Nancy was spared the necessity of a retort because Bess called out, “This is Willow Road.”
The girls turned down the street and presently reached the address given to Nancy by the police. Number twenty-four gave every evidence of being deserted. Grass, weeds, and unkempt flowers were tall. Two small chairs on the porch lay upside down as if the wind had blown them over.
“I’m sure no one is living here,” she said, “but we’ll ring the bell, anyhow.”
She pushed the button and also clapped the knocker, but there was no response.
“This sure complicates our case,” said George.
“I wonder,” Nancy mused, “whether it was just a phony address Mr. Seaman used, knowing the house was vacant, or whether he’s staying away from it for some particular reason.”
“Oh, let’s forget him,” Bess suggested. “I’m more interested in what we’re going to find out about Jody Armstrong.”
It was a mile to the Armstrong home, but by walking it, the girls arrived there at a reasonable hour for calling.
As they went up the front walk, Nancy whispered to the cousins, “We’ll have to be careful not to mention the subject of Jody and the adoption. Her parents may be touchy about it and not want to know who Jody’s real parents might have been. Let’s hope Mrs. Armstrong brings up the matter.”
“You’re right,” said Bess. “Let’s not give any hint as to what we’re trying to find out.”
“I have the picture of Joanie Horton in my purse,” said Nancy. “If we can only see a picture of Jody taken soon after the Armstrongs adopted her, perhaps we could compare the two in private.”
Hopefully the three girls went to the door and Nancy rang the bell. A pleasant, attractive woman of forty answered. She smiled at the callers. “Mrs. Armstrong?” Nancy inquired.
“Yes.”
Nancy told of having met Amy Cadmus and Amy’s suggestion that the girls get in touch with Jody. “We’re staying at a motel and don’t know anyone in town.”
“Do come in,” Mrs. Armstrong invited the callers. “I’m sorry Jody isn’t here. She went with her father on a business trip and won’t be home until this evening.”
Nancy smiled. “We’ll have to see your daughter another time then,” she said.
“Please don’t go,” Mrs. Armstrong said cordially. “I’m going to be lonesome here by myself all day. I’d love to talk to you. Tell me how you happened to come to Deep River.”
At once Bess spoke up. “Mother knew about the darling motel here.”
“It is a very attractive place,” Mrs. Armstrong agreed.
After a little while, Nancy remarked, “Jodine is a lovely but rather unusual name.”
“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Armstrong agreed. She looked into space for a few seconds, then added, “Mr. Armstrong and I didn’t give it to her. We adopted our daughter and that was the name she had.”
“Have you always called her Jody?” Bess asked.
Mrs. Armstrong said that the nickname too had already been given to their daughter, apparently by her own mother. “The adoption took place many years ago. There’s no secret to the story—people around here know it. Jody herself has been told what happened, but I doubt that she ever thinks about it. We love her very much and we’re her parents now.”
Mrs. Armstrong revealed that when Jody was about three years of age, she was left at the adoption society in the town next to Deep River. “Mr. Armstrong and I had asked for a child, and when Jody was offered to us, we both fell in love with her. She had been found asleep in the lounge of the society. There was a note pinned to her dress which said that she was Jodine Holt, and her nickname was Jody. Scrawled on the paper were the words, ‘I am giving up all rights to this child and offer her for adoption. Her mother.’ ”
There was a somewhat awkward pause, then Nancy, smiling, said, “But everything has turned out wonderfully for her.”
“We hope so. Jody has always been an adorable child. That’s she in the picture on the piano.”
The three girls arose to go look at the photograph of a tall, slender, attractive, dark-haired girl.
“She’s darling!” Bess exclaimed. As Nancy and George added their compliments, Mrs. Armstrong beamed delightedly.
“She photographs so well,” said Nancy, “you must have taken lots of pictures of her.” She hoped fervently that Mrs. Armstrong would bring out some of them.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” the woman said. “But as the years go on, the older pictures somehow get up to the attic and are packed away.”
Nancy felt that the girls had stayed long enough. She merely remarked that she was more eager than ever to meet Jody and asked that the girl get in touch with her as soon as it was convenient.
