Suddenly Arden spoke. “Let me off near the library, Sim, will you?” she asked. “I’ll get a cab back. I’m going to see if I can’t find a book with something about Jockey Hollow. I’ve heard so much, I’m greedy for more.”
“We can wait for you, Arden,” Sim answered. “It’s not so very late, and it’s only beginning to snow. You might not get a cab handy.”
“No, I’d rather you didn’t,” Arden objected. “I want to take my time. Besides, you’ve got the top down, and Moselle will be worried. You go along and I’ll come later,” she insisted, pulling her collar up closer around her neck.
Sim finally agreed and turned toward the village, where she dropped Arden at the corner nearest the library, so she wouldn’t have to turn around. Sim was not yet an expert driver and often went blocks out of her way to avoid turning. Arden stood at the corner and waved goodbye as her friends continued on their way. The corner drugstore was brilliantly lighted, and the usual group of men was hanging about the entrance, leaning up against the window, talking and laughing. They were the least desirable element in the town, lazy and shiftless and, somehow, they always gathered together.
Titus Ellery was in this group, Arden noticed, as she hurried along. A thin man, unshaven and carelessly dressed, Arden gave him a glance out of the corner of her eye. His booming voice rang out on the night air, for he made no effort to control it, and Arden could not help hearing him say:
“Swears he don’t know a thing about it. But there’s a chance to pick up some easy money. If we can do it. Thing is to find the stuff. It’s around there some place, I’ll bet. That old Mrs. Howe ain’t as dumb as she looks. You got the job all right, Nick?”
Arden started. Could she stop and learn some more, or would they become suspicious and stop talking? She thought suddenly of a plan and, entering the store, bought some powder she did not need, emerging just in time to hear the man called “Nick” laugh rancorously and say: “That Callahan’s got his job cut out for him. Every black man in Pentville’s scared to death. I didn’t have no trouble gettin’ him to hire me.”
“Good!” exclaimed Ellery. “Then tomorrow—”
But Arden could linger no longer and so continued reluctantly down the street to the library, although she was now anxious to get back and tell the others what she had heard. She reasoned nothing could be done that night, so she would try again to locate the books in which she hoped to find important details.
It was almost closing time when she reached the library, and the place was deserted except for a young girl putting books back on the shelves.
Arden approached her. “Are you Betty Howe?” she asked impulsively.
The girl looked at her coldly. “No, she’s not here this afternoon. May I help you?” She flashed a brief professional library smile.
Arden felt rebuffed and explained that she had come for a book on the history of Jockey Hollow.
“We haven’t very much on the subject. Most of the papers and maps telling about it were destroyed in a fire years ago. There is this book, though,” she said, and going to a shelf took a thin red book from it. “They say Richard Howe, the old one, that is, refused to trust his papers to anyone but himself and they were lost when a fire broke out in Sycamore Hall while he was still living. Betty says the deeds to the old place were lost then also.”
Arden took the book eagerly. It was pitifully small, she thought regretfully, but thanked the librarian and, after having it stamped, left to get one of the rickety village cabs and tell the girls all about it.
It was odd though that Betty Howe was not there, and she had not appeared at tea, either. “Oh, well,” thought Arden, “perhaps she’s gone into New York or some place.” And holding the precious book close to her, she climbed into old Pop Warner’s car and told him to take her to Sim’s house. He was a talkative old man, and he knew Arden and her friends quite well. He seemed to know a lot about them, in fact, and asked her question after question as he drove her to Sim’s. She squirmed with impatience and then sat bolt upright as he asked in his squeaky voice:
“Heard you was chased by a ghost in Sycamore Hall! What would your dad say if he knew you was galavantin’ around there? No place for young ladies, I’ll say! Stay on your own side of the railroad tracks.” Then he lapsed into silence as he turned into the driveway.
“What do you mean, Mr. Warner?” Arden asked quickly. “Who told you we were there?”
