The three girls huddled together, afraid to continue. They could see the motionless figure peeping out at them.
Suddenly Nancy burst into laughter.
“A scarecrow!” she exclaimed. “Bess, this makes the second time you’ve given us a scare!”
Bess looked sheepish and made no response.
“Come on!” George said in disgust. “We’re acting like babies!”
The girls approached the shack with a boldness they did not feel. Bess remarked nervously that the place seemed unnaturally quiet.
Summoning her courage, Nancy knocked on the door. There was no response. She knocked again, louder than before.
“I heard someone moving!” George whispered tensely.
Nancy thought she had heard something. A little chill of excitement ran down her spine. Was someone hiding inside?
“Let’s go back!” Bess urged fearfully.
“One more try,” Nancy begged, and knocked again.
When no answer came, Nancy gently turned the knob. The door opened so quickly she almost plunged headlong into the one-room shack. She sprang back, expecting to face an occupant. The room was empty. The few furnishings were broken down and covered with dust.
“Another joke on us!” Nancy said. “I’d have sworn I heard someone moving in here!”
“So would I,” murmured Bess in a relieved tone. “What a creepy place!”
The girls tiptoed around the shack, sidestepping the dirt, and ducking their heads, as they avoided the heavy cobwebs.
“Nobody home!” announced Nancy, gaily shaking off her former apprehensive mood.
“No one has used this shack in months,” George declared.
“We may as well run along,” said Nancy.
Returning to their car, the girls agreed after some debate to take the right-hand fork. A few minutes’ driving took them to the foot of Sunview Mountain.
“I see a town ahead,” Nancy observed. “We’ll stop there and inquire if we’re on the right road.”
When they reached the main section of the village, Nancy managed to attract the attention of a policeman, who left his post and came over to the car.
“The road to the Weston factory?” he repeated. “You should have taken the left fork several miles back.”
The girls exchanged looks of consternation. After their recent experiences the thought of returning over the same route was cheerless indeed.
“There’s another way you can get there,” the policeman told them, “but it will take you a little longer.”
“That’s all right,” Nancy said thankfully.
He then explained in detail how they could reach the factory. Nancy thanked him and drove on.
“We’ll have to hurry,” she remarked to her friends, “or the factory will be closed. Just our luck to take the wrong turn.”
Swift driving partially made up for lost time, but Nancy’s wrist watch warned her that it was nearly four o’clock when they at last reached the factory on the outskirts of Stanford. It took the girls a few minutes to locate the office.
Nancy presented herself to the young woman in charge, stating that she wished to see Mr. Baylor Weston.
“It’s rather late,” the secretary informed Nancy with a superior air. “Mr. Weston doesn’t like to make appointments after three o’clock.”
“We’ve driven here from River Heights,” Nancy explained patiently. “Please give him my name.”
The young woman vanished into an inner office. The girls sat down on a bench to wait. Five minutes passed.
“Looks as if we’re out of luck,” George grumbled. “The man probably suspects what we came for and means to get out of it if he possibly can.”
She lowered her voice, for at that moment the secretary returned.
“Mr. Weston will see you,” she told Nancy. “Step into his office, please.”
If Nancy and the other girls expected to meet a defiant Baylor Weston they were mistaken. His every movement disclosed that he was as intensely nervous as he had been the day of the accident.
Mr. Weston recognized Nancy, and it was not necessary for her to state her mission. Evidently her visit had been anticipated.
He motioned the girls to be seated, and still without speaking, the manufacturer reached for the bills which Nancy held in her hand. He glanced at them and a look of relief came over his face.
“Well, that’s not half bad,” he remarked, relaxing. “I was sure it would be much more.”
Nancy expected Mr. Weston to mention his insurance company’s paying the amount, but instead he opened his desk drawer and took out a checkbook. As he wrote in it, he said:
“I’m decidedly pleased that the total expense is so small. The last time I crashed into a car it cost me real money, to say nothing of the threatened lawsuit.”
