The Mysterious Visitor Read online

  "I can use a flashlight," Trixie said promptly. "Where are you going to get one now, Trixie?" Jim demanded.

  "From Di, of course," Trixie said.

  "No," Brian said firmly. "Di has got to be left out of this completely until we have definite proof that her uncle is an impostor."

  "I forgot about that angle," Trixie admitted. "Well, a candle will do just as well. There are a lot of them in the dining room."

  Just then Honey and Mr. Wilson came out of the study across the hall from the gallery. At least, Trixie felt pretty sure that they must be Honey and Di’s uncle. Honey had donned her devil’s mask and black curly wig. Mr. Wilson was wearing a black domino and was now a small masked cowboy.

  At that moment Di appeared with several boys and girls, all of whom were masked. They were laughing hilariously, because every one of the girls was dressed as a witch, and every one of the boys was wearing a cowboy costume.

  "Well, podners," Uncle Monty said, joining in the laughter, "great minds think alike, they say. It carries me back to the days of my youth when I was a broncobuster out west. Dining one rodeo, a masked cowboy appeared, and, let me tell you, when he roped a steer, it stayed roped. And during the roundup, when the calves are branded, he did the work of ten. That masked cowboy, podners, was yours truly."

  Uncle Monty talked on and on, while the other guests arrived, and was soon the center of a circle of admiring boys and girls. Even Trixie was momentarily hypnotized by the exciting tales he told them. But suddenly Honey whispered in her ear:

  "Come into the study with me for a minute, Trixie. It’s important."

  Holding hands, they slipped out of the circle and into the den. Honey quietly closed the door. Both girls took off their masks and stared at each other. "What on earth is the matter?" Trixie asked.

  "That’s what’s the matter," Honey said. "You keep forgetting to whisper. When you and your brothers and Jim were talking across the hall, before the guests arrived, the orchestra was playing loudly, so you didn’t have to whisper. But after a while the orchestra stopped, and you kept right on talking at the top of your lungs. At least, that’s the way it sounded to me. I tried to drown out your voices by practically yelling myself, but unless he’s stone deaf, which he isn’t, Mr. Wilson couldn’t help hearing part of what you said. Enough, anyway, to gather that you’re going to look at his parents’ portraits in the gallery, and if they both have blue eyes you’ll tell Di that he’s an impostor."

  Trixie sank into the nearest chair. "Oh, no!" "Oh, yes," Honey said, perching on top of the desk. "He pretended he wasn’t listening, but I could tell that he was, even after he put on his mask. He was mad, too, Trixie, and I don’t blame him. You really ought to stop going around suspecting people all the time. Someday you’re going to get into trouble."

  "What do you mean, someday?" Trixie demanded. "I’m in trouble right now."

  "No, not really," Honey said. "Mr. Wilson was mad, because he does lose his temper very easily. But he doesn’t stay mad long. He’s probably forgotten all about what you said."

  "Then you don’t think Uncle Monty is an impostor?" Trixie asked.

  "Of course not." Honey smiled. "He’s very nice when you get to know him. Come on. We’d better get back to the party, Trixie. It sounds as though the grand march is starting."

  "I wouldn’t miss it for the whole world," Trixie said sarcastically. "I want to be there when Uncle Monty gives himself first prize." She laughed, but inside she was worried. If Mr. Wilson was an impostor, what would he do, now that he knew she suspected him?

  A Clue and a Warning • 9

  WHEN TRIXIE left Honey, she slipped across the hall and into the dining room. On the long mahogany sideboard was a massive silver candelabrum. Trixie took an orange candle from one of the ornate branches and looked around for some matches. There weren’t any in sight. While she was hurriedly searching in the semidarkened room, Harrison suddenly appeared and turned on the overhead lights. Because both the hall and the dining room were thickly carpeted from wall to wall, Trixie had not heard a sound until the click of the light switch made her jump. As she whirled around, she slipped the candle into her pocket.

  Blinking as her eyes slowly grew accustomed to the brilliant light, she said guiltily, "Oh, hello, Harrison. I didn’t expect to find you here."

  He gave her a cold, suspicious glance. "Nor did I expect to find you here, miss. The other young people are in the gallery, where the grand march is in progress," he said so pointedly that Trixie hastily turned and fled back to the gallery.