“I hear things in this business. People always talk when they’re riding along. There’s bound to be fire where there’s smoke,” he chuckled. “If I was you, I’d let well enough alone. Hannah Howe is a smart woman,” he managed to say as the car stopped with a jerk. “That’ll be fifty cents.” He took the money and started away after a curt, “G’afternoon.”
Arden felt rather suffused with the day’s adventures. There had been Granny’s story; then the overheard remarks from those men at the drugstore, and last but not least, the insinuations of the old cab driver.
At any rate, she had news for the girls, and she hurried up the drive and into the house to give it to them. This historical study was fast becoming a deep-dyed mystery, decided Arden.
CHAPTER X
The Missing Man
Sim, Terry, and Dot were gathered in the big living room quietly talking over their visit with Granny Howe, when Arden burst in on them in great excitement and blurted out her newest and latest story.
The “crime sheet,” as they had come to call the history of the Jockey Hollow ghost story, was hurriedly taken from the locked drawer of their desk, and Arden wrote in the three new suspicious characters: Titus Ellery, Pop Warner, and the mysterious dark man mentioned as Nick.
“We’ll have to go over to the Hall the first thing in the morning: they begin work early,” Arden decided as she finished entering her report. “Something is going to happen, I’m sure, and we don’t want to miss it. Those men at the drugstore seemed ready to pop.”
“Suppose that Callahan person just tells us to go away—what then?” questioned Sim.
“Granny told us we could go through the house, and if he says anything contrary we’ll tell him Mrs. Howe gave us permission. I guess he won’t put up any objections then,” Terry said decidedly.
So the next morning the girls tumbled out of their warm beds and dressed quickly in riding clothes, that sort of outfit being most practical for the day ahead. The dead white snow covered everything, rounding out sharp stones and smoothing corners like a layer of lovely new downy cotton. Apparently it had continued snowing for some time during the night, but now the sun was shining with a dazzling brightness and a deep blue sky promised fair weather for the day.
The girls ate a big breakfast, which pleased Moselle. She was also pleased to make sure that the girls had suddenly become too busy to bother with the house, so the precious task was all her own.
Sim got the little car out and waited impatiently while Terry went back for a woolly scarf, but she nearly exploded when Arden, as soon as Terry returned, discovered she had forgotten her gloves and had to go back for them. Eventually they got going, only to stop when Sim noticed the gasoline gage showed nearly “empty.” She decided she would have to drive to town for gas.
“Oh, Sim!” exclaimed Dot impatiently, “we’ve got enough to go out to the Hall and back. It will only take more time to go to a station.”
“Yes, Sim, we won’t be driving any place else. Don’t go now,” Terry begged.
But Sim was firm, and they headed toward town and stopped at a filling station, the other girls glaring at their little blonde chauffeur while the tank was being filled.
“I believe in being prepared,” Sim lectured, paying the service man. “How do you know where we’ll be before night?”
The words were prophetic, though Sim didn’t realize it, for they were destined to have a queer experience that very day.
When they reached the road that led down to Sycamore Hall, the Hollow now being covered with snow, they saw tire tra
cks stretching before them. The workmen were there, of course. And they were late!
Parked in the spot they thought of as their own special place was an open truck with the name “Callahan—Contractor” painted on the back. Knowing what that meant, they looked at each other with questioning dismay. Callahan himself must be there and would not be likely to leave at once. Even as they wondered, he came marching out of the Hall, a smile on his broad ruddy face, and nonchalantly came over to their car.
Giving a tug at the brim of his shapeless soft hat he said jovially: “Well, we’re back on the job again, ya’ see. I’ve got a fine bunch of men there now. Not ordinary laborers. These men don’t believe in ghosts,” and taking a big black cigar from a pocket he bit off the end and searched in his pockets for a match.
Sim reached over Terry’s knees, took the detachable cigarette lighter from the dash board, and smilingly handed it to the man. They watched to see what that might do.