Jody’s mother promised to give her the message, then said, “I want my daughter to meet you girls, too.”
She accompanied her three callers to the door and they said good-by. As they walked up the street arm in arm, Bess asked, “Well, did we learn anything or not?”
“I’m puzzled by that note which was pinned to Jody’s dress,” said Nancy. “If, by any chance, she is Joanie Horton—you will admit there is a great similarity in names—then the little girl probably was kidnaped, and the note was a forgery, since her mother wasn’t living. By getting the child out of the way, an impostor was able to claim Mrs. Horton’s estate.”
Nancy went on to say that if this theory were true, the person who had perpetrated the kidnaping and theft had thought out the plan in great detail, even to the name. The little girl had been old enough to say her own name, so a pseudonym had been chosen which was similar.
“You mean,” Bess said, “if she gave her name as Joanie Horton, people might think she was mispronouncing Jody Holt?”
Nancy nodded. “I do hope Jody gets in touch with us,” she remarked. “If she does, I don’t think we should mention adoption to her. Let’s see if we can pick up any clues about her childhood, though.”
“What are we going to do now?” Bess asked.
“I think our next stop should be the hospital,” Nancy replied, “to find out how Mr. Wheeler is. I hope he’ll be well enough to see us. I want to ask him who the man is that he wanted us to meet.”
The girls entered the hospital lobby. There was a great commotion. Nurses and doctors were talking excitedly with two policemen.
Wondering what had happened, Nancy went up to the desk and asked the nurse’s aide on duty if she and her friends might see Mr. Wheeler.
“Mr. Wheeler!” the aide cried out. “He’s the patient who was kidnaped from here this morning!”
Nancy stared in stupefaction, as the nurse’s aide called out to members of the hospital staff, “Here’s somebody who knows Mr. Wheeler.”
At once Nancy was surrounded and plied with questions. She said she knew nothing about what had happened. “I was with Mr. Wheeler last night when he had the boat accident.”
“Are you the girl who saved his life?” asked one of the doctors.
Nancy blushed. “Well, my friend over there and I did.” She beckoned for George to come forward with Bess.
They, too, were stunned to hear that Mr. Wheeler was missing from the hospital.
One of the nurses explained. “It happened before visiting hours began,” she said. “We have a very ill patient on the third floor where Mr. Wheeler was. All the nurses on duty there were in the woman’s room for a while. We pieced the story together. Apparently a man dressed as an orderly and a woman as a nurse came in, put Mr. Wheeler on an operating cart, and took him by elevator to the lowest level. There they must have transferred him to a wheel chair and taken him off by car.”
“How dreadful!” Bess exclaimed.
“Didn’t he make any protest or outcry?” Nancy queried.
“Mr. Wheeler was only semiconscious,” the nurse replied. “We had even put the side guards up on his bed so he would be safe when left alone.”
One of the policemen quizzed Nancy and her friends, asking if they could
give any clue as to who the abductors might be.
“I’m afraid not,” Nancy replied. “We’re strangers in town. We’re vacationing at the Long View Motel. Mr. Wheeler attended a party we were at last night and took George and myself out in his boat.”
“With a disastrous ending,” George added.
Nancy asked permission to speak to any nurses on duty who might have helped to take care of Mr. Wheeler. She was told that the only one in the hospital at the moment who had taken care of him was Mrs. Straff on the third floor, but Nancy was welcome to go ahead and speak to her.
The nurse was a kindly middle-aged woman. She said she felt perfectly dreadful about the kidnaping and could not understand how it had occurred. “I guess we all were with that sick woman longer than we thought.”
“I do hope the authorities will find him soon,” said Nancy. “I don’t know Mr. Wheeler very well. He was taking me across the river to see an acquaintance of his. I didn’t learn the person’s name and I’m curious to know who he is. Did Mr. Wheeler ever talk while he was semiconscious?”
“Oh, yes, he mumbled a great deal,” Mrs. Straff replied. “I couldn’t get much out of it, but maybe the name of the person you’re trying to find out about is the one he kept repeating. It was Peter Judd. I’ve never heard of him.”
