After thanking the police chief, Nancy went back to her salad making. She had no sooner finished washing the lettuce and the escarole when the telephone rang again.
'Til get it, Hannah," Nancy said, drying her hands. "I've a feeling it's for me, anyway."
She was right. The caller was Mr. Gregory, the museum curator.
"I've just had a talk with that New York art expert I mentioned, Nancy," Mr. Gregory reported. "He's a specialist in French art of the period around 1800. In his opinion, our museum painting by Antoine Grivet is almost certainly a portrait of a French nobleman, the Comte d'Auvergne!"
18. The Old Gowns
The next morning was a brisk, sunshiny day. Nancy was delighted when she looked out the window. She was already intending to drive to the little crossroads village of Alton, where Professor Crawford's daughter lived, and show her the snapshot from Louise Duval's album. Today would be perfect for her drive into the country!
After breakfast, she telephoned Bess Marvin to invite her to come along.
"Oh gee, Nancy, I can't! I have an appointment with the dentist," Bess lamented. "But George is here. Want to ask her?"
"Yes, great! I was going to call her next, anyhow, so we could make it a threesome."
After a few minutes' talk with an eager George, Nancy arranged to pick her up at Bess's place in fifteen minutes. "Oh, and George," Nancy added, "please ask Bess to meet us here at my house for lunch when we get back. Then we can all have a good chat."
Bess had already left to keep her appointment when Nancy parked in front of the Mar-vins' house. George came running out of the door, her coat and scarf flying in the wind, before Nancy could turn off the engine.
"Golly, what fun!" George said breathlessly as she jumped into the car and slammed the door. "The woods'll be beautiful, with the leaves all turning! By the way, what're we going to investigate today?"
Nancy told her. "But first I have to stop at Westmoor U.," she added, "and talk to Professor Schmidt in the history department."
When they reached the university, the two girls left Nancy's car in the visitors' parking lot and walked to the professor's office. They found him checking through a pile of exam papers.
"How can I help you, Miss Drew?" he asked genially, taking out his tobacco pouch to fill his pipe after Nancy had said hello and introduced her friend.
"Last time I was here, you told me Professor
Crawford specialized in the history of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars. Is that your field, too?"
"Not exactly." Schmidt paused to light his pipe. "I do teach a course in that period of French history, but I certainly can't claim to be as expert in it as Dr. Crawford was. My own specialty is the Third Republic, roughly a century later. Why do you ask?"
"I was wondering what, if anything, you could tell me about a French nobleman who lived during that earlier period, the Comte d'Auvergne. Do you recognize the name?" Nancy asked.
"Hm, d'Auvergne." The professor tapped his pipestem against his lips reflectively. "I don't. But I tell you what, if it's important, I'll check with some of my colleagues at other universities. I could phone them this morning. Would that do?"
"Oh, Professor, I'd really appreciate it if you could," Nancy replied. "Anything you can find out might help in solving a mystery case that I'm working on. Should I call you this afternoon?"
"If you have a phone number that I can reach you at, it might be better to let me call you. I have classes all afternoon and a department meeting this evening."
"In that case, I'll give you my home number,"
Nancy said, jotting it down. "And thanks ever so much for your help!"
She and George were soon on their way. The roadside trees were aflame with fall colors of red and orange and gold, and both girls thoroughly enjoyed the scenery.
"Whom are you going to see in Alton, Nancy?" George asked.
"Professor Crawford's married daughter. As I told you, Louise Duval hired him to carry out some sort of research for her, apparently during his summer vacation thirty years ago. But she died soon afterward, and now of course he's gone too. And so far as I know, the results of his research were never disclosed."
Nancy took her eyes off the road long enough to shoot a mischievous glance at her companion and added, "Incidentally, I've a hunch I'm not the only one who'd like to lay hands on it."
George gave a slight, nervous shudder. "You know something? That sounds pretty sinister!"
"Yes, it does, doesn't it."
The girls arrived shortly at Mrs. Grale's home.
