Intruder (Nancy Drew (All New) Girl Detective) Page 7

  “Look!” I declared, aiming the beam on the inside wall. “There are muddy smudges in here.”

  “Must have been left by the intruder yesterday,” George said. I nodded. Now I knew for sure that someone had been using the dumbwaiter to get from floor to floor of the old mansion. But how did the intruder get into the dumbwaiter in the first place?

  We continued our search of the basement, but there wasn’t much else to see except several shelves well stocked with canned goods, jams, and jellies and boxes of supplies like toilet paper and paper towels. All in all, it was neat and well organized.

  “Hey, Nancy, look at this,” Bess declared. I turned my flashlight beam in the direction she was pointing. Several jelly jars and some cans had fallen to the concrete floor. A few of the glass jars had shattered, leaving a sticky mess.

  “Someone had an accident,” Bess said. Efficient as ever, she quickly located an open roll of paper towels and began wiping up peach preserves from the floor.

  “Do you think that Emily came down here, saw the so-called ghost, and dropped the jars?” George asked.

  “I doubt it,” I said, watching Bess clean up. “Emily couldn’t have been carrying that many jars and cans all at one time.”

  “These metal shelves look pretty sturdy to me,” Bess observed. “The jars couldn’t have fallen off by themselves.”

  “Maybe someone bumped the shelves or tried moving them,” George suggested.

  “I’ll bet you’re right,” I said, gripping one of the metal shelves. I tried to shake it but it didn’t even wobble. The only way so many cans and jars could have fallen was if someone had pushed them over, as George suggested, or tried to move the shelves. “Seems like someone went to a lot of trouble to look behind here. I wonder why.”

  Mrs. Olsen came down the stairs, holding a new lightbulb. Mr. Olsen was with her. Bess handed the sticky paper towels to George and quickly retrieved a stepladder from the corner. Ms. Fix-it scrambled up nimbly and replaced the dim lightbulb with the brighter one. “Now, isn’t that better?” Bess asked.

  It was.

  “Look at this mess!” Mrs. Olsen declared, seeing the broken jars on the floor for the first time. “What happened?”

  “We think someone tried moving these shelves away from the wall,” I told her.

  “How odd!” Mr. Olsen said, bending over to pick up a small can of tomato paste. “Why would anyone do that? There’s no wall safe or anything back there.”

  “What’s in there?” I asked. I pointed to a small door on the far side of the basement. It was short and very wide and looked like the sort one might use for a kid’s playhouse.

  “Only a crawl space,” Mr. Olsen explained. “We don’t use it. Carol and I are too old to go crawling on our hands and knees,” he added with a crooked smile. “But we do keep boxes of Christmas decorations stored just inside the door.”

  I gripped the old-fashioned doorknob and opened the door with a yank. “It’s not locked,” I said.

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Olsen said, mildly surprised. “We don’t keep anything valuable in there. Why lock it?”

  “Have you been rummaging around in these boxes lately?” I asked.

  “No, why?” her husband replied.

  “Have a look,” I said. I stepped away from the short door so the Olsens could see.

  “Oh my goodness!” Mrs. Olsen declared.

  “Someone’s been in here!” Her husband’s tone was more than a little annoyed. The boxes of Christmas decorations had been rummaged through and strings of tree lights, extension cords, and wreaths were strewn around inside.

  “How far back does the crawl space go?” George asked, kneeling down and peering in. I squatted down next to her and focused the beam of my little flashlight down the long narrow tunnel. It appeared to go on forever.

  “I don’t know, really. I’ve never explored it before,” Mr. Olsen confessed.

  “For all I know, it goes under the whole length of the house.”

  The hair on my arms was beginning to tickle. I had a hunch. Bess stepped up behind me and placed a hand lightly on my shoulder.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she whispered breathlessly.

  I nodded as I examined the knob on the back side of the little door. There was a lock on the inside. Why have a doorknob with a lock on the inside of an empty crawl space?

  “Don’t even think about crawling in there, Nancy Drew!” George said looming over me with a frown. “You’ve already been conked on the head once today, and you promised your dad and Hannah that you would be careful.”

