The Silver Cobweb

by Carolyn Keene

  He fingered through the material heaped on the coffee table in front of them. At last he came up with a festival-week program as large and thick as a good-sized magazine. “Ah, here we are. Yes, Arachne Onides sang in all three operas that were performed that year. Which one were you interested in?”

  The one that was staged on a Thursday evening.”

  “Thursday? But that’s not possible. The festival operas are always staged on the same days every year---one on the Saturday that opens the festival, one on Wednesday of the ensuing week, and one on the closing Saturday night.”

  Nancy was startled. From the way Russ Chaffee had spoken of “Black Thursday,” it seemed unlikely that he had misremembered the day.

  “What about the Wednesday performance, then?” Nancy queried after a pause.

  “That would have been . . . let me see.” Judge Drake leafed through the pages of the program. “Ah yes, Carmen.”

  Nancy looked at the names in the cast. Madame Arachne, of course, had starred as Carmen. And the tenor who sang the role of Don José had been Renzo Scaglia!

  It was almost an hour later when Nancy was finally able to break away, after thanking her elderly host. She had an idea which might be far-fetched yet seemed worth investigating.

  From the judge’s condominium, she drove to a large wooded estate near River Heights. The sprawling stone house, with glassed-in green house extensions on two sides, was the home of a noted arachnologist named Paul Taggart. Schoolchildren often came here with their teachers to see his fascinating collection of live and mounted specimens. Nancy herself remembered such a visit by her ninth-grade science class.

  Taggart, in turn, had read several news stories about the pretty young sleuth’s exciting mystery cases. When Nancy explained why she had come, he was more than willing to help.

  “A red spider?” Taggart mused. “Well now, red or reddish brown is certainly not an unusual color for spiders. In fact certain varieties, such as this Australian Nicodamus, or this Jamaican orb weaver hanging fro its web over there, may be a quite brilliant red.”

  “Then the color itself doesn’t suggest anything in particular to you?” asked Nancy.

  The tall, slender expert shook his head, with its bushy mop of sandy, graying hair. “None that I can think of. There are many superstitions about spiders, for instance, but I can’t think of any that concern their color alone.”

  Taggart stopped short and flashed a sudden puzzled glance at Nancy.

  “Didn’t I read something in the paper recently about a mysterious attack on that young jewelry designer, Brett Hulme, while you were in his shop?”

  Nancy nodded. “Yes, why?”

  “Well there may be no connection, but I recall Hulme coming here some time ago, to look at various kinds of red spiders!”

  8. Trail to Nowhere

  Nancy’s eyes widened on hearing this startling information. “Did Brett Hulme give any reason for his interest?”

  “No . . . but as I recall he brought along a sketchpad and made drawings of several specimens.” Taggart reflected a moment and added, “I think he came hoping to see some particular kind of spider, and he seemed disappointed that he couldn’t find exactly what he was looking for.”

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Oh, I’d say three or four years ago.”

  Nancy drove home thoughtfully. The spider expert had just provided a second link connecting Brett Hulme to the mystery, and her sleuthing instinct told her it might well prove important. But the time frame puzzled her. Nancy could not forget the beautiful silvery cobweb she had glimpsed only recently on Brett’s workbench.

  The rest of Nancy’s afternoon was taken up with running errands for Hannah and answering a pile of letters, a job she had not had time to attend to for a while.

  For a change, she spent a quiet evening at home, reading and watching television. By giving her mind a rest from the mystery, Nancy hoped, she could return to the case refreshed.

  The next morning, Nancy picked up George Fayne and Bess Marvin, and the three girls drove to the Footlighters’ barn theater.

  “I wonder what job they’ll give me to do?” George wondered aloud. She and Nancy had volunteered to help the group prepare for its performance at the Oceanview Festival.

  “Search me,” Bess replied. “But I do know they want Nancy to watch the play and learn Connie Phelps’ lines.”

  George shuddered. “Count me out of anything onstage! I have this absolute faith I’d make an idiot of myself in front of an audience!”

