The Secret in the Old Attic (2 page)

“Connie, Susan’s mother, wrote to Fipp, suggesting that he tell us where the music was. My boy was full of fun, and replied that he’d give her a hint and she could look for it. Then, after a few more letters”—at this point Mr. March bowed his head—“no others came.”

Several moments of silence followed. Finally Mr. Drew spoke. “My daughter and I could not find a clue, but perhaps we can if we study the letters more thoroughly.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Mr. March murmured. “I’ll remember your kindness always. I’d never ask your help for myself—only for Susan. A friend has been caring for her lately, but she’s moving away and is bringing Susan back to me the first of the week. I must do something very soon. Susan has no other relatives to take care of her. If I am not financially able to do it, I will have to ask for charity. This would have broken her parents’ hearts.”

Nancy and her father accompanied their caller to the door, promising to do what they could. As he stepped outside, a rock came whizzing through the air toward him. It struck Mr. March on the head and he slumped to the flagstone walk.

“Oh!” Nancy cried. She rushed outside and bent over the inert form.

Mr. Drew glanced in the direction from which the missile had been hurled. He spotted a man darting from a cluster of bushes that lined one side of the semicircular driveway. At this distance the lawyer knew he could not overtake the fugitive.

Together Nancy and her father carried the stricken figure inside and laid him on the living-room couch. By this time Hannah Gruen, the Drews’ motherly housekeeper who had helped rear Nancy, hurried in.

“I think,” she said worriedly, “that we should call Dr. Ivers.” The others agreed and she went to phone him and also the police to give a full report.

By the time the physician arrived, Mr. March had regained consciousness. After an examination, he said the man need not go to the hospital.

“However, he should not try to travel alone, or drive a car.” Dr. Ivers turned to the others. “Mr. March is suffering more from malnutrition than from the lump on his head. What he needs is rest and good food for a few days.”

“I have no car,” the visitor said. “Can’t afford it.”

At once Nancy whispered to her father, “Why don’t we keep him here?”

The lawyer nodded and conveyed the invitation to Mr. March. At first he hesitated, then accepted weakly. Mr. Drew and the doctor carried him upstairs to the guest room.

“I’ll fix a bowl of broth,” said Mrs. Gruen, heading for the kitchen. “Make some toast, Nancy,” she directed.

When the food tray, which included a broiled hamburger and rice pudding was ready, Nancy carried it upstairs. Mr. March seemed to enjoy the food, then fell asleep, mumbling that he would leave in the morning. But when morning came, Nancy persuaded him to stay by telling him she needed more information about the missing music.

“You rest now, and later we’ll go over the letters together,” she told him.

During the day Nancy brought up trays of food to Mr. March and encouraged him to talk about himself. She found him to be a delightful, cultured person. The past few years he had not been strong and therefore had been unable to work very much.

“I want you to see my house sometime,” he said late that afternoon. “Of course it doesn’t look like it used to—I don’t make a very good housekeeper, and I haven’t been able to afford one, or a gardener either, for a long time.”

“How old is the house?” Nancy asked.

“Over two hundred years; at least, part of it is.”

“How intriguing!” she exclaimed. “When you’re well enough to go home, I’ll drive you there and then you can show the place to me.”

In the midst of this conversation the doorbell rang. Nancy excused herself, turned on the bedside radio, then hurried downstairs.

“Hi, George and Bess!” said Nancy as she opened the front door wide. She grinned at George. “My goodness, you’ve had more hair cut off!”

George Fayne was an attractive slender brunette. She tossed her head. “Anyway, Burt Eddleton had better like it.”

“Nancy,” said her companion, “we came to find out if you plan to get a new dress for the Emerson dance.” Bess Marvin, George’s pretty, slightly plump cousin, was going to it with Dave Evans.

“I haven’t given it much thought,” Nancy replied. “I’ve started helping Dad on a new case, and—”

“And when you’re working on a mystery you have a one-track mind!” George finished with a grin.

