The Secret in the Old Lace (2 page)

The woman began reading the manuscript with great interest. Bess was quiet for a while, then became impatient. “Nancy, got your passport ready?” she asked.

“Why, where are we going?”

“To Belgium!” Bess blurted.

“Belgium?” Nancy said in puzzlement. “Now, Bess, I told you François Lefèvre has been dead for more than a century.”

Grinning, Bess swept a blond curl off her forehead. “We’re not going there to hunt for François,” she said. “You remember my telling you about Mother’s old college friend, Madame Chambray?”

Nancy nodded.

“Well, about a month ago she moved from France to Brugge, Belgium—”

“Why, that’s the name of a city in Nancy’s story,” Hannah interrupted.

“You’re kidding,” Bess said.

“No, it’s true,” Nancy concurred, “but tell me about Madame Chambray.”

“She wrote to Mother recently. Here’s the letter,” Bess said, rummaging through her purse for it. “It seems that Madame Chambray found a valuable antique cross in her house. It’s made of diamonds and lapis lazuli. Madame Chambray believes it belongs to someone who lived in her house years ago. Unfortunately, she hasn’t had much time to search for the owner of the cross but she’s going to put an ad in the newspaper over there.”

Intrigued by the story, Nancy glanced at the letter for a moment, then dropped it on the desk. “What about the person from whom Madame Chambray bought the house?” the girl detective inquired. “Isn’t it more likely the cross belongs to him or her?”

“Apparently it doesn’t,” George spoke up. “Madame Chambray checked on that. ”

Just then Hannah, not taking her eyes from the manuscript, commented, “It’s a wonderful story, dear. You know, I’d been hoping you’d be content to work on fictional mysteries for a while, but I can see—”

Before the housekeeper could continue, there was the shatter of glass followed by an earsplitting crash.

“Oh, my goodness!” Hannah shrieked, rushing to the window.

“What was it?” the girls chorused as they ran after her.

“The painter!” Hannah cried. “His ladder must have slipped and he fell!”

All four were staring down at the lawn, where the man in white overalls was dizzily swaying to his feet. The ladder was lying on the grass a few feet away from him.

“I hope he isn’t badly hurt,” Hannah said. “We’d better go down and find out.”

Her words were hardly spoken, when the man quickly hobbled across the lawn to a truck parked in front of the Drew home. Nancy raced downstairs two steps at a time, the others close behind her, and bolted outside along the curving driveway toward the truck.

“Are you okay?” she shouted anxiously to the man.

But he pulled himself into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and roared off. Nancy turned back to the house, meeting her friends and Hannah halfway. The housekeeper still held the manuscript in her hand.

“The ladder must’ve slid straight down,” Mrs. Gruen observed, “and hit the dining room window. ”

Nancy gaped at the pile of broken glass beneath the opening. “I’m going to call the paint company immediately,” she announced.

“That guy sure acted strange, don’t you think?” Bess said.

“I just hope he’s all right,” Hannah said.

Nancy dialed the phone number of the painters, Kell and Kell, and talked with the owner, Oscar Kell. He offered to come at once to see the damage. While they waited, Nancy and the other girls decided to take a second look at the scene themselves.

“Be careful,” George cautioned Nancy as she walked gingerly between shards of broken glass.

“What do you think of this?” Nancy said, ignoring her friend’s comment. She pointed to a paint can standing on the ground a few feet away from the window.

“It’s white paint,” Bess said. “What are you getting at?”

“If he was working on my window frame, the can would have fallen and splattered paint on the grass, wouldn’t it?” Nancy questioned.

“You’re right,” George admitted. “He climbed up there without it. I wonder why he did that?”

“I have a hunch he was eavesdropping on us!”

 

 

 

“How much do you think the painter overheard?” Bess asked after Nancy revealed her conclusions.

“Probably only snatches,” Nancy replied, “but enough to give him ideas. ”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” George said. “He didn’t find out your solution to the contest.”

“True, but I bet he wanted to,” Nancy replied. “He must have heard us talking about the mystery while he was painting near the window. So he scooted down his ladder and moved it right underneath my room, and climbed up again. Of course, by doing that, he missed part of the conversation.”

George nodded. “He probably mixed everything up and figures there’s some important connection between your contest and Madame Chambray’s story!”

As George spoke, a station wagon pulled into the driveway. A middle-aged man with stocky features emerged. “I’m looking for Nancy Drew,” he called to the girls.

Nancy stepped forward. “Mr. Kell?”

“That’s me,” he said, knitting his eyebrows as he noticed the broken window. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get over here faster. I was waiting for Matey to return with the truck.”

“Did he?” Nancy asked impatiently.

“Yep, and before I could find out what happened, he quit on me. Said he was tired of house painting. When I asked him what he intended to do, he said he was going treasure hunting. A real smart aleck!”

Nancy, unwilling to reveal her suspicions, innocently asked, “What’s his last name?”

“Johnson,” Mr. Kell replied. “He used to be a sailor; I guess climbing the mast was good training for the kind of work he did for me. ”

“Was he with you a long time? Nancy asked.

“A year. He’s been on parole for a while,” Mr. Kell said with hesitation in his voice. “But he’s okay. A good painter, just a smart aleck.”

Bess and George had all they could do to contain their anxiety while Nancy spoke to Mr. Kell. Then Hannah appeared at the dining room window, and for several moments she and the contractor discussed repairs.

When he left, Bess grabbed Nancy’s arm. “I don’t believe it!” she said. “That painter is an ex-convict!”

“Matey Johnson was probably a second-story burglar,” Nancy concluded.

