The Scarlet Slipper Mystery Read online

  Nancy smiled, then said, “When I run into a dead end on a clue, I go back to the beginning and start all over again.”

  “The beginning?” George repeated. “You mean all the way back to the bisque figurines?”

  “That’s as good a place as any, George.”

  The girls had lunch; then Nancy drove back to River Heights. George left her, and Nancy went to her father’s office. After describing the morning’s happenings, she made a request.

  “Dad, would you please find out from customs if those bisque figurines were imported? I suspect they as well as the paintings may have been shipped to Mr. Duparc.”

  “I can try,” the lawyer readily agreed.

  Nancy said she would be at the dancing school if he should want her, and headed for the Fontaines’ studio. She found things running smoothly, with Mrs. Nickerson in charge. Since there were twenty minutes before the next class, Nancy donned a leotard and practiced for her dance in the forthcoming charity show.

  “That’s excellent,” Ned’s mother commented enthusiastically after watching her.

  When Nancy’s class of young students arrived and had gotten into their costumes, she began a story she loved about the great ballerina Pavlova.

  “One of Pavlova’s favorite dances,” Nancy said, “was called ‘The Swan.’ It’s said she floated across the stage in a filmy white-feathered costume even more gracefully than this lovely bird swims! And how do you think Pavlova learned to imitate it?”

  “How?” chorused the little girls.

  “In her garden at Ivy House in Hampstead, England,” Nancy said, “Pavlova had a small lake with tame swans swimming on it. She used to watch them for hours, and sometimes she caressed her beautiful white birds and let them fly back to the water. She watched every movement.”

  “Did she have any other pets?” Susie asked.

  “Yes,” said Nancy. “Pavlova had a gorgeous cockatoo that she loved to feed grapes. By the way, how many of you girls have watched the swans in our own River Heights park?”

  All of them raised their hands and Nancy said, “How about all of you pretending to be swans and using the steps you’ve been learning?”

  The children were eager to try it, so Nancy put on a recording of Swan Lake and the little girls began to flit around the room, gliding, swimming, diving.

  When the class was over, Mrs. Nickerson called Nancy to the phone. “It’s Ned,” she told her and handed over the instrument.

  “Hello, Ned.”

  “Hi, Nancy! How about a late afternoon ride and dinner with me? You need a rest from the Fontaine case.”

  Nancy agreed to go. She put on her pink sports dress and helped Mrs. Nickerson with some of the clerical work until Ned arrived. As they pulled away from the curb, she said, “Please, Ned, if it doesn’t make any great difference where we go, let’s drive to Cliffwood.”

  “Why Cliffwood?”

  “Mrs. Judson sent me a telegram from there. Maybe that’s where she and her husband are living.”

  Ned groaned in mock annoyance but admitted he would enjoy helping Nancy solve at least part of the mystery. Arriving in Cliffwood, he began a patrol of the streets. They had just passed the railroad station and were nearing a big supermarket when Nancy suddenly gripped Ned’s arm.

  “There’s Mrs. Judson now, going into that store across the street!”

  Ned stopped the car and Nancy jumped out. Traffic was heavy and delayed her. Finally she crossed to the far side and hurried into the market, which was crowded with shoppers.

  Nancy looked quickly down one aisle and then the next. By the time she located Mrs. Judson, who was wearing a bright-green dress, the mysterious woman had completed her purchases and was at the check-out counter, paying her bill.

  The width of the store and half-loaded carts in awkward positions were between her and Nancy. Nancy made her way among them as fast as she could, but when she reached the exit, Mrs. Judson was already leaving the store.

  At the check-out counter, Nancy tried to push her way through the line of carts and customers. An irate cashier looked up and said, “Wait your turn, miss! These customers are in a hurry, too.”

  “I’m not buying anything,” Nancy told her, and as several women glowered at her, she finally broke into the clear and headed for the doorway.

  By the time she reached the street, Mrs. Judson was at the railroad station. Nancy heard a train coming and looked around wildly for Ned. He was not in sight.