  As she joined the tail end of the grand march, she dismissed the portraits from her mind. The problem now was, for Di’s sake, to make sure that the party was a success. Uncle Monty, as judge, was standing in the center of the long room. Amid loud laughter he gradually eliminated the boys who had come as famous cowboys. Then he eliminated the girls who had come as witches. The Bob-Whites, in their identical jackets, were eliminated next. That left a girl who had come in a ghost’s costume she had made out of an old sheet, with a pillowcase for a mask, and a boy who had stitched some rags all over his shirt and jeans. He had started out as quite a convincing-looking beggar, but because he apparently was no handier with a thread and needle than Trixie was, he had shed a few of his rags at every step.

  He got the booby prize, and the "ghost," having the most original costume, was awarded the first prize. Uncle Monty tried to make a long speech with the presentation of each prize, but the Bob-Whites drowned out his words by whistling, stamping, and clapping their hands. Trixie guessed that their interruptions annoyed him, but she couldn’t be sure, because the domino he was wearing hid most of his face.

  Then they played the games which he and Honey had planned. Even Trixie had to admit that under Honey’s tactful guidance, Uncle Monty made a wonderful master of ceremonies, and the quiz contests were a great success. The orchestra seemed to have as much fun as the guests. Jim won the "sporting songs" group, Brian won the "birds," and Mart quickly got the answers to "famous rivers." In the end every guest won a prize except the three hostesses, Di, Trixie, and Honey, who were not allowed to compete.

  Uncle Monty saw to that, and Trixie couldn’t help wondering if he had included her as one of his assistants in order to keep an eye on her. He started right off by saying that he wanted the hostesses to remove their masks and wigs. Up until then the Bob-Whites, except for the difference in their heights, had looked exactly alike. And after the unmasking, Uncle Monty had hovered close to Trixie’s elbow.

  Even when all the guests had unmasked, and they trooped into the dining room for supper, he stuck to her like a burr. As the boys and girls gathered around the huge table, Harrison switched off the glaring overhead lights. The candle which Trixie had earlier slipped into the pocket of her jacket had been replaced. The butler gave her another cold, suspicious glance as he began to light the candles, using a large package of book matches. Trixie stared longingly at the book, hoping he would put it down on the sideboard after he had finished.

  But he didn’t. Instead he meticulously closed the cover and said to Di, "Will that be all, Miss Diana? Mrs. Lynch said I should have the evening off, but Mr. Wilson thought it best for me to stay until the party had progressed to this point." "It wasn’t necessary for you to stay, Harrison," Di said rather impatiently. "I wish you’d go and take the caterers with you!"

  He bowed. "The caterers were not necessary, miss, if I may be so bold as to say so. I am accustomed to handling small affairs like this without assistance." He coughed. "No arrangements had been made for serving refreshments to the members of the orchestra. I have taken the liberty of turning my sitting room over to them. They are now there partaking of a light repast. I hope that is quite satisfactory to you, Miss Lynch." Now’s my chance, Trixie thought and started for the door.

  As she threaded her way through the crowd, Uncle Monty somehow arrived at the entrance to the hall ahead of her, blocking her way. He crooked his elbow at her and said with a gallant bow:r />
  "Howdy, podner. It would sure give me pleasure if you would do me the great honor of sitting beside me during supper."

  Trixie hesitated. His small dark-brown eyes were as expressionless as the olive pits they always made her think of, but his thin lips were set in a white line. There was no doubt in her mind now that he knew she suspected him of being an impostor and that he would do everything he could to prevent her from looking at the portraits in the gallery.

  As she stood there, trying to make her own face expressionless, he took her hand and led her back to the dining-room table. Trixie shrugged away from him as fast as she could, because his hand on hers had felt as cold and scrawny as a chicken’s claw. But no matter how hard she tried to mingle with the other boys and girls, she could not evade him. Snakelike, he slithered around after her, attracting attention to her for one reason or another.

  The first time she tried to leave the room, he scolded her loudly because she hadn’t eaten everything on her plate. The second time she rose from her chair, he insisted that she must have second helpings of everything. He brought her a plate heaped so high she could hardly hold it on her lap and could hardly be expected to eat it all.

