“Then suppose we all go to bed early and get a good night’s rest,” Miss Trask said.
“Jeepers, not that!” Trixie protested.
When nine o’clock came, though, they were all beginning to yawn.
“Isn’t it a glorious day?” Trixie exclaimed as they went out of the apartment building the next day.
“Right off the top shelf!” Mart stretched his arms and pounded his chest. “If we walk through the park leisurely, we’ll just about get to Celebrity Broadcasting on time.”
“And let Barbara and Bob carry their guitars all that distance?” Brian asked.
“They don’t weigh a thing. I’d rather walk, wouldn’t you, Barb?”
Barbara nodded her head. “Dan’s carrying my guitar, anyway. I’d a million times rather walk than ride. There are so many things to see. Everything’s so—”
“There goes Barbara’s one adjective, ‘wonderful,’ Bob said. Then he added quickly, “It is, too.”
“Let me carry your guitar for you, Maestro Robert,” Mart offered.
Bob handed it over. “You thought I wouldn’t, didn’t you? It wouldn’t bother a monkey to carry it.”
“Is there a hidden meaning in that remark?” Mart grinned.
“I was kidding. Give it back. I just wanted you to see how light it is.”
“I will not. Everyone I pass thinks Fm the musician. I’ll masquerade till we get to the studio.”
“You won’t have long to pretend,” Dan said. “We’d better hustle. It’s late.”
They dodged in and out among the many people hurrying along Fifth Avenue. Poodles yapped furiously at them. Slender wolfhounds, on leashes, lifted their heads disdainfully. People seemed amused and stood aside as Trixie and her crowd ran, weaving in and out, to arrive, breathless, at the entrance to the studio. Trixie glanced at her watch and realized they had misjudged the time it would take to get there.
“Sorry!” the man at the door said. “No more tickets. You’re just too late, kids. Try another day.”
“Oh, no!” Barbara said, tears springing to her eyes. “We can’t come another day. We’re on the program today. See, here are our guitars.” .
“Sorry, miss. That’s what everyone tells me. The room holds just so many. When it’s full, it’s full.”
Trixie quickly reached into her pocket and pulled out the card that Mr. Meredith, the man from Celebrity Broadcasting Company, had given them the evening he heard Barbara and Bob play and sing. “Will this make any difference?”
“Lady, I’ll say it will.” The man whistled softly to himself. “Why didn’t you say you were invited by the big brass himself?”
“Is Mr. Meredith ‘Mr. Big’?”
“Is he!” the man answered. “Just follow me.”
He led them down a corridor, through several doors marked PRIVATE, until they ended within a few feet of the stage where the show was just ready for the air. “Here you are,” he whispered. “We keep these places for the V.I.P.’s.”
“What did he mean by that?” Barbara whispered to Dan as they quietly settled into their seats.
“ ‘V.I.P.’ means ‘Very Important People,’ ” Dan whispered back. “How about that?”
“Heavens! Imagine! It’s—”
“Wonderful!” Bob finished for her.
“Shhh!” Brian warned. “The show’s on the air.”
The bouncy master of ceremonies stepped onto the stage in front of the microphone just as the clock hand arrived at one o’clock. After he had delivered his usual welcome talk to the audience, he introduced the first act. The lights in the small auditorium dimmed. A pretty teen-age girl sat down at the piano.
Obviously nervous, she played Chopin’s “Polonaise” with growing control of her fingers. When she had finished, everyone applauded vigorously. The girl smiled gratefully.
A band of neighbor women using instruments made of various pots and pans followed. It was obvious that they played together for fun instead of harmony, and everyone laughed with them.
A black man sang “The Impossible Dream.” His voice filled the small studio and beyond. The men in the control room twisted knobs to hold down the volume. When the singer had finished, the entire audience stood to applaud him.
“He’ll be an opera star someday; see if he won’t,” Honey whispered.