“He may be the man,” said Nancy, and thanked the woman for the information.
The girls left the hospital. When they were on the street once more, Nancy smiled and said, “I’ll bet Mrs. Hemstead will know who Peter Judd is!”
Bess and George giggled, and the girls turned toward the Brass Kettle.
“We’ll have an early lunch,” Nancy remarked. “We may see Mrs. Hemstead first. Remember, you’re to call me Irene.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Bess. “Lead the way, Miss Irene Insbruck!”
The three friends walked through the door of the tearoom. As usual, Mrs. Hemstead was seated in her rocker, wearing the same black dress with the ruching collar. The instant she saw the girls, her wrinkled face broke into a great grin.
In her high-pitched voice, she asked, “Well, how are you, Nancy Drew, detective?”
CHAPTER X
Peter Judd
WHEN confronted with a startling statement, Nancy usually was able to hide her surprise. This time she did not succeed—Mrs. Hemstead’s greeting was too astounding.
“So you’ve found me out,” she said, after a moment. “Who told you?”
The old lady wagged her head. “I don’t know. An anonymous note came in today’s mail.”
From a deep pocket in her skirt, Mrs. Hemstead withdrew the folded piece of paper. She handed the note to Nancy. Bess and George crowded near her to read the message printed on it. The note was short and to the point:DON’T BE FOOLED. THE GIRL CALLING HERSELF IRENE INSBRUCK IS REALLY NANCY DREW. SHE’S A DETECTIVE. BEWARE WHAT YOU SAY TO HER OR YOU MAY GET INTO TROUBLE.
Bess sniffed. “I hate people who write anonymous notes. Why didn’t the person who wrote this come right out in the open and tell you?”
“How should I know?” Mrs. Hemstead asked in a high complaining voice.
Nancy was sure of one thing—the sender of the note had done it with the express purpose of trying to frighten Mrs. Hemstead into revealing no more gossip to Nancy. “But he doesn’t stand a chance of succeeding,” Nancy told herself with determination.
She sighed and said aloud, “Well, now, I suppose, Mrs. Hemstead, that you will tell this secret about my identity to Mr. Seaman?”
For once, the old lady did not reply. Perhaps she was a little afraid of the warning in the note. Nancy decided that if the girls were going to learn anything further, she would have to do some bargaining with Mrs. Hemstead.
Smiling, she said, “I just learned something amazing that happened in your town this morning.”
Instantly the old lady leaned forward expectantly. “What was it?” she asked eagerly.
The young sleuth laughed. “Oh, I can keep secrets, too.”
Mrs. Hemstead frowned and rocked back and forth furiously for several seconds. Finally she stopped.
“So you found me out!” Nancy exclaimed
“I don’t know whether I’ll tell Mr. Seaman or not,” she said flatly. “I suppose you’d like to know more about him. Well, I can’t tell you much more than I already have. He’s been coming here for several years—always stops and talks to me to get the local news. I figure he’s a traveling salesman.”
Nancy did not reveal the fact that he had a Deep River address. Because of Mrs. Hemstead’s idea that he was from out of town, Nancy was sure now that Mr. Seaman had given a fictitious address when obtaining his driver’s license. Could he have written the warning note to Mrs. Hemstead? Nancy wondered.
The old lady went on, “The other day when Mr. Seaman came in, he said he was looking for a girl named Nancy Drew who was coming to town. He wanted to find out where she was staying.”
“But why?” George put in. “Nancy isn’t acquainted with him.”
Mrs. Hemstead shrugged. “I don’t know. Mr. Seaman acted as if he wanted to date you, Nancy. When you told me your name was Irene, I figured you must be another girl friend.” The elderly woman chuckled cheerfully. “I thought to myself, ‘Here’s a complication!’ What’s this all about, anyway?”
“What do you mean?” Nancy countered.
After another several seconds of furious rocking, Mrs. Hemstead said, “I mean, here you are, a detective, using an assumed name and Mr. Seaman asking for you—”
Nancy laughed. “I suggest that you ask Mr. Seaman. After all, he inquired about me first.”
