The Secret in the Old Lace

by Carolyn G. Keene

  But the thief was already halfway down the rope and was now dangling only a dozen feet above the ground.

  “Oh, look! The rope’s splitting!” George cried out.

  Indeed, the strands were fraying rapidly until the last few threads snapped and the man hit the ground hard. His legs gave way underneath him, and he fell, letting out a howl of anguish.

  “We’re about to lose him!” George exclaimed, watching the thief try to get up.

  “Maybe not,” Nancy said. “He seems to have hurt his ankle. Let’s hurry downstairs. Chances are he won’t be able to run away!”

  The girl detectives flew down the stairway toward the front door and rushed around the building. Hilda and Bess, who were in the Weapons Room, were unaware of what had happened and wondered why their friends were taking so long to join them.

  When Nancy and George reached the spot where the frayed rope lay, the man was gone.

  “There he is!” George shouted, pointing to the thief as he desperately hobbled toward a bridge spanning a narrow canal between the Gruuthuse and another museum. Nancy darted ahead of her companion, yelling at the top of her lungs.

  “Stop! Arrêtez! Halt!” But he kept limping on as fast as he could.

  Halfway across the bridge, however, he paused to rest his hurt ankle. Nancy dived toward him, grabbing the lace centerpiece hanging out of his pocket. Instinctively, he snatched it back, causing the beautiful piece to tear in half!

  “Get away from me!” he shouted at Nancy in English. Then he scooped her up in his arms, ready to push her over the stone railing into the water!

  “Stop!” Nancy exclaimed just as George caught up to the pair and seized the man’s arms.

  Should she give him a judo flip into the canal? No, she decided. He would drag Nancy along with him.

  Instead, George continued to hold him while Nancy slid from his grasp and began to empty his pockets that were bulging with lace. Angrily, the man shoved the girls aside and darted across the bridge.

  Her arms full of beautiful lace, Nancy called out, “George, go after him while I take this stuff back to the museum!”

  George nodded and rushed after the man. Just as he stepped off the bridge, a group of visitors arrived, completely filling the narrow walkway. All of them were young men, laughing and joking with one another. When George tried to push past them, one caught her in his arms.

  “Don’t run away, pretty girl!” he said in a lilting Irish brogue. “Why don’t you join us on our tour? We’d love to have something lovely to look at!”

  “Please excuse me!” George said, trying to get away from him.

  “Ye look like ye’re running away from someone,” another fellow said.

  “No, I’m running after someone!” George cried in utter frustration. “A thief, if you want to know. Now please let me pass!”

  The young man looked at her with big eyes. “A thief!”

  By now George had wriggled out of his grip and slipped past the other young men. In a few long leaps, she crossed the bridge.

  There was a narrow alley to her right and a park-like courtyard to her left. The man was nowhere in sight!

  Some distance ahead of her was the other museum. Would he try to hide in there? George wondered. If I were he, where would I go?

  In answer to her own question, she raced down the narrow street. But when she turned the next corner, there was no sign of the fugitive. Disgusted, George walked back to the museum. I’ve lost him, she said to herself. What bad luck!

  She met Nancy in the lobby, surrounded by guards. They were excitedly jabbering in Flemish, and the woman from the reception desk walked up and translated for the girls.

  “You stole these things from the exhibit upstairs!” she accused Nancy.

  “I didn’t steal anything!” the girl dectective said evenly. “Someone else did. He let himself down from the balcony on a rope. I caught him and got all the stuff back. But one piece ripped when he tried to hold on to it!”

  The guards continued to converse loudly. Finally the woman said, “Jacques here said he saw you walking into the lobby with the lace, not running away with it. Will you please tell us exactly what happened?”

  Nancy did, and George verified her explanation. Bess and Hilda, meanwhile, had left the Weapons Room and were looking for their friends. They were just in time to hear Nancy’s story.

  “Did he take the pieces from the glass display cases?” Nancy asked as she finished.

