The Secret in the Old Lace Read online

  Staring at her car stuck between the roadblock and the gang’s vehicle, Nancy replied, “I guess I won’t. ”

  Before long, however, a tow truck was on the scene to move the boys’ car. As soon as Nancy’s hubcaps were replaced, the couple was ready to leave.

  “Too bad the radio was ripped out,” Ned said, looking at the hole, the wires dangling under the dashboard. “But at least they didn’t take it with them. I’ll have it put back for you while you’re away. ”

  “That’s really nice of you,” said the girl, adding, “I couldn’t get over how you tackled all those kids. You were terrific. ”

  Prompted to tell Nancy the full details of the final capture, he said, “I just dragged that little squirt to the goalpost—I mean the river!”

  Ned turned the car around and drove toward the main street once again, while Nancy looked at her watch.

  “It’s too late for us to go to the show,” she said. “Why don’t we go straight to the dance and meet everybody there? I’m sure Bess, George, and the boys are really worried about us. ”

  Ned agreed. As Nancy had predicted, their friends were extremely anxious when they arrived.

  “Where have you been?” George questioned, observing their disheveled attire. “Were you attacked by a monster?”

  “Four of them,” Nancy replied, urging Ned to tell the story.

  When he had finished, George remarked, “Being captain of the football team sure comes in handy sometimes. But I never knew they trained you for multiple attacks.”

  Ned grinned. “We might not have fared so well if it hadn’t been for our fleet-footed Nancy. Man, can she sprint!”

  “But I’d rather dance!” Nancy laughed, as the orchestra music swelled in the hall. Ned took Nancy’s hand and led her onto the dance floor. “Do your bones ache too much to dance?” she asked with concern.

  “Never!” He laughed, sweeping the girl toward the center of the room.

  The other two couples followed them. Bess, however, was more perplexed than her cousin about Nancy’s casual attitude.

  “Look at them,” she said, keeping her eyes on Nancy and Ned. “They’re dancing and laughing as if nothing happened.”

  “Maybe,” Dave chuckled, “Ned’s feat did wonders for their relationship!”

  As they found themselves dancing near Nancy and Ned, Bess said to her friend, “You ought to call your father and tell him you’re all right. I phoned him, thinking possibly you went home for some reason.”

  Taking Bess’s advice, Nancy excused herself for a few moments. Her father and Hannah Gruen were relieved to hear that she and Ned were safe after the attack.

  “Those boys must be punished,” Carson Drew declared. “The people in this town won’t tolerate such nonsense.” He paused, adding lightly, “Have a good time, dear, but stay together as a group on your way home.” Nancy promised they would.

  In the course of the evening, the young people discussed Nancy’s manuscript and the mystery involving François Lefèvre’s lace cuffs. “I’d also like to know who owns that diamond cross,” Burt Eddleton spoke up. “You’ll sure have plenty to keep you busy in Belgium.”

  “They’ll be so busy, they won’t even have the time to send us postcards,” Dave remarked.

  The day the girls were to leave for New York, the boys drove them to the airport, stopping briefly at the post office on the way. To Nancy’s amazement a copy of the signed receipt for the manuscript had just been received. But the signature was illegible. The young detective showed it to her friends, then put it in her purse.

  “Besides that little gem,” Ned said, “did you pack your toothbrush, your clothes, and a picture of me?”

  “I did—in just the reverse order,” she said, kissing Ned good-bye. “I’ll bring you back a surprise!”

  “Make it a solution to the secret in the old lace!”

  When the threesome reached New York City, they took a taxi directly to Aunt Eloise Drew’s apartment house. She welcomed the girls with hugs and kisses. After they were settled, Nancy told her aunt everything that had happened so far.

  Aunt Eloise was shocked. “Terrible, just terrible!” she exclaimed. Then, looking fondly at her niece, she said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, Nancy, but the editor-in-chief of Circle and Square magazine wants to see you as soon as possible.”

  “Did he say why?” Nancy asked.

  “Well, yes,” Aunt Eloise replied, unsure of what to say next. She took a deep breath.

