Clue in the Ancient Disguise

"What made it even worse," Nancy continued, "was that the person I visited tonight had just been telling me how a woman was frightened to death thirty years ago by a red car that almost ran her down."

  The housekeeper shuddered slightly and clucked her tongue. "No wonder you were upset. That's really spooky, even if the whole thing was just a coincidence—and it surely must have been, Nancy, don't you think so?"

  "You're probably right, Hannah. But that wasn't all. Just as I got home and started to go up on the porch, a tough-looking man stepped out of the shrubbery. He tried to scare me off a case I'm investigating for Dad."

  Hannah was shocked and outraged by this news. "Shouldn't we call the police?" she urged.

  "I'm afraid it wouldn't do much good," Nancy replied. "Even if I'd phoned the moment I got in the house, he'd probably have been long gone by the time a scout car got here. I imagine he had a car parked up the street or around the corner."

  "Poor dear, you've really had an awful night of it!" The housekeeper leaned down to give

  Nancy a comforting hug and added, "You be sure and tell your father all this when he gets home, and see what he says."

  "That's exactly what I intend to do."

  "Good! In the meantime, I'm going to make you a nice cup of tea."

  "Oh, would you, Hannah? That'd be lovely!"

  Nancy felt a great deal better, now that she had unburdened herself to the motherly housekeeper. Hannah Gruen's sturdy common sense always helped to put even the eeriest mystery into the proper perspective.

  She was prepared to stay up and keep Nancy company until Mr. Drew returned, but the teenage detective would not hear of it. "No, no! You go to bed, Hannah," she insisted. "Isn't tomorrow your day at the hospital?"

  "Yes, it is. So perhaps I will, Nancy, if you don't mind," Hannah said, stifling a yawn. She had volunteered to work at the River Heights Hospital one day a week.

  After Hannah had gone upstairs, Nancy sat pondering the unpleasant encounter that had taken place when she arrived home. I wonder who that fellow is, she mused.

  The swarthy man had spoken with a French accent. Could he be Pierre's enemy, the one who set the workshop fire and wrote the warning on the wall? . . . But no, that hardly seemed possible. They had seen him outside the restaurant just before Nancy got the call about the fire, so how could he be in two places at once?

  Presently she heard her father's key turning in the lock and went to greet him.

  "Well, this is a pleasant surprise." He smiled wearily and kissed Nancy. "But how come you left your car in the drive, dear? I hope you aren't planning to go out again this late, because I've already put it away."

  "No, that's fine, Dad. Thanks for attending to it. I'm sorry I left you that extra chore," Nancy apologized. "I meant to do it myself but forgot. You see, I had a rather unpleasant experience tonight . . ."

  She broke off suddenly with a rueful grin. "But never mind that now, I'll explain later. First, come on in the kitchen, Dad, and let me make you a sandwich and a cup of tea."

  "Just the tea, thanks, Nancy." Carson Drew patted her fondly on the shoulder. "I had a late working dinner with a client."

  In a few minutes the tea was ready. As they sat sipping it at the kitchen table, Nancy told her father about the day's mysterious developments. Like Hannah, he was greatly concerned about the swarthy stranger who had lurked outside the house in order to question Nancy. Mr. Drew said he would personally report the incident to Police Chief McGinnis next morning.

  "Thanks, Dad. And by the way," Nancy continued, "I have a new clue to follow up in Pierre Michaud's case. The maid I was just telling you about, Emily Owsler, said that Louise Duval's lawyer was Jonas Becker, of Hylig & Becker. Do you know him?"

  "I did, Nancy, but I'm sorry to say both he and Mr. Hylig are dead. The firm is now run by one of their former law clerks, a fellow by the name of Maxwell Fleen."

  Nancy was disappointed. She explained that she had been hoping Jonas Becker could supply the name of the expert Miss Duval had hired long ago to carry out the foreign research she needed. "But maybe Mr. Fleen can help me."

  Carson Drew shook his head dubiously. "Fleen's not a very accommodating fellow. I've always had a feeling that . . . well, that he's not quite on the up and up."

