The Mysterious Visitor

by Campbell, Julie

  "I’m Not Afraid!" • 14

  IT’S ALL SET," Di said when she came back from her mother’s room. "Mart’s biking in for some reason, but Brian is bringing your suitcase in the station wagon. He was going to drive in, anyway, so he can pick up your mother’s flowers and flower vases at the Garden Club."

  "Swell," Trixie said. "So Mart’s biking in, huh? I wonder why."

  "Is that so unusual?" Di asked. "When we were in grade school, Mart used to bike in and out almost every day. Remember?"

  Trixie laughed. "That was because he was forever missing the bus." She gave Di a hug. "Oh, Di, spending the night with you is so much fun. Why, it’s just like old times, isn’t it?"

  "Almost, but not quite," Di said. "Trixie, I hate this big house, and I don’t really like this room. I feel as though I were staying in a hotel."

  "Now you’re being silly, Di," Trixie said. "It’s a perfectly beautiful house with perfectly beautiful furnishings. And this room is super."

  "I like your room much better, Trixie," Di insisted. "It’s so small and cozy with that lovely hooked rug your grandmother made, that has all the colors of the rainbow in it, and the twin beds with their nice unbleached muslin spreads. At least, that’s the way I remember it."

  "It’s just the same," Trixie said, "except that it seems to get smaller every year. I’ve got so much junk in my closet I have to lean on the door with all my weight before I can close it."

  Di giggled. "I still would rather have a small room. And I’d rather live in a small house like yours."

  "Listen, Di," Trixie said seriously, "you’ve got to stop hating being rich. I can see why it’s a nuisance having a butler hovering around. And it’s a shame you practically never see your kid brothers and sisters. But you go around acting as though having a lot of money is something to be ashamed of. Honey and Jim are awfully rich, but you notice it doesn’t seem to bother them." Di nodded. "They’re used to it—at least, Honey is. I suppose I’ll get used to it eventually. But right now I can’t help thinking that none of the kids in our class at school like me. When we lived on Main Street, they used to drop in all the time. I hate living way out here away from everyone on this lonely country road."

  "The road we live on is pretty lonely, too," Trixie said, "and it’s just as far from the center of town. But, Di, where you live isn’t what makes people decide to like you or not like you."

  "That’s what Honey said," Di admitted. "When I spent the weekend with her and she spent the night with me, we talked a lot after we went to bed. She says that, until she met you and Jim, she went around being miserable all the time, so of course she wasn’t popular with other boys and girls. She says the reason my friends don’t come out here is that I don’t invite them."

  "That’s right," Trixie said. "You notice they all came to your Halloween party and had a wonderful time. Take me, for instance," she added with a chuckle. "Every time you’ve asked me I’ve accepted, haven’t I? But I’ll bet I never get invited again if I don’t get cleaned up before dinner. It’s almost eight."

  Di frowned at the clock on her desk. "I wish we didn’t have to see Uncle Monty. How are we going to keep our faces from showing what we know and how we feel about him?"

  "We’ll have to, that’s all," Trixie said. "Don’t look at me and don’t look at Uncle Monty. That’ll be the best way."

  "I wish we could wear masks," Di said worriedly. "I guess the best thing to do is to pretend that my real face is a mask." She began to practice in front of the mirror. "How’s this for a mask, Trixie? Would you say that I had a dead pan?" Trixie shook with laughter. "With your cheeks sucked in like that and your eyes practically popping out of your head, you look more like a fish. You’re going to have a hard time eating with that kind of a frozen face. Me, I’m going to concentrate on the delicious food you always have."

  Somehow, during dinner they managed to talk and behave just as though Uncle Monty really were Mrs. Lynch’s brother. He, in turn, gave no sign that he suspected them of suspecting him. After dinner Trixie found that she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. She hadn’t had nearly enough sleep the night before, and neither had Di.

  "Thank goodness we haven’t any homework."

  Trixie yawned as they undressed and climbed into bed. She fell sound asleep almost the minute her head touched the soft pillow.

