Carolyn Keene_Nancy Drew Mysteries 059

by The Secret in the Old Lace

  “How horrible!” George spoke up.

  “I understand that marriages are still arranged in some countries,” Nancy said.

  “Well, I’m glad I don’t live in one of them,” George declared.

  Bess saw a chance to tease her cousin. “I’m sure Burt is equally happy about it,” she commented.

  In reply George wrinkled up her nose. Burt Eddleton was her favorite date.

  “Of course,” Nancy said, interrupting the banter between her friends, “I don’t think François ever left Belgium.”

  “What!” Bess and George said. They were totally bewildered.

  “But the story said he disappeared,” George noted.

  “He did—from Brussels. But I have a hunch he stayed in his native country. You see, he was very interested in painting. I didn’t mention this earlier, but he always wanted to study with Dirk Gelder, a famous teacher in nineteenth-century Brugge. I think François might have gone there.”

  “But that’s not far from Brussels,” George objected.

  “I know. Yet, in those days people didn’t travel as they do now. If he changed his appearance a little and learned how to speak the dialect of that town, he could conceal himself easily enough.”

  “Don’t they speak Flemish there?” Bess inquired.

  “Flemish is spoken in Flanders,” Nancy admitted. “But the people in Brugge have their own dialect. ”

  As the chatter continued, the lanky waiter placed three large platters of salad in front of the girls.

  “You said that François took a fortune with him when he left,” George put in. “In those days robberies were as prevalent as today. Did it occur to you that maybe he was overtaken and killed?”

  Nancy admitted the thought had entered her mind. “But the magazine story doesn’t even hint at foul play. My impression is that François changed his whole appearance and life-style. He could’ve grown a beard to hide his handsome face and switched to plain clothes, for instance.”

  “In your story,” Bess asked, “what name did he take?”

  “Karl Van Pelt. ”

  “I still think it’s incredible,” George insisted, “that such an attractive man could live no more than sixty miles from Brussels without ever being identified. His clothes alone—”

  “Not really,” Nancy interrupted. “Don’t forget, according to the magazine, he took no clothes other than the red jacket with the lace cuffs. Obviously, he didn’t want to be seen with any baggage to indicate he was traveling or moving away. He could’ve hidden whatever treasure he had in his sleeves, pockets, and shoes and rolled up the jacket into a neat little package.”

  “In that case,” George pointed out, “François’s personal fortune must’ve been in money and jewels. ”

  Nancy nodded. “Exactly. In my story I said he used some of the money to start a successful business and at his death willed the red jacket to a museum.”

  “Just think,” Bess said, digging her fork into a cube of fresh melon, “we’ll be able to walk on the same cobblestones François did and look at the same canals he saw and—”

  George rolled her eyes upward in mock disgust. “Spare me,” she said. “I don’t know how Dave stands it.” Dave Evans was Bess’s boyfriend.

  “Okay, you two,” Nancy broke in.

  “You know I was serious about us all going to Belgium,” Bess said. “Madame Chambray has plenty of room and more than one mystery to solve!”

  “Really?” Nancy asked eagerly.

  “Yes. She found part of an old letter too, which says something about a treasure. ”

  “Is that all she said?”

  Bess nodded. “Madame Chambray didn’t reveal too many details in her letter to my mother, but she does want us—you especially—to visit. She knows your dad’s a lawyer and that you often solve mysteries. ”

  Nancy’s heart was beating excitedly. “I’m just flabbergasted,” she said. “After working on the mystery contest, the one place I’m eager to see is Brugge!”

  “Who knows, maybe we’ll find François’s red jacket in one of the museums!” George giggled.

  “Let’s not get too carried away,” Nancy said. “After all, my part of the story is only fictional. Speaking of that, I ought to mail it in at once.”

  George called to the waiter for a bill as Nancy caught sight of someone bending behind the front fender of her parked car. “Is he letting the air out of my tire?” she cried, pushing her chair back and darting toward him. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted.

