The Girl Detective Megapack: 25 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Mildred A. Wirt

  “But I warned you, Mrs. Dillon,” Penny cried in exasperation. “Why did you do it?”

  “Because I couldn’t help myself,” the woman wailed. “My friend—the agent convinced me that if I didn’t complete the payments I would get into serious trouble with the police—that we both would be disgraced.”

  “And you believed his story! He only cheated you!”

  “No, he wouldn’t do that,” Mrs. Dillon replied firmly. “This gentleman’s reputation is above reproach. He couldn’t have known any more than I did that the Rembrandt was a fake.”

  “The only thing for you to do now is to reveal everything,” Penny urged. “Tell me the name of this man.”

  “No, I can’t. I have promised to keep silent.”

  “Mrs. Dillon, I am unable to understand your attitude. Don’t you want to help capture the persons who tricked you?”

  “Yes, I’ll do anything I can except reveal this gentleman’s identity. I’ll learn from him the name of the firm where the picture was bought and notify the police.”

  Penny made a grimace which Mrs. Dillon could not see. After a moment’s silence, she asked bluntly:

  “Is it Hanley Cron whom you are protecting?”

  “Certainly not,” Mrs. Dillon retorted, and hung up the receiver.

  “I wonder if she told the truth?” Penny thought, turning from the telephone. “At least she was afraid to answer any more questions.”

  It occurred to the girl that if Hanley Cron were not the mysterious agent who had visited Mrs. Dillon the previous afternoon, then the caller must have been the elderly gentleman with the black leather brief case. Recalling that she still had the license number of the man’s car, Penny thought that it might be well to show it to her father and ask him to trace the owner for her. Mr. Nichols would soon be coming home for it was nearly dinner time.

  Penny searched in her purse but the notebook was not there.

  “Mrs. Gallup, have you seen a little green paper-covered book anywhere in the house?” she inquired anxiously.

  “I saw it in your room this morning,” the housekeeper informed. “I think it was on the dresser.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember now, that was where I left it!” Penny laughed in relief.

  She raced up the stairs two at a time, forgetting that she had ever been tired. To her delight the little book was lying just where she had dropped it.

  She caught it up, rereading the notations which she had made the previous day. Hearing her father’s car on the driveway, she slipped the notebook into her pocket and turned to leave. As she crossed to the door, her eye chanced to rove toward the desk. She stared in blank amazement.

  The Black Imp was gone.

  CHAPTER XVII

  “Private—Keep Out”

  Penny’s cry of alarm brought Mrs. Gallup hurrying up the stairs.

  “What is the matter?” the housekeeper asked anxiously.

  “The Black Imp is gone!” Penny exclaimed. “Did you do anything with it?”

  “Why, no. It was on the desk the last time I saw it.”

  “It isn’t there now. Someone has stolen it!”

  “Nonsense!” Mrs. Gallup said impatiently. “Who would want that little statue? If a thief entered the house he would take things of greater value than that. You must have put it in a different place and forgotten about it.”

  “Oh, but I didn’t, Mrs. Gallup. The Imp was on the desk this morning when I left the house.”

  “Well, I’ve not seen it.” The housekeeper began to open bureau drawers, for despite Penny’s words she was not entirely convinced that the girl had left the statue on the desk. Penny often misplaced cherished possessions only to spend an unhappy hour trying to recall where she had deposited them.

  “It’s no use to search, Mrs. Gallup,” she wailed disconsolately. “The Black Imp is gone and will never be found.”

  “But no one has been in the house all day.”

  “The window is open,” Penny observed. “I know I closed it this morning before I left the house.”

  The bedroom overlooked a porch against which stood a sturdy rose trellis. It would be a simple matter for a thief to reach the window by means of it. Once when Penny had found herself locked out of the house she had tested the trellis and discovered that it made an excellent ladder.

  “I did go away for an hour this afternoon,” Mrs. Gallup admitted. “I went to the grocery store.”

  “That would be long enough for a thief to enter the house.”

  “But I’m sure nothing else is missing,” Mrs. Gallup maintained. “It doesn’t seem reasonable that anyone would steal a little statue—an unfinished one at that.”

  Mr. Nichols had entered the house by the rear door. He called from below:

  “Anyone home?”

  “We’re upstairs,” Penny shouted down. “A thief has been in the house!”

  The detective joined the two in the bedroom. “What’s all the excitement?” he demanded.

  “The Black Imp has been stolen!” Penny informed.

  “It seems to be missing,” Mrs. Gallup corrected, “but I can’t believe anyone would want that lump of clay.”

  Mr. Nichols did not reply as he surveyed the room. Nothing appeared to be out of place. He noted the open window instantly and crossed over to it.

  “The thief entered here,” he said.

  “That was what I was trying to tell Mrs. Gallup,” Penny cried triumphantly.

  The detective picked up something from the window ledge. It was a strand of gray wool which had caught on a rough board.

  He then stepped out on the top of the porch and crossed over to the place where the rose trellis projected.

  “Be careful,” Mrs. Gallup warned anxiously as she saw that the detective intended to climb down the fragile wooden framework.

