Chapter 4 The Password to Larkspur Lane by Carolyn Keene
Linking the Evidence
Nancy was directed to the Detective Bureau, where she found her father conferring with a stout, red-faced man who was introduced as Inspector Mulligan.
“Sure, and we know all about ye, Miss Drew,” the officer said, bowing gallantly. “I’d be honored if ye’d make up your mind to join the force, so I would. ’Tis a strange story your father brings me, but with your brains and my muscle, I guess we’ll get at the bottom of it.”
He leaned back in his chair, laughing at his own joke. Nancy smiled politely, but to herself she vowed that the mystery should be solved without the brawn of the Inspector.
“Here is one clue,” she said, taking the bracelet from her handbag and putting it on the detective’s desk. The man picked it up in his huge hand and examined it closely.
“Hm,” said Mulligan. “An inscription: ‘To my darling Mary from Joe,’ but no last names and no dates. The thing is old. It may be that Mary and Joe are both dead these fifty years. It’s a clue but a mighty slim one.”
He tossed the bracelet across the desk, and Nancy quickly pocketed it. If it did not mean much to the detective, it meant a great deal to her.
“Well, we must get busy,” the inspector said. “I have my doubts, though. The operations seem to be carried on outside the city limits where we have no authority.”
“You might watch out for this license number,” Nancy remarked coolly, passing over the figures she had copied from the kidnaper’s car that she had seen.
“Ha, this is worth a million bracelets to us,” Mulligan snorted. “Thanks, Miss Drew. Well, we will keep you posted, and I’ll have a man interview the doctor tomorrow. There may be some things that you’ve overlooked in his story that would be mighty important information to a real detective.”
The inspector escorted Nancy and her father to the door, where the Drews bade him good night.
“Nancy, it seems to me that Mr. Mulligan gave you a direct challenge,” the lawyer laughed as they reached the street. “Talking about ‘real detectives’ shows what he thinks of the abilities of the Drew family.”
Nancy was too busy extricating her car from the close ranks of parked automobiles to reply. As she turned toward home, a pair of headlights suddenly danced into view in her mirror, and she saw that the right one was dim. The trail had been taken up again!
“We are being followed,” she observed to her father quietly. “Don’t look around. We’ll lead the man a chase.”
Gradually Nancy increased the speed of her car, directing it into the quieter streets of the old residential section of the city. She knew every nook and corner of River Heights, and as usual had a very definite plan in mind.
She shot abruptly into a narrow, slumbering thoroughfare, and noted with delight that the pursuing car followed closely behind. At the next intersection a “dummy policeman,” which was merely a concrete post with a light on top of it, blinked monotonously. Around this beacon Nancy suddenly turned, her tires squealing on the asphalt. In an instant she was facing her pursuer, who had jammed on his brakes in utter consternation.
“Clever work, Nancy,” Mr. Drew observed. “That will teach him not to— Oh!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Quick! Turn around!” Mr. Drew commanded. “We mustn’t lose sight of that man.”
“Who is he?” she asked, bringing the car to an abrupt halt.
Almost before her father could answer, she had deftly turned and headed the machine in the opposite direction. In another moment she was pursuing the other car.
“He’s Adam Thorne—a scoundrel if there ever was one,” fumed Mr. Drew. “He’s wanted by the police. He’s a slick lawyer, but he was disbarred a couple of years ago.”
“What for?” asked Nancy, now putting on all the speed she dared.
The tail-light of the car they were pursuing was barely visible ahead. It suddenly vanished as the driver turned a corner. Nancy followed his direction.
“He was disbarred for overstepping his rights with a client,” said Mr. Drew. “Look out, Nancy. Be careful of that sign ahead,” he warned, as the girl abruptly put on her brakes to turn another corner.
“Why do the police want him?” asked Nancy, her breath coming fast.
“He was indicted for embezzling the assets of an estate,” was the reply. “He stole the entire fortune of a client who died and left him in charge.”
By this time Nancy had turned around two more corners in her pursuit, but her quarry had eluded her. Despite inquiry from a passerby, the Drews were unable to trace Adam Thorne.
“I’m sorry, Father,” said Nancy at last. “I wish we hadn’t lost him, for I recognized him, too.”
“You!” exclaimed Mr. Drew. “Surely you don’t know that scoundrel!”
“No, but while you were in the police station, he spoke to me,” she replied. “Wanted to know who you were and what you were doing.”
“So!” exclaimed the lawyer. “He knows me, all right, but he wanted to be sure.”
“I know he is connected with the kidnapers,” announced Nancy.
“What!”
“Yes. I recognized the car and the license number as the one in which Dr. Spires was taken away.”
“Fine detective work, Nancy!” Mr. Drew complimented. “We must locate that man.”
“It will probably be a risky thing to do,” Nancy said, turning toward home. “He might lead us into a trap. I think that we should be cautious until we can learn just what this is all about.”
“What theories have you?” Mr. Drew asked.
“None. At least nothing clear,” Nancy replied as she turned into the Drew driveway. “Of course, Dr. Spires’s house is being watched. That is why we were followed. Our trip to Headquarters made Thorne and his helpers suspicious.”
