The Clue in the Old Stagecoach

by Carolyn G. Keene

  The tow chain was attached and John O’Brien took his place at the wheel of the truck. A moment later the outfit began to move, but unfortunately the truck had started with a jerk. The stagecoach gave a sudden lurch, jostling George and Burt.

  George lost her balance and toppled over the side!

  Burt made a dive for her. He managed to seize George in time to keep her from falling to the ground. George, for her part, made a wild grab for the railing at the top of the coach and helped pull herself up.

  The commotion had reached John O’Brien’s ear and he had stopped short. George, shamefaced and a little disheveled, apologized. Suddenly she realized that the movie camera was still whirring. Turning to the photographer, she cried out:

  “You didn’t take my picture!”

  “Of course. It looked very realistic,” he replied, grinning.

  “Well, don’t you dare show it to anybody!” George snapped, but she knew from the big tantalizing smile he gave her that he would not accede to her request.

  The balance of the photographing took place without incident. Mrs. Pauling thanked Nancy and her friends for all their trouble, then the young people said good-by and headed for Camp Merriweather.

  The evening was spent catching up on home news, but by ten o’clock all declared they were weary from their day’s experiences and said good night.

  When Nancy reached her room, she sat down in a chair and gazed out the window, lost in thought. Her father had once told her that reviewing the various details of a case just before going to bed might bring a ready answer in the morning. Nancy often found herself instinctively doing this.

  George lost her balance and toppled over the side!

  Suddenly she jumped up and began to walk around the room as an idea came to her. She snapped her fingers and smiled.

  “I wonder if I could possibly be right!” she thought excitedly.

  CHAPTER XIX

  A Midnight Attack

  AT THAT moment the door between her room and the one George and Bess occupied suddenly opened. “Nancy, aren’t you ever going to bed?” Bess demanded solicitously.

  George followed. “Why, you’re not even undressed!”

  “Don’t scold!” Nancy pleaded. “I just had an idea that I think may solve the mystery!”

  As her friends watched, she dashed across the room to a bureau drawer where she had left the notes written by Great-uncle Abner Langstreet. Bringing them to the desk and turning on a bright light, she stared at the sides on which the signatures appeared.

  “Some of these notes have penciled markings, you notice,” she remarked.

  “I see them,” said George. “Just doodlings.”

  “Maybe not,” Nancy murmured.

  She creased one paper and laid it on top of another, so that the two drawings came together to form a horizontal staff and an arrow-shaped crosspiece at the center and to the right. Then she fitted a pointed section to the top. Finally, after creasing three papers into tiny squares, Nancy slid three circles over the center section.

  “You’re a genius!” Bess exclaimed. “That’s a railroad semaphore!”

  “It sure is,” George agreed. “But what does it mean?”

  Nancy smiled excitedly. “It’s my guess that Mr. Langstreet buried his stagecoach along the railroad tracks near a semaphore.”

  “It’s a marvelous deduction,” said George. “But the question is, which semaphore. We might find ourselves digging in hundreds of places.”

  Before Nancy answered, she went back to the bureau drawer and this time pulled out the map Mrs. Strook had given her. After studying it carefully, she said:

  “I’m convinced that Great-uncle Abner buried the old stagecoach on family property which runs along the railroad. Here’s a strip and it isn’t too many feet long. Even if we don’t find the semaphore, we wouldn’t have a great deal of digging to do at this spot.”

  Bess’s eyes were wide open in astonishment. All sleepiness had gone out of them. “I think this is simply super, Nancy,” she said in praise. “Right after breakfast tomorrow we’ll all start out and go to this place.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait that long,” said the young sleuth. “It really isn’t late. If we can get the boys to go, aren’t you game to start digging tonight?”

  “I’m game,” said George, but reminded Nancy that she really had no right to dig on private property.

  “That is a problem,” the girl detective conceded. “I know what I’ll do. I’ll call up Art Warner and see what he says.”

