“Wait, George. Don’t hang up,” Nancy said anxiously. “Please call my father. He’ll know what to do.” She put down the receiver, hoping Mr. Drew, though thousands of miles away, would somehow come to her rescue.
George immediately asked the hotel operator to place a call to the attorney’s office. She was told it could take a couple of hours to go through.
George hung up and said to Bess, “Nancy can’t wait that long. I’m going downstairs to the kiosk, the magazine stand, on the corner. There’s a public telephone inside.”
“Shall I go with you?” Bess asked, lifting her head off the pillow.
“You stay put. George drew the half-closed drapes fully shut, then left.
Bess snuggled under the blanket and curled herself into a comfortable knot. Sleep overtook her quickly and it was not until something shuffled in front of her bed that she awakened. Groggily, she turned her head toward the door, glimpsing the back of a man as he shut the door quietly. Bess gasped. It was only the ring of the telephone that kept her from running after him.
“Hello,” she said shakily.
“Where’s George?” Nancy asked before Bess could tell her about the intruder. “It’s been almost an hour since I talked to her.”
Suddenly Bess’s eyes shifted to the table where the basket of apples had been. It was gone!
“Oh, Nancy!” she cried out. “Something awful happened!”
“To George?”
“No, no. Someone broke into our room—”
“What!”
“A man. He took the apples. I didn’t get much of a look at him, but I’m not staying here another minute. I’m coming right to the museum.”
Bess said good-bye, splashed cold water on her face, then dressed and grabbed her purse.
At the museum, Nancy sank into a chair in the curator’s office. She thought anxiously about George, the strange intrusion at the hotel, and how she could free herself from the detective who glowered at her. Then, to her great relief, she heard a familiar voice in the corridor.
“George!” she cried, racing to the door.
The girl’s short dark hair was tousled from running and she was out of breath.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” George panted. “The hotel phones were tied up and the one at the kiosk was out of order. So I went to the American Embassy. I spoke to one of the attaches who—”
“And who are you?” the curator interrupted George.
“George Fayne. I’m Nancy’s friend and—”
Just then Bess walked into the room. “Oh, George, I’m glad you’re here,” she said, then quickly introduced herself to the curator.
“Nancy is working on a case. You have to let her go!” Bess added.
“Oh, really?” the officer snapped.
“I can prove that Nancy is a detective!” she declared.
“You’re making it worse,” George murmured, causing Bess to stop talking.
The general silence lasted only a few seconds. Then the curator’s secretary summoned him out of the room. The detective joined them, leaving the guard to watch the girls.
“What’s going on?” Bess asked.
Nancy and George shrugged. “Maybe the wheels of justice have started to turn,” her cousin said.
The prediction proved correct. Nancy was released shortly, but not without a warning.
“You may be helpful to American police,” the detective said, “but you are not to us. So stay out of our case.”
Despite the stinging remark, Nancy smiled politely and said good-bye. Leaving the mask behind them, Bess and George followed her out of the museum.
“You’re not going to give up working on the mystery, are you?” Bess asked.
“You heard what the man said,” Nancy replied, but the mischievous gleam in her eyes told the others she had no intention of quitting.
Again Bess mentioned the intruder, which troubled her listeners.
“That guy may have been in our room before we returned,” George said, “and slipped out onto the terrace when he heard us coming. I thought it was odd the drapes were half-closed but figured the maid had drawn them.”
“What’s even stranger,” Bess added, “is that he took the basket of apples he probably sent us in the first place.”
“That’s only an assumption. Maybe the apples were intended for somebody else,” Nancy pointed out.
“More likely,” George put in, “the poisonous snake was. After all, who, other than our friends, knew were were coming to Greece?”
Their next stop, the girls agreed, would be the Photini Agency. It was located on the upper floor of a bank building in the heart of the city. Staff members darted from files to desks, creating an air of busyness in contrast to the vacant office in New York.