  “I need to find out just how far back this goes,” I said, rising.

  “Then I’ll go,” George offered. “Mr. Olsen, can I borrow your flashlight?”

  While Mr. Olsen went upstairs to retrieve the flashlight, George and I worked out a plan. We sent Bess upstairs too to get George’s cell phone and mine from our cars.

  “I want to stay in constant contact with you the entire time,” I said. “And I want you to tell me if you see anything that looks suspicious.”

  “Girls, I’m not sure I approve of this,” Mrs. Olsen said nervously. “We don’t know what or who might be in there. What if something happens to you?” she said, addressing George. “I’d feel terrible. What would I tell your mother?”

  “I’ll be fine, Mrs. Olsen,” George assured her. “This will be a piece of cake compared with some of the things I’ve done for Nancy before.” George grinned at me.

  I grinned back and repeated my orders: “Constant voice contact.”

  Once Mr. Olsen returned with the flashlight, and Bess with the cell phones, I checked the battery charge and made sure there was a signal on each phone. Then I dialed George’s number. The ring sounded like someone sneezing violently. I grinned. “Are you ready?” I asked, speaking into the phone and looking at George.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” George said into her phone.

  “Be careful,” Bess admonished her cousin. George nodded. Clutching her cell phone in one hand and the flashlight in the other, she got down on her hands and knees and began crawling into the dark storage space. Bess and I knelt down in front of the open door while the Olsens peered over our shoulders. Mrs. Olsen clutched her husband’s arm nervously.

  “I have a feeling this is how the prowler is getting into the house,” I told them, hoping that bit of information might cheer them up.

  “But how? Where from?” Mr. Olsen asked.

  “We’ll soon find out,” I replied. I knelt peering into the dark tunnel until I could no longer see George’s feet.

  “That’s one deep crawl space,” Bess declared.

  “We had no idea it went back under the house so far,” Mr. Olsen told us.

  Although I could no longer see her, I could hear George’s breathing and an occasional grunt over the cell phone. Sometimes she’d say “Ouch!” or “Whoops!”

  She seemed to be crawling in the tunnel forever, although it had really been only a few minutes.

  “Tell me, what do you see?” I asked, pressing the cell phone next to my ear as I sat down on the cold cement next to the little door. Bess quickly plopped down next to me.

  “Nothing,” came George’s voice over the phone. Then I heard a slight gasp and George declared, “Nancy, you’re never going to believe this!”

  “What is it?” I asked, hearing the amazement in her voice. My heart skipped a beat. “What do you see, George?” I glanced up at the Olsens. They stared at me expectantly.

  “I’m standing up!” George said.

  “What?” I exclaimed. “You’re standing up? In the crawl space?” I heard Mrs. Olsen gasp slightly. Bess murmured an amazed “Wow!”

  “Yes, but it’s not like a crawl space any longer,” George went on. “It’s an underground tunnel. Frankly, it’s pretty darn big in here. I mean, you could move boxes and stuff, even small furniture,” she added. “There are even a couple of places along the walls that have old electric light fixtu
res, but there aren’t any lightbulbs now.”

  I repeated what George had said for the Olsens’ benefit. Mrs. Olsen shook her head with amazement while her husband declared softly, “Oh my!”

  “What else do you see?” Bess asked, talking into my phone.

  “Cobwebs,” came George’s terse reply, “and a dead rat.”

  Bess shuddered. I wrinkled my nose. “Any sign that someone’s used the tunnel recently?” I asked.

  At first there was no response. The only thing I heard was crackling static. “George?” I said. “George, can you still hear me?”

  “Oh no!” Mrs. Olsen said. She leaned toward me with an anxious look.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Olsen,” Bess tried to reassure her. “Something is probably interfering with the phone signal. I’m sure my cousin is all right.” Then Bess looked at me and raised her eyebrows inquiringly. I smiled and nodded. I wasn’t worried. Not yet, anyway.

  “George, can you hear me?” I repeated. “Say something, George.” I hoped I didn’t sound too anxious.

