The Quest of the Missing Map Read online

  “Hi, Bess!” she began. “I’m on my way to Mrs. Chatham’s estate, but Dad doesn’t want me to go there alone. Could you and George meet me there in half an hour?”

  “I’ll be glad to come,” Bess answered instantly. “I’ll call George.”

  “This is what I’d like you to do for me,” Nancy said. “I’m going to investigate the music studio but I don’t want Mrs. Chatham to know it. Could you both keep her engaged in conversation?”

  “Will do,” Bess promised. “Please be careful.”

  After chatting for a moment longer, Nancy left the store. She drove on toward Rocky Edge, arriving ahead of her friends. As she glanced up the road, wondering how long they would be delayed, she was startled to hear a shrill scream. The cry had come from the area near the building which Trixie called Ship Cottage.

  Nancy sprang from her car and dashed toward the spot. Emerging from among the oak trees, she caught a glimpse of the little girL Trixie Chatham was running away from the studio, her hair blowing wildly across her face.

  “Ghosts! Ghosts!” she screamed. “I saw ’em! They’re in the cottage!”

  The child did not see Nancy nor hear her soothing voice as she called to the little girl. In panic Trixie scrambled through a hedge, straight into the path of an oncoming cart

  CHAPTER VIII

  Nancy Investigates

  INSTINCTIVELY Nancy darted after the terrified child. She seized her by the hand and jerked the little girl from the roadway just as the automobile whizzed by.

  “Let me go!” Trixie cried, trying to pull away. Then, seeing who her rescuer was, she relaxed slightly. “Oh, it’s you,” she said.

  “What’s the matter, Trixie?” Nancy asked gently. “You were almost run down by that car.”

  The little girl began to sob, her thin body shaking. While Nancy was trying to comfort her, another car approached and drew up alongside the road. George was driving; Bess sat beside her.

  “What’s wrong?” Bess asked, stepping from the car. “Has Trixie been hurt?”

  “No, she’s all right,” Nancy answered, “but she had a narrow escape. Something frightened her and she ran into the path of a car.”

  “What was it that scared you, Trixie?” George asked.

  Trixie moved nearer Nancy, away from the other two girls.

  “It—it was a ghost,” she answered, her voice trembling. “A great big one with horrible eyes! It glared at me from the window of the Ship Cottage!”

  “Oh, Trixie, you don’t really believe that!” George laughed. “There are no ghosts.”

  “Then what was it I saw?” the child demanded. “There’s something big with horrible eyes hiding in there!”

  Nancy spoke up quietly. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Trixie. You run along to the house with Bess. George and I will go to the music studio and take a look around.”

  “Maybe that thing will hurt you,” the little girl said anxiously.

  “We’ll be careful. You go with Bess.”

  Somewhat reluctantly Trixie allowed herself to be led up the path. George and Nancy turned in the opposite direction, walking swiftly to the studio.

  “Trixie didn’t imagine that she saw glaring eyes watching her,” Nancy declared, lowering her voice. “The first day I came here some very strange things happened while I was inside the building. That’s why Dad doesn’t like me to come here alone.”

  “You think someone may be hiding there?”

  “It’s possible. Before Ellen accepts work with Mrs. Chatham we must investigate this place thoroughly.”

  Cautiously the girls circled the quaint small building. They saw no one and heard no unusual sounds.

  Nancy tried the door, expecting to walk right in as she had done the first time, but to her surprise it would not open.

  “That’s odd,” she remarked in a puzzled tone. “The studio was unlocked when I was here before.”

  “Perhaps we can get in through a window,” George suggested, testing one on the front of the house.

  She could not raise it nor any of the others.

  “I wonder if I should ask Mrs. Chatham for the key,” Nancy mused. Then, answering herself, she said, “Why not? She can always refuse.”

  The two girls hurried to the main house, where they found Bess seated on the porch with Mrs. Chatham. Trixie was playing on the steps with a white cat and laughing shrilly at its antics.