“To think he could’ve just squirmed his way into your room and stolen your manuscript!” George exclaimed.

“But he didn’t,” Nancy pointed out calmly. “Of course, if he had, he could’ve copied my answer to the contest and sent it in. Then, if his entry had reached the magazine office first, the editors would have accused me of plagiarism.”

“How awful!” George said. “But he would have been the plagiarist—the one who stole your idea!”

“I know,” Nancy said, “but how could I prove it?”

“We’re your witnesses,” Bess said cheerfully.

“You’re more than witnesses.” Nancy smiled. “You’re my best friends.”

“Say, what about lunch?” George piped up.

“Don’t tell us you’re hungry!” Her cousin smirked.

The girls went to get their handbags. Nancy saw the manuscript lying in the hallway where Hannah had placed it after she had come back into the house. Quickly the girl put it into the closet before she followed her friends outside.

They climbed into Nancy’s car and headed for Pickles and Plums Restaurant. Outside were rows of round yellow tables with floral umbrellas poised in the center of each one. Several of the umbrellas were open; a few were not.

“Let’s get a little sun,” Nancy suggested, remembering her promise to Hannah.

The girls chose a table with a closed umbrella and within a minute or so a lanky waiter in blue jeans and a floral shirt brought them menus.

As soon as Bess had ordered an exotic fruit and yogurt salad, she leaned toward Nancy. “We never did read the rest of your story so please tell us how it ends.”

Nancy said she felt sure there was a message in the lace cuffs that prompted François to disappear.

“What kind of message? Bess persisted.

“I have a strong hunch that the girl who made the cuffs was in love with François but he didn’t love her. Maybe he was fearful his family and the girl’s would arrange their betrothal. In those days young people had little to say about such things.”

“How horrible!” George spoke up.

“I understand that marriages are still arranged in some countries,” Nancy said.

“Well, I’m glad I don’t live in one of them,” George declared.

Bess saw a chance to tease her cousin. “I’m sure Burt is equally happy about it,” she commented.

In reply George wrinkled up her nose. Burt Eddleton was her favorite date.

“Of course,” Nancy said, interrupting the banter between her friends, “I don’t think François ever left Belgium.”

“What!” Bess and George said. They were totally bewildered.

“But the story said he disappeared,” George noted.

“He did—from Brussels. But I have a hunch he stayed in his native country. You see, he was very interested in painting. I didn’t mention this earlier, but he always wanted to study with Dirk Gelder, a famous teacher in nineteenth-century Brugge. I think François might have gone there.”

“But that’s not far from Brussels,” George objected.

“I know. Yet, in those days people didn’t travel as they do now. If he changed his appearance a little and learned how to speak the dialect of that town, he could conceal himself easily enough.”

“Don’t they speak Flemish there?” Bess inquired.

“Flemish is spoken in Flanders,” Nancy admitted. “But the people in Brugge have their own dialect. ”

As the chatter continued, the lanky waiter placed three large platters of salad in front of the girls.

“You said that François took a fortune with him when he left,” George put in. “In those days robberies were as prevalent as today. Did it occur to you that maybe he was overtaken and killed?”

Nancy admitted the thought had entered her mind. “But the magazine story doesn’t even hint at foul play. My impression is that François changed his whole appearance and life-style. He could’ve grown a beard to hide his handsome face and switched to plain clothes, for instance.”

“In your story,” Bess asked, “what name did he take?”

“Karl Van Pelt. ”

“I still think it’s incredible,” George insisted, “that such an attractive man could live no more than sixty miles from Brussels without ever being identified. His clothes alone—”

“Not really,” Nancy interrupted. “Don’t forget, according to the magazine, he took no clothes other than the red jacket with the lace cuffs. Obviously, he didn’t want to be seen with any baggage to indicate he was traveling or moving away. He could’ve hidden whatever treasure he had in his sleeves, pockets, and shoes and rolled up the jacket into a neat little package.”

“In that case,” George pointed out, “François’s personal fortune must’ve been in money and jewels. ”

Nancy nodded. “Exactly. In my story I said he used some of the money to start a successful business and at his death willed the red jacket to a museum.”

“Just think,” Bess said, digging her fork into a cube of fresh melon, “we’ll be able to walk on the same cobblestones François did and look at the same canals he saw and—”

George rolled her eyes upward in mock disgust. “Spare me,” she said. “I don’t know how Dave stands it.” Dave Evans was Bess’s boyfriend.

“Okay, you two,” Nancy broke in.

“You know I was serious about us all going to Belgium,” Bess said. “Madame Chambray has plenty of room and more than one mystery to solve!”

“Really?” Nancy asked eagerly.

“Yes. She found part of an old letter too, which says something about a treasure. ”

“Is that all she said?”

Bess nodded. “Madame Chambray didn’t reveal too many details in her letter to my mother, but she does want us—you especially—to visit. She knows your dad’s a lawyer and that you often solve mysteries. ”

Nancy’s heart was beating excitedly. “I’m just flabbergasted,” she said. “After working on the mystery contest, the one place I’m eager to see is Brugge!”

“Who knows, maybe we’ll find François’s red jacket in one of the museums!” George giggled.

“Let’s not get too carried away,” Nancy said. “After all, my part of the story is only fictional. Speaking of that, I ought to mail it in at once.”

George called to the waiter for a bill as Nancy caught sight of someone bending behind the front fender of her parked car. “Is he letting the air out of my tire?” she cried, pushing her chair back and darting toward him. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted.

For a split second the stranger bobbed into view. He looked like Matey Johnson!