Before Mrs. Hemstead could do any more delving, the young sleuth said, “Girls, I’m absolutely starved. Let’s go eat!”
She and the cousins escaped into the dining room and found a table far from the waiting-room door. As they unfolded their napkins, George remarked, “Speaking of complications, this mystery gets more tangled by the minute.”
“I don’t like the idea of that anonymous note, Nancy,” said Bess. “It might mean danger to you!”
Nancy merely smiled. “You and George are my bodyguards. Can’t you keep me from the big bad wolves? You know, Mr. Seaman might have sent that note.”
The cousins nodded worriedly. The three ate a light lunch, then Nancy said, “You know we came to the Brass Kettle in the first place to see if Mrs. Hemstead knows Peter Judd. I admit I’d forgotten all about it until this moment.”
After the girls had paid their lunch checks, they went back to the waiting room. Mrs. Hemstead was not there and Nancy wondered how soon she would return. George learned from the woman’s daughter that she was having her midday meal and a rest in her room upstairs.
“But Mother will be down in a little while,” she said. “Would you like to wait?”
Nancy decided to do so. The girls sat down for a few minutes, then arose and began to look at the various articles in the old-fashioned room. Nancy examined the antique map on the wall which designated the local area as Moonstone Valley. Deep River was shown as a place with only a few houses and stores. There were two side streets and at the end of one, at the river, stood a large mill.
“What a picturesque town this must have been!” Nancy thought.
At that moment Mrs. Hemstead returned to the room and took her place in the old rocker.
“Did you enjoy your lunch?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed,” Bess replied. “If I ate here very often, I’d put on pounds and pounds!”
“My daughter has established a good reputation,” the elderly woman said proudly. “Folks come from miles and miles away.”
Nancy asked, “Did you ever hear of a man named Mr. Peter Judd?”
“Indeed I have,” Mrs. Hemstead replied quickly. “Queer old fellow.”
“Queer?” Nancy repeated.
“That’s what folks say. Peter Judd used to be a train conductor. Now he’s retired and lives across the river in a little cottage. Won’t have a
soul help him—he does all his own cooking and laundry work. Has his place full of railroad posters. The dishes and silver he uses are all from railroad dining cars.”
The girls giggled. Encouraged by their interest Mrs. Hemstead added, “You couldn’t mistake his house. Right on the front lawn he has an enormous bell that was taken from an old-fashioned locomotive. Sometimes boys sneak in there and ring it. You can hear it clear across the river!”
“I’d like to see it,” said Nancy. “Just where is his house?”
Mrs. Hemstead said that if they went directly across the river and turned downstream for a mile, they would come to a dock with a string of railroad cars painted on the overhang.
“That’s his place.”
The girls thanked the elderly woman and said good-by. They went at once to a boat rental service and hired a small runabout. Nancy took the wheel and the little craft skimmed across the river. Some two hundred feet from shore, she headed downstream, planning to turn in toward Mr. Judd’s dock.
On the way, George showed Bess Mr. Wheeler’s half-submerged motorboat.
Bess shuddered a bit. “You had a narrow escape,” she said.
“I wonder when the authorities are going to take the boat away?” George mused. “I’d think it would be a hazard to other boats.”
Nancy chuckled. “Not so much as that rock we hit!”
“Nancy, who do you think kidnaped Mr. Wheeler?” Bess asked.
The young sleuth had a ready answer. “The same persons who kidnaped Joanie Horton. I think they were afraid Mr. Wheeler might reopen the case, bringing a fraud to light. In fact, they may think Dad had asked Mr. Wheeler’s assistance, even though he is retired.”
They located Peter Judd’s dock and moored alongside it. As they walked up an incline to his little white cottage, they saw the retired railroad conductor working in his garden near the great engine bell. Nancy spoke to him, admiring the bell and his beautiful roses.
Mr. Judd was cordial and invited the girls inside his home. They found it interesting, despite Mrs. Hemstead’s remarks. And Peter Judd certainly did not seem queer!