“You are probably right. But what about the background of it all—the woman with the dislocated shoulder, and the mysterious password?”
After Mr. Drew had locked the garage, Nancy tucked her hand into her father’s arm.
“That’s what we have to find out,” she said, puckering her brow as if lost in deep thought at the prospect of solving the meaning of the strange messages, which evidently held the secret password.
Next morning Nancy was up early to prepare breakfast for her father and Hannah. Mr. Drew left for his office after cautioning his daughter to be on her guard.
“I don’t want you to be kidnaped,” he said.
“Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea, though,” Nancy laughed back. “It would be a quick way of finding out what Thorne’s business is.”
After tidying the kitchen Nancy set out for the home of Hannah’s sister to call for the housekeeper’s niece Effie, who would assist with the household duties until her aunt should be able to assume charge again.
“Effie’s a good girl but a little flighty,” Hannah had said. “She’s strong and a willing worker if she’s told what to do.”
Effie’s home proved to be a small frame cottage in a row of identical houses close to the factory district. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman who resembled Hannah Gruen so closely that Nancy recognized her immediately as the housekeeper’s sister.
“Mrs. Schneider? I am Nancy Drew.”
“Won’t you come right in, Miss Drew?” Mrs. Schneider said. “I’m afraid you’ll find the house a little upset, it being my wash day and— Oh, has anything happened to Hannah, Miss Drew?”
“She had a fall but is not seriously hurt,” Nancy said soothingly, as the woman clutched her gingham apron in distress. “Please don’t worry. Hannah suggested that Effie might help us out.”
“If you find her worth it,” Mrs. Schneider said rather grimly. “I declare, when I was her age, I didn’t sit around mooning about movie actors all the time. Effie! O-oh, Effie!”
“Here I am, Ma,” a high-pitched voice giggled, and the daughter stepped into the room.
Effie was about seventeen, a thin, wispy sort of girl. She had blond hair, but a cheap permanent wave had made her bobbed locks stand out around her head in a startling manner. She was dressed in a pink gown of the latest cut, while pink silk stockings, somewhat wrinkled, showed above her high-heeled white kid pumps.
Altogether, Effie did not look as if she would be of much assistance. However, remembering Hannah’s declaration that she was strong and willing, if flighty, Nancy completed arrangements to have the girl stay at the Drew home for a week.
“Oh, I think that will be simply grand,” Effie giggled. “And, Miss Drew, would you mind if my boy friend came to see me?”
“No-o, I think not,” Nancy replied, a trifle puzzled. “After your work is done—you are free to do as you like.”
“How perfectly gorgeous! Gee, I bet you have lots of boy friends, Miss Drew. Is that your own car? Aunt Hannah said you had a car.”
Nancy frowned a little, but her good humor came to her rescue.
“Suppose you pack what things you want to bring, and we will leave at once,” she suggested.
The drive home was filled with unceasing chatter by Effie, for the most part about “the fellows” she knew, all of whom, she let it appear, were “just crazy” about her. Nancy thought it might prove a nerve-wracking week with Effie in the house, but a change came over the girl the moment the Drew dwelling was entered. Probably the sensible Hannah Gruen exercised a steadying influence over her niece, for after an interview with the bedridden housekeeper, Effie reported to Nancy in a neat black dress and white apron, ready to be assigned to her duties.
“I can cook pretty good,” she said. “Just order what you want, and what I don’t know Aunt Hannah will teach me.”
Nancy had decided to give Effie the responsibility of preparing a meal at once so as to give her confidence, and was surprised at the dainty luncheon which was placed before her. As she ate, Nancy pondered the problem of the pigeon’s message, the doctor’s adventure, and the pursuit of the previous night. As she was fitting the incidents together the doorbell rang, and Effie hastened to answer it.
“It’s a Mr. Jordan,” she reported. “A good-looking fellow, too, with the nicest curly eyelashes. Is he——?”
“I don’t know him,” Nancy interrupted. “Show him into the living room.”
As she went in to meet Mr. Jordan, Nancy wondered if he might be one of the kidnaping band. She soon decided otherwise, as he was a pleasant-looking young man of about twenty-five years old. It did not take him long to state his business.
“I am the Secretary of the State Branch of the Pigeon Association,” he introduced himself. “Now, in connection with the wounded bird which I was told you reported——”
“I am so glad you came,” Nancy said. “Please sit down, and I will bring the bird and the message.”
Ever on guard against a possible trap, Nancy kept an eye on the room from the hall, and summoned Effie to bring the pigeon from its box on the kitchen porch.
She took the bird to Mr. Jordan, who examined it closely, noting especially the number-stamped band of its leg. He shook his head. Then he read over the pigeon’s message which Nancy now showed him.
“This is a link in the chain of evidence for which we have been told to watch,” the young man announced. “The Hopkins Detective Agency warned us that it was becoming the practice of criminals, who are afraid to send messages by telephone, telegraph or letter, to employ carrier pigeons. This registration number is not official. It has some secret significance.”
Nancy mentally agreed that it had.
“Thank you very much, Miss Drew, for your trouble,” the young man continued. “Now I’ll take the pigeon——”
“Oh, no!” Nancy exclaimed.