"Come in, come in, Nancy," she said, wiping her hands on a towel she was holding. "I've just been cleaning out some closets and now I'm ready for a coffee break, so you and your friend are just in time."
Leading the way into the kitchen, she went on, "I just want to get this coffee cake out of the oven, and we can have some of it while we visit."
Soon all three were comfortably seated in the sunny living room. As they sipped their coffee, Nancy took the snapshot from the album out of her bag and handed it to Mrs. Grale. "Does this mean anything to you?"
Mrs. Grale studied the photo and smiled re-miniscently. "Oh my, yes. That's my father with that woman you mentioned—um—Miss Duval. I think I even remember when this was taken."
"Then you recognize the location?"
"Oh yes, of course. That's my father's retreat . . . it's an old gristmill near Peachtown. He fell in love with the place and bought it and restored it. He used to go there and write . . . textbooks, you know, and articles for historical journals."
George asked to see the snapshot and admired the old mill in the background. "What happened to it?" she asked.
"Why, it's still standing. It belongs to me now, but I let the historical society there use it as a tourist attraction."
"Since Miss Duval was photographed there with your father," Nancy said, keeping her fingers crossed, "do you suppose there's a chance that any of his research reports might still be there?"
Mrs. Grale wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully as she offered the girls more coffee cake. "Do you know, that's an idea!" she mused. "Come to think of it, my father's old desk is still there. It's on the upper floor of the mill, where he did his working and reading. And I'm almost certain there were papers still in the drawers last time I looked. Just odds and ends, though—I doubt if there's anything important."
"Would you mind if I visited the mill and checked out the desk?" Nancy asked. "I might find a clue to whatever research he was doing for Miss Duval."
"Of course you may," Mrs. Grale answered unhesitatingly. "I'll lend you a key and phone ahead to the Peachtown Historical Society to let them know you're coming. They're in charge of the mill and watch over it," she added, smiling.
Elated and hopeful, Nancy and George chatted a while longer with Mrs. Grale, then left after thanking her for the refreshments and all her help.
Bess was waiting eagerly when the two girls walked into the Drews' house an hour or so later. "Yikes, I thought I'd faint with hunger!" she said. "All those delicious smells coming out of the kitchen . . ."
Nancy laughed. "Well, let's wash our hands and tell Hannah we're home. Then I'll set the table."
"No need to, I did it already," Bess said. Then as George burst out laughing, she added defensively, "Well, it took my mind off the food."
While the three friends enjoyed Hannah's seafood quiche and a green salad, Nancy brought them up to date on the details of the case.
As she told them about the trunkful of old gowns in Lisa's attic, Bess was ecstatic. "Ooh, I'd love to see them!" she cried. "And just think, Nancy—if Yvette Duval was a spy, maybe that old peasant dress was one of her disguises!"
Nancy was struck by her friend's idea. "You know, Bess," she murmured thoughtfully, "you might have something there."
Just then the phone rang. When Nancy answered it, her caller turned out to be Professor Schmidt, reporting back on what he had found out about the Comte d'Auvergne.<
br />
"He was a wealthy French nobleman who served briefly in the National Assembly during the opening days of the Revolution, when they were writing a new constitution for France. But a few years later he died on the guillotine."
"The guillotine?" Nancy echoed in a shocked voice. "How horrible!" She recalled the handsome young man portrayed in the museum portrait and shuddered to think of him suffering such a fate.
"It was a bad time, you know," Professor Schmidt went on. "The Reign of Terror, they called it. Thousands of people ended up the same way, especially aristocrats like the count."
Nancy thanked him for his help and hung up, still shaken by what he had told her. Then, on a sudden impulse, she called Lisa Thorpe.
After they had chatted for a few moments, Nancy said, "I don't want to sound too hopeful, Lisa, but there's a chance—just a chance, mind you—that I may be close to solving the mystery of why your great-aunt wrote that letter to Pierre's grandfather."
Lisa was eager to hear more, but instead, Nancy described her two friends' reaction on hearing about the old gowns in the attic, and then asked if they might see them.
