IN WHICH SOME THINGS ARE WELL FINISHED
“We’ll just get the janitor to go up with us,” said Patrick Moriarity as
he and Florence arrived at the building in which Madame Zaran conducted
her readings. “They’re gone, more than likely.”
And so they were. The room, as they approached it, was dark and appeared
deserted.
As, under police orders, the janitor opened the door, Florence once again
felt a thrill run up her spine. In her mind she felt again, as on that
first day, the grip of those bony fingers on her shoulders. Once again
she saw the shadow against those midnight blue draperies—the shadow of
“Satan”—this time in imagination alone.
“Deserted as a tomb,” was Patrick’s conclusion. “We’ll just have a look.”
Florence had told him of all the strange doings that had gone on here.
“What’s this?” he muttered as they came upon a narrow stairway hidden
among the draperies.
Together they mounted the stairs to arrive at a still narrower platform.
Here on a stand they discovered a small moving-picture projector.
“I thought maybe it would be that,” was Patrick’s only comment as he
focused the machine, then turned on the motor.
To Florence’s vast surprise, the crystal ball, reposing on the table on
the floor below, at once became alive. On its gleaming surface tiny human
figures began to move.
“Quite simple,” was the young officer’s comment. “Moving pictures focused
upon a small screen behind the ball—that’s all it was.”
“And they made the pictures especially for their—their clients!”
Florence’s tone spoke her astonishment. “Posed people made up to look
like them.”
“Rather costly, I’d say!” said Patrick. “But then, they were playing for
big stakes. I have no doubt they’ve played their little game before,
perhaps many times.
“Come!” he said a moment later, “We’ll go have a look on this black
priestess of yours. We may find her at home.”
They did find the priestess, and many more besides. In fact, there had
been quite an affair at her studio that very morning. Truth was, as
Florence, leaning on Patrick’s arm, looked in upon the scene, she thought
there had been nothing quite like it before.
“It—it’s like a scene on the stage,” she whispered.
“The cold gray dawn of the morning after,” Patrick murmured.
And indeed that was just what it looked to be. In the center of the room,
her hands still clawing as if for unearned gold, Madame Zaran stood
leaning on a table. She seemed dizzy. The reason was a rapidly swelling
bruise on her forehead. At her feet lay her thick-necked guard, he who
had entered the studio on the previous night. He was out for good. So,
too, were two black men in one corner. As for the Professor and the
voodoo priestess, they were seated upon the floor, staring at one another
for all the world like two spent wrestlers pausing to regain their
breath. As Florence and the young officer stood there looking on in
stupefied silence, a black goat with golden horns appeared from
somewhere. He let out a loud b-a-a, then charged the unfortunate Madame
Zaran. He hit her behind the knees, and she collapsed like an empty sack.
“It looks to me,” Patrick drawled, “as if there had been a fight.”
“Sure does look that way,” said a strange voice.
Florence whirled about to find herself looking into a face that resembled
a new moon—large thin nose, sharp protruding chin, eyes that bulged
slightly. “The Devil,” she thought without saying it.
“You’ve seen me before.” The man favored her with a friendly smile.
“I—I guess I’ve seen your shadow more than once,” the girl managed to
reply.
“Handy sort of shadow,” the man chuckled. “You see, I’m a city detective.
I’ve been on this case for some time. Now it would seem that all that’s
needed is an ambulance.”
“I’ll call one,” Patrick said, hurrying away.
Fifteen minutes later, the whole company, including the goat, were on
their way to the police station. Shortly thereafter, the greater number
of them were transferred to the hospital.
Of quite a different nature was the meeting in Miss Mabee’s studio two
days later.
They were gathered there in the studio, Florence and June, Miss Mabee,
Tum Morrow and Rodney Angel, when there came the sound of footsteps on
the stairs, followed by a rattle at the bell. June started forward
impulsively. Florence held her back. “Wait!” she whispered.
Miss Mabee pressed a button. The door opened slowly, and in walked Sandy,
Jeanne and a short, stout man. They, the newcomers, all wore heavy
airplane coats and carried airplane traveling bags in their hands.
“Well?” The man studied the waiting group. When his eyes fell upon June
they lighted up as if by a touch of fire.
“June!” His voice was husky. “How big! How beautiful you are!” Next
instant the girl was in his arms.
And after that, as always, there was a feast. At this feast John Travis
made a brief speech. “There’s gold on Isle Royale.” He spoke with
feeling. “More gold at the bottom of that little lake than any man can
use wisely in a lifetime. When it’s been recovered, I shall charter the
finest airplane in the country and take you all on a trip around the
world. What do you say to that?”
Of course, they said “Yes,” and they said it with a shout of joy. But
would they go? Only time could tell.
“This fortune telling,” Florence said to June as they lunched together
next day, “It is all a fake and a fraud.”
“But what can we say of the little lady in gray?” June asked, as she
opened her eyes wide.
“Yes,” Florence agreed, “that _was_ strange!”
“I’d like to go and see her again and—and thank her.” The younger girl’s
eyes shone.
“We will go this very afternoon.”
They did, and with the most astonishing results. They were met at the
door by a very large lady. “Large enough,” Florence thought with a start,
“to occupy that huge chair.”
“We—we’d like to see the little lady in gray,” June said timidly.
“You must have the wrong number.” The large lady looked at them in
surprise. “There is no one here but me.”
“But there _was_!” June insisted.
“You are mistaken!” In the woman’s voice there was a positive note none
would care to dispute. “I live here alone with my cat and canaries. There
never has been anyone else.”
June opened her mouth to speak again, but Florence was pulling at her
arm.
“We’re sorry,” said Florence. “This must be the wrong address.”
“But it isn’t!” June insisted when they were once more on the sidewalk.
“I am sure of it.”
“So am I.” Florence smiled in a strange way. “But when some fairy
godmother borrows a house for a morning just so she can give you some
very good news, you don’t go right ahead and give her away, do you?”
“N—no, I suppose not.”
“Anyway,” said Florence, finally, “I am through with mysteries for a
long, long time!”
Was she? If you wish to know, you must read _A Ticket to Adventure_.
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text—this e-text
is public domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
dialect unchanged.
--In the text versions, italic text is delimited by _underscores_.