The Secret in the Old Lace (6 page)

“Oh, that’s awful!” Bess burst out in Nancy’s defense. “She wrote every word of the story herself. She didn’t steal anything from anybody!”

“I admire your loyalty,” Mr. Miller remarked, “but rules are—”

“Nancy’s an amateur detective,” George interrupted, “so naturally that’s why she was able to make up such an interesting ending to the story of François Lefèvre.”

“I’m sure—” Mr. Miller started again, but George would not let him finish.

“Nancy hoped to win first prize and give the money to a very worthy charity,” she said pleadingly.

Mr. Miller led the disappointed visitors to the door. “I’m truly sorry about this whole thing. Look, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll request my staff to hold both manuscripts until the very last minute of the deadline, which has been extended a bit. Perhaps we’ll know by then what really happened. ”

Nancy smiled faintly. “Thank you very much.”

“That’s the best I can do,” the man said, shaking her hand.

Hopeful that Mr. Drew might be able to work on Nancy’s case while they were away, the girls left New York on a night flight to Brussels, Belgium. From there they planned to take a train or drive to Brugge, since the small city had no airport of its own.

As the plane’s wheels touched down, George stared out the window at the sun-soaked terminal building. It was noon in Belgium which meant it was only 6:00 A.M. in New York.

The travelers passed through Immigration and Passport Control quickly, then headed for the baggage area. One by one, pieces of luggage appeared on the moving conveyor. First George, then Bess saw their suitcases and pulled them off. Nancy also spotted hers, a sturdy green bag, but waited for it to come closer before taking it. Suddenly, to her astonishment, a man at the head of the line reached out, grabbed the bag, and hurried away.

“Did you see that?” Nancy cried out. “A man stole my suitcase!” She dashed through the crowd of passengers. A guard stopped her abruptly at a doorway leading to the exit. She could not pass through until her luggage was cleared by a customs official.

“But someone just took my bag!” she exclaimed indignantly. “He went through this door!”

“Well, evidently he works here and has proper identification. Maybe the bag just looks like yours.

Nancy rejoined Bess and George, hopeful that another green bag bearing her initials would appear. None did. Completely frustrated, Nancy spoke to the guard again, insisting she had seen someone take her luggage.

“If so,” the guard replied, “I suggest you report it to our lost and found office. Most likely, the person will return it when he realizes he has the wrong bag. Come back tomorrow morning and check. ”

Following the man’s instructions, Nancy and her friends went to the lost and found desk and reported the theft. Afterward they decided to stay in Brussels overnight.

“Oh, well,” Bess said, “look at the bright side. This is where François lived!”

She and George tagged after Nancy to a shuttle train which was headed for the heart of the city. They chose a quaint hotel listed in Nancy’s pocket directory that was within walking distance of the station.

“Belgium is a three-language country,” Bess said. ”People speak either French, Dutch, or Flemish depending on where they live. Many, of course, speak all three.”

Despite the beauty of the city and her friends’ attempts to cheer her, Nancy’s thoughts were solely on the missing luggage.

Somebody wants to keep me from going to Brugge! she thought as she crept into bed that night. But who?

 

 

 

Nancy slept fitfully and awoke early the next morning. She showered and dressed before her traveling companions had awakened, then went for a short walk until George and Bess were ready for breakfast. In the dining room, the girls discussed their situation.

“I have a hunch that someone is trying to stall our visit to Brugge,” Nancy said, sampling one of the sweet rolls on her plate.

Bess gulped down a cup of tea. “Can’t,” she said.

“What do you mean ‘can’t’?” George questioned.

“If Nancy’s bag doesn’t show up today,” her cousin replied, “we’ll go on to Brugge and tell the airline to forward it to Madame Chambray’s.”

To Nancy’s disappointment, the green suitcase had not been returned to the airport. She gave the address she would be staying at in Brugge and begged the airline representative to deliver the luggage as soon as it arrived.