  Nancy raced across the street to the station. As she dashed through the waiting room, she caught sight of Mrs. Judson on the train, which was just pulling out. Nancy had no chance to climb aboard.

  “But I mustn’t lose that woman!” she said to herself.

  As Nancy headed for the taxi stand with the thought of catching the train at the next station, Ned pulled up and called, “Going my way, lady?”

  Nancy jumped into the car quickly and explained what had happened. Ned took up the chase.

  “I’d like to make a suggestion,” he said. “Don’t board that train. That woman will be sure to make a scene. We’ll follow her until she gets off and then tackle her.”

  “All right, Ned.”

  They met the train at the next three stations, and each time checked the descending passengers. Mrs. Judson was not among them.

  “Next stop, Brandon!” said Ned cheerfully, continuing the chase.

  The train was slowing to a stop at Brandon when Nancy left the car and hurried toward the tracks. A moment later Mrs. Judson alighted and headed for the street.

  Nancy dashed to her side and grabbed the woman’s arm. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Judson,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Mrs. Judson whirled and tried to break Nancy’s grasp. But the young detective held on tightly. In the scuffle that followed, Mrs. Judson’s handbag opened.

  Out tumbled the scarlet ballet slippers!

  The stiff toes had been pulled apart. Quickly Nancy concluded that Mrs. Judson must have stolen the slippers because something was secreted in them. She wondered if the woman had found it.

  At this point Ned hurried up with a policeman. “Arrest this woman!” the young man ordered.

  “What’s the charge?” the officer asked.

  “The theft of these ballet shoes,” Nancy replied. “This woman uses the name of Mrs. Judson, but I don’t think that’s her right name. Federal authorities are looking for her and her husband in connection with a smuggling racket. These slippers have something to do with it.”

  The policeman was open-mouthed with astonishment. But before he could act, Mrs. Judson screamed, “My husband is no smuggler! This girl is lying to cover herself.”

  “What do you mean, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Judson cried defiantly, “This Nancy Drew calls herself a detective. But she’s a law-breaker!”

  “What makes you say that?” the policeman demanded.

  “She accuses my husband and me of being smugglers when actually she is shielding the real smugglers. Make her tell you where they are!”

  CHAPTER XVI

  Disguise

  IT occurred to Nancy that if she could keep Mrs. Judson talking, the woman might reveal something vital.

  “Officer,” she said, “I suggest we go to police headquarters and talk to the chief.”

  “All right, miss.” He took Mrs. Judson by the arm and escorted her to Captain Crane’s office. Nancy and Ned followed.

  Nancy told the bald-headed, round-faced chief of the theft of the scarlet slippers, and of her certainty that Mrs. Judson and her husband were involved in a smuggling racket.

  As the young detective finished, the woman cried out in a loud, twangy voice, “Chief, this girl’s crazy! My husband and I never stole anything in our lives, and as for smuggling jewels into this country—”

  Mrs. Judson stopped speaking, covered with confusion. Not once had Nancy mentioned jewels! The suspect had given herself away!

  Nancy said that the woman’s husban
d used the name David Judson, also Raoul Amien.

  Mrs. Judson sprang across the room toward Nancy. “The police will never find him! I’ll never tell where he is!” she screamed.

  She tried to claw Nancy, but Ned restrained her. When the fracas was over, he said, “Captain, I think you may know Nancy Drew by reputation. Her father is Carson Drew, a lawyer in River Heights.”

  “Indeed I do,” the officer replied. “I’ve read about your exploits as a detective, Miss Drew.” He smiled. “If our department can help you in this smuggling case, we’ll certainly do all we can. But first, if you’ll file a formal complaint of theft, I’ll have Mrs. Judson held.”

  After the woman had been put in a cell, Captain Crane said, “I’ll keep the scarlet slippers as evidence, and I’ll personally see that any callers Mrs. Judson has are examined carefully. And now, is there any other way I can help you?”

