The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “Here it is, Mr. Reilly,” Arden said handing it to him. “You let me look at it.”

  “Oh, yes, so I did! Well, I guess there’s not much we can do around here, is there?” he asked the girls. “Out of sight makes the mare go.” Another, of his silly, joking proverbs.

  They shook their heads silently. Arden took Tania back to the houseboat again and shut her inside. Food and water had been left for her. Then, after a quick look around, they all left.

  “I’ll work on the case,” Rufus Reilly announced as he climbed into his car, “and let you know about it sometime tomorrow. Don’t worry, though. It’ll all come out in the wash.” And chuckling at his poor joke he drove away in the early twilight.

  CHAPTER XX

  Mrs. Landry Helps

  “Great help he is,” Sim remarked disdainfully as they watched the old car bump along.

  “We don’t know any more now than we did before,” Terry said, agreeing with Sim.

  “Yes, we do,” Arden contradicted. “You’re forgetting about that paper. While you two were watching Tania perform her little trick, I was memorizing the words on that torn piece.”

  “Good for you, Sherlock!” Sim exclaimed. “And what do we do next? Go home and work out the cryptogram?”

  “Something like that,” Arden answered. “I’ve got a plan. Let’s get going, and we’ll see how it works out. Terry, is it too late to go to town for just a few minutes? What I’m going to do won’t take long.”

  “What are you going to do?” Terry questioned. “Tell us.”

  “I thought of going to the drug store and trying to trace the writer of this note by getting information of the New York telephone company,” Arden told them.

  “Good idea, Ard! Of course we have time for that. And, anyway, we’d better do it while you still remember the words,” Terry said.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t forget them,” Arden replied with the first show of relief they had felt in some time. “A Blake never forgets!”

  They piled into the car and rode along the deserted road to the village. The drug store was fortunately empty except for a rather stupid-looking boy clerk.

  Arden entered the phone booth, and her chums crowded around her. They waited impatiently for the really short interval it took to make the connection with the New York office. As the clear sharp voice of the girl sang out “Information,” Arden explained the difficulty.

  “We are trying to get the phone number of an address in New York,” she said, “but we’ve torn the paper. I’ll give you as much as I can. Do you think you can help us?”

  “Sorry, madam,” came the voice, “but I can’t possibly trace the name.”

  Arden hung up and turned sorrowfully toward her friends.

  “I might have known it,” she said. “Of course we couldn’t do anything that way. It was a desperate chance at best.”

  “Too bad, Arden,” Terry soothed. “I still think it was a good idea. But let’s get out of here; our young friend,” she indicated the curious clerk, “is awfully interested in us.”

  “We’d better be starting for home, anyway,” Arden suggested. “Your mother might worry.”

  So they left the little village, which was quite deserted now in the late afternoon, and wearily put the car away for the night in the garage of the little white house.

  Mrs. Landry was interested to learn all that had happened, and urged them to keep up their spirits. Somewhat woefully, the girls smiled at her and agreed at least to try further.

  After the evening meal, when they gathered in the living room, Arden and Sim decided to write letters home but thought it best not to mention the new “mystery.”

  Arden sat at the small wicker desk, pen and paper before her, and got as far as “Dearest Mother.” But her mind was far away and after this auspicious beginning she looked up from the paper dreamily.

  Poor Dimitri! Where could he be? And Olga—and the paper and the snuffbox. Then Arden, drawing a line through the beginning of her letter, wrote down the queer words from the envelope.

  Ser

  Ninth S

  New Y

  What could that possibly be? What man’s name began with the letters S E R?

  “Terry,” Arden said suddenly, “have you a dictionary here? One that would have proper names in it?”

  “I have one that I brought down with some books from Cedar Ridge. Will that help you?” Terry replied.

  “Get it, will you, please,” Arden continued. “I’m going to try and work out this puzzle and send a telegram to an address. If it isn’t delivered, we’ll know it’s no good. I’d rather spend the last of my allowance that way than on candy.”

