The Clue in the Diary

by Carolyn Keene

  With a final apology, the excitable Mr. Weston retreated to his sedan, and after much difficulty, maneuvered his way past Nancy’s disabled car.

  “He sure shouldn’t drive!” George exclaimed. “That man’s a menace!”

  Bess looked at Nancy. “You don’t think he was putting on an act about the insurance, do you?” she said. “You’ll have a huge repair bill!”

  “I know,” Nancy returned. “Don’t worry. You may be sure Mr. Weston will pay it—one way or another. Right now, we must get out of this mess!”

  “How’ll we get home with the bumper dragging?” George questioned.

  “We’ll have to find a garage,” Nancy said as the girls seated themselves once more in the convertible.

  Nancy started again and slowly moved forward. George groaned. “The rear of this car sounds as if it were about to fall out!”

  Just then Nancy was forced to a halt by the bumper-to-bumper traffic. The girls might have been held up indefinitely on the hillside, but fortunately a young man stepped in to act as a traffic policeman. In a few minutes he had the line of cars moving steadily. By the time the girls reached the exit of the Raybolt grounds, the tangle was fairly well straightened out.

  To Nancy’s surprise, she saw that the young man was the same one who had moved her convertible a short time before.

  “I did misjudge him,” she chided herself. “He was only trying to help and didn’t have the slightest intention of stealing my car. How silly of me!”

  On the main road at last, Nancy pulled off to the side to learn the full extent of the damage to her car. While she was surveying the rear axle doubtfully, the young man came over and offered his services.

  “I’m Ned Nickerson,” he declared with a warm smile. “Anything I can do?”

  “Yes,” Nancy said. “Please tell us how far it is to the nearest service garage. Another car banged into mine—as you can see.”

  “There’s a garage at Mapleton—about two miles away.”

  “I wonder if my car will hold together even that short distance.”

  “It should, if your axle isn’t badly damaged.”

  “But with the bumper dragging—”

  “I’ll fix that. I might as well pull it off entirely.”

  With a strong, deft twist, Ned Nickerson tore the bumper loose and placed it in the trunk compartment.

  “Look here!” he proposed suddenly. “I’m going to Mapleton—my home’s there. I’ll keep close behind your car and push it if necessary.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Nancy said gratefully, “but I don’t like to trouble you.”

  “No trouble at all. Glad to do it.”

  She smiled and introduced herself and the other girls.

  When the four reached the Mapleton garage, a mechanic inspected the convertible and said, “I’m afraid I can’t have this car ready for at least an hour, miss. Even at that I can’t touch the fender or taillights. You’ll have to leave the car until tomorrow or else get the work done at your home garage. The best I can do now is fix you up so you can make it home.”

  “An hour, you say?” Nancy asked. “I suppose we’ll have to wait, but we’re in a hurry to get to River Heights.”

  “How about my treating to ice-cream sodas while we wait,” Ned suggested. “There’s a drug store across the street.”

  The girls accepted and phoned their homes about the delay. The hour passed quickly. After a gay get-acquainted session, Ned accompanied Nancy, Bess, and George back to the garage.

  “I’ll have the car ready in ten minutes,” the mechanic promised.

  The young people went outside and chatted about the recent events. But soon their attention was attracted by a group of men standing under a nearby street lamp discussing the Raybolt fire.

  “‘Pears mighty strange to me that a fire would start when the place ain’t been occupied all summer,” one elderly man commented.

  “Old Raybolt deserved to be burnt out,” another added. “The skinflint! He’d steal a crust of bread from a starvin’ child!”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if he burned the place down himself—to get the insurance,” a third voice chimed in. “I wouldn’t put it past Foxy Felix!”

  Nancy and her friends heard no more, for at that moment the mechanic announced that her car was ready. “It’s the best I could do on such short notice,” he told her. “Better have your garage man give it a general overhauling when you get home.”

  While Ned backed the convertible out of the shop, Nancy paid the mechanic and asked him for a receipted bill. She explained that she wished to collect from the motorist who had crashed into her.

