The Secret in the Old Attic

by Carolyn G. Keene

  “I’m so happy, I’m inviting you both to lunch.” Nancy grinned. “Then I’ll tell you, Mrs. Fayne, what a schemer I am!”

  The meal was a delightful one, and immediately afterward Nancy hastened home to change her clothes. When she came downstairs half an hour later, Hannah Gruen looked at her in amazement.

  “Wherever are you going so dressed up?”

  “I’m going for a drive with the best-dressed girl in River Heights—Diane Dight!” Nancy giggled, gave the housekeeper a hug, and hurried away mysteriously. “Please give Dad that message if he should phone,” she called from the garage.

  Nancy drove immediately to the station. The two-o’clock train was just coming in. Quickly she parked the car and dashed across the platform.

  The first passenger to step down was Diane Dight. As Nancy went toward the girl, her heart beat faster.

  Was her plan going to work?

  CHAPTER VI

  Nancy’s Ruse

  “HELLO, Diane!”

  The Dight girl looked up, startled, and barely acknowledged the greeting.

  “I have a message for you,” Nancy said.

  “For me? What is it?” Diane questioned apprehensively.

  “Madame Paray asked me to tell you that your dress is not ready.”

  “Oh!” Diane relaxed. Then her eyes snapped. “That woman makes me tired. I wouldn’t go to her any more, except that she does make attractive clothes.”

  “You always look stunning, Diane,” said Nancy.

  For the first time Diane seemed to take note of what Nancy was wearing. “I like the dress you have on. Did you have it made?”

  “Yes, I did,” Nancy replied lightly, stifling a desire to smile. She was thinking how pleased Hannah Gruen would be to hear her handiwork so highly praised. Aloud she said, “I’ll be glad to drive you, Diane. Let me help you with your suitcase.”

  Diane protested, but Nancy merely smiled. She took the bag and went to her car. Diane began complaining about the fact that there were never any porters around and that the family chauffeur was on vacation. When they got into the car, Nancy turned in the direction opposite the one to the Dight residence.

  “You’re going the wrong way!” Diane cried indignantly.

  Nancy quickly interjected, “I just recalled that your father wants to see you at his factory right away. Madame Paray asked me to give you that message also.”

  Nancy kept going until she reached a cluster of brick buildings. There Diane said good-by, adding that she would take a taxi home. But Nancy was not to be put off so easily.

  “Oh, I don’t mind waiting,” she insisted. “I have nothing else to do at the moment.”

  Before Diane had a chance to object, Nancy was out of the car and walking into the building with her. Out of politeness Diane was forced to introduce her to Mr. Dight’s secretary.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be with my father,” Diane told Nancy. She added curtly, “Please don’t bother to wait.”

  After she had disappeared into the inner office, Nancy smiled at Miss Jones, the secretary.

  “This must be a fascinating place to work,” she said. “Do you know all about the process of making synthetic material?”

  “I know a good deal, but far from everything,” the young woman replied pleasantly.

  “I’d love to go through the plant sometime. Do you suppose Diane would take me?” Nancy inquired.

  Miss Jones smiled. “She doesn’t seem to be interested in her father’s business. If you would like to take a quick look, I’ll show you what I can. Of course many of the processes used here are kept secret. Some I don’t even know myself.”

  Nancy’s pulse leaped. She could hardly wait to start her trip through the factory, but she tried to appear calm.

  “That’s sweet of you, Miss Jones,” she said. “If you really can spare the time, I’d love to look around.”

  “As a rule, visitors are not permitted, but since you’re a friend of Miss Dight”—here she appraised Nancy’s dress with a complimentary look —“I’ll be glad to take you through.”

  As she and Miss Jones walked along the halls and up and down flights of stairs, the secretary explained the rudiments of the making of synthetic cloth.

  “It seems like magic,” she said “that coal and oil can be turned into lovely soft materials so quickly. At other factories oil and coal are made into colorless chemicals which we buy. Then they are put into tanks like the one you see over there and churned with chemical compounds for several hours.”