“Can you tell us anything about the case?” Bess asked.

Nancy briefed George and Bess about Fipp March’s music. The girls were interested and offered their assistance if Nancy should need it.

“I’ll keep in touch,” Nancy promised.

“And don’t forget the dance!” George teased as the cousins said good-by.

Nancy went back to Mr. March’s room. Beautiful music was coming from the radio. It was a trumpet solo of a haunting tune with orchestral accompaniment.

Suddenly Mr. March cried out excitedly, “That melody! It was my son’s. He never had it published! The song has been stolen! You must find the thief!”

 

 

 

“STOLEN?” Nancy repeated. “The music was stolen?”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. March vowed, sitting up in bed with a jerk. “The words, the tune, everything!”

The elderly man suddenly clapped his hands to his head. Nancy, fearful he was about to black out, rushed to the bed and eased him back onto the pillows.

“Please don’t excite yourself about this,” she begged. “Actually it may turn out that it was a good thing you heard this. Let’s hope the announcer at least mentions the name of the soloist.”

Unfortunately the piece ended without the announcer giving the title of the song or any credits to composer or soloist. For the rest of the day the radio was turned on continuously, in the hope that the song would be played again.

Nancy and Mr. March waited attentively all day, but up to the time he was ready to go to sleep that evening, neither of them heard the melody again. He was positive, though, that it was one of his son’s compositions.

“Fipp was very talented,” he declared proudly, as Nancy smoothed the bedsheets and turned his pillows. “Why, my son could play six different instruments. When he lived at home, he would lock himself in the attic and compose for hours at a time. Then when the pieces were finished, he would come downstairs to the music room and play them for the family.”

“Do you know of anyone who might have stolen your son’s work?” Nancy asked thoughtfully. Mr, March shook his head.

The young detective realized that she would have to proceed cautiously in any investigation. She could not accuse a person of plagiarism until there was proof. Her task was now twofold: to locate the thief and trace the rest of the unpublished music. She and Mr. March read Fipp’s letters again, but as before, Nancy could find no clue in any of them.

She said slowly, “I suppose you’ve searched the music room and the rest of your home for your son’s songs?”

“Oh, many times. But to no avail.”

“How about the attic?”

“I’ve looked there, too,” the man replied. “The songs are missing, and it’s my belief now, after hearing the one over the radio, that maybe all of them have been stolen.”

Nancy wondered if the person who had tried to harm Mr. March was involved in the theft.

“The man probably followed him. When the assailant learned he was coming to consult a lawyer, he tried to keep him from doing anything more,” the young detective said to herself.

No report had been received from the police, so Nancy assumed they had no leads to the attacker.

The next afternoon when the doctor pronounced Mr. March strong enough to go home, Nancy said she would take him there in her car. After an early supper, she invited Bess and George to accompany them.

“I’m sorry to have you see my estate so rundown,” the elderly man said as they rode along. “There was a time when it was one of the show-places of River Heights.”

The evening was gloomy. As the car approached the river, dark storm clouds scudded across the sky.

“There’s the house—beyond this pine grove. Turn here,” Mr. March directed. He was in the front seat of the convertible. “It’s called Pleasant Hedges.”

The name hardly suited the estate, for the hedges were untrimmed and entangled with weeds and small stray bushes. Long grass and weeds covered the lawn. Several tall pine trees stood near the house. The wind whispered dismally through the swaying boughs.

“It’s spooky,” Bess said in a hushed voice to George, who was next to her in the rear seat. “That man who threw the rock at Mr. March may be hiding here waiting to attack us!”

“We’d better keep our eyes open,” George answered.

The house was a rambling structure, partly covered with vines. There was a gray stone section at one end, but the rest was built of clapboards, which were badly weather-beaten.

“Now that we’re here, may we look inside the house, Mr. March?” Nancy asked as she pulled up at the front door. “Maybe the four of us together can find that lost music.”

