"Excuse me a moment," Mr. Gregory said to her, then called out, "Come in!"
An attractive young woman with curly dark hair opened the door. She was wearing a rather rumpled, soiled-looking smock with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. On seeing Nancy, she apologized for interrupting, and Mr. Gregory introduced her as the staff assistant he had mentioned earlier, Jane Heron.
"I'm afraid we misinformed you about the Duval painting," she told the curator.
His eyebrows lifted in surprise. "You've found it?"
"No, but this afternoon we've discovered that other paintings and art objects are also missing from their proper places. And some have turned up in the wrong places."
Mr. Gregory frowned in annoyance. "That sounds as though the whole storage area's in a state of mixup."
"I'm afraid so," Miss Heron agreed. "Whoever broke in the other night may be partly responsible, but I'd say everything down there's gotten pretty disordered over the years. So we won't really know if the Duval painting is missing until everything's been sorted out."
Under the circumstances, Nancy decided to tell the curator the idea which she had come to suggest in the first place. Before doing so, however, she waited until Miss Heron left the office. Then she asked if he had considered the possibility that the break-ins might be an inside job, with someone at the museum helping the intruders.
Mr. Gregory nodded gloomily. "Yes, there's always that chance, I'm afraid. Why do you ask?"
"Suppose you let on, both to the staff and to the public, that the repairmen have run into trouble, and the alarm system isn't fixed yet."
"You mean as bait, to tempt the thieves into trying again?"
"Exactly! And I'll keep watch in the museum tonight myself," Nancy went on, "to see if they do come back."
The curator looked worried. "Nancy, what you're suggesting could be dangerous—very dangerous!"
"Not really, Mr. Gregory. I'll bring a friend or two along to keep me company, and if an emergency should arise, we'll call for help at once. We can keep in touch with the night watchman by walkie-talkie, and also stay close to a phone so we can ring the police if necessary."
Somewhat reluctantly, the curator agreed to her plan. He said the repairmen expected to have the alarm system back in working order by mid-afternoon, but he would arrange privately to have them stay on till the end of the day. He would also tell them to leave their ladders and other working paraphernalia in place, and go off grumbling and shaking their heads, so as to give the impression that they had encountered unforeseen difficulties that kept them from finishing the job and hooking up the alarm again.
Nancy said good-bye to Mr. Gregory and went back down to the lobby, hopeful that her plan would produce prompt results.
Coming out of the museum, she glimpsed a figure standing in the bus shelter, just beyond the green parklike stretch of lawn. He seemed to be watching the museum entrance. The man looked familiar.
Nancy paused to stare more carefully, then gasped. It's that swarthy thug again! she realized. The one who keeps spying on me!
This time Nancy decided not to let him get away. She started boldly down the front walk of the museum, heading toward the bus shelter. But the dark-visaged spy saw her coming. With a scowl, he darted off across the street.
Before Nancy could reach the corner and cross, the traffic light turned red against her. Vehicles rumbled across the intersection, blocking her path of pursuit. By now, the swarthy man was fast disappearing from view among the passersby on the other side.
Nancy realized she had no chance of catching him now. With a sigh of annoyance, she gave up and turned back toward the museum parking lot.
Driving home, Nancy looked forward to a hot cup of Hannah's skillfully brewed tea. To her surprise and delight, she found Bess Marvin and George Fayne waiting for her in the living room.
"Any exciting developments?" George asked with a twinkle.
"How would you like to help me catch some crooks?" Nancy proposed.
Her words brought both girls instantly to attention.
"Gee, Nancy! What do you want us to do?" asked Bess, opening her blue eyes wide.
"Tell you in a minute. First, though, do you remember that girl you saw poking into my car this morning?"
Bess nodded. "Sure we do. What about her?"
"Can you recall what she was wearing?"
After a moment's thought, Bess and George agreed that she had been wearing a green pantsuit. This confirmed Nancy's hunch that the culprit was probably Nyra Betz.
