The Mystery of the Antique Doll

by Campbell, Julie

  But Honey didn’t laugh. She frowned slightly and straightened up.

  “Have you figured out what we’re going to do about the doll?” Honey asked.

  “Yes,” Trixie answered firmly. She wheeled her bike out onto the sidewalk, and climbed on. “We’re going to go home, iron the dress, and make it look as perfect as we can. We’ll put the plates back inside, and return the doll. And we might just as well tell the truth. We’ll say that my little brother found the doll in the yard.”

  “You mean we’ll accuse Bobby?” Honey gasped.

  “Of course not!” Trixie said. “It doesn’t matter what we say, because I’m sure he won’t believe us. I’ll just tell the truth because it’s no more believable than anything else we could think up. Mr. Reid won’t care what we say. He wants that doll back very badly.”

  “You’re right about that,” Honey said ruefully.

  “Besides, I can’t imagine that he’d have us arrested for stealing a doll that was back in his possession,” Trixie said. “And he can’t very well call the police and tell them we stole a doll that just happened to have counterfeiting plates inside, can he? If he did that, then he’d have to be crazy.”

  “Or innocent,” Honey put in. Because it was getting late and cold, they pedaled along Glen Road as quickly as they could.

  “I’m not so sure he’s innocent,” Trixie said through clenched teeth. “Brrr. It’s awfully cold out. I’m afraid it’s time for us to put our bikes away for the winter.”

  They pedaled along in silence for a while, putting all their attention and energy into getting into a nice warm house. The wind had shifted and was now coming at them head on. Trixie’s eyes were beginning to tear. Raising her hand, she brushed away a tear that was blurring her vision, and the bike swerved slightly. As it swerved she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a blue sedan moving slowly behind them.

  “Pull over onto the shoulder, Honey,” she called ahead. “There’s a car that wants to pass.”

  Trixie and Honey pulled their bikes over to the side of the road. They went slowly, waiting for the car to pass. But the car stayed where it was, a short distance behind them. Trixie began to get annoyed because it was harder and slower pedaling off the smooth pavement. The dry grass was bumpy, and the pebbles slippery.

  “Well, why doesn’t he go by?” Honey yelled. “We’ll never get home at this rate.”

  But Trixie didn’t answer. She was thinking. She slowed down a bit more and turned her head, trying to see the driver. And what she saw confirmed her worst fears. Her heart thudded. She speeded up until she was riding right alongside of Honey.

  “Don’t look now,” she warned, “but it’s the red-haired man from Paris! He’s following us!”

  “What!” Honey gasped. “What do we do now? There’s .no way we can ditch him on these bikes!”

  “Yes there is. Now listen a minute. We just passed the Glen Road Inn, right? You know that trail that goes through the woods and lets out a little past my house on Glen Road? We’re going to try and get on it. He can’t follow us in the car, and we might be able to get away. Now, follow me, and ride as fast as you can!’’

  Trixie set off with a furious burst of speed. She rode the bike back onto the pavement, and pedaled hard. She knew she would soon see a slight thinning of the trees. She hoped against hope they could maneuver their bikes through the low underbrush and pick up the path. It was the only way to lose him!

  In order to catch them, their follower would have to pull his car off the road and go on foot through unfamiliar woods. Trixie knew the trail like the back of her hand, but a stranger would have difficulty following it—especially at night.

  Suddenly, Trixie hit a patch of gravel on the road, and the bike skidded. Trixie managed to right it, but not before it swerved and wobbled onto the shoulder. Honey, who was right behind her, tried to avoid Trixie but failed. With a sickening crunch, the two of them went down onto the grassy shoulder in a spinning pile of bicycle wheels, arms, legs, and school books.

  Trixie closed her eyes for a moment and prayed that the blue sedan would pass them. But her heart sank as she heard the sound of tires on gravel. The car pulled to a stop right in front of them, cutting off any escape.

  Trixie untangled herself as quickly as she could and stood up. She didn’t want to be lying in a heap when this strange man, whoever he was, came over to them.

  “Stand up, quick!” she told Honey. “We can still run if we have to!”