The girls could hear the men stamping the snow off their feet in the empty house, now and then a loud crash as an iron bar or tool was carelessly dropped. The voices of the men, in good-natured badinage, floated out on the brisk air; then came shouts of laughter. Peal on peal, deep rumbling laughter, and the lighter sounds mingling together. What could this mean?
Mr. Callahan turned a pleased face to Sim as he handed back the lighter. “There! These men didn’t run. I guess they’re onto the trick.” He started toward the house, then stopped and said: “If you girls want to see the ghost you may as well. Come in with me, I’ll show you what’s been scaring my men.” There was a bragging tone in his hearty voice, and a confident tread in his heavy stride.
The girls needed no urging, quickly getting out of the car and following the triumphant lead of the contractor through the light snow. Once inside, he went straight to the top of the house, walking with a precision that showed his determination. Now he would “tell the world,” his attitude seemed to declare.
Reaching the third floor they found the men still merry. They were in a room similar to that where the suspected ghostly bed was, on the floor below. As the boss, with the girls, came in, it was clear the men were trying to look businesslike.
“What’s the joke?” asked Callahan bruskly. “What’s all the laughing about?”
A young man wearing a windbreaker jacket and awkwardly holding a crowbar spoke first.
“We heard groans coming from the chimney, and Pete opened the chute in the fireplace and threw down a brick. I guess we hit the ghost, the noise stopped so quick,” chuckled the workman.
“Ghost, my eye!” exclaimed another man. “Probably it was a cat or something caught in there. Well, you finished him anyway, Pete,” and they were ready to laugh again.
Arden and the girls drew closer together. “There is that Nick,” whispered Arden to Dot, indicating a man in the group who alone showed no amusement. He was covertly glancing at his companions, and suddenly he left the room.
In an instant he was back, bringing with him another man. Both were seriously excited.
“Any of you guys seen Jim? He was working with me across the hall, but he ain’t here now,” declared the new man.
“He didn’t come here,” answered the man who had spoken before. “What’s the matter? You look worried.”
Callahan stood facing the newcomer, dismay slowly blotting out the pleased expression on his face. Was this more trouble? Was ever a man so followed by bad luck? What was going on in this old house, anyway?
“What’s your trouble?” Callahan was once more the boss contractor.
“I can’t find Jim. He was with me, and we were sizin’ up the room, figurin’ on how she would tear apart. I was at one end and Jim at another, near a closet. I saw him go in. Then I heard a funny noise, sort of groan, and when I turned around—Jim wasn’t there!”
CHAPTER XI
Callahan Collapses
“Nonsense!” snorted Callahan, chewing on the end of his cigar. “He’s probably downstairs.”
“No, sir, I looked! Jim ain’t so well. He’s been sick, and this is the first time he’s been out on a job in quite a while,” the workman said. “He’s a swell feller. I’ve known him a long time. I’m afraid he’s hurt.”
“How could he be hurt? He hasn’t even begun to work. Show me the room you were in.” The contractor spoke disgustedly.
They all started for the room across the hall. The men were in various kinds of working clothes, one or two wearing ordinary business suits. These were the better class, who needed the work. Then there were regular house-wreckers in stout shoes and overalls. As a background there were the girls in their smart riding habits and bright scarfs following Callahan, whose cigar was now reduced to a soggy brown mass.
In the room from which the man Jim Danton had disappeared was a conglomeration of furniture. Old chairs and a rickety table piled in a group in one corner, a huge wicker clothes hamper that had been turned upside down, perhaps in the hope that Jim would fall out.
The girls could not suppress a giggle, it was so silly, and some of the men snickered too. But Jim was nowhere to be seen.
“Here’s where I last saw him standing. Right here; but he wasn’t there when I looked.” The man who had been about to begin work with the missing Jim indicated the far end of the room.