  She hurried to the private phone booth on the first floor and called the lawyer. His wife, who answered, said he was working late at the town hall. “He’s at a special meeting, but I know he’d be glad to talk to you,” Mrs. Warner assured the girl.

  Nancy put in a call and a few minutes later was talking to Art Warner. When she told him what she had in mind, he said he might be able to help her very easily.

  “Please tell me exactly where that piece of property is,” he requested.

  After Nancy had described the location, the young lawyer asked her to hold the phone a few minutes. Returning, he said:

  “I have good news for you. That property belongs to the town of Francisville. Taxes on it were not paid for a long time and the owner lost the piece. You have the permission of the councilmen to dig on it all you please.”

  “Terrific!” said Nancy excitedly. “I’ll let you know the result. Any news for me about Mr. Langstreet?”

  “I’m afraid not. But regarding any marriage of his, I think no news is good news.”

  Nancy said she must go now, and Art Warner wished her luck. She stepped from the booth and went to a house phone at the end of the registry desk. Calling Ned’s room she asked him if he and the other boys would be willing to go out right away to do some sleuthing.

  “Of course. But what’s up?” he asked.

  “I can’t tell you now, but I’m sure I have a good clue this time.”

  Ned, who said he had not been asleep, would rouse Burt and Dave and they would all meet at Nancy’s convertible in a few minutes. Nancy put down the phone, then went to speak to the night clerk. Smiling, she said, “I wonder if the lodge could do me a big favor? I’d like to borrow several garden digging tools—say six.”

  The clerk grinned at her. “More sleuthing, Miss Drew?” he asked.

  “Now what makes you think such a thing instead of guessing that I might just want to transplant some flowers?” Nancy replied with a chuckle.

  “When do you want the tools?” the clerk asked.

  “Right away, if possible.”

  “I’ll see that you get them. Where do you want the boy to take them?”

  “To my car.”

  Nancy gave the license number, then said she was going to run back to her room but would return soon. When she and the other girls and the three boys met in the parking lot, the digging tools were standing up against the trunk compartment.

  “You think of everything,” Ned praised Nancy. “Where in the world did you get these?”

  Nancy tossed her head. “From my friend the night clerk. And we’d better put them to good use because he’ll certainly be asking what I accomplished.”

  Ned drove while Nancy, who was now very familiar with the general area, directed him to the special piece of property along the old railroad right of way. Picsently she pointed out an overgrown, rutted lane where she thought he should turn down.

  The narrow piece of property stretched a good distance from the road to where the tracks had once been. The railioad embankment was still there.

  The group flashed their lights around and even beamed the headlights of the car on the surrounding area. If there had ever been a semaphore at the spot, it was gone now. The boys scuffed their feet along the ground and after a while Ned found part of a rusted iron pipe which stuck up alongside a stone.

  “Nancy, do you think this might have been the pole that held the semaphore?” he asked.

  “It might hav
e,” she replied. “Anyway, let’s start our operations here.”

  For the second time within a few days, Nancy and her friends started digging for a buried stagecoach. The work went fast. The area all around the suspected semaphore pole was being spaded, pickaxed, and shoveled.

  Presently Bess gave a squeal. “I’ve hit something!” she cried out.

  The others crowded around. Six inches below the surface they could see the corner of what appeared to be a rusted wrought-iron chest. Everyone helped to uncover the top of it.

  “It is a chest!” Bess exclaimed gleefully. “Quick! Let’s open it!”

  There was no lock on the chest, but it took a little tugging to raise the lid.

  “Bridles!” said Nancy excitedly. “One, two, three, four of them! The ones the stagecoach horses wore!”

  There was nothing else inside the box, but Ned guessed that there must be other chests containing the various parts of the old stagecoach. Everyone worked feverishly. In a few minutes the top of another chest of thin wrought iron was uncovered. It held the box from under the driver’s feet.

  “Maybe the clue’s inside the box,” George spoke up hopefully.