  The static crackled and, finally, I heard George’s voice cutting in and out. “All right … bricks …” Then there was nothing but silence. I repeated what she’d said to the others.

  “What did she mean by ‘bricks,’ I wonder,” Mr. Olsen said.

  “I’m just glad she’s okay,” his wife put in. “She’s been gone a long time.”

  “That may be what’s causing the problem with the phone reception,” Bess said. “It’s hard to get reception inside brick buildings.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Olsen exchanged slight frowns. “Karl, do you think the tunnel is made of brick?” Mrs. Olsen asked. Her husband shrugged.

  “I want to know where that tunnel goes,” I said.

  “She’s been gone more than twenty minutes,” Mr. Olsen announced after glancing at his watch. “Maybe you should tell her to turn around and come back.”

  “Let’s give her another couple of minutes,” I replied. “I’m sure she’s all right and maybe—”

  I didn’t get to finish what I was going to say. George’s voice came in loud and clear.

  “Nancy!”

  “George,” I replied, sighing heavily. I was more relieved than I wanted to admit.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” George said. “Can you hear me clearly now? I’ve reached the end of the tunnel.”

  “And where is the end of the tunnel?” I asked, glancing at Bess with an excited grin.

  “Well, I can’t say for sure,” came George’s reply, “but I think I may be in the storm cellar.”

  11

  Smuggler’s Hideaway

  Still clutching my cell phone in one hand, I darted up the basement steps. Bess was right behind me. Together we dashed through the house, ran out into the yard, and sprinted across the sprawling lawns into the woods to the storm cellar Mr. Olsen had shown us earlier that afternoon. By the time the Olsens caught up with us, we’d already flung open the cellar doors and were peering down at George.

  “See? I was right!” she declared, grinning up at us and waving her flashlight around wildly.

  “Who would have guessed?” I said, grinning back at her.

  “Tell George to be careful,” Mr. Olsen warned. “Those old steps are pretty rickety. I don’t even know if they’ll hold up under her weight.”

  When Bess relayed this information, George said, “There’s no need to use the steps. Someone thoughtfully supplied a brand-new rope ladder.”

  George nimbly climbed up and out. “I must admit, it’s good to see daylight again,” she said lightly. As she brushed the dirt off her jeans, the Olsens peered down into the cellar.

  Shaking his head in amazement, Mr. Olsen said, “Well, now there’s no doubt about how that sneak is getting into our house.”

  Bess removed a cobweb from the back of George’s head while I briefly summarized. “Using this storm cellar as an entrance, he goes through the tunnel to your basement, hops into the dumbwaiter, and makes his way unseen from floor to floor of the house.”

  “But why, Nancy?” Mrs. Olsen asked, wringing her hands. “What is he looking for? If he wanted to rob us, he could have easily taken my computer, our camera, even my mother’s silverware by now.”

  “I’m still working on that part of the puzzle, Mrs. Olsen,” I replied.

  “Oh, Nancy, I’ve got a present for you,” George said, passing her flashlight to Mr. Olsen. “Hold out your hand.”

  When I did, she dropped a bubble gum wrapper into my palm. “Is it the same kind you found out here in the woods?” George asked hopefully.

  I grinned. “It is! This proves that the person who has been watching the house from out here is the same one using the tunnel.”

  “Mr. Olsen, if you’ve got a basic padlock, we can make sure no one will ever use the storm cellar to sneak into your house again,” Bess said.

  “Unless he breaks the lock,” I pointed out. When Bess only shrugged, I added, “But when he sees the lock, he’ll know we’re onto him.”

  We were making our way out of the woods back toward the house when Mr. Olsen said, “I wonder why the tunnel was built in the first place.”

  I was about to venture a guess when George pointed to the house and declared, “We’ve got company.”

  We all stopped and looked where she was pointing. A uniformed police officer was walking cautiously across the sprawling lawn toward us. From time to time, he looked to his left and then to his right. “Is everything all right, Mr. Olsen?” he called out.

  Mr. Olsen waved and walked forward to meet him. “Yes, officer, everything is fine,” he replied. “Nancy Drew and her young friends have just discovered how the intruder has been breaking in to our home.”