  For a split second the stranger bobbed into view. He looked like Matey Johnson!

  3

  Missing Manuscript

  “Stop!” Nancy cried, dashing into the street after the man. But he darted away lithe as a cat, skirting several taxis and bike riders before disappearing into an alley.

  Stymied by the heavy traffic, Nancy did not attempt to cross the street. George and Bess, who had quickly paid the waiter, were now staring at the front right wheel of Nancy’s car. The tire was slowly going flat!

  “What a shame!” Bess remarked.

  “Who was that guy anyway?” George asked.

  “I’m pretty sure it was Matey Johnson. I didn’t get much of a look at him at the house but I recognized his reddish-blond hair.”

  While Nancy removed a tire inflator from her trunk and hooked it to the wheel, she listened quietly as her friends discussed the latest event.

  “Why would Matey Johnson let air out of Nancy’s tire?” Bess asked her cousin.

  “Obviously he wanted to stall us here for a while,” George said.

  “Well, he sure accomplished that,” Nancy sighed, watching the air-pressure gauge slowly creep higher.

  “You don’t suppose,” Bess suggested, “that he’s planning to go back to your house?”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Nancy said. “If only I could speed up the air pump!”

  At last the tire was mended. “Keep an eye on everything,” the girl detective told the cousins. “I’m going to phone Hannah.”

  Nancy disappeared into the restaurant again to use the public telephone. In less than five minutes she returned with a glum expression on her face.

  “What’s the matter?” Bess asked.

  “Nobody’s home.”

  “Uh-oh,” George commented. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a River Heights patrol car cruising toward them. “Isn’t that Chief McGinnis?” she said.

  Nancy waved frantically to him, calling at the same time, “Chief! Chief McGinnis!”

  The young police officer at the wheel swung the car behind Nancy’s and his superior stepped out.

  “What happened?” Chief McGinnis inquired, gazing at the tire. “Did you pick up a nail?”

  Quickly Nancy explained, adding her fear that Matey Johnson might be on his way to her house to steal something important.

  “In that case,” the chief said, nodding to the other policeman, “you stay here with the girls. I’ll drive Nancy home.”

  Nancy gave George the keys to her car and slipped her registration in the glove compartment. When she and Chief McGinnis presently pulled into her driveway, the girl flew to the front door past the ladder which was now standing up against the house again. She fumbled for her key, opened the door, and ran upstairs.

  “It’s gone!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Chief, the letter I told you about is gone!”

  “Are you sure?” the man replied as he reached the landing.

  Nancy sorted nervously through numerous papers on her desk, opened all the drawers, and peered behind and under the furniture. There was no sign of Madam Chambray’s letter.

  “What about your manuscript?” the police chief said.

  “Oh, I put that in the hall closet,” Nancy said. “Let me check.” She hurried downstairs and opened the closet door.

  “Oh, good!” she cried out. “It’s still here!”

  Chief McGinnis had followed her. “The thief couldn’t fin
d it,” he deduced.

  Nancy nodded. “Matey Johnson must have looked for it in my room. But Hannah brought it down here and I put it away before we went out to lunch. ”

  “Nancy,” the police officer said, “I’d like to caution you about one thing. Even though you saw Johnson deflating your tire, you don’t have any proof he burglarized this house. ”

  The girl detective agreed. “But I have an idea. The ladder you saw downstairs was moved by somebody. I’m going to check it for fingerprints. If they all belong to Matey—”

  Her voice faded as she took a fingerprint kit from a desk drawer and went outside with the chief.

  “You know, Nancy,” he said, smiling, “I don’t think I’ve ever watched you lift fingerprints!”

  “Any chance I can work on the force?” Nancy said impishly, removing a can of spray powder from the kit.

  “Just let me know when you’re ready!”

  The young detective dusted parts of the ladder with powder, then pressed rubberized lifting tape over the latent prints. She peeled off the tape with the powder on it, and sealed the impressions under a plastic cover.

