The Mysterious Visitor Page 8

  IT DOESN’T MEAN a thing," Honey said firmly. "And you know perfectly well the boys agree with me. Tom was mistaken, that’s all."

  It was a warm, sunny morning, and right after a late breakfast, the girls had met at the clubhouse so that Honey could measure the windows for the curtains she planned to make.

  "I don’t care what the boys think," Trixie said. "They’re not always right. I’m as sure as sure can be that Tom was not mistaken." She placed the stepladder beside one of the windows and, with one hand on each side of the ladder, steadied it as Honey climbed up.

  "But Tom admitted himself," Honey said, "that the man he saw at the station two weeks ago wore his hat pulled down so that his face was halfhidden. Tom also reported that he spoke with an English accent, which Uncle Monty definitely doesn’t."

  "He doesn’t really speak with a western accent, either," Trixie said. "Did you notice how he pronounced rodeo? Well, out west, Honey, it’s always pronounced ro-day-o, never rodeo."

  "Both ways are right," Honey argued.

  Trixie ignored her. "And all that podner stuff. It’s phony. Everything he knows about ranches he got out of books."

  "That’s where you get your own information," Honey pointed out. "So how can you consider yourself a good judge?"

  "I don’t pretend to be," Trixie replied. "But when Regan says a man has never been on a horse, you can be sure that said man never was." Honey perched on top of the stepladder and frowned down at Trixie. "All right," she said. "Maybe Uncle Monty wasn’t a broncobuster. I’ll admit he exaggerates, and some of those stories he told last night were fantastic. But that still doesn’t make him an impostor."

  "No," Trixie admitted. "But the fact that he came to town ahead of time does."

  Honey gasped. "If you say one word to Di about that awful hotel on Hawthorne Street, Trixie Belden, I—I’ll just never forgive you." Trixie grinned. "What can I say about it? I’ve never been there myself." She added in a lower voice, "The first chance I get I am going there." Honey looked horrified. "Oh, no, Trixie, you wouldn’t dare!"

  "I’ve got to," Trixie answered calmly. "Right now we can’t prove that Uncle Monty ever went near Skid Row. But I’m positive that he did stay there until he suddenly arrived at the Lynches’ the following Monday evening."

  "That doesn’t make sense," Honey objected. "Why didn’t he go straight from the train station to his sister’s home?"

  Trixie shrugged. "Do you know what ‘casing the joint’ means, Honey?"

  "No, I don’t," Honey said rather crossly.

  "You should read more detective stories," Trixie said. "When crooks plan to rob a home, they first case it. In other words, they find out what the family’s habits are, the best time to commit, the robbery, how to get in and out most easily, and so forth. I’m just as sure as sure can be that Uncle Monty came to town ahead of time so he could first contact his friends on Hawthorne Street and find out all he could about the Lynch family." Honey looked impressed. "Then you think he plans to rob them?"

  "Not if he can get a lot of money from Mr. Lynch," Trixie replied. "If Mr. Lynch won’t give him any, I’ll bet he steals as much as he can and then disappears." She leaned forward and added in a whisper, "Did you ever wonder why Uncle Monty came out to your place last Saturday, Honey?"

  "He came out to look at the horses, of course," Honey said.

  Trixie grinned. "That was his excuse. I think he came out here to case your joint."

  Honey climbed down the ladder, nervously winding the tape measure around her slim wrist. "I think you’re crazy, Trixie. Why should he want to rob us when he can steal from the Lynches so easily?"

  "I don’t think he himself plans to break into your house," Trixie said, "but he could pass along any information he picks up to a pal of his. Someone who lives in that hotel on Hawthorne Street. Olyfant, for instance. The man Tom said was a shady character."

  Honey covered her face with both hands. "Please, Trixie, stop using that underworld language. It always gives me the jitters."

  Trixie laughed. "There’s nothing for you to be jittery about. It didn’t take Uncle Monty long to realize that this is not a good place to try to rob. He couldn’t help noticing that, besides your father and Jim, two men sleep at your house. Regan and Tom. Also, he saw Jim’s dog, Patch. Also, that you have a lot of servants. Robbing this place would be about as simple as attempting to break into the White House."

  Honey sighed with relief. "The Lynches have the same sort of place, only more so."