  Because she had gone to sleep so early, she awoke a few hours later. The luminous dial on Di’s clock told her that it was twelve thirty. Trixie slipped out of bed and cautiously opened the door. The house was very quiet. Di had loaned her a warm housecoat, and she quickly put it on. Then, in her bare feet, she tiptoed down the stairs.

  The halls were dimly lighted, but the dining room, which she had to pass through in order to get to the terrace, was pitch dark. Trixie tried to peer into the darkness but couldn’t even see the outlines of the heavier pieces of furniture.

  "I guess I’ll have to turn on a light," she said to herself, wishing she had a flashlight or candle. "Either that or trip over the furniture in here and wake everyone in the house." Trixie groped along the walls until she found the light switch. The soft click sounded like a deafening crash, and the bright lights that immediately flooded the room and the terrace seemed blinding. For a moment she stood still, not daring to move.

  She hadn’t been frightened before, but her hands trembled as she opened the French doors and crept across the flagstone floor to the fireplace. It seemed as though a thousand pairs of eyes must be watching her. And, except for two huge, clean logs, the fireplace was empty. Then Trixie remembered that there was another fireplace at the other end of the terrace, and she hurried over to it. She poked through the ashes and in a few minutes drew out what she had hardly dared to hope she might be lucky enough to find: two tightly rolled canvases which had been crammed under the bottom log. The backs were scorched, but only the comers had been burned away.

  Trixie hastily unrolled them and, kneeling on the terrace, spread them flat. Two pairs of blue eyes stared up at her!

  "What do you think you re doing?"

  It was only a whisper, but it was uttered so close to Trixie that it sounded like a shout. For a moment she was too surprised to move; then she turned her head and saw that Uncle Monty was standing right behind her. He was fully clothed, but even in that terrible moment she noticed that he was wearing sneakers. That explained why he had been able to creep up behind her without making a sound that would have warned her.

  Trixie’s eyes traveled from his feet to his face. He looked so angry that she opened her mouth to scream, but only a croak came out of her dry throat.

  He grabbed her arm and jerked her roughly to her feet. "Scream," he hissed, "and I’ll—"

  Trixie found her voice then. She was much more angry than she was frightened. "Keep your hands off me," she said. "I have no intention of screaming. I’m not afraid of you."

  He pointed to- the portraits, which were slowly rolling up again. "So it was you who committed the vandalism," he whispered hoarsely. "I thought so. That’s what you were doing when I caught you in the gallery all alone on Halloween."

  Trixie gulped. If anyone came downstairs now and found them on the terrace with those incriminating portraits, it would be Monty’s word against hers.

  "If you know what’s good for you," he continued, "you’ll go back to bed and pretend this little scene was a nightmare."

  Trixie tossed her head. "While you finish burning the portraits, I suppose. That’s what you came downstairs to do, didn’t you? It’s too bad you didn’t have a chance to make sure they were completely burned last night, when you slashed them from their frames."

  He glared at her. "Little girls who frequent Hawthorne Street shouldn’t make a habit of asking impertinent questions."

  "So you know about that?" Trixie asked coolly. "Do you also know that I happened to notice that your friend Olyfant had a package of the Lynches’ personalized book matches? Maybe you can tell me how he got them. Or how you happened to k
now I was on Hawthorne Street."

  He ignored her questions. "The fact that you were seen on Hawthorne Street can only mean one thing. You were contacting a fence so you could sell those portraits. If Mr. Lynch knew as much about you as I do he wouldn’t allow you to speak to his daughter."

  Trixie’s heart sank. More than ever now she wished she had never gone near Hawthorne Street. She had got a clue, but it was one she would never be able to use. In fact, everything she had done so far in order to prove that this man was an impostor could be twisted and turned to be used against her.

  She could tell by the mean expression in his small brown eyes that he knew she was helpless. That made Trixie mad. Disdainfully she touched the portraits with her bare toe. "Oh, go ahead and bum them," she said airily. "They don’t mean a thing. If you’ll notice the signature of the artist, you’ll see that he is one of the most famous portrait painters in America. I happen to know about him, because he painted Mrs. Wheeler s portrait. He’s a very young man, Uncle Monty, and must have been born a long time after Mrs. Lynch’s parents died."

