“Maybe we ought to call Dad and Moms,” Trixie said, on the point of tears. “If Mart’s in trouble, they’d want to know about it.”
Brian had obviously been thinking the same thing, because he answered at once, “Let’s hold off for a while, Trix. Maybe Mart is right, and he’ll be through in a few minutes.”
All the same, it was another long, interminable thirty minutes before the door opened once more and Mart came hurrying toward them. He was followed by Sergeant Molinson’s heavy figure.
“So,” Sergeant Molinson said, when he saw Trixie, “I might have known that Miss Detective Belden would be here
“But why would you want to question my brother?” Trixie cried hotly. “He doesn’t know anything about what happened at school—or at Wimpy’s, either.”
“Ah, so you heard about Wimpy’s?” Sergeant Molinson looked at her thoughtfully.
“She knows only what I’ve just told her,” Brian put in, “and I know only what the school principal told me.”
Dan frowned. “We’ve just heard about it,” he said, “and it doesn’t make sense.”
“Not unless a teen-ager’s behind all this,” Sergeant Molinson replied, staring hard at Mart. “We don’t yet have any evidence to arrest anyone, but we’re going to get it. You can count on it.”
For the second time that morning, Trixie thought her almost-twin was on the point of volunteering some sort of information. Exactly what it was, she couldn’t imagine.
In the next moment, however, it was obvious that Mart had changed his mind, because all he said was, “Is it okay, then? Can I go?”
“You can go for now,” Sergeant Molinson answered, turning away, “but don’t go far. I’ll have some questions to ask you later.”
The Bob-Whites were silent until they were standing on the sidewalk once more.
Then Trixie burst out, “All right, Mart. Now tell us. What’s going on? What’s worrying you? How could Sergeant Molinson even begin to suspect you of being the Midnight Marauder? Were you on the school grounds last night? Oh, Mart, what is it you know that you’re not telling anyone —even us?”
Mart was silent for a long moment. Then he raised his head and looked into her worried blue eyes. “All right, Trix,” he said at last. “I guess I’d better tell you. But I warn you, you’re not going to like it. Let’s go on home, and then—”
He never completed his sentence. His gaze sharpened suddenly as he stared at something over Trixie’s left shoulder.
She swung around to see what had caught his attention.
At first, she could see nothing unusual. The usual number of Saturday morning shoppers seemed to be hurrying along the street. Then she noticed that they all seemed to be hurrying in one direction. Their steps slowed as they neared Crimper’s department store. It was an old two-story building that had been there as long as Trixie could remember.
“What is it?” Honey asked, turning her head to see what Mart and Trixie were looking at.
Trixie frowned. “Everyone seems to be watching something on top of Crimper’s roof. Come on; let’s go and look.”
The Bob-Whites raced along the sidewalk and joined others whose necks were craning upward.
Trixie saw the store’s upper story, where shoppers and salespeople alike were crowded at the windows, trying to peer upward. Her sharp eyes scanned the roof’s eaves. “I can’t see anything,” she said at last.
“Me, either,” Honey said, pressing close to her friend.
All along, Mart had been busy scanning the crowd. “I think you’ll find the only thing your orbs can discern,” he announced, with a sudden return to his old manner, “is a certain person playing one of his excruciating jokes. It’s the most ancient trick in the lexicon.”
“What’s a lexicon?” Di whispered.
“The theory,” Mart went on, “is that if you stare at something long enough and hard enough, others will naturally think there is something to stare at. Thus a joke has been accomplished.”
“I don’t understand,” Honey said, bewildered.
Mart put his hand on her shoulder and pointed at Crimper’s roof. “There,” he said, “is the staree.
And there,” he swung his arm, “is the starer.”
The Bob-Whites saw someone standing on the sidewalk’s edge, convulsed with laughter.
Suddenly Trixie’s eyes widened as she noticed his bicycle parked at the curb behind him. Strapped to its rear rack was a can of black spray paint, obviously just purchased.
