Trixie sighed. "I hope you told her that I didn’t do anything of the kind."
"I tried to," Honey said forlornly, "but she wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t very well come out and say that her mother’s brother is a liar." She clenched her slim hands. "If only we had some proof."
"We have," Trixie said. "At least I think it’s proof." She told Honey about her dangerous adventure on Hawthorne Street that afternoon.
Honey’s hazel eyes were wide. "You’re right, Trixie. How else could those matches have got into that horrid Olyfant man’s pocket?" She lowered her voice. "I take it you didn’t tell Mart." Trixie shook her head. "He’d say there were a lot of people named Lynch in town. Or he could say that one of the servants left the matches in the dog wagon, and somebody from Hawthorne Street picked them up, or something like that— just a simple explanation. You know how awfully logical the boys always are."
Honey nodded. "Anyway, I’m on your side now, Trixie. I’m sure Uncle Monty is an impostor. I think we ought to go straight to Mr. Lynch and tell him everything we know about this man." "We can’t do that," Trixie said, "because we still haven’t got any real proof. Not any concrete evidence. He’d probably laugh at that match clue. Worse still, he’d tell Dad that I’d been snooping around Skid Row." Trixie shuddered. "Boy, would I get the dickens!"
"There’s only one thing to do," Honey said thoughtfully. "Di invited me to spend Wednesday night with her. I’ll ask her mother to show me through the gallery. And if the portraits of her parents show that they had blue eyes, I’ll go straight to Mr. Lynch."
"Okay," Trixie said sadly. "How I envy you! I wish I could be in at the kill."
"It’s a shame," Honey said sympathetically. "But maybe there won’t be any kill. Maybe one of the parents had brown eyes. Then what?"
"Let’s worry about that when it happens," Trixie said. "Personally I can’t wait until you find out for sure on Wednesday night."
"Neither can I," Honey agreed. "There are phones all over that house. If we get the proof we need, I’ll call you up right after I talk to Mr. Lynch."
"I don’t think I can live till then," Trixie said. "It’s going to be awfully hard to try and behave as though nothing exciting was going to happen on Wednesday night. That’s more than forty-eight hours away. I can’t bear the suspense." Bobby burst into her room then without knocking. "Hey," he greeted them. "When you gonna give me that bike ride, Trixie?"
Trixie glared at him. "Bobby Belden! You go right back out into the hall, close my door, and knock. Honestly, you’re getting so spoiled you’ll grow up without any manners at all!"
He glared back at her. "Won’t! I tried to knock but it hurted, and it didn’t make any noise." He held out his bandaged hands for Honey to see.
Honey gasped. "Oh, good heavens, Bobby! You haven’t got cuts on every single finger, have you?"
"Sure," he said proudly. "Thumbs, too." Remembering what a narrow escape he had had earlier that afternoon with the big, sharp kitchen knife, Trixie flushed with shame. "All right, Bobby," she said. "You go bring my bike down from the garage. Then I’ll give you a ride." "Okeydokey," he said and darted off.
Trixie sighed. "Life must go on, I suppose. I’ll probably be doing something mundane like homework when you call from the Lynches’ with the exciting news that both of Di’s grandparents had blue eyes."
But although Trixie stayed awake until eleven o’clock Wednesday night, the phone did not ring. When she arrived at school Thursday morning, Di and Honey were waiting for her in the locker ' room.
Di promptly threw her arms around Trixie. "Oh, I’m so sorry I was mad at you," she cried contritely. "Please forgive me, Trix!"
"Sure," Trixie replied, embarrassed and pleased at the same time. "But what happened?"
"We can’t talk about it here," Di whispered. "Can you come home with me after school, Trixie, and spend the night?"
"I’d love to," Trixie said enthusiastically. "I’ll call Moms during lunch and see if it’s all right." The bell rang then, and the girls didn’t get another chance to talk until noon. Trixie raced to the nearest phone booth, and a few minutes later emerged, grinning. "Moms says it’s all right as long as we don’t talk all night." She tucked her hands through Di’s and Honey’s arms. "I’m too excited to eat. Tell me all about everything that happened last night."
