The Clue in the Old Stagecoach

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER I - The Mysterious Stagecoach

  CHAPTER II - A Special Search

  CHAPTER III - An Ominous Warning

  CHAPTER IV - Hard-fought Games

  CHAPTER V - Three Sleuths

  CHAPTER VI - Police Assistance

  CHAPTER VII - An Attic Clue

  CHAPTER VIII - A Whistler’s Confession

  CHAPTER IX - Trouble on the Road

  CHAPTER X - Secret Notes

  CHAPTER XI - The Cave-in

  CHAPTER XII - Shadowing

  CHAPTER XII - The Rescue

  CHAPTER XIV - A Hopeful Discovery

  CHAPTER XV - Startling News

  CHAPTER XVI - A Harrowing Appointment

  CHAPTER XVII - Burglars!

  CHAPTER XVIII - Whirring Cameras

  CHAPTER XIX - A Midnight Attack

  CHAPTER XX - Honorary Citizen

  “Have you found the clue?” Nancy asked excitedly

  Copyright © 1988, 1960 by Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

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

  Grosset Group, New York. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A. NANCY DREW MYSTERYSTORIES® is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster,

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

  eISBN : 978-1-101-07738-2

  2007 Printing

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  CHAPTER I

  The Mysterious Stagecoach

  “NANCY, this is one of the steepest hillsides I’ve ever climbed down,” said Bess Marvin. “I hope the mystery you’re about to solve will be worth all this trouble.”

  The pretty, blond girl was with two companions who were carefully picking their way down a wooded slope. One was Nancy Drew, tall, slender, and attractive, with blue eyes, and hair with just a hint of titian. The other was Bess’s cousin George Fayne, a boyish, slim girl, who was a sparkling brunette with a good sense of humor.

  Nancy smiled. “I wonder what Mrs. Strook is going to ask me to do.” At that moment Nancy was looking through a long clearing to the road below. Her eyes widened in amazement. “Girls, look!” she cried out.

  Bess and George gazed downward just in time to see four white horses pulling an old stagecoach. Evidently the horses were running away. There was no driver, but inside the stagecoach the girls could glimpse two swaying figures.

  George clapped a hand to her forehead. “Am I dreaming or have I jumped back in time a hundred years?”

  “I don’t know what this means,” Nancy replied, “but we must try to stop that runaway!” She darted down the hillside.

  “But they’ll be way ahead of us by the time we get there,” Bess argued.

  “We’ll go at an angle and head them off!” Nancy retorted, changing course.

  George soon caught up to Nancy. Bess was a little distance behind. The girls turned their ankles and lost their balance on the uneven, stony ground. They grabbed for tree trunks to steady themselves and finally reached the foot of the hill.

  “There they are!” George exclaimed.

  “The horses have stopped,” Nancy added, as the two girls emerged onto a narrow country road.

  A few seconds later Bess arrived. By this time Nancy and George were laughing merrily.

  “What’s so funny?” Bess asked, puzzled.

  Her cousin pointed, and Nancy explained, “The horses are artificial. They’re made of plaster of Paris, I guess. And they’re attached to a wheeled platform.”

  Bess stared in astonishment. “But the stagecoach—what about that?”

  “I’m sure it’s authentic,” Nancy replied.

  Pulling open one of the side doors of the stagecoach, which was painted bright red with gold decorations, she said, “Those figures on the rear seat are plastic dummies and here on the floor are the rest of the group!”

  One after the other she lifted out the driver and the messenger. Both men wore tight-fitting pants, high boots, gray wool jackets over white shirts, and flat, black, low-crowned hats with wide brims.

  The women passengers were dressed in flower-and ribbon-trimmed bonnets, tight bodices, and toe-length bouffant skirts. The men dummies wore suits in light shades with knee-length, rather snug coats, and high-crowned hats.

  Bess was laughing now too. “We won’t have to go on to Mrs. Strook’s,” she said. “We have a mystery on our hands right here.”

