The Clue in the Diary (9 page)

At the long dinner table the boy on her right, Phil Roberts, proved to be very entertaining. He told several amusing and true stories about strange letters which had come to the attention of the post office.

“Where did you hear about these letters?” Nancy asked him, after the laughter had subsided.

“Oh, my father’s the Stanford postmaster,” Phil explained. “He told me.”

Immediately Nancy wondered if Phil could have heard anything to shed light on the reason why Mrs. Swenson was not receiving mail from her husband. It took Nancy nearly five minutes to formulate a diplomatic question.

Finally she said, “If someone’s mail isn’t being delivered, what could be the reason?”

Phil smiled. “Two that I can think of. First, no one is writing to the person, and second, his mail is being stolen.” Suddenly he looked intently at Nancy. “What made you ask me that question?”

“Because I know someone who should be getting mail but isn’t. If there were money or checks in the letters, a thief might steal them.”

“A certain kind of thief would. Say, Nancy, I’m going to tell you something—it’s kind of confidential—but I think it might help your friend.”

Nancy listened intently for the secret she was about to hear.

 

 

 

“FOR several weeks,” Phil began, “my father and a good many other postmasters have been receiving reports like the one you’ve just told me, Nancy. The police and the Postal Inspectors Division have been investigating but haven’t caught anyone yet.”

“Hm,” said Nancy. “Then my friend could easily be one of the victims.”

Just then a record of dance music began to play and Ned claimed Nancy. For the remainder of the evening there was no chance to resume the conversation about stolen letters. But throughout the evening, the matter was constantly on her mind. By the time the party was over and she had said good night to Ned, the young sleuth had a theory about the thefts. To start solving this mystery, she must first talk to Joe Swenson.

By ten the following morning Nancy was on her way, with Bess and George in the front seat of the car with her. In her purse was the diary. The cousins were intrigued when Nancy told them about the dinner dance.

“Lucky you!” said Bess, pretending to pout. “Couldn’t Ned have found a couple of blind dates for George and me?”

Nancy laughed, then turning serious, said, “If we find Joe Swenson, I’m going to ask him point-blank if he has mailed any letters containing money to his wife.”

She did not explain her reason for this, not wishing to betray Phil’s confidence about the money, money orders, and checks being stolen from mail.

“Suppose he says yes,” George suggested.

“Then I’ll ask him where he mails his letters and try a little detective work to see what happens.”

The first shift of noonday lunchers was trickling from Mr. Weston’s factory as Nancy parked nearby. Soon the recreation area was filled with men. Some seated themselves on the ground to eat. Others began to play ball.

“It won’t be easy to find Joe Swenson in such a large group,” Nancy declared in disappointment. “If we had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, we could have spotted him as he came out of the building.”

Nevertheless, the girls eagerly scanned the faces of the workmen. A number of them had gathered near a drinking fountain, but Joe Swenson was not among this group. Not discouraged, the girls began to walk about, inquiring for a man named Dahl. The men they questioned had never heard of him.

“I’m sure he works here,” Nancy declared to her friends.

Workmen passing to and fro stared curiously at the girls, obviously wondering what had brought them to the electronics plant.

Nancy was becoming a bit disheartened, when she chanced to observe a light-haired man leaning dejectedly against the high fence which surrounded the grounds. Apparently the man had picked an isolated, tree-shaded spot, away from the other workers. He had his back to the girls, but from a distance Nancy thought his tall, spare build was exactly like that of the stranger she had seen running away from the fire. Could he be Honey’s father?

She watched expectantly, and presently the man turned around. He was the same person she had seen on the previous day’s visit to the factory. Nancy could not mistake the face—he was Joe Swenson.

“You girls stay here a moment, will you?” Nancy requested. “I think I’ve found our man. I must speak to him alone. Be on your guard, and if he tries to escape, block the exit to the grounds. I don’t think he’ll make a disturbance, but if he’s guilty, he may attempt a getaway!”

Nancy’s heart beat faster than usual as she approached the man who was leaning against the fence. His downcast manner, the girl thought, could mean a guilty conscience.