“Frankly,” Nancy said to her friends, “I doubt it will ever come. I’m positive that the person who took my bag did so on purpose.”

Noticing a policeman standing outside the main entrance to the terminal, Nancy walked up to him.

“Monsieur,”
she called. “Do you speak English?”

“Un peu
—a little.”

The girl detective explained that her suitcase had probably been stolen.

“Can you describe the man—slowly, please?”

Nancy said he had been too far away for her to give a thorough description. “But I can tell you this. He was tall and thin and wore a dark blue suit or uniform. When I reported him to the guard, he said the person probably worked here.”

The officer paused a moment before speaking again. “Can you point the guard out to me so I can question him?”

The girl ducked back into the terminal, glancing in the direction of the baggage area. A different man was on duty there. When she returned to report this, she added one more identifying clue—the initials ND on her suitcase.

“Perhaps all your trouble is simply based on coincidence,” the officer said. “The man who took your bag may, in fact, own one just like yours.”

“And his name begins with the same letters as mine?” The young sleuth completed the policeman’s deduction. “That would certainly be a coincidence. ”

“Well, I will file a report for you and maybe your suitcase will be found.”

“If so, could you forward it to Brugge? We’ll be going there today.” She gave the officer Madame Chambray’s address and thanked him for his help. Then the girls took the shuttle train to the railroad station.

The ride to Brugge was uneventful. The girls watched the flat, green landscape and talked little. Finally, after a stop in Ghent, they reached the medieval town of Brugge. It was quaintly picturesque with lots of narrow streets and three- or four-story old stone houses often separated by canals.

“This is like traveling back into history to the Middle Ages,” Bess remarked.

Her cousin was intrigued by the canal boats. Several of them were open motorboats while others were canopied with colorful awnings. “No wonder Brugge is called the Venice of the North.”

Rather than take a land taxi, the visitors chose a boat. The
schipper,
a man whose ruddy complexion indicated he spent many hours at the wheel, stowed their luggage and started the motor.

It chugged loudly, causing Bess to whisper, “Maybe this is a medieval motor!”

Nancy smiled halfheartedly. “I hope the dress shops aren’t,” she said, wishing she had worn her new sweater-coat on the plane. She wondered if she would ever see it again.

As the
schipper
steered the boat from one canal into another, it passed under a small stone bridge with a Gothic hump in the middle. Beyond was a fieldstone house evidently built centuries ago. The narrow back windows were set under arches beneath a triangular roof.

“That must be where Madame Chambray lives,” George announced, as the boatman tied the craft to a post.

He helped the girls out, and unloaded the larger pieces of luggage. Then he grabbed the smaller ones, including Bess’s cosmetic bag. She held her hand out to take it, but the bag slipped through the man’s fingers, splashing into the water.

“Oh, no!” Bess cried out. “There go all my lipsticks and nail polish!”

The
schipper
jabbered something unintelligible. Nancy caught the word droevig, which she figured probably meant “sorry. ”

“Do be careful!” Bess pleaded while the man hopped back into the boat and picked up a pole with a grappling hook at one end. He slid it into the water and fished slowly for the handle of the case. In a few moments he nodded happily. He had caught the little bag!

“Thank goodness,” Bess sighed.

“You and your makeup,” her cousin needled her. “Why wear rouge at all when you know I can keep your blood pressure sky-high!”

By now, the boatman had picked up their luggage and was leading the way to the door of the house. It opened, revealing a tall, slender woman with silver-gray hair wound into a knot at the nape of her neck.

“Madame Chambray?” Nancy inquired.

“Mais oui,” she said in French. “Yes, and welcome.”

The girls introduced themselves, and Nancy paid the
schipper.
Once they were seated in the living room, the visitors were struck by its charm. It contained numerous pieces of intricately carved furniture and heavy brocade draperies. Many of the paintings on the walls had been done by very fine artists, some of them famous.

Nancy was eager to see the diamond and lapis lazuli cross but decided to wait for Madame Chambray to mention it first.