Then the young detective described her plan to stake out the art museum that night. She asked if her friends would like to help her keep watch for possible intruders. Bess and George eagerly agreed.
The three girls enjoyed a relaxing afternoon tea. Later, they all piled into Nancy's car. She dropped the two cousins off at their homes to get ready for their night watch session. Then she drove to nearby Westmoor U. to follow up the lead Mrs. Ferbury had given her.
Nancy was already acquainted with some of the faculty members at Westmoor. On this occasion, however, an unexpected obstacle was in store. The dean of students informed her that Professor Crawford, a history instructor, had passed away several years ago.
Nancy's face showed her disappointment. "Oh, dear! Is there anyone else who might be able to answer some questions about his work?"
"Hm, well, I suppose the best person to ask might be Professor Schmidt. He's the person who took over Professor Crawford's position in the history department."
Professor Schmidt turned out to be a friendly, pipe-smoking, middle-aged man. But when Nancy asked him if he had any idea what sort of research work Professor Crawford might have done for the late Miss Duval, he shook his head.
"I'm sorry, but I really have no idea." He added after a moment's thought, "One would imagine, of course, that it would have concerned his particular specialty."
"What was that?" Nancy inquired.
"He specialized in the history of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars."
Nancy felt a surge of hope. "Roughly, that would be around 1800?"
Professor Schmidt nodded. "Yes, both before and after that date. Say from the 1780s to 1815."
This was about the time that Louise Duval's ancestress, Yvette Duval, had immigrated to America and settled in River Heights!
Professor Schmidt frowned as he paused to reload his pipe. "Perhaps if you spoke to Professor Crawford's daughter," he went on, "she might be able to supply the information you need."
"Do you know how I could get in touch with her?" asked Nancy, crossing her fingers.
"Yes, she lives not too far from here. I think I have her address in my desk book."
Nancy drove home, feeling much encouraged. Over the dinner table, she told her father and Hannah Gruen about the day's events.
"Why not ask the town historical society about that French couple?" the housekeeper suggested. "They have all sorts of information about the early settlers in River Heights."
Nancy beamed. "Hannah, that's a wonderful idea! I never even thought of that."
After dinner, she picked up her two friends and drove to the art museum. However, instead of parking in the museum lot Nancy left her car a block away, and they approached the building on foot. It was already twilight, but to make doubly sure no one observed them, the trio went to the back door of the museum in the gathering darkness.
The night watchman answered their knock and opened the heavy metal door. "'Evening, girls. Sure you want to go through with this scheme?"
Nancy smiled. "Quite sure, Mr. Baxter. If we can keep in touch with you, I think we'll be okay."
Shaking his head dubiously, the watchman took them down to the basement storage area. Before leaving them alone, he provided them with a walkie-talkie which they could use to call him.
The vast, cement-walled room was carefully air-conditioned. Just now, it was strewn with crates, as well as wrappings that had been removed by the staff in order to check out individual paintin
gs and other stored art objects.
For a while, the items were interesting to look over. But as time passed, the girls settled down to chat and sip coffee from Thermoses they had brought to help keep awake.
Suddenly George sat upright and raised her hand for silence. "What was that?" she whispered.
Clank . . . clank . . . clank.
Faint, metallic footsteps could be heard coming down the hallway!
9. Spook in Armor
Wide-eyed, the girls looked at each other in alarm. Shakily, Bess whispered, "Oh, Nancy, quick, call Mr. Baxter!"
George, white-faced and nervous with her eyes glued to the door to the corridor, chimed in, "That's a good idea!"
Nancy switched on the walkie-talkie and spoke to the night watchman. "Mr. Baxter, this is Nancy Drew. Come quickly, please!"
There was no response.
The clanking footsteps had stopped and the doorknob was slowly turning as she called more urgently, "Mr. Baxter! Someone's coming into the storage room! Answer please!"
Again there was no reply from the walkietalkie.
