Mystery at the Ski Jump Read online

  Nancy beckoned to her aunt. “I think this is our cue for an exit.” She chuckled. “If the sergeant will write a receipt for this brooch, we’ll be on our way.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The officer wrote the receipt and gave it to Nancy. Then he made a note of her aunt’s address and promised to return the brooch within a day or two.

  “You certainly accomplished a lot, Nancy,” Eloise Drew said when they entered her apartment. “And now, please relax for the rest of your visit. I’ve planned a special dinner tonight.”

  Later Miss Drew set the table with gleaming silver and tall lighted candles.

  “I was so intrigued by your fur mystery that I ordered things for a trapper’s dinner,” she said.

  When it was time to sit down to eat, Nancy was delighted. “How delicious everything looks!” she said. “Venison, wild rice, and my favorite currant jelly! Why, Aunt Eloise, this is a real north country feast!”

  As they ate, their conversation returned to the mystery. “What was it you said about Dunstan Lake?” Aunt Eloise asked. “Is that the location of the Forest Fur Company?”

  “So it says on the stock certificates,” her niece answered. “But not even the United States Post Office has ever heard of such a place.”

  “Maybe it’s not a town at all,” Aunt Eloise suggested. “You know, Nancy, I recall that name from somewhere, but I can’t remember when or how. I hope you’ll let me help in your mysteries even though my memory’s failed me!” she added with a chuckle.

  “I call on you whenever I can,” Nancy reminded her. “You’ve always been a help to me. Remember when you took my dog Togo to your summer home in the Adirondacks—”

  “Togo!” Aunt Eloise interrupted. “I remember now. Someone came to the cottage while we were there. I believe he was a trapper. He was looking for a mink ranch and a Dunstan Lake. But there’s no lake by that name around there. I remember thinking it might be the name of the owner of the mink ranch.”

  “That’s a wonderful clue!” Nancy exclaimed.

  “Please don’t follow it tonight,” her aunt teased, “or we’ll be late for the theater.”

  The next day Nancy and her aunt waited for word from the police. By evening they had received none, and Nancy finally declared that she could remain in New York only until noon the next day.

  “Then I’ll have to take a plane home in case Dad needs my help in Montreal. If the brooch hasn’t arrived by that time, will you phone me as soon as it comes and then send it to me by registered mail?”

  Aunt Eloise agreed, and the two spent the evening watching television. The late movie was an old film depicting a skating carnival. It began with a picture of the skating queen and individual close-ups of her ladies in waiting.

  Suddenly Nancy cried out, “Aunt Eloise, look! That tall, dark-haired attendant!”

  “She’s very attractive,” Miss Drew commented. “In fact, she’s more striking than the queen.”

  “I know her!” Nancy cried.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “No, no. Aunt Eloise, she’s the woman I’m trying to find. That’s Mrs. R. I. Channing!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Trapper’s Story

  NANCY and Aunt Eloise waited eagerly for the motion picture to conclude. At the end the cast was named. Mrs. Channing was listed as Mitzi Adele.

  “Her stage name,” her aunt guessed.

  Nancy nodded. “Yes, or her maiden name. The film is seven or eight years old.”

  “She may have given up professional skating when she married,” Eloise Drew suggested.

  “Still, this helps,” Nancy said. “If Mrs. Channing was a skater, perhaps I can find some people in the profession who know where she comes from and something about her.”

  After breakfast the next morning Nancy phoned the television studio and asked for information about the skater Mitzi Adele. The man on the other end of the wire advised Nancy to write to the Bramson Film Company, which had made the motion picture.

  “Did you find out anything?” Aunt Eloise asked as Nancy put down the phone.

  “Only the name of the film company. I hope they have that woman’s address!”

  Eloise Drew prepared to leave for school. Nancy thanked her for the visit and kissed her good-by. After her aunt had gone, Nancy sent a telegram to the film company, asking that the reply be sent to her at River Heights.

  As she was packing, the apartment buzzer rang. Police Sergeant Rolf was in the lobby and asked to see her.

  “I’m here to return that diamond brooch, Miss Drew,” the officer told her a few minutes later. “If Sidney Boyd tries to sell the matching earrings, we’ll get him!” The sergeant thanked Nancy for her help and left.