  "Yes," Trixie said, "but Uncle Monty doesn’t have to break into it. He’s there. And didn’t you notice, Honey, that the Lynches have a lot of valuable things lying around? Your home is beautiful, but it isn’t all cluttered up with little knick-knacks. I don’t mean just the silver on their sideboard. I’m talking about those antique bronze and porcelain things that are all over the place. Why, Di told me herself that those china birds in Mr. Lynch’s study are so rare that a museum offered her mother thousands of dollars for the collection."

  Honey nodded. "I know that the dessert service is worth a small fortune. I have seen some of those royal blue and gold plates, that are decorated with tropical birds, in museums. And I’ve seen some of those gold-trimmed goblets in museums." "Don’t forget the paintings in the gallery," Trixie added. "Some of them are museum pieces, too. What’s to prevent Uncle Monty from cutting them from their frames some night and walking out with them?"

  Honey smiled. "That room is always locked, except on special occasions, so he couldn’t take those. Di told me so last night."

  "Oh," Trixie cried in a disappointed tone of voice. "That ruins everything."

  "What do you mean?" Honey demanded. "Now I can’t get a look at her grandparents’ portraits." Trixie frowned. "I thought Di would probably invite us out to lunch or something pretty soon, and I’d get a chance to sneak into the gallery."

  "Well, if she does," Honey said cheerfully, "all I have to do is ask her to show me the paintings. She must know where the key is kept. And if she doesn’t, she can get it from her mother."

  "How smart you are," Trixie said. "I’ve already been through the gallery, but you haven’t." She grabbed Honey’s arm. "Let’s call up Di now and hint around for an invite. I can’t wait to find out if her grandparents both had blue eyes."

  Honey giggled. "I can’t wait to find out that you’re wrong about that. But where are your manners, Miss Belden? Nice young ladies don’t hint for invitations."

  Trixie sniffed. "I’m not a lady. You don’t need me to help you measure these windows. I’m only keeping you from your job. So if it’s okay, I’ll go up to the house now and give Di a ring." She raced off before Honey had a chance to object.

  Tom Delanoy was raking the leaves on the front lawn and hailed Trixie as she ran toward the house. "Where’s the fire, Trix?"

  Trixie stopped to catch her breath. "No fire, Tom. Unless you’re talking about that old saying that where there’s smoke there must be fire."

  He leaned on his rake, grinning. "I suppose by that remark, you’re trying to lead the topic of conversation back to where we dropped it after the Halloween party last night?"

  Trixie nodded. "Uncle Monty."

  "In that case," Tom said, "the old saying that applies best is ‘Birds of a feather flock together.’ " Trixie nodded again, vigorously. "You’re sure he was the man you spoke to at the station two weeks ago, aren’t you?"

  Tom thought for a minute. "No, I’m not sure, Trix. And I’m sorry I said what I did last night. If you kids are going to blab it all over the village, I’ll end up with a nice libel suit on my neck." "We won’t repeat a word of what you said,"

  Trixie said hastily. "On account of Di, you know. She’s very sensitive, especially about Uncle Monty."

  Tom mopped his brow, obviously relieved. "Thank goodness for that! If Mr. Wheeler ever knew what a fool I was last night, he’d fire me. I know he would. And I like this job, Trix."

  "I know you do," Trixie said sympatheti
cally. "The Wheelers are wonderful people. And you must know, Tom, that Honey and Jim and we Beldens would never do anything to get you into trouble."

  "I know," he said, "especially since it was you kids who got me the job. The thing is, Trix, I said what I did for your sake. You’re quite a little detective. There’s no sense in denying it. I felt that sooner or later you’d find out that Uncle Monty has—I mean someone who looks an awful lot like him—has friends on Hawthorne Street. It’s not too safe, even in the daytime, for a kid like you. If you feel you have to snoop around, get one of your brothers to go with you. Or better yet, let them go by themselves. That’s why I said what I did in front of them."

  Trixie’s mouth fell open with surprise. "Are you implying, Tom, that Uncle Monty has gone back to Hawthorne Street since he’s been living out at the Lynches’?"

  "I’m not implying anything at all, Trixie," Tom said firmly.

  "Then how else," Trixie asked, "could I possibly have found out that he—or someone who looks like him—has friends there? I mean, unless you told me?"

  Tom squinted up at the sun in the bright blue sky. "You’ve been known to trail people, haven’t you? Well, all I’m saying is, don’t trail this suspect." Abruptly he changed the subject. "Now, Trixie, about that cottage down by the road." Trixie blinked. "What about it, Tom?"