  “Swell plan, Arden!” Sim exclaimed. “Get the trusty dictionary, Terry, and let’s start to work.”

  Terry dashed up the stairs and rummaged hurriedly in the pile of almost forgotten college books in her room and at length returned carrying the volume.

  Arden flicked back the flimsy pages and ran her hand down the line.

  There were biblical first names as well as Greek and Latin ones, and Arden was somewhat at sea as she murmured:

  Serah

  Seraphim

  Sered

  Seres

  Sergia

  Sergius

  Seriah

  Seron

  Serug

  “Do you like any of them, or does any one sound logical?” she asked her chums.

  “Sergius!” exclaimed Sim. “That sounds Russian to me.”

  “Sergia,” Terry voted. “That’s also Russian, but one may be a woman’s name. How can we get around that? There’s no way of finding out from this list. It’s very impartial.”

  “We can get around it this way,” Arden declared. “Just use Serg. Then we’ll be safe if it’s a man or woman. You know a boy’s name could be Ted, and they call some girls Ted. I’m in favor of just Serg.”

  “It sounds good,” admired Terry.

  “I’m for it,” added Sim. “But what about a last name?”

  “There’s going to be a rub,” said Terry. “We took the easiest part first.”

  “It seems almost impossible, doesn’t it?” sighed Arden.

  “Yes, it does. It might be Smith or Brown or Jones,” Sim remarked. “This is quite an undertaking, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, there’s no harm in trying,” Arden protested. “Working with Dimitri in mind, it’s logical to suppose that, being Russian, he’d have Russian friends or relatives, isn’t it?”

  Sim and Terry agreed silently.

  “I guess relatives, Arden,” said Sim suddenly. “I think that man who came here looked like Dimitri.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Sim. Shall we try Uzlov?” Arden looked to them for agreement.

  “Yes!” exclaimed Terry. “Serg Uzlov! That’s a good start.”

  “Of course, we may not gain anything by this, and besides, perhaps we should have told Rufus Reilly what we intend to do. Do you think so?” questioned Arden, chewing the little ring on the top of the fountain pen.

  “Not at all!” Sim protested. “If Dimitri was a brother, or something, I think we’d do just this, and I think we’re perfectly justified in doing it.”

  This outburst gave them new courage, and they puzzled for some time over the address. Then Terry finally called in her mother.

  “What would be the Russian quarter in New York, Mother?” she asked, explaining what they were trying to do.

  “Let me try to remember,” said Mrs. Landry. “Perhaps if I looked again at the address as you have it, something might suggest itself to me.”

  They showed it to her, Arden writing it out from memory again.

  “There seems to be no question but what this address is in New York,” Mrs. Landry went on, after several seconds of obvious concentration. “Now, as to the street. From the way the address is written it must be Ninth Street. It cannot be Nineteenth Street for there was no part of a word before the Ninth, was there?”

  “No.�
� The girls were agreed on that point.

  “And it cannot have been Twenty-ninth, or Thirty-ninth or any of the higher numbered streets in the pines. Because the word Ninth was too near the left side of the envelope. So I think it is safe to assume that Ninth Street was intended.”

  “Splendid!” exclaimed Arden. “Terry, your mother should be in entire charge of this mystery investigation.”

  “Oh, no, my dear. None of that for me, if you please,” Mrs. Landry laughed.

  “But you’re helping us so!” murmured Sim.

  “This may be no help at all, as it turns out. But I’ll go on to the end as far as I can. We’ll decide on Ninth Street. That, as you know, is at least partly in what is, or was, the Greenwich Village section of New York.

  “I think it safe to say there are Russians there. You know there are artists and writers living there and all sorts of odd tearooms, some undoubtedly of Russian character.”

  “Oh, we are coming on!” cried Arden. “What next, Mrs. Landry?”