“I beg your pardon,” Nancy said courageously, “but aren’t you Mr. Joe Swenson—alias Dahl?”

The man wheeled around, but held his ground. After the first start of surprise, Nancy thought he did not look unusually disturbed at the sudden encounter.

“Yes,” he replied, “Dahl’s my name. Anything I can do for you?”

For a moment Nancy was at a loss for words. She had half expected that Joe Swenson would be defiant and sullen—not a sad-eyed, kindly man. He looked to her as though he could not have harmed anyone in his life.

“It’s all a mistake,” Nancy told herself joyfully. “Mr. Swenson is innocent. He didn’t start the Raybolt fire.”

The next moment she had regained her composure and was again the impartial, businesslike detective. She showed him her driver’s license for identification.

“I have news of your wife,” Nancy said to him quietly.

“Helen?” the man demanded eagerly, his face lighting up. “She’s not ill, I hope!”

“Oh, no,” Nancy assured him, “but she’s dreadfully worried about you and is trying to locate you.”

“I don’t understand,” Joe Swenson said, frowning. “I sent my address but didn’t want to go home until—er—a certain matter was cleared up.”

“Then you
have
written to your wife?” Nancy questioned.

“Yes, twice. I sent her two good-sized money orders.”

For a second Nancy wondered if he was telling the truth. Looking him straight in the eye, she said, “Mrs. Swenson never received them.”

“What!” her husband exclaimed in such genuine astonishment that Nancy had no further doubts.

“They need money badly,” Nancy said, and summoned her friends to come forward. She introduced Bess and George, then repeated what Joe Swenson had told her.

“Your letters have been
stolen!”
George said vehemently.

“But how? Where?” the inventor cried out. “I mailed them in the post office myself!”

No one could answer this puzzle. Suddenly he pulled an unsealed envelope from his pocket.

“Here is another letter to my wife with twenty-five dollars in it. I was going to send a money order today. Would you be so kind as to deliver this in person?”

“I’ll be glad to,” Nancy answered, smiling, and tucked the envelope in her pocket.

She then changed the subject to obtain more information on another topic. “Would you mind telling us, Mr. Swenson, why you’re using the name Dahl here?”

“Certainly. I’m an inventor, and I’ve had hard luck. The name Joe Swenson seems to have brought trouble. My mother’s people were always successful. On the spur of the moment I decided to use that name here. A man I know vouched for me, since I didn’t have any references to give.”

“I see,” said Nancy. She smiled disarmingly. “Your wife told me of some unfair dealings you’ve had with a man who buys patents.”

“Indeed they were unfair. He cheated me. Felix Raybolt is a thief!”

The three girls were unprepared for such an outburst from this seemingly mild-mannered man. Apparently he guessed what was going through their minds.

“I shouldn’t burden you with my problems,” he said apologetically. “Things aren’t any easier, even though I have a job. Did you know the Raybolt house burned?”

“Yes.”

“To be truthful I am afraid I may be blamed if anyone finds out I was there.”

“You were there?” Bess asked, a look of feigned innocence in her big blue eyes.

“I had an appointment with Mr. Raybolt early that evening,” Joe Swenson explained. “The house was dark. I had just rung the bell when there was a terrific explosion inside the house, and it burst into flames. I called and called to Mr. Raybolt—but there was no answer.”

“Did you try to break in to help?” George asked bluntly.

“Yes, but I couldn’t budge the front door. I ran around to the back. Because of the flames, I knew I couldn’t do any good. Then I heard a car approaching the house. It occurred to me I might be blamed, so I ran away.”

“Did you see anyone on the grounds?” Nancy asked.

“No.”

“Do you think Mr. Raybolt lost his life in the fire?” Nancy asked.

“I really don’t know. I didn’t see or hear him inside, and the police haven’t located any evidence,” the inventor replied.

Nancy had been endeavoring to formulate an honest opinion of the man’s story. Her hand went to her purse but she did not bring forth the diary. From their casual conversation so far, she could not be absolutely certain that Joe Swenson was innocent. She must question him further.