  “I can take it,” Nancy insisted.

  “It seems there’s a serious charge against you!”

  7

  The Stolen Bag

  “What kind of charge?” George asked. “Nancy hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  Aunt Eloise put an arm around her niece. “Of course she hasn’t. My brother phoned me a little while ago with the message. He said Mr. Miller, the man to whom I gave your manuscript, didn’t give any details, but he stressed he must see you personally.”

  “It’s almost five-thirty,” Nancy said. “The magazine office is probably closed now. I’ll have to go there first thing in the morning.”

  The following day, she set up an appointment to see Mr. Miller.

  “I’m going with you,” Bess insisted. “After what’s happened to you, I don’t think you should travel anywhere alone.”

  “Bess is right,” George agreed. “I’ll come along too. ”

  Nancy’s face creased into a broad smile. “With two bodyguards to protect me, I guess I ought to be fairly safe.”

  “And if all else fails,” her plump friend teased her, “we’ll call Ned to the rescue!”

  Aunt Eloise, who taught school, had already left so the visitors tidied the apartment before leaving for the office of Circle and Square magazine.

  Once outside, the girls headed west past a small private park toward Madison Avenue, one of New York City’s busiest streets. It was filled with taxis, passenger cars, and crowds of pedestrians walking at a faster clip than any vehicle could move that morning.

  “I just love New York,” Bess swooned, gazing into the window of an Italian dress boutique. “The clothes are gorgeous, the people are gorgeous—” She paused to stare at a sleek, black-haired girl in the shop. She was wearing a fine lemon-colored knit suit. “Boy, I wish I could look like that.”

  George nudged her cousin away from the window. “You could if you stopped eating!”

  Bess pretended not to hear the remark. “Nancy, wouldn’t it be great to see a few shows and concerts too?”

  “I hardly have enough time to see Mr. Miller,” Nancy said, her thoughts miles away from Madison Avenue. “But maybe we can catch up with New York when we return.”

  Soon the trio reached the entrance of a tall building where they found a wall directory next to a bank of elevators. Circle and Square magazine was on the twelfth floor.

  As they rode up in silence, Nancy steadied her eyes on the floor indicator. When the light stopped at twelve, the doors slid open slowly and she took a deep breath.

  George leaned toward her. “Don’t worry,” she said, as they entered the magazine office. “Everything will turn out all right.”

  Mr. Miller proved to be a handsome man with light brown hair and cheerful blue eyes. Nancy judged him to be close to her father’s age.

  “I have an eighteen-year-old daughter too,” he volunteered. “She looks a little bit like you, Miss Drew, but I’m afraid the resemblance ends there. She would never plagiarize someone’s story.”

  The accusation stunned the girl detective. “Well, I wouldn’t either,” she replied evenly, trying to check her rising temper.

  “That’s right,” Bess said in support.

  “Why don’t you let Mr. Miller explain what he means,” George suggested.

  The editor-in-chief said that his readers had found two identical entries to the contest. “One of them is yours,” he stated. “Your solution to the mystery is the same as the other contestant’s.”

&
nbsp; “Word for word?” Nancy inquired.

  “Well, no,” he replied, “but it certainly looks like a clear-cut case of plagiarism or mental telepathy. Which is it?”

  The girl detective gritted her teeth as she proceeded to answer. She told about Matey Johnson and his attempted break-in.

  “But now you say he’s in jail,” Mr. Miller replied. “Did he manage to steal your manuscript?”

  “No,” Nancy admitted, suddenly realizing Johnson had had no opportunity to see her entry. “But he overheard me talking about it! Then I mailed you my original, which your office claims never arrived. Yet I have a receipt that says otherwise. Then my aunt delivered a copy of my story several days ago.”

  Nancy opened her purse and took out the receipt with the illegible signature on it.

  “Strange, very strange,” Mr. Miller said, frowning. “This doesn’t look familiar to me. I’m sure it didn’t come from here.”

  “What?” George cried. “But the receipt was returned to Nancy by the River Heights post office!”