  Honey pulled herself out from under her bike, and the two of them watched as the door of the sedan swung open. A small pile of papers dropped out onto the ground and was immediately followed by two long legs.

  The red-haired man uncoiled himself slowly from behind the wheel, and staggered out onto the road. He was still wearing the rumpled trench coat. He walked slowly toward them. His craggy face was set in a very disagreeable expression, and he didn’t look as though he had anything pleasant to say either.

  Scowling, the man stopped when he got directly in front of them. With a flourish, he pulled off his hat and nodded his head.

  “Mademoiselles,” he said. His voice was rather high-pitched, and Trixie had the overwhelming urge to giggle. “Mademoiselles, I am Inspector Marcel Patou of the Paris Sûreté, and I arrest you in the name of the French authorities!”

  “What?” Trixie and Honey said together, astounded. “Arrest?”

  This was the second time in little more than twenty-four hours that someone was threatening them with arrest—and they hadn’t done a thing!

  “That is correct,” the man continued. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat with an exaggerated motion. As he pulled out a shiny badge, his handkerchief and a notebook fell to the ground. When he bent down to retrieve the items that had fallen, his hat dropped to the ground as well.

  “My identification,” Inspector Patou said, extending the badge in their direction. At the same time he was trying to juggle his hat, pen, and notebook—and doing a poor job of it.

  Trixie took the badge and peered at it in the dying light. It certainly looked authentic, and she handed it to Honey. Honey’s hand trembled as she took it. After looking at it briefly, she handed it back.

  At that moment, Inspector Patou sneezed loudly, and the badge dropped to the ground between them. Trixie couldn’t control the laugh that bubbled up inside her chest as she quickly stooped to get it.

  She cleared her throat and tried to sound grown-up as she handed the badge back to him. “You are obviously who you say you are, but you have the wrong people, Inspector. By the way, you’ve neglected to tell us what we are being arrested for.”

  “Trixie!” Honey gasped in dismay. Honey would never have spoken that way to an adult. She was amazed at Trixie.

  “You are under arrest for counterfeiting, of course,” the French policeman answered. He wiped his brow with the rumpled handkerchief, then put it in his pocket. “I have been following you two young ladies since you made the pickup in Paris. You stopped at a shop called Emile Faurier—of this you are already aware—and took a package from a man named André. It is this package about which I am now speaking.”

  He stopped and carefully watched the expressions on the two faces before him.

  “Yes, I can see that you know of which I speak,” he continued, satisfied with himself. “Now then, young ladies, that particular shop has been under surveillance for a year, and we of the Sûreté know it is an outlet—as you say—for very high quality engravings used in making the currencies of many different countries. Since you and I both know that you picked up the plates, you might just as well tell me where they are now, and we will be finished with all this conversation.” He folded his arms across his chest, waiting for a reply.

  “We didn’t pick up any plates, sir,” Trixie said, feeling a little frightened. “We picked up an antique doll. That was what was inside the box.”

  It had dawned on Trixie that they might still be in a lot of hot water. It would be one thi
ng if the doll wasn’t in their possession. Unfortunately, however, it was sitting at home on her dressing table. And the two miserable plates were sitting right next to it! If this detective followed them home, he would find the doll and naturally think them guilty.

  “I do not believe you, I am afraid,” he said, with a condescending smile. “How do two young ladies like yourselves get a ride to and from Paris in a Lear jet, eh? It smells to me of dirty money, mademoiselles, dirty money!”

  “Now wait a minute!” Honey snapped angrily. “That plane belongs to my father! It has absolutely nothing to do with dirty money, and I won’t let you say things like that about my father!”

  “Aha!” Inspector Patou said, whipping out his notebook and pencil. Another shower of little papers fell to the ground at his feet, as he quickly scribbled something down. “So it is your father who is the counterfeiter, eh?”

  Honey stamped her foot in vexation, but Trixie began to speak quietly.

  “Excuse me, Inspector,” she said calmly, “but I think I can help you. We picked up the doll at the request of a local antique dealer. He wanted us to carry it personally so it wouldn’t get broken. However, the man is new in this area, and a very suspicious character in my opinion.”