  The weather was clear that afternoon and Nancy’s flight was smooth. She took a taxi home from the River Heights Airport, and slipped quietly into the Drew home. Hannah was in the kitchen. Tiptoeing up behind the housekeeper, Nancy called loudly, “I’m home!”

  “Oh!” gasped Hannah. “Nancy, you startled me!”

  “Aunt Eloise sent her love,” said Nancy as she removed her hat and coat and started for the hall closet. When she returned, Mrs. Gruen was taking a pie from the oven.

  “If Bess saw that cherry pie—” Nancy began.

  “Bess and George have a surprise for you,” Hannah interrupted. “Bess left word for you to phone her. George is there. Then tell me about the trip.”

  “I’ll tell you first,” Nancy said, laughing.

  Ten minutes later she telephoned Bess, who reported that through a merchant who sold hunting equipment, she and George had met another investor in the Forest Fur Company.

  “The old man’s a fur trapper from up north,” Bess went on. “He lives with his niece.”

  “When can I speak with him?” Nancy asked.

  Bess consulted George, who took up the extension phone. “We’ll drive him over tomorrow morning,” George said. “That is, if we can persuade him to ride in a car. John Horn is strictly a high boot and snowshoe man.”

  Nancy laughed. “I’ll get out my buckskin leggings and my coonskin cap!”

  “We’ll come early,” George promised.

  Mail for Nancy had accumulated on the hall table. As soon as she finished the conversation, she began to read it. Her duplicate driver’s license had arrived. There was also a note from her father, who was eager to have her join him.

  “Did you see this?” Hannah asked, pointing to a telegram half-hidden by an advertising circular.

  The message was from the Bramson Film Company. It stated that they did not know Mitzi Adele’s address. However, a representative of the firm would call on Nancy shortly in regard to the woman skater.

  “I wonder why,” Nancy remarked. “Now I can’t go to Montreal until I find out what the representative has to say!”

  In the morning loud voices announced the arrival of Bess, George, and the fur trapper. Stocky and round-faced, the man strode up to the porch with the easy gait of a man of half his seventy years.

  John Horn was dressed like Daniel Boone, Nancy thought, and his long white whiskers reminded her of Santa Claus. At her invitation, the three entered the Drew living room.

  The woodsman declined to take a chair. He stood before the mantel, his legs wide apart and his hands deep in the pockets of his heavy jacket.

  “Well, young woman, what do you want to ask me?” he demanded, his bright blue eyes boring into Nancy’s.

  “Is it true that you bought Forest Fur Company stock from a Mrs. Channing?” she asked.

  “Yep. I was an old fool,” John Horn admitted candidly. “I leaped to the bait—stupid as a wall-eyed pike!”

  “I wonder if she told you anything that would help us trace her,” Nancy said. “Did she mention a Dunstan Lake, for instance?”

  The old man pulled at his whiskers. “No-o. Never heard that name, miss. All we chinned about was mink. I’ve worked on a mink farm and I been trappin’ the little rascals for years. That’s how I came by Arabella
, here.”

  From a pocket in his coat, he pulled out a small, squirrellike creature with bright black eyes and a long tail.

  “Why, it’s a mink!” cried Bess.

  “Sure, she is!” John Horn said proudly. “Four months old and with as prime a pelt as I ever seen. Notice that glossy dark-brown fur? See how thick and live-looking the hair is? Arabella’s an aristocrat. Yes, sir-ree!”

  “Is she tame?” George asked.

  “She’s tame because I raised her myself,” explained John Horn. “A wild mink, though, will bite—and his teeth are plenty sharp.”

  “Where did you get her?” Nancy asked.

  “Arabella was born on a mink ranch. The first time I saw her she was a pinky white and not much bigger than a lima bean. All baby minks are like that. Tiny and covered with silky hair.”

  John Horn gave his pet an affectionate stroke and replaced her in his pocket. “You want me to help you catch that crook, don’t you, Miss Drew?” he said.

  Nancy had no such thing in mind. However, if the fur company was located in the Adirondacks, as Aunt Eloise believed, it would be handy to have an experienced woodsman around.