  “Would you identify these for me?” she asked.

  “As soon as I get back to headquarters,” the chief promised.

  He backed the patrol car out of the driveway as Bess and George pulled up at the curb.

  “Is everything okay?” Bess asked, darting across the lawn ahead of her cousin.

  “I’m afraid not,” Nancy said grimly. “The letter Madame Chambray sent your mother is missing and I’m practically certain Matey Johnson stole it. I’m waiting for Chief McGinnis to identify some fingerprints for me.”

  Bess and George were stunned. “What about your manuscript?” George asked. “Was that taken too?”

  “Fortunately, no,” the young detective said, “and before anything does happen to it, I’d better type up the final draft and mail it to Circle and Square magazine.”

  “This is really exciting,” Bess remarked, giving her friend an enthusiastic hug. “I hope you win first prize!”

  “Thanks,” Nancy said appreciatively. “The magazine is awarding a large cash prize which I’d like to donate to charity.”

  After Nancy had typed the story and labeled the precious package, the girls drove to the River Heights post office, where Nancy then suggested they speak to Mr. Kell. “I’d like to get Matey Johnson’s address from him. ”

  “You’re not planning to visit Matey, are you?” Bess inquired nervously.

  “I might,” Nancy said and aimed the car toward a small industrial park at the edge of town.

  Kell and Kell proved to be a fairly large company with an attractive office. When Nancy greeted the young woman behind the desk and asked to see the owner, the receptionist giggled.

  “Oh, you’re Nancy Drew. How I envy you trotting around the world and solving mysteries! Do they always start with something simple like a falling ladder?”

  Nancy and the other girls laughed. “It’s not that simple,” Nancy replied.

  “But just as startling,” Bess added, as the receptionist announced the visitors to Mr. Kell.

  Momentarily, he stepped out of an inner office. “No more trouble, I hope,” he said warily.

  The young detective bit her lip, not wishing to say anything in front of the receptionist. “May we talk to you privately?” she asked.

  “Certainly. ”

  As concisely as she could, Nancy told him what had happened that afternoon. “Would you please give me Mr. Johnson’s address?” she requested.

  “He was staying at a friend’s apartment while he worked here,” Mr. Kell said. “As a matter of fact, his friend—André Bergère—worked here a few years ago; a real loner and not too friendly to the other people in the shop.”

  He buzzed the receptionist for the address. It was in a section of River Heights where many European people lived.

  “Are you game to go?” Nancy turned to her friends.

  “I guess so,” Bess said reluctantly, “but I don’t relish meeting either André or Matey face to face.”

  When the girls arrived at the address, neither name was listed in the lobby directory. Bess was relieved. “Well, that settles that,” she stated. “Let’s go home.”

  “Not yet,” Nancy replied. She decided to knock at the door of a tenant on the first floor. An elderly man answered. “Would you happen to know if a Mr. André Bergère lives here?” she asked.

  “No, he doesn’t. Moved out a little while ago.”

  “Did he say where he was going?” George pressed the man.

  “I think he said Europe.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Bess commented. “You don’t suppose he went to Belgium?”

  The elderly tenant shrugged. “I have no idea,” he replied. “Sorry I can’t be of further help to you girls.”

  “Now what?” George asked.

  Nancy said she wanted to discuss everything with her father the next evening, when he was due to return from a business trip.

  “Well, don’t solve the mystery before we all see each other again!” Bess exclaimed as she and George parted to do errands.

  “Don’t worry,” Nancy said lightly. “There’s no chance of it!

  The trio said good-bye in the center of the shopping district. Nancy returned home to find Hannah knitting a sweater and waiting for a cake to finish baking in the oven.

  “Something smells delicious,” Nancy remarked.

  “Your favorite—angel food cake.” The housekeeper smiled. “I thought you deserved a little special dessert to celebrate the completion of your manuscript. ”

  “Oh, Hannah, you’re such a dear. You always do something to make me feel better.”