"It’s too long a story," Di said, "and there’re too many people around." She squeezed Trixie’s hand. "The important thing right now is that you’re not mad at me. I was so afraid you would be."
"Why should I be?" Trixie demanded.
"Because," Di said, flushing, "I was silly enough to believe you’d said mean things about me and my mother." She lowered her voice. "I hate Uncle Monty. I hate him! And I know now that he is an impostor."
Blue Eyes—or Brown? • 13
DIREFUSED to say another word about her uncle until later that afternoon when the girls were alone in her room, away from anyone who could overhear them.
It was a decorator’s dream of a room, done in royal blue and gold. There were twin beds in it, a huge sofa, two comfortable chairs, a desk, and even a love seat. The gold silk curtains matched the bedspreads, which were monogrammed in royal blue.
"Your parents certainly like this color scheme," Trixie commented without thinking. "Even their matches—" She stopped, biting her lip.
"It’s all right," Di said, smiling. "Honey told me everything last night. About your visit to Hawthorne Street and the package of our matches which that awful man who owns the hotel had in his pocket. But that isn’t why I’m sure now that Uncle Monty isn’t really my mother’s long-lost brother."
"Well, what is the reason?" Trixie demanded impatiently. "I’m simply dying of curiosity, Di. If Honey told you everything last night, she must have told you that I think the most important clue involves those portraits of your mother’s parents."
"There aren’t any portraits of my mother’s parents," Di said flatly.
"What?" Trixie almost fell off the love seat. "Why, I was sine I saw portraits of your grandparents when your mother showed me through the gallery last spring. Don’t you remember, Di?" "You did," Di told her. "But let me start at the beginning. After the party Friday night, Uncle Monty locked up the gallery, as Mother had asked him to. But the next morning when the servants wanted to go in there and take down the draperies and clean up the mess, he couldn’t find the key. At least, that’s what he said. Because we hardly ever use that room, Mother didn’t know the key was missing until yesterday afternoon, when Honey asked her to show her the gallery. Then Uncle Monty told her that he had misplaced it. That was the word he used. He was sure it would turn up eventually. Mother agreed with him, as she always does. But just then Dad came home, and when he heard the key was missing, he had a fit. He sent for a locksmith at once and ordered him to change the locks on both doors.
"While that was going on, the housekeeper and one of the maids began taking down the draperies. Because Dad was so worried for fear some dishonest person had found the key, he made them uncover the valuable paintings first. Eventually they got around to the drapery with the big bat on it, and when they took it down, Mother screamed. Because, you see, Trixie," Di finished, "someone had slashed the pictures from their frames!"
Trixie rested her elbows on her knees and cupped her chin in her hands. "I feel like screaming myself," she moaned.
"I don’t," Di said. "It was the proof I needed to make me realize that Uncle Monty isn’t my uncle. Because, of course, it was he who did it."
"Do your parents suspect Uncle Monty?" Trixie asked hopefully.
"Oh, no," Di told her. "They think someone
found the key after Uncle Monty lost it."
"But that doesn’t make sense," Trixie pointed out. "If a thief got hold of the key, he would have stolen the valuable paintings."
"That’s the point." Di agreed. "But Uncle Monty’s theory is that the thief planned to steal them all but was interrupted."
"How is
this thief supposed to have gotten in and out of your house?" Trixie demanded.
"Oh, everyone thinks it must have been one of the servants," Di explained. "Or one of the caterers or a member of the orchestra. A lot of people had a chance to steal the portraits on Halloween when the gallery was wide open. Why, even the decorators could have done it. That’s why Dad didn’t notify the police. How could they ever find the thief now?"
"It’s too late for clues." Trixie agreed. "And there are too many suspects. We’ll have to find the portraits, that’s all, and somehow we’ll have to prove that it was Uncle Monty who took them." "But where are we going to look?" Di wanted to know. "Uncle Monty wouldn’t keep them. He must have destroyed them by now."
"Big oil paintings on heavy canvas," Trixie said, "aren’t so easy to destroy. When do you suppose he cut them from the frames?"
"I have no idea," Di said.
