Mrs. Landry Helps
“Great help _he_ is,” Sim remarked disdainfully as they watched the old
car bump along.
“We don’t know any more now than we did before,” Terry said, agreeing
with Sim.
“Yes, we do,” Arden contradicted. “You’re forgetting about that paper.
While you two were watching Tania perform her little trick, I was
memorizing the words on that torn piece.”
“Good for you, Sherlock!” Sim exclaimed. “And what do we do next? Go home
and work out the cryptogram?”
“Something like that,” Arden answered. “I’ve got a plan. Let’s get going,
and we’ll see how it works out. Terry, is it too late to go to town for
just a few minutes? What I’m going to do won’t take long.”
“What are you going to do?” Terry questioned. “Tell us.”
“I thought of going to the drug store and trying to trace the writer of
this note by getting information of the New York telephone company,”
Arden told them.
“Good idea, Ard! Of course we have time for that. And, anyway, we’d
better do it while you still remember the words,” Terry said.
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t forget them,” Arden replied with the first show
of relief they had felt in some time. “A Blake never forgets!”
They piled into the car and rode along the deserted road to the village.
The drug store was fortunately empty except for a rather stupid-looking
boy clerk.
Arden entered the phone booth, and her chums crowded around her. They
waited impatiently for the really short interval it took to make the
connection with the New York office. As the clear sharp voice of the girl
sang out “Information,” Arden explained the difficulty.
“We are trying to get the phone number of an address in New York,” she
said, “but we’ve torn the paper. I’ll give you as much as I can. Do you
think you can help us?”
“Sorry, madam,” came the voice, “but I can’t possibly trace the name.”
Arden hung up and turned sorrowfully toward her friends.
“I might have known it,” she said. “Of course we couldn’t do anything
that way. It was a desperate chance at best.”
“Too bad, Arden,” Terry soothed. “I still think it was a good idea. But
let’s get out of here; our young friend,” she indicated the curious
clerk, “is awfully interested in us.”
“We’d better be starting for home, anyway,” Arden suggested. “Your mother
might worry.”
So they left the little village, which was quite deserted now in the late
afternoon, and wearily put the car away for the night in the garage of
the little white house.
Mrs. Landry was interested to learn all that had happened, and urged them
to keep up their spirits. Somewhat woefully, the girls smiled at her and
agreed at least to try further.
After the evening meal, when they gathered in the living room, Arden and
Sim decided to write letters home but thought it best not to mention the
new “mystery.”
Arden sat at the small wicker desk, pen and paper before her, and got as
far as “Dearest Mother.” But her mind was far away and after this
auspicious beginning she looked up from the paper dreamily.
Poor Dimitri! Where could he be? And Olga—and the paper and the snuffbox.
Then Arden, drawing a line through the beginning of her letter, wrote
down the queer words from the envelope.
_Ser_
_Ninth S_
_New Y_
What could that possibly be? What man’s name began with the letters S E
R?
“Terry,” Arden said suddenly, “have you a dictionary here? One that would
have proper names in it?”
“I have one that I brought down with some books from Cedar Ridge. Will
that help you?” Terry replied.
“Get it, will you, please,” Arden continued. “I’m going to try and work
out this puzzle and send a telegram to an address. If it isn’t delivered,
we’ll know it’s no good. I’d rather spend the last of my allowance that
way than on candy.”
“Swell plan, Arden!” Sim exclaimed. “Get the trusty dictionary, Terry,
and let’s start to work.”
Terry dashed up the stairs and rummaged hurriedly in the pile of almost
forgotten college books in her room and at length returned carrying the
volume.
Arden flicked back the flimsy pages and ran her hand down the line.
There were biblical first names as well as Greek and Latin ones, and
Arden was somewhat at sea as she murmured:
Serah
Seraphim
Sered
Seres
Sergia
Sergius
Seriah
Seron
Serug
“Do you like any of them, or does any one sound logical?” she asked her
chums.
“Sergius!” exclaimed Sim. “That sounds Russian to me.”
“Sergia,” Terry voted. “That’s also Russian, but one may be a woman’s
name. How can we get around that? There’s no way of finding out from this
list. It’s very impartial.”
“We can get around it this way,” Arden declared. “Just use Serg. Then
we’ll be safe if it’s a man or woman. You know a boy’s name could be Ted,
and they call some girls Ted. I’m in favor of just Serg.”
“It sounds good,” admired Terry.
“I’m for it,” added Sim. “But what about a last name?”
“There’s going to be a rub,” said Terry. “We took the easiest part
first.”
“It seems almost impossible, doesn’t it?” sighed Arden.
“Yes, it does. It might be Smith or Brown or Jones,” Sim remarked. “This
is quite an undertaking, I’m afraid.”
“Well, there’s no harm in trying,” Arden protested. “Working with Dimitri
in mind, it’s logical to suppose that, being Russian, he’d have Russian
friends or relatives, isn’t it?”