  “I take it Mr. Raybolt isn’t very well liked around here,” Nancy remarked to Ned as she relieved him at the wheel.

  “No, he isn’t,” Ned declared emphatically. “He’s about as popular as a tiger who’s escaped from a circus!”

  “Apparently they call him Foxy Felix.”

  “Yes, and from all one hears about him the name is deserved.” An odd expression flashed across Ned’s face and he looked intently through the window at Nancy. “I also wonder what could have started that fire! You know, I have a sneaking suspicion it didn’t start by accident.”

  “So have I,” Nancy returned with a meaningful grin.

  Before Ned could question her, she quickly but graciously thanked him for his help, then drove away.

  “You girls haven’t seen the last of me,” the young man called gaily after them. “I know the road to River Heights. Don’t be surprised if I follow it one of these days!”

  CHAPTER III

  The Diary

  “DID you hear what Ned Nickerson said?” Bess Marvin teasingly asked Nancy, who pretended to be intent upon her driving. “You’ve made a hit, all right!”

  “Hit!” Nancy retorted. “The only thing that was hit is the back of my car. Won’t Dad be shocked when he sees the wreck I’m bringing home!”

  “She’s trying to change the subject!” George chortled. “Look at her blush. You can tell she likes him.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Nancy defended herself stanchly. “Ned Nickerson certainly helped us out of a tight spot.”

  “He’s handsome, too.” Bess giggled. “And what a soulful expression in those big blue eyes of his when he looks at our Nancy!”

  “Were they blue? I thought they were—” Nancy broke off as she realized that Bess had deliberately trapped her. “All right, you win!” She laughed. “But just to get even I’ve half a mind not to tell you what I discovered while we were at the fire.”

  “Oh, come on!” George pleaded.

  “All right. I’ll forgive you this time.”

  Nancy was eager to relate what she had observed at the Raybolt grounds, for she wondered if her chums would interpret the incident the same way. She told them of the suspicious, gaunt-looking stranger who had run away from the burning house.

  “That man must have set it on fire!” Bess declared. “Otherwise, why would he be afraid to answer when you called?”

  “He might have been a tramp who went into the house for shelter,” George suggested thoughtfully, “and started the fire accidentally—perhaps from a lighted cigarette.”

  “I thought of that,” Nancy admitted, “but it seems to me if the fire had begun that way it would have burned more slowly. Remember the sound of an explosion and how the house appeared to blaze up all at once?”

  “That’s true,” George said, then added, “Guess we’ll have to wait for the investigators’ reports.”

  There was not much traffic that evening, and the girls reached River Heights in good time.

  “There’s Mother out on the porch!” Bess cried as they drew up before the Marvin residence. “She’s been watching for us.”

  Next, Nancy dropped George at her home and then drove to the Drew house. As she pulled into the driveway, her father and Hannah Gruen, the housekeeper, came rushing out. Mr. Drew was tall and distinguished looking. The housekeeper, pleasantly plump, had a
motherly expression.

  “Are you all right?” they asked Nancy in unison.

  “Yes, indeed, but I’m afraid my car will never look the same again.”

  “I don’t care about the car,” Mr. Drew said to his daughter, “as long as you’re not hurt.” Then he relaxed and asked, “The question now is how big a lawsuit will I have on my hands?”

  “Suit? Oh, I see. You think I backed into another car. Don’t worry. Another car ran into mine. I have the driver’s name and license number. I’m to get in touch with him and let him know my repair cost.”

  As they entered the house, Mrs. Gruen went to the kitchen, while Nancy and her father turned into the living room.

  “Tell me more about the fire,” Mr. Drew urged. “Whose house is it?”

  “The owner is Felix Raybolt.”

  “Felix Raybolt! Foxy Felix!” Mr. Drew exclaimed.

  “Do you know him?” Nancy asked, surprised.

  “Only by reputation—which isn’t enviable. As a matter of fact, just today I accepted a case for a client, Arnold Simpson, who wants to sue Mr. Raybolt. He tells me there are many other people who would like to do so.”