"I have," Trixie cried. "It must have been right after your father sent for a locksmith. Until the doors were opened, Monty didn’t have to worry about the portraits. He knew I wanted to look at them, but he’d fixed things so I wouldn’t have a chance to."
"That’s right." Di agreed. "If it hadn’t been for Honey asking to be shown the gallery, Dad might not have known the key was missing for weeks. And I remember now, Trixie, while we were all in the study waiting for the locksmith to arrive, Uncle Monty disappeared. He said he was going up to his room to have one last look for the key. His room is right above the study, and the floor isn’t carpeted. If he had gone up there I would have heard him moving around, but I didn’t. I wasn’t suspicious then, so I didn’t think much about it." She clasped her knees excitedly. "What probably happened is this: Instead of going upstairs, he left the house by the front door and sneaked into the gallery from the doors that open onto the terrace. The same key fits both locks. That way, nobody inside the house would have heard or seen him. And, Trixie," she finished, "when the locksmith arrived, it was Uncle Monty who let him into the house through the French doors that open onto the terrace."
"M-m-m," Trixie said thoughtfully. "I wonder what he did with the portraits after he cut them out of their frames. If the locksmith arrived while he was sneaking out of the gallery with them, he didn’t have time to hide them in his room. Oh, I know!" Trixie jumped up. "The fireplace on the terrace! That’s the most logical place. Come on, Di. Let’s go look."
"Why?" Di settled back on the love seat. "What good are some charred scraps going to do us?"
"They might not all be charred," Trixie said. "Besides, how do you know they’re scraps? Canvas is hard to tear, and he wouldn’t have dared waste time cutting them up. I think he just crammed them under the logs and set a match to them. And he certainly didn’t dare stand around for a long time to make sure they were burned to ashes. So there’s a good chance whole sections of the faces may still be intact. The eyes, for instance."
"I think you read too many mysteries," Di said. "In radio and TV shows, detectives are always finding valuable clues in fireplaces. But things like that don’t happen in real life."
"Oh, yes, they do," Trixie argued. "If you ever read the papers, you’d discover that criminals are often convicted on bits of glass or cloth—even charred scraps of evidence. Please, Di, let’s go look now."
"We can’t," Di said. "The TV set is on the terrace, and Uncle Monty is glued to it. There are several programs which he wouldn’t miss for anything in the world. One is on now. The others are in the evening." She laughed. "It’s driving Dad absolutely crazy. Since Uncle Monty arrived, he hasn’t been able to listen to any of his own favorite programs. That’s why he ordered a set for Uncle Monty and is having it installed in the Robin tomorrow. He’s already given Uncle Monty the trailer, you know."
"But why?" Trixie asked, chuckling. "Isn’t this huge house big enough for both your father and your so-called uncle?"
"I guess I forgot to tell you about the check," Di said. "Dad just can’t stand having Uncle Monty around any longer. As soon as he can sell some bonds, he’s going to give him fifty thousand dollars so he can go and do whatever it is he keeps saying he wants to do way out on the coast." Trixie gasped. "We can’t let that happen, Di. When will your father sell those bonds?"
"I don’t know," Di said. "I guess it depends on what the stock market does, although I really think Dad wouldn’t mind taking a big loss if it meant getting rid of Uncle—I mean Monty. Dad didn’t say anything to me about it. I heard him tell Mother. I don’t know how she feels about
Monty’s going away, but I know she’s awfully glad Dad’s going to give him all that money."
"We’ve got to prove that he’s an impostor before that happens," Trixie said. "Can’t you ask your mother what color her parents’ eyes were, Di?"
"I did ask her," Di said. "The first chance I got last night when Monty wasn’t hovering around. She doesn’t know. They both died when she was a baby."
"But the portraits," Trixie said. "She must have seen them hundreds of times."
"Mother was so upset," Di said, "I didn’t dare mention the portraits."
"Well, you must have seen them dozens of times," Trixie said.
Diana shrugged. "I know, but it’s a funny thing about eyes. People don’t notice the color too much. As many times as I’ve seen Honey, I thought her eyes were brown until yesterday. And she thought, just because I have black hair, that my eyes were black, too. But they’re not. They’re violet."