  “Can’t you please be quiet?” her mother asked irritably.

  “You always say that. ‘Be quiet; don’t do that!’ If Daddy were alive, I’d have fun.”

  “Trixie!” Mrs. Chatham shouted. “Not another word or you’ll go to your room.” The child subsided into silence.

  Nancy felt sorry for Trixie, knowing how upset the child had been. She was certain that Mrs. Chatham did not know about the unusual happenings at Ship Cottage. To confirm this theory, Nancy casually asked the woman who used the small house.

  “Why, no one,” Mrs. Chatham replied, surprised at the question.

  “You never go there yourself?”

  “Almost never. I’ve been reluctant to stir up old memories.”

  “You keep the studio locked, I suppose?” Nancy inquired.

  “Usually I do,” Mrs. Chatham replied. “For a while I left it unlocked thinking Trixie might like to play there. But she refused to step inside!”

  “Did you ever ask her why she dislikes the place so much?”

  “It would do no good,” Mrs. Chatham said. “She has a very vivid imagination and tells outlandish stories.”

  Nancy was inclined to believe the woman had no idea that Trixie’s misbehavior might result from a feeling of loneliness. If her mother did not believe her and the servants were not kind to her, the child did indeed need a friend. Ellen Smith could be just the person!

  “You mentioned the other day that your first husband collected ship models,” Nancy remarked after a moment.

  “Would you like to see the collection?” Mrs. Chatham inquired politely.

  “Yes, I would.”

  “I’ll get the key,” Mrs. Chatham said, rising.

  Trixie remained at the house while her mother and the three girls went to the studio. The widow unlocked the front door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. The girls followed.

  Nancy’s eyes roved about the dusty room. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed since her last visit. There was no sign of either an intruder or an open panel in the wall.

  “What charming little ships!” Bess exclaimed as she examined the model of a sailing clipper on the mantelpiece.

  While her friends were talking to Mrs. Chat ham, Nancy seated herself at the piano. Hesitatingly she touched the keys. The notes sounded clear and loud, echoing in the room.

  “That’s certainly strange,” she mused.

  Turning around, she asked Mrs. Chatham if the piano had a secret spring which at times prevented it from being played.

  “Goodness, no! Why do you ask?” The woman laughed. But a moment later she said, “It’s possible your question may be far more to the point than I first thought. The inventor who lived here might have installed some kind of gadget.”

  “Then the piano was here when you took over the place?”

  “Yes, it was. Nothing has been changed. In fact, this building never has been used.”

  “You haven’t found any secret panels?” Nancy inquired eagerly.

  “Not here, but there is one in my bedroom. It serves no real purpose. Once Trixie got behind it by accident, and has never wanted to come into my room since.”

  Nancy decided to tell Mrs. Chatham about her strange experience in the studio. The woman was upset about the man behind the sliding panel. She was greatly relieved when the girls offered to search the room for hidden springs, secret doors, or mechanical gadgets. The trio industriously began looking for a movable section in the walls.

  “I’ll go outside and see how the exterior of the building compares in size with this room,” George said.
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  Bess and Mrs. Chatham followed. Nancy resumed her investigating. First she turned up the corner of a rug which lay under the piano. To her surprise she found several wires which evidently ran down one leg of the instrument through the rug and the floor.

  “There must be a switch to turn the piano off and on,” Nancy mused. “I wonder where it is.”

  Another search of the walls revealed nothing.

  “The switch must be controlled from a spot back of a secret panel!”

  Nancy decided to go over each section of the wall reflected in the mirror, moving her hands along the wall an inch at a time. A wooden peg which seemed to secure the wide panel to the sheathing drew her attention. As she fingered it, Nancy felt a slight movement. Between the boards she could see a tiny crack of space.

  “I’ve found the opening!” she thought jubilantly.

  Nancy pushed and pulled, increasing the gap only a little at a time. Then suddenly the woodwork gave, sliding back easily. As Nancy turned to shout her discovery, she heard a shrill scream.

