The Secret in the Old Lace Read Free

there.”
    “But that’s not far from Brussels,” George objected.
    “I know. Yet, in those days people didn’t travel as they do now. If he changed his appearance a little and learned how to speak the dialect of that town, he could conceal himself easily enough.”
    “Don’t they speak Flemish there?” Bess inquired.
    “Flemish is spoken in Flanders,” Nancy admitted. “But the people in Brugge have their own dialect. ”
    As the chatter continued, the lanky waiter placed three large platters of salad in front of the girls.
    “You said that François took a fortune with him when he left,” George put in. “In those days robberies were as prevalent as today. Did it occur to you that maybe he was overtaken and killed?”
    Nancy admitted the thought had entered her mind. “But the magazine story doesn’t even hint at foul play. My impression is that François changed his whole appearance and life-style. He could’ve grown a beard to hide his handsome face and switched to plain clothes, for instance.”
    “In your story,” Bess asked, “what name did he take?”
    “Karl Van Pelt. ”
    “I still think it’s incredible,” George insisted, “that such an attractive man could live no more than sixty miles from Brussels without ever being identified. His clothes alone—”
    “Not really,” Nancy interrupted. “Don’t forget, according to the magazine, he took no clothes other than the red jacket with the lace cuffs. Obviously, he didn’t want to be seen with any baggage to indicate he was traveling or moving away. He could’ve hidden whatever treasure he had in his sleeves, pockets, and shoes and rolled up the jacket into a neat little package.”
    “In that case,” George pointed out, “François’s personal fortune must’ve been in money and jewels. ”
    Nancy nodded. “Exactly. In my story I said he used some of the money to start a successful business and at his death willed the red jacket to a museum.”
    “Just think,” Bess said, digging her fork into a cube of fresh melon, “we’ll be able to walk on the same cobblestones François did and look at the same canals he saw and—”
    George rolled her eyes upward in mock disgust. “Spare me,” she said. “I don’t know how Dave stands it.” Dave Evans was Bess’s boyfriend.
    “Okay, you two,” Nancy broke in.
    “You know I was serious about us all going to Belgium,” Bess said. “Madame Chambray has plenty of room and more than one mystery to solve!”
    “Really?” Nancy asked eagerly.
    “Yes. She found part of an old letter too, which says something about a treasure. ”
    “Is that all she said?”
    Bess nodded. “Madame Chambray didn’t reveal too many details in her letter to my mother, but she does want us—you especially—to visit. She knows your dad’s a lawyer and that you often solve mysteries. ”
    Nancy’s heart was beating excitedly. “I’m just flabbergasted,” she said. “After working on the mystery contest, the one place I’m eager to see is Brugge!”
    “Who knows, maybe we’ll find François’s red jacket in one of the museums!” George giggled.
    “Let’s not get too carried away,” Nancy said. “After all, my part of the story is only fictional. Speaking of that, I ought to mail it in at once.”
    George called to the waiter for a bill as Nancy caught sight of someone bending behind the front fender of her parked car. “Is he letting the air out of my tire?” she cried, pushing her chair back and darting toward him. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted.
    For a split second the stranger bobbed into view. He looked like Matey Johnson!

3
    Missing Manuscript
     
     
     
    “Stop!” Nancy cried, dashing into the street after the man. But he darted away lithe as a cat, skirting several taxis and bike riders before disappearing into an alley.
    Stymied by the heavy traffic, Nancy did not attempt to cross the street. George and Bess, who had quickly paid the waiter, were now