CHAPTER IX
THE BOOK OF CRIMINALS
The carpenters and plumbers were soon busy with their tasks. The old building rang with the sound of hammer and saw. The partitions for bedroom, kitchen and bath were up in an inconceivably short time with the help of the tongue and groove sealing which had been cut the right length at the lumber yard under Danny’s directions. The ready-made doors were hung and the bath and small gas range put into place by the muscular Bob and connections made by those more expert in pipe fitting.
“It has been finished so rapidly it is almost like the little house Peter Pan built Wendy,” laughed Elizabeth.
“It is lovely,” said Lucile, “but I’d be afraid to sleep in a room that had no top to it. Just think how easy it would be for burglars to crawl over the partitions and run off with the family plate!”
“But there is no family plate and what there is will be out in the shop and not in my bedroom. Our bedroom, I should say, as I think Elizabeth will be spending the summer with me,” laughed Josie. “I’m never afraid and besides I carry a small automatic for emergencies.”
“You do? How amusing!” said Mrs. Markle, who had stayed on through the afternoon in spite of the fact that she had declared she had only a moment and wanted to see Mary Louise on some important matter which she forgot to divulge. She had been very charming and the young men, one and all, as Billy McGraw expressed it, “fell for her.”
“Don’t forget you are coming to call on us,” she said to that young man, sweetly. “I want you and Mr. Markle to know each other. You are sure to like each other. I know you think I am foolish, but my husband is such a dear.”
“Foolish because your husband is a dear?”
“I mean foolish to talk about it. I know it is not the thing in this day and generation for the wife to be too much in love with her husband, but I am hopelessly old-fashioned.”
“You evidently don’t know Dorfield, Mrs. Markle. It seems to be the style here for wives to be very fond of their husbands, but, of course, Dorfield is a million years behind the times, thank goodness!”
“It is lovely to see a young man who feels that way about things. So many young men are inclined to be facetious on the subject. Sometimes they seem to think I am not worth talking to because I am so unfeignedly devoted to my husband. Of course, I could have a much gayer time if I could disguise my feelings, but I can’t do it. They seem to think that, because Mr. Markle is so much older than I am, I must not be sincere in my protestations of affection. How absurd they are!”
“Your protestations?”
“No, I mean the young men.”
Now the above conversation sounds very silly when put down in cold print, but when it was carried on by a wonderful beautiful young woman with a voice that thrilled one down the spinal cord with a certain rich cello quality, eyes that were so deep and glorious that Billy in looking in them had a kind of feeling he must catch hold of something to keep from falling in, and withal a friendly, sweet, girlish grace, it did not seem at all silly to Billy McGraw. He forgot all about what a nice girl Elizabeth Wright was and how he had fully intended to ask her to go to the next dance with him, forgot why he had been asked to have lunch at the Higgledy-Piggledy Shop, forgot everything but how extremely lovely Mrs. Markle was and what a lucky dog her old husband was. Never having met that gentleman, he pictured him as tottering on the brink of the grave.
“Hey, Billy, pipe fitting going on! Come on and help! What do you think you are here for?” called Danny.
Mrs. Markle blushed again adorably.
“Oh, please go! I am mortified that I should have kept you chatting with me when they need you. You see sometimes I get just a teensy bit lonesome and long for the companionship of someone nearer my own age, just to talk foolishness to. My dear husband is so—so—deep and intellectual—not that you are not intelligent too—oh, ever so much so, but you don’t mind stooping to my foolish prattle.”
Billy went off to fitting pipes with quite a glow, around his generous, boyish heart.
“Poor little girl! I fancy she does get bored with such an old dry-as-dust as Markle must be. I’ll see if I can’t give her some good times.”
“Now do tell me something of what your plans are in this delightful place,” said Mrs. Markle, joining Josie and Elizabeth, who were busily engaged in unpacking more and more books, which Irene, seated on a low chair, was dusting and placing on the shelves.
“Well, this corner is our information bureau. These books are all of them different kinds of encyclopedias. Anybody who wants to know anything can come to us and we can come mighty near telling him or her what is wanted.”
“Where did you get such a collection, child? It is wonderful.”
“It was my father’s,” said Josie, with the look in her eyes that always came at mention of her father.
“Your father was the great detective, was he not?”