  The receptionist shook her head. “No. We just received a new shipment which Jacques was bringing upstairs. Apparently the thief saw him and decided it would be easy to steal as long as he could get the guard out of the room.”

  “How did he manage that?” Bess asked.

  “He told Jacques he was wanted in the lobby. So the unsuspecting guard put the box of lace behind one of the display cases and hurried downstairs. The thief then must have waited until you girls left the room before he made his next move and escaped over the balcony. ”

  “But what about the rope?” George asked. “If he hadn’t planned to steal the lace before he arrived, where’d he get the rope from?”

  “Unfortunately, it was lying on a chest of drawers in one corner of the room,” the receptionist said. “We had men working on the chimney, and they forgot to take the rope when they left early this morning before the museum opened. The thief saw it and realized it was long enough to help him down from the balcony.”

  The receptionist turned to Nancy. “What did the thief look like? I will call the police and ask them to look for him. ”

  “He was tall and thin,” Nancy said, “and wore a raincoat. He had a hat pulled low over his forehead, so I couldn’t see his eyes too well. But his face was narrow, his lips thin, and his coloring was very pale, almost gray. He looked like a man who rarely went outdoors.”

  “He also limps because he hurt his ankle,” George added.

  “Thank you,” the woman said. “I shall pass this information on to the authorities. Will you give me your names and addresses in case the police find the man and need to get in touch with you?”

  The girls provided the information and then stepped out into the sunlight again.

  “Phew, what an experience!” George said.

  “That man was watching us at the Lace Center,” Nancy told her friends. “He must have followed us all the way from there. I didn’t want to say anything before, because I wasn’t sure and didn’t want to worry you. He might have been the same man who stole my suitcase at the airport. I didn’t see his face then, but he had the same build as the lace thief. ”

  “But if he wanted to know what we were up to, why would he draw attention to himself the way he did?” Bess asked.

  “Perhaps he thought the cuffs with the message in them were among the antique lace pieces the guard brought upstairs for display,” Nancy guessed.

  “Well, unfortunately he got away,” Hilda said. “There is nothing we can do about it. We might as well continue our tour.” She paused briefly. “We’ll go to an art museum—yes, I know just the one!”

  The gallery she had in mind was filled with numerous paintings that depicted life in Brugge since the sixteenth century.

  “As your father said, Hilda, not many things have changed, have they?” Nancy commented.

  “No, they haven’t. But we love the old charm of our city. ”

  Suddenly an oil painting caught Nancy’s eye. It was a striking portrait of a gallant young man with a mustache. He was wearing a red velvet jacket with a lace jabot and cuffs.

  “Bess! George!” Nancy called out. “Look over here!”

  Eagerly the girls joined her. “My goodness, that looks just as I imagined François Lefevre.” Bess gaped in surprise.

  “But who’s that behind him?” George asked.

  In the scene the handsome young man was posed on an arched stone bridge. He was leaning forward, his hands on the edge of it. In back of him was the menacing shadow of another figure. Cloaked in
a full black-hooded robe that covered his face and body completely, he was peering over the young man’s shoulder. Two hands emerging from under the robe were ready to attack the unsuspecting victim.

  “I wonder who the artist is,” Bess said.

  “There’s no name on the picture, only initials,” Nancy replied, “but maybe Hilda can tell us what they mean.”

  The Belgian girl said she was not familiar with this particular painting. “I’ve been here many times but I don’t recall ever seeing it.” Aloud she read the small gold plate underneath the picture. “Le Cavalier et le Spectre Noir. Translated that means The Cavalier and the Black Ghost. It must be a rather recent acquisition.”

  When she asked the curator, he replied, “It was found in somebody’s attic. So far as I know, the museum did not pay very much money for it.”

  “Do you happen to know who sold it to the museum?” Nancy inquired.

  The curator rubbed his chin with uncertainty. “Mm—no I don’t, but even if I did I would not be able to answer your question. The museum keeps information about its purchases strictly confidential. ”

  “Well, then,” George put in, “perhaps you can tell us who the painter is.”