  “The trellis is strong enough to hold a man much heavier than myself,” Mr. Nichols replied. “And I see the thief came this way too!”

  “How can you tell?” Penny questioned eagerly.

  “The rose bush has been broken off in several places.”

  Mrs. Gallup was somewhat disconcerted by the discovery. Fearing that other things besides the Black Imp might have been stolen she hastened downstairs to make a thorough search. Penny joined her father outside the house.

  “What do you make of it, Dad?” she inquired. “Why did the thief break in?”

  “Obviously for the Black Imp.”

  “But who would be interested in it and for what reason?”

  “I can’t answer that one, Penny. But I’m wondering if this theft could have anything to do with Max Lynch’s visit to my office.”

  “He appeared frightened when he saw the Imp on your desk!” Penny recalled.

  “Yes, he turned and fled without revealing his mission.”

  “And directly after that your office was ransacked.”

  “Yes, but that may or may not have had any connection.”

  “Then I noticed a man prowling about the house,” Penny continued. “He must have been the one who stole the Imp!”

  “You weren’t able to furnish a very good description of the man.”

  “No, I caught only a fleeting glimpse of his face.”

  “It wasn’t Max Lynch?”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t, Dad. I’d have recognized him instantly, for his appearance is distinctive.”

  Mr. Nichols bent down to examine a footprint in the soft earth beneath the rose trellis. He measured it with his hand.

  “The thief must wear about a size eleven shoe,” he mentioned, “and a gray suit of excellent quality. Other than that, I’m afraid we have no clues.”

  “Why should anyone want my copy of the Black Imp?” Penny repeated in a bewildered tone. “Dad, you don’t suppose Hanley Cron considered it his property and dared to take it?”

  “That’s a possibility,” Mr. Nichols agreed after a moment of thought. “From the first his connection with the Imp has been odd to say the least. I’ll hav
e a talk with him tomorrow and see what I can learn.”

  When Penny and her father entered the house, Mrs. Gallup was still searching the lower floor.

  “Anything more missing?” the detective asked.

  “Not that I can discover. The silver is all here.”

  “Apparently only the Black Imp was taken,” Mr. Nichols said musingly. “That little figure must guard some important secret.”

  “I never dreamed it could be valuable,” Penny said. “I liked it only because it was a copy of Amy’s statue. I thought the work rather crude.”

  “I doubt that the figure has any intrinsic value,” Mr. Nichols answered slowly, “but for some unknown reason, it’s highly important to the man who stole it.”

  That evening Penny accompanied her chum, Susan, to a moving picture show, but although the bill was an exceptionally good one, she found it difficult to center her attention upon the screen. She kept thinking of the Black Imp and wishing that she could recover it or at least solve the mystery of its strange disappearance.

  “I’m afraid I’ll just have to forget it,” she thought gloomily, “but at least I’m making a little headway in tracing the persons who may know something about the stolen Rembrandt.”

  Penny was convinced that if only she could maintain a patient vigil at the Post Office, in time the ex-museum worker would appear there for his mail. The next morning found her at her usual station, determined not to become discouraged by failure.

  For three long hours she kept faithful watch of the General Delivery window. A great many persons came and went but no one who remotely resembled Mr. Hoges. Penny became aware of a growing hunger although it was not yet noon. She noticed a restaurant directly across the street.

  “I’ll slip over there and have a sandwich,” she decided. “It will only take a minute.”

  The restaurant was crowded. It was impossible for Penny to find a table near the window. She was forced to sit at the rear of the room and other diners blocked her view of the street.

  She hastily ate her sandwich and returned to the post office. Scarcely had she taken her position near the door, when the clerk at the General Delivery window signaled her.

  “Weren’t you the girl who wanted to see George Hoges?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “He just called for his mail a few minutes ago.”

  Penny’s heart sank. After waiting nearly two days she had missed the man. And it was entirely her own fault.

  “You didn’t see which direction he went?”

  “No, I didn’t,” the clerk answered. “But he left only a minute or so before you came in.”

  “Then maybe I can still catch him,” Penny said hopefully.

  She ran from the building, pausing on the outside steps to survey the street. A man who from a distance resembled the ex-museum worker was just turning the corner.

  “I believe it’s Mr. Hoges!” she thought excitedly.

  Penny raced to the corner. The man was only a little ways ahead, and as he paused for an instant to glance into a shop window, she caught a glimpse of his face. It was George Hoges.

  Penny’s original intention had been to question the man, but now she slightly altered her plan. She would follow him.

  The ex-museum worker walked rapidly down the street with Penny in close pursuit. However, she took care not to draw too near, fearing that he might glance back and recognize her.

  At first Hoges kept to the main streets, but presently he turned toward a section which was somewhat deserted. Penny was forced to drop farther behind. They came soon to a factory district with many vacant buildings, similar in many respects to the Franklyn Street section.

  Hoges halted in front of an old building, and disappeared inside. When Penny drew near a minute later, he was nowhere to be seen.

  The office directory was of no use, for not a single listed name was familiar to the girl. However, Penny had a suspicion that the man she sought might have engaged the top floor of the building. She was thinking of mounting the stairs when the janitor appeared.

