The Secret in the Old Attic

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - A Challenge

  CHAPTER II - Spooky Mansion

  CHAPTER III - Bad News

  CHAPTER IV - A Startling Figure

  CHAPTER V - A Suspected Thief

  CHAPTER VI - Nancy’s Ruse

  CHAPTER VII - Black Widow

  CHAPTER VIII - The Strange Secret

  CHAPTER IX - A Blue Bottle

  CHAPTER X - Dangerous Adventure

  CHAPTER XI - The Mysterious Letter

  CHAPTER XII - A Surprising Discovery

  CHAPTER XIII - An Unpleasant Caller

  CHAPTER XIV - Warning

  CHAPTER XV - Wallpaper Clue

  CHAPTER XVI - Poetic Hint

  CHAPTER XVII - The Hidden Room

  CHAPTER XVIII - Trapped

  CHAPTER XIX - Deadly Darkness

  CHAPTER XX - Plotter Nabbed

  THE SECRET IN THE OLD ATTIC

  Nancy Drew races against time to unravel the dues in a dead man’s letters. If she succeeds, Philip March and his little granddaughter can be saved from financial ruin. Following the obscure clues, Nancy undertakes a search for some unpublished musical manuscripts which she believes are hidden in the dark, cluttered attic of the rundown March mansion. But someone else wants them enough to put many frightening obstacles in Nancy’s way.

  It takes courage and ingenuity for the alert young detective to discover the significance of the skeleton with the upraised arm and to find the source of the spooky sounds of music in the old attic.

  Startling developments await Nancy when she aids her lawyer father in doing some detective work on a case involving a stolen formula for a unique silk-making process. How she outwits a trio of ruthless thieves and solves the Marches’ problems as well as her father’s case makes exciting reading.

  “You’ve uncovered a clue, Susan!” Nancy exclaimed

  Acknowledgement is made to Mildred Win Benson, who under the pen name Carolyn Keene, wrote the original NANCY DREW books

  Copyright © 1970, 1944 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Published by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc., a member of The Putnam & Grosset Group,

  New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

  NANCY DREW MASTERY STORIES® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster,

  Inc. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07722-1

  2008 Printing

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  A Challenge

  “IT seems strange to hunt for a clue among these, Nancy, but that’s exactly what I’ve been asked to do.”

  Carson Drew was gazing at a pack of letters tied with blue ribbon, which he had taken from his pocket. He laid them on the dining-room table.

  He was the outstanding attorney of River Heights and had won many difficult cases by his brilliant, clear thinking.

  “What’s the clue about?” Nancy asked.

  “Some lost music.”

  “Music? What kind?”

  “Popular songs, I believe, which haven’t been published yet,” Mr. Drew replied. “This task isn’t exactly to my liking. I understand these are love letters, and—”

  Nancy smiled as he rather clumsily tried to loosen the knot in the ribbon that bound the letters. She offered to do it for him, and he looked relieved.

  “Please tell me more about the case,” she begged. “Maybe I can help you with it.”

  “I believe you can,” her father replied, his eyes twinkling. “I’d say this is more your kind of mystery than mine, Nancy.”

  He looked affectionately at the slim, blue-eyed girl. Mr. Drew was proud of his eighteen-year-old daughter, who had gained a reputation of her own by solving many mysteries. She and her father had been very close since the death of Mrs. Drew when Nancy was only three, and had come to depend on each other for advice and assistance.

  “What are you supposed to look for in these letters?” Nancy asked.

  “I don’t know,” her father replied. “The instructions were vague. This afternoon, while I was away from my office, an elderly man named Philip March left the letters with my secretary. He asked that I look through them for a clue as to where certain original songs that have disappeared might have gone.”

  “Who composed them?” asked Nancy.

  “I don’t know.”

  Nancy had untied the ribbon, and now handed the letters to her father. He pulled one from its envelope and read it hastily.