“The last time?” Nancy echoed with a smile.
“I’m very nervous—excitable,” the manufacturer reiterated. “Doctor’s right—I shouldn’t drive a car.”
He handed the check to Nancy. “That covers everything?”
“Yes, and thank you. I hope you’ll have no more accidents.”
“So do I,” Baylor Weston returned with a grimace, “but very likely I shall, unless I get a chauffeur. Hm, that’s an idea! I’ll make a note of it!”
He reached for a pad, and to the amusement of the girls, scribbled down the memorandum.
“By the way,” he remarked, “did you hear how much Raybolt lost in the fire?”
“I don’t believe the loss has been estimated,” Nancy replied. “Mrs. Raybolt visited the ruins today. She was quite overcome.”
“The Raybolts always did hate to lose a penny,” the manufacturer grunted.
“It wasn’t that,” Nancy told him. “Mrs. Raybolt declares her husband was in the house at the time of the fire. She believes he was burned to death.”
Baylor Weston shook his head doubtfully. “Can’t make me believe that Felix Raybolt was caught in that fire. He’s too foxy for that! If he has disappeared, you may wager it was for a purpose.”
“Mrs. Raybolt’s grief seemed to be genuine,” Nancy commented.
“No doubt. Raybolt wasn’t the fellow to confide in his wife about anything. He kept his own council.”
“You knew him well.”
“At one time. We broke off business relations years ago. Raybolt was too tricky—mean and unfair in all his dealings. He’d steal ideas without a qualm.”
“So I’ve heard,” Nancy returned dryly. “By the way,” she asked, “do you have a man by the name of Joe Swenson working for you?”
Mr. Weston thought for a moment, then said, “The name is not familiar to me, but I’ll inquire of our personnel office.” He called the manager. After a few moments’ pause, the answer came back—no.
Nancy was disappointed. She thanked Mr. Weston and the three girls arose. They left the factory and walked to the car.
“Let’s take the longer route back to River Heights rather than the Sunview Mountain road,” Bess pleaded, and Nancy consented.
As she reached the Weston plant’s main gate at the highway, the girls saw that traffic had become heavy.
“Everyone must be coming to town for the carnival,” George observed. “I saw the posters advertising it when we drove through Stanford. There’s to be some sort of parade, too.”
The steady stream of vehicles held the convertible at the entrance of the factory grounds. While the girls were impatiently waiting for a break in the line, the plant whistle blew.
“Now there will be a jam!” Nancy exclaimed.
A moment later she finally managed to turn into the highway, but the cars in front of her moved slowly. Again Nancy was forced to halt.
The blowing of the whistle had released hundreds of workmen. They came pouring from the plant. While she waited for the car ahead to move, Nancy watched the men with interest.
Suddenly a vaguely familiar figure caught her eye. At first Nancy thought she must be mistaken, but
as the man turned his face toward her, she knew her first impression had been correct.
“Look!” Nancy cried excitedly. “There’s the man I saw running away from the fire! He’s Joe Swenson!”
CHAPTER XI
Lost in the Crowd
“JOE SWENSON!” Bess and George exclaimed simultaneously. “Where?”
“He’s crossing the highway!” Nancy pointed. “The man with the blue shirt. Don’t take your eyes off him for a second! We must keep him in sight!”
The cars ahead had started to move again and Nancy turned her attention to driving, while Bess and George watched Joe Swenson. They kept close behind him for nearly a block, then George called out that he had turned a corner.
Nancy stopped for a red traffic light, and when she finally turned into the side street, the man was a considerable distance ahead.
“He’s walking fast,” Bess observed. “We’ll lose him if we aren’t careful.”
The street was crooked and narrow. Children were playing ball and Nancy was forced to drive with extra caution.
Joe Swenson turned into another street, narrower than the first and rather dingy. Nancy rapidly drew nearer to him, only to lose him again as he cut through an alley.