Transfixed with fright, the three girls
watched as the door swung open. They could hardly believe what they saw next.
The metal-shod intruder who clanked slowly into the room was a ghostly figure in armor!
Earlier in the evening, after looking over the paintings and uncrated art objects, the girls had shut off all except one of the bright fluorescent ceiling lights. The shadowy gloom added to the spooky appearance of their strange visitor.
"Oh, no!" Bess gulped in a squeaky whisper. "We must be seeing things!"
In one gauntleted fist, the spectral knight was clutching a halberd, a spearlike weapon with a broad ax close to its pointed tip. The figure's visor was down, preventing them from seeing any face inside the helmet.
Bess and George backed away in terror as the armoured specter came stalking toward them. Suddenly it swung the long weapon, knocking the walkie-talkie out of Nancy's hand with the flat side of the ax blade!
Her own knees weak with fright, Nancy yielded to panic and followed her two friends. The girls retreated into a small side room used for record-keeping and filing. But they were still not safe, as they quickly discovered when they tried to lock the door.
"There's n-n-no key!" George hissed, fumbling frantically in the dark.
In desperation, all three girls leaned against the door, waiting to hold it shut should the weird intruder try to come after them.
Minutes passed and . . . nothing happened!
By this time, Nancy had regained her calm. Bravely she decided to open the door and confront the armored spook.
"No, Nancy!" Bess begged. "Don't go out there! Let's just wait in here. Maybe it'll go away!"
"Don't worry, I'll be careful," Nancy promised. Putting her fingers to her lips, she slowly opened the door and peeked out.
The figure in armor was just turning away with a faint chuckle, evidently satisfied that he had frightened the three girls enough to keep them from giving him any trouble. He had laid down his halberd on a crate just behind him, and now was about to look through some of the paintings.
If only she could reach the halberd without being heard!
Taking a deep breath, Nancy tiptoed back into the main storage room. Step by step, she crept stealthily toward the weapon.
Just as she reached out and put her hand on the halberd, the ghostly knight turned! He had pushed up the visor of his helmet, and a pair of eyes glittered fiendishly out at her!
Swiftly Nancy snatched up the weapon and swung it. The flat of the ax smacked against the knight's helmet, staggering him!
He lurched toward the door, apparently dazed. Nancy darted in pursuit and whacked him again, this time almost knocking him down. But he managed to plunge out the door and slam it shut behind him!
Nancy uttered a faint groan of dismay as she tried the knob again and again but could not turn it. By this time, George and Bess had ventured out of their hiding place and were hurrying to join her.
"We're locked in!" she told them.
"Oh golly, Nancy, you were so brave! I was too petrified to do anything!" Bess said.
"Same here," George admitted a bit sheepishly. Putting her hands on her hips, she gazed all around, looking for another exit through which they might reach the stairway leading up to the main floor. "What do we do now, sit and wait?"
Nancy shook her head vigorously. "No, I'm going to get this door opened!"
"How?" asked Bess, none too hopefully.
"Just let me get my purse, and maybe I can show you."
Her friends followed Nancy across the room to where they had left their purses on one of the worktables. Then the other two watched as she began rummaging through her bag.
"What are you looking for, Nancy?" asked George.
"Oh, gosh ... a bobbypin, a hairpin, a nail file," Nancy said as she emptied out the contents of her brown leather shoulder bag. "Something I can use to pick that door lock."
Bess and George now followed suit and began to search their own bags.
"I might just have a bobby pin in here somewhere," Bess said. "It's been so long since I emptied this out. . . ." Her voice trailed off.
"Eureka! This may do it," Nancy exclaimed, holding up a paper clip.
Going back to the door, she unbent the clip and inserted one end in the lock. Then she began to probe delicately, moving the wire this way and that.
After many breathless moments, the three heard a click!
Nancy removed the paper clip, then turned to Bess and George, putting one finger to her lips. "I doubt if that spook is still out there, but let's not take any chances."