  Mart came to her rescue, but while she was transferring a turkey leg and a thick slice of ham to Mart’s plate, Uncle Monty clapped his hands for silence. Two waiters came in from the kitchen then, carrying the dessert on a big silver platter. It was orange sherbet in the form of a giant pumpkin head with chocolate eyes, a cherry nose, and a grinning peppermint stick mouth.

  Instead of greeting this surprise with cries of delight, the boys and girls groaned, because they had already eaten far too much. Di’s face flamed with embarrassment, and Uncle Monty looked as though he were going to hop up and down with rage.

  The guests hadn’t really meant to be rude; they had simply groaned without thinking. Now, headed by Honey, they crowded around Di and her uncle, praising the dessert and begging for large portions of it. Trixie slipped unobtrusively out of the room.

  She knew she couldn’t waste time looking for matches, and hoped that the crystal chandeliers in the gallery would shed enough light so she could distinguish the colors in the portraits of Di’s grandparents. Slipping and sliding on the polished floor, Trixie raced across the long room to the black drapery which she was sure concealed the portraits. The luminescent bat seemed to be grinning at her evilly as she reached out for the drapery. The moment she gave it a yank, something sprang out at her, and she saw, to her horror, that it was a giant octopus that slapped her in the face before it fell at her feet.

  Again Trixie managed to suppress a scream, and she gazed thoughtfully down at the hideous papier-mâché creature. Had Uncle Monty purposely planted it behind the drapery?

  And then Uncle Monty himself was in the room, calling to her as he hurried to her side: "Well, well, podner, what are you doing in here all by your lonesome?" He spoke in a cheerful voice, but when he came closer, Trixie could see that he was angry.

  For answer she picked up the octopus and handed it to him. "Don’t you want to fix this so it’ll spring out on somebody else?" she asked sweetly. If he put it back behind the drapery, she might be able to catch a quick glimpse of the portraits.

  "Scared you, huh?" he asked, chuckling, but with the same angry expression in his narrow, brown eyes.

  Trixie laughed. "Not much. I don’t scare easily."

  "Oh, you don’t, don’t you?" he demanded. It was more of a threat than a question, and Trixie would have felt a little frightened if the other guests hadn’t come trooping back just then.

  She didn’t have another chance that evening to look at the portraits, but several times she caught him looking at her with narrowed eyes.

  Shortly after midnight Tom Delanoy called for them in the Wheelers’ station wagon. "How was the party, kids?" he asked.

  "Simply wonderful," Honey told him. "I think everyone at the party had a marvelous time. Don’t you think so, too, Trixie?"

  Trixie nodded. "I don’t usually like parties, but this one was extra special, in spite of Uncle Monty."

  "In spite of him?" Brian demanded. "Why, he was the life of the party. It wouldn’t have been anything without him. He’s a grand guy. I like him a lot."

  "I do, too," Jim agreed. "I wasn’t crazy about those queer things that kept jumping out at people, but once all his silly little traps were sprung, the rest of the evening went very smoothly."

  "I suppose you’re crazy about him, too, Mart?" Trixie demanded sourly.

  "Well, yes and no," Mart replied evasively. "I gather from the piqued expression on your pretty face that you were frustrated in your attempt to ascertain whether or not our esteemed hostess’s late lamented relatives had orbs the color of yours and mine."

  Trixie sighed impatiently. "If you mean I didn’t get a chance to glance at the portraits, the answer is yes. But one thing is sure: Uncle Monty knows I suspect him, and he was very careful to keep me from looking at the portraits, so that proves he’s guilty."

  Tom groaned and asked Jim, who was sitting on the front seat beside him, "Is she off sleuthing again? If so, I’m going to quit my job."

  "Once a sleuth always a sleuth," Jim said and turned around to face Trixie. "Lay off Uncle Monty, Trix. If he’s what you think he is, you’ll get into trouble, and if he isn’t, you’ll cause a lot of trouble. And unhappiness."