  Still avoiding her eyes, he said, "You kids spend a lot of time in it, and, so far as I can see, you’ve spent a lot of money fixing it up."

  Trixie started to say something, but he held up one hand to silence her. "I don’t want to pry into your secrets, but, well, you know that Celia and I plan to get married someday, and, well, the truth of the matter is, Mr. Wheeler said we could have the old gatehouse."

  "Oh, no," Trixie moaned.

  Tom looked almost as unhappy as she did. "I’m sorry about this, Trixie, but what can I do? Celia is crazy about the place."

  "Since we fixed it up," Trixie said bitterly. "It was nothing but a tumbledown shack before." "I can’t help that," Tom said miserably. "She was down there early this morning measuring the windows for curtains."

  Trixie collapsed on a mound of autumn leaves. "That’s what Honey is doing right now. Oh, Tom, it’s our secret clubhouse!"

  Tom laughed without humor. "It didn’t take a detective to figure that out. And I know that Honey’s not the type to whine to her old man, saying that you kids want to keep it."

  "She’d die first," Trixie said staunchly.

  Tom took a deep breath. "I’ll pay you back every cent you spent, and for your time, too. You could build yourselves another clubhouse somewhere else where it would be more secret, couldn’t you?"

  Trixie got up and dusted off the seat of her jeans. "I don’t know, Tom," she said hopelessly. "I’ll talk it over with the rest of the kids and let you know."

  Shoulders drooping, she slouched discouraged-ly into the house and dialed the Lynches’ phone number.

  Harrison answered: "Who’s calling, please?"

  "Trixie Belden."

  "I’ll see if Miss Diana is in," he said.

  Trixie, slumped over the telephone table in the study, waited. It was an awful blow to lose the clubhouse when they had worked so hard on it and had slaved to earn the money for the necessary repairs. It was all very well for Tom to say that they could build another one somewhere else, but soon it would be winter with snow and sleet and ice and, between now and then, only weekends and a few hours of daylight after school.

  "Miss Belden?" The butler’s voice was as cold as the ice Trixie had been thinking about. "Miss Diana is not in—to you!"

  Stunned, Trixie heard the click as he hung up.

  Hawthorne Street • 1J

  TRIXIE SAT in the Wheelers’ study, too stunned to move. She was still clutching the telephone when Jim came in, a few moments later.

  "What’s the matter with you?" he asked, grinning. "How come you’re literally and figuratively glued to the phone on a nice day like this?" Trixie hastily placed the instrument back in its cradle. The sight of Jim brought back the depressing news about the clubhouse, crowding all other thoughts from her mind.

  "Oh, Jim," she cried. "Have you heard? Mr. Wheeler has given the cottage—our secret clubhouse—to Tom and Celia!"

  Jim clutched his red hair with both hands. "Since when? And are you sure of that?"

  Trixie nodded sadly. "Tom just told me a few minutes ago. It’s not really his fault. Celia is crazy about the place. I don’t know how she happened to see our clubhouse, Jim, but—"

  "I do," Jim said. "Bobby! Last Sunday he spent a lot of time in the kitchen consuming cookies and milk. It was while you girls were making plans for the Halloween party. I happened to pass through the kitchen once, and I heard him tell Celia that he had been very busy ‘holping’ us ‘jingle’ the roof of our ‘see-crud’ clubhouse." Trixie sighed with exasperation. "Brian and Mart should have had better sense than to take Bobby with them when they moved all that stuff from our garage last Saturday."

  Jim chuckled. "It’s a known fact in this neck of the woods that Bobby and a secret are soon parted. But that’s the price you have to pay for having a lovable kid brother like Bobby. And there’s no sense in crying over spilled milk, Trix." "I do feel like crying," Trixie stormed. "Not because of Bobby. I’m used to getting into scrapes on account of him. But it’s not fair. Celia wouldn’t have looked at the gatehouse twice if we hadn’t fixed it up. Before, it was just a shack."

  Jim shrugged. "All’s fair in love and war, I guess. Actually, before we spent so much time and money on it, we should have figured we’d have to ask Dad if we could keep it."

  Trixie sniffed. "Why must you always be so honorable all of the time, Jim? It gets boring. If you’d asked Mr. Wheeler for permission to keep the cottage, it wouldn’t have been a secret. Not that it is. Why, even Dad knows about it. And I suppose it was Bobby who told him, too. Di doesn’t know how lucky she is to have two nurses on her place who spend all their time keeping her kid brothers out of her hair."