  The policeman’s eyebrows shot up.

  “I’m Nancy Drew,” I said, stepping forward to introduce myself. “This is Bess Marvin and George Fayne. Did Chief McGinnis send you?”

  “He did,” the officer admitted. “We know about the break-ins and recent vandalism. The chief suggested I stop in and make a courtesy call.”

  “And check up on that nosy Nancy Drew,” Bess whispered in my ear so the policeman couldn’t hear. I tried not to smile but focused my attention instead on what the policeman was saying to the Olsens.

  “My name’s Madison. I was a bit worried when I knocked and no one came to the door,” he told them. “Your cars are all parked out front, so I decided to look around inside. Even went upstairs. When I didn’t find anybody, I thought I’d better come out here and have a look around. I’m glad everything is all right.”

  “It’s more than all right,” Mrs. Olsen said, smiling.

  “The girls discovered a tunnel!” Mr. Olsen added. “Once we get a padlock on the doors of the storm cellar, the intruder won’t be sneaking into our house anymore.”

  “No more broken teapots,” Mrs. Olsen put in.

  “A tunnel?” Madison asked with a confused look.

  “George, will you show Officer Madison the secret tunnel?” Mr. Olsen asked. “I want to look for that padlock.”

  While George accompanied the policeman back to the storm cellar, Bess and I followed the Olsens into the house.

  “I’m not waiting for Ms. Waters to call me about her conversation with Luther Eldridge,” I said, briefly explaining to the Olsens what I’d asked the librarian to do for me. “I’m going to call him right now and find out what he knows about this old house and that secret tunnel.”

  At that very moment, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Mrs. Olsen said. When she returned to the kitchen, Luther Eldridge was with her.

  “I was just trying to call you,” I said, hanging up the phone.

  “I’m not at home,” Luther said with a shy grin. I laughed and formally introduced him to the Olsens. “As soon as Evaline Waters called and asked me a couple dozen questions about the old Rappapport property, I decided to drive out here,” he added.

  “Do you know anything about our pla
ce?” Mr. Olsen asked.

  Actually, Luther knew quite a bit. He told us that at the turn of the century, the house belonged to a farmer named Leon Rappapport. Rappapport wasn’t much of a farmer, and during the Prohibition years, he gave it up and became a bootlegger.

  “He made and sold illegal booze,” Luther explained.

  “That was back in the twenties, right?” I asked.

  Luther nodded. “Congress passed the Eighteenth Amendment back in 1919. After that, it was against the law to make, sell, or transport intoxicating liquor in the United States. Leon Rappapport did all three,” he said.

  He then told us that when the Feds starting watching the house, Rappapport dug a tunnel underneath his property so he could transport the illegal whiskey down to the river’s edge, where a waiting motorboat picked it up for distribution to his customers.

  “What happened to Mr. Rappapport?” I asked. “The Olsens said this house was empty for years before they bought it.”

  “Rappapport went to prison for manslaughter,” Luther told us.

  “Manslaughter?” Bess declared.

  “Yeah, that hooch he made was pretty awful. Apparently some of his bathtub gin was poisonous. People died,” Luther said. “Anyway, Rappapport was still in prison when Prohibition was repealed in 1933. He died there—from liver trouble. Must have drunk too much of his own bad booze.”

  “They didn’t call it ‘rot gut’ for nothing,” Mr. Olsen put in.

  I shuddered. The very words “bathtub gin” made my stomach lurch.

  “So, did you find the tunnel?” Luther asked eagerly. “Evaline told me what’s been going on out here.”

  Mr. Olsen filled him in on the details of the tunnel’s discovery. When he was done, Mrs. Olsen said, “I wonder how the intruder knew about it. Prohibition was ages ago, and Mr. Rappapport’s been dead a long time too.”

  “There are still a lot of old-timers in River Heights who might remember the tunnel. It was mentioned in the news stories about Rappapport’s arrest,” Luther replied. “Anyone who digs into the local history archives or old newspaper files would know too.”

  “So, what you’re telling me is that there could be plenty of suspects out there,” I said with a sigh.