A Mystery Story for Girls
THE MAGIC CURTAIN
by
ROY J. SNELL
The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago
Copyright 1932 by
The Reilly & Lee Co.
Printed in the U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I A Face in the Dark 11
II Petite Jeanne's Masquerade 22
III On the Verge of Adventure 32
IV A Living Statue 40
V The Secret Place 47
VI The Woman in Black 55
VII Dreams of Other Days 65
VIII An Island Mystery 70
IX Caught in the Act 76
X The One Within the Shadows 88
XI A Dance for the Spirits 100
XII The Lost Cameo 106
XIII A Nymph of the Night 121
XIV The Disappearing Parcel 132
XV Strange Voices 144
XVI Through the Window 156
XVII Startling Revelations 167
XVIII They That Pass in the Night 177
XIX The Unseen Eye 185
XX A Place of Enchantment 191
XXI From the Heights to Despair 197
XXII The Armored Horse 203
XXIII Florence Solves a Mystery 215
XXIV The Black Packet 223
XXV The Bearded Stranger 228
XXVI An Exciting Message 236
XXVII Dreaming 240
XXVIII Florence Crashes In 247
XXIX It Happened at Midnight 259
XXX A Surprise Party 268
XXXI Florence Meets the Lady in Black 278
XXXII Sparkling Treasure 287
THE MAGIC CURTAIN
CHAPTER I
A FACE IN THE DARK
It was that mystic hour when witches are abroad in the land: one o'clock
in the morning. The vast auditorium of the Civic Opera House was a well
of darkness and silence.
Had you looked in upon this scene at this eerie hour you would most
certainly have said, "There is no one here. This grandest of all
auditoriums is deserted." But you would have been mistaken.
Had you been seated in the box at the left side of this great auditorium,
out of that vast silence you might have caught a sound. Faint,
indistinct, like the rustle of a single autumn leaf, like a breath of air
creeping over a glassy sea at night, it would have arrested your
attention and caused you to focus your eyes upon a pair of exceedingly
long drapes at the side of the opera hall. These drapes might have
concealed some very long windows. In reality they did not.
Had you fixed your attention upon this spot you might, in that faint
light that was only a little less than absolute darkness, have seen a
vague, indistinct spot of white. This spot, resting as it did at a
position above the bottom of the drape where a short person's head would
have come, might have startled you.
And well it might. For this was in truth the face of a living being. This
mysterious individual was garbed in a dress suit of solemn black. That is
why only his face shone out in the dark.
This person, seemingly a golden haired youth with features of unusual
fineness, had called himself Pierre Andrews when, a short time earlier,
he had applied for a position as usher in the Opera. Because of his
almost startling beauty, his perfect manners and his French accent, he
had been hired on the spot and had been given a position in the boxes
where, for this "first night" at least, those who possessed the great
wealth of the city had been expected to foregather.
They had not failed to appear. And why should they fail? Was this not
their night of nights, the night of the "Grand Parade"?
Ah, yes, they had been there in all their bejewelled and sable-coated
splendor. Rubies and diamonds had vied with emeralds and sapphires on
this grand occasion. Yes, they had been here. But now they had departed
and there remained only this frail boy, hovering there on the ledge like
a frightened gray bat.
Why was he here? Certainly a timid-appearing boy would not, without some
very pressing reason, remain hidden behind drapes at the edge of a great
empty space which until that night had been practically unknown to him.
And, indeed, at this moment the place, with its big empty spaces, its
covered seats, its broad, deserted stage, seemed haunted, haunted by the
ghosts of other years, by all those who, creeping from out the past, had
stalked upon its stage; haunted, too, by those who only one or two short
years before had paraded there on a "first night" in splendor, but who
now, laid low by adverse circumstances, crept about in places of poverty.
Yet, haunted or no, here was this frail boy peeking timidly out from his
hiding place as the clock struck one.
He had asked a curious question on this night, had this boy of golden
locks and expressive blue eyes. It was during the recess between acts
while the curtain was down and the pomp that was Egypt had for a moment
been replaced by the pomp that is America. Leaning over the balustrade,
this thoughtful boy had witnessed the "Grand Parade" of wealth and pomp
that passed below him. Between massive pillars, beneath chandeliers of
matchless splendor where a thousand lights shone, passed ladies of beauty
and unquestioned refinement. With capes of royal purple trimmed in ermine
or sable but slightly concealing bare shoulders and breasts where jewels
worth a king's ransom shone, they glided gracefully down the long
corridor. Bowing here and there, or turning to whisper a word to their
companions, they appeared to be saying to all the throng that beheld
them:
"See! Are we not the glory that is America in all her wealth and power?"
Then it was that this mysterious boy, poised there upon the ledge still
half hidden by drapes, had asked his question. Turning to a white-haired,
distinguished-looking man close beside him, a man whom he had never
before seen, he had said:
"Is this life?"
The answer he received had been quite as unusual as the question. Fixing
strangely luminous eyes upon him, the man had said:
"It is a form of life."
