The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  If the printer was surprised at such a direct question his expression did not disclose it.

  “Oh, the janitor was telling me about that, Miss Nichols. He said they moved out, bag and baggage during the night.”

  “Last night?” Penny inquired quickly.

  “Yes, seems their rent was paid up a week ahead too.”

  “What sort of place did they run?”

  “Well, they claimed to be sign painters, but I couldn’t tell you about that. In an old building like this a lot of strange specimens come and go.”

  “Did you notice the man who rented the floor?”

  “Not particularly. There seemed to be three of them, a tall, rather well dressed man, and two kind of long-haired looking foreigners. Sometimes when I worked late in my shop, I could hear them up there messing around long into the night.”

  Further questioning failed to bring out any vital information, and not wishing to arouse the printer’s suspicions, Penny thanked him and descended to the street.

  She was disappointed at her failure to find the upper floor of the building occupied and it occurred to her that possibly her own actions had caused the sudden departure.

  “The janitor may have mentioned to that man in gray that I came here yesterday,” she reflected, “but why should it make any difference?”

  Penny was certain that the man she had followed to the building had previously made a business of shadowing her. She had never seen him before in her life and could not understand why her movements should interest him.

  “The riddle is too involved for me,” she told herself. “I guess one mystery at a time is enough to worry about.”

  It was still fairly early in the afternoon and Penny did not wish to waste the day. She decided to make a bold move and call upon Mrs. Dillon. Yet she dreaded the interview.

  Taking a bus, she soon arrived at the society woman’s home. When she rang the doorbell, the maid who answered, recognized her immediately. Her glance was not friendly.

  “Is Mrs. Dillon in?” Penny inquired.

  “Yes, but I’m not sure she’ll see you,” the maid answered shortly. “When I told her you were here the other day to see the picture, she didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Did you tell her my name?”

  “How could I when you wouldn’t give it?”

  Penny smiled. “Please tell Mrs. Dillon that Miss Nichols would like to speak with her. You might add that the matter is important.”

  “I’ll tell her,” the maid said reluctantly.

  Penny waited several minutes, but when the servant came back she was more cordial. “Mrs. Dillon will see you in the drawing room.”

  The woman arose as Penny entered.

  “I am very glad you came this afternoon,” she said pleasantly. “I intended to telephone your father but now you may give him my message.”

  “I’ll be glad to, Mrs. Dillon.”

  “I owe your father an apology about the way I talked to him. You see, I didn’t know that my pearl necklace was insured.”

  “And you have since learned differently?” Penny asked politely.

  “Yes, my husband told me last night. He insured the pearls without telling me anything about it. Wasn’t that fortunate?”

  “Very,” Penny agreed. “I suppose you feel greatly relieved.”

  “Oh, yes, but I still wish your father would take the case. You’ll give him my apology?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  There was a little awkward silence as Mrs. Dillon waited for Penny to explain why she had called. The girl scarcely knew how to begin. She had been disarmed, as it were, by the society woman’s manner.

  “I wanted to talk to you about a picture which was taken from the Gage Galleries,” she began hesitantly. “A Rembrandt.”

  A cold look came over Mrs. Dillon’s face. “Yes?” she inquired.

  Penny stirred uncomfortably. The interview was not to her liking. And when her father learned of it she was afraid it might not be to his liking either.

  “It occurred to me, Mrs. Dillon, that possibly you could help in locating the stolen picture.”

  “I? You flatter me, my dear.”

  Penny saw the warning in Mrs. Dillon’s dark eyes. But she dared to go on.

  “Let’s not pretend, Mrs. Dillon,” she said quietly. “I know about that painting which you keep hidden behind the panel of the library.”

  Mrs. Dillon sprang to her feet, her face convulsed with anger.

  “So you are the snooper who came here!” she cried. “Get out of my house and never, never come again! Go quickly or I’ll call the police!”

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Mysterious Agent

  Penny listened calmly to the woman’s tirade, making no move to obey the impolite command.

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Dillon,” she said, “but I do not intend to leave this house until you have answered my questions.”

  “I shall call my servant. You are an insolent, impudent girl!”

  “I should advise you not to call anyone until we have talked together,” Penny said undisturbed. “After all, you know I have it in my power to cause your arrest.”

  Mrs. Dillon grew pale. “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “It is useless to pretend. I know that you bought the Rembrandt and have it secreted in your library. Unless you tell me where you purchased the painting, I shall feel it my duty to go to the police.”

  “And if I do tell you?”

  “Perhaps I can help you. You should be able to escape arrest for the Rembrandt isn’t genuine.”

  As she had anticipated, her words brought an astonished glint into Mrs. Dillon’s eyes. Without thinking she exclaimed:

  “The painting is genuine. I paid—”

  “How much did you pay for it?” Penny questioned, smiling at Mrs. Dillon’s confusion.

  “Well, since you seem to be so familiar with my private affairs, I suppose I shall have to tell you all about it. The painting is genuine and I bought it with the sole intention of returning it to the museum.”

