The Clue in the Old Album

  “This’ll open it,” she said.

  Quickly Nancy unlocked Mrs. Struthers’ door. The woman was locked in a closet, but the same key fitted that door, too, and she was soon released. Clad in a blue robe, her hair untidy, she stumbled out. Nancy helped her to the bed.

  “Have they gone?” Mrs. Struthers asked wildly.

  “The burglars? Yes. Perhaps you’d better not talk now,” Nancy suggested, seeing how white and nervous the woman was.

  “I’m—I’m all right, but what a fright!” Mrs. Struthers said. “Did they—take much?”

  Rose spoke up. “A lot of the dolls. Oh, Granny, why did the thieves lock you up?”

  “So I couldn’t call the police, I guess.”

  “Where is Mrs. Carroll?” Nancy asked.

  “Everyone has gone away. I see it all now. It was a trick. First, someone called to say Mrs. Carroll was wanted at the home of a sick relative.

  Her husband drove her there. And the burglars must have been aware that Rose was not here.”

  “Did you see the robbers, Mrs. Struthers?” Nancy asked.

  “Only one, but from their voices I know there were two men.”

  “Please tell me exactly what happened.”

  “I was in my room taking a nap when I heard footsteps in the hall. At first I thought Mrs. Carroll had come back. Then I got up to make certain. Before I knew what was happening, a man wearing a mask entered and locked me in the closet. It was dreadful!”

  “How long were you in the closet, Granny?” Rose asked, still frightened.

  “Easily a half hour. I’d have smothered if it hadn’t been for the opening over the door.”

  “Then the burglars haven’t been gone long,” Nancy surmised. “Let’s see what’s been stolen,” she suggested.

  Mrs. Struthers took a hasty inventory as they went from room to room. Silverware and jewelry had been taken. What upset her most, however, was the discovery that all the gems had been removed from the cover of the treasured family album.

  When Mrs. Struthers saw the doll cabinet, she cried out in distress. After a quick count, the collector estimated that at least twenty of her most valuable dolls were gone.

  “My mommy’s doll is missing!” Rose cried angrily. “The one she played with when she was a little girl.”

  “Yes. They took that, too,” her grandmother said, gazing sadly at the shelf where the doll had stood. “Now why would they steal that one? It had no resale value.”

  Mrs. Struther’s last remark set Nancy thinking. She suspected that the burglars were Anton and another gypsy—perhaps the purse snatcher Tony Wassell. Though they obviously had taken jewels, silverware, and rare dolls to sell, it seemed odd that they had also selected the doll belonging to Rose’s mother.

  A key turned in the front door. For a moment the three were fearful of more trouble, but the newcomers proved to be the housekeeper and her husband. They were amazed to hear about the robbery, but declared it explained the reason for the fake telephone call.

  At Nancy’s insistence, Mrs. Struthers got in touch with the police and reported her loss. A few minutes later two detectives arrived.

  Nancy felt she could do nothing more for Mrs. Struthers and returned to her own home. As she entered the front hall, she noticed the afternoon mail on the table. One letter was addressed to her. It was from Radio Station KIO, Winchester. She ripped it open eagerly.

  “This must be an answer about the gypsy violinist,” Nancy thought.

  The program director of the small Winchester station had written that a violinist would broadcast the following evening at eight o’clock.

  “The man may be a gypsy,” he wrote. “In fact, we suspect that he is, though he uses the name Albert Martin. If you are interested in obtaining additional information, we suggest that you write to him at our station.”

  “I’ll go there!” Nancy decided. “Dad will take me. This is what I call a lucky break.”

  Unfortunately Mr. Drew had to go out of town and could not attend the broadcast, but Ned told her he had the day off from camp and he would go.

  Scarcely half an hour later Mrs. Barlow telephoned to say she had been down to Mr. Hobnail’s shop. She had seen a doll that might have some significance for Nancy.

  “It’s really a mannequin, but it’s only twenty-six inches high,” Mrs. Barlow said. “Mr. Hobnail told me it’s one of a collection that’s carried from place to place. I thought possibly it might belong to some gypsy.”

