Chapter 6 The Whispering Statue by Carolyn Keene
JOE MITZA’S PLOT
The two men presently sat down on a rustic bench which had been built along the trail. Nancy ducked back into the pine forest just in time to escape being seen.
As she cautiously moved forward again to approach the bench from the rear, a stick crackled underfoot. Nancy halted, fearful that the sound might have betrayed her. She was relieved when the murmur of the men’s voices went on uninterrupted.
Nancy crept near enough to hear what the two were saying. Joe Mitza was speaking.
“Oh, I marked Miss Morse as easy money the first time I set eyes on her. It was lucky for me that dog pulled open her cape. The old lady was a regular walking bank.”
“How much do you figure she’s good for?” the other man questioned.
“Oh, five thousand easily. Now I’ll let you in on the deal, Burne, if you’ll put in that amount. I’d swing it alone, only I haven’t a thousand dollars to my name.”
“How do I know I’ll get my money back?” the man addressed as Burne asked gruffly.
“Haven’t I always played square with you?” Mitza demanded sharply.
“You have so far,” the other admitted, “but this old lady may not be such an easy mark as you think.”
“Oh, she’s stupid,” Mitza replied contemptuously. “We can’t go wrong on the set-up. I’ve already told her about a wonderful piece of ocean front property with a thriving restaurant which is supposed to cater to society people. I drove her out into the country, bought her a three dollar dinner, and showed her the Mayfair. I told her it could be bought for ten thousand, and she agreed the place would be a bargain at that.”
“It would be, too,” Burne observed dryly.
“You couldn’t buy the Mayfair at any price,” laughed Mitza, “but Miss Morse was as innocent as a babe. I gave her the good old line—that I’d never let her into the deal if I had ten thousand dollars myself. Since the Mayfair people insisted upon getting all cash I had to raise another five thousand. I suggested we buy the property in partnership.”
“And she tumbled?”
“Sure. It was like taking candy from a child. She said if I would put up five thousand she’d give the other five. The money is to be sealed into an envelope and given to a third party.”
“And when the envelope is opened, Miss Morse will discover that her five thousand has been replaced with fake money?”
“That’s right,” Mitza nodded. “The trick is an old one, but it will work on Miss Morse. You can’t lose, Burne, and I’ll give you a good cut on the five thousand I make. What do you say?”
The two men arose and walked on up the trail. Nancy waited several minutes before emerging from her hiding-place. She was aghast at the plot to steal Miss Morse’s money. For just an instant she was tempted to pursue the two swindlers and confront them with the knowledge she had gleaned, but she hesitated.
“No, I would gain nothing that way,” she reflected. “Mitza would deny everything and I’d not have a scrap of evidence with which to support my claim. It will be better for me to warn Miss Morse.”
How to find the missing old lady was a problem which perplexed Nancy. She knew that probably the woman was in Sea Cliff; otherwise Joe Mitza could not keep in touch with her. Yet general inquiry had revealed no clue as to the old lady’s whereabouts.
“Perhaps Dad can help me find her,” Nancy thought. Turning around, she hurried back down the trail to rejoin her chums at the Brighton Baths.
Upon coming within view of the automobile she saw that Mr. Trixler was seated in the car, evidently having waited for several minutes. He was not in as good humor as usual, for due to the carelessness of a bath attendant he had slipped on a cake of soap.
“Drat this place,” he complained loudly to George and Bess. “I come here to be helped and they make me a lot worse! They take my money and try to cripple me for life! I’ve a mind to sue ’em, that’s what!”
Nancy came hurrying up to the car, apologizing because she had kept the party waiting.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mr. Trixler answered, for he was fond of the girl, and never spoke crossly to her even when he was in an unpleasant mood.
Nancy hurriedly started the car and drove slowly back toward Sea Cliff. At the Seaside Hotel Mr. Trixler was deposited at the front door, while the Drew girl and her chums took the auto to the garage.
“I suppose we could go for a little ride,” George suggested indifferently. “We have the car to ourselves now.”
Nancy shook her head.
“I don’t want to go anywhere until after I’ve had a chance to talk with Dad.”
“Anything wrong?” George inquired quickly. All during the ride from the Brighton Baths she had noticed that Nancy seemed strangely quiet and tense. Now, as they walked back to the hotel, the latter revealed everything she had overheard in the pine woods.
“Why, Mitza should be turned over to the police!” Bess exclaimed indignantly. “I have never heard of a more contemptible trick—stealing from an old lady.”
“Miss Morse must be found and warned,” Nancy said soberly. “She told me to keep out of her affairs, but I feel I shouldn’t, knowing what I do.”
“Joe Mitza is too clever for her,” George replied. “If you prevent him from stealing the money, Miss Morse should be highly grateful, Nancy.”
“She should be—yes. But Miss Morse is a peculiar type. However, I’m not expecting any thanks. I merely don’t want to see her cheated.”
The girls went into the hotel. As they crossed the lobby the desk clerk signaled to Nancy.
“I have a message for you,” he declared, offering a sealed letter.
“Why, this is in Dad’s handwriting,” Nancy murmured in surprise.
She ripped open the envelope and quickly scanned the brief missive.
“Oh, girls, this is disappointing. Dad has left Sea Cliff.”
“He hasn’t gone back to River Heights, has he?” Bess inquired with concern, fearing that the end of their own vacation might be in sight.
“No, he has been called away on business to an inland city not far from here, a place named Bardwell. He expects to be back in a day or two. But that may be too late.”
“What will you do, Nancy?” Bess asked.