"A form of life." Even at this moment the boy, standing in the shadows
timid and terribly afraid, was turning these words over in his mind. "A
form of life."
There had been about him, even as he had performed his simple duties as
usher in the boxes on this night, an air of mystery. He had walked--more
than one had noted this--with the short, quick steps of a girl. His hair,
too, was soft and fine, his cheeks like the softest velvet. But then, he
was French. His accent told this. And who knows what the French are like?
Besides, his name was Pierre. He had said this more than once. And
Pierre, as everyone knows, is the name of a boy.
It was during the curtain before the last act that an incident had
occurred which, for a few of the resplendent throng, had dimmed the glory
of that night.
No great fuss was made about the affair. A slim girl seated in the box
occupied by the man whose great wealth had made this opera house
possible, had leaned over to whisper excited words in this gray-haired
millionaire's ears. With fingers that trembled, she had touched her bare
neck.
With perfect poise the man had beckoned to a broad-shouldered person in
black who had until now remained in the shadows. The man had glided
forward. Some words had been spoken. Among these words were: "Search
them."
One would have said that the golden-haired usher standing directly behind
the box had caught these words for he had suddenly turned white and
clutched at the railing to escape falling.
Had you looked only a moment later at the spot where he had stood you
might have noted that he was not there. And now here he was on the ledge,
still all but concealed by drapes, poised as if for further flight.
And yet he did not flee. Instead, dropping farther into the shadows, he
appeared to lose himself in thought.
What were these thoughts? One might suppose that he was recasting in his
mind the events of the immediate past, that he read again the look of
surprise and consternation on the face of the beautiful child of the very
rich when she discovered that the string of beautifully matched pearls,
bought by her father in Europe at a fabulous cost, were gone. One might
suppose that he once again contemplated flight as the stout, hard-faced
detective, who had so opportunely materialized from the shadows, had
suggested searching the ushers and other attendants; that he shuddered
again as he thought how barely he had escaped capture as, in the darkness
attending the last act, he had glided past eagle-eyed sleuth Jaeger, and
concealed himself behind the draperies. One might suppose that he lived
again those moments of suspense when a quiet but very thorough search had
revealed neither the priceless pearls nor his own humble person.
Yes, one might suppose all this. Yet, if one did, he would suppose in
vain. Our minds are the strangest creation of God. "The thoughts of youth
are long, long thoughts."
The young person still half concealed by draperies and quite hidden by
darkness was living again, not the scenes enacted among the boxes, but
those which had been enacted upon the stage.
In his mind's eye he saw again the glory that once was Egypt. Picturing
himself as the heroine, Aida, he loved the prince of all Egypt's
warriors, and at the same time shuddered for her people.
As Radames, he heard the shouts of his people when he returned as a
triumphant victor.
As Amneris, the Egyptian princess in the stately boat of those ancient
days beneath a golden moon, he glided down the blue Nile. And all the
time, as the matchless beauty of the scenes and the exquisite melody of
the music filled him with raptures that could not be described, he was
saying to himself:
"Oh, for one golden moment to stand before that assembled throng--all the
rich, the learned of the great of this city--and to feel the glory of the
past about me! To know love and adventure, the daring of a Captain of the
Guard, the tender sentiments of an Aida, and to express it all in song!
To do all this and to feel that every heart in that throng beats in
rapture or in sorrow, as my own! What glory! What matchless joy!"
And yet, even as these last thoughts passed into eternity, the young head
with its crown of gold fell forward. There was a moment of relaxation
expressing pain and all but hopeless despair. Then, like a mouse creeping
out from the dark, he slipped from his place to glide stealthily along
among the shadows and at last disappear into that place of darkness that
is a great auditorium at night.
Having felt his way across a tier of boxes, he vaulted lightly over a low
rail. Passing through a narrow corridor, he touched a door and pushed it
noiselessly open. He was met by a thin film of light.
"Too much," he murmured. "I shall be seen."
Backing away, he retraced his steps.
Having moved a long way to the right, he tried still another door.
"Ah, it is better," he breathed.
A moment later he found himself on the ground floor.
"But the way out?" He whispered the words to the vast silence that was
all about him. No answer came to him. Yet, even as he paused,
uncertainly, a sound reached his ears.
"A watchman. In the concourse. This is the way."
He sprang toward the stage. A mouse could scarcely have made less sound,
as, gliding down the carpeted aisle, he at last reached a door at the
left of the stage.
The door creaked as he opened it. With one wild start, he dashed across
the gaping stage to enter a narrow passageway.
Another moment and he was before a door that led to the outer air. It was
locked, from within.
With breath that came short and quick, he stood there listening intently.
"Footsteps." He did not so much as whisper the words. "The watchman.
There is need for haste.
"The lock. Perhaps there is a key. Ah, yes, here it is!"
His skilled fingers fumbled in the darkness for a moment. The light from
without streamed in. The door closed. He was gone.