Chapter 10 The Mystery at the Ski Jump by Carolyn Keene
The Old Trapper
Nancy and her aunt sat in fascinated silence until the motion picture was over. At the end the cast was named. Mrs. Channing was called Mitzi Adele.
“No doubt that’s her stage name,” Aunt Lou remarked. “Well, we’ve discovered she’s a professional skater.”
“Or was,” Nancy surmised. “The film is two or three years old.”
“That’s right,” Eloise Drew agreed. “She may have given up her profession when she married. So I can’t see how the information is of much value.”
Nancy could not agree. “Now that I know Mitzi Channing was a professional skater,” she said, “there must be a lot of people who know where she comes from and something about her background.”
“So your problem is to find those people, Nancy?”
“Exactly.” Her niece smiled. “Aunt Lou, if it weren’t so late, I’d start working on the clue right now.”
Soon she and Aunt Lou kissed each other good night and went to bed.
As soon as she and her aunt had finished breakfast next morning, Nancy telephoned the television studio. She asked if anyone there could give her information about the skater Mitzi Adele.
The man to whom she was speaking said the studio knew nothing about her. He advised Nancy to write to the Bramson Film Company, which had made the picture, and ask for information on Mitzi Adele.
“Did you find out anything?” her aunt asked, as her niece put down the phone.
Nancy shook her head. “Only the name of the film company. Oh, I hope they have Mitzi Channing’s address!”
Eloise Drew had to leave for school. Nancy said good-bye, for she had decided to take the noon plane. “It has been so wonderful visiting you, Aunt Lou,” she said. “And please, come to River Heights soon, won’t you?”
“On my vacation, perhaps,” the teacher promised. “I have one next week.”
As soon as Eloise Drew had gone, Nancy sent a telegram to the Bramson Film Company, asking for a reply to be sent to her at River Heights. Then she packed her bag.
At ten o’clock the apartment buzzer rang. When Nancy answered it, she learned that Police Sergeant Rolf was in the lobby. She invited him to come up.
“I’m here to return that diamond brooch, Miss Drew,” he told her, as she opened the door. “If that thief, Sidney Boyd, tries to sell those matching earrings in any store or pawnshop—we’ll get him!”
“I certainly hope you do.” Nancy smiled. “Won’t you step in, Sergeant?”
“No, thanks. I’m on duty,” Rolf explained, starting away. “I only wanted to say that the police department appreciates the co-operation you gave us, young lady.”
“I’m always glad to help,” Nancy assured him. “Good-bye, Sergeant. And the best of luck catching Mr. Boyd!”
At noon Nancy boarded a plane for River Heights. The weather was clear and the flight pleasantly smooth. It seemed as if she had hardly finished luncheon, read the morning newspaper, and solved a puzzle in it, before she was landing at her home-town airport.
When Nancy alighted from a taxicab and slipped into the house, she found Hannah Gruen in the kitchen. Tiptoeing up softly behind the housekeeper, she took a deep breath and called out:
“I’m home!”
“Oh!” gasped Hannah. “How you startled me! Nancy, you must have had a successful trip. I can see it in your face. Take off your wraps, dear, and tell me about it.”
“Aunt Lou sent her love,” said Nancy as she removed her hat and coat and started for the hall closet.
When she returned, Mrs. Gruen was taking a pie from the oven.
“Oo-oo! Hot cherry pie! Hannah, if Bess Marvin knew about this, she’d rush over and—”
“Bess will be here soon enough,” Mrs. Gruen replied. “She left word for you to phone her the minute you came in. Call her and then tell me about your trip.”
“I’ll tell you first.” Nancy laughed, and related the whole story.
Ten minutes later she telephoned Bess. The girl excitedly revealed that through a hardware merchant who sold hunting equipment she and George had met another investor in the Forest Fur Company.
“We think you should question him yourself, Nancy,” she went on. “The man’s an old fur trapper from up North, living with his niece. He’s such a lamb. Reminds me of Daniel Boone. And—and Santa Claus!”
“Hm-mn. That I must see,” Nancy agreed dryly. “When do we hold this interview?”
Bess consulted George, who took up the extension telephone.
“We’ll drive him over tomorrow morning,” she promised. “That is, if we can persuade him to ride in a car. John Horn doesn’t approve much of ‘such contraptions.’ He’s strictly a high boot and snowshoe man.”
Nancy laughed. “In that case, do you recommend I get out my buckskin leggings? And my coonskin cap with the long tail? But seriously, I can hardly wait.”
“We’ll come early,” the girls agreed, and hung up.
Mail for Nancy had accumulated on the hall table. She hastened to examine it. With relief she found that her duplicate driver’s license had arrived. There was also a brief note from her father. Mr. Drew was eager to have his daughter join him in Montreal and help him on his case.