  “Well, I should say, from looking at this, that no house number was ever put in front of the street. Whoever wrote this must have known that the letter would go to its destination without a house number on it. The writer must have sent other letters in the same way, trusting to the mail man knowing where to leave it.”

  “Some mail man!” commented Terry admiringly.

  “But then Ninth Street may be a short one,” said Mrs. Landry. “I can’t just recollect about that, though I have been on it. At any rate, I think, in such a desperate case as this,” and here she smiled slightly, “you would be justified in sending the telegram to the name you have selected, with just Ninth Street, New York, as its destination. Those telegraph messenger boys are clever. One may know just where to take it or he may inquire of some Russian in the Village. The Russians are clannish, like all foreigners, and this person may be well known.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s going to succeed now!” declared Arden.

  “Of course!” murmured her chums, Sim adding:

  “You write the telegram out now, Ard.”

  Arden wrote and read:

  “‘Serg Uzlov. Ninth Street, New York City. Can you give us any information concerning Dimitri Uzlov? Very important. Anxious to get in touch with him. Telegraph my expense.’”

  “That’s a lot more than ten words,” remarked Sim.

  “Who cares?” laughed Terry. “This may mean a lot. But you’ll have to sign some name to it, won’t you?”

  “Could we use yours, Mrs. Landry?” asked Arden.

  “Yes, I think so,” Terry’s mother answered after a moment of thought. “It will do no harm.”

  “Then we’ll do it,” decided Arden.

  “I can hardly wait!” Sim cried excitedly. “Of course we couldn’t go to town tonight?” she looked beseechingly at Mrs. Landry.

  “Of course not, my dear young Watson,” Terry’s mother smiled as she replied. “You sleuths have done quite enough for one day. Besides, think how silly you’ll feel if you find out nothing has happened at all.”

  “I suppose so,” Terry reluctantly admitted. “But somehow, Mother, I think there’s something in this.”

  “You may be right,” her mother agreed. “Nevertheless, your commanding officer orders you all to bed.”

  Somewhat petulantly they kissed the jovial lady good-night and went upstairs, but not to sleep till some time later, when, unable to stay awake any longer, they at last succumbed to the call of Morpheus.

  But sleeping though they were, it was a fitful rest. Filled with dreams of gold boxes, strange dark women, and telegrams. Once Arden cried out, “Tania! Tania!” and Sim gave her a sleepy nudge to wake her from her dream.

  Arden sighed and rolled over. Morning was so long in coming. At length the smiling sun climbed up over the edge of the ocean and announced the beginning of a new day.

  CHAPTER XXI

  Melissa Has a Pin

  As soon as they possibly could after breakfast the next day, the three girls rowed over to the houseboat and fed Tania. They let her romp for a while and reluctantly locked her up again. They feared the townspeople, ever on the watch for something to talk about, would find some choice gossip if they were seen in the village with the “Russian’s” dog.

  The storm was over, and the sun, almost a stranger, broke through the clouds, blinding in its brightness. The day promised to be hot, so dressed in cool “semi-back” dresses the girls left the houseboat and went home first to report to Mrs. Landry that there was no news.

  Then they got the car out and went to the village to send the telegram, which they all hoped would bring good results.

  “You’d better shut the door of the phone booth,” Terry suggested to Arden as they entered the drug store. “You never can tell who’ll be listening, and the whole town would be excited if they heard the message.”

  “Yes, I think that would be best,” Arden agreed.

  Trying to appear nonchalant, as though this was an ordinary call, Arden sent off the message. She requested an immediate answer. To make doubly sure, she informed the operator who took the telegram that she must know as soon as possible if it was delivered and left the number of the drug-store phone.

  The telegraph company had an arrangement with the drug store so that messages could be telephoned in and payment made to the clerk. When Arden had completed the dictation, at the request of the operator, she got the drug clerk into the booth, and he was informed as to the toll, which Arden paid him.

  “It will take a while, even if it is delivered,” Arden told her friends. “So we might as well do the shopping and come back.”