  As the girls pulled into the Footlighters’ parking lot, voices could be heard from the barn theater as members busied themselves checking out and refurbishing props and costumes for the mystery melodrama, A Scream in the Dark, which was to be staged at the festival.

  Later, Hamilton and Margo Spencer rehearsed the cast on some scenes that needed polishing. Nancy sat and listened and watched.

  “It’s awfully difficult to learn a play this way, Nancy,” Mrs. Spencer said, slipping into the seat next to the young sleuth.

  “Yes, but I’m getting a good idea of what to do and what not to do.” Nancy laughed.

  “Suppose I give you a script to take home and study.”

  “That would be great.”

  “It always helps to know we have a good understudy ready to step into a part,” Margo went on. “Judging by your past performances, we’ll have no worry about this one.”

  “She’s right, Nancy.” Hamilton Spencer had joined them. “I wish you’d consider acting in our productions regularly. You have too much talent not to put it to use.”

  Nancy blushed. “Unfortunately, solving mysteries doesn’t leave me much spare time.”

  “Do think about it, though, dear,” Mrs. Spencer said, patting her arm.

  During a break in the rehearsal, Nancy filled in Bess and George on the progress of her investigation. “I can’t help wondering,” she mused, “if this spider thing may have had something to do with breaking up the romance between Brett Hulme and Kim.”

  “I doubt it,” George said firmly. “If you ask me, it was more a problem of career versus marriage.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Listen, if that’s what George thinks, it must be so!” Bess put in with a laugh. “She’s been following Kim Vernon’s career ever since she broke into golf. I think she’s Kim’s biggest fan!”

  “Come to think of it,” said George, “I remember an interview in a sports magazine where she talked about that very subject. I may still have it.”

  “I’d like to read it, if you do,” Nancy said. “Okay, I’ll look it up at lunchtime. Why don’t you two come home and eat with me?”

  “What’s on the menu?” Bess inquired, then turned to Nancy with a giggle. “You know how George is---she’s always trying to get me to eat carrot sticks and lettuce!”

  “Don’t worry, cousin dear. We’ll have cold chicken and ham and cheese and German potato salad and homemade bread.”

  “Oh, yummy!” Bess squealed.

  The girls ate their lunch on the sunny patio in back of George’s house. Afterward, George went inside to try to find the sports magazine she had referred to. Minutes later she emerged, waving it in her hand.

  “Ta-da! Here, see for yourself what Kim says, Nancy.”

  The teenage detective scanned the article with interest. It confirmed what George had said at the barn theater. Reading the interview, Nancy felt that Kim Vernon sounded bitter. She had said that a professional golfing career would never mix with marriage, because the average husband would never put up with a wife who had to spend so much time on tour, away from home.

  “Well, what’d I tell you?” George inquired as Nancy looked up from the magazine.

  “Very interesting.”

  Later that afternoon, when the Footlighters broke off for the day. Nancy decided to pay another visit to Brett Hulme’s workshop before going home. As she entered, the young designer looked up with a friendly
, if guarded, smile.

  This time, Nancy caught no shimmer of silver on his desk: it was a heavy gold-link bracelet that he was working on.

  “More sleuthing?”

  “A little.” Nancy smile apologetically. “but that’s not the only reason I came.”

  Switching off his worklight, Brett led her to an alcove with some comfortable chairs where they could sit and talk.

  “Kim was very upset when she read about the close call you had with that rock thrown through your window,” Nancy began.

  From the way Brett Hulme’s eyes had kindled with interest as she spoke, Nancy felt more certain than ever that he still cared for Kim Vernon. But he remained wakwardly silent. However, as she introduced the subject of the magazine interview, Brett gradually relaxed and began to talk.

  “Yes, Kim and I were engaged. And it’s all my fault that we broke up,” he confessed unhappily. “I made the istake of pressuring her. You know, insisting that she give up golf or cut down on tournaments, that sort of thing. I was selfish. I didn’t realize how hard Kim had worked to get where she was. Of course I know better now.”