  “This is your kind of mystery, Nancy,” said Mr. Drew

  “I don’t find any clue here,” the lawyer said a few moments later. “Read this, Nancy, and see what you make of it.”

  The letter had been written four years ago by a young lieutenant named Fipp to his wife Connie.

  “I don’t see any clue, either,” Nancy said. “Do you suppose Fipp is a nickname for Philip, and he’s Mr. March’s son?”

  “Probably,” Mr. Drew agreed, handing the other letters to his daughter. “I’m mighty embarrassed going through these. Love letters never were meant to be read by the outside world.”

  Nancy respected her father’s opinion. Yet she felt that if Mr. March was a close relative of the writer, he would not have shown the letters to anyone without a very good reason.

  “Have you ever met Mr. March?” she asked.

  “I think not. But he may be a member of a family that lived on an estate up the river a few miles. Well, we’ll soon know about the letters. Mr. March is coming here this evening.”

  Nancy was eager to meet him. While waiting, she read the letters, pausing at several lovely verses in them. Nowhere, however, could she find any clue to lost or hidden music.

  “Do you suppose these verses are the words of the songs?” she mused. “Maybe they’re—”

  Just then the bell rang and Nancy hurried to the door. The caller was a gray-haired gentleman of military bearing. His clothes were somewhat worn, but his shoes were polished and his suit neatly pressed. He bowed politely to Nancy and introduced himself as Philip March.

  “Oh, yes, my father is expecting you. Please come in.”

  Nancy led the man into the living room where Carson Drew was waiting. When she started to leave, Mr. March invited her to stay and hear his story. He sank wearily into a chair.

  “I owe you an apology, Mr. Drew, for asking such a strange favor,” he began in a tired voice. “A feeling of desperation came over me this afternoon. On the spur of the moment I decided to come to your office. You and your daughter have helped so many people, I thought you might advise me.”

  The elderly man was very pale and ill at ease. To give him time to compose himself, Nancy offered to serve coffee. This seemed to refresh him somewhat and Mr. Drew then inquired if the writer of the letters was someone close to him.

  “Yes, he was my son. My only son,” the caller said sadly. “In fact, he was my only child and a soldier as I once was. But he lost his life four years ago on a routine training mission.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Drew said sympathetically, and Nancy added a word of condolence.

  “Fipp—that’s what my Philip called himself when he was a little boy, and the name stuck,” Mr. March went on. “Fipp was married to a lovely girl, but she passed away soon after he did. Then my wife died. Now all I have is little Susan. Her mother entrusted her to my care.”

  “She is your grandchild?” Nancy asked.

  “Yes. Susan is six years old, and I want to keep her with me, but—” The elderly man closed his eyes as if to shut out an unhappy thought. “To bring her up prope
rly I should have a housekeeper. But I can’t afford one unless Fipp’s music can be found and sold. Besides, I may lose my—our—home. My income is so small.”

  “Please tell us more about the music,” Nancy begged, touched by the man’s story.

  “Perhaps I should start by briefing you on my family. The Marches have been proud, well-to-do people—several generations of us in River Heights. I’m not going to be the one to ask for charity for my granddaughter. Fipp wouldn’t want me to.”

  As Mr. March paused to take another sip of coffee, Carson Drew inquired how the lost music could bring him any money.

  “The songs were never published,” the caller replied. “And they were very fine.” He turned to Nancy. “The kind of up-to-date music you young people like, but much better than a lot of it I hear.”

  Nancy was interested at once.

  “My son could not bring himself to take the songs to a publisher, for he was never quite satisfied with his work,” Mr. March explained. “Then, just before he entered the service, Fipp put the music away in some secret place. If it can only be found and sold, little Susan will be amply provided for.”

  “Mr. March, what made you think there is a clue to the songs in these letters?” Nancy asked.

  “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!”

  CHAPTER II

  Spooky Mansion

  “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 invest
igation. 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!”