  Nancy frowned uncertainly, knowing how reluctant her father was to cast aspersions on another member of his profession without good reason. "Care to be any more specific, Dad?"

  Mr. Drew shrugged. "Let's just say I get the impression there's something about his character or actions that wouldn't stand too close scrutiny. Anyway, I'm not on a friendly footing with him."

  "Thanks for warning me, Dad. I'll bear that in mind."

  Next morning, on her way to the art museum, Nancy stopped in the offices of Hylig & Becker. The receptionist, a stout, heavily made-up woman, sniffed in disapproval on hearing that Nancy had no appointment.

  "Kindly have a chair. I'll see if Mr. Fleen can spare you a moment."

  The atmosphere did not improve when Nancy was finally ushered into Maxwell Fleen's inner sanctum. He was a narrow-faced, pinched-lipped man, sallow and scowling. After hearing her request, Fleen shook his head curtly. "Absolutely not."

  "But Miss Duval has been dead for thirty years," Nancy pointed out. "Could it do any possible harm now to answer my question?"

  "Miss Drew," Fleen said coldly, "three years, thirty years, it makes no difference. I would never discuss my client's affairs with an outsider."

  Disappointed, Nancy left the fourth-floor suite of offices and went back down to the street, where she had parked. She smiled in surprise as she saw Bess Marvin and Bess's cousin, George Fayne, standing by her car.

  "Well! Small world. What are you two doing here?"

  George, a slim girl with short, dark hair, said, "This is your car, isn't it, Nancy?"

  "Of course. Don't you recognize it?"

  "Just wanted to make sure," George explained. "We caught someone snooping inside it a few minutes ago."

  "We don't know what she was doing," Bess added indignantly, "but she had her head and arms inside the window."

  "Who did?" Nancy asked, startled and mystified.

  "A tall, skinny girl with sort of light brown hair. But don't ask us who she was. She didn't wait around to answer any questions."

  "I think she saw us coming in the rear-view mirror," George went on. "When Bess and I started hurrying toward the car, she ran off."

  "Hm." Nancy considered for a moment. "I guess there's nothing too bad she could do just leaning in the window . . . unless she was trying to steal something out of the glove compartment. Let me check."

  To Nancy's relief, the glove compartment was still locked. "Oh well, no harm done, I guess. Just another mystery to add to my collection. Are you two out shopping, by the way?"

  "We were," Bess said. "George just bought a new pair of shoes. Why?"

  "Care to come to the art museum with me?"

  "Sure, sounds like a fun idea!" George spoke up enthusiastically. Bess agreed.

  Five minutes later, they arrived at the imposing, Greek-pillared museum that was set in a lovely green park. But as they walked into the lobby, an alarm bell suddenly began ringing loudly!

  5. Weird Intruders

  A buzz of excitement filled the museum. Visitors milled about, staring in all directions. Some turned to query the nearest guard or attendant, but the museum employees seemed as startled as everyone else.

  "What's happening, Nancy?" Bess exclaimed.

  "I've no idea," her friend admitted with a helpless shrug.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the alarm bell stopped ringing. As the echoes died away, a calming voice spoke over the public-address system. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the curator speaking. There is no need to leave the building, so please do not be alarmed. What you have just heard was a mistake—repeat, a mistake. The alarm bell went off accidentally.

  We regret any inconvenience this may have caused, and we hope you will go on enjoying yo
ur public art museum as if nothing has happened. Thank you."

  "Whew! That's a relief," said George.

  Nancy smiled and agreed, then asked, "Do you two want to look around while I go talk to the curator?"

  "Okay," Bess said eagerly. "We'll start in the Medieval and Renaissance rooms over there, and work our way around to Modern."

  Nancy went up a broad, marble staircase that arose from the center hall of the museum. On the second floor, she made her way to a suite of offices at the rear of the building.

  The balding, elderly curator, Mr. Gregory, rose from his desk to greet her as his secretary announced the pretty young sleuth.

  "Nancy, how good of you to stop in! It's a pleasure to see you!"

  "I certainly arrived at an exciting moment," Nancy chuckled.

  Mr. Gregory smiled ruefully. "Repairmen are testing and reconnecting the alarm system, which is how it happened to go off. So in a way it's related to your coming here this morning."