  “What is Mr. Raybolt like, Dad?”

  “Very shrewd, and very unfriendly. I understand he’s wealthy.”

  “How did he make his money?”

  “He deals in patents, and I’ve heard he made fortunes on some of them.”

  “You mean, Mr. Raybolt invents things?” Nancy questioned.

  “No, he buys patents from inventors and cashes in on their ideas.”

  “Is that legitimate?”

  “Yes, he has a right to buy a patent and make a profit from it. The unfair part is that Raybolt takes advantage of the inventor by verbally promising to pay him a royalty after he has marketed the device.

  “In fact, that is the complaint of my client. He told me that Raybolt purchased a patent from him covering a certain part for an automatic elevator at a ridiculously low figure, then sold the patent to a manufacturing concern for a much higher sum. When Mr. Simpson reminded Raybolt of his promise, Foxy Felix turned him down —practically laughed in his face.”

  “No wonder people dislike Mr. Raybolt,” Nancy remarked. “I suppose there are certain persons who might have set fire to his house out of pure revenge.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  After a late, light supper, Nancy admitted being tired. She said good night to her father and Hannah and went upstairs.

  As she slipped off her dress, the red leather booklet which she had found on the Raybolt estate dropped to the floor. Nancy snatched it up with an exclamation of eagerness.

  “This may furnish the clue I need!” she thought. “At any rate, I have an idea it will prove interesting. I’ll read it this very night!”

  Nancy forgot that she was tired and sleepy. Undressing hastily, she adjusted the reading lamp and took the book to bed with her.

  “This is a diary,” she decided, noting that each entry was preceded by a date. “Perhaps it contains the owner’s name and address.”

  Settling herself comfortably against the pillow, Nancy opened the loose-leaf booklet. She stared in surprise at the first entry. The page was filled with baffling words, written in a foreign language.

  She studied the text. Finally two familiar words struck her eye. “Adjö-good-by. And god vän—good friend. Swedish!” Nancy murmured, recalling that a schoolmate of hers, a girl from Sweden, had often spoken these words in her native tongue.

  “Oh, dear, I can’t read the rest of it!” The young detective groaned.

  She rapidly leafed through the pages. All the entries were in Swedish except the last few, which were written in cramped English.

  Nancy held the diary closer to the reading lamp and tried to make out the words. But it was a discouraging task, since the letters had been run together in an indistinguishable fashion. She did manage to decipher a few scattered phrases, but try as she would, Nancy could not figure out a single entire sentence.

  “How exasperating!” she thought impatiently. “This diary may contain a valuable clue, but I can’t read it!”

  The notations in Swedish were in larger handwriting than those in English. Nancy felt sure the diary belonged to a man, for though the writing was small and cramped, the characters were bold. She reflected, too, that if the little journal had been dropped by the stranger whom she had seen running away from the fire, it was all the more important for her to learn his name and what he had written in the diary.

  “I’ll have to find someone who can read Swedish,” she said to herself. “If only Karen were here!” But Nancy’s former schoolmate had returned to her native country with her family.

  With that thought Nancy lowered her pillow, put out the light, and the next instant was asleep. It seemed only minutes later when she was awakened by the ringing of the telephone in the hall. The sun was shining through the windows and from the angle of the rays Nancy guessed that it must be after nine o’clock. Hannah, knowing that she was exhausted, had let her oversleep.

  With a guilty start, Nancy jumped out of bed. Before she could open the door, Mrs. Gruen came in. “Good morning, Nancy. A young man wishes to speak to you on the phone.”

  “I’ll be there in a jiffy. Don’t let him escape!”

  Thrusting her feet into dainty black-and-gold slippers and snatching up her dressing robe, Nancy hurried to the hall telephone.

  “Hope I didn’t get you out of bed,” a low, pleasant voice came over the wire. “This is Ned —Ned Nickerson,”

  “Oh!” Nancy stammered, taken completely by surprise.

  “You probably think I’m rushing things a bit,” Ned went on, “but I picked up a ring at the Raybolts’ this morning, and thought it might be yours.”

