The Scarlet Slipper Mystery

by Carolyn G. Keene

  Nancy smiled when she saw one corner of the trooper’s house appear at the top of a hill.

  When they neared it and Nancy began to slow down, Judson said, “Are the Fontaines here?”

  Nancy did not answer. She braked the car to a stop near the front porch. At almost the same moment, the trooper opened the door and came out, dressed in full uniform. Nancy and George already had the car doors open on each side and jumped out.

  Bess cried, “Officer, we’re being kidnapped!”

  “Kidnapped?” the trooper exclaimed, running down the steps.

  At the same instant Judson made a flying leap over the back of the car, and sprinted toward the woods on the opposite side of the road.

  “We must catch him!” Nancy urged.

  The officer and the three girls dashed among the trees in pursuit of Judson. They could hear him crashing through the underbrush. As they ran on, Nancy gasped out her story.

  At a clearing near the brow of the hill they caught a glimpse of the man. Officer Fraser shouted at him to stop, but Judson ignored the command. He swerved to one side and again plunged into the cover of the woods.

  They zigzagged through the woods for fifteen minutes. Suddenly Nancy realized that they were chasing the man directly toward the Nickerson cabin! She warned the others, saying, “It would be better to let him go than have him find the Fontaines! Let’s give up the chase. Then maybe he’ll head for the main road. His car is hidden back where he stopped us.”

  “All right,” the policeman agreed. “I have my radio car at the house. I’ll go back and send out a general alarm. You can follow at your leisure.”

  Nancy and George felt as fresh as ever, but poor Bess was panting and insisted upon resting a few minutes. By the time they reached Bert Fraser’s home, he had already contacted headquarters.

  “I think we have him bottled up,” the officer told them. “The police will set a trap for him.”

  “Thanks for helping us,” Nancy said. “I’m sorry I let Judson slip through my fingers.”

  The trooper smiled. “Would you like to go along with me and help us capture him?”

  Nancy beamed. “I sure would! At least I’d like to talk to Judson.” She turned to Bess and George. “Shall we follow in my car or would you two rather take the convertible and go home? I could ride with Mr. Fraser.”

  “We’ll see this thing through,” George declared.

  “Stay close behind me,” Fraser directed, “And, Miss Drew, suppose you ride in my car.”

  Nancy climbed in with the trooper and they drove off. She was fascinated by the constant exchange of information over the radio between State Police headquarters and the individual patrol cars.

  When they reached the main highway, she looked back to make certain that the cousins were following. The girls waved to indicate that everything was fine.

  The trip to the Cedar Lake road was rapid. Another police car was already there. Bert Fraser jumped out and ran over to talk to his colleagues. In a few minutes he was back.

  “Judson’s car was gone when they arrived,” he told Nancy. “He must have made a fast getaway!”

  Nancy was not sure that it was Judson who had taken the car. He might have had an accomplice. She decided to find out whether or not Judson had found the Fontaines.

  “I think the girls and I will call on friends of ours who are staying at a cabin on the lake,” she told the trooper. “Thank you for all your help.”

  Nancy explained her plan to Bess and George, who had pulled up in back of the officer’s car. They got out, crossed the stream on its temporary footbridge, and walked to the Nickerson cabin.

  As they approached the cabin, Nancy’s heart sank. No one was sitting on the porch. And although it was a warm day, every window in the cabin was closed. The boats were tied up at the wharf, and the lakefront was deserted. There was an eerie stillness about the area.

  Nancy hastened to try the front door of the cabin. It was locked. A check showed that all the windows and the rear door were locked as well. Instantly worried looks appeared on the three girls’ faces.

  “Judson got here first!” Bess wailed. “He’s kidnapped Helene and Henri!”

  CHAPTER XIV

  Puzzling Phone Calls

  WHILE Nancy was trying to form her own opinion about the Fontaines’ absence from the cabin, George said hesitantly, “Perhaps we were wrong to trust Helene and Henri. They may be part of the smuggling gang. When Henri realized that you had discovered that impasto technique for hiding gems, he may have decided to disappear. You’ll have to admit he was skillful in hiding the stones from Bess’s pin.”