  Hoping that she had gained Brett’s confidence, Nancy at last mentioned her chat with Paul Taggart. “He said that you once came to look over his red spider specimens. Would you mind telling me why?”

  At her unexpected question, Brett Hulme seemed to freeze up. A trapped, suspicious look flickered across his face.

  At that moment, the telephone rang, saving Brett from replying. Nancy thought that he looked relieved at the interruption. He sprang toward the phone, and lifted the receiver.

  Evidently Brett found the call rather unpleasant as well, judging by his disturbed expression. His guarded remarks were made in a low voice. Nancy was only able to her him address his caller as Mr. Shand and later say, “All right.” Then he hung up.

  Turning to Nancy, he said curtly, “I’m sorry if I seem rude, but something important has come up, and I have to go see someone right away.”

  “Of course. I understand,” Nancy said politely. She rose from her chair and, saying good-bye, went out to her car. But the call had aroused her curiosity, and she decided to see where Brett Hulme had to go in such a hurry.

  Turning out of his drive, Nancy went only a little way down the road, then pulled over among some trees at a point where she could watch his house. Screened by the roadside shrubbery, she waited for Hulme to emerge.

  Presently a white car exited from his drive. But instead of turning in Nancy’s direction, back toward River Heights, it headed the other way.

  Where is he going? Nancy wondered.

  Keying her engine back to life, she started to follow him cautiously. The road dead-ended only a mile or so away on a pleasant promontory over-looking the river.

  Nancy turned off quickly onto a little-used dirt path that was heavily overgrown with vines and brush. Then she stopped her car again, got out and made her way on foot to a spot where she could see what was going on without being seen herself.

  Brett had parked his car and was pacing back and forth on the promomtory, hands thrust deep into his pockets, and a brooding expression on his face. Was he thinking of Kim?

  Nancy watched patiently from behind her screen of trees and shrubbery, thinking he might be waiting to meet someone. But after ten minutes or so, Brett merely stepped into his car, maneuvered it in reverse and headed back the way he had come.

  Nancy hastily returned to her own car and resumed trailing him, although he was now out of sight. As his workshop came into view, she was just in time to see his white car pulling around to the back of his house.

  So his story about meeting someone had been just an excuse to avoid answering her question about his interest in red spiders!

  Still puzzled, but encouraged that she was at least on the right track, nancy drove home.

  But a frightening sight awaited the teenage sleuth as she unlocked the door of the Drews’ house and entered the front hall.

  Hannah Gruen was lying motionless on the floor!

  9. Scaglia Changes His Tune

  Even as Nancy felt Hannah’s pulse and found it strong and steady, the housekeeper groaned and moved her head.

  Nancy rushed into the kitchen and held a tea towel under the cold water tap, then wrung it out and rushed back to put it on Hannah’s forehead. The woman’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Oh, Hannah, are you all right? No, don’t move just yet.” She said. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Nancy, I just went out in the garden to pick some tomatoes. And then, soon after I came back in the house, I heard a noise in the living room.”

  “Who was it?” Nancy asked, helping the housekeeper sit up. “An intruder?”

  “Yes! As I came through the hall , a man rushed out of the living room. He bumped into me so hard he knocked me over! I guess I must have hit my head when I fell.” Hannah gingerly felt the sore spot with her hand.

  “Do you feel well enough to get up now?”

  “Yes, of course, dear.”

  Nancy helped her to her feet and with one arm around the housekeeper’s waist guided her gently to the blue brocaded sofa in the living room. “Now, you lie down here, Hannah, and if you can, tell me exactly what the man looked like.”

  “I’ll never forget him!” Mrs. Gruen shuddered slightly as she settled herself on the sofa. “He was powerfully built and had a crooked nose, and one eyelid sort of drooped.”

  The squint-eyed thief from the River Heights Country Club! But how did he get into the house, and what was he looking for?