  “I didn’t wear one yesterday,” Nancy returned, finding her voice at last. “George or Bess might have lost one, though.”

  “The ring couldn’t be theirs. It has a ‘D’ on it.”

  “Did you find the ring in the ashes?” Nancy questioned with rising interest.

  “No. The firemen and police won’t let anyone go near the ruins. I found the signet ring near the hedge back of the house.”

  There was a brief moment of silence as Nancy mulled this over. Then she asked quickly, “Does that ring bear a Swedish inscription? If it does, I may have a clue to the owner.”

  She was thinking of the stranger she suspected of being the owner of the mysterious diary—the man who had vanished behind the Raybolt hedge.

  “There is an inscription in a foreign language, but I can’t read it,” Ned told her. “Say! Would you like to see the ring?”

  “Love to,” Nancy confessed. “It may furnish a clue. But shouldn’t the ring be turned over to the police?”

  Ned did not agree. “I believe, at least for the time being, it’s a case of ‘Finders Keepers.’ The ring was a good distance away from the fire area.”

  “All right, then. I am eager to see it.”

  “If you’ll let me, I’ll drop around tonight at eight and bring the ring along,” Ned offered.

  “Good.”

  After Ned had hung up, Nancy fairly danced back into the bedroom. She sent one slipper flying toward the bed, and the other into the far corner of the room. The young sleuth attempted to convince herself that her jubilant spirits were the result of Ned’s discovery. The ring might be a clue to the identity of the person who had set the Raybolt house on fire. Bess and George, she knew, would have interpreted her reaction very differently!

  As soon as she had dressed, Nancy picked up the diary and placed it in her top bureau drawer for safekeeping.

  “I wish I had time to go somewhere and have it translated right now,” she thought regretfully, “but it’s late and I must take my car to the garage.”

  Nancy hurried downstairs to the kitchen. Mr. Drew had already eaten breakfast and left for his office. Hannah Gruen uncovered a hot plate on the stove.

  “Mm, blueberry muffins,” N
ancy said. After biting into one, she added, “Oh, this is extra delicious.” As she ate, Nancy told the housekeeper about wanting the diary translated.

  “But kept confidential, I suppose,” Mrs. Gruen remarked. “It’s not often that I can help you on a mystery, Nancy, but this time I believe I can.”

  CHAPTER IV

  The Initialed Ring

  “OH, HANNAH, that’s wonderful!” Nancy exclaimed. “But don’t tell me you can read Swedish.”

  “I wish I could. The person to translate the diary is our old Swedish bakery friend, Mr. Peterson. He has moved his shop to the other side of town.”

  “Oh, I remember Mr. Peterson,” said Nancy with a chuckle. “When I was a little girl, and you and I went there, I used to wheedle tarts and cookies from him.”

  “And always get them,” Mrs. Gruen replied, a twinkle in her eye. “You were his favorite customer. I’m sure that he’ll be glad to translate the diary for you.”

  Nancy was delighted at the prospect of seeing kindly Oscar Peterson again.

  “Hannah, that’s a wonderful idea! I’ll go to the bakery first chance I have. Right now, I must have my car fixed.”

  Nancy took the convertible to a garage downtown. The mechanic promised to have it ready sometime the following afternoon. Then Nancy walked slowly homeward. Suddenly Nancy heard her name called. Turning, she saw Bess and George hurrying to meet her.

  “You must be daydreaming about Ned!” cried George as the cousins swung into step beside her. “We shouted three times.”

  “Sorry.” Nancy laughed.

  “‘Fess up, now. Weren’t you thinking about him?” Bess prodded.

  An animated expression came over Nancy’s face. Her eyes danced mischievously as she told her bit of news.

  “Ned phoned this morning before I was up.”

  “I told you!” Bess exclaimed. “You did make a hit! Wish I had your technique!”

  “Silly! Ned phoned me on a matter of business. This morning he found a ring near the hedge at the Raybolt grounds and he thought it might belong to me. It has a ‘D’ on it.”