  He stared at her in chagrined amazement.

  "I don’t know why we both didn’t realize in the beginning," Trixie continued, "that those portraits were done from photographs. Mrs. Lynch’s family was very poor. Poor people can’t afford to have their portraits painted. She must have had them done quite recently and told the artist to give them blue eyes simply because her own are blue." Trixie tossed her head. "So now, Uncle Monty, you don’t have to be any more afraid of me than I am of you. I think you’re an impostor, but I have no way of proving it." She swept past him into the dining room, thinking, Not yet, anyway.

  Back in Di’s room, safely snuggled under the covers, Trixie lay awake for a long time, trying to think of another way of proving that Uncle Monty was an impostor. "There just has to be some good way to prove it," she thought desperately, "but how?"

  Too Many Problems • 15

  THE NEXT MORNING Trixie woke Di up early and told her what had happened on the terrace the night before.

  "I think we ought to tell Dad right now," Di said as they dressed for school. "Why, Monty as good as confessed to you that he is an impostor." Trixie shook her head. "No, he didn’t. I hoped he’d say something that would give us a clue to who he really is, but all he did was threaten me." Diana shivered. "He’s a horrid man. Let’s have breakfast in the nursery with the twins so we won’t have to look at him."

  "That would be fun," Trixie said. "I haven’t seen them since they were babies. But will the nurses let us?"

  "They had better," Di said firmly. "I’m sick and tired of being bossed by servants. Honey is very polite to the people who work on her place, but you notice she doesn’t let them make her life miserable."

  Trixie chuckled. In a short time Honey had done wonders! Di was already well on the road to becoming her usual cheerful self. "Honey is just about perfect," Trixie said to Di as they hurried down the hall toward the nursery wing. "I love her."

  "I do, too," Di said. "And that’s one reason why I hate Monty. He heard me telling Dad and Mother about how Honey is just getting over being scared of spiders and snakes. He doesn’t want Honey to like me. That’s why he planted all those awful things around at the party. That’s also why he tried to make Regan mad. He pretends to like my friends, but you notice he’s always trying to break up my friendships." Trixie nodded. "Well, he’ll be gone soon. And that’s what worries me. Today is Friday. Suppose your father gives him that check tomorrow. He’ll drive off with the trailer, and nobody will ever hear of him again."

  "I know," Di agreed. "That’s why you ought to tell Dad what you know about Monty."

  "I can’t," Trixie moaned. "Not without getting into a lot of trouble. I did sneak into the gallery on Halloween. Before that Harrison saw me swipe a candle from the dining room. He doesn’t know why I took it, but don’t you see? If your dad starts asking a lot of questions, it would surely look as though I was the one who cut tire portraits out of the frames."

  They had a delicious breakfast in the sunny nursery with the twins, who, Trixie decided, were almost as cute and mischievous as Bobby. In spite of the muses, the little boys and girls managed to spill their cocoa and drop several pieces of French toast on the floor. They were all four quarreling happily when Trixie and Di left.

  Because the girls had got up so early, it was only seven thirty when they returned to Di’s room. "I think we ought to have a meeting of the Bob-Whites this afternoon," Trixie said suddenly, "and decide what to do about Monty."

  "I agree with you," Di said. "Could we have the meeting here? Brian can drive the others home afterward."

  "All right," Trixie said. "I’ve sort of lost interest in the clubhouse now that it’s not really ours anymore. But what if Monty hangs around?"

  "He won’t," Di told her. "He’s going in to New York this afternoon to get the tow car Dad bought him. And Harrison won’t hang around, either. I’m going to tell him that if we get hungry, we’ll use some of the things I bought for the Halloween party. We’ll have toasted marshmallows and popcorn, so there won’t be any reason for him to come near us with his silly old silver tray." "Great," Trixie said with a grin. "I’ll call Honey now and tell her to notify the others, so our parents won’t expect anybody home until late this afternoon."

  When Trixie finished telephoning, the girls went downstairs and found that Mr. Lynch was just about to leave for the station in the limousine.