Very quietly, she opened the door a crack and peered out. She could see no one in the corridor. Encouraged, she cautiously pushed the door open the rest of the way.
Their unpleasant visitor was gone.
"Thank heavens!" George breathed in relief.
The only trace left of the phantom knight was a carelessly discarded pile of armor.
Nancy telephoned the police. Then, confident that the intruder or intruders had fled, the girls began a hasty search for the missing watchman. They found him on the second floor as they passed the open doorway of the curator's office.
"There he is!" Bess gasped fearfully.
Mr. Baxter lay sprawled on the floor near the curator's desk. There were two telephones on the desk. The receiver of one was hanging over the edge, dangling at the end of its cord.
The girls hurried to attend to the unconscious watchman. George knelt beside the elderly man and felt his pulse.
"Is he all right?" her cousin asked, holding one hand pressed anxiously to her cheek as she watched.
George nodded. "I think so. Smells as if he's been chloroformed or given ether."
Nancy hurried off to the water fountain in the corridor and moistened her handkerchief. Just as she returned to the office, Mr. Baxter began to groan. George raised his head and shoulders slightly while Nancy bathed his forehead with the cool, damp cloth.
Presently the watchman's eyes flickered open and he struggled to sit up. Once he had gotten his bearings, he told the girls that while he was patroling inside the building, he had heard the phone ringing in the curator's office.
"I went in to answer it, and just as I picked up the receiver, someone grabbed me in a bear hug from behind. Then another guy held a cloth over my nose and mouth. That's that last I remember until now."
At the girls' insistence, the elderly man sat resting in an armchair until the police arrived.
A cruiser was first on the scene, followed soon afterward by a squad car from police headquarters. Two detectives listened carefully to the girls' story and promised that the armor would be dusted for fingerprints. Then a uniformed officer escorted them to Nancy's parked car. The young policeman even wanted to have the cruiser shepherd them safely home, but Nancy laughingly declined.
Next morning over a breakfast of sausages and pancakes
, Nancy told her father and Hannah about the night's events at the museum.
Carson Drew looked thoughtful and remarked, "I believe I'll drop in on Police Chief McGinnis today and see what they've found out."
The housekeeper's kindly face had taken on a worried expression. "Nancy, this case sounds as though it's getting dangerous," she said.
The sleuth grinned across the table. "Not really. It's just getting exciting."
A few moments later she finished her coffee, got up from her chair, and kissed her father good-bye. "I'm going to follow your suggestion, Hannah," Nancy announced, "and pay a visit to the River Heights Historical Society."
Soon afterward, she was pulling up her car in front of its destination. The historical society was housed appropriately in an old Victorian mansion bequeathed to it by a long-dead member.
Inside, Nancy was greeted by the friendly, white-haired secretary of the society, Mr. George Teakin. He listened to her request and seemed delighted at a chance to help the famous young detective.
"Let me just make a note of what you're after," he said, pulling a small, leather-bound notebook out of his coat pocket. After jotting down the details, he added, "This may take a while, Miss Drew, but I'll check through all the old newspapers of that period and see if I can find any news items about the Duvals."
'Td really appreciate it, Mr. Teakin. Thank you ever so much."
Slipping behind the wheel of her sports car again, Nancy headed back to the River Heights Art Museum. As she drove through the busy morning streets, she reviewed last night's happenings in her mind.
If only I'd been able to catch that crook in armor, she thought, I'd have the answer to one mystery right now!
Arriving at the museum, Nancy inquired for Mr. Gregory and was told that he was down in the basement storage area. In a few moments she was opening the door of the big, brightly lit, cement-walled room.
The curator was nowhere in sight, but a dark-haired young woman in a smock was sorting out a group of paintings. Nancy recognized her as his assistant, Jane Heron.
"Is Mr. Gregory around?" Nancy asked, walking toward her.
Miss Heron looked up and greeted her with a smile. "He was here just a minute ago," she replied. "He must have stepped out somewhere."