"By all means, Nancy! You and Bess and George must come over this afternoon," Lisa said.
"I know your father isn't very happy to have me intrude, so if you'd rather not. . ." Nancy left the rest of the sentence unspoken.
"Don't give it another thought," Lisa said firmly. "That no longer bothers me. It happens my father is at home this afternoon, but the invitation still stands. Come on over!"
Nancy chuckled as she put the receiver back on its hook, feeling in better spirits than she had a few minutes ago. It certainly sounded as if changes were taking place in the Thorpe household!
When the three girls arrived at Lisa's place, they were greeted politely but coldly by Mr. Thorpe. He retreated to his study as Lisa came into the hall. She smiled happily at Bess and Nancy and showed equal pleasure in meeting George.
"Could we show my cousin that portrait of Paul and Yvette Duval, Lisa?" Bess asked, trying to contain her excitement.
"Of course . . . especially since she's the lady who wore the gowns!"
After they had viewed the portrait, Lisa led the way to the attic staircase.
Even on a bright afternoon, it was spooky up there, and Bess shivered expectantly. But when the light was turned on and the trunk opened, she forgot her apprehension in her delight over the rich clothes.
When George and Bess exclaimed over the brocades and satins and fine muslins, Nancy lifted out the rough peasant dress. As she did so, its hem brushed against the metal edge of the trunk and she heard a slight clink.
Nancy gave a start, them checked for the cause of the sound. Something was sewn into the hem of the dress!
19. The Eyes Have It!
"What's the matter, Nancy?" said Lisa, noticing the startled expression on her face.
"I may be wrong," the teenager said, choking back a surge of excitement, "but something tells me I've just stumbled on a clue!"
The other girls' eyes widened as Nancy showed them a bulge in the hem of the old gown. By fingering it, they could see and feel that the hidden object was oval-shaped and slightly larger than a half-dollar.
"Quick! Someone open the hem and let's see what's in there!" George exclaimed.
"Wait a sec! I'll get some embroidery scissors!" Lisa scampered downstairs and soon returned with the scissors. As the other three watched breathlessly, she cut open the hem and fished out the object which had been concealed inside.
It was a miniature portrait, beautifully enameled on ivory, of a little boy about four or five years old!
All four girls studied the miniature with avid interest as Lisa held it up to the light.
"What a darling little boy!" Bess gushed.
"Gosh! I'll bet that's really valuable!" her cousin added. The portrait was bordered all around the edge with tiny seed pearls.
But Lisa and Nancy were more intrigued by the child's features and general facial appearance.
Lisa looked up tensely.
"Does that little boy remind you of anyone, Nancy?" she asked in a slightly hushed voice.
"Indeed he does!" Nancy replied with a twinkle.
"Whom? . . . Tell me, please!"
"The same person he reminds you of, I'll bet . . . Pierre MichaudV
"Right!" Lisa declared emphatically.
The more they studied the miniature portrait, the more they were struck by the resemblance. Despite the difference in ages, and the little boy's softer, more babyish features, the likeness was unmistakeable!
The boy even had a dimple in his chin, which as he grew older would doubtless have come to look very much like Pierre's strong, cleft lower jaw.
"He's a darling!" Bess repeated. "I especially like those big, dark eyes, don't you, George? They're so wide-set and . . . sort of slanty!"
"I'll have to admit, he's quite a charmer," agreed George, for once not inclined to make fun of her cousin's romantic notions. "If your friend Pierre looks anything like this, Lisa, he must be something special."
"Oh, he is—believe me!" Lisa giggled.
But Nancy was silent and reflective. Bess's remark had started a sudden train of thought, reminding her of the other portrait they had just seen.
"Would you people come downstairs again for a moment?" the young detective said abruptly. "There's something I'd like to show you."
"Okay, but what?" George Fayne inquired.
"I'd rather not say anything just yet and let you judge for yourselves. Lisa, bring the miniature, will you please?"