  “Yes. It was done by a man named Dirk Gelder, a well-known art teacher in his day. The story goes that the cavalier’s girlfriend commissioned the painting, because her beau was an ardent admirer of Gelder. ”

  “Do you know her name?” Nancy asked eagerly.

  The curator shook his head. “Sorry. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I have some business to attend to.” He turned on his heels and walked away.

  “Did you hear that?” George said excitedly. “The man in this picture was an admirer of Gelder, and so was François Lefèvre! I’ll bet they’re one and the same person!”

  “If so,” Bess added, “perhaps there’s a hidden clue in the artwork that would help unravel the secret in the lace cuffs!”

  Nancy nodded eagerly. She opened her handbag, took out her magnifying glass, and trained it on the lace cuffs.

  “There’s a clue in one of these cuffs!” she exclaimed.

  14

  A Threat

  “What’s the message, Nancy?” Bess asked eagerly.

  “Here, look for yourself,” the girl detective replied, handing the magnifying glass to her friend.

  “Oh, I see it!” Bess exclaimed, playing the glass over the lace cuff. “It says, ‘Je vous aime.’ ”

  “Doesn’t that mean ‘I love you’ in French?” George asked Hilda.

  Hilda nodded, causing Bess to look dreamy-eyed. “How romantic!”

  Nancy, in the meantime, was studying the intricate pattern in the lacework. Woven around the words was a scene of some sort. A geometric figure seemed to be the focal point. It was oblong with vertical stitches that curled into a knot at the top. Above the figure was a diagonal design that formed a baseless triangle. Nancy thought it was very strange.

  “Is there anything in the other cuff?” George asked.

  Nancy shook her head. “Unfortunately, the details are blurred. Maybe the artist deliberately chose not to paint them.”

  “Remember the piece of paper that was found in François’s bedroom fireplace,” George reminded her friends. “Wasn’t the word marry on it?”

  “So possibly the same word appears in the other cuff,” Nancy said. “Of course, there must be more than one word. Perhaps the message was ‘Marry me’ or ‘Don’t marry anyone else.’”

  “Or,” Bess suggested, “‘Will you marry me?’”

  “Or ‘Marry Harry?’ ” George snickered.

  Soon they were all laughing so hard the curator asked them to be quiet or leave. Hilda was already eyeing the door.

  “My mother and father want all of you and Madame Chambray to come to dinner at eight o’clock,” Hilda told her new friends. “Afterward, we’ll watch the procession on the canal. Does that sound all right to you?”

  “Oh, how exciting!” Bess replied promptly.

  When the girls returned to Madame Chambray’s house, there was only a short time to bathe, dress, and exchange news. Madame Chambray had found her desk key and used the opportunity to show the girls the letter she had written to Mrs. Marvin about.

  The paper was yellow and splitting apart in the folds so Nancy held it carefully under a lamp. All that remained readable was part of a sentence, written in French, which Madame Chambray translated.

  “I, Friedrich Vonderlicht, also known as François Lefèvre, leave to my wife, Elaine Warrington, the treasures of my family protected by our golden—

  Nancy stared at Madame Chambray. “Where did you find this?” she asked.

  “Under a loose floorboard in one of the bedrooms. ”

  George shook her head incredulously. “Isn’t it odd,” she said, “that none of the previous owners of this house ever discovered the will?”

  “Not so odd,” Madame Chambray replied. “I only came upon it because I was having the old floors refinished. The vibration of the sanding machine moved the loose section a little. I was helping the man who was about to nail it back into place when I noticed something yellowish underneath. ”

  As she spoke, Nancy and George continued to study the document closely. “What are you thinking?” George asked her detective friend.

  “The name Elaine Warrington sounds very familiar to me. Wasn’t she a well-known actress in her day?” Nancy replied.

  “I believe she was,” Madame Chambray said.

  “In that case,” Bess declared, “we ought to be able to find out about her easily. Maybe she was married to François!”