  He invited her to have a chair and added, "How much do you know about our break-ins?"

  "Only the bare facts," Nancy replied. "There have been two, haven't there?"

  "Yes, and the curious thing is that nothing was taken on either occasion."

  "That is odd," Nancy mused. "Are you sure they weren't just pranks?"

  "Quite sure. The first time, our night watchman was violently attacked, and the same thing almost happened during the second break-in."

  "Please tell me about them, Mr. Gregory."

  The curator explained that, on the first occasion, the intruders were believed to have hidden in the public rest room just before closing time. This was indicated by cigarette ashes and a chewing-gum wrapper which were found on the tiled floor next morning, even though the rest room had been cleaned by a janitor at the end of the previous day.

  "Later, after the staff had left, the intruders emerged and overpowered the night watchman. They left him tied and gagged."

  "Do you have any idea what they did, or where they went, after tying up the watchman?" Nancy asked.

  "At least part of the time they were in the basement storage area. We know that definitely, because things had been moved around."

  Mr. Gregory said that because of the first break-in, he had alerted guards to search all rest-rooms extra carefully just before closing time.

  Perhaps because of this precaution, the intruders resorted to other means for their second break-in.

  "The alarm system was tampered with. Police Chief McGinnis said it looked like the work of professional burglars."

  "But again nothing was taken?" put in Nancy.

  "Not as far as we could determine. However, soon after midnight, the watchman thought he heard noises in the basement. When he entered the storage area to investigate, a stack of crates toppled over. He could have been badly hurt. As it was, he suffered a bruised and sprained shoulder. We think the accident was contrived, and that the intruders escaped while this was happening."

  As Nancy pondered what Mr. Gregory had just told her, she noticed a large, framed photograph hanging near his desk. It showed several people standing on the front steps of the museum. From their old-fashioned clothing and the slight fading and yellowing of the picture, it appeared to have been taken many years ago.

  A hand-lettered inscription at the bottom of the photograph read: Curator and Members of the Duval Family at the Opening of the River Heights Art Museum, 1893.

  "The Duval family!" Nancy exclaimed in surprise. "Are they connected with this museum in some way?"

  "Oh yes, indeed. They donated a great deal of money to help build it. In fact, they were moving spirits in founding the museum."

  Nancy could not help being struck by the odd coincidence—that just when she was investigating a mysterious letter written by one of the Duvals, unexplained break-ins should occur at a museum endowed by the same family.

  Or was it no more than that, a mere coincidence?

  "Tell me, Mr. Gregory," Nancy asked on a sudden impulse, "do you know anything about a Miss Louise Duval?"

  "Louise Duval?" The curator frowned for a moment, then settled back in his chair with a reminiscent smile. "Yes, as a matter of fact I do. She's dead now, of course, but when I first came to work here, I recall the man who was then chief curator telling me about a tiff he'd had with the old lady."

  Mr. Gregory related that when the River Heights Art Museum had first opened, the Duval family had contributed an oil painting as a starter item for the museum's collection.

  "The painting was authentically old, mind you, but of no great artistic value. It hung in the museum throughout the first half of this century, but was finally banished to a storeroom along with other less important art works that we have no room to display. Unfortunately, Miss Duval became incensed when she heard this."

  "What happened?" Nancy inquired keenly.

  Mr. Gregory shrugged. "She protested very emphatically, but the curator stood firm. He told me that he thought she intended to consult some outside art expert and try to prove that the painting was important enough to keep on display. But she died later that fall, I'm sorry to say, so nothing more was heard on the subject."

  Nancy was intrigued. If Miss Duval had passed away soon afterward, this meant that the incident Mr. Gregory described must have taken place the same year that she wrote her mysterious letter to Pierre's grandfather.

  And perhaps the painting he referred to was the subject of the research that Miss Duval's maid had mentioned!

  "Would it be possible to see that painting, Mr. Gregory?" Nancy asked. "It may be connected with another case I'm working on."

  "Of course. But I'm afraid it may take a while to locate it. I'll have one of my staff check it out and let you know when you can view it."