  “Perhaps,” Nancy said. “I suspect that in connection with the case there has been a kidnapping of a brother and sister who run a dancing school in River Heights. Can you think of any place in Brandon where they might be held prisoners without arousing too much attention?”

  Captain Crane said he knew of none, but would ask some of his patrolmen.

  He took his callers into the squad room and put the same question to the half-dozen shirtsleeved men there. All shook their heads except one, who said, “There’s an old two-story farmhouse on the edge of Brandon that was abandoned until recently. I don’t know who’s taken it.”

  “We might find out, Donovan,” Captain Crane decided. “You ride out there with these young folks and see if there’s anything suspicious about the place.”

  They drove out in Ned’s car. The house stood a distance from the road on a lane bordered by woods. As the callers stopped, they were met by a stooped limping old man with white hair, a mustache and bright, dark eyes. He wore light-blue trousers and a faded checkered sports jacket.

  Officer Donovan spoke to him, but apparently the man was stone deaf, for he shakily handed the officer a pencill and pad.

  Donovan wrote, “Who lives here?”

  The man read the question, then penciled, “My wife and me. Name is Brown. She is away.”

  Nancy made no comment as they headed back to police headquarters. But when she and Ned were alone, the young sleuth said, “Let’s go back to the farmhouse. That old man isn’t deaf.”

  “How do you know?” asked Ned, amazed.

  Nancy smiled. “Before we reached him, I saw the man turn his head when a dog barked in the distance.”

  “And I’ll bet you think the old-man stuff is faked, too,” Ned said with a chuckle.

  “Yes, I do. And he’s not dumb.”

  This time, Ned stopped the car a quarter of a mile from the farmhouse and the couple approached cautiously on foot. From the woods, Nancy studied the upper floor of the house for some sign that prisoners might be concealed behind the curtained windows. But she saw nothing suspicious. Their knock was not answered.

  “Maybe the man is out but will come back,” Nancy suggested. “Let’s wait over there in the shade.”

  Fifteen minutes went by before their patience was rewarded. Then the man, still wearing the light-blue trousers and faded sports jacket, stepped out the front door into the yard.

  But he was no longer an old man! The white hair was now shiny black and the mustache was gone. As the man stood, tall and erect, he looked thinner and more gaunt than he had in his disguise as a farmer. There was no mistaking his eyes, though.

  The man was a complete stranger to Nancy. To prove her point about his hearing, the girl whistled and the man turned around. Nancy and Ned stepped forward.

  “What was the idea of the disguise?” Ned demanded.

  The man was shocked for a moment, then relaxed and smiled disarmingly. In a French accent he replied, “You are detectives?”

  “Amateurs,” Nancy answered.

  “Very good. I am one myself. If you will come in and sit down, I will tell my story. Perhaps we can work together.”

  Ned spoke quickly. “The porch steps will do.”

  Nancy could see he did not trust the stranger. She would have liked to look at the inside of the house for clues that might connect the Frenchman with the Fontaines or with the smuggling racket. But she said nothing.

  “I am here from France on an important mission,” the man began. “I am not well acquainted with the methods of American police and so have not consulted them. It seemed to me that a disguise would be the best way to find a couple I am looking for.”

  “Yes?” Nancy urged as he stopped speaking.

  “This couple,” the French detective went on, “is responsible for smuggling many gems from my native France. I have traced them.”

  “To Brandon?” Nancy prompted.

  “Not exactly.” The Frenchman hesitated for a moment. “To River Heights. You know River Heights?”

  Nancy felt the need of caution in revealing anything, but Ned said, “Yes. And would your suspects, by any chance, call themselves the David Judsons?”

  “But no,” the Frenchman replied. “The smugglers I am looking for are named Henri and Helene Fontaine!”

  CHAPTER XVII

  Ned’s Ruse

  IN spite of herself, Nancy gasped at the Frenchman’s announcement.

  “You know the Fontaines?” he asked hopefully.

  Nancy countered with, “Are they the ones who used to be in River Heights?”

  “Yes. Where are they now?”