  “In your opinion?” Marcel Patou’s eyebrows shot up, and he watched her speculatively.

  “And not only that,” she continued, “I think he’s your counterfeiter. I just remembered that he has an old printing press in the back of his store. I saw it there just a week or so ago. I’ll bet he uses it to print the money!”

  “The guilty are always ‘just remembering’ something that will cast one’s suspicions somewhere else,” Inspector Patou said smugly. “A press is not enough to prove a man’s guilt. However, I must admit it is far more likely, this story you have told me, than that you two young ladies are part of a counterfeiting ring.”

  Trixie heaved a sigh of relief when she heard his words.

  “And you say you have delivered the doll to this man?” asked Marcel Patou.

  “That’s correct,” Trixie said firmly. She jabbed Honey in the ribs as she heard her sharp intake of breath. After all, she hadn’t exactly lied, had she? They did indeed deliver the doll to Carl Reid. Marcel Patou hadn’t asked them if they had somehow gotten it back, so she didn’t have to mention it.

  Besides, Trixie had a plan—a plan that would work much better if the doll were in her possession, not the Inspector’s.

  “And where is the antique shop?” he inquired.

  “Right up this road, which is called Glen Road, by the way,” Trixie answered helpfully. She wanted Inspector Patou to go away—and soon. “The name of the shop is The Antique Barn. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.”

  “Very well, young ladies,” he said. “I will investigate this matter. And if I need to speak with you again, I know where to find you...”

  Letting his voice trail off in what Trixie decided was his “threatening” manner, Marcel Patou turned away abruptly and strode to his car. As he pulled open the door, he stumbled over a root and leaned heavily on the steering wheel. The horn blared loudly for a second or two before he managed to regain his balance and pull himself inside. He drove off, with a corner of his trench coat sticking out of the door and dragging along the road.

  Trixie burst out laughing as he disappeared around the curve. Then she went over and picked up her bike.

  “Why didn’t you tell him we have the doll?” Honey asked, getting her bike too.

  “Because I have a plan,” Trixie answered. “I’ll tell you about it tonight at the clubhouse. I’ll ask the other Bob-Whites to come, too. Make it for 7:15, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Trixie started pedaling for home. Honey followed behind her, wondering what on earth Trixie had in mind.

  11* Trixie’s Plan

  AFTER DINNER, the Bob-Whites met in the clubhouse.

  “It’s absolutely freezing in here, Trixie,” Mart said, rubbing his hands together briskly. “Why do we have to meet here? It’s not as if we’re lacking for warm places to meet, you know.”

  “You’ll understand in a little while,” Trixie told him. Turning to the rest of the group, she said, “I hope you all remembered to tell your parents we were going to the movie in town.”

  “I did,” Di answered.

  “Good,” Trixie said, as all the other Bob-Whites nodded in the affirmative. The entire group—Di, Honey, Jim, Brian, Mart, and Dan—were dressed as if they were on an Arctic expedition.

  “I must admit,” Jim said with a smile, “I got some odd stares leaving the house in this outfit. Although I’m glad you told me to dress warmly, it looks pretty funny when you’ve just said that you’re planning a nice evening in a heated theater.”

  “Sorry about that, folks,” Trixie said, “but it’s the only way. We’ll be spending a little time sitting around in the dark in the woods.”

  “Okay, little sister,” said Brian. “Enough of this mystery. Just what are your plans for the evening?”

  “Well,” Trixie said, pointing behind her. “In that paper bag is the doll. Honey and I washed her dress and ironed it. We put the plates back inside the dress exactly the way they were. Now I want to return the doll secretly to Mr. Reid.”

  “And how do you plan to accomplish this feat?” Mart said loftily.

  “Easy,” Trixie answered with confidence.

  “We’ll sneak up to The Antique Barn, put the bag on the doorstep, bang on the door— and then run like anything!”

  “Then what?” asked Dan Mangan. He had arrived at the clubhouse a bit early, and Trixie had filled him in on everything that had happened so far. Dan knew now exactly how deeply involved they were. “You know,” he said, “just giving the doll back doesn’t solve anything.”