  "I’ll drop you kids off at the school if you’re all set," he said cheerfully.

  "Oh, that would be wonderful," Trixie said gratefully. "It’s a long walk to the bus stop at the end of your driveway."

  "Almost a mile," he said as they climbed into the backseat of the car. "That’s why I’d like to take Di to school every day, but she isn’t usually up and ready so early."

  "That’s not true!" Di affectionately hugged her father’s arm. "You’re the one who’s lazy in the morning. If I waited for you, I’d be late to school every day."

  Mr. Lynch chuckled. "It’s the truth. I got up early this morning so I wouldn’t have the pleasure of riding in to New York on the train with your uncle. He planned to take the nine fifteen with me, so I just decided that I’d take the eight forty-five." His big shoulders shook with laughter. "Well, here you are, girls."

  They waved good-bye and hurried up the steps to the school. "Your father doesn’t like Monty any more than we do," Trixie said. "Oh, I can’t wait until we prove that he is an impostor." "And I," Di said, "can’t wait for the gang to get together at our house this afternoon."

  They held the meeting on the terrace at four o’clock. Trixie did most of the talking, and for once the boys listened without interrupting. They frowned at her darkly when she described her visit to the hotel on Hawthorne Street but said nothing until she had finished telling them about her scene with Uncle Monty the night before.

  Then Jim said soberly, "Well, he’s a crook, all right. I think, Trix, you ought to tell the whole story to Mr. Lynch as soon as he comes home." "I do, too," Brian agreed.

  "Well, I don’t," Mart said. "We haven’t got a shred of proof. We can’t drag Tom into it, because we promised not to. So what have we got?

  Matches and portraits! Do you think Mr. Lynch is going to believe that Trixie actually went to Skid Row? Or that she found the portraits under those logs? Or that she had that fantastic chat with Uncle Monty out here last night? We believe her, because we know that she’s crazy enough to take all sorts of chances when she’s tracking down a mystery. But Mr. Lynch will simply think she’s crazy. Period. Full stop."

  "I agree with Mart," Honey said. "How do you feel about it, Di? You know your father better than the rest of us. Would he believe Trixie?"

  "I don’t think so," Di said. "But it might make him suspicious enough to hire private detectives." "What’s the matter with us?" Mart demanded. "We’re supposed to be amateur detectives. By the time private dicks get going on the case, Uncle Monty will have
faded into anonymity." "Into what?" Di asked.

  Mart waved his hands. "Namelessness. Thin air. Once he’s cashed that check, no one will ever hear of Montague Wilson again."

  "Not unless there’s a real Montague Wilson,’ Trixie pointed out.

  "Which I very much doubt," Mart said. "I mean, not alive. If he is alive, why didn’t he get in touch with his sister long ago?"

  "He probably tried to," Di said, "but didn't get anywhere. When my grandparents died, the welfare people put my mother in a foster home. She used her foster parents’ last name until she married Dad. So, as far as my real uncle knew, she vanished while she was still a baby." "True," Mart said, "but last spring your whole family history appeared in both newspapers and magazines. If he’s alive, your uncle must have seen one of those stories."

  "The Monty we know saw them, all right," Trixie said. "My theory is that he met the real Monty out west somewhere about the same time those stories were published. Di’s uncle is probably a very nice person and didn’t want to get in touch with his sister then, after all those years, because it would look as though he hadn’t cared anything about her until her husband made a million dollars. So the Monty we know decided to impersonate him. But he didn’t know enough about Mrs. Lynch to convince her that he was her brother. So he came east and scouted around until he finally found that Olyfant was the man who could give him the information he needed." "That makes sense." Brian agreed. "I’ve been wondering why Monty risked going to Hawthorne Street after he showed up at the Lynches’. The answer is, of course, that he went back to pay Olyfant for the information."

  "But he hasn’t got the money from Mr. Lynch yet," Jim put in. "Has he, Di?"

  Di shook her head. "Mother gives him spending money, but she never has very much because she charges practically everything. Oh!" She dropped the marshmallow she had been toasting into the fire. "That explains the birds."