  “We certainly have,” George agreed. “What do you suggest we do about it?”

  “It’s my guess,” Nancy said, “that somebody was towing this antique outfit, and it broke loose.” She pointed to two link chains attached at each side of the front of the horses’ platform.

  “In that case,” George spoke up, “the person will certainly be back.”

  Bess looked worried. “We don’t know when, though. I think we ought to guard the stagecoach until he arrives.”

  At that moment the girls saw a truck approaching from the opposite direction. As it came up to them, the handsome young driver stopped and leaned out the cab window.

  “I got a good distance up the road before I realized my tow chain had broken,” he said. “I’m glad nothing happened to the old outfit.”

  Bess smiled. “We thought we were seeing things as we came down through the woods from Camp Merriweather. We’re vacationing there. Where is this stagecoach going?”

  The truck driver introduced himself as John O’Brien, then said, “I guess you girls haven’t heard about the deserted village of Bridgeford that’s being restored.”

  “No, we haven’t,” Nancy replied.

  John explained that about two miles away there had once been a thriving town where iron ore was brought from a nearby bog to be smelted. It had been abandoned a hundred years before, but now the county historical society, with the help of some people interested in reconstructing old villages, was fixing up the place.

  “A woman named Mrs. Pauling, who lives outside of Francisville,” John O’Brien went on, “bought this stagecoach and had it repaired and newly painted. It came from an abandoned farm. The people who bought the place recently found it hidden on the property.”

  “The horses too?” George asked.

  “No. Mrs. Pauling had them made. She’s presenting the whole thing to the restoration at the time of the grand opening. You ought to come over and see what’s being done.”

  “I’d like to,” said Nancy.

  By this time the trucker had stepped out of the cab and was inspecting the tow chains. One large piece was attached to his truck and he explained that the two lighter ones on the horses’ platform had snapped off. After turning the truck around, he produced more links from a toolbox and repaired the tow.

  Whistling, John O’Brien got behind the wheel of the truck, waved to the girls, and said, “Don’t forget to come over to Bridgeford.”

  “We’ll be there,” Nancy called as he drove off. She looked at her wrist watch. “Girls, we’re going to be dreadfully late for our appointment with Mrs. Strook. Let’s hurry!”

  Mrs. Strook, an elderly woman, lived in Francisville. Formerly a quiet place with a small population, it had suddenly mushroomed because of two housing developments which had sprung up not far apart at one end of the village. Less than half an hour’s walk brought the three girls to the shaded side street where Mrs. Strook lived.

  “What a charming place!” Bess remarked, as they reached a small, white, two-story colonial house surrounded by a white picket fence with a gate. Flowers, especially old-fashioned American varieties, grew in profusion in the front yard.

  Mrs. Strook, a petite
, smiling woman with snow-white hair pulled straight back and arranged in a knot at the nape of her neck, ushered the girls in with old-time courtesy.

  “You have had a long, hot walk,” Mrs. Strook said, as they cast admiring glances at the beautiful antique furniture, hooked rugs, and hand-woven linen draperies. “Won’t you sit down while I bring some iced tea?”

  Their charming hostess was gone only a few minutes, then returned with a tray and brimming glasses. As she and her guests sipped the delicious minted tea, Mrs. Strook looked intently at Nancy. “I probably shouldn’t intrude on your vacation, but when I heard through the manager that you’re staying at Merriweather and love to solve mysteries, I couldn’t refrain from asking you to come over here. Let me tell you my story and then you can decide for yourself whether or not you want to help me.”

  Mrs. Strook said that the town of Francisville had been her family’s home for many generations. At present the old-timers found it impossible to cope with the changed situation. The two housing developments had brought many new families into the community. This had necessitated extensive water and sewage systems.

  “Our town has issued bonds to borrow money for these,” Mrs. Strook explained. “Now we find it impossible to issue any more for a much-needed educational program. We ought to have a large, new school. The old building cannot take care of all the children who have moved in.”