  “Help! Help! Nancy!”

  The cry had come from outside the building. Nancy had recognized the voice as George’s !

  CHAPTER IX

  Shadow of Fear

  DARTING from the studio, Nancy spotted George far up the path, pursuing a man whose head was bent low.

  Quickly guessing that the fugitive had been caught prowling near the building, Nancy joined in the chase. In a moment she caught up with George, but the two were unable to overtake the fleet-footed man. By the time the girls reached the boundary of the estate, he was out of sight.

  “It’s no use,” George said, halting to catch her breath. “We’ll never get him now.”

  “Did you recognize the man?” Nancy asked. “Was he near the music studio?”

  “I’d never seen him before. He just suddenly appeared out of the rear of the building. His head was lowered and I couldn’t get a good look at his face.”

  Before Nancy could question George further, Mrs. Chatham and Bess hurried down the path.

  “What happened?” Bess asked anxiously. “We heard the cry for help. Did one of you get hurt?”

  “No, we’re all right,” George replied. “After you and Mrs. Chatham went off, the man apparently thought no one was here. He pushed aside part of the cottage wall and stepped outside. When he saw me, he took off.”

  “Goodness!” Bess exclaimed nervously. “There must be a secret passage connected with the studio. That man probably was listening to our conversation when we were inside. He could have harmed us!”

  “I found out how to open that secret panel in the studio only a minute ago,” Nancy said.

  “You did?” Mrs. Chatham asked in astonishment.

  “I’ll show you. But first I want to see the hidden door George found.”

  George started down the path.

  “I’ll join you in a minute,” Mrs. Chatham said, turning in the opposite direction. “I’m going to call the police. It frightens me that someone is prowling about the premises!”

  George had no difficulty locating the concealed section. Nancy pushed against the wall and stepped through the narrow opening.

  “This passageway must lead along the back wall to an alcove behind the piano,” she called, her voice muffled. “Let’s explore.”

  “I’m not as thin as you are, Nancy,” Bess complained as she attempted to follow. “I’ll never make it!”

  “Then go into the studio and enter through the secret panel. I left it open. George and I are bound to meet you somewhere!”

  Bess vanished around the building. The other two girls moved along the inner wall until they came to an unlocked door which opened into a small chamber.

  “I can’t see a thing!” Nancy declared. “We should have brought flashlights.”

  “Ouch!” George exclaimed. “This place must be lined with rock!”

  Cautiously the girls groped their way toward the half-open panel ahead. They were glad when Bess pushed it the remainder of the way, allowing light to flood the gloomy space.

  “What did you find?” she called.

  “Boxes and lots of other things,” Nancy replied, gazing about her.

  “Do you think it’s a storage room?” George asked.

  “Either that, or some thief’s hideaway for loot,” Nancy commented as she examined a large Chinese vase.

  While the girls were inspecting two trunks, rain began to patter on the tin roof.

  “Just listen to that!” Nancy said in dismay. “And I wanted to take a look at the footprints near the hidden door. Perhaps I can beat the storm. George, you stay inside with Bess. No sense in all of us getting wet.”

  Hastily Nancy looked about for a board or box lid to cover the prints but could find neither. She ran back through the passage and outside. Footprints made by a man’s large shoes were still visible.

  The rain descended heavily as Nancy took pencil and paper from her purse and rapidly drew an outline of one footmark. The toe of the shoe was very wide, and the rubber heel had left a peculiar star-design imprint.

  “The marks are nearly washed away now,” Nancy thought ruefully. “But at least I have a sketch.”

  She closed the secret door and scurried into the studio. Ten minutes later Mrs. Chatham arrived with a supply of umbrellas, but insisted that the girls stay at the cottage to see the police. Presently their car pulled up in front.

  The two officers questioned Mrs. Chatham and the girls regarding the trespasser. Unfortunately George’s description of him was sketchy. The only tangible clue was the footprint which Nancy had made.