  Nancy decided it was time to seek help from the police. She had already waited too long, it seemed, considering what had just happened to Hannah. She went to the phone and called Police Chief Mc Ginnis. After reporting the whole story, beginning with her own clash with the crook, she added, “In light of his telephone threat, I feel this may be getting serious, Chief.”

  “You bet it’s serious, when innocent citizens are attacked in their homes!” McGinnis growled. “I’ll be there myself in ten minutes.”

  While she was waiting, Nancy went to the desk and sat down with pencil and paper to try and sketch the squint-eyed intruder. Being talented artist, trained in life drawing, she soon achieved a good likeness.

  “That’s the man, Nancy!” Hannah exclaimed when she saw the drawing. “that’s exactly how he looked!”

  When Chief McGinnis arrived with two officers from the burglary squad, he also was highly approving. “This sketch will be a big help, Nancy. With this and his height and weight, we should have a good chance of identifying him. My men here will look for fingerprints or any other clues. Anything missing, by the way?”

  “We haven’t checked yet,” said Nancy. “But it doesn’t look as though he disturbed anything downstairs.”

  “We’ll look around,” McGinnis said comfortingly. “And perhaps ou’ll come with us. I’m sure your sharp eyes will be able to spot anything out of place.”

  Nancy insisted that Hannah continue resting on the sofa while she went through the house with the policemen. As it turned out, there were no signs that the crook had been upstairs at all.

  “I’ll put his picture and description on the police wire,” Chief McGinnis proised before leaving. “if this creep’s got any record at all, we should be able to get a ‘make’ from the FBI.”

  ‘Thank you, Chief,” Nancy said gratefully. “I feel better already.”

  As Hannah had dinner all prepared, Nancy had only to put it in the oven and make a salad with the tomatoes Hannah had picked. She insisted that the housekeeper rest until Mr. Drew arrived home and dinner was served.

  Later that evening, when the meal was over, she cleared off the dining room table and did the dishes, then went to the phone. She had made up her mind to call Simon Shand. A servant answered, but the trucking tycoon promptly came to the phone when he heard who was calling.

  “Mr. Shand,” said Nancy, “at the country club last Saturday, you asked me to try and catch th
at thief who was after Kim Vernon’s golf bag. Would you care for a progress report?”

  “You bet I would!” he rasped. “Say, you don’t let any grass grow under your feet, do you? Why not come over and deliver your report in person.”

  “Very well,” Nancy agreed. This might be a chance, she hoped, to find out how, if at all, Simon Shand himself fitted into the mystery.

  Shand gave her directions to his apartment, which turned out to be located in a large, luxurious modern high-rise recently erected in town, overlooking the riverfront.

  “Well, well,” he said, rubbing his hands together as she was shown into his window-walled living room, glossily furnished in ultramodern décor. “I’m really curious to hear what you’ve found out. Please sit down, Miss Drew.”

  Nancy told him about the squint-eyed crook’s threatening phone call and went on to report his attack on Hannah Gruen that afternoon.

  Shand was properly indignant. But he added with a frown, “What about clues, though? I mean, how’re we gonna get a line on this guy? Where does all this leve us?”

  “I don’t know yet. But the police are now circulating his description, and they think there’s a good chance he can be identified. Naturally that’ll be a big help in tracking him down.” Nancy hesitated, studying her host keenly. “Actually, I’m wondering whether you can’t give me any help, Mr. Shand?”

  “How do you mean?”

  ‘I mean, are you being completely frank with me? Call it feminine intuition, if you like,” Nancy challenged, “but I still have a feeling you may have some personal motive for wanting this thief caught. Have you?”

  “Look, I’ve already told you, I’m like every other private citizen these days---I’m fed up with crime in the streets. Here’s a hood with gall enough to try and swipe something belonging to a famous sports star. In full view of a whole crowd of people, mind you, and right while she’s being interviewed a few yards away! I think that kind of crook belongs behind bars---and, honey, I’m ready to pay you plenty to put him there! Does that answer your question?”