“This place sure isn’t going out of business,” Nancy commented, then asked to see the manager.
He was a short, friendly man with dark eyes. “I am Mr. Diakos,” he said, greeting them warmly.
Nancy introduced herself and the others, adding that they had recently visited the agency in New York.
“Ah, then you know about our poor pitiful village families,” Mr. Diakos said. “They need constant help.”
Apparently, Nancy thought, he thinks we’re interested in sponsoring somebody.
“Here, look at her,” the man went on, pulling open a desk drawer and producing a photograph of a small, sad-faced child. “Such a pretty girl, but you see? No smile.”
“I—” Nancy tried to interrupt.
“And look at this one.” Mr. Diakos showed her another picture. “He is her brother. They live in Athikia.” Next he removed a manila folder from a second drawer. “All these children come from Angelo Kastro, another town on the Peloponnesos. Their families are very poor and—”
“Mr. Diakos, I’m afraid we are only interested in one specific family at the moment,” Nancy cut in at last.
“Oh, yes?” the manager fluttered his eyelids.
“Papadapoulos is the name. They live in Agionori. ”
Without waiting to hear more, Mr. Diakos asked a secretary to check their file. No one by that name was listed. Puzzled, Nancy revealed Mrs. Thompson’s story about the missing payments and Dimitri Georgiou’s disappearance.
“Have you seen or heard from him recently?” George asked.
“No, I haven’t, but that did not seem strange to me. I’m new to this position and it’s taken me a while to adjust.”
“Did this office send Mr. Georgiou lists of names for sponsorship on a regular basis?” Bess spoke up.
“Yes, but only a few were picked by Americans.”
“What happened to the rest?”
“They still need support.”
“Is it possible,” Nancy suggested, “that Mr. Georgiou signed up sponsors without reporting them to you?”
“Of course, but why—how could he do such a thing? It’s terrible to steal from the poor!” The idea stirred Mr. Diakos into a rage. “Dimitri Georgiou will pay for this!” he blazed angrily.
“But we’re not sure he took the money,” Bess said, trying to calm the man.
“Well, someone did!” he declared.
Before leaving, Mr. Diakos took the girls’ hotel address and phone number. “If I hear anything about Dimitri’s whereabouts, I will let you know.”
“Another dead end,” Bess said in disappointment. “Now what?”
“Let’s go to the Nikos Shipping Company,” Nancy suggested. “But first we should visit Dad’s friend, Mr. Mousiadis. He might be able to lend us a car.” She pulled the man’s business card out of her pocket. “It’s not far from the Hotel Skyros. ”
When they reached his office, they were met by an efficient young assistant who introduced them to Mr. Mousiadis. He was a tall, sturdy man with a pleasant face. He ushered the girls to comfortable chairs. Before Nancy needed to ask, he offered her the use of his car.
“That is very generous of you,” she said. “Thank you, I—”
&n
bsp; He lifted his hand as if to stop her from saying more. “You father told me why you are here and I am happy to help you. Unfortunately, I must leave for Italy tomorrow, so I won’t be able to show you around. Even so, maybe my four wheels can!” He smiled broady. “But I have a suggestion for you.”
“What is it?” Bess asked.
“If you have time, please buy a máti, an amulet to protect yourselves. Ná mín avaskathí. May no evil come to you.” He handed Nancy a set of car keys, saying he would be back in a week.
The streets of Athens were congested with private cars and taxis which honked and weaved in front of one another, sometimes dangerously close. Nancy gripped the steering wheel tightly as she drove to the outskirts of the city. There the narrow roads opened onto a highway. She followed it to Piraeus, the busiest port in Greece.
“There it is!” George exclaimed, spying a gray building with the name NIKOS across the top.
Inside, Nancy asked for Helen’s cousin, Constantine. She was not surprised to learn he no longer worked there.
“Do you know where he is?” Nancy asked, looking at the man squarely.