  Nancy thanked the woman and said she would look at the mannequin. Then she asked if the red-haired gypsy had called at the house again.

  “No,” Mrs. Barlow said. “I haven’t heard from her.”

  She also told Nancy that Mr. Hobnail was to be in his shop late that evening, so Nancy asked Ned to stop there with her on the way to Winchester. When they reached the toy shop and Nancy told Mr. Hobnail what she had come to see, he led the way to the rear of the shop.

  “There’s the mannequin.”

  He pointed to a doll about two feet high, dressed as a bridesmaid. She wore a pale blue gown with a bouffant tulle skirt, and a large picture hat. Though intrigued by the doll, Nancy felt sure she was too typically American to belong to gypsies.

  “She looks almost real,” Nancy said. “Where did you get her, Mr. Hobnail?”

  “A young man brought her in to have one of the arms repaired. He said there’s a whole set of these dolls dressed like a wedding party—the bride, the groom and the whole works!

  “He’s a salesman for some dress manufacturer, I believe,” Mr. Hobnail went on. “Goes around exhibiting his lady dolls. They’re to be shown at Taylor’s Department Store in River Heights in a couple of days if you want to see them.”

  “I must go,” Nancy said.

  Secretly she was disappointed that the mannequin had no connection with her own quest. Ned reminded her that time was slipping away, so they left at once.

  “We’ll have to step on it to get to Winchester by eight,” Ned said, looking at the car clock.

  “It’ll be my own fault if we don’t get to the broadcast in time,” Nancy remarked, “but I hope we can make it.”

  Ned drove as fast as the law allowed. It was just eight o’clock when the young people reached the KIO building.

  Nancy was afraid they would not be permitted to watch the broadcast, as the program was already on the air. But a young woman at a desk directed them to a small room with a large window through which they could look down into the studio where Mr. Martin, the violinist, was playing. To Nancy’s surprise, she and Ned were his only audience.

  “That violinist does look like a gypsy,” Nancy thought, as they seated themselves. “But he’s not Romano.”

  She decided to speak to him later, nevertheless, and ask him if he knew Rose’s father. As she listened attentively to an exquisite number from “The Gypsy Airs,” the girl thought to herself, “I hope Hannah is listening at home. It would be a shame for her to miss this beautiful music.”

  Back in River Heights, Mrs. Gruen was indeed listening. For ten minutes she had sat near the radio, growing more entranced each moment.

  “That man is too great an artist not to be playing over a nationwide hookup,” she said, half aloud. “I’m amazed he—Oh!”

  The violinist had struck a sharp discord. On a high, squeaking note, the playing suddenly ceased. Angrily a voice cried out, “Murko will play no more! I will not have spies watching me! You play tricks!”

  Abruptly the program was cut off the air!

  CHAPTER XIII

  A Strange Present

  AT THE broadcasting studio, Nancy and Ned were even more startled than Hannah Gruen. In the midst of a beautiful passage, the gaze of the musician suddenly focused upon them. His eyes blazed. He struck a discord and stopped playing.

  The musician pointed his bow at Nancy and cried out, “Murko will play no more! I will not have spies watching me! You play tricks....”

  Murko the gypsy violinist! In his excitem
ent “Mr. Martin” had blurted out his real name!

  At this moment the program was cut off in the control room. Murko stumbled from the studio. Nancy, too, rushed outside and down a stairway, followed by Ned. On the floor below, the musician was gesticulating wildly with his bow at the studio director, who had come to find out what had happened.

  “You break promise to me!” Murko shouted at the man. “When I sign to play here, you promise no one ever see me! Only hear me! And now, two people in studio. Spies! They follow me now!”

  The violinist pointed accusingly at Nancy and Ned in the hallway.

  “Take it easy, Mr. Martin,” the director said. “I did not know anyone was watching you. But these people meant no harm, I’m sure.”

  “They come to make trouble!” the musician exclaimed.

  “We’re not here to harm you,” Nancy said. “We just wanted to see you play. One misses so much not watching a great artist like you!”