“I’ll be grateful if you’ll try,” he replied. “Your young eyes no doubt are sharper than mine.”

As Nancy gazed at the stone wing, she thought that it appeared to be much older than the rest of the house and asked Mr. March about it.

“That part was built way back when people around here had plenty of servants,” he explained. “We’ll go in there first.”

He led his callers along a weed-grown path to some moss-covered steps.

“The lower level of the old building was a stable,” Mr. March explained.

The girls descended the steps, snapped on a light, and looked inside the stable. It was dirty and cobwebby from years of disuse. The long rows of empty stalls, each with a name posted above it, fascinated them.

“Running Mate,” Bess read aloud. “And here’s another—Kentucky Blue. How interesting!”

“Those were the names of two of my grandfather’s horses,” Mr. March explained. “Great racers they were in their day. The Marches kept a stable which was known throughout the country. The trainers lived upstairs.”

He pointed to a narrow stairway. The girls climbed up, clicked on overhead lights, and glanced into the small bedrooms which ran off a center hallway.

Nancy looked around carefully for any possible hiding places in the walls or floors where Fipp March might have put the music he had composed. She did not see one anywhere.

The three girls descended the antique stairway, which groaned beneath their weight. Mr. March escorted them back to the main entrance of the house. He took a large brass key from his pocket and after several attempts succeeded in unlocking the heavy old door. It swung open with a grating sound.

“The place is pretty bare,” the owner said with a sigh. “I’ve sold nearly all the good furniture. Had to do it to raise money for little Susan.”

The girls walked into the long, empty hall, which sent out hollow echoes when the visitors spoke. From there Mr. March led them to the music room. The only furniture in it was an old-fashioned piano with yellowed keys and a thread-bare chair in front of it.

Several other rooms on the first floor were empty and dismal. Heavy silken draperies, once beautiful, but now faded and worn, hung at some of the windows. The dining room still had its walnut table, chairs, and buffet, but a built-in corner cupboard was bare.

“I sold the fine old glass and china that used to be in there,” Mr. March said to Nancy in a strained voice. “It seemed best. Come. We’ll go upstairs now.”

Some of the bedrooms on the second floor were furnished, but they did not contain the lovely old mahogany or walnut bedsteads and bureaus one might have expected. A few inexpensive modern pieces had taken the place of those which had been sold.

Realizing how desperately Mr. March needed money, Nancy kept her eyes open for any objects which could be sold to antique dealers. Apparently almost everything of value had been removed. She asked if the girls might begin their search for the missing music.

“Go right ahead,” Mr. March told her.

For the next two hours she, Bess, and George tapped walls, looked into cupboards beside the fireplaces, and examined the flooring for removable boards. Three times Nancy inspected the paneled music room. There seemed to be no clue anywhere.

“Nothing left to check but the attic,” said the young detective to Mr. March at last. “May we go up there?”

“I’ll show you the way. It’s a long, steep climb,” he declared, opening the door to a stairway. “I don’t go up there very often. It winds me.”

After getting a candle, the elderly man conducted the girls to the attic steps.

“There are no lights, but maybe you can see well enough by candlelight.”

Nancy chided herself for leaving her flashlight in the car and said she would get it. Just then they heard loud pounding somewhere downstairs.

“What was that?” Bess asked, startled.

“It sounded to me as if someone might be hammering on a door!” George suggested.

Nancy offered to find out, but Mr. March would not hear of this.

“No, I’ll go,” he insisted. “You girls search the attic in the meantime. I’ll leave the candle.”

It was so dark in the attic that at first the girls could see little by candlelight. As soon as Nancy’s eyes became accustomed to the dimness, she groped her way forward in the cluttered room.

“The attic is really very interesting,” she said, surveying the assortment of boxes and trunks. She called her friends’ attention to a fine old table which stood in one corner. “I believe Mr. March could sell that,” she said. “And look at these old-fashioned hatboxes!”

She picked up one of the round, cardboard boxes. On it was the picture of a gay rural scene of early American life.