  “Oh, I do hope we get a reply,” Sim said earnestly. “I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about Dimitri.”

  “For a person who couldn’t sleep, you gave a marvelous imitation,” Arden answered sarcastically. “Three or four times I could have sworn you were dead to the world.”

  “Me-ouw—me-ouw,” Terry squeaked. “Don’t be catty! The time will go quicker if we keep busy.”

  They did all the shopping they had to for Terry’s mother and walked once around the block to kill more time before returning to the drug store.

  Arden could no longer be diplomatic. She marched up to the dull-looking soda boy and asked in clear tones: “Did a message come for me?”

  “Haven’t had a call today,” replied the youth behind the counter. “Were you expect—”

  The phone bell rang sharply. Arden almost ran to answer it, slamming the door shut behind her.

  Terry and Sim could see her face, bright with anticipation for a few seconds, then with dismay saw her expression change. They couldn’t hear what she was saying, but in a short while she was out again and beckoned them to follow her outside.

  “That was one of the managers of the telegraph company in New York,” Arden reported. “He’s in the office nearest Ninth Street. He said they couldn’t send a boy out to deliver a message without a street address—it would lose too much time. But if we are willing to pay extra for messenger service, he says he’ll have a boy sort of scout around and try to locate the party.”

  “What did you tell him?” asked Terry.

  “Told him to go ahead and we’d pay anything in reason. He said it probably would not be much more than a dollar.”

  “We’ll chip in,” declared Terry.

  “I thought you would; that’s why I authorized him to go on. So now we’ll have some more waiting. They’re going to try again.”

  “Oh, I hope we have some luck this time,” Terry remarked. “But whatever shall we do with ourselves while we’re waiting?”

  “That’s a problem,” Arden said thoughtfully. “Let’s get our hair washed and waved. Mine could stand it. It’s full of salt water.”

  “Great!” Sim exclaimed. “Of course, we know the beauty parlor here is nothing to write home about, but it will serve.”

  “It will serve us, little one,” Terry declared, and they walked three abreast down
the sunny street.

  The girl operators were glad to have some new customers, and city folks at that, so they asked innumerable questions. The three girls were guarded in their answers, afraid they would give away their secret.

  A none too gentle girl rubbed Arden’s scalp with stubby fingers, keeping up her barrage of questions the while. What was the latest coiffure in the city? Was the long bob going out? What kind of a permanent did she have? Wearily Arden answered, wishing the girl would keep quiet.

  But at last it was over and they went back to haunt the drug store again.

  No, the clerk told them, no message had yet come.

  The girls sat down on the steps outside. This was not an unusual thing to do. In a small village one could sit for hours by the gas station, post office, or drug store without being thought queer.

  In an agony of suspense, they waited fifteen minutes—twenty minutes. They reached a point where they were sitting silently, each busy with her own worrying and wondering thoughts.

  An answer was almost too much to expect of the most kindly fate. But it was true there was no harm in trying. Dimitri was gone, and the snuffbox too. The situation, despite Chief Reilly’s jovial acceptance of it, was taking on a serious character.

  Sim was just about to ask if the state police should not be notified, when the phone in the store rang shrilly. They could hear it, for the booth door had been left open.

  Arden jumped up. For a fleeting second she looked at her companions as though to plead with some unseen force that this call should bring results. Then she dashed inside with no thought of appearance. When she emerged from the booth this time her chums knew she had met with some success. Her face wreathed in smiles she burst out:

  “We’ve got an answer!”

  “Oh, what?”

  “Tell us!”

  “It was the telegraph manager again,” Arden reported. “The boy finally located our man, and we owe a dollar and a quarter. It took a little longer than was expected.”

  “Pooh! Only an extra quarter!” exclaimed Sim.

  “But did they deliver the telegram?” asked Terry.

  “Yes, of course. To Serge Uzlov, and he wired an answer.”