  “Looking for someone?” he inquired.

  “Yes, but I don’t know his name,” Penny replied. “He is an artist I think.”

  “The top floor is rented to a firm of commercial artists,” the man informed.

  “That must be the place I’m looking for. Thank you.”

  Penny slowly mounted four long flights of stairs, pausing at the top landing to regain her breath.

  She observed with keen interest that several doors opened off the hallway and each bore a freshly lettered sign:

  “Private—Keep Out.”

  Penny glanced down the stairs to make certain that the janitor had not followed her. Then she tiptoed along the hall, pausing by the first door to listen. She could hear an indistinct murmur of voices. Now and then she caught a few words.

  “The girl sent it back,” she overheard. And then, a moment later: “We’ll have to find someone to do her work. She may take it into her silly head to squeal too.”

  Could the men be speaking of Amy Coulter? Penny felt sure that the letter Hoges had received at General Delivery had come from her.

  A loud creaking sound from the direction of the stairway caused Penny to straighten up and listen intently. Someone was coming! While it might be only the janitor she did not wish to be seen. Frantically, she glanced about for a hiding place.

  At the end of the hall a broom closet stood with door slightly ajar. She darted to it and shut herself inside, leaving a wide crack through which she could look out.

  The corridor was dark. At first she could not see the newcomer very plainly. She distinguished only a tall, shadowy form.

  However, as he paused at the very door where Penny had stood listening only a moment before, she caught an excellent glimpse of his face. She saw then, with a start of recognition, that it was Hanley Cron.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Captured

  The art critic rapped three times on the door. It opened instantly and closed after him as he vanished inside.

  After waiting a few minutes, Penny tiptoed back down the hall. Her suspicions had been aroused and she was determined to learn what was going on inside the room.

  She paused at the door and listened again. She could hear voices but this time it was impossible to catch even a word.

  Penny moved on to the next door. She gently turned the knob. The door was locked. So were all the others along the corridor until she came to the last one.

  To Penny’s surprise, it opened. Cautiously, she peeped inside. The room appeared to be empty. She entered.

  It was only a small office, empty of furniture. A few papers were scattered over the bare floor, but upon examination Penny found them of no significance. It was clear that if she were to learn anything of value, she must find a means of entering the room where Hanley Cron, the ex-museum worker and the others were talking.

  An inside door opened into an adjoining room. Penny was elated to find it unlocked. But her satisfaction was of short duration, for the next office likewise was empty and devoid of any clues.

  By placing her ear against the north wall, she was able to hear the three men talking. It was provoking to be so close and yet unable to learn what they were saying. She felt convinced that if only she could hear their conversation, a great many puzzling matters might be cleared up.

  Presently, Penny heard a door slam. She peeped out into the hallway in time to see Cron, Hoges and another man disappearing down the stairway.

  “The coast is clear now!” she thought. “If I can just find some way to enter that room while they’re away!”

  She made another tour of the hall, trying the door. As she had anticipated it was locked.

  Returning to the room she had just left, she went to the window and looked out. A wide ledge of stone extended along the wall of the building, connecting the windows. At best it offered a dangerous footing. Yet Penny was tempted to try to reach the adjoining room by means of it, for there w
as no other way to gain admittance.

  She raised the window and looked down. Her courage nearly failed her. While the ledge was wide, it meant a long fall and instant death should she become dizzy and lose her balance.

  “I can do it—easy,” Penny told herself grimly.

  Climbing out on the ledge, she clutched an overhanging telephone wire for support and cautiously eased herself along, an inch at a time. She kept her gaze ahead, resisting the temptation to glance toward the deserted street.

  She reached the next window which was open an inch at the bottom. The gap provided a finger-hold and enabled her to raise the window. With a sigh of intense relief, she dropped lightly to the floor.

  She found herself in a large, studio room, well illuminated by two sky lights. Obviously, several artists had been working there, for the place was cluttered with easels, palettes, and discarded paintings. A number of pictures of uniform size stood in a little pile, face downward.

  Curiously, Penny lifted one to gaze at it.

  “The stolen Rembrandt!” she gasped.

  Then she knew better. It was only a copy, identical with the one she had viewed at Mrs. Dillon’s home.

  She lifted the other pictures and looked at them. They were all the same.

  “So this is where Mrs. Dillon’s fake came from!” she thought. “The men who rented this place apparently are manufacturing Rembrandts in wholesale quantities!”

  At the other side of the room she noticed a picture which was only half finished, and beside it a canvas covered easel. She crossed over to lift the protecting cloth.

  Still another Rembrandt was revealed.

  “Just a copy,” Penny told herself, and started to replace the canvas.

  Then she looked at the picture again. It did not look exactly like the others. The detail was the same, yet this painting seemed to have a depth and quality which the others lacked. Penny wondered if it could be the original Rembrandt, the priceless painting which had been stolen from the Gage Galleries.

  “I believe it is!” she decided.

  As Penny stood gazing at the picture, she was dismayed to hear footsteps in the hallway. Frantically, she looked about for a hiding place.

  It was too late to escape through the window. The only refuge available was a clothes closet.