Sim and Terry agreed silently.
“I guess relatives, Arden,” said Sim suddenly. “I think that man who came
here looked like Dimitri.”
“Maybe you’re right, Sim. Shall we try Uzlov?” Arden looked to them for
agreement.
“Yes!” exclaimed Terry. “Serg Uzlov! That’s a good start.”
“Of course, we may not gain anything by this, and besides, perhaps we
should have told Rufus Reilly what we intend to do. Do you think so?”
questioned Arden, chewing the little ring on the top of the fountain pen.
“Not at all!” Sim protested. “If Dimitri was a brother, or something, I
think we’d do just this, and I think we’re perfectly justified in doing
it.”
This outburst gave them new courage, and they puzzled for some time over
the address. Then Terry finally called in her mother.
“What would be the Russian quarter in New York, Mother?” she asked,
explaining what they were trying to do.
“Let me try to remember,” said Mrs. Landry. “Perhaps if I looked again at
the address as you have it, something might suggest itself to me.”
They showed it to her, Arden writing it out from memory again.
“There seems to be no question but what this address is in New York,”
Mrs. Landry went on, after several seconds of obvious concentration.
“Now, as to the street. From the way the address is written it must be
Ninth Street. It cannot be Nineteenth Street for there was no part of a
word before the Ninth, was there?”
“No.” The girls were agreed on that point.
“And it cannot have been Twenty-ninth, or Thirty-ninth or any of the
higher numbered streets in the pines. Because the word Ninth was too near
the left side of the envelope. So I think it is safe to assume that Ninth
Street was intended.”
“Splendid!” exclaimed Arden. “Terry, your mother should be in entire
charge of this mystery investigation.”
“Oh, no, my dear. None of that for me, if you please,” Mrs. Landry
laughed.
“But you’re helping us so!” murmured Sim.
“This may be no help at all, as it turns out. But I’ll go on to the end
as far as I can. We’ll decide on Ninth Street. That, as you know, is at
least partly in what is, or was, the Greenwich Village section of New
York.
“I think it safe to say there are Russians there. You know there are
artists and writers living there and all sorts of odd tearooms, some
undoubtedly of Russian character.”
“Oh, we are coming on!” cried Arden. “What next, Mrs. Landry?”
“Well, I should say, from looking at this, that no house number was ever
put in front of the street. Whoever wrote this must have known that the
letter would go to its destination without a house number on it. The
writer must have sent other letters in the same way, trusting to the mail
man knowing where to leave it.”
“Some mail man!” commented Terry admiringly.
“But then Ninth Street may be a short one,” said Mrs. Landry. “I can’t
just recollect about that, though I have been on it. At any rate, I
think, in such a desperate case as this,” and here she smiled slightly,
“you would be justified in sending the telegram to the name you have
selected, with just Ninth Street, New York, as its destination. Those
telegraph messenger boys are clever. One may know just where to take it
or he may inquire of some Russian in the Village. The Russians are
clannish, like all foreigners, and this person may be well known.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s going to succeed now!” declared Arden.
“Of course!” murmured her chums, Sim adding:
“You write the telegram out now, Ard.”
Arden wrote and read:
_“‘Serg Uzlov. Ninth Street, New York City. Can you give us any
information concerning Dimitri Uzlov? Very important. Anxious to get in
touch with him. Telegraph my expense.’”_
“That’s a lot more than ten words,” remarked Sim.
“Who cares?” laughed Terry. “This may mean a lot. But you’ll have to sign
some name to it, won’t you?”
“Could we use yours, Mrs. Landry?” asked Arden.
“Yes, I think so,” Terry’s mother answered after a moment of thought. “It
will do no harm.”
“Then we’ll do it,” decided Arden.
“I can hardly wait!” Sim cried excitedly. “Of course we couldn’t go to
town tonight?” she looked beseechingly at Mrs. Landry.
“Of course not, my dear young Watson,” Terry’s mother smiled as she
replied. “You sleuths have done quite enough for one day. Besides, think
how silly you’ll feel if you find out nothing has happened at all.”
“I suppose so,” Terry reluctantly admitted. “But somehow, Mother, I think
there’s something in this.”
“You may be right,” her mother agreed. “Nevertheless, your commanding
officer orders you all to bed.”
Somewhat petulantly they kissed the jovial lady good-night and went
upstairs, but not to sleep till some time later, when, unable to stay
awake any longer, they at last succumbed to the call of Morpheus.
But sleeping though they were, it was a fitful rest. Filled with dreams
of gold boxes, strange dark women, and telegrams. Once Arden cried out,
“Tania! Tania!” and Sim gave her a sleepy nudge to wake her from her
dream.
Arden sighed and rolled over. Morning was so long in coming. At length
the smiling sun climbed up over the edge of the ocean and announced the
beginning of a new day.