The others followed, their curiosity piqued by Nancy's words and manner as she led the way back down to the first-floor hall, where the double portrait of Paul and Yvette Duval was hanging on the wall near the sun room.
"Bess," she said, "does either of these people have eyes like the little boy's in the miniature?"
Bess squealed in excitement and pointed to Yvette. "Of course! She does! . . . Oh, Nancy! How smart of you to notice!"
George concurred, after glancing back and forth from the miniature to the oil portrait. "You're right, Nancy. They certainly do have the same look across the eyes!"
"And so," the young detective added significantly, "does Pierre Michaud!"
In the startled silence that followed, Lisa Thorpe looked flabbergasted and slightly dismayed. "You're right, Nancy! But, good grief, are you implying that Pierre may be a blood relative of mine?"
Nancy laughed. "Don't worry, he wouldn't be a close enough one to prevent your marriage, if that's what you're wondering. Not after your ancestors have been living on opposite sides of the ocean for almost two centuries!"
Lisa heaved a little sigh of relief and joined in the other girls' laughter at Nancy's reply. But then her mood turned serious.
"You know, this is really quite an important discovery. I think we should tell my father."
Norton Thorpe was in his den, going over a sheaf of business papers at his beautiful fruit-wood desk. After announcing herself with a knock, Lisa entered with her friends and related the startling news.
Her father was flushed and angry and scoffed at her revelation. He obviously found the idea that Pierre Michaud was in any way related to his wife's side of the family highly upsetting. But after careful scrutiny of the miniature, it was clear that he, too, could see an unmistakable likeness between the young Frenchman and the boy in the portrait—especially in view of Louise Duval's mysterious letter to Pierre's grandfather.
"Confound it, this is the worst news I've heard in a long time!" he exploded huffily. "If you'll forgive my bluntness, Miss Drew, you've been a most disturbing influence in this house!"
Getting up from his desk, the heavyset businessman paced irritably about the room. "Mind you," he added with a scowl at Nancy, "I'm still not totally convinced that French upstart has any connection with the Duval family!"
Nancy decided that her best tactic was a simple, direct question. "Mr. Thorpe, why are you so dead set
against Pierre Michaud?" she asked quietly. "Other people seem to find him perfectly decent and likeable. Do you know something about him that the rest of us don't?"
Norton Thorpe stopped pacing abruptly and glared at the young detective. "Since you ask me, Miss Drew, I see no reason to beat around the bush. The answer is yes! I do know something about Michaud that you don't know— and let me add, it's nothing to his credit!"
He related that soon after Pierre's first visit to the Thorpe home, a French lawyer had come to his office to warn him that the young inventor was an unscrupulous swindler and con artist.
"What was this French lawyer's name, Mr. Thorpe?" asked Nancy.
"Grison. Henri Grison. I probably still have his business card." Taking a folder wallet from his inside coat pocket, Mr. Thorpe fingered through its contents and plucked out a card, which he handed to Nancy.
She glanced at it and smiled. "It happens this same person came to see my father, who's also a lawyer," she told Thorpe. "Dad took the trouble to check him out through his own legal correspondents in France. They told him the identification is false—there's no such lawyer at this address or anywhere else in Paris. The only con artist is this so-called Henri Grison himself."
Norton Thorpe was clearly taken aback by Nancy's unexpected reply. But after humming and hawing for a moment, he seemed to accept what she had just told him. "Hmph, well, I must admit this puts matters in a somewhat different light," he conceded.
Lisa was delighted by this sudden turn of events. "Nancy, you're a wonder!" she exclaimed, giving the girl a quick hug.
With Mr. Thorpe's permission, Nancy now phoned Pierre at his workshop and asked him to come and join them. The young Frenchman not only did so promptly, but brought exciting news of his own.
"Just before you called, Nancy, I had a visit from that representative of the National Computer Company," Pierre reported. "His firm's research and development department have already been over the test data I sent them. And now that he's seen how my computer memory operates, his company's ready to negotiate a licensing contract to produce my invention!"
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