  That evening Nancy went to bed early. She wondered if her priority mail package would reach the magazine office quickly, as promised. What if someone intercepts it? she thought anxiously, then chided herself. Oh, that’s silly. Why would anybody—

  She drifted off to sleep, but late the next morning she could not resist calling Circle and Square to find out if her entry had been received. The young woman on the other end of the line was rather curt. “Entries haven’t been sorted yet,” she said flatly. “Call back later, miss.” She hung up.

  To Nancy’s chagrin, the answer was equally disappointing that afternoon. The manuscript had not arrived so she made a beeline to the post office.

  The clerk on duty offered to put a tracer on the package. “Stop back in a few days,” he suggested.

  But the contest deadline is tomorrow, Nancy thought desperately. What am I going to do?

  Nancy rushed to her father’s law office and with the help of his secretary, Miss Hanson, she made photocopies of her carbon copy of the manuscript. Then, taking a chance her Aunt Eloise, who lived in New York City, would be able to hand-deliver it to the magazine, she returned to the post office.

  “This package must reach New York tomorrow,” Nancy said, “so please send it the fastest way possible.”

  “I can’t promise there is a fastest way,” the clerk said. “There’s a transit strike in New York, and mail trucks are having a tough time getting through. ”

  “Oh, dear,” Nancy replied worriedly.

  What if the second copy of her manuscript did not reach Circle and Square magazine the next day? She would lose her chance to enter the contest !

  4

  Clever Caller

  Seeing the glum expression in Nancy’s eyes, the postal clerk added cheerfully, “‘Course express mail usually gets through no matter what.”

  Nancy sighed. “I hope so.”

  That evening before her father arrived home, she telephoned his sister. “Aunt Eloise, would you mind doing me a very special favor?” the young sleuth requested.

  “I’d be glad to. Just tell me what it is,” Miss Drew replied.

  Briefly Nancy told her about the manuscript, how the first copy had gone astray and that she had mailed Aunt Eloise a second copy to be hand-
delivered. “I hate to trouble you with this in the midst of a transit strike,” Nancy apologized, “but the magazine office is not too far from your apartment. Do you mind very much?”

  “Now don’t be silly. Of course not,” the kindly woman answered. “I wish you could come for a visit. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, Nancy.”

  Her niece promised that she would try to spend a weekend in New York soon. “And I’ll bring my bike! she added with a chuckle.

  When Carson Drew arrived home later that evening, Nancy was eager to tell him about the recent events at the Drew house. One by one she related all of the problems.

  “Don’t worry about your manuscript,” the tall, distinguished-looking man consoled her. “Your Aunt Eloise will see that your package gets to the proper person.”

  “I’m sure, Dad,” Nancy said. “It’s just that—”

  “Winning the contest isn’t everything, you know,” Mr. Drew interrupted. Nancy began to smile as he continued. “I’ve been doing some serious thinking, Nancy. And in view of everything you’ve told me, I think you ought to consider some on-the-spot investigation.”

  “Oh, Dad, do you mean it?” Nancy burst out joyfully.

  “Sure I mean it.”

  The girl threw her arms around her father, hugging him happily. “Bess invited George and me to stay at Madame Chambray’s!” she exclaimed and hurried to the telephone.

  By next morning the three friends had chatted several times, discussed travel arrangements and clothes, and made a long-distance call to Madame Chambray.

  After breakfast, the telephone rang again. This time it was Aunt Eloise Drew.

  “Good news, dear, she reported to Nancy. ”Your manuscript arrived and I took it immediately to the magazine office.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” Nancy said.

  “Well, not entirely.” Miss Drew’s voice became somber. “I asked to see Mr. Miller, the editor-in-chief of the company, but before the receptionist could buzz his office, another man rushed up to me and said, ‘You have Nancy Drew’s manuscript? I’ll take it.’ Of course, I wouldn’t give it to him. He was rather unpleasant about it, and I really was afraid we’d come to verbal blows. ”