Chapter 11 The Mystery at the Ski Jump by Carolyn Keene
The Mysterious Skier
The noise and confusion that followed the escape of the little mink did not make it any easier to catch her. Arabella, terrified by her strange surroundings and the squeals of Bess and Hannah Gruen, was plainly frantic.
The tiny animal scuttled nervously here and there about the living room in search of a hiding place. Then, in a final burst of speed, she darted through the door and into the entrance hall.
John Horn held up one hand. “Quiet, everybody!” he commanded. “You women there—stay put! And cut out that yammering! You’ll skeer my poor pet to death!”
There was silence, but Mrs. Gruen still remained standing on the chair. Bess was perched on the arm of the couch.
Nancy and George continued to hunt for the mink. But it was Mr. Horn who located her crouched in a corner near the front door. The trapper spoke to his pet softly as he approached. Then, kneeling, he took the mink into his arms.
At the same moment there was a quick ring of the doorbell. Nancy opened the door to find a well-dressed man of middle age on the front porch.
“How do you do?” he said. “Perhaps this is the wrong time for me to call. I’ve been ringing for several minutes.”
“I’m sorry,” Nancy apologized. “We’ve just had a little trouble. We were chasing an escaped mink and—”
“An escaped mink?” The stranger gave Nancy a stare that suggested her mind might not be completely normal.
Nancy blushed and pointed to the little creature nestled against John Horn’s chest. “It’s really a tame mink,” she explained.
“I see,” said the newcomer, but in a tone that showed he did not see at all. Then he added, “I’m Mr. Nelson from the Bramson Film Company. I’d like to speak to Miss Nancy Drew.”
“I’m Nancy Drew,” she acknowledged. “Please come in.” She introduced Mr. Horn, then indicated the high-backed chair near the door. “Would you mind sitting here a few minutes? Then we can have our talk.”
Nancy returned to the living room, accompanied by the old trapper. Here, everything was peaceful again.
“I guess I acted pretty silly, Nancy,” the housekeeper said, looking very much embarrassed. “But, land sakes, I hope you won’t keep that squirmy little animal? It gives me the creeps.”
“Why, I’d love to keep Arabella,” Nancy teased, giving her owner a warm smile. “Only I think probably she’d be much happier with you, Mr. Horn. Besides, we have a dog here. That might make trouble.”
“It’s all right, ma’am,” Horn nodded, tucking the little mink back into his pocket. “But my offer of help to catch that thief still goes.”
“Thank you,” Nancy said. “I’ll certainly call on you if I need any.”
The two cousins departed with Arabella and her master, who rode away contentedly in the back seat of Bess’s car after all. Mrs. Gruen returned to the kitchen. Then Nancy invited Mr. Nelson to join her before the open fire.
The man from the film company wasted no time. “Miss Drew, my company understands that you want to find Mitzi Adele,” he said tersely. “Just how close a friend of hers are you?”
“Friend?” Nancy gasped indignantly.
In a few sentences the young detective told him what she knew of Mitzi Adele Channing and why various people were so eager to trace her. Mr. Nelson listened carefully. When Nancy finished, his cold suspicious attitude had vanished and his voice became cordial.
“I’m glad you told me all this, Miss Drew,” he said. “Frankly, we thought you might have been mixed up in some of Mitzi’s dishonest dealings. My company’s experience with Mitzi Channing was very much like your own. We, too, found her to be a thief.
“A few years ago, when we made that picture of the ice carnival, Mitzi was recognized as a talented professional skater. Unfortunately, she took advantage of her position and stole several valuable costumes from the Bramson Film Company. We’ve been looking for her ever since.”
Nancy was not surprised to hear this. She was disappointed, however, that the clue which had seemed so bright was fading out.
“Have you any idea where Mrs. Channing comes from?” she asked.
“Only that her home was in northern New York. Somewhere near the Canadian border, I believe,” Mr. Nelson replied.
Since he could be of no further help, the man from the Bramson Film Company took his leave. Nancy was thoughtful. “Every clue I follow seems to lead up a blind alley,” the young detective told herself disconsolately. Then she smiled. “Perhaps Dad can give me some ideas. Anyway, I must go to Montreal and help him. He’s certainly been patient.”
Hurrying to the kitchen, she gave Mrs. Gruen the report about Mitzi Adele, then announced her plans for the trip.
“I believe I’ll go this evening, if I can get a train reservation,” she said.
Nancy was fortunate enough to secure a compartment on the late express. Then Hannah Gruen helped her pack, slipping in a new pair of navy ski pants, and went with her in a taxi to the station. As the shade-drawn sleepers pulled into the station, she kissed Nancy, saying:
“Now take care of yourself, Nancy. No broken bones on those ski slopes!”
“I promise.” Nancy grinned, as a porter lifted her bag aboard.