  Jim stared up at the ceiling. "You don’t really mean that, Trix. Now calm down and start trying to make some sense."

  "Oh, all right," Trixie cried. "But I’ll never forgive Celia, even if Tom did say he would pay us for our time and money."

  "Well, that’s a break," Jim said cheerfully. "I don’t blame you for being mad, Trixie. You put twenty-five dollars of your own money in our clubhouse. Money you worked hard all last summer to earn. The rest of us haven’t contributed nearly as much. I’m glad you’re going to get your share back."

  "Don’t be ridic," Trixie said. "It’s not the money I’m worried about. What bothers me is what we are going to do between now and next spring, which is about as soon as you boys will be able to start working on another clubhouse."

  Jim sighed. "Frankly, I don’t know, Trix. And in the meantime, what are you Beldens going to do with all of the sports equipment Brian and Mart brought down from your garage last weekend? I don’t know where you could store it." "We’ll just have to donate it to the scrap drive," Trixie said forlornly.

  "That can’t happen," Jim said firmly. "Skis, sleds, ice skates, snowshoes, a pup tent, outdoor cooking utensils—" He spread his hands. "Those things look old and tired now, but it will run into a lot of money when you try to replace them with new ones."

  "You’re telling me," Trixie said sarcastically. "But, Jim, there isn’t room at our place for them. And if we leave them outdoors they’ll be ruined." Jim took her hand and led her out through the French doors to the veranda. "There isn’t room up here for them, either, Trix. You couldn’t safely put another thing in the cellar, attic, stable, garage, toolhouse, or even the boathouse. I know, because Dad and I have been inspecting the premises on account of Fire Prevention Week. He pulled her down beside him on the swing.

  "But relax, kid. As Micawber would say, ‘Something is bound to turn up.’ "

  Trixie groaned. "I wish you and Honey had never decided to read David Copperfield together. All you seem to
do is quote from it. All I can remember about Micawber is that he spent most of his time in debtors’ prison. A cheerful thought!" "That’s not all you remember about David Copperfield," Jim said, laughing. "Last night you said Uncle Monty reminded you of the villain, Uriah Heep. Do you still think that Di’s uncle is as slippery as an eel, Trix? I mean, do you still think that he’s an impostor?"

  "Yes, I do," Trixie said. "And I’ll prove it someday. Wait and see."

  Jim narrowed his green eyes. "As Tom said last night, sleuth around in your imagination all you like, but steer clear of Hawthorne Street. You’ll have to promise me that, Trixie."

  Trixie hastily changed the subject. "We’d better call a meeting of the B.W.G.’s right away, Jim, and decide what to do about a clubhouse." "That," he agreed, "is the most important thing on the agenda right now. We’d better call a meeting at once. Where is everybody?"

  "Honey," Trixie told him, "is down at the clubhouse measuring the windows for the curtains. I can’t bear to tell her the bad news. She bought the material ages ago with the money she earned working as her mother’s secretary. You remember all those letters Honey answered, don’t you, Jim? She worked two whole weekends so she could buy that stuff that looks sort of like gunny-sacking to me. What’s it called?"

  "Monk’s cloth," Jim said. "It’s expensive, but it’s just exactly what we want, Trixie. It’s a neutral shade and it wears forever."

  "Oh, I think it’s swell material," Trixie said. "I’d have died if Honey had wanted to hang gingham or dainty ruffled curtains. It just isn’t that kind of a clubhouse. But," she added miserably, "Celia will probably have all sorts of frilly ideas. Organdy and such. Ugh!"

  "Celia has very good taste," Jim said sternly. "But that’s not the point. We’ve got to have a meeting right away. Where are Brian and Mart?" "They ought to be here soon," Trixie said as they started down the veranda steps. "When last seen they were cleaning the chicken coop. At least Brian was. Mart was sitting on an upturned pail, giving him directions."

  Jim laughed. "That situation didn’t last long, I’ll bet. Knowing Brian, Mart did his share of the work, so they ought to be through by now." "You’re so right," Trixie said, pointing toward the stable. "Here they come, and Mart does look as though he’d moved an arm muscle or two." "Hi," Mart greeted Trixie and Jim. "Why are you two so glum? One would think Brian had been slave-driving you instead of poor me." "Glum is the word," Trixie replied. "We’ve lost the clubhouse!"