THROUGH THE PICTURE
Florence was in the studio alone. Miss Mabee had been called away to New
York. The fire in the hearth had burned out. Florence had not troubled to
rebuild it. The place seemed cold, lonely, deserted. As she sat there
musing, she seemed to hear the words of Poe’s Raven: “Never more.”
Never more what? Well, surely never again would she believe in those who
told fortunes by reading cards, gazing into a crystal ball, or studying
stars.
“Fakers all,” she murmured. “Simple, harmless people, most of them; but
fakes for all that! They—”
She broke short off to listen. Had she caught some sound of movement in
the room? It did not seem possible. The door was securely locked. The
door? Two doors really. She recalled discovering a secret panel door at
the side of the room.
“Just behind that picture,” she told herself.
The picture, on which she bestowed a fleeting glance, was the one Miss
Mabee had prepared for the little show to be put on for Tum Morrow’s
benefit, the paper picture through which Jeanne was supposed to jump.
“Wonder if that show will ever come off?” she mused. “Wonder—”
She sprang to her feet. This time there _was_ a sound. Yes, and she
wanted to scream. There, between two paintings of gypsy life, was a face,
an ugly, fat, leering face. She knew that face. It was the man she had
seen in the professor’s room on that night when she went down the rope.
Madame Zaran had sent him. Her illicit business of telling fake fortunes
was being ruined by Florence’s investigations and reports. She was
seeking revenge.
How had the man entered the room? One other question was more pressing:
how was she to get out?
The man was between her and the entrance. He was close to the stairway
that led to the balcony. She was trapped—or was she? There was the secret
panel door.
“That picture is directly in front of it,” she thought. “Too close. I
can’t get round it. But I could—” her heart skipped a beat. “I could go
through it. Too bad to spoil Tum’s big party too—”
The man was advancing upon her. With hands outstretched, eyes gleaming,
he seemed some monstrous beast about to seize a bird of rare plumage.
She hesitated no longer. She sprang to the right, then dashed three steps
forward to go crashing through that picture.
Was the man taken by surprise? Beyond doubt he was. At any rate, Florence
was through that door and had completely lost herself in a maze of
slanting beams and rafters before she had time to think of her next move.
And from the studio there came no sound.
She could not well go back, even though she knew the way, so she groped
forward. After ten minutes of this, she caught a gleam of light. It came
from under a door. Remembering that nearly all the people in the world
are decent, honest folks, she knocked boldly.
The door was thrown open. There, framed in light, stood Tum Morrow.
“Tum!” she exclaimed, all but falling into his arms. “Tum! How glad I am
to see you!”
“Why—what—what’s happened?” He stared in surprise. “Come on in and tell
me.”
The story was soon told. “And Tum,” Florence ended with a note of dismay,
“I ruined that picture! I had to. That puts an end to your big show.”
“Don’t let that trouble you.” The boy smiled happily. “Only yesterday
Miss Mabee fixed up something quite wonderful for me. She has a friend, a
director of music in a college. He wants someone to play the part of
concertmeister in his orchestra and direct the strings in their practice.
I have been given a musical scholarship.”
“And you’re going to college! How grand! Shake!” Florence held out a
hand.
“Grand enough,” Tum agreed. “Now, however, you are the burning question
of the hour. How and when are you going back to the studio?”
“How and when?” Florence repeated gloomily.
“Tell you what!” Tum exclaimed. “I’ve got a gun—a regular cannon. My dad
used it in the war. Suppose we load it up and march on the enemy. If
necessary, I’ll play the ‘Anvil Chorus’ on that old cannon, and there may
be less trouble in the world after I am through.”
“Grand idea! Lead the way!” Florence was on her feet.
By a secret passage known only to Tum, they made their way to the studio
entrance. Their expected battle, however, did not come off. They found
the studio silent and quite deserted.
“We’ll stack our arms, pitch our tents, build a fire and—” Tum hesitated.
“And serve rations,” Florence finished for him with a laugh.
Florence was a good cook. Tum was a good eater, and, if the truth must be
told, so was Florence. The quantities of food consumed there by the fire
was nothing short of scandalous. But then, who was there to complain?
“Well—” Florence settled back in her big chair at last. “The enemy
marched on us tonight. Tomorrow we shall march on the enemy. I’ll hunt up
Patrick Moriarity. He’ll call in a police squad. We’ll raid Madame
Zaran’s place. Yes, and we’ll call on the voodoo priestess as well.”
“The voodoo priestess and Madame Zaran—are they friends?” Tum asked in
surprise.
“Far from that.” Florence sat up in her chair. “They’re the bitterest
enemies. You see, they’re both engaged in the same crooked game. Each
hoped to reap a rich harvest from June Travis’ innocence.”
“How did you find out all that?” Tum stared at her with frank admiration.
“I’ve guessed it for some time. Two days ago I proved it.” Florence was
away with a good story. “I felt quite sure that the voodoo priestess was
reared in Chicago, not in the Black Republic of Haiti. To prove this was
very simple.” She laughed. “You see, Haiti used to be a French colony.
Even today everyone down there speaks French. So, too, would a real
voodoo priestess from that island. On my last visit to her I took along a
friend who speaks French fluently. I had instructed her to talk French to
me in this black woman’s presence. More than that, she was to say things
like this: ‘She’s a humbug. She is a big black impostor!’”
“That,” said Tum, “must have got a rise out of her.”
“Not a bit of it.” Florence laughed again. “She got mad, but not at what
we said. She objected to the way we said it. She couldn’t understand a
word of French, that’s sure, for we had hardly started when she turned on
us, her eyes bulging with anger as she said, ‘Here, you! Don’t you dare
speak none of that ugly foreign stuff in dis place! De spirit of de big
black Emperor, he objects!’
“And to think!” Florence exclaimed, “French was probably the only
language her big black Emperor ever spoke.
“Well then,” she went on after a while, “I asked her why she didn’t gaze
into a crystal ball, the way Madame Zaran did. I told her of the moving
figures I had seen in Madame’s glass ball. I said Madame would probably
get all of June’s money.
“All the time I was talking she was getting blacker and blacker with
anger. And the things she said about Madame Zaran! They couldn’t be put
in a book, I can tell you.
“Some of the things, though, were interesting, for I am sure she does the
same things herself. She said that when Madame Zaran has a rich patron
she bribes a maid in the patron’s home, a hair-dresser or someone else,
to tell all about her. Then when the rich patron returns for a reading,
don’t you see, she can tell her the most amazing things about her past?
Oh, they’re a great pair, the priestess and Madame Zaran. I’d like to be
around if they met in a dark spot at night. But I won’t,” Florence
sighed, “for tomorrow is our zero hour. When the police are through with
them, they’ll be in no fighting mood.”
“I rather guess not!” said Tum. Then, “If you feel things are O. K. I’ll
be going. Keep my cannon if you like.”
“I—I’d like to.” Florence put out a hand.
“You see,” explained Tum, “the way you play the ‘Anvil Chorus’ on it, you
just grip it here, pull on this little trigger with your forefinger, and
it does the rest.”
“Thanks! And good-night.” Florence flashed him a dazzling smile.