Next morning, as the train sped through Canada, she could hardly wait until they reached the big snow-encrusted station where she found her father waiting on the platform.
“Nan-cy! I’m so glad to see you!” Mr. Drew cried, and gave her a welcoming hug.
“And that goes double with me, Dad.” Nancy tucked a hand beneath her father’s arm and walked with him toward a cab stand.
“How goes the great fur mystery?” Mr. Drew inquired. “Have you rounded up those thieves yet?”
“No-o,” his daughter sighed. “It looks as if I’m sort of stymied, Dad. I need some advice from you.”
“Well, sometimes a change of work helps. Suppose you give me a hand. It will combine business with pleasure. A young man, Chuck Wilson, is the client I came up here to see. I’m a bit puzzled about him. Give me your opinion, Nancy. If you can, get Chuck to tell you about his case himself.”
He helped his daughter into a cab which took them to a hotel. Mr. Drew had reserved a room next to his for Nancy. Then father and daughter had a little sight-seeing trip through the snowy city and luncheon in a quaint little restaurant.
“When do I start my work, Dad?” Nancy reminded him.
The lawyer’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t be so impatient,” he chided. “You’re going to meet Chuck in approximately one hour. Out at the ski jump of the Hotel Canadien. We’ll drive out there.”
“Then I’ll go back to our hotel and put on ski clothes,” she said.
The Hotel Canadien, a few miles out of the city, nestled at the foot of a majestic, snow-covered hill. As Nancy alighted from a cab with her father and approached the foot of the ski run, a jumper was about to take off.
The skier stood far at the top of the hill, his figure almost dwarfed as he waited for the signal. An instant later he came gliding downward fast as a bullet, only to rise again high . . . high into the air, soar with waving arms, and then make a perfect landing.
“Good boy!” cried Mr. Drew enthusiastically, as the skier swerved about in a flurry of fine snow and came to a halt not far from where they stood.
“Oh, that was beautiful!” Nancy exclaimed. “If I only could jump like that!”
“Perhaps he’ll give you some instruction,” said Mr. Drew, smiling. Raising his voice, he called to the skier: “Hey, Chuck! . . . Chuck Wilson . . . Come over here.”
“Chuck Wilson?” Nancy gasped.
The slender figure, in a well-fitting black ski suit, turned his head and waved. He glided gracefully over to them, his blond hair gleaming under the band that held it in place.
After Nancy’s father had completed introductions, Chuck said, eying her trim ski suit, “You’re a ski fan yourself?”
“Yes, I am. But I don’t ski very well.”
“Perhaps I can give you some pointers,” Chuck suggested eagerly. “Would you like to come to the summit and watch the take-offs? It’s much more interesting from there.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mr. Drew agreed.
“I’ll leave my daughter with you, Chuck. I must get back to work. Take good care of her.”
“I sure will,” the young man answered in a tone that made Nancy blush.
Chuck Wilson waited until the lawyer was gone. Then suddenly he seized the girl’s hand and pulled her with him toward the ski run.
“I must see this jump,” he told her hastily. “That fellow coming down now is a whiz.”
The new skier had made a graceful take-off. For an instant, it seemed as if he would outdistance the jump that Chuck had made.
Then something went wrong. The man’s legs spread-eagled on landing and one ski caught in the icy snow, throwing him for a nasty spill.
The watching crowd gasped. Above the momentary silence that followed, a spectator, a short distance away from Nancy and Chuck, let out a cry and rushed toward the fallen man.
“Hey, you idiot!” he yelled. “What will happen to Mitzi if you kill yourself?”
At the name Mitzi, Nancy straightened. Leaving her escort, she elbowed her way quickly through the crowd and tried to get a closer look at the unfortunate skier. But she was too late. By the time Nancy slipped and slid in the snow to the spot, both the jumper and his friend had disappeared. She turned back.
“What’s the matter? Why did you run off?” Chuck asked as he reached her side.
“I’m sorry,” Nancy apologized. “I was trying to find someone. Can we go to the lift house at once? Perhaps he’s there.”
“Okay,” Chuck agreed, leading the way.
The lift house was full of skiers but the man who had fallen and the one who had called out were not there. As Chuck fitted her to a pair of rented skis, she asked him if by any chance he had heard the man’s name.
“No, I didn’t,” he answered. “But, say, would his initials help?”
“Oh, yes! Where did you see them?”
“On his skis. Big letters, burned in.”
Nancy’s heart skipped. “What were they?”
“R.I.C.”
“R.I.C.!” Nancy’s spine tingled as if someone had put snow down her back! “Could this be Mitzi Channing’s husband? R. I. Channing. Had she stumbled on his trail at last? . . . And that other man. Was he, perhaps, Sidney Boyd?”