  “Is the result raw fiber solutions?” Nancy asked.

  “Yes. Each is given a different trade name depending on mixture and composition.”

  “Nothing secret about that,” thought Nancy.

  As Miss Jones led her farther into the plant, Nancy kept her eyes open for Bushy Trott. Although there were many workmen busy at their tasks, she saw no one who resembled the suspected thief.

  One thing she did take note of was a heavy door on the stairway landing at the far end of the building. A metal sign on it read:POSITIVELY NO ADMITTANCE.

  DANGER. KEEP OUT.

  “I wonder if that is one of the secret places Miss Jones spoke about,” Nancy speculated to herself. “Maybe Bushy Trott is in there!”

  Soon they reached the top of another stairway, and the secretary outlined the next process in making synthetics.

  “Ahead of you is the machine known as the spinneret,” she said. “That’s what makes thread.”

  “It’s remarkable!” Nancy exclaimed, pretending to be watching nothing but this.

  At that moment a bell rang several times.

  “That’s for me,” said Miss Jones. “I guess Mr. Dight wants me. We’ll have to go back.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to look around a little longer,” Nancy said.

  “Well, I don’t know.” The woman paused. “You really shouldn’t. But stay if you wish. If I see Miss Dight, I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  Nancy nodded and thanked Miss Jones for the tour. As soon as the secretary left the spinneret room, Nancy moved quickly up the stairway toward the forbidden room.

  “I wish I could look in there,” she thought.

  As Nancy hesitated outside, the door suddenly opened. A workman in soiled dungarees came out, carrying a package which looked as if it might contain a bolt of cloth.

  Although the door remained open only an instant, Nancy obtained a fleeting glimpse of the interior. She saw several large chemical vats. Beside one of them, his back to her, stood a man with bushy black hair.

  “Bushy Trott!” Nancy thought excitedly. “The man who used to work at the Booker factory!”

  The door slammed shut, and she saw no more. Nancy deliberately loitered until the workman who had come out of the room disappeared down the hall.

  “I must get a better look at that fellow with the bushy hair!” she decided. “This is my chance to help Dad solve the mystery!”

  Glancing quickly around and seeing no one, Nancy cautiously tried to open the door. To her dismay it had a snap lock and would not budge.

  “I must get in there!” Nancy thought with determination. In a moment she smiled to herself. “I think I know how to do it!”

  Pressing her lips close to the crack of the door to the secret room, Nancy screamed. The ruse was successful. From within came hurrying footsteps.

  The next instant the door swung open. Nancy staggered inside, her hand over her half-closed eyes.

  “Water,” she murmured. “Water.”

  The big, bushy-haired man who had opened the door stared at her doubtfully.

  “Are you sick?” he asked in a coarse, heavy voice.

  Nancy did not want to answer questions. To avoid them she pretended to faint. The act was well-timed, for the man, frightened, immediately rushed into the hall for help. The young detective smiled.

  “I’ll bet that’s Bushy Trott! When I describe him to Dad, he’ll know for sure.”

  No sooner
had the door swung shut behind the man than she leaped to her feet. Eagerly she gazed about. The room resembled a laboratory. Near her were several vats of rainbow-hued solutions.

  Nancy had no opportunity to look further. Heavy footsteps warned her that the man was returning. She barely had time to stretch out on the floor before he came into the room.

  As the big, burly figure bent over her, Nancy pretended to revive. Opening her eyes, she gazed up into his ugly, cruel face.

  “Here, drink this!” he commanded.

  Nancy took a sip of water from the paper cup he offered her.

  “I’m feeling better now,” she murmured, sitting up.

  “You don’t work here,” he said, scanning her face closely. “How did you get into this part of the factory?” he asked gruffly.

  Before Nancy could reply, the outside door swung open again. A stout, well-dressed man with piercing brown eyes stepped inside. Seeing Nancy, he paused in surprise.

  “Tro—” He stopped, then went on, “What is the meaning of this? Why have you allowed a visitor here?”