  At these words of praise, Murko calmed down somewhat. Nevertheless, he moved along the hallway, a furtive look in his black eyes.

  “Let us drive you to your home, Mr. Martin,” Nancy suggested, purposely using his radio name.

  “No!” shrieked the man, apparently frightened anew.

  “I believe we can help you,” Nancy said kindly.

  “What can you do for me?” he demanded suspiciously. “There is no help for poor Murko. None.”

  “Why do you say that?” Nancy asked. As he did not answer, she said, “Is it because you work so hard and are forced to give all your money to Anton and Nitaka?” Murko remained silent. “You are discouraged because all your earnings must go to the Cause?”

  Murko’s head dropped. “Yes,” he muttered bitterly. “Yes, it is so.”

  “Why don’t you refuse to contribute? Surely you realize there’s nothing in it for you—any more than for Marquita or Romano Pepito?”

  Murko raised his head and looked straight into Nancy’s eyes. “No, there is not. Poor Romano,” he murmured. “A man broken in spirit.”

  Nancy’s heart started to pound. Was she on the verge of learning about Rose’s father?

  “Where is Romano now?” she asked.

  “Wherever his tribe is—unless they have moved him as they did me.”

  “What do you mean?” Nancy asked, puzzled.

  Murko did not reply. A look of panic suddenly came over his face. As if frightened at having told the visitors too much, he bolted for an elevator, which had stopped at that floor. He dashed in and the door slammed shut.

  By the time Nancy and Ned had descended to the main floor in another elevator, Murko was nowhere to be seen. No one could tell them which direction he had taken.

  “Guess he gave us the slip,” Ned said, disgusted, “If I’d only been quicker.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Ned,” Nancy consoled him, and added, “At least I’ve found out why the gypsies at that camp wouldn’t let anyone see Murko. To the outside world, he is ‘Mr Martin.’ ”

  The young people thought perhaps he had fled to his tribesmen so they inquired at the local police station if there were any gypsies in the vicinity. They were told of a camp approximately ten miles distant, off the Woodville Road. Nancy wondered if the group from the carnival was there.

  “Murko probably is with them, and maybe Anton and Nitaka,” she speculated. “Let’s try to find the place.”

  “We’re off!” Ned said.

  He and Nancy soon discovered that police directions on how to reach the camp had been somewhat sketchy. To find the Woodville Road was easy enough, but to locate the gypsies’ encampment was another matter.

  “They may have pulled their trailers along any one of these side roads,” Nancy commented. “It’s so dark and wooded, we probably couldn’t see the spot unless we were right on it.”

  “Looks like a bad storm coming, too,” Ned said, as he rolled the window up partway. “That’ll make it harder to find.”

  Suddenly a flash of lightning cut across the inky sky and revealed a mass of ugly, boiling clouds.

  “Maybe we’d better postpone our search and start for home,” Nancy suggested.

  Ned agreed, and turned the car in the narrow road. Before they had traveled two miles, the storm broke. During the slow ride back to River Heights, the rain came down in torrents. It was not until they reached the Drew home that it stopped.

  “Lucky we started back when we did,” Nancy commented as she said good night to Ned. “I hope your boys’ camp wasn’t washed out!”

  “If it was, I’ll be ready to see you again in the morning,” he said, grinning.

  Early the next day George and Bess stopped by to see Nancy. She invited them to help her search for the missing gypsies.

  George was eager for the adventure, but cautious Bess reminded them of their unpleasant experience some days before.

  “You two must like being thrown out by gypsies!” she remarked.

  Bess decided to go along, nevertheless, and up to the time they reached Winchester, she was very gay, chatting about a new restaurant she had found in River Heights, to the detriment of her figure. But as they turned up a side road out of town, and learned from a farmer exactly where the gypsies were, she became uneasy.

  When the three girls finally reached the wooded spot, though, she sighed in relief. There was no one in sight. The group had departed.

  “Maybe Murko will show up at the broadcasting studio sometime today,” George suggested as she noted Nancy’s disappointment.