  “I don’t know. But please tell me more about the smuggling. It’s unbelievable,” Nancy said.

  The man gave her a long, searching stare, then replied, “This Henri Fontaine is an artist. Quite a clever one. In Paris, he was contacted by an art dealer named Tomas Renee, who ordered twelve pictures from Monsieur Fontaine.”

  “What sort of pictures?” Nancy asked.

  “They were portraits of a ballet dancer in twelve different poses,” the Frenchman replied. “The Fontaine girl is a very capable ballet dancer and posed for the pictures.”

  “That sounds like a convenient arrangement,” Ned remarked noncommittally. “Where did Renee sell the portraits?”

  “They were to be entered in a race among art dealers for an order from a famous dancing school. But before this could take place, every one of the pictures was stolen!”

  “And Renee had no idea who had stolen them?” Ned asked.

  The Frenchman threw up his arms in a helpless gesture, then replied, “Not at the time. But he does now.”

  “Please go on,” Nancy requested as the man paused.

  “When the police failed, Renee asked every art dealer in France to help him. The pictures were so unusual in content and treatment that they would be readily recognizable. But no one in France had any inkling of where they were.”

  “And then?” said Nancy.

  “Renee talked it over with some of his friends,” the Frenchman declared. “He decided that if the portraits were not in France, then they must have been shipped abroad. I checked with customs and made a startling discovery.”

  Nancy looked up quickly. “Yes?”

  “I learned,” the Frenchman explained, “that a young man fitting the description of Henri Fontaine had used the name of Renee to send eleven of the pictures to the United States.”

  “How amazing!” Ned exclaimed.

  “Why eleven pictures?” Nancy asked. “What became of the twelfth?”

  The Frenchman shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “Perhaps it was stolen from Henri Fontaine. Or he may have sold it in order to secure funds for some of his undercover activities.”

  “Undercover?” Nancy repeated, but the man did not explain.

  Nancy leaned back against the step, looked up at the sky, and closed her eyes. She was recalling descriptions of various people in the case. Suddenly she remembered the Fontaines’ description of Renee as a tall, thin, gaunt-looking fellow.

  Nancy straightened up. Could th
is man be Renee? She must find out! Smiling, she said, “As an amateur detective I could almost believe that you are Tomas Renee.”

  The man started. Then he said, “You are a clever and observant young lady. Yes, I am Tomas Renee.”

  It was Nancy’s turn to be amazed. She had fully expected the man to deny it.

  “You seem surprised,” he said, amused. “I have nothing to hide. But I wanted to make sure you were to be trusted before I revealed my identity. Now let us get down to work.”

  “What about the jewel smuggling?” Nancy reminded him.

  “Oh, yes. I am inclined to think that the jewels were connected with the portraits. At the same time that the twelve paintings disappeared from my gallery, a large quantity of valuable gems was stolen in a suburb of Paris. They may have been secreted in the frames before the portraits were sent to this country.”

  “Then you merely suspect the Fontaines,” Nancy remarked. “You do not have any clear evidence pointing to them as the jewel smugglers.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” the Frenchman conceded. “But the Fontaines also disappeared at that very time!”

  “I see,” said Nancy, rising. “Well, if I can help you, I’ll let you know.”

  Renee and Ned also rose and the Frenchman said, “I have the hunch, as you call it, that you young people will solve this mystery for me. And whom have I the honor of working with? What are your names?”

  Before Nancy could say anything, Ned gripped her arm and then asked Renee, “Did you ever hear of the Colemans?”

  Tomas Renee shook his head slowly. Nancy was puzzled by Ned’s ruse, especially since she recalled that Coleman was his middle name.

  Ned went on, “I think we’d better be on our way, dear. We can contact Mr. Renee later on if we learn anything about the Fontaines or his missing portraits.”

  Half dragging and half pushing her, Ned started off through the woods. They had not gone far when Nancy asked for an explanation of what he had done.

  “I don’t trust that guy,” Ned replied.

  “But what was the idea of giving him an impression like that?”