“They’ve been searching the grounds for clues,” Nancy said nonchalantly. “A number of articles have been picked up in the vicinity.”

Swenson looked sharply at Nancy, as though it had dawned on him that he indeed might be under suspicion. However, his next words were spoken casually.

“I wonder if a diary was found. I lost one. Probably dropped it along the road.”

Nancy made no move to give him the diary, although she was convinced that it was his.

“I hated to lose that little journal,” Joe Swenson continued. “It was written mostly in Swedish and wouldn’t be of any value except to myself—and to Felix Raybolt. That sly fox!”

“What has the diary to do with Mr. Raybolt?” Nancy asked.

“The diary contains—” Joe Swenson hesitated. “Well, it contains things Felix Raybolt wishes were not written down. That man cheated me out of a fortune, but I haven’t a chance to prove my case without the diary and without money to retain a lawyer. To make matters worse, I’ve even lost a ring I treasured highly.”

He made a hopeless gesture and lapsed into gloomy silence.

Again Nancy’s hand went to the diary in her purse. Again she hesitated. Suppose Joe Swenson were guilty, and she was withholding evidence from the police! Nancy made a quick decision: to hold onto the journal until the truth was learned.

Before she could question the man further, the return-to-work whistle blew a shrill blast.

“I must go now,” Swenson said hurriedly.

“When are you off duty?” Nancy asked.

“Four o’clock.”

“Then perhaps we’ll see you again before we return to River Heights.” Noticing the man’s surprise, she added quickly, “Wouldn’t you like me to carry a message to Mrs. Swenson and Honey?”

“Thank you. But I’ll write to them again.”

Nancy and her friends watched him until he had disappeared inside the building. The girls then walked slowly back to the car.

“I’ll bet,” said George, “that Joe Swenson is worried about the fire, and will run away again.”

Nancy remained silent, in deep thought. Just as she reached the convertible someone grabbed her arm roughly. She turned to face a tough, cruel-looking man.

 

 

 

“LET go of me!” Nancy cried out, and tried to shake off the man’s iron grip. When she did not succeed, Bess and George started pounding the man and forced him to release Nancy’s arm.

“What do you want?” Nancy demanded indignantly.

“Some information. Why are you snooping around here?” the stranger snarled.

“Are you a factory guard?” Nancy countered, knowing from his clothes and manner that he most certainly was not.

“Why—uh—yes. That’s what I am. And I got a right to know why you been talkin’ to that workman.”

“The conversation was private,” Nancy told the man firmly. “Now if you’ll just move—”

For a moment the obnoxious stranger did not seem inclined to do so, but finally he strode off down the street. The girls stepped into the car and drove away.

“Nancy, aren’t you worried?” Bess asked. “That man was positively horrible.”

“Yes, I am, Bess. Because I’m more certain than ever that Joe Swenson is in some kind of jam.”

“If we can see him at four o’clock, I’m going to ask him about that crude person,” declared George. “Say, Nancy, where are you going now?”

“Yes, where?” Bess echoed. “I’m starving!”

Nancy laughed. “I could use some lunch myself. After that, I’ll introduce myself to Phil Roberts’ father.”

“The Stanford postmaster!” Bess exclaimed. “Nancy, you’re not transferring your affections from Ned to Phil already!”

“Nothing like that,” Nancy assured her with a grin. “I have a little scheme I’d like to try out and I need his cooperation.”

Nancy stopped speaking as she drove into a public parking lot next to a tearoom. The girls went inside and were fortunate to be seated at the last available table. It was such a noisy place that the girls did not try to talk.

Half an hour later they came out of the tearoom, glad to breathe the fresh air and escape the din. Since the post office was close by, the girls walked there. Seeing a door sign marked:

Nancy went to it and knocked. Presently it was opened by a pleasant, middle-aged man.

“I’m Nancy Drew from River Heights,” she said, smiling. “I met your son Phil at a party.”