Now it was Barbara and Bob’s turn. The master of ceremonies called them to the stage. “These are two young folk singers from Iowa, Bob and Barbara Hubbell. One of our board members, Mr. Meredith, heard them sing and invited them to come here today. They write their own words and music. I’m looking forward to hearing them, just as I am sure you are. Let’s give them a warm welcome.”
Bob and Barbara smiled their appreciation of the applause, then as quickly as possible tuned their guitars and sang:
“The silver moon shone through the crepe myrtle tree,
And a nightingale sang to my Mary and me.
‘We’ll marry in August, my wee lass,’ said I,
‘On a day the sun shines, with no clouds in the sky.’
Shy she was, Mary,
My little white dove,
Golden-haired Mary,
My only true love.
“In the moonlight she put her dear head on my shoulder,
To give her consent; then I happily told her
I’d build a small home for her, claim my sweet wife,
And work with her, serve her throughout all my life.
Shy she was, Mary,
My little white dove,
Golden-haired Mary,
My only true love.”
The twins stopped singing and drew beautiful, dreamy chords from their guitars, running softly up and down the scale till the audience burst into spontaneous applause. Then they sang the last verse slowly, wistfully:
“Alas, oh, my pretty one, alas, oh, my love,
Alas, oh, my sweetheart, my shy little dove.
She sickened and died; now the winter winds blow O’er her grave and her cottage all covered with snow.
Shy she was, Mary,
Love of my life,
Goden-haired Mary,
My true love, my wife.”
When the twins finished singing, everyone was quiet for a few moments. Then they clapped and whistled until Bob and Barbara bowed happily and went back to their seats.
After the show had ended, the master of ceremonies invited Bob and Barbara and their friends to his office backstage.
“You surely stopped the show, kids,” he told them enthusiastically. “The Westons couldn’t have done better—maybe not even as well. Wait a second till I get the phone.” He answered, then listened for a few moments. “It’s for you.” He smiled broadly and handed the receiver to Bob.
As Barbara, all ears, listened, the master of ceremonies said with a broad grin, “It was the Folk Song Publishing Company calling. They wanted to know who owns the copyright to the song you sang.”
“We wrote it,” Barbara said quickly. “It didn’t have to be cleared for public use.”
“I wasn’t worrying about that one bit. I’ll be surprised if they aren’t asking the two of you to sign a contract with them to publish it.”
Bob replaced the receiver slowly. He turned around to the Bob-Whites and his sister and Ned, his face a picture of mixed emotions. “They want to pay us to publish the song!”
“Hallelujah!” Mart took Barbara’s hands and danced around the room. “Boy, is your fortune made!”
The master of ceremonies laughed. “Not quite. It might just catch on, though, and if you’ve written other songs, they’ll want to see them, too; you can be sure of that. They pay on a royalty basis. It could mean a few dollars, and it could mean a lot more than that. Congratulations! Say, there goes the phone again.”
The conversation was short. “It was Mr. Meredith,” the man said with a smile.
“I hope he thought we were all right,” Barbara said quickly.
“You bet he did, Barbara,” the maste
r of ceremonies said. “He said to tell you, you were great. He repeated it twice, and that’s something from Mr. Meredith. He said, too, that he’d talk to you later at home. It’s liable to mean a contract for you. That’ll bring you to New York.”
“I’m afraid not,” Bob spoke for the twins. “We’re only in high school. It was a lot of fun to be on a big program at Celebrity. I hope the kids at home won’t think we have the bighead....”
“Nobody who knows you would think that!” Trixie said fiercely.
“Oh, no,” echoed Honey.
“It’ll be swell to talk to Mr. Meredith,” Barbara declared. “He probably doesn’t want to talk to us about a contract at all, but I know he can give us some good advice about what to do. We could sure use some money from royalties to help with our college fund.”
Back in the apartment, the telephone was ringing as they opened the door. Trixie ran across the room and answered.
“It’s Moms!” she said, turning around to face the others, her eyes shining. “She heard the program. She wants to talk to you, Barbara.”