As she read, Nancy was conscious of Hannah Gruen standing near her. “Why don’t you open your telegram?” the housekeeper demanded.
Nancy glanced hurriedly over the table. Then for the first time she saw the yellow envelope, half hidden by an advertising circular.
The message was from the Bramson Film Company. It stated that, unfortunately, they did not know Mitzi Adele’s address. But a representative of their firm would call on Nancy shortly in regard to the woman skater.
“That’s strange,” Nancy remarked. “I wonder why the Bramson Film Company is taking all this trouble. It must be something important. I simply can’t go to Montreal until I hear what it is.”
In the morning the sound of loud voices announced the arrival of Bess, George, and the eccentric fur trapper. Stocky and round-faced, with twinkling blue eyes and a leathery brown skin, the seventy-year-old fellow strode up to the porch with the easy gait of a man half his age.
Watching him, Nancy decided that Bess was right. John Horn was dressed like Daniel Boone, but he had the long white whiskers of Santa Claus. At her invitation they all trailed into the Drew living room and Nancy gestured toward seats around the blazing log fire.
The woodsman declined a chair. He chose to stand directly before the mantel, his legs spread wide apart and his hands deep in the pockets of his leather lumberjacket.
“Well, young woman, I’m here. What do you want to ask me?” he demanded bluntly, his blue eyes boring into Nancy’s.
The girl was startled, but she answered him just as directly. “Is it true that you bought Forest Fur Company stock from a Mrs. Channing?” she asked.
“Yep. I was an old fool,” John Horn admitted. “That woman told me what fine mink farms her company had and I leaped to the bait—stupid as a walleyed pike.”
“I wonder if she told you anything that would help us trace her?” Nancy persisted, as George and Bess suppressed giggles. “Did she mention a Dunstan Lake, for instance?”
The old man pulled at his whiskers. “No-o. Never heard that name, miss. All we chinned about was mink. You see, I’ve worked on a mink farm in Canada and I been trappin’ the little rascals for years. That’s how I come by Arabella, here,” he added.
Reaching down into the voluminous pocket of his worn coat, he hauled out a small squirrellike creature with bright black eyes and a long tail.
“Why, it’s a mink!” cried Bess, running forward to stare at the little animal.
“Sure, she’s a mink,” John Horn agreed proudly. “Four months old and with as prime a pelt as I ever seen. Notice that glossy dark-brown fur, ladies. See how thick and live-looking the hair is? Arabella’s an aristocrat. Yes, sir-ee!”
“Is she tame?” George asked, reaching cautiously to stroke the small alert head.
“She’s tame because I raised her myself,” explained John Horn. “A wild mink, though, will bite you and his teeth are plenty sharp.”
“Where did you get her?” Nancy asked.
“Arabella was born on a mink ranch. The first time I saw her she was pinky white and not much bigger than a lima bean. All baby minks are like that. Very tiny and covered with silky white hair.”
John Horn gave his pet a final affectionate stroke and replaced her in his pocket.
“Now I expect we’d better get back to business,” he continued. “You want me to help you catch that crook, don’t you, Miss Drew?”
Nancy was surprised because she had no such idea in mind. However, if the Dunstan Lake mink farm were located in the Adirondacks, as Aunt Lou believed, it might be very handy to have an experienced woodsman around.
“Mr. Horn, I may need your help if I have to travel up to the frozen country,” she admitted.
“You can count on me,” said the old man emphatically. “I’ll show you how to trap that Channing woman just like I’d trap a mean mink!”
“Excuse me, Nancy,” said Mrs. Gruen from the doorway. “I thought perhaps these folks would like some hot chocolate and cinnamon toast.”
At the sight of the older woman and her tray, John Horn became, all at once, distrait and ill at ease. “No, thank you, ma’am, I never eat between meals,” he said hastily. “Fact is, I gotta be goin’ right away.”
“We’ll drive you home,” Bess offered.
“No. No. I’d rather walk.” The old trapper brushed past the surprised Hannah and out into the hall. Then he turned and came loping back to Nancy, as if ashamed of himself.
“I like you, girl. You—you talk sense,” he stammered. “Here—take this!”
Suddenly Nancy felt something warm and furry thrust into her hands. The small, wriggling body felt so strange that she gasped and stepped backward, dropping the little mink to the floor.
Instantly, Arabella leaped away, straight toward the astounded Hannah. With a startled cry the housekeeper clutched at her skirts and hopped on to the nearest chair. “Oh!” she shrieked. “A rat!”
“It’s only a mink,” Nancy said quickly.
She reached down and tried to catch the little animal.
“Don’t do that!” Hannah warned. “It’ll bite. And the bite’s just as bad as a rat’s!”
At this moment the little animal scooted directly toward Nancy.