  As the woman paused, George spoke up. “Can’t your town borrow money from the federal government?”

  “A certain amount, my dear,” Mrs. Strook answered. “And the town can add its share, of course. But what we need is a large sum to pay the balance. And that’s where my mystery comes in.”

  The elderly woman’s eyes twinkled. “I had a great-uncle named Abner Langstreet. He never married. Great-uncle Abner was born in Francisville and loved our little village. But back in 1853, in September to be exact, he disappeared, taking all his savings with him.

  “None of his relatives or friends ever saw him alive again, but ten years later word came to my grandmother, his sister, that Great-uncle Abner had been found dead in a small farmhouse only a few miles from here. He had become a hermit, but evidently just before his death he decided to reveal a certain secret that he had been harboring since leaving Francisville.

  “An unfinished letter to my grandmother was discovered and in it Abner Langstreet said that he was sorry he had run away and hoped it had caused the family no embarrassment. But he had not been able to face the bankruptcy he saw confronting him. The railroad which came here in 1852 had ruined his business. The tracks are gone now, but you can see the embankment here and there.”

  As Mrs. Strook paused again, Bess asked, “What was your great-uncle’s business?”

  “He was a stagecoach driver—owned his own coach and horses.”

  The three girls sat up very straight in their chairs. Twice, within an hour, they were hearing about an ancient stagecoach!

  “You see,” Mrs. Strook went on, “everyone began to use the railroad and there were no more passengers for my great-uncle. He was heartbroken and left Francisville in the old stagecoach without telling anyone. It was thought that he had gone out West to drive it or at least to sell it. You know, stagecoaches were used in the western part of our country long after they went out of vogue in the East.

  “Lately,” the elderly woman went on, “I have begun to think that Great-uncle Abner might not have taken his stagecoach so far away. If it was hidden around here, the old vehicle should be found and donated to the Bridgeford restoration.”

  “And you want me to find it?” Nancy asked.

  “Yes, but not just for that reason. I have a more important motive—one that was written in the letter to my grandmother,” Mrs. Strook replied quickly. “The letter said:

  You will find a clue in the old stagecoach which may prove to be of great value to my beloved town of Francisville. I put it there because I wanted it to be found some day, but not for many years. I was afraid I might die suddenly, then no one would ever know. But now I shall tell you the secret. You will find the—”

  Mrs. Strook wiped away a tear which was trickling down one cheek. “The letter ended there,” she said. “Apparently Mr. Langstreet was never able to write any more.” She gazed at Nancy. “Do you think my story sounds too farfetched? I have been afraid of being laughed at if I go to the authorities with it. But I thought maybe you—”

  Nancy had already risen from her chair. Now she sat down on the floor in front of the elderly woman and took both her hands in her own.

  “I don’t think your story is farfetched at all,” she said. “I’d love to solve the mystery for you if I can. Now I’m going to tell you a strange coincidence. Bess and George and I saw an old stagecoach not far from here.”

  “What!” Mrs. Strook exclaimed.

  When Nancy finished the story, Mrs. Strook stared in amazement. “You say this stagecoach was found hidden on a farm near here? Then it may very well have been my great-uncle’s!”

  “And contains the clue!” Bess cried out.

  “Oh, I hope you’re right!” Mrs. Strook said, her cheeks glowing and her eyes glistening with tears. “Could you find out for me?”

  “Indeed we can,” Nancy replied. “Bess and George and I will go back to the lodge and get my car. We’ll drive to Bridgeford at once and examine the old stagecoach.”

  CHAPTER II

  A Special Search

  BEFORE leaving, Nancy asked Mrs. Strook if she had a photograph of Abner Langstreet’s stagecoach.

  “Yes, I have,” she answered. “It’s upstairs. I’ll get it.”

  Nancy’s mind was leaping ahead; she might solve the mystery that very day!