Barbara talked for a minute, then handed the receiver to Bob.
“Isn’t it great?” he said happily when he turned away. “Bobby talked to me, too. When he likes something, he sure says so, doesn’t he?”
“He’s just as voluble when he doesn’t,” Mart said, laughing. “Did he say he liked the program?”
“He said his dog Reddy did.”
“Wasn’t it wonderful of them to listen?”
“Moms said it was a shame our dad had to miss it,” Trixie said.
“Didn’t you tell her they’re going to show it again on video tape tomorrow night?” Honey asked.
“I forgot. I’ll have to call back. Your father will want to see it, too.”
The telephone rang again.
“That’ll be Mother,” Honey said. “I know she was listening. I’ll tell her about the video tape and tell her to call your mother, Trixie. She’s probably had everyone around our house and grounds listening. Hello... Mother?”
Honey was right. When Mrs. Wheeler finished talking, Dan’s uncle talked to him. To put a finishing touch to the excitement, a telegram came from Rivervale, Iowa.
“Gosh! Mom and Dad liked it, too,” Bob said and handed the wire to Barbara. “I never in the world thought a little thing like singing a song or two would stir up such a breeze. I feel chesty enough to push over the Empire State Building. We are going there tonight, aren’t we?”
Close Call ● 12
THIS IS ONE DAY where nothing happened to carry out that fortune-teller’s prophecy that impresses you so much,” Mart told Trixie that evening as they prepared to leave for the Empire State Building.
“The day isn’t over yet,” Honey reminded him. “Is it, Trixie?”
Trixie didn’t answer right away. At Mart’s mention of the prophecy, she took it from her purse. “There is something here about the broadcast,” she announced triumphantly after a moment. “Listen to this!
“When guitars play, thieves linger ’round,
But not till later are they found.”
“It sounds mysterious,” Mart admitted. “They didn’t show up, though, did they?”
“ ‘Not till later are they found,’ ” Trixie repeated.
“Oh, rubbish, you pay so much attention to that paper, you’d think Nostradamus himself wrote the prophecy,” Mart said scornfully.
“Whoever he is,” Trixie answered.
“Mart can tell you. He knows practically everything,” Diana said proudly. “Anyway, if I thought that Mexican woman was right all the time, I’d be scared to go outside the apartment.”
“There’s something in what Diana says,” Miss Trask remarked, overhearing the conversation. “I don’t believe in the prophecy for one minute, but I do know that those two men, or three men, or whoever they are, seem to want that statue of Trixie’s. I don’t think she should be carrying it around with her all the time.”
“They’ll break in here and steal it if I leave it in the apartment.”
“Let me take it—tonight, at least.” Miss Trask’s voice was anxious.
“Miss Trask! We don’t want anything to happen to you any more than we want it to happen to Trixie,” said Honey.
“Wait just a minute, everyone. I never go anyplace alone except to the hospital and back, and always in a taxi. Let me take it for the present. Tomorrow, why don’t you look around that antique store where you bought it, Trixie, and see if you can discover anything more.”
Reluctantly, Trixie gave the little idol to Miss Trask, who tucked it into her purse. “If you don’t find out anything more about it at the antique store tomorrow, don’t you think we’d better turn it over to the police?” Miss Trask was obviously worried.
“No... no, I don’t think so.” Trixie shook her head. “It would just gather dust in the police station. The police have so many important things to look after. I’ve grown quite attached to the ugly little thing, anyway.”
“Trixie’s right about the police,” Dan said. “I keep telling you that the police haven’t a thing to work on in this case. His nibs is getting under my skin now. I have to find out who and what he is. Tomorrow I’ll go with you, Trix, and do some sleuthing.”
It wasn’t much of a drive from Central Park West to the Empire State Building. Bob and Barbara rode with Jim and Trixie.
As they rounded the corner of the huge New York City Library, Jim pointed out the crouching lions guarding the entrance. “They’re about as ferocious-looking as the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz!”