  Burt flung back the ancient lid. There was nothing inside.

  Work went on for nearly two hours. By this time twenty chests of various sizes had been found. Each contained some part of the old stagecoach and all the pieces were in a fine state of preservation.

  “You were right, Nancy,” Bess spoke up, “about Great-uncle Abner Langstreet disposing of his stagecoach with loving care. I suppose he made all these chests in his blacksmith shop and drove over here with them one at a time.”

  “That’s all right,” said George, “but where’s the clue he hid in one of them?”

  “Don’t be discouraged,” said Nancy. “According to the notes, there are still ten chests to be found.”

  The next one was unearthed by Nancy and Ned together. Quickly Ned raised the lid. Inside was one of the doors of the old stagecoach. And on top of it lay an unaddressed envelope.

  “The clue!” Ned shouted.

  Nancy was so excited she was almost afraid to pick up the envelope and look inside it. Her heart was pounding furiously. She did take the envelope out, however, but just then noticed a sweet, sickish odor in the air. Instinctively she held her breath as she turned up the flap of the envelope.

  As Nancy started to look inside she suddenly noticed that her friends were acting very queerly. Bess and George seemed to fall to the ground in a faint. Burt and Dave staggered a few steps, then sank to the ground unconscious. Suddenly Nancy noticed Ned let the lid of the chest drop with a loud bang. He toppled over on the ground.

  All this time Nancy had been holding her breath because she did not like the sickish odor. But now she knew she must fill her lungs with air.

  As she did so, the young sleuth heard a noise a short distance ahead of her. Looking up, she caught a glimpse of Ross Monteith’s face. Beside him was a shadowy figure, its arm stretched toward Nancy. On the wrist was a scar!

  The hand reached for the envelope. At that moment Nancy blacked out and slumped to the ground.

  CHAPTER XX

  Honorary Citizen

  IT WAS daylight by the time Nancy and her friends recovered consciousness. One by one they became fully aware of their surroundings.

  “What happened to us?” Bess asked groggily.

  “I think,” said Nancy, “that our enemy put us to sleep with some sleeping gas he sprayed around.”

  “And the envelope!” George cried out. “Where is it?”

  Nancy’s listeners were stunned when she told them about Ross Monteith being there and the man with the scar on the back of his wrist having grabbed the envelope.

  “The clue was in your grasp and they got it away!” Bess said woefully.

  Ned arose and came to Nancy’s side. “I feel mighty bad about this,” he said. “I was just plain dumb not to think of our setting a guard. We laid ourselves wide open to an attack with all our lights turned on.”

  “Please don’t blame yourself,” Nancy said. By this time she felt that her mind was clicking almost normally again. “You know, it’s just possible that those men did not get the clue after all.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” George asked.

  Nancy reminded the others that there had been no name or anything else written on the envelope. “I admit I was getting pretty groggy at the time I was holding it, but the envelope didn’t feel to me as though there was anything inside.”

  “You mean,” said George, “that the real clue may be in one of the nine boxes we haven’t uncovered yet?”

  “That’s right,” Nancy answered. “But while we’re looking, I think we should do what Ned suggested—set a guard. If there was nothing in that envelope we found, then those thieves will be back here to get the real one.”

  “More than that,” said Ned, “I think the police should be notified. I’ll drive to town and tell them while you continue the digging.” He grinned. “And I’ll bring you all some breakfast.”

  Nancy suggested that Ned also bring Art Warner, and told him where he could find the young lawyer.

  The digging started again. Each chest was freed from the earth and quickly opened. The searchers looked for the elusive clue among the pieces of the stagecoach. Seven boxes had been opened and the eighth had just been raised when Ned Nickerson returned. With him were Art Warner, Sergeant Hurley, and Detective Takman.

  “You’re just in time to see the next to the last box opened,” Nancy told them.