“Does he know we’re following him?” Bess wondered.
“I don’t think so,” Nancy answered. “We’ll catch him at the next street. I can see where the alley ends.”
Rubbish, tin cans, and boxes littered the alley, and she did not care to risk a punctured tire. Turning the car, she retraced her route, rounded the block, and reached the opposite end of the alley in time to see Joe Swenson heading toward one of the main streets of Stanford.
“We have him now,” Nancy said confidently.
Scarcely had she spoken when the girls noticed that the block directly ahead had been roped off. The sidewalks were lined with pedestrians, and policemen were turning automobiles into side streets.
“What’s this?” Nancy asked impatiently.
“It must be the parade,” George declared. “And there goes Joe Swenson, heading that way!”
“We’ll lose him sure!” Nancy groaned.
True to her prediction, the man melted into the crowd. A policeman motioned for Nancy to turn to the right and she had no choice but to comply. At the first opportunity she parked the car and the girls ran back.
In vain they searched through the throngs of people watching the parade. Joe Swenson had disappeared.
“If that isn’t a mean break!” Bess fretted.
“I admit it’s hopeless,” Nancy said slowly. “The best thing to do is come back tomorrow and try to find him.”
The girls returned to the car. As they headed for River Heights, George said, “If Joe Swenson works at the Weston plant, why wasn’t his name on the personnel records?”
“Maybe we were mistaken, after all,” Bess said.
Nancy did not reply for nearly a minute, then she declared, “Girls, I have a hunch.”
“About what?” George asked.
“That Joe Swenson works at the factory, all right.”
“But they said nobody by that name was there,” Bess objected.
Nancy smiled. “For reasons of his own, he could be using another name.”
“Like what?” George spoke up.
“Dahl,” Nancy answered.
“His mother’s maiden name!” Bess declared. “Oh, Nancy, you’re a genius!”
“Better not praise me until I’ve proved my hunch right,” Nancy cautioned.
“Will you phone Mr. Weston and ask him?”
“No, Bess. I want to talk to Joe Swenson without his suspecting anything. If he’s using an assumed name, it may be because he’s hiding something. Suppose he finds out someone has been inquiring for him? He may run away.”
“You’re right,” George agreed.
Reluctantly the girls rode back to River Heights. “See you tomorrow,” Nancy told Bess and George as she stopped at their homes. Upon reaching the Drew house, she found Hannah Gruen awaiting her with a message.
“Ned Nickerson has phoned you five times, Nancy,” Hannah said with a smile. “It seems that he wants to invite you to a dinner dance. One of his fraternity brothers is giving it—on the spur of the moment—tonight. Ned would like you to call. I have the number.”
Nancy’s heart was already pounding with excitement as she dialed. Of course she would accept!
“Great!” said Ned. “I was about to give up hope. Can you be ready in an hour?”
“I’ll do my best,” Nancy, replied.
Singing a gay tune, Nancy quickly disrobed, jumped under a shower, and was dressed in three-quarters of an hour.
“You look lovely, Nancy,” Mrs. Gruen complimented her.
“Oh, thank you.” Nancy surveyed herself in a long mirror. The pale-green chiffon dress was very becoming, and the gold evening shoes she wore set it off to advantage.
Still humming gaily, Nancy went downstairs holding her white wrap. Ned arrived in a few minutes and they drove off in his car. At first conversation was in a light vein, then Ned asked if Nancy had located the Raybolt arsonist yet.
“No. How about you?”
Ned replied, “All I know is what I read in the papers—first, that Mrs. Raybolt remains in a state bordering on collapse. She’s firmly convinced her husband lost his life in the fire.”
“The police and fire investigators don’t think so,” Nancy remarked.
“I do have one interesting piece of news. The police are busy working on a new angle. A clue, which they’re withholding from the public, is expected to bring about the arrest of the criminal within a day or two.”
“Is it possible that the police suspect Joe Swenson?” Nancy asked herself aloud. “If they arrest him, it will ruin all my plans for trying to help his family!”