  “It may, and it may not,” Trixie said. But she realized Dan was right. Her plan would work only if Carl Reid did exactly what she wanted him to do—and there was no way to make certain he would play his part. “We’ll wait, and we’ll watch. And if nothing happens tonight, we’ll just have to keep on waiting and watching until something does.”

  Mart groaned so loudly it made Di jump. “Mart!” she scolded. “Anyone listening to you would think someone had stuck a pin in your leg. Try to act in a civilized way.”

  Mart harrumphed, and the rest of the Bob-Whites laughed. But Brian immediately became serious again.

  “Why don’t we call the police?” Brian asked sternly. “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought and I still say you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. Counterfeiters have a great deal at stake. It might be extremely unwise for us to get any more involved than we already are.”

  “Not to mention unhealthy,” Mart said. He was starting to pace back and forth. “It is my humble opinion that, just this once, we should let Sergeant Molinson of the Sleepyside police do his job.”

  “Sergeant Molinson would only put Carl Reid on the defensive,” Trixie said. “Mr. Reid would never do something incriminating if he thought for one minute a policeman was watching!”

  “The girl has a point,” Mart conceded.

  The rest of the Bob-Whites nodded in assent.

  “Well,” Brian said glumly, “if there’s no other way, then we might as well get on with Trixie’s plan.”

  Gloomily, the group left the safety of their clubhouse. Skirting the edge of the woods, they made their way along Glen Road. They didn’t want to be seen, so it was impossible to take the station wagon. Driving a car up to the antique store would hardly be secretive.

  After a brisk, half-hour’s walk, they could see the lights of Mrs. De Keyser’s house around the bend. Trixie had a difficult moment until she saw that lights were on in The Antique Barn, too. She also saw two long, black Cadillacs parked near the Mercedes-Benz.

  “Whew,” she whistled softly. “That’s a break. The whole plan might have been ruined if Mr. Reid wasn’t there.”

  She motioned the rest of the kids to stand in the shadow
of the hedge. No sooner had they all gathered in the chilly dark than a familiar voice was heard speaking—practically in Trixie’s ear!

  “Good evening, mademoiselle,” Marcel Patou said. “And to what do I owe this honor?”

  Trixie almost jumped out of her skin.

  “Is he the French policeman you were telling us about?” Brian asked, as he quickly came and stood next to her protectively.

  Rapidly collecting herself, Trixie introduced Inspector Patou to the rest of the Bob-Whites. Then she explained what they were doing.

  “Oh, Inspector,” she said, as quietly as she could manage, “I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely frank with you this afternoon.”

  “This is as I suspected,” he responded with a tight little smile. “And what exactly did you leave out, mademoiselle?”

  “Er,” Trixie stammered, “just one little thing. You see, actually we had the doll at my house. A little dog who lives in the house next door to the antique shop took the doll and gave it to my little brother. Then we, um, discovered these interesting things inside the doll’s dress.”

  “What sort of interesting things, if I may ask?” Inspector Patou said.

  “Well,” Trixie continued bravely, “I guess they were, um, counterfeiting plates for twenty-dollar bills.”

  “And you have these counterfeiting plates with you now?” Marcel asked, his voice suddenly getting even more high-pitched than usual.

  “Yes,” Honey said quickly. “But we can’t show them to you because we had to sew them back inside the doll’s dress. If we take them out, Mr. Reid will know we’ve tampered with the doll and then...”

  “I understand perfectly,” he responded calmly. “And you have now come to return the doll, right?”

  “Right,” Trixie said. “We want to watch and see whether Mr. Reid incriminates himself in some way.”

  “Very clever,” the Frenchman conceded. “Dangerous, but clever. At least now I am here to help you.”

  Trixie really didn’t see how the Inspector could help, but she finished explaining her plan. He agreed, and the Bob-Whites stationed themselves along the hedge. They stayed outside the circle of light around the shop, and watched silently as Trixie tiptoed to the door and quietly placed the paper bag containing the doll right in front. Before she could knock, though, Mart materialized at her elbow. “Too dangerous,” he whispered, then tugged her away from the building.