"I guess I notice things like that more than most people," Trixie said rather smugly.
"Is that so?" Di demanded. "What color eyes does our bus driver have? I asked Honey the same question yesterday, and she had no idea."
Trixie grinned ruefully. "Neither have I." Then, struck by an idea, she asked, "Di, hasn’t your mother some old family records which would tell what color her parents’ eyes were? Passports, driver’s licenses, and things like that?"
"I guess so," Di said vaguely. "There’s a funny little old trunk in the attic, filled with keepsakes. But we won’t find any passports or driver’s licenses. My grandparents were very poor, you know."
"Maybe we’ll find birth certificates, then," said Trixie. "Let’s go."
The girls spent the rest of the afternoon searching the contents of the battered little trunk. They pored over photographs, diaries, letters, birth certificates, and receipted bills, but nothing gave them the information they wanted. While they were repacking the trunk, Trixie asked, "What about Uncle Monty? Won’t he think it’s funny when he sees me at dinner this evening?"
"No," Di explained. "I told him that we’d made up because you’d apologized. It was a He, of course, but I guess it takes a liar to catch a liar." Trixie laughed. "Just to keep you from being a liar, I will apologize."
"I’m the one who ought to apologize to you," Di said. "I wouldn’t have believed the things Uncle Monty said you said if I hadn’t thought that he was my mother’s own brother."
Trixie suddenly reached out and clamped her hand over Di’s mouth. "Sh-h," she whispered, "I think someone’s sneaking up the stairs." In a loud voice she said, "I’ve never had a nicer time. I love to explore attics. Don’t you, Di? I mean, why wait for a rainy day to explore attics when you can do it any day?"
"That’s just the way I feel," Di said in an equally loud voice. "Attics should be explored any time you feel like it. Don’t you agree, Trixie?" Both girls carefully avoided looking toward the stairs, which were now creaking. "I certainly do," Trixie said. "I’ve heard of people finding valuable things like stamps and antiques in attics. I could use something valuable right now. I owe Mart a dollar. Seventy-five cents for the cab and a quarter for taking care of Bobby, you know, when I was supposed to."
Di had no idea what Trixie was talking about, but she said vehemently, "You’re so right, Trixie. What do you think about that old chair over there? Of course, it’s broken, but it just might be an antique." The creaking sounds began to die away.
But to be on the safe side, Trixie kept the conv
ersation going until she was sure that the eavesdropper was out of earshot. Then she said in a low voice, "I’ll bet it was Uncle Monty."
"Who else?" Di asked. "And I’m awfully afraid he heard what I said about him. Oh, Trixie, I’m scared. What will he do to me now that he knows I think he’s an impostor and not my real uncle?" "Nothing," Trixie said, closing the little trunk and starting for the stairs. When they were back in Di’s room, she added, "He didn’t do anything to me, and he’s known what I think of him since I tried to look at the portraits at the Halloween party.
"He tried right away to break up our friendship," Di pointed out. "That’s about all he could do to you. But I live right here in the house with him." She shivered, just thinking about it.
"I’m living in the house with him at the moment, too," Trixie said, smiling.
Di brightened. "That’s an idea. Why don’t you keep right on staying with us over the weekend? I wouldn’t be scared if you slept in my room with me at night. Please, Trixie, say you will."
"I’d like to," Trixie said. "But I don’t think Moms would let me. Not unless your mother called her and said she wan ted. me an awful lot, and all that sort of thing. And I haven’t any clothes. Of course, Brian and Mart could bring me some tomorrow on the school bus."
"Of course they could," Di cried enthusiastically. "I’ll go and ask my mother to call your mother right now." She darted off, and Trixie stood in the middle of the room, staring unseeingly out of the window.
What would Uncle Monty do if he knew that both girls suspected him? Fifty thousand dollars was an awful lot of money. If he thought they might interfere with his scheme, wouldn’t he do everything he could to keep them from exposing him?
Trixie quickly made up her mind. She would examine the contents of the terrace fireplace that very night just as soon as everyone, including Diana, was sound asleep.
The Mysterious Visitor Page 10