  Nancy thanked the curator and promised to apply her detective skills to the mystery of the puzzling break-ins.

  When she returned to the main floor of the museum, she found Bess and George talking to a handsome young man in the room where modern works of art were displayed.

  "This is Lee Talbot, Nancy," said George Fayne.

  "He won first prize at the Riverview Art Show!" Bess added enthusiastically.

  "Oh yes, I heard about that." Nancy smiled as he shook her hand. "Congratulations!"

  "Thanks. Too bad you girls weren't there to see the award ceremony."

  The young man was tall, slim, and casually yet trendily dressed in a cable-knit Irish fisherman's sweater and designer jeans. From her breathless manner and the admiring way her eyes dwelt on him, Bess was clearly very much aware of Lee Talbot's wavy-haired good looks. And he, in turn, seemed to enjoy being the center of attention.

  "Was it a painting that won the prize?" Nancy asked him politely.

  "Yes, I called it Feline Still Life!'

  "A memorable composition," said a mocking voice on Nancy's left.

  She and her companions turned and saw a red-haired man in a corduroy jacket, sport shirt, and slacks. Nancy recognized him as Peter Worden, a reporter who wrote on entertainment and art events for the River Heights Record. He had spoken rather sarcastically, and Lee Talbot responded with an angry scowl. "Nobody asked your opinion, Worden!" "I'm not surprised. You know how I feel about overdoing a subject," the reporter said coolly. "Looking around for fresh material, are you?"

  At this remark, Lee Talbot's face flamed with rage. He doubled up his fists and lunged at the reporter!

  6. Copycat

  Nancy held her breath, wondering what would happen next.

  As the artist came toward him, snarling "Why you—I" Peter Worden stood his ground, refusing to flinch or back away. He may or may not have expected Lee Talbot to punch him, but he certainly showed no sign of fear. In fact, he looked so confident and prepared for the attack that perhaps he caused the young artist to think twice about starting a fight.

  Whatever the reason, Talbot's hands slowly unclenched and he seemed to bottle up his anger. Turning to the three girls, he apologized curtly. "So
rry. I certainly don't want to embarrass you by causing an ugly scene, but I don't think I can stand the air pollution around here any longe: 'Bye for now, girls!"

  Jamming his hands in his jeans as if to keep them from turning violent against his will, the artist stalked off toward the museum lobby, still flushed and fuming.

  Nancy and her two friends stared after his retreating figure and then turned, one by one, to look at Peter Worden.

  Bess said, "What on earth was that all about?"

  The newsman grinned sheepishly. "Guess I owe you girls an apology, too, for interrupting your chat. I shouldn't have said what I did to Talbot."

  George, still puzzled, said, "But what made him so angry?"

  Worden shrugged. "It's a long story. I'm a-fraid his prize painting reminded me too much of a picture I'd seen here in the museum. And I made the mistake of hinting as much."

  Bess looked indignant. "Why, that's practically saying that he copied!" She clearly felt protective toward the handsome young artist.

  "Now Bess, . . ." Nancy said soothingly.

  "No, I didn't accuse Talbot of copying," the reporter responded. "But the fact remains, his picture did remind me of another painting. You see, they both portrayed an odd combination of subjects."

  "What did Lee's picture show?" asked George.

  "An Egyptian bust, a gray cat, and a moon in the background. And unless I'm very much mistaken, so did another picture that I once saw right here in the River Heights Art Museum."

  The three girls were somewhat taken aback by Worden's revelation.

  "Golly," George muttered, "the way you describe it, Lee's painting sounds eerie! Finding two like that would be pretty unusual!"

  The newsman nodded. "That's really why I came here today ... to make sure I didn't just dream the whole thing up."

  Nancy turned to her friends. "Did either of you notice such a picture?"

  When both shook their heads, Nancy said to Worden, "Bess and George have just been going through the museum. Maybe you're mistaken."

  The reporter's shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. "Could be. But if I'm wrong, why did he get so upset? You know that old saying, 'where there's smoke, there's fire.' Anyhow, I'm going to stroll on through and look over the collection. I always enjoy the time I spend in here."