  Everybody crowded around and Burt raised the lid. Inside the hand-wrought iron chest was the center seat of the old stagecoach. Nancy’s quick eyes noted a small spot in the upholstery which looked as if it had been cut deliberately. Quickly she explored inside with her fingers.

  “I feel something!” she cried out, and a moment later pulled an envelope from its hiding place. Smoothing it out, she read:TO THE CITIZENS OF FRANCISVILLE

  “This is the real clue!” she exulted. Then she turned to Art Warner. “As a resident of that town, will you please open this and see what’s inside?”

  As everyone stood around in awe, the young lawyer carefully opened the envelope with his penknife and pulled out a letter. As he read it aloud, looks of delight spread over the faces of his audience.

  The letter was signed by Abner Langstreet and said that at the time the cornerstone of the town hall of Francisville was laid in the year 1851, Langstreet had been the person to put on the last bit of mortar to seal it. When no one was looking, he had slipped something inside the cornerstone box which he figured in years to come might be of great value to the town. He directed that when an emergency should arise, the cornerstone be opened and his gift used.

  “How amazing!” Bess spoke up, as Art Warner stopped reading. “What’s in the cornerstone?”

  “The letter doesn’t tell,” the young lawyer replied. “But I should say that the time of emergency has arisen in Francisville. What do you all think?”

  Everyone agreed with him and could hardly wait for the town fathers to open the cornerstone, so they might all see what the secret was.

  “I’ll arrange to have it done very soon, and we’ll have a little celebration,” Art Warner told the others.

  George remarked, “And Mr. Langstreet’s stagecoach belongs to the town too.”

  “Yes,” said Nancy, then told the police officers and Art Warner that Mrs. Pauling had agreed to defray the expenses for having it fixed up.

  Bess spoke up. “The old stagecoach should be put on display in Francisville—for a time at least, even if it’s moved to Bridgeford later.”

  “What is to become of the stagecoach right now?” George asked. “We can’t leave it here.”

  Art Warner had a suggestion. He said he had a radiotelephone in his car and would get in touch with John O’Brien. “I’ll ask him to come and take these pieces to Mr. Jennings the carpenter.”

  Sergeant Hurley said that
he and Detective Takman would stay there and guard the old stagecoach until John O’Brien arrived, then follow him to the carpenter’s shop.

  “And now let’s have a celebration breakfast,” said Ned. From the car he pulled out ham and egg sandwiches, thermos bottles of orange juice, and steaming cocoa.

  When the orange juice was poured into paper cups, Ned raised his cup. “Here’s to Nancy Drew, best girl detective in the world!”

  “She’s certainly amazing,” Sergeant Hurley said.

  Nancy thanked Ned for the toast, then said, smiling, “Sergeant Hurley, the whole story can’t be told until you round up the suspects in the case.”

  “The captain was expecting some arrests at any moment when Takman and I left,” the officer replied. “Why don’t you ride into Francisville and stop at headquarters?”

  “We’ll do that,” said Nancy.

  The young people went directly there, while Art Warner said he would get in touch with the mayor and other officials to see about having the cornerstone opened very soon.

  “Oh, I hope it will happen while I’m still at the lodge!” said Nancy.

  The others waved good-by to the lawyer and walked into headquarters. Police Captain Dougherty was busy on the telephone. They waited for him to finish, then Nancy introduced herself and the rest of the group. She told him about the finding of the old stagecoach and the clue in it which might mean a great deal to the town of Francisville.

  “You’re just in time to hear some big news,” he said. “My men are bringing in five prisoners. Mr. and Mrs. Monteith were finally located at a farm on the outskirts of the next town. Staying with them were the two thugs we’ve been trying to locate.”

  “And who’s the fifth person?” Nancy asked.

  “Judd Hillary. He’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”

  The group arrived in a little while. Nancy and her friends were allowed to stay and listen to their confessions. Everyone of them glared darkly at the girl as if she had been personally responsible for their downfall. Ross Monteith’s real name was found to be Frank Templer.