“I scarcely know what course to follow,” the girl admitted, frowning. “I counted upon Dad’s advice.”
“How about trying some of mine?” demanded a masculine voice.
Nancy and her chums whirled about to see Mr. Trixler standing behind them leaning on a cane.
“Perhaps you can help us,” Nancy said eagerly, for she felt she could trust the old gentleman. “But we can’t talk here.”
Finding a deserted nook of the lobby, she then told the invalid about the urgent necessity for locating Miss Morse.
“There’s only one thing to do, of course,” the old gentleman said promptly when he learned of Joe Mitza’s scheme to defraud the woman. “The police should be notified.”
“I suppose it would be wise,” Nancy admitted thoughtfully. “But I wonder if my testimony will be sufficient to hold Mitza and that man named Burne?”
“It ought to be. Anyway, if Mitza should be questioned by the police he’d be afraid to go on with his scheme even if he were released.”
“That’s true,” Nancy agreed.
“I’ll go talk to the police myself,” Mr. Trixler offered chivalrously. “Just leave everything to me. This is a man’s affair, anyway,” he added with a laugh, “and I’m feeling well enough for a little exercise.”
After Nancy had permitted the old man to go alone to the station house, she began to regret that she had not accompanied him.
“I’m afraid he’ll not be able to make the story sound convincing,” she said to her chums.
Mr. Trixler was gone more than an hour. When he returned the girls could tell by the expression of his face that the mission had not been a satisfactory one.
“Drat that stupid chief of police!” he complained angrily. “Not an ounce of brains in his thick skull!”
“Didn’t he believe the story?” Nancy asked quickly.
“I don’t know what he thought,” Mr. Trixler growled. “He just sat there and looked at me and didn’t say much except that no one by the name of Fanny Morse ever lived in Sea Cliff.”
“Whichever way we turn, we always run into that peculiar fact,” Nancy replied slowly. “She must live here. Didn’t the police even promise to question Mitza?”
“They said they’d look him up, but I doubt if they’ll exert themselves that much.”
It was clear to Nancy that the police had taken Mr. Trixler to be an obsessed old fellow and thus had discredited his story. She considered making a trip to police headquarters herself, but concluded that probably it would do no good.
“Apparently the only thing for us to do is to find Miss Morse ourselves,” she said, thinking aloud.
“I intend to talk to the police again,” Mr. Trixler fumed. “I’ll make ’em do something.”
More than ever did Nancy wish that her father were there. While Mr. Trixler meant well, she did not believe that he would be of great aid in locating Miss Morse or in accomplishing the arrest of Mitza and his companion. Later in the afternoon when the girls went to the bathing beach for a swim, she became very quiet.
“Oh, why not forget Miss Morse?” Bess urged her chum. “You’ve done everything you can.”
“She wasn’t a bit nice to you on the train,” George added. “You’ll ruin the entire vacation worrying about her.”
Nancy laughed good-naturedly, and after that dutifully made a special effort to be gay. She raced her chums to the float, winning out by several strokes. After resting awhile, the girls swam back to shore and buried themselves in the warm sand.
“Let’s rent a rowboat,” George proposed suddenly. “We can get one for twenty-five cents an hour.”
“It will be hard to row in the high waves,” Nancy remarked, turning to stare at the sea.
However, George and Bess were so eager for the little adventure that she offered no serious objection. The boatman appeared a trifle hesitant about renting them a craft.
“Are you all good swimmers?” he inquired dubiously.
“Oh, yes,” Bess laughed. “Haven’t you ever heard about our swimming the English Channel?”
“No,” the man responded dryly, “but I’ve fished out plenty of persons who drowned because they were too confident. The water is treacherous.”
“We’ll be careful,” Bess promised, growing grave.
“Watch out for the turn of the tide,” the man warned again as he helped the girls launch the boat.
As they rowed away they saw him watching them anxiously. Then, apparently satisfied that they knew how to handle the oars, he turned away.
“This isn’t as much fun as I thought it would be,” George presently complained as she tugged at the oars. “It’s more like plain hard work.”
The water was so rough that the boat rocked unpleasantly and George had difficulty in steering it where she wished. They rode the crest of a wave, then plunged down into a trough.
“I think we ought to go back,” Nancy said anxiously, gazing toward the beach some distance away. “The lifeguards are making all the swimmers leave the water.”
“The water is getting rougher,” Bess added. “I shouldn’t be surprised if a storm were brewing.”
“Oh, I’m ready to turn back,” George said, swerving the boat by pulling on her right oar. “I’ve had enough.”
Nancy’s alert eyes were sweeping the dark water. A short distance away there was a lone swimmer who evidently had been too far from the beach to hear the whistle of the lifeguards.
“Why doesn’t that fellow turn back?” she murmured anxiously. “He may be carried out to sea.”
“Perhaps we ought to warn him,” George replied, and at Nancy’s quick nod she steered toward the young man.
“Look!” cried Bess an instant later.
Her gaze was riveted upon a great wall of water which was traveling swiftly toward them. Before the girls could shout a warning to the swimmer, the huge wave struck the boat and raised it high. Then the craft plunged down into a trough.
Nancy glanced anxiously about for the young man. She could not see him anywhere.
“He has gone down!” she gasped in panic.
“No, there he is!” George shouted excitedly. “He’s caught in the undertow!”
Following George’s frightened gaze, Nancy and Bess saw the swimmer battle frantically and then suddenly give up. They feared that he would sink before they would be able to reach him.
“The man is weakening,” Nancy observed. “Give the oars everything you have, George!”