  “You’ll have to leave it with me,” Mr. Miller said abruptly. “This is most irregular.”

  Worried that she might lose an important clue to the identity of the plagiarist, Nancy asked for a photocopy of the tiny paper.

  “Don’t you trust me?” the editor quipped, showing the first sign of friendliness.

  Ignoring the comment, Nancy said, “Can you figure out the signature? We can’t.”

  “No, but I’m inclined to think it belongs to someone who doesn’t work in this office.”

  “Possibly my rival in the contest,” the girl sleuth concluded. “Who is it, by the way?”

  “A man named Paul Frieden.” As Mr. Miller stared at the illegible signature, he added, somewhat embarrassed, “I may owe you an apology for my attitude when you walked in here this morning. But I’m afraid that until this matter is resolved, we cannot enter either your manuscript or Mr. Frieden’s in our contest.”

  “Oh, that’s awful!” Bess burst out in Nancy’s defense. “She wrote every word of the story herself. She didn’t steal anything from anybody!”

  “I admire your loyalty,” Mr. Miller remarked, “but rules are—”

  “Nancy’s an amateur detective,” George interrupted, “so naturally that’s why she was able to make up such an interesting ending to the story of François Lefèvre.”

  “I’m sure—” Mr. Miller started again, but George would not let him finish.

  “Nancy hoped to win first prize and give the money to a very worthy charity,” she said pleadingly.

  Mr. Miller led the disappointed visitors to the door. “I’m truly sorry about this whole thing. Look, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll request my staff to hold both manuscripts until the very last minute of the deadline, which has been extended a bit. Perhaps we’ll know by then what really happened. ”

  Nancy smiled faintly. “Thank you very much.”

  “That’s the best I can do,” the man said, shaking her hand.

  Hopeful that Mr. Drew might be able to work on Nancy’s case while they were away, the girls left New York on a night flight to Brussels, Belgium. From there they planned to take a train or drive to Brugge, since the small city had no airport of its own.

  As the plane’s wheels touched down, George stared out the window at the sun-soaked terminal building. It was noon in Belgium which meant it was only 6:00 A.M. in New York.

  The travelers passed through Immigration and Passport Control quickly, then headed for the baggage area. One by one, pieces of luggage appeared on the moving conveyor. First George, then Bess saw their suitcases and pulled them off. Nancy also spotted hers, a sturdy green bag, but waited for it to come closer before taking it. Suddenly, to her astonishment, a man at the head of the line reached out, grabbed the bag, and hurried away.

  “Did you see that?” Nancy cried out. “A man stole my suitcase!” She dashed through the crowd of passengers. A guard stopped her abruptly at a doorway leading to the exit. She could not pass through until her luggage was cleared by a customs official.

  “But someone just took my bag!” she exclaimed indignantly. “He went through this door!”

  “Well, evidently he works here and has proper identification. Maybe the bag just looks like yours.

  Nancy rejoined Bess and George, hopeful that another green bag bearing her initials would appear. None did. Completely frustrated, Nancy spoke to the guard again, insisting she had seen someone take her luggage.

  “If so,” the guard replied, “I suggest you report it to our lost and found office. Most likely, the person will return it when he realizes he has the wrong bag. Come back tomorrow morning and check. ”

  Following the man’s instructions, Nancy and her friends went to the lost and found desk and reported the theft. Afterward they decided to stay in Brussels overnight.

  “Oh, well,” Bess said, “look at the bright side. This is where François lived!”

  She and George tagged after Nancy to a shuttle train which was headed for the heart of the city. They chose a quaint hotel listed in Nancy’s pocket directory that was within walking distance of the station.

  “Belgium is a three-language country,” Bess said. ”People speak either French, Dutch, or Flemish depending on where they live. Many, of course, speak all three.”

  Despite the beauty of the city and her friends’ attempts to cheer her, Nancy’s thoughts were solely on the missing luggage.

  Somebody wants to keep me from going to Brugge! she thought as she crept into bed that night. But who?

