greater caution,
avoiding bits of plaster, rustling papers and other impediments in her
course, she made her way along a wall which to her heightened imagination
seemed to stretch on for a mile.
Once as she paused she thought she caught the sound of heavy breathing,
followed by a dull thud. "Must have come in through my window," she
decided, and, indeed there appeared to be no other means of access; all
the ground floor doors and windows were either heavily shuttered or
grated.
"These shutters and gratings," she told herself, trying to still the fear
in her heart by thinking of other things, "are relics of other days. Here
millions of dollars worth of relics, curios, and costly jewels were once
displayed. Mounted animals and birds, aisle after aisle of them, rooms
full of rich furs and costly silks, jewels too in abundance. They're all
gone now, but the shutters are still here and I am trapped. There's only
one exit and that guarded. Well, perhaps another somewhere. Anyway, I can
wait. Daylight drives wolves to their dens. If only I can reach the other
balcony!"
She had been in the building in the days of its glory, and had visited
one of the curators, a friend of her mother. There were, on this other
balcony, she remembered, a perfect labyrinth of rooms--cubbyholes and
offices. Once she gained access to these she probably would be safe.
But here was another stair. She must go up.
Only partially enshrouded in darkness, it might betray her.
Dropping on hands and knees, she began to climb. A bit of glass cut her
stocking. She did not notice that. A crumpled sheet of paper fluttered
away; that was maddening. A broad patch of light from far above her head
threw her out in bold relief for a second. For a second only. Then,
leaping to her feet, she raced down the balcony and again entered the
shadows.
Pressing a hand to her breast to still her heart's wild beating, she
listened intently.
Did she hear? Yes, there could be no mistake, there came a soft pit-pat,
the footsteps of a person walking on tiptoes.
"Like one of those mounted tigers come to life," she thought with a
shudder.
Slowly she moved along the wall. If only she could reach a door! If she
only could!
But that door was a distance of some fifty yards away. Could she make it?
Stealthily she moved forward. Stopping now and then to listen, she caught
as before the stealthy pit-pat of footsteps. Once some object rattled on
the floor and she heard a muffled exclamation. Then she caught a creaking
sound--was he mounting the stair? Had the banister creaked?
Now she was twenty yards from the door, now ten, now five, and now--now
she gripped its casing. Excitedly she swung around, only to find herself
facing a rusted square of steel. The labyrinth of rooms was closed to
her. She was trapped on a narrow balcony with no way to turn for escape.
As she crouched there trembling, her hand touched something cold--her
skate. Here was hope; if the worst came to worst, here was a formidable
weapon and she was possessed of the power to swing it.
Cautiously she drew it from her belt, then crouching low, gripping the
small end, she waited.
Came again the pit-pat-pit-pat. He was on the balcony, she felt sure of
that now. Her hand gripped the skate until the blade cut through the
skin, but still she crouched there waiting.
* * * * * * * *
When Florence failed to return, Marian and Lucile might have been seen
pacing the floor while Marian pretended to study and made a failure of
it.
"I think we should go out and look for her," said Lucile.
"Probably just a bit overcome by the wonderful skating in the moonlight,"
answered Marian, in what was intended as an unworried tone, "but we'll go
down to the lagoon and have a look."
"Wait just a moment," said Lucile as she disappeared inside her
laboratory. When she returned, something beneath her coat bulged, but
Marian did not ask her what it might be.
After dropping down the rope ladder they hurried along the beach and
across the park to the lagoon. From the ridge above it they could see the
greater part of the lagoon's surface. Not a single moving figure darkened
its surface. For fully five minutes they stood there, looking, listening.
Then Marian led the way to the edge of the ice.
By the side of a clump of bushes she had spied something.
"What's that?"
"Pair of men's rubbers," replied Lucile kicking at them.
For a full moment the two stood and stared at one another.
"She--she isn't down here," said Lucile at last. "Perhaps we had better
go up and look among the boats."
Silently they walked back to where the hundred boats were looming in the
dark, their masts like slender arms reaching for the moon. As they
rounded a small schooner, they were startled by a footstep.
"Don't be afraid. It is only I," called a friendly voice. "Out for a
stroll in the moonlight. Wonderful, isn't it?"
Marian recognized the young man of the schooner, Mark Pence. She had
talked with him once before. He had helped her home with her two dozen
cans of label-less fruits and vegetables. Having liked him then, she
decided to trust him now, so in a few well-chosen words she confided
their fears for their companion's safety.
"Shucks!" said the boy. "That'll be all right. She'll show up all right.
Probably went farther than she intended. But--sure, I'll take a turn with
you through our little village of boats. Be glad to."
They wandered in and out among the various crafts. Scarcely a word was
spoken until they came to the great black bulk of the scow inhabited by
the Chinamen.
"I'll rout 'em out. Might know something," said Mark.
He knocked several times but received no response. He was about to enter
when Lucile whispered:
"Wait a minute. Were--were you in the war?"
"A trifle. Not to amount to much."
"Know how to use a gas mask?"
"Well, rather. Six seconds is my record. Know that old joke about the
'quick and the dead,' don't you? I was quick."
Lucile smiled. She was holding out an oblong package fastened to a strap,
also a small glass bottle.
"Take--take these," she whispered nervously. "You can't tell about those
folks. Break the bottle if they go after you, then put on the mask. It's
pretty powerful gas but does no permanent injury."
Mark smiled as he slipped the strap over his shoulder. "Nonsense, I
guess," he murmured, "but might not be. Just like going over the top, you
never can tell." He drew a small flashlight from his pocket, then pushed
the door open.
He was gone for what to the girls seemed an exceedingly long time. When
he returned he had little enough to tell.
"Not a soul in the place, far as I could see," he reported. "But, man,
Oh, man! It's a queer old cellar. Smells like opium and chop-suey. And
talk about narrow winding stairs! Why, I bet I went down--" He paused to
stare at the scow. "Why that tub isn't more than ten feet high and I went
down a good twenty feet. Rooms and rooms in it. Something queer about
that."
The girls were too anxious for Florence's safety to give much attention
to what he was saying.
"Well, we are greatly obliged to you," said Lucile, taking her bottle and
gas mask. "I guess there's nothing to do but go back to the yacht and
wait."
With a friendly good-night they turned and made their way back to the O
Moo.