  Penny made no comment, although she did not believe a word of the story. Mrs. Dillon was only trying to build up a defense for herself.

  “How much did you pay for the picture?” she repeated, determined to tie the woman to facts.

  “Two thousand dollars,” Mrs. Dillon answered grudgingly. “But that is only the first payment. The next installment will soon be due.”

  Penny thought exultingly: “If Mrs. Dillon will only cooperate, it should be possible to catch the dealer who cheated her.” Aloud she said: “Then you will see the dealer again—the man from whom you purchased the picture?”

  “Not the dealer. His agent.”

  “Tell me the name of the persons from whom you bought the painting.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You are unwilling to do so, you mean?”

  “I don’t know the dealer’s name. I never dealt with him personally.”

  “You bought the picture through a third party?”

  “Yes, and the agent is very well known to me. A gentleman of high standing.”

  Penny could not restrain a smile. She had her own opinion of a man who would negotiate a deal for a stolen painting.

  “Who is this agent, Mrs. Dillon?”

  “That I cannot tell you. I promised never to reveal his name.”

  “But it is your duty to do so,” Penny urged. “I have every reason to believe that this man has cheated you.”

  “I will not give his name,” Mrs. Dillon repeated firmly.

  “He is a special friend of yours?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I appreciate your motive in trying to shield him,” Penny said, “but the matter is serious. This man has sold you a worthless picture, representing it to be a stolen Rembrandt.”

  “The painting is genuine,” Mrs. Dillon insisted. “I have proof of it.”

  “What proof, may I ask?”

  “The picture was viewed by a
n expert—a man whose judgment I trust implicitly. He assured me that it was genuine.”

  “This expert looked at your picture since it was delivered to the house?”

  “No, at the studio.”

  “What studio?” Penny asked quickly.

  “I will tell you if you promise not to betray me to the police.”

  “I came here today because I wanted to help you, Mrs. Dillon. I have no intention of going to the authorities if it can be avoided.”

  “The studio is on Franklyn Street,” the woman informed. “On an upper floor.”

  “Do you have the exact number of the building?” Penny asked quickly.

  “Yes, somewhere.”

  Mrs. Dillon went to her desk and after examining a number of papers found an old envelope upon which she had written the address. Penny glanced at it and a look of disappointment came over her face.

  “Oh, this clue will do no good!” she exclaimed. “I know about this place. The men have gone. They moved out last night—secretly.”

  The address was the same building which Penny had investigated that afternoon.

  “Can you describe the person or persons whom you met in the studio?”

  Mrs. Dillon shook her head.

  “I did not meet the men personally. My friend took me there and showed me the picture.”

  “This same expert to whom you referred?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you feel that his judgment was unbiased?”

  “I do,” Mrs. Dillon maintained loyally, “but I did not depend entirely upon his opinion. I am a very good judge of pictures myself.”

  “Has it occurred to you that possibly you did not receive the same painting which you purchased? I understand that sometimes art thieves prey upon innocent buyers by showing them a genuine picture and then delivering into their hands only a cheap copy.”

  “I am too shrewd to be so easily duped,” Mrs. Dillon retorted. “I don’t mind telling you that I protected myself against just such trickery.”

  “How?”

  “When I viewed the picture and satisfied myself as to its quality, I marked the back of the canvas with a tiny symbol. In that way you see, another painting could not be substituted, for the marking would be absent.”

  “The symbol might be duplicated.”

  “No, I would instantly detect the difference.”

  Penny sat lost in thought for a moment. She now understood the significance of the strange marking on the back of the Rembrandt which had puzzled Amy and herself. Was it possible that the Coulter girl had been mistaken in the quality of the painting?

  “Mrs. Dillon,” she said after a long silence, “you confidently believe that your painting is the same one which was stolen from the Gage Galleries?”

  “All I know is that my picture is a genuine Rembrandt. I did not learn that a picture had been stolen from the museum until after I had made my purchase. I do not know even now that I have this same painting.”

  “In the event that it is the same, you wish to return it to the museum?”

  Mrs. Dillon glared at Penny in frank dislike. She had been fairly trapped and knew it.

  “Of course,” she replied coldly. “I hope you do not think I would intentionally keep stolen property?”

  “I thought you would see it that way,” Penny declared, smiling. “And with your cooperation, the police should be able to capture the real culprits.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “When will you see this agent with whom you dealt?”

  “He is coming either today or tomorrow for the second payment.”

  “I don’t need to advise you to refuse to give him any more money. But I wish you would try to learn from him the names of the original dealers who handled the picture.”

  “I’ll try to find out.”

  “And another thing, Mrs. Dillon. You must notify the Gage Galleries immediately that you have the Rembrandt.”

  The woman made no response.

  “You will do that?” Penny asked.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Dillon answered harshly.

  “I’ll see you again tomorrow,” Penny said, arising to depart. “Until then you have my promise that I will not talk with the police.”

  “I have nothing to fear from them,” Mrs. Dillon announced proudly.

  “Not if you show a willingness to cooperate,” Penny agreed. “When you think the matter over, I believe you will decide to reveal the name of your friend—the agent who negotiated the sale.”