“And that,” said Mart, “is who I think is causing all the trouble. That, Trix, is the Midnight Marauder.”
And he pointed straight at Lester Mundy!
Inside Crimper’s ● 6
MART’S ANNOUNCEMENT took Trixie completely by surprise. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was she’d expected him to tell her, but it certainly wasn’t this.
Brian obviously hadn’t been expecting this, either. He frowned at his brother. “Are you sure about that statement you’ve just made, Mart?” he asked sharply. “That’s a serious accusation.”
“And if it’s true,” Dan said, “you ought to turn right around and march back to the police station. Sergeant Molinson will want to know everything about it.”
“Of course I’m not sure,” Mart retorted. His arm dropped slowly to his side. “If I was sure, don’t you think I’d have told someone about it before now? The thing is, you see, I can’t prove anything. As I told you, I think it’s Lester. On the other hand, it could just as well be Shrimpy Davis —or Marvin Easton—or Ruthie Kettner— or—” Trixie gasped. “Ruthie Kettner? But that’s impossible!”
“The whole thing’s impossible, Trix,” Mart answered. He watched as Lester, still grinning, suddenly jumped on his bike and sped away.
Honey looked as bewildered as Trixie felt. “I know Ruthie Kettner,” she said, “but who are those other people you’ve just named? Why do you suspect them? And why are you so worried?“
“Come on, Mart,” Jim said. “You can tell us. It’ll make you feel better. Why did Sergeant Molinson bring you down here for questioning? Why should he think you were responsible for all this vandalism that’s going on? He can’t think you’re guilty.”
“I’m afraid he does,” Mart replied, gazing around at the circle of concerned faces. “And what’s more—” he swallowed hard—“he’s right.” Afterward Trixie found that she could remember almost every detail of that morning. The sun, which had shone so brightly at the day’s beginning, was now covered by gray, billowy clouds that scudded across the sky.
A sudden chill gust of wind swirled across the town square. It caused the people standing in front of Crimper’s to clutch at hats and head scarves and to pull their coats tightly around them.
Already the crowd was dispersing, though several people, reluctant to believe that there was absolutely nothing to see, still turned their heads to stare upward.
It was Brian who took charge after Mart’s second startling announcement. “We need to talk,” he said, “privately.”
“And right now,” Trixie added. “Let’s go to Wimpy’s—”
But already Brian was shaking his head. “Wimpy’s is closed for today,” he said. “The vandal made a mess of the place.”
“We could go home,” Di suggested.
“Or we could go in here,” Honey said, nodding toward Crimper’s front entrance.
Trixie knew that her friend was thinking of the small, old-fashioned dining room on the second floor, which catered to many of Sleepyside’s older residents.
“I vote that we go home,” she said promptly. “We can cook hot dogs and make hot chocolate— and Mart can explain everything.”
In the end, it was the weather that put an end to all further discussion. The sky darkened, and it began to rain, lightly at first, then harder.
The Bob-Whites hesitated no longer. They made a dive for the department store’s front entrance and hurried inside.
Instantly, Trixie felt, as she always did, that she had someho
w stepped into another world.
Her mother had once told her that Crimper’s hadn’t changed much since she herself was a little girl. Heavy wooden counters, some with glass tops, offered such things as pins and needles, embroidery silks and knitting yarns, towels and tablecloths, underclothes and nightgowns, beauty preparations and costume jewelry.
Around the store’s dark-paneled walls, shelves were stacked with mysterious boxes that, when opened, were found to contain nothing more exciting than scarves or stockings, gloves or handkerchiefs.
It was here, at Crimper’s, that Trixie’s grandmother had searched for bargains among the many brightly colored bolts of materials. And it was here, in the clothing department, that Trixie could still remember choosing clothes for her first exciting day in kindergarten.
In spite of her eagerness to hear Mart’s story, Trixie couldn’t resist avoiding the wide wooden staircase at the back of the store. It led to the housewares and home furnishings departments, as well as to the restaurant, on the second floor.