  The young sleuth had already figured out the answers to several mysteries, some of them for her father, Carson Drew. He practiced law in River Heights where Nancy, Bess, and George lived. Among the cases on which Nancy had helped him were The Secret in the Old Clock and The Golden Pavilion, the latter in the Hawaiian Islands.

  Presently George said in a low tone to the other two girls, “Suppose Mr. Langstreet went a bit zany in his seclusion and imagined the whole thing.”

  “Oh, George,” Bess scolded, “you’re so practical. Why don’t you look at the romantic side of it? I’m sure the story is true. What do you think, Nancy?”

  “I have a strong hunch there’s something to it,” the young sleuth answered.

  “You see, George, you’re outvoted,” her cousin said. “Just for that, if you lose, you’ll have to pay us a forfeit.”

  Nancy’s eyes twinkled. “You certainly will, George. Bess, let’s make it something good. I’ll tell you what. George, if we win, you’ll have to knit each of us a lovely sweater!”

  George groaned. The other two girls knew she hated to knit. “Oh, please not that!” she begged.

  Bess winked at Nancy. “Sweaters or nothing,” she answered.

  Before George could object any further, Mrs. Strook came down the stairs holding a faded photograph. It showed four proud-looking, coal-black horses hitched to an attractive stagecoach. Nancy asked if she might take the picture along to compare it with the stagecoach at Bridgeford.

  “Yes, indeed, my dear,” Mrs. Strook answered. “And I shall be eagerly awaiting your answer.”

  The girls said good-by and started for the front door. Nancy opened it and almost ran full tilt into a man and a woman who were standing on the other side. They were Mr. and Mrs. Ross Monteith, who were staying at Camp Merriweather. Ross and Audrey were in their early thirties. They were not popular with the younger set who considered them too aggressive and overeager to be included where they were not welcome.

  Ross was tall and slender, with dark hair and piercing black eyes. His manner of speaking was very affected. Audrey, blond and blue-eyed, was a braggart. She attempted by her speech and mannerisms to appear more sophisticated than she actually was.

  “Why, Nancy Drew, fancy meeting you here!” said Ross. “Audrey and I were out
for a hike. Isn’t this place utterly charming—best-looking house in town. We’re thirsty and we thought we’d step in for some water.”

  “Do you know the owner?” Nancy asked.

  “No, but we hope to meet him or her.”

  Mrs. Strook, who had followed the girls to the door, stepped forward. She was frowning and it was evident that she was annoyed by the intrusion. “If you will take seats out in the garden, I will bring you some ice water,” she said.

  “Oh, I’ll take it to them,” Bess offered.

  Ross and Audrey Monteith went to sit in chairs under a large shade tree. In a few minutes Bess carried out two tall glasses of ice water.

  “Thanks,” said Ross. “Are you girls going back to the lodge?”

  “I really don’t know,” Bess replied and walked away.

  In the house George whispered to Mrs. Strook, “I’m glad that you didn’t invite the Monteiths in. They’re staying at our camp and are very inquisitive people.”

  Mrs. Strook smiled knowingly. Then she said, “By the way, please don’t tell my little secret about the stagecoach to anyone, will you?”

  The three girls promised to keep the matter in strictest confidence, then they said good-by and hurried off. As they reached the hillside trail and began climbing toward the summit, George remarked, “I think Ross and Audrey deliberately followed us and I’m afraid they were eavesdropping near the open window.”

  “I agree,” said Bess.

  Nancy was inclined to think so too. “Anything they missed I’m sure they won’t learn from Mrs. Strook!” she said with a grin.

  After the arduous climb the three girls reached the extensive plateau on which Camp Merriweather stood. The main building was a large, rambling log cabin with pine-paneled interior walls. In front of it was an immense swimming pool with sun umbrellas and tables set around the edge. At once the three girls were besieged by a group of young people who invited them to go swimming.

  “We can’t just now,” Nancy called. “Have a job to do.”