  “Mr. Horn, I may need your help if I have to travel up north or into the mountains,” she said.

  “You can count on me!” said the old man.

  “Excuse me, Nancy,” said Hannah from the doorway. “I thought perhaps these folks would like some hot chocolate and cinnamon toast.”

  At the sight of the older woman, John Horn became ill at ease. “No, thank you, ma‘am,” he said hastily. “Fact is, I gotta be goin’.”

  “We’ll drive you,” Bess offered.

  “No. No, I’d rather walk.” The old trapper turned to Nancy. “I like you, girl. You—you talk sense,” he stammered. “Here—take this!”

  Nancy felt something warm and furry wriggle in her hands. Startled, she gasped and stepped backward, dropping the little mink to the floor,

  Arabella instantly leaped away, straight toward the astounded Hannah. The housekeeper clutched at her skirts and hopped onto the nearest chair. “A rat!” she shrieked.

  “It’s a mink,” Nancy said. She reached down and tried to catch the little animal.

  “It’ll bite!” Hannah warned. “Like a rat!” Arabella was terrified by the strange surroundings and the squeals of Bess and Hannah. The tiny animal scuttled frantically here and there in search of a hiding place.

  John Horn held up one hand. “Quiet, everybody! You women stay put! And cut out that yammering! You’ll skeer my poor pet to death!”

  The trapper located Arabella crouched in a corner of the entrance hall. He spoke to his pet softly as he approached. Then, kneeling, he took the mink into his arms.

  Just then the doorbell rang. Nancy opened the door to a well-dressed man of middle age.

  “How do you do?” he said. “Is this a bad hour to call? I’ve rung several times.”

  “I’m sorry,” Nancy said. “We were chasing an escaped mink and we—”

  “A mink?” The stranger stared at Nancy.

  She blushed and pointed to the little animal nestled against John Horn’s chest. “It’s a tame mink,” she said.

  “I see,” said the newcomer, still bewildered. “I’m Mr. Nelson from the Bramson Film Company, and I’d like to speak with Miss Nancy Drew.”

  “I’m Nancy Drew. Please come in and sit down in the living room. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  The man walked inside and Nancy turned to the trapper. “I’d love to keep Arabella,” she said, “but I think she’d be happier with you. Besides, we have a dog here. That might make trouble.”

  Horn nodded, tucking the mink back into his pocket. “My offer to help catch that crook is still good.”

  Nancy smiled. “I’ll call on you.”

  The cousins departed with Arabella and her master, who rode away in the back seat of Bess’s car. Evidently he had changed his mind about walking!

  Nancy entered the living room and sat down.

  “Miss Drew,” said Mr. Nelson, “I understand that you want to find Mitzi Adele. Just how close a friend of hers are you?”

  “Friend?” Nancy shook her head. “Not a friend.”

  After she had told what she knew of the woman, Mr. Nelson’s voice became more cordial. “I’m glad you told me this, Miss Drew,” he said. “Frankly, we thought you might have been mixed up in Mitzi’s dealings. A few years ago Mitzi stole several valuable costumes from the Bramson Film Company. We’ve been looking for her ever since.”

  “Do you know where she came from?” Nancy asked.

  “Her home was in northern New York State. Somewhere near the Canadian border. That’s all I know about her.” After a little more conversation, the caller left.

  Nancy went to the kitchen to tell Hannah what she had learned. “Now I must go to Montreal,” she said. “In fact, I’ll leave this evening if I can get a train reservation.”

  Nancy secured a compartment on the late express and sent a telegram telling her father the hour she expected to arrive. Hannah helped her pack, and went with her in a taxi to the railroad station.

  Next morning Nancy looked out the window eagerly as the train pulled into the Montreal station. She hurried down the steps into her father’s arms.

  “Nancy! I’m so glad to see you!” he cried, taking her skis.

  “I’m twice as glad to see you,” she replied.

  “How goes the great fur mystery?” Mr. Drew asked as they followed a porter to the taxi stand.

  “I’m stymied, Dad,” Nancy admitted.

  “Well, sometimes a change of work helps. Suppose you give me a hand. A young man, Chuck Wilson, is my client here. I’m puzzled about him and I’d like your opinion. If you can, get Chuck to tell you about his case himself.”