  “This should be of some use to us,” one of the policemen declared, pocketing the drawing.

  Before leaving, the officers inspected the hidden chamber. Mrs. Chatham readily identified many of the articles as the property of her first husband. Some she did not recognize but assumed they must have also belonged to him.

  “At least I have a sketch of the intruder’s footprints,” Naney said to herself

  After the police had gone, Nancy asked thoughtfully, “Is it possible that Mr. Chatham knew of this hiding place and stored goods here without your knowledge?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see why he wouldn’t have told me.” Mrs. Chatham paused. “Oh, I do hope nothing of John’s has been stolen. It would break my heart to lose anything belonging to him.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes as she lifted a miniature ship, similar to those which the girls had seen in the studio room. For the first time Nancy felt herself warming to Mrs. Chatham. No doubt her strange actions resulted from grief and loneliness.

  The question that troubled Nancy most was, Who was the mysterious fugitive and was he hiding loot on the premises or taking articles away?

  “But how did he learn of this place?” she wondered.

  As Nancy mulled over the matter, she absently raised the lid of a leather-covered box. She stared in surprise and delight. Inside, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, were many large, rare sea shells.

  “Mrs. Chatham, did your first husband collect these?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Yes, he did. He loved the sea and everything connected with it.”

  “You never mentioned your first husband’s last name,” Nancy said, waiting eagerly for the answer.

  “Why, I thought I did. His name was Tomlin—John Tomlin.”

  “Tomlin!” Nancy could hardly believe her ears. “Then he may be related to Tomlin Smith!” she added, her eyes dancing with excitement.

  “Tomlin Smith?” the widow repeated. “Who is he, may I ask?”

  “Ellen’s father! Mrs. Chatham, do you have a photograph of John Tomlin?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Nancy revealed everything she knew about Mr. Smith’s quest for his missing twin brother but did not mention the map. She also related the story she had heard from Bill Tomlin’s father.

  “My husband had a fine baritone voice,” Mrs. Chatham declared. “He loved songs of t
he sea and collected them.”

  “Everything tallies with the information given me by Bill Tomlin’s father! Without question your first husband was related to the Tomlin family in Kirkland. The two men were cousins. Now if only I can prove a relationship to Tomlin Smith! Did your husband have a middle name?”

  “If so, he didn’t mention it. At no time did my husband tell me much about his early life,” Mrs. Chatham added.

  “He never spoke of his father?” Nancy asked, fingering a large pink shell.

  “No. You see, we were married after knowing each other only two weeks. John settled me in a lovely little cottage, furnished it beautifully, and then set sail but he did not return.”

  “Was his ship lost?” Bess inquired sympathetically.

  “My husband was taken ill and died on a voyage to Japan,” Mrs. Chatham explained, her eyes misty.

  The widow revealed a few additional facts but none of great value. Her husband, she said, had been ten years older than she and frequently had spoken of himself as a “son of the sea.”

  “That might mean his father had been a captain too,” Nancy mused. “Tell me, Mrs. Chatham, did your first husband leave any papers or letters?”

  “Several boxes were brought to me some time after his death. I received a small amount of money and an insurance policy. I’ll confess I read very few of the letters, for they seemed to be old business ones and I wasn’t interested. I was too heart-broken to care. But I saved every one of them. They should be somewhere in this studio. I asked Mr. Chatham to bring them here.”

  “I’ll look right—”

  At that instant a fearful shriek cut the air. The group was electrified for an instant, then Nancy made a dash outside.

  “Moth-er!” came in terrified tones from somewhere to the right.

  “Trixie!”

  Nancy dashed off, with Mrs. Chatham, Bess and George close on her heels.

  “Where are you?” the child’s mother called.

  There was no answer!

  Frantically the group ran to left and to right, shouting Trixie’s name. Suddenly a muffled sound reached Nancy’s ears. She stopped short to listen.