  8

  Detective Trouble

  Nancy slept fitfully and awoke early the next morning. She showered and dressed before her traveling companions had awakened, then went for a short walk until George and Bess were ready for breakfast. In the dining room, the girls discussed their situation.

  “I have a hunch that someone is trying to stall our visit to Brugge,” Nancy said, sampling one of the sweet rolls on her plate.

  Bess gulped down a cup of tea. “Can’t,” she said.

  “What do you mean ‘can’t’?” George questioned.

  “If Nancy’s bag doesn’t show up today,” her cousin replied, “we’ll go on to Brugge and tell the airline to forward it to Madame Chambray’s.”

  To Nancy’s disappointment, the green suitcase had not been returned to the airport. She gave the address she would be staying at in Brugge and begged the airline representative to deliver the luggage as soon as it arrived.

  “Frankly,” Nancy said to her friends, “I doubt it will ever come. I’m positive that the person who took my bag did so on purpose.”

  Noticing a policeman standing outside the main entrance to the terminal, Nancy walked up to him.

  “Monsieur,” she called. “Do you speak English?”

  “Un peu—a little.”

  The girl detective explained that her suitcase had probably been stolen.

  “Can you describe the man—slowly, please?”

  Nancy said he had been too far away for her to give a thorough description. “But I can tell you this. He was tall and thin and wore a dark blue suit or uniform. When I reported him to the guard, he said the person probably worked here.”

  The officer paused a moment before speaking again. “Can you point the guard out to me so I can question him?”

  The girl ducked back into the terminal, glancing in the direction of the baggage area. A different man was on duty there. When she returned to report this, she added one more identifying clue—the initials ND on her suitcase.

  “Perhaps all your trouble is simply based on coincidence,” the officer said. “The man who took your bag may, in fact, own one just like yours.”

  “And his name begins with the same letters as mine?” The young sleuth completed the policeman’s deduction. “That would certainly be a coincidence. ”

  “Well, I will file a report for you and maybe your suitcase will be found.”

  “If so, could you forwa
rd it to Brugge? We’ll be going there today.” She gave the officer Madame Chambray’s address and thanked him for his help. Then the girls took the shuttle train to the railroad station.

  The ride to Brugge was uneventful. The girls watched the flat, green landscape and talked little. Finally, after a stop in Ghent, they reached the medieval town of Brugge. It was quaintly picturesque with lots of narrow streets and three- or four-story old stone houses often separated by canals.

  “This is like traveling back into history to the Middle Ages,” Bess remarked.

  Her cousin was intrigued by the canal boats. Several of them were open motorboats while others were canopied with colorful awnings. “No wonder Brugge is called the Venice of the North.”

  Rather than take a land taxi, the visitors chose a boat. The schipper, a man whose ruddy complexion indicated he spent many hours at the wheel, stowed their luggage and started the motor.

  It chugged loudly, causing Bess to whisper, “Maybe this is a medieval motor!”

  Nancy smiled halfheartedly. “I hope the dress shops aren’t,” she said, wishing she had worn her new sweater-coat on the plane. She wondered if she would ever see it again.

  As the schipper steered the boat from one canal into another, it passed under a small stone bridge with a Gothic hump in the middle. Beyond was a fieldstone house evidently built centuries ago. The narrow back windows were set under arches beneath a triangular roof.

  “That must be where Madame Chambray lives,” George announced, as the boatman tied the craft to a post.

  He helped the girls out, and unloaded the larger pieces of luggage. Then he grabbed the smaller ones, including Bess’s cosmetic bag. She held her hand out to take it, but the bag slipped through the man’s fingers, splashing into the water.

  “Oh, no!” Bess cried out. “There go all my lipsticks and nail polish!”

  The schipper jabbered something unintelligible. Nancy caught the word droevig, which she figured probably meant “sorry. ”

  “Do be careful!” Bess pleaded while the man hopped back into the boat and picked up a pole with a grappling hook at one end. He slid it into the water and fished slowly for the handle of the case. In a few moments he nodded happily. He had caught the little bag!