  Bess defended the Fontaines. “If that’s so, why would someone in the gang send them warning notes and steal Helene’s scarlet slippers?”

  Nancy agreed with Bess. “I still think the Fontaines have fled from Judson, not with him.”

  The girls walked along the porch and peered through the windows. Nancy’s half-finished portrait lay upside down on the floor. Furniture had been overturned and a footstool was leaning against an andiron in the open fireplace.

  “I think we should investigate further!” Nancy declared. She opened the cabin door with a spare key the Nickersons always left in the hollow of a tree.

  The girls found that the Fontaines’ luggage was still in their rooms.

  “Perhaps Henri and Helene just went out for a hike in the woods,” George suggested. “And Judson may have been in here and upset the furniture while hunting for something.”

  On the chance that she was right, the girls waited for several hours. The Fontaines did not appear. When the girls left, Nancy propped a note against a lamp: “Scarlet, let me hear from you.”

  No message came that evening. By morning, Nancy was forced to admit that the Fontaines had vanished. Was it voluntarily, or by force?

  The young detective was bewildered. All clues seemed to have come to naught, and she had no idea where to begin looking for the Fontaines. Then she remembered her newspaper advertisement.

  “Hannah,” she said after breakfast, “I’m going down to the Gazette office.”

  Nancy found that she had received four letters. The first three she opened described pictures of ballet dancers, but none sounded like the ones Henri had painted of his sister.

  The fourth letter was unsigned and mysterious. Nancy read it several times without understanding it. Finally she drove to her father’s office.

  Mr. Drew was also puzzled as he read, “ ‘If you will put a personal advertisement in the Gazette, including the word artist and your telephone number in reverse, the writer of this note will have an interesting story to relate about a painting of a lovely ballet dancer posing before a forest background.’ ”

  “That sounds like one of the pictures of Helene,” Nancy said. “What do you think of the note, Dad?”

  Mr. Drew leaned back in his chair, drummed his fingers on the desk, and remarked, “It’s possible someone from Centrovia read your ad. To avoid undercover agents of the occupation authorities, this person may not want to reveal his identity or whereabouts until he’s sure he’s not dealing with one of them. I can see no harm in your answering the note.”

  Mr. Drew went on to say that he would get in touch with a friend in the telephone company and have an additional line run into the house that afternoon. He would be able to use it to trace the strange call.

  Nancy wrote out the advertisement in accordance with the instructions in the note, and took it to the Gazette office. She then returned home and told Hannah Gruen about the mysterious note and the telephone call, which would probably come the next morning. “You can help,” she added.

  “How?” asked the housekeeper.

  Nancy explained that while she was talking on the hall phone, her father would try to trace the call on the private phone he was having installed in his study.

  “I’d like you to run back and forth between Dad and me with messages,” Nancy requested.

  A few minutes after nin
e the next morning, the phone rang. Hannah followed Mr. Drew into his study. Nancy picked up the phone in the hall and heard a voice with a foreign accent.

  “Is this the person who placed a personal ad in the Gazette?”

  “That’s right,” Nancy answered.

  “Are you an American?” was the next question.

  “Yes,” Nancy replied. “I was born here in River Heights. Why do you ask?”

  The speaker ignored her question and went on, “Are you connected with the police?”

  Nancy thought this was a strange question, but answered truthfully, “I have many friends on the police force, but have no official connection with them. However, I do like to solve mysteries.”

  Nancy could not rid herself of the opinion that the voice sounded like Johann Koff’s. Could the speaker be the person who had sent her father to New York on a wild-goose chase?

  Hannah came out of the study and whispered, “He is calling from a phone booth in a Cliffwood drugstore.”

  Nancy covered the mouthpiece and said, “Tell Dad it sounds like Mr. Koff.”

  At that moment Hannah glanced out the window. She said in a low voice, “It can’t be Mr. Koff. He just went by in a car.”