  “Water,” Nancy murmured. “Water.”

  “It’s none o’ my doin’, Mr. Dight,” his employee muttered. “She came in herself—said she was feelin’ sick.”

  “Then a little fresh air will help you, miss,” Mr. Dight said stiffly.

  Taking Nancy firmly by the arm, he assisted the girl to her feet, and escorted her down the stairs into the main section of the factory.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Nancy explained she had brought Diane from the station, but did not give her name.

  “It’s dangerous for you to wander about this building by yourself. You must never do it again,” he remarked in an icy tone of voice.

  Nancy thought Lawrence Dight seemed to be frightened. Had she stumbled upon his secret?

  When they approached the main entrance, he left her and Nancy headed for the parking lot. Diane was waiting beside Nancy’s car.

  The two spoke little on the way to Diane’s house. After accepting the girl’s thanks, Nancy said good-by, then drove at once to her own home.

  “Dad!” she greeted her father as she ran into the house. “I had some real luck today! I think I’ve found Bushy Trott!”

  Mr. Drew dropped his newspaper. “Say that again!” he requested.

  Nancy repeated her statement and quickly related the entire story of her visit to the Dight plant. Mr. Drew readily identified the suspect from Nancy’s description of him. He was deeply impressed with his daughter’s work, and smiled when he heard of her ruse.

  “Nancy, you’re a fast worker and a thorough one!” he complimented her. “If that man actually is Bushy Trott—and you say Mr. Dight started to speak his name—then my case seems to be shaping up.”

  “What’s the next move?”

  “I’ll arrange to have the man watched. We’ll learn everything we can about him.”

  “Is there something else I can do?” Nancy asked.

  “You’ve already helped me a lot,” Mr. Drew replied. “If there’s anything more, I’ll let you know.”

  What she had discovered in the factory had increased Nancy’s interest in her father’s case. She hoped that soon she would be able to follow up more clues for him. In the meantime she must tackle the problems surrounding Mr. March’s mystery.

  “Watch your step in that old attic,” Mr. Drew warned his daughter. “No telling what’s there.”

  “I promise, Dad,” she said, smiling.

  The following afternoon Nancy returned to the mansion. Susan and her grandfather were listening to the radio in the little girl’s bedroom. As Nancy entered, the orchestra was playing a gay, new melody. As the sweet strains continued, Mr. March cried out:

  “That’s it! That’s one of my son’s compositions! I can’t remember the name of it, but I certainly recall the tune.”

  “It’s called ‘Song of the Wind,’ ” Nancy said.

  “Who do they say wrote it?” he demanded.

  “I can’t recall,” Nancy confessed. When the composer’s name was not announced, she said, “Suppose I run downtown and buy a copy of the sheet music?”

  Mr. March urged her to hurry, and could hardly wait for her return.

  “The composer is Ben Banks,” she told him as soon as she got back.

  “Ben Banks! Ben Banks!” Mr. March shouted angrily. “Who’s he? The man is a thief! That song was Fipp’s!”

  Nancy promised to try locating Ben Banks. She would get in touch with the publisher of “Song of the Wind,” and ask for information about the so-called composer.

  “I’ll never rest until that rascal is found and exposed!” Mr. March stormed. “Why, the upstart! Not only does he rob the dead, but he cheats Susan out of her rightful inheritance!”

  The elderly man’s tirade went on and on. To quiet him, Nancy offered to play the selection on the piano, so the two went downstairs to the music room.

  The old piano was badly out of tune and she soon gave up. Nancy had just begun to sing the lovely song to Mr. March when from upstairs came a bloodcurdling shriek for help!

  CHAPTER VII

  Black Widow

  NANCY raced upstairs two steps at a time. Susan was in her bed, cowering under the covers.

  “Thank goodness she’s all right!” Nancy thought and sped on to the attic.

  “Who’s up there?” she called.

  “Me! Effie!”

  Nancy doubled her steps. She found the maid alone, jumping about. She was waving her left hand in the air and wailing pitifully.