“Yes!”
“He was a wonderful man, so I have heard.”
“Yes, he was, thank you.” Josie’s tone was quite final, so Hortense did not pursue the subject.
“What else are you to do in your shop?” she asked.
“Oh, we are to have the literary work-shop, of which I spoke to you,” said Elizabeth. “And we are to have antiques of all kinds, and we are to take orders for sewing and fancy work. We will order any book direct from the publisher. We take orders for score cards, menu cards, name cards, or anything of that sort. Of course, we don’t do those things ourselves, but we will take the orders and get a small commission for them. Now Josie wants to open up a laundry where we have all kinds of fine laces, table linen, etc., done up. If that grows we shall have to get someone to take hold of it, but Josie says she can wash and iron as well as a blanchisseuse de fin and, if we don’t get too many orders, she will attend to that end herself.”
“It is my one accomplishment,” said Josie, “and I have a passion for it. I’d rather launder laces and fine linen than do anything in the world. I am no good at sewing or embroidering, but I can certainly add to anyone’s needlework by my manipulation of a flat-iron.”
“How interesting!” said Hortense. “Now I adore needlework, but am helpless with an iron and the more I wash things the dirtier they get. I have just finished some napkins and despair of ever getting them done up properly. My maid is a wretched laundress, almost as bad as her mistress. How I should love to be your first customer! Please let me bring my damask to you.”
“Why, of course,” answered Josie. “As soon as the boys get the gas stove up I am ready for washing and as soon as they get the electric wires installed I am ready for ironing.”
Irene had gone on steadily with her dusting while Hortense had been talking, never once looking up from her task. Occasionally, she opened one of the books and glanced at its contents. What a lot of learning one could find between the covers of those solid books! One long narrow book with a binding evidently home-made attracted her attention. She opened it, but its contents were still as a closed book to her. It was closely written manuscript of strange characters about as unintelligible as the notes of a stenographer would ordinarily be to her employer.
“What is this, Josie?”
“Oh, that is my father’s notebook! I am glad to see it,” exclaimed Josie. “I never intended to pack it with the other books but in the confusion of getting off I forgot it. I wouldn’t lose it for all the wealth of the Indies.” She clasped it to her bosom.
“That is the one you told me about?” asked Mary Louise, joining the group in the corner, “with all the notes he made about criminals and suspected criminals? Perhaps you don’t know it, Hortense, but Josie’s father knew more about the criminals in the United States, and the world perhaps, than almost anybody.”
“Ah, indeed! The book must be interesting reading for a student of criminology. I abhor the subject myself.”
“What’s that you abhor?” asked Bob Dulaney, who had no occupation for the time being, having helped lift everything that could be lifted and so had leisure to join the girls.
“Criminology!”
“Why, it is the most interesting subject in the world,” said Bob.
“Well, you would like this book then,” said Mary Louise, explaining it to the newcomer. Josie stood by with her fishy-eyed expression.
“You don’t mean Detective O’Gorman’s book! Why, I didn’t know you were the daughter of Detective O’Gorman. Know about him! I should say I did. Why, there isn’t a newspaper chap in the United States that doesn’t know about him. Gee, I’d like to get my hooks on his book.”
“Well, his book is all pot hooks, so it wouldn’t do you much good if you did,” laughed Josie, opening it so he could glance down a page. “I wouldn’t let it out of my possession for a mint of money.”
“If it’s something old Lifter wants you had better nail it down,” said Tim Turner. “Remember what I told you about the ding dong.”
“I guess it will be safe here,” said Josie, putting the slim volume of mysterious manuscript between two ponderous tomes. “Sure,” laughed Bob, “unless I come snooping in at night. It wouldn’t be so hard to make an entrance in this old building.”
“Don’t say such things,” begged Mary Louise. “I am scared to death to have Josie stay here by herself as it is.”
“Nonsense!” declared Josie.
“Not nonsense at all!” insisted Mary Louise. “Anyhow, I am glad you can’t stay to-night.”
“Well, as far as our work is concerned she can,” declared Danny. “The water and gas are connected and the walls of her house are built.”
“She just can’t, though!” said Mary Louise, putting her arm around her friend. Josie put on her dull-eyed look and said nothing, only hugged her darling Mary Louise with warm affection.