Callahan strode over with Napoleon-like firmness. A door was closed, there; a closet door. With a huge red hand the contractor grasped the knob and wrenched it open. There was an expectant silence, then Callahan took a step forward to see better. The closet was empty!
The group pressed nearer. Three sides of dark wood but nothing more. The contractor thumped the walls vigorously.
“You’re crazy, man!” he said to the puzzled wrecker. “Jim never disappeared from here.”
“Well, he disappeared from some place. He’s not here now,” insisted the friend of Jim.
Callahan was clearly disgusted. Just when everything seemed to be going well at last, something new had to crop up. What silly persons these men were. Like a bunch of sheep. Because a few dumb workers claimed they had seen a ghost, these men, who ought to have more sense, were already showing signs of fright because one of their group could not be found. The contractor pulled his battered gray hat down over one eye and produced a new cigar from an apparently endless supply. Then began the slapping of his pockets for matches. He looked vaguely at Sim as though remembering that she had come to his rescue before, but this time she stared back at him uncomprehending.
Callahan went to the head of the stairs and shouted over the banister. “Danton!” he called, his powerful voice booming through the house. “Jim Danton!”
But not even an echo answered him and, giving the cigar a vicious bite, he strode over to the window. “Hey, you, Danton, come here!” he shouted, but the result was the same as before.
“Maybe he got sick and started home,” timidly suggested Sim in a voice that sounded ridiculously small after the Gargantuan tones of Mr. Callahan.
“Oh, no, miss,” answered the worried worker. “He couldn’t go back till the truck came to take him and all of us out the main road. He lives too far. Besides, this job meant a lot to Jim. It’s the first work he’s had in months.”
There was a discontented murmur growing among the men, and Arden could see the man whom Titus Ellery called “Nick” circulating among them and saying something in an insistent low tone. They were talking in a little group near the door of the room while Callahan questioned Jim’s particular friend more closely.
Arden stepped to the open door of the closet and peered inside. Then she stooped down, and when she straightened up again she held up a small grimy object.
She turned and faced the awe-struck company, for what she was displaying was a glove such as workmen wear, of a dull white color with a dark-blue knitted band at the wrist.
“That’s his glove!” exclaimed the man near Mr. Callahan. “I was with him when he bought the pair. Jim said his hands were soft from not work
ing in so long; he needed gloves.”
At this discovery the men who had been talking quietly now showed open revolt. One fellow dropped a crowbar he had been carrying. It fell with a crash and seemed to startle them all into activity.
“Not quitting, are you?” the contractor asked, sneering. “Fine bunch of men, you are!”
“We sure are quitting, Mr. Callahan! We don’t mind ghosts; but when a man disappears in broad daylight, that’s too much.” It was the sinister Nick who spoke. Arden thought he seemed pleased at his announcement.
The men near by shook their heads in agreement, and some put on their coats as they prepared to leave.
The weary Callahan sank helplessly down on a pile of boards and pushed his hat back on his head. This, surely, was the last straw! The men straggled out of the old house. The girls followed them. In a little while the contractor also came out.
CHAPTER XII
A Strange Discovery
There appeared to be a spirit of uncertainty among the workmen. They were not like the workers who had previously “seen ghosts.” These new workmen were not superstitious. But even they, white-collar-class, as they were called, seemed suddenly given to some strange and nerve-racking fear. They wanted to hurry away from the old Hall where such a strange thing had seemingly just happened, but felt they owed a certain allegiance to their missing fellow worker if not to the burly and baffled boss, Callahan.
“I say, fellows,” one of the men began, “I wonder if we shouldn’t do something about Jim before we leave.”
“What can we do?” faltered the man who had dropped the heavy bar.
It was here that Arden Blake saw her opportunity. Stepping forward with a manner and air that her girl friends warmly complimented her about, she called:
“Are you going to leave without trying to find that missing man?”
“But how can we find him?” a voice from the huddled group asked. “He just disappeared. We can’t find him. There’s nowhere even to look.”
The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 167