“You’re being very mysterious,” Ned complained good-naturedly. “Why would the police suspect Mr. Swenson? How about letting me in on the secret?”
Nancy laughed. “Maybe you shouldn’t beg too hard, Ned. You may find yourself being called upon to do all kinds of outlandish sleuthing jobs.”
“I’m at your service,” Ned replied quickly.
Little by little, Nancy told him the details. When she had finished, Ned said, “You’ve certainly done some terrific detective work! Well, good luck tomorrow. Wish I could be with you, but I’m slated to go on an all-day trip with my dad.”
Nancy and Ned reached the home of his fraternity brother. Sounds of popular songs being sung in harmony by the guests drifted out. Laughingly, the couple hastened their steps.
All the boys and girls were strangers to Nancy, but she liked them at once. She found them intelligent and full of fun, and they quickly made her feel as if she had always been part of the group.
At the long dinner table the boy on her right, Phil Roberts, proved to be very entertaining. He told several amusing and true stories about strange letters which had come to the attention of the post office.
“Where did you hear about these letters?” Nancy asked him, after the laughter had subsided.
“Oh, my father’s the Stanford postmaster,” Phil explained. “He told me.”
Immediately Nancy wondered if Phil could have heard anything to shed light on the reason why Mrs. Swenson was not receiving mail from her husband. It took Nancy nearly five minutes to formulate a diplomatic question.
Finally she said, “If someone’s mail isn’t being delivered, what could be the reason?”
Phil smiled. “Two that I can think of. First, no one is writing to the person, and second, his mail is being stolen.” Suddenly he looked intently at Nancy. “What made you ask me that question?”
“Because I know someone who should be getting mail but isn’t. If there were money or checks in the letters, a thief might steal them.”
“A certain kind of thief would. Say, Nancy, I’m going to tell you something—it’s kind of confidential—but I think it might help your friend.”
&nb
sp; Nancy listened intently for the secret she was about to hear.
CHAPTER XII
Incriminating Evidence
“FOR several weeks,” Phil began, “my father and a good many other postmasters have been receiving reports like the one you’ve just told me, Nancy. The police and the Postal Inspectors Division have been investigating but haven’t caught anyone yet.”
“Hm,” said Nancy. “Then my friend could easily be one of the victims.”
Just then a record of dance music began to play and Ned claimed Nancy. For the remainder of the evening there was no chance to resume the conversation about stolen letters. But throughout the evening, the matter was constantly on her mind. By the time the party was over and she had said good night to Ned, the young sleuth had a theory about the thefts. To start solving this mystery, she must first talk to Joe Swenson.
By ten the following morning Nancy was on her way, with Bess and George in the front seat of the car with her. In her purse was the diary. The cousins were intrigued when Nancy told them about the dinner dance.
“Lucky you!” said Bess, pretending to pout. “Couldn’t Ned have found a couple of blind dates for George and me?”
Nancy laughed, then turning serious, said, “If we find Joe Swenson, I’m going to ask him point-blank if he has mailed any letters containing money to his wife.”
She did not explain her reason for this, not wishing to betray Phil’s confidence about the money, money orders, and checks being stolen from mail.
“Suppose he says yes,” George suggested.
“Then I’ll ask him where he mails his letters and try a little detective work to see what happens.”
The first shift of noonday lunchers was trickling from Mr. Weston’s factory as Nancy parked nearby. Soon the recreation area was filled with men. Some seated themselves on the ground to eat. Others began to play ball.
“It won’t be easy to find Joe Swenson in such a large group,” Nancy declared in disappointment. “If we had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, we could have spotted him as he came out of the building.”
Nevertheless, the girls eagerly scanned the faces of the workmen. A number of them had gathered near a drinking fountain, but Joe Swenson was not among this group. Not discouraged, the girls began to walk about, inquiring for a man named Dahl. The men they questioned had never heard of him.