“No. Constantine is a wild boy with wild friends. He spent all the money his parents left him, then—poof!—like smoke—he disappeared!”
“What about the lawyer, Mr. Vatis?” Nancy probed.
“Out of business.”
George muttered, “I have a feeling we River Heights detectives are out of business, too!”
“Not yet, I hope,” Nancy said. She asked the man for permission to board one of the Nikos freighters. He gave her three passes and, to her bewilderment, a snapshot of a handsome young man.
“Constantine,” he said with a nod. “You may keep it. ”
“He looks like Helen, don’t you think?” Bess commented, observing the soft brown eyes and wavy hair.
“A little,” Nancy agreed. She stowed the picture in her purse and noted the man’s directions to a freighter berthed near the shipyard.
“Someone will let you on board,” he said. “I hope you enjoy your visit and your vacation in our country.” The girls thanked him and left.
“What do you figure we’ll find?” George asked.
“Some cute sailors,” Bess answered, dimpling.
“Or a few Greek rats!” George quipped.
Her cousin shivered as she eyed the large gray tanker in front of them.
“Well, let’s go aboard,” Nancy urged, and the girls walked up the gangplank.
They gave their passes to a crewman who spoke to them in Greek.
“Here we go again,” George sighed. “Does anyone speak English here?” she asked him.
The man stared at her. He shrugged and walked away, leaving the visitors to explore the ship alone. They stepped below deck. Suddenly the freighter began to move.
“Where are they taking us?” Bess cried.
5
In the Ditch
The young detectives raced upstairs. Already the freighter had slipped a few feet out of its tight berth.
“Stop!” Nancy shouted to a crewman while George and Bess waved their arms frantically toward the dock.
“Let us off!” they exclaimed.
The crewman jabbered back in Greek, then yelled to another man who bolted through an iron door.
“What’ll we do if the boat keeps going?” Bess said anxiously.
“Jump overboard and swim back,” George teased.
“Won’t be necessary,” Nancy said. “We’re going back!”
“Phew!” Bess exclaimed. “That was a close call. We could’ve been kidnapped—”
“And left to die on some sinking island!” her cousin said as the girls stepped onto the dock.
“Tomorrow we’ll do something a little less eventful, okay?” Nancy said, and suggested a visit to Maria Papadapoulos’s home.
“Does her family know we’re coming?” George asked on the way there.
“Not unless Mrs. Thompson wrote to Mrs. Papadapoulos. Anyway, she gave me a letter of introduction to bring along.”
The car rolled on smoothly for several miles, passing groves of olive trees along a highway that curved along the Canal of Corinth. When they reached the hillside village, Nancy shifted to low gear on a steep incline. For a moment she dropped her gaze, unaware that a small pickup truck was speeding down the narrow curve toward them.
“Oh, no!” George cried in alarm.
The truck was gaining speed. In a few moments the two vehicles would collide! There were no side roads or driveways to escape into, only a deep, muddy ditch!
“Hang on!” Nancy told the others, steering sharply to the right out of the truck’s path.
The car bucked into the ditch like a bronco. Its rear wheels kicked high as the front ones spun forward in the dry mud, spewing it in all directions, before the vehicle finally came to a complete halt.
Nancy let go of the wheel and sank back against the seat. “That was a close one!” she exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
“Uh—okay,” Bess said weakly.
George grinned. “I feel like a cowgirl, and glad this animal has stopped! How about you, Nancy?”
“I’m okay.” Actually, her hands and arms ached from clenching the wheel so tightly. She took a deep breath and said, “Let’s try to push the car out. ”
“We’ll never be able to budge it,” Bess predicted.
“Where’s the old positive thinking?” George said brightly, and anchored herself behind the right rear bumper. “Ready?” She glanced at Nancy, who stood in a similar position on the left side.
“Ready!”
Bess lined herself between them. “One, two, three, push!” she said. But the car did not move. “Is the brake off?”
“Yes,” Nancy puffed. “Let’s try again. Two, three, push!”
