Danny Crew, the police chief who had succeeded her old friend McGinnis, was not disposed to listen to girl detectives of any age or reputation, no matter how many copies they sold.
"I should have known," groaned Bess.
"It is more complicated than a mere police case. It is a personal mystery. It has a philosophical dimension, you might say."
Bess produced her knitting and prepared to listen. She had never heard Nancy pursue a mystery from such an odd angle before.
"Bess, you are aware that for some years now my stories have not been faithful to my real-life adventures. You know yourself that your participation in my recent adventures has been dwindling."
"Well, with the children, I hardly have time to go exploring caves and chasing crooks as much."
"Certainly. But even in the early stories you were always more preoccupied with the refreshments than with the mystery, so I hadn't expected you to keep up with the adventures. Actually, I must admit to you that I am scarcely consulted anymore about my adventures. The stories are make-believe, written in the manner of my early achievements. The royalties have been handsome, one cannot deny, but I have hardly deserved them."
At first, Nancy had related, with the help of newspaper clippings and various memorabilia from her stockpile of old clues, the tales of her teenage exploits to her patient authoress, who seldom interfered with Nancy 's telling. Later, Nancy 's adventures were full of loose ends. Crooks never confessed right away for one thing, and heiresses seldom invited her to tea at their mansions. In Nancy 's view, the Hardy Boys got some of the better adventures.
"What is a mystery, Bess?" said Nancy after a long pause during which Bess knitted ninety-nine stitches.
"Why, you always said it was the unrevealed coincidences of life."
In one case, Nancy had met a Mrs. Owen, and when she came home and found her father talking with a Mr. Owen, Nancy at once imagined that they might be a tragically separated husband and wife. Mr. Owen had a sad face, as if he might have lost a wife. And as it turned out at the end, Mr. and Mrs. Owen were happily reunited by Nancy Drew, who utilized coincidence to an uncommon advantage, and who, moreover, expected life to arrange itself in a series of interrelated coincidences. These coincidences were Nancy 's favorite features of mystery. They shot chills up and down her spine.
"Quite right, Bess," Nancy said as she remembered Mr. and Mrs. Owen. "But are all coincidences mysteries?"
"I don't think so, Nancy. Are you suggesting this mystery might better be left alone?" "A suggestion."
"Of course, Nancy, I do feel it might be better to let well enough alone. I usually do feel that way."
"Oh, Bess, you don't understand! The real mystery is why my sleuthing luck has failed. This is why I have my hopes pinned on this new mystery-in spite of its shocking nature." She buried her face in her hands a moment. "It must be age," she said. "I always denied it, but I get into my blue convertible, with my matching blue frock, and I follow leads, undaunted by danger. But nothing turns out correctly. It is all so disorderly. Oh, Bess, my mysteries are trite, unglamorous. Gangsters seldom chase my convertible these days. It was different in the roadster." "Don't feel bad, Nancy."
"I have been studying my books lately, trying to figure it out. The books show some things very plainly. For one thing, I always felt empty and sad at the end of each mystery because I hadn't begun the next mystery yet. Without a mystery I was nothing. That's how I have been feeling for years now-without the challenge of an old-fashioned mystery. I have been looking at the books to see if there are any clues to my father's death. There may have been a conspiracy from the beginning, a devious plot to throw me off the case with a semblance of a solution."
Bess, uncomfortable with Nancy 's profound questionings, now pursued the original mystery.
"What else have you learned about your father's untimely demise?" she inquired tactfully.
"There's this ivory igloo and the mysterious name of Draco S. Wren."
"What a strange name-like a code name. Or a vampire. Who is he?"
"A client of my father's. Dad was working on the case when he died."
"What do you know about him?"
"He lives in Alaska!"
"Oh, do you think he has anything to do with this ivory hunter?" Bess fingered the figurine dangerously, and she would have pricked her finger if Nancy had not rescued her in time.
"His name is in a file of current clients, so I call him a client," Nancy said. "The reverse may be the case, however, for in Father's bank statements there are several large checks made out to Draco S. Wren-a sum of over four thousand dollars paid just this year!"
" Nancy, it sounds like blackmail!"
"If this were a typical Nancy Drew teenage detective story, we would now be at about Chapter Five. Two distinct and separate mysteries have been introduced-the mystery of my father's death and the mystery of Draco S. Wren. There has been one mysterious message, half a dozen puzzling clues strewn my way by fate, one disastrous event, one maddening car chase (I did have trouble getting a parking spot yesterday), one adventure with Bess (saving you from the poison harpoon), and one bout with a rainstorm."
No one had ever explained why there were so many rainstorms in the Nancy Drew books, and so few wintry scenes.
"This Draco S. Wren sounds like a dangerous character," said Bess.
"His address is in the file, but I have not decided what I shall do about it. If I write to him, I may scare him away. It might be best to travel to Nome, Alaska, and do a little sleuthing. Could you and George pack a suitcase by tomorrow?"
"Really, Nancy, you can't still expect me to drop everything and join you on such short notice."
"Oh, I forgot about the offspring." Nancy was crestfallen. She brightened. "Shall we have some tea? Hannah has baked a sponge cake with orange butter frosting."
Bess could hardly conceal the hungry gleam in her eye. During the refreshments, daintily served on an embroidered napkin and a silver tea tray, Nancy was thoughtful. Bess concentrated on several pieces of the sponge cake.
Nancy gazed out the window at the unending rain. It was inconvenient that Bess couldn't drop everything and hop in the convertible to pursue a mystery. She turned from the window.
"Bess, this new mystery must be kept secret from my fan club."
"Of course, Nancy," said Bess, rousing herself from the ecstasy of the sponge cake. She put away her knitting and headed for the hall tree. "I have to get home now, but if I might give you a bit of sisterly advice before I leave-I've never really said this before, but, well, I do think you shouldn't be alone."
"What are you trying to say, Bess?" said Nancy pointedly.
"You know what I mean, Nancy," floundered Bess. "It has been ages since you went to a prom or a barbecue with a handsome young man. You need an admirer."
Nancy had not dated anyone since Ned Nickerson married Bess. Nancy, being generous to a fault, did not allow the union to poison her friendship with Bess. Ned had been helpful on mystery cases at times when Nancy needed someone to fetch a clue from a high crevice, but Ned wanted too little from life.
Nancy did not answer Bess. She continued to gaze out the window. Bess said she must hurry home, for the day was at a close. The children would be rampaging, and Ned would be home with his football, ready to devour a horse or two. Bess hugged Nancy good-bye and whispered a message of cheer.
NancySearches the Files
The next day Nancy searched her father's files and found nothing significant. Frustrated, she began to look for hidden compartments in her father's bedroom. She was expert at such quests, having explored many mansions for secret sliding panels and hidey holes. Her favorites were in The Sign of the Twisted Candles. Nancy recalled longingly the ecstatic feeling of tugging on the little knob which opened the hidden recess in one old attic she had searched. It surprised her that she might be finding such secrets in her own home.