  "That’s right." Honey agreed. "Di likes him now. She was very proud of him this evening. He was so popular with all of her guests and so much fun." She shuddered reminiscently. "I didn’t like those things that kept jumping out, either, Jim. I wish I hadn’t screamed when that snake slid across my arm. If he hadn’t planted all those horrible things all over the place, the party would have been perfect. I wonder why he did it."

  "I can guess," Trixie said. "He wanted the party to be a flop. He’d planned to make us all dance when nobody wanted to. Then he tried to make us play silly kindergarten games, but Honey talked him out of it. If it hadn’t been for Honey and the games she suggested, the party would have been a flop."

  "I don’t get it," Brian said. "It’s all too complicated and devious for me."

  "It is devious," Trixie said. "And Di put her finger on his scheme earlier when she said she hoped her father would give him a lot of money so he’d go away. That’s what Uncle Monty hopes, too."

  "I don’t get it," Brian said again.

  "Neither do I," Jim and Honey chorused.

  "Oh, don’t you see?" Trixie asked impatiently. "He pretends to be very nice to Di, but he’s really very mean to her. If he keeps on making her life miserable in that sly way of his, pretty soon Mr. Lynch will give him what he wants so he’ll go away."

  "What does he want?" Honey asked.

  "Money, of course," Trixie said. "What other reason could he have for coming here and posing as Mrs. Lynch’s long-lost brother?"

  "But," Honey objected, "if he isn’t Mrs. Lynch’s brother, how did he know she ever had one?" Trixie shrugged. "He could have read about the Lynches in a newspaper or heard about them from a friend who lives in Sleepyside."

  Tom parked the station wagon beside the steps leading to the Beldens’ terrace. As Trixie and her brothers climbed out, he said, "I gather the Uncle Monty you kids are talking about is the little guy who arrived up at our place on Saturday morning in a limousine?"

  "Yes, Tom," Honey said. "Mr. Montague Wilson. Did you get a chance to talk with him?" "Not this Saturday, I didn’t," Tom said. "But a couple of Saturdays ago, I did."

  "But that’s not possible, Tom," Honey said. "He only arrived ten days ago. On a Monday night."

  "It was on a Saturday, two weeks ago," Tom said emphatically.

  "What?" Trixie cried, almost shouting.

  "Tell us about it," Mart said as he and all the others crowded around the car window.

  "It was in the afternoon—at the station," Tom continued. "You see, I was waiting there for Mr. Wheeler, who’d gone in to his New York office that morning. I
was driving the blue sedan, and I guess your friend Mr. Wilson thought it was a taxi." Tom chuckled. "I was parked practically in the hack stand space. Anyway, he comes up to me and says, ‘Two-ninety-one Hawthorne Street, my good fellow,’ with an English accent, and I say, ‘Sorry, sir. This is a private car.’ He had his hat pulled down over one eye, and that’s what made me look at him so closely. Because, unless you’re trying to hide your face, you don’t wear your hat down over the upper half of it." The young chauffeur laughed. "Take me, for instance. I’ve got nothing to hide so I wear my cap on the back of my head."

  "Hawthorne Street," Brian said. "I never heard of it. Are you sure he gave that address, Tom?" "I never heard of it, either," Tom said. "That’s how come I happened to remember it. I thought I knew every street in this town, so, being as curious as Trixie, I made a mental note of the address and decided I would look it up someday." "Did you?" Trixie asked.

  "No," he said, "and don’t you go looking it up, either, Trixie Belden."

  "Why not?" Trixie demanded.

  "Because," he said, "I asked a friend of mine, who’s a cop, about it. Webster. You Belden kids must know him. Webster’s the cop who used to be on duty in front of the grade school."

  They all nodded. "Spider" Webster was one of the most popular policemen in town.

  "He’s on night duty now," Tom continued. "On the outskirts of town where Main Street merges with the main highway. Anyway, he says Hawthorne Street is the worst street in town. Most people call it Skid Row. Nothing but ramshackle houses where bums live when they’re not in jail. And two-ninety-one has the worst reputation of them all. It’s a crummy hotel run by a shady character named Olyfant." Tom leaned out of the car window to shake his finger at Trixie wamingly. "Sleuth around in your imagination all you like, Trixie Belden. But if you know what’s good for you, steer clear of Hawthorne Streetl’

  Bad Sews • 10