This time the car slipped ahead, but not far.
“It’s useless!” Bess declared, collapsing on the trunk.
George rested against it, too, while Nancy walked to the front. The wheels were choked with mud.
“What we need is a crane,” she sighed.
In the distance, a stout woman in an old cotton dress emerged from a small farmhouse. With her were several children who hung close to her as she hurried toward the girls. She chattered at them in Greek, and looked piteously at the car.
“Parakaló, just a minute, please,” Nancy said, reading the small Greek-English dictionary she took from her purse. Quickly she flipped through it, picking out voíthia, autokínito, and mihanikó, which meant “help,” “car,” and “mechanic.”
The woman nodded with understanding and patted one of the children, saying, “Zoe! Grígora! Grígora!”
“That must mean ‘Hurry,’ ” Bess whispered to Nancy.
“Fére tón Babá!” the woman continued.
Shortly, the little girl returned with her father, a man not much taller than his wife but as muscular as she was plump. He circled the car quickly, then got inside and started it, pressing the gas pedal to the floor. The others stood back as mud churned under the racing wheels. Suddenly, the car lurched forward.
“Efharistó, efharistó, thank you,” Nancy said when the car stood on the road once again.
The couple smiled happily as the girls gave each child a shiny American coin. They grinned and waved good-bye to the travelers who set off for the Papadapoulos home, a small stone house down the road.
“Welcome,” Mrs. Papadapoulos greeted them. She was a slender, dark-haired woman with a pale face. A little girl with huge dark eyes clung to her skirt.
Nancy handed her Jeannette Thompson’s letter of introduction.
“Cannot read,” the woman said. “Maria, you—” Her daughter, who was nine or ten years old, spoke. “Mama knows only a few English words.”
“But you speak very well,” George remarked.
“That’s because I went to school in Athens.”
Maria glanced at the letter and seeing Mrs. Thompson’s name at the end of it, she grinned.
“She is a nice lady. She helped us a lot, but she stopped. ”
As she talked, her listeners looked past her at the rugs and afghans handwoven with red and brown wool. They were a striking contrast against the pure white cotton cloths trimmed in needlepoint that hung over the tables and chairs.
“Mrs. Thompson never stopped helping you,” Nancy assured her. “Somebody stole the money!”
Maria gasped and sputtered in Greek to her mother, who looked equally shocked. Her eyes brimmed with tears which subsided only when George asked to see some of her handiwork. Quickly Maria brought a cloth bag. Her mother opened it and pulled out a beautifully embroidered shawl.
“How lovely!” Bess murmured. “Is it for sale, Maria?”
The little girl repeated the question in Greek. Mrs. Papadapoulos shook her head. “A gift,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“That is very kind of you,” Bess said sweetly, “but I can’t take it unless I pay for the shawl. It’s not for me. I want to give it to someone else.”
When Maria explained to her mother, she reluctantly accepted a small sum of money. Then, digging back into the bag, she produced a pretty white handkerchief with an unusual lace edging. She handed it to Bess. “For you,” she said. Pulling out two more, she gave them to Nancy and George.
“Efharistó,” the girls answered gratefully.
“I suppose,” Maria said, “Mrs. Thompson will not want to—”
“When she got your mother’s letter, she was very upset,” Nancy interrupted.
“I wrote it for my mother—”
“Well, she realizes how much you all have depended on her. ”
Before the girl could continue, the door swung open and two small children, younger than Maria, ran in.
“Éla, éla. Michali! Anna!” their mother exclaimed. “Come here, we have guests.”
She sent them to fetch glasses of fresh goat’s milk for the visitors. Bess swallowed hers quickly.
“It’s delicious,” she said. “You ought to make goat’s milk candy.”
“Think so?” Maria giggled. “How much milk would it take? We only have three goats!”
“In that case,” Bess said, excusing herself, “I’ll be right back.” She returned with a large picnic basket filled with delectable food from Athens.