  She waited an instant, hoping that Mrs. Dillon would reconsider. When the woman did not speak, she turned and walked from the living room, letting herself out the front door.

  Emerging upon the street, Penny’s first thought was to find a good hiding place where she could wait to view Mrs. Dillon’s expected caller.

  “I may have a tedious time of it,” she reflected, “but if I learn the identity of the agent with whom she dealt it will be worth all the trouble.”

  A half block away she noticed a large truck parked along the curbing. The vehicle had been abandoned, a cracked-up front wheel giving mute evidence that it had been in an accident. The truck was of the closed cab type and it dawned upon Penny that if she could get inside, she would have a perfect observation post.

  Luckily the cab of the truck had not been locked and she slipped into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut.

  An hour passed. The job of watching Mrs. Dillon’s house became irksome. No one had called except a peddler and a delivery boy from a laundry.

  Penny tried to pass the time by examining the many gadgets with which the great truck was equipped. She imagined that it might be loads of fun to drive such a powerful machine.

  Suddenly her attention was arrested by an automobile which with a shrill screeching of brakes came to a halt in front of the Dillon residence. A well-dressed middle-aged man, carrying a black leather brief case, got out of the car.

  Penny was sure she had never seen him before. She observed him closely as he emerged from his automobile. He crossed the street with a quick, energetic stride as if he knew just where he was going and what he intended doing after he arrived. She saw him standing patiently at Mrs. Dillon’s door, waiting for a servant to answer his ring.

  Was the man the agent Mrs. Dillon had mentioned? The rogue who had sold the fake painting to the gullible woman? He certainly did not look like a crook, Penny thought, nor did he act like one. Just one more reason, she decided, why she must take nothing for granted. She produced a notebook and pencil from her purse and made a careful notation of the stranger’s automobile license number as well as its make and model.

  For perhaps forty-five minutes the man remained inside the house. When he crossed the street to his car he skipped along with an agility surprising in a man of his years. He smiled broadly as if his mission, whatever it may have been, was successful. Scarcely had he driven away when another automobile swung into the same parking space.

  From her place of advantage, Penny fixed her attention on the newcomer, but before she could see his face, she was startled by a gruff voice, almost in her ear:

  “Hey there! Come down out of that!”

  A roughly dressed truck driver stood on the running board, gesturing angrily. “What do you think this truck is?” he demanded. “A free park seat?”

  Penny hastily climbed out of the cab, making an offhand apology for her presence.

  “Okay Miss,” the truck driver said, “seein’ as you’re a gal. But if you had been a man, I would have taken a fall out of ya. It’s a crime that a man can’t go for help without having some strange sister cuddle down in his cab.”

  The trucker’s loud, gruff voice had attracted the attention of the man in the parked automobile. He stepped from his car and came toward the couple.

  “What’s the idea of abusing a helpless young girl?” he asked.

  Penny recognized the voice, and resisted an impulse to turn her head. She knew that the newcomer was Ha
nley Cron. He had come to call upon Mrs. Dillon. That was plain. She must not let him discover that she was watching the house. Quickly, before either of the men were aware of her intention, she darted behind the truck and fled down the street.

  CHAPTER XV

  A Puzzling Letter

  Rounding the corner at the end of the street, Penny paused to catch her breath. It had been foolish to run away. She realized that now. But she had acted impulsively, without thinking.

  She thought hopefully that Hanley Cron might not have recognized her. She was certain he had not seen her face.

  Penny walked slowly home. She was as bewildered as ever regarding the identity of the mysterious agent who had sold Mrs. Dillon the Rembrandt. It might have been the first caller—or perhaps Hanley Cron.

  Yet Penny smiled as she considered the latter possibility. Cron held an enviable position with a newspaper, he was highly respected in art circles, and besides, was a special friend of Mrs. Dillon. It seemed far more likely that he had merely dropped in to pay a casual afternoon call.

  Penny wondered if she had acted wisely in talking so frankly with the society woman. Mrs. Dillon, fearful of arrest, had agreed to communicate with the museum authorities, but would she keep her promise? Penny could only wait and hope that she had acted for the best.

  It was nearing the dinner hour when she reached home. Mr. Nichols, whose hobby was gardening, rested on his hoe as his daughter came up the stepping stone path. She thought he looked worried and spoke of it.

  “I am worried,” the detective confessed. “Some confounded new fangled bug is eating up all my choice aster plants. Just look at this one. Riddled with holes as if it had been peppered with a machine gun!”

  Penny laughed as she bent down to pick a bouquet of flowers for the dinner table.

  “You ought to be able to solve a simple case like that,” she teased.

  “I’ve already sprayed the plants with everything I can think of. It’s disgusting!”

  Penny was not especially interested in insects, and began to question her father about the office robbery.

  “Nothing valuable was stolen so far as Miss Arrow and I could determine,” he informed. “The office was pretty thoroughly torn up, but apparently the thief didn’t get the thing he was after.”

  “Have you any idea what that was, Dad?”