Chapter 2 The Haunted Bridge by Carolyn Keene
Unlucky Fall
NANCY took her scorecard from Martin Bartescue and walked on with Bess and George. Knowing the card had to be signed by someone accompanying her throughout the game, she asked George to attest the score. Then Nancy gave the card to the tournament chairman who was in his office busily chalking up the results of the day’s matches.
“A fine score, Miss Drew,” he praised her.
“Do you think she will qualify for the tournament?” Bess asked the man eagerly.
“She certainly will unless better scores come in tomorrow,” he replied with a smile. “However, the competition is very keen this year. Some of the best women golfers in the state are entering the tournament.”
“I’ll feel very fortunate if I so much as qualify,” Nancy replied. “I understand there’s to be a tournament for men, too.”
“Yes, I have entered it,” said a voice behind the girls. They glanced around to find Bartescue standing there. “So far my score is the lowest turned in,” he added.
“That’s great,” Nancy murmured indifferently, hurrying away with her friends.
As the girls took the elevator to their rooms on the fourth floor, Bess and George teased Nancy about her new admirer.
“You’re stuck with him,” George prophesied.
“I dislike his type and you both know it,” Nancy replied. “But one thing about him did capture my interest.”
Bess giggled. “What was that? His ultramodern clothes?”
“Oh, Bess, of course not,” Nancy said. “I was interested in the way he signed my scorecard. Did you notice how unnaturally he wrote his signature, as if he were trying to disguise his usual style of writing?”
“Why, no,” George admitted in surprise. “You seem to observe everything, Nancy.”
“I guess that’s why she has solved so many baffling mysteries.” Bess sighed. “Nancy knows how to make use of her eyes and we don’t.”
“Dad trained me to be observant,” Nancy said.
As the girls started down the hall toward their rooms, she thought proudly of her father, Carson Drew, whose fame as a criminal lawyer was nationwide. Through helping him, Nancy herself had achieved distinction. She was now a well-known amateur detective with a long list of successful mystery cases to her credit, the most recent one The Whispering Statue.
Nancy’s father was very proud of her too. Mrs. Drew had died when Nancy was only three years old. Since then their home had been managed by lovable Hannah Gruen, an excellent housekeeper.
Thinking of the woman who had cared for her like a mother, Nancy smiled. “Can you imagine what Hannah would say if she knew I was starting another mystery?”
“She’d say, ‘Now, Nancy, promise you’ll be carefull”’ Bess replied with a grin.
Laughing, the three entered the cousins’ big, comfortably furnished bedroom.
“Speaking of the mystery,” said George, “did you learn anything about the haunted bridge?”
“Not yet,” Nancy answered, glancing at her wrist watch. “But I’m to meet Chris at five.”
Nancy found him waiting for her at the caddy house. He made no comment as she led him to a bench at the rear of the hotel.
“Please tell me everything you know about that bridge,” she urged him. “Why do you say it’s haunted?”
“Because it is,” the boy insisted. “All the caddies will tell you the same. Sometimes you can see the ghost walking over it.”
“At night?”
“Daytime, too. It waves its arms slowly back and forth. And sometimes the ghost screams as if it’s in pain.”
“Have you actually seen and heard this yourself ?”
“Sure. That’s why I know better than to go into that woods.”
“You mean you’ve never been up close to the ghost?” Nancy inquired, smiling.
The boy frowned and said, “You couldn’t hire any of the guys to go near the place.”
“Chris, are the bridge and surrounding property owned by the hotel?” Nancy asked.
Before Chris could reply, the caddy master appeared to inform the boy he was wanted immediately in the caddy house.
“I’ll have to go now,” Chris told Nancy.
“Thank you for telling me about the ghost,” she said. “And by the way, if I qualify, would you like to caddy for me in the tournament?”
“Sure. But I won’t promise to look for any balls in the woods.”
Nancy leisurely walked back to the hotel. As she went through the lobby a sudden thought occurred to her. After giving a brief explanation, she asked the desk clerk if she might look at the registration cards of recent guests.
“Certainly, Miss Drew. Glad to be of help at any time.”
Nancy flicked through the file until she came to the name Martin Bartescue and studied the man’s handwriting.
“It’s not a bit like his signature on my scorecard,” she reflected.
Nancy was so absorbed in looking at it that she failed to observe the man himself. He had come up directly behind her. Pausing, he regarded her intently for a moment, then dodged into a telephone booth. Nancy, unaware of his presence, went upstairs.