Instead, she led the way to the ornate and creaking elevator beside it. Mart had once said that it wheezed like an asthmatic dowager, but Trixie had always liked it.
She was fascinated by its glass-fronted entrance doors and by its heart-stopping, jolting ride. She often thought its passengers could never be entirely certain that the elevator was going to reach its destination.
Dan obviously thought so, too. “Are you sure this thing is safe, Trix?” he asked, stepping gingerly inside it.
“Trixie likes to believe it isn’t,” Brian answered, “but I’ve never yet known it to break down.”
He waited until all his friends were inside before he moved the old-fashioned lever to start their ride.
Jim looked around at the elevator’s red velvet interior and polished brass handrails. “Boy,” he said admiringly, “they sure knew how to build things to last in the old days. Don’t you think so, Trix?”
Absently, Trixie nodded, though she wasn’t really listening. She found her thoughts returning again and again to Mart’s puzzling statement of a few minutes ago. What had he meant when he said that he was responsible for the actions of the Midnight Marauder? What could it be that he was going to tell them?
She glanced at his silent figure standing beside her. Then she stiffened when she found that he was staring intently at the main floor below them.
Trixie followed his gaze. She saw the rain beating against the store’s large plate glass windows. She saw customers in front of counters and salespeople behind them.
She saw young Mr. Crimper, who was now the store manager, since his father had retired. He sat in his glass-fronted office just inside the main entrance. As she watched, he caught sight of her in the slowly ascending elevator, and he smiled and waved his hand.
Trixie raised her hand to wave back. But in the next instant, the smile froze on her face. Suddenly she realized what had attracted Mart’s attention.
Ruthie Kettner was standing in the store’s far corner, which was reserved for artists’ supplies. She was about to make a purchase—and that purchase was a large paintbrush.
“Maybe,” Mart said slowly, “I was wrong about Lester Mundy after all. Maybe it’s Ruthie who’s the Midnight Marauder.”
Trixie frowned. “Whoever it is,” she replied, “I know one thing for sure. If you’re that worried about it, we’d better find out—and fast.”
When the elevator jolted to a stop, Trixie was the first one out of it. Quickly she led the others to the restaurant’s entrance and stood looking about her.
Although it was still early for lunch, many of the tables were filled with people who were lingering over their morning coffee. Trixie guessed that they were really waiting for the rain to stop.
At a table a short distance away, two dark-haired women were deep in conversation—although the small, thin one seemed to be doing all the talking. The other, a sharp-faced woman in her early thirties, appeared to be asking occasional questions and taking notes of the answers.
Trixie stared at the notetaker. “Who is that?” she asked.
Mart scowled. “Her name’s Vera Parker, and she’s a reporter for the Sleepyside Sun. She’s been snooping around all morning.” He sighed. “I think she’s planning to write an article about juvenile delinquents. I heard Sergeant Molinson talking to her earlier.”
“And who’s the other lady?” Honey asked. “I’ve seen her somewhere before.”
“That’s Margo Birch,” Di answered promptly.
“She’s a well-known New York antique dealer. I think she lives around here, though. She’s been interviewed on television—”
“And hasn’t her picture been on the cover of magazines and stuff like that?” Jim interrupted.
Di nodded.
“Maybe that reporter’s planning on doing two articles,” Dan remarked. “One on antiques and the other on—”
“Juvenile delinquency?” Margo Birch said, raising her voice suddenly. “Ah, yes, I could say a lot on that subject. It’s one of the major problems of our society today.” She smiled at her companion. “Though, of course, I don’t pretend to be an expert on that matter.”
The reporter leaned across the table and asked a question that Trixie couldn’t hear.
Margo Birch settled back in her chair. “Why, my dear,” she drawled loudly, “but I don’t blame the youngsters at all. No, not in the slightest. It’s parents, you see, who must bear the full responsibility for the actions of their children. Oh, yes, spare the rod and spoil the child. An old saying, but a true one.”
Mart shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
All at once, Trixie had a feeling that it had been a mistake to come here. She had been right all along, wanting to go home to talk. At home it was safe—and quiet. At Crabapple Farm there were no loud, insistent voices from which to try to escape.