“Our English teacher at home told us the main reading room in that library is two blocks long. That couldn’t possibly be true, could it, Jim?” Barbara turned her head to look back at the building.
“It could be,” Jim answered. “The building covers a huge area. It has over seven million books on its shelves. You should go inside, Barbara. The Jefferson draft of the Declaration of Independence is on permanent exhibit there. We’re coming to the Empire State now. Seems as though we could have walked here faster. It wasn’t your fault,” Jim quickly told the driver. “It was a miracle you ever got through that traffic at all.”
“Anyone who wants my job can have it at this time of night,” the driver answered. “One thing you can remember: If you rid^ with me, you won’t get your pocket picked.. It happens all the time out there in that mob.”
“That’s one of the reasons we ride,” Jim told him. “And thank you very much.”
Inside the magnificent lobby, the twins and Ned gazed wonderingly at the strange modernistic mural on the walls, then at the mass of elevator doors.
“There must be a hundred elevators!” Bob said, awed. “Gosh!”
Trixie took Barbara’s hand in hers. “Very near a hundred. When we get on one, it will go faster than any elevator you’ve ever been on in your life, Bob. Stand right here beside me, Barbara.”
Trixie needn’t have bothered for fear Barbara would be afraid. As the elevator shot up the granite shaft, the girl from Iowa cried out exultantly.
Not so Diana. “My ears!” she wailed. “They’re popping so. What did you say, Trixie? I can’t hear you.”
“I said to click your back teeth together, and that will stop the popping.”
‘I did it!” Diana said after a moment. “It’s heavenly! Oh, there they go again!”
“Click them again. Then don’t swallow!”
“I’m glad you told Di that,” Bob said. “I had the same trouble with my ears. We must have gone a thousand feet a minute.”
The passengers were discharged at the eightieth floor. There they took another elevator to the eighty-sixth floor, where the first balcony was located.
Diana was still shaking, so Trixie went with her into the enclosed area to wait till she calmed down a little. The others hurried out to the promenade, where they stood leaning against the rails, watching the quick-changing panorama far below. Trixie and Diana soon joined the group again
.
“Over there against the sky is the tip of the Chrysler Building,” Brian explained. “Beyond it, below, is the East River. You can see the cars crossing the Queensboro Bridge.”
“It’s like a blur of ribbons trailed by tiny ants,” Barbara said, awed. “What is that big space on the ground filled with lights like stars?”
“Central Park,” Trixie told her. “Can you find the theater district?”
“I can!” Bob cried. “It’s right down there, isn’t it? Gosh! No wonder they call it the ‘Great White Way.’ Say, I wouldn’t have missed this for a million. I’ll bet we’re higher up in the sky right now than we were on the plane that brought us to New York.”
“What if a guy were up here on this floor and the elevators stopped running?” Ned asked. “Would he have to walk?”
“I guess so,” Brian replied. “Some Norwegian ski jumpers climbed up here just for kicks one time. It took them only twenty-five minutes.”
“Plus all their wind for a week, I’ll bet,” Bob said with a laugh. “Did you just make that up, Brian?”
“Nope. It’s true.”
“Remember what the White Queen in Alice in Wonderland said?” Trixie asked. “ ‘I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.’ ”
“Yeah? You can be sure she lived in Manhattan and not in England as the book says.” Dan smiled.
Bob and Barbara and Ned walked around the high parapet two or three times, all the while asking the Bob-Whites to point out on the ground below some of the places where they had visited.
“There’s a blaze of light like the North Star right over us,” Ned said. “Where is it coming from?”
“It’s the Beacon of the Four Freedoms,” Trixie answered. “Isn’t it magnificent? When the weather is just right, those beams can be seen eighty miles away. Helen Keller came up here one time—she was deaf and blind, you know—but after she’d stood here, she went home and wrote an article. In it she said, ‘The sun and stars are suburbs of New York, and I never knew it.’ ”
The Mystery of the Blinking Eye Page 9