  “I doubt it, but we’ll stop there,” Nancy replied. She turned the car back toward Winchester.

  A few minutes later they reached the radio station, and were told by the manager that Mr. Martin would broadcast no more. A woman had come there early that morning and left a note from the violinist. The message had merely said he would never again play over that station.

  “We had a contract with him, too,” the manager said, “but there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  Nancy and the other girls were ready to leave, when he called, “Are you Miss Nancy Drew?” To her yes, he added, “There’s something here for you. It was brought by that woman who left the note. She merely said to give it to you.”

  From an inner office the man brought out a package. Puzzled, Nancy decided to open it at once. Inside was a red, black, and white hand-woven blanket.

  “This is strange,” she remarked. “Did the woman leave her name?”

  “No, I scarcely noticed her, except that she had blue eyes, unlike most gypsies, and was about fifty years old.”

  Nancy caught up a corner of the blanket. The name H. Bostwick was woven in the blanket in small letters.

  “Could she be Henrietta Bostwick?” Nancy wondered, remembering the name on the album she had bought in New York. “If so, is she a gypsy? Or does she merely live with the tribe? And why did she send me this blanket?”

  On the way home Nancy discussed the incident with Bess and George. “I feel sure that woman was trying to send me some information.”

  At home, Nancy seated herself on the living-room floor and examined every inch of the gypsy blanket.

  “These figures woven in here and there mean something. I’m sure of it!” she told herself. “If only I could get at the meaning of the thing, I might have a valuable clue!”

  An outside door slammed. Hannah came into the room, her arms loaded with packages.

  “Shopping is an awful trial—” she began, then exclaimed, “Nancy, where did you get that?”

  “It’s a gift from a gypsy.”

  “Destroy it! Get it out of the house!” Hannah cried.

  “Why, what’s wrong?” the girl asked, amazed. “Look at the letters on it!”

  “Letters?”

  “They spell ‘Beware’!” Hannah pointed to a series of red figures.

  From where Nancy was seated the word became a part of the pattern and could not be made out. She jumped up and darted to the housekeeper’s side.

  “Wh
y, it does!” she agreed. “Hannah, you darling! You’re helping me solve this mystery!”

  Greatly excited, Nancy twisted and turned the blanket. She tried to find other words hidden in the maze of geometric figures.

  “Hannah, do you see anything else?” she asked.

  Mrs. Gruen shook her head. She and Nancy walked into the hall to study the blanket from a distance.

  Suddenly Nancy exclaimed, “I have it! I see it!” She gave the housekeeper a hug.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Gruen asked.

  Nancy took a quick step forward and pointed out three more words, “king and sun.”

  “It says, ‘Beware king and sun’!”

  “Yes, it does,” the woman agreed, “but I don’t see any sense in those words.”

  “There must be a meaning to it all! The word ‘king’ could refer to Zorus, the gypsy chief! I can’t figure out ‘sun.’ The message might mean, ‘Beware of the king and his Son’!”

  “You always did have a lively imagination,” Mrs. Gruen said.

  Nancy scarcely heard her. Thinking aloud, she continued, “if the word is ‘son,’ who could he be? Anton, perhaps, or maybe Romano, Rose’s father?”

  “The word isn’t ‘son,’ ” Hannah insisted. “It says ‘sun,’ plain as day. Are gypsies sun worshippers?”

  “Get that blanket out of this house!” Hannah cried.

  Nancy’s eyes opened wide. She exclaimed, “Why didn’t I think of it before! ‘Sun’ is the word and it means ‘source of light’! Beware the King and his source of light!

  “Hannah, at long last the light is beginning to dawn.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Mannequin’s Hint

  NANCY rushed to the telephone and called state police headquarters. After identifying herself as Carson Drew’s daughter, she said, “Will you please try to locate the gypsies that moved out of Winchester recently? And when you do, will someone from your office go there with me?”

  The officer listened carefully as she gave a summary of all the things that had happened in which she thought certain gypsies had been involved. She felt the guilty persons might be hiding in that tribe.