  Nancy nodded, then continued her conversation with the unknown speaker. “What is the interesting story about your painting?”

  “It will probably seem sentimental and romantic coming from a man,” the speaker said, a trace of a chuckle in his voice. “I purchased the picture because the girl in it reminded me of a dancer in my native country.”

  “What country is that?” Nancy asked, as if she were just being polite.

  “A little country that is probably unknown to you,” the man replied. “Centrovia.”

  Nancy paused, hoping her voice would not betray her excitement. “I have heard of Centrovia. Did the painting come from there?”

  “No, I bought it in this country. But since I have had the picture in my possession, I have learned something rather disturbing about it.”

  “Yes?” said Nancy eagerly.

  “I do not wish to discuss it on the telephone. But I would like very much to talk to you.”

  Nancy was relieved to hear her father coming to her side. She covered the telephone as he said, “I’ve made a check on him with the owner of the drugstore where he put in the call. He seems to be all right.”

  Nancy turned back to the phone. “You’ve certainly aroused my curiosity, Mr.——er——I didn’t get your name.”

  “Anton Schmidt. I am an amateur artist. May I see you and talk to you about this soon?”

  Nancy gave the caller her name and address, and asked, “Can you come to my home this evening?”

  They agreed on eight o’clock, and Anton Schmidt arrived promptly at that hour. He was pleasant-looking and resembled Mr. Koff, though he was several years younger. He carried the bulky painting, carefully wrapped in brown paper.

  After they had exchanged a few pleasantries in the Drew living room, Nancy asked, “Are you by any chance related to another Centrovian by the name of Johann Koff?”

  Schmidt’s eyes widened. “Indeed I am. He is my cousin. But how do you happen to know him? I’ve been out of touch with him for more than ten years. Before the occupation he lived in a neighboring province in our country, and was still there the last I heard.”

  Nancy told Mr. Schmidt that his cousin was now living in River Heights. “If you would like to see him, I’ll phone him and ask him to come right over. He’s living at the Claymore Hotel.”

  “That would be a great pleasure.”

  Nancy made the call. Mr. Koff was surprised at the news and promised to hurry over at once.

  “Anton! Little Anton! I can hardly believe it. I will see you in a few minutes.”

  When Nancy returned to the living room, Mr. Schmidt had unwrapped the painting. It was another portrait of Helene Fontaine.

  “I bought this in a little gift shop out in the country,” he explained. “The girl who modeled for it looks very much like Madame Provak, a famous ballet dancer whom I saw perform many years ago, before the trouble in our country. I have not seen or heard of her since.”

  After a pause, the caller smiled and said to Nancy, “Do you mind if I ask why you are searching for paintings of a ballerina?”

  “I am an amateur detective, and my father is a lawyer,” Nancy replied. “We are working together on a case that involves the children of Madame Provak.”

  “You know them? Where are they?”

  Nancy told of her connection with Henri and Helene Fontaine. “The girl in this painting,” she went on, “is Helene, the daughter of the famous dancer you knew. Her parents passed away some years ago in France. Later, Helene and her brother were threatened and fled to this country.”

  Mr. Schmidt’s brow furrowed. “This painting is unsigned,” he said. “I am anxious to learn the artist’s name.”

  Mr. Drew nodded to signal to his daughter that he thought it would be safe to reveal the truth.

  “Henri painted it,” Nancy declared.

  The caller gasped. “Miss Drew, I must now tell you the strange story I mentioned over the telephone. As you know, I am an amateur artist. In examining this portrait closely, I discovered that two valuable gems had been hidden in the pigment that forms the ruffles of the ballet skirt. I was about to go to the police with my find when I happened to see your ad.”

  Nancy and her father exchanged glances. Each was thinking how careless the smugglers were, not to have removed all the gems!

  “Your find,” said Mr. Drew, “confirms a suspicion of ours that jewels were smuggled into this country from France by this method.”