Bess and George were dressing for dinner. They were not too occupied, though, to bombard Nancy with questions concerning the haunted bridge.
“I didn’t learn much more except that the ghost walks across the bridge, not only at night, but also in the daytime.”
Bess gave a nervous giggle. “I’ll never let my ball go into that woods, even if I have to take ten iron shots on the fairway.”
Nancy and George laughed. Then Nancy said, “Here’s a new mystery. Bartescue uses at least two different styles of handwriting.” She told about the registration cards.
“And probably several aliases,” George commented with a look of disgust. “Anyway, hereafter I’m going to call him Barty.”
“Barty the Barge-In!” Bess said.
That evening Mr. Drew had dinner with the girls. Nancy noticed that her tall, handsome father seemed a bit preoccupied.
“Isn’t your case progressing well, Dad?” she asked.
“Not so far,” he replied. “I’ll probably need your help soon, Nancy.”
“I’ll be ready.”
After dinner Mr. Drew told the girls that he must leave the hotel for a few hours.
“We’ll manage to amuse ourselves,” Bess said, chuckling.
The hotel orchestra was an excellent one. The girls met many attractive young men who were vacationing at Deer Mountain. Nancy, Bess, and George were never at a loss for partners. Bartescue was persistent and danced with Nancy several times. Though he was an excellent dancer, Nancy did not enjoy being with him.
At the end of one number he firmly steered her toward the terrace. She was annoyed, but told herself, “This might be a chance to find out more about the man.”
He launched into a story of his adventures in England. But at the first opportunity Nancy led him on to the subject that was uppermost in her mind.
“Obviously golf is one of your main interests, Mr. Bartescue. Do you also have other interests?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “I enjoy tennis—But what are some of yours?”
“Well, for one thing, graphology intrigues me. Some people profess to be able to tell a person’s character by means of his handwriting.”
In the semidarkness she did not notice her companion regard her shrewdly as he answered, “What an interesting story could be built up around mine! The way I write varies with my moods. Today your charm had me so baffled I could hardly sign my name at all. I doubt that I would even recognize it on your scorecard.”
Nancy glanced quickly at the man but his face was a mask. Unexpectedly he began to move closer.
“Nancy, you are very attractive. In all my life, I’ve never met anyone that I—”
Nancy took a step backward. She did not realize that she had been standing near the edge of the terrace. Suddenly her heels were no longer on solid cement and she felt herself falling. She gave a cry of alarm. Before Bartescue could extend a hand to save her she toppled into a flower bed!
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously, springing down to assist her.
Nancy slowly rose from the ground, trying to brush the dirt from her long dress.
“I think I’ve sprained my hand,” she admitted.
“Shall I call a doctor?” Bartescue asked.
“No, no. I’ll be all right. Just leave me here.”
Nancy’s outcry had brought several dancers running from the hotel ballroom. The situation was intensely embarrassing to her. She did not wish to explain that her fall from the terrace had been caused by trying to avoid Bartescue’s unwelcome attentions.
“Let me see your hand,” Bartescue urged. “I don’t believe the sprain is a bad one.”
Nancy ignored him. Walking away swiftly, she went directly to her room. The pain in her left hand was not so intense now, but the fingers were becoming stiff.
“I’ll never be able to play in the tournament,” she thought miserably.
While Nancy was in the bathroom running cold water on her hand, Bess and George came hurrying into the room.
“Oh, Nancy,” Bess wailed, “we just heard about your accident. Barty said you weren’t hurt, but you are!”
“Let me see the injury, Nancy,” George demanded.
“There’s nothing to see. The skin isn’t even broken. But my hand still hurts!”
“You must go to a doctor,” George urged.
At that moment Carson Drew returned to the hotel and came straight to his daughter’s room. Upon hearing about the injury, he too became concerned, particularly when Nancy admitted that her back had been twisted slightly.
“Now don’t be foolish,” he said severely. “I’m going to have the house physician come up.”
Dr. Aikerman was a quiet, dignified man who had little to say. The few words he spoke after his examination were directly to the point.
“This sprain isn’t serious, but you must give your hand a rest. I’ll bind it for you and don’t use this hand for three or four days.”
“You mean I can’t play any golf?”
“No golf.”
“But, Doctor,” Nancy pleaded, “it really doesn’t hurt very much. And the tournament starts day after tomorrow.”