“I am so glad you could come,” the woman said. “You know I’ve been living in this house only a very short while but already it has produced—how you say—a mystery?”

“Yes, you wrote to Mother about it,” Bess said.

“Then you understand I am looking for the owner of a beautiful cross,” Madame Chambray continued.

Nancy felt obligated to warn her not to tell her story to too many people.

“No?” the woman replied, raising her eyebrows. “But how will I ever find the owner? I must tell you I put an article in the newspaper about it. Let me show it to you.” The well-meaning woman excused herself for a moment and returned with a news clipping which she handed to Nancy.

Immediately the girl detective’s eyes fell on her own name. “You mentioned my visit here as well,” Nancy said in disbelief.

“It isn’t every day that a famous young detective comes to Brugge.” The woman chuckled.

“Oh, dear,” Bess moaned. “All your chances of working under cover, Nancy, just vanished into thin air!”

Madame Chambray caught the look of disappointment on Nancy’s face. “Is there a problem?” she asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

George replied first. “No, but—”

“But what?” Madame Chambray said anxiously.

“Nancy may not be able to solve your mystery,” Bess declared boldly.

 

 

 

Nancy was less pessimistic than her friends and smiled at Madame Chambray. “Let’s just say you’ve given me—all of us—quite a challenge,” she said. “The more people who know about the diamond cross and your search for its owner, the more chance there is that someone will put in a false claim.”

The woman chided herself. “How stupid I am!” she exclaimed. “That never occurred to me.”

It was obvious to her visitors that Madame Chambray was scrupulously honest and very trusting. No doubt she could be easily swayed by the sympathetic tale of a con artist.

“Where did you find the cross?” Nancy inquired. She gazed toward the narrow hallway where steps led to the second and third stories and tried to imagine how Madame Chambray had stumbled upon the glittering piece in some medieval nook upstairs.

“It was in a most unlikely place,” the woman said, pausing. “In the cellar.”

“The cellar?” George repeated in surprise. “Was it in a box or just lying on the floor somewhere?”

“Actually it was wrapped in a piece of linen that was caught in the stonework—”

Madame Chambray stopped speaking for a moment and went into another room. When she returned, she held a small purple velvet box in her hand. “You must see it—it is so beautiful,” she said, giving the box to Nancy to open.

Bess and George gathered near the young detective as she lifted the cover. Inside lay the dazzling cross.

“It’s exquisite!” Bess exclaimed while Nancy removed the piece from the box to examine it closely.

The oblong diamonds and lapis lazuli stones were set in- solid gold. But there were no unusual markings on the setting.

“The linen I found it wrapped in,” Madame Chambray said, “is folded under the mount in the box. ”

George took the cross from Nancy, enabling her to remove the linen. “There’s something stitched on it,” Nancy commented as she stared at the line of French words embroidered on the soiled material. Below them was the name
Antoinette
Tissot.

“Maybe the cross belonged to King Louis XVI,” Bess suggested with a grin.

Madame Chambray interrupted the conversation, asking Nancy if she could interpret the message.

“I think so,” the girl detective replied. “Doesn’t it say, ‘God protect you wherever you go’?”

“That’s correct,” the woman said with admiration.

“Have you shown this to anyone else?” Nancy questioned.

“Other than some friends, I did ask an expert appraiser of antique jewelry to look at the cross. He estimates it to be more than one hundred years old.”

“Which means,” George said, “Antoinette is not living anymore.”

“Possibly,” Nancy put in, “but not necessarily. After all, the cross could have come into her possession years after it was made.” She stifled a yawn, suddenly feeling extremely tired after their adventure in Brussels.

“I can see you are a very smart detective, Nancy,” said Madame Chambray, “but I don’t want you to trouble your mind about all of this right now. You need your sleep. You all do.”

She took the little velvet box from the girls and replaced the linen and beautiful cross.

“I am having a small dinner party this evening to introduce you to my friends. They are so eager to meet all of you,” the woman went on. “So—”