  “I wish we could start looking into that right now, but we’ve really got to get ready for dinner.” Nancy sighed. They all agreed, and a short time later were seated in the Permeke home while the professor entertained the Americans with more historical stories about Brugge.

  “Did you know,” he asked, “that the Gruuthuse where you were today was once the refuge and hiding place of an English king?” Dr. Permeke explained that King Edward IV of England was forced into exile there for political reasons.

  “Speaking of our tour,” Nancy said, “we saw a most interesting portrait at one of the galleries.”

  Hilda repeated the name of the picture in French. “Joseph, have you heard of it?” she asked the student, who had joined the group for dinner.

  “Yes. I believe it was painted by a man named Dirk Gelder. A young Frenchwoman, who was a friend of the man in the painting, asked him to do it. ”

  “That’s just what the curator told us,” George remarked. “Do you remember her name?”

  “I read it somewhere,” Joseph said. “Tissot—yes, that’s it. Antoinette Tissot.”

  Nancy, Bess, and George were struck with the same startling thought. Was she not the same person whose name was stitched on the linen wrapping around the diamond cross?

  “Do you know anything else about Antoinette Tissot?” Nancy inquired.

  Joseph shook his head. “No. Sorry. I only saw her name in an article I once read about the painting. ”

  Nancy’s mind was racing. Perhaps Antoinette had given François the cross! If so, it now belonged to his descendants. But where were they? First thing the next morning, she and her friends would check the local telephone directory.

  “There is another famous picture,” Dr. Permeke told his guests. “The subject is a stout gentleman wearing breeches which just covered his knees. He has on long white stockings and at the top of them is a three-inch flounce of lace! Can you imagine dancing with him?”

  Peals of laughter rang across the table. Bess, however, stopped giggling abruptly when the Permekes’ housemaid placed a plate of eels in green sauce in front of her. The girl lifted her eyes from the dish and turned to her cousin. George was smirking.

  “I dare you to try them!” George whispered in Bess’s ear.

  Bess poked her fork into the slippery meat, cutting off a small portion and popping it into her mouth. “I
t’s delicious,” she announced with a gulp.

  Later, when everyone was seated at the edge of the canal waiting for the procession to pass by, Bess admitted to her friends, “I hope we don’t have to eat again tonight. I’m not feeling very well. ”

  “It’s all in your mind,” George said.

  “Uh-uh, it’s in my stomach.”

  The rest of Bess’s remark was lost in the din of motorboats chugging past. Each craft was decorated with strings of lights rigged from pole to pole. Passengers on board wore all kinds of costumes, among them clowns, giants, monkeys, robbers, and even Dracula.

  “Some of them are really scary,” Bess commented, as another boat swung into view.

  A ghostly figure was standing near the helm. He was completely covered by a sheet, only his feet were sticking out, and in his hand he held a small package.

  Bess laughed. “Look, a ghost in cowboy boots!” she said, pointing to the man’s footgear.

  “He reminds me of that creep in Madame Chambray’s basement,” George declared. “He wore boots, too, only it was too dark to see much of them.”

  Soon the craft swerved close to the canal edge where the girl detectives sat and the strange figure hurled the package toward them. It fell a couple of feet away from them.

  “I’ll get it,” Hilda volunteered. As she picked it up, she glanced at the writing on it. “Nancy, your name is on this!”

  “My name?” the girl replied in surprise.

  Quickly she opened the package. Inside was a small toy dagger and a note printed in bold letters.

  “What’s wrong?” Hilda’s father asked, seeing the deepening frown on the detective’s face.

  “It says, ‘Stop interfering or you will get this,’ ” Nancy said.

  “How dreadful!” Madame Chambray exclaimed.

  Everyone began talking at once and hardly noticed Nancy excuse herself and follow the route of the slow-moving boats in hopes of catching up with the ghostly stranger.

  She hurried along the towpath and through the adjoining park that bordered the canal which curved just ahead of her. For a moment she lost sight of the boat, but caught up to it a few minutes later. Suddenly she gasped. The mysterious ghost had vanished!