  “I’ve been bit! I’ve been bit!” she screamed.

  “What bit you?” Nancy demanded.

  “The skeleton! Do something, quick!”

  “Effie, be sensible. What was it that bit you?”

  “It was that skeleton, I tell you!” Dramatically the maid pointed to the bony figure which leaned forward at a rakish angle from the open door of the wardrobe closet. “He just reached out and bit my finger! Oh, the thing is alive!” Nancy examined Effie’s finger, but in the dim light could see no evidence of a wound. She wondered if the girl’s imagination had been playing tricks on her.

  Nancy heard footsteps on the stairway and called down, “Don’t bother to come up, Mr. March. Everything is all right, I guess.”

  “Except me,” Effie wailed.

  “Let’s go downstairs,” Nancy said to the maid. “I’ll check your finger again. By the way, what were you looking for in the wardrobe?”

  “Some clean linen to change the beds. There’s hardly any in the house. Oh, my whole arm hurts now!”

  When they reached the second floor, Nancy examined the maid’s hand. She received a distinct shock, and Effie herself began to sob loudly.

  “Look at it! I’m going to die!” she cried.

  This remark brought Susan to the hall. She and her grandfather gazed in awe at Effie’s swollen forearm and the tiny puncture in her index finger.

  “What did that?” the child asked in fright.

  Nancy did not reply to the question. Instead she gently told Susan to get back into bed. Quickly she asked Mr. March for a large handkerchief and tied it tightly about Effie’s upper arm.

  “We’d better take her to a doctor,” she said. “There isn’t anything here with which to take care of this wound.” To Mr. March she whispered, “I’m afraid a poisonous spider bit Effie.”

  Nancy drove speedily to the office of Dr. Ivers. Fortunately he was in. He confirmed Nancy’s diagnosis, adding that the spider probably was a black widow.

  “One rarely finds them in this part of the country,” he said, getting a hypodermic needle and filling it with an antidote. By now Effie looked and acted quite ill.

  The physician patted her shoulder and tried to keep the girl’s mind off herself. He said, “There’s another dangerous spider, the tarantula, but that isn’t native to these parts either.”

  Effie began to moan, saying she knew her young life was over.

&nb
sp; “Nonsense,” said Dr. Ivers. “Fortunately, Miss Drew put the tourniquet on, and you won’t suffer as much as you might have otherwise. You’d better keep quiet for a couple of days, though.”

  “How am I going to do my work?” Effie asked.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Nancy spoke up quickly. “I’ll help you.”

  The doctor gave Nancy instructions for taking care of Effie, and told the patient not to be alarmed. He also advised that the old house be searched thoroughly for the black widow spider.

  “I believe I’ll go home and get Mrs. Gruen,” Nancy told Effie as they drove off. “She can come out for a few hours to help us.”

  The Drews’ housekeeper was glad to be of assistance. As soon as they reached the March home, she and Nancy went immediately to the attic, carrying an insecticide spray gun and a broom. There they brushed down dozens of webs and caught every spider they could locate.

  “We’ve found none except the common house variety.” Nancy sighed. “Where could the black widow have crawled to?”

  “I’m not going to let you stay here unless we find it,” Hannah Gruen said firmly.

  Nancy tried to dispel the woman’s fears by saying, “Effie must have scared him off!” But she was worried. Perhaps an intruder had left the deadly spider there as a warning!

  The most likely person was the one who had stolen Fipp March’s original music! Was he Ben Banks?

  “I must write to the publisher of ‘Song of the Wind’ at once for the address of Ben Banks,” Nancy determined. “In all the excitement I completely forgot him.”

  “Oh!” Hannah Gruen said suddenly.

  Crack! Her broom came down with a whack on a spider which had just crawled from beneath the wardrobe. Nancy used the spray gun.

  “It’s the black widow!” Nancy cried jubilantly. “Now you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

  “Unless there are more of these poisonous creatures up here,” declared Mrs. Gruen.

  She agreed, however, that it probably would be safe for Nancy to stay, but cautioned her to be extra careful.