  Nancy smiled. “When do I go to work?”

  “You’ll meet Chuck in an hour. I told him we’d be at the ski jump of the Hotel Canadien, where I’m staying.”

  “I’ll have to go to the hotel first and put on ski clothes,” Nancy said.

  The hotel, a few miles out of the city, nestled at the foot of a majestic hill. Nancy was shown to her room, where she dressed in a trim blue ski outfit. Then she and her father went out to a nearby ski slope and ski jump. As they approached the foot of the jump, a man prepared to descend it.

  The skier waited for his signal. An instant later he came skimming downward, fast as a bullet, only to rise into the air, soaring like a bird, with arms outstretched. He made a perfect landing.

  “Good boy!” cried Mr. Drew.

  “That was beautiful!” Nancy exclaimed. “I wish I could jump the way he does.”

  “That’s my client—perhaps he’ll give you some instruction,” said Mr. Drew. “Chuck—Chuck Wilson—come over here!”

  The slender youth waved. He stomped across to them, his blond hair gleaming in the sunlight.

  After Nancy’s father had completed introductions, Chuck asked, “Do you ski, Nancy?”

  “Yes. But not very well.”

  “Perhaps I can give you some pointers,” Chuck suggested eagerly. “Would you like to come and ski with me?”

  “A good idea,” Mr. Drew agreed. “I’ll leave my daughter with you and get back to work. Take good care of her!”

  “I sure will!” the young man answered in a tone that made Nancy blush. They waved good-by to Mr. Drew. Then Chuck Wilson seized Nancy’s hand and pulled her toward the base of the jump. “I must see this next jump,” he said.

  The skier made a graceful take-off. Then something went wrong. The man’s legs spread-eagled on landing and one ski caught in the icy snow, throwing him for a nasty spill.

  The watching crowd gasped, then was silent. A spectator, a short distance away from Nancy and Chuck, rushed toward the man. “You idiot!” he yelled. “What will happen to Mitzi if you kill yourself?”

  Hearing the name Mitzi, Nancy elbowed her way quickly through the crowd. She was too late. By the time she reache
d the spot, the unfortunate jumper and his friend had disappeared.

  “Why did you run off?” Chuck asked as he reached Nancy’s side.

  Nancy apologized. “I’m looking for someone. Can we go to the ski lodge? Perhaps he’s there.”

  “Okay,” Chuck said, leading the way.

  The lodge was crowded with skiers but the men were not inside. Nancy asked Chuck if he knew the skier’s name.

  “No. But say, would his initials help?”

  “Oh yes ! Where did you see them?”

  “On his skis—if they were his. Big letters.”

  Nancy’s heart skipped a beat. “What were they?”

  “R. I. C.”

  Nancy’s spine tingled as if someone had put snow down her back. Could this be Mitzi Channing’s husband? And the other man—was he, perhaps, Sidney Boyd?

  CHAPTER IX

  A Disastrous Jump

  CHUCK WILSON chatted cheerfully as he and Nancy went up the chair lift to the station where they were to begin their ski lesson. But Nancy’s thoughts were far away. She kept wondering about R. I. Channing and whether her hunch was correct. Was Mitzi Channing’s husband really in Montreal? Was he the mystery jumper?

  “Maybe I should have tried harder to find him,” she chided herself.

  The ski instructor noticed her faraway look. When they reached their destination, he said:

  “Time for class! Suppose you take off from here. I want to watch you do parallel turns down the practice slope.”

  Nancy gave a quick shove with her poles and glided away.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all!” Chuck called as she completed her trial run. “You have self-confidence and a fine sense of balance. Have you ever done any wedeln?”

  “Yes,” Nancy admitted. “But not very well.”

  “We can try some steeper slopes tomorrow,” her companion said, smiling. “You shouldn’t have any trouble. Now take another run. Remember always to lean away from the hill. Keep your skis together all the time. You need more of what the French call—abandon.”

  “Abandon?”

  “You know—relax.” Chuck smiled. “Bend your knees, keep your weight forward. You have a natural rhythm. Use it when you wedeln. It is just half turning in rhythm all the way down the hill.”