“Now take the business with this disturbed teenager,” Margo Birch was saying. “Everyone’s been talking about it this morning. What is it he’s calling himself? The Midnight Marauder?”
Vera Parker seemed to be about to answer. Then she turned her head and saw the Bob-Whites watching from the doorway. Then she said something in an undertone to Margo Birch.
In the next moment, there was one of those inexplicable silences in the restaurant. It was as if everyone had, for some reason, stopped talking to hear what was going to happen next.
What happened next was that Margo Birch opened her eyes wide and said, in a penetrating whisper, “One of the suspects? Where? Which one? Oh, my goodness, but you simply must point him out.”
Immediately, everyone seemed to be staring in the same direction—toward the Bob-Whites.
Trixie heard one man say loudly, “Did you hear that? One of those kids is the Midnight Marauder. I’ll bet it’s that blond kid with the curly hair and the sulky expression, who—”
Mart didn’t wait to hear any more. At once he turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the restaurant. His ears were red, and Trixie could see that the back of his neck was, too.
Mart didn’t wait for the creaking elevator. He rushed for the top of the wide staircase and was already halfway down it when the Bob-Whites caught up with him.
“Ooh! What an awful woman!” Trixie stormed, her blue eyes flashing with indignation. “I don’t think I like that Margo Birch one little bit.”
“Or Vera Parker, either,” Honey said loyally as they all hurried to the store’s main entrance. “I’m sorry, Mart. I shouldn’t even have suggested Crimper’s at all.”
“Forget it, Honey,” Mart answered, over his shoulder. “You couldn’t have known anything like that was going to happen. And I suppose I’d better get used to being thought of as Public Enemy Number One until this business is over and done with.”
Trixie didn’t say anything until they were standing once more on the wet sidewalk. The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had started, though the wind was stronger than it had been before.
&
nbsp; Trixie shivered, then burst out, “The whole thing is simply stupid!”
“I know,” Mart said, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, “which is why I need the help of all of my friends.”
“Let’s go to my place,” Di suggested suddenly, “and that way our cook can fix us lunch while Mart tells us everything.”
Dan grunted. “And this time nothing's going to stop us.”
So many things had happened already that Trixie wouldn’t have been at all surprised it this time, too, some other form of disaster was about to prevent them from hearing what Mart had to say.
But nothing did. Half an hour later, they faced Mart in Di’s sumptuous family room and settled themselves down to listen.
“It all began,” Mart said, staring out of the large windows, “a few weeks ago, when I started my journalism class.”
Trixie frowned. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”
Honey put her finger to her lips. “Hush, Trix. Let’s hear the rest of it.”
“Yes,” Brian said, nodding his dark head. “No more interruptions now.”
Mart kept his gaze fixed on the wide expanse of green lawn. “You might say that ‘Some people are born great, others achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.’ That’s a famous quotation.”
“I don’t care about any dumb old quotation,” Trixie cried, forgetting that she had intended to keep quiet. “Tell us what your journalism class has got to do with the Midnight Marauder.”
“It’s got virtually everything to do with it,” Mart answered.
Di giggled. “Though, now I come to think of it, that quotation did sound as though it came straight from the school newspaper. Miss Lonelyheart is always quoting stuff like that.”
Jim raised his red head sharply. “Hey, that’s right!”
Trixie sighed and forgot her good intentions again. “I still can’t help wondering which one of the counselors really is Miss Lonelyheart,” she said thoughtfully.
Mart shoved one hand into the pocket of his jeans and nervously jingled the coins he found there. “As for that,” he said, “it’s the easiest question to answer out of this whole rotten mess.” Trixie stared. “It is? But I thought you didn’t know. All right, then. Who is Miss Lonelyheart?” Mart turned from the window at last and faced his friends. “Haven’t you guessed?” he asked miserably. “Miss Lonelyheart is me.”
The Mystery of the Midnight Marauder Page 4