  Mr. Schmidt jumped excitedly from his chair. “This may explain a great theft of gems from the leaders of the Centrovian underground movement.”

  Nancy and her father instantly thought of the jewels carried to France by the Provaks. Had some of these been stolen?

  Mr. Schmidt went on to say that the Provaks had had spotless reputations, so far as he knew. However, life might have become so hard for the brother and sister that they had resorted to thievery of the last of the jewels their parents had turned over to the Centrovian underground, and smuggled them into the United States.

  “Oh, I’m sure Helene and Henri are honest,” Nancy cried. “Mr. Schmidt, have you any idea who sold the painting to the gift shop where you purchased it?”

  The girl was elated when she heard that Mr. Schmidt had learned from the proprietor that the man had red hair.

  The conversation was interrupted suddenly by the arrival of Mr. Koff, who rushed across the room and clasped Anton Schmidt in his arms.

  “Anton!”

  “Johann!”

  Finally Mr. Koff turned to the others and said, “You must think we are very emotional, but this is a most happy occasion.”

  The Drews smiled understandingly. Then they told the story of Schmidt’s painting.

  “This does look bad for Helene and Henri,” Mr. Koff agreed. “It was for such things as this that I was so worried about losing my briefcase.”

  He explained the loss to his cousin and added, “I am afraid that letters in it that mentioned the stolen jewels have fallen into the thieves’ hands. They may be trying to shift the blame for the theft and the smuggling onto the Fontaines, and for the third time have frightened them away.”

  The new complications in the case worried everyone. But both Centrovians expressed a hearty certainty that the Fontaines would prove to be honest.

  “As evidence of my good faith,” said Mr. Schmidt, “I would like to leave this portrait and the gems here for safekeeping.”

  Although the Drews knew this might involve them more deeply in the situation, they agreed to be custodians of the articles.

  The next morning, Nancy received a startling telegram, a night letter from Cliffwood. “Why, listen to this, Hannah!” she exclaimed, and read:YOUR HELP NO LONGER NEEDED. ANY CONTINUED

  INTEREST IN OUR CASE ON YOUR
PART WILL PROVE

  EMBARRASSING TO US AND DANGEROUS TO YOU.

  HELENE.

  “Well, that’s gratitude for you!” Hannah remarked. “Never a thank you!”

  Before Nancy had a chance to respond, the telephone rang. The girl answered it.

  A weak, frightened voice asked, “N-Nancy?”

  “Yes. Who——?”

  “This is Helene. Please come right away to—”

  There was a scream and the sound of a crash as though the instrument had been torn from Helene’s grasp. Then the line went dead!

  CHAPTER XV

  A Chase

  NANCY sat still for several minutes, pondering the telegram and the phone call. The messages were completely contradictory. One of them was a fake. But which one?

  “Hannah,” said Nancy, after returning to the breakfast table and telling her about the call, “I’m going to drive over to Cliffwood and see if I can learn anything about the sender of that telegram.”

  “All right, dear, but do be careful.”

  On the way Nancy spotted George strolling on the main street and asked her to go along. When Nancy told her about the latest developments in the case, George whistled.

  “Sounds as if Helene and Henri really have been kidnapped.”

  Nancy nodded.

  At the Cliffwood telegraph office she explained to the clerk that she suspected a hoax. The woman was very cooperative and checked the original message. The sender had refused to give an address.

  “It was a counter telegram,” she explained, “written here and paid for in cash. I have no way of tracing the sender. I do recall that it was filed by a woman, though—kind of loud in her dress and speech. Does that help you?”

  “Very much,” said Nancy, her mind instantly conjuring up a picture of Mrs. Judson.

  Nancy went back to the car and relayed the information to George.

  “I’ll bet,” said George emphatically, “that this whole business was staged.”

  “In what way?”

  “Both the telegram and the phone call,” George replied, “were sent to sidetrack you from the case.” George chuckled. “But they don’t know Nancy Drew and the way she thrives on challenges. But where has this one led us? Into a blind alley.”