Читать книгу Nancy's Mysterious Letter - Walter Karig - Страница 5

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“I realize that it was my fault,” Nancy returned, without raising her voice, although her cheeks burned with an angry flush.

“I suppose you are awfully sorry it happened, and all that,” sneered Jesse Cutter. “Well, young lady, I suppose you don’t realize that this is a black mark on my record? In the long run it’s I who’s responsible for the lost mail!”

“Really, you don’t have to shout at me,” Nancy said. “I am not deaf, and I am aware of all you say. I came here to make what amends I could.”

“Amends, bah! Seeing that the bag vanished from your home, you are not entirely clear of responsibility yourself,” he growled.

“You don’t mean to insinuate that I took the pouch, do you?” Nancy asked, stepping up to the desk and leveling her gaze at the irate postmaster.

“That’s neither here nor there,” that worthy responded. “Joe! Hey, Joe!”

The clerk opened the door with such celerity it was evident that he had been standing with an ear to the keyhole.

“Joe, get me the Chief of Police on the wire. Then put through another call to the marshal’s office.”

Cutter jerked a telephone toward him and held the receiver to his ear, without relaxing his baleful stare.

“Hello! Headquarters? You, Chief? Cutter at the P.O. speaking. Got a case for you. Mail pouch stolen from a carrier on his route. Send me the best detectives you have right away.”

He slammed the receiver down and jerked a second telephone toward him.

“Hello!” he roared into the mouth-piece. “Is that you, Brannigan? Oh, Berger? You’ll do. A bag of mail was stolen from a carrier on his route this afternoon. Yes, the dumbbell went into a house to call on a girl and left his pouch out in the road. Hop around, will you?”

He shoved the instrument away from him and turned snappily toward Dixon.

“You know this means your finish!” he roared.

Dixon nodded, wordlessly. Nancy looked at the faithful old carrier, tears of pity in her eyes. Decades of faithful toil, a perfect record maintained through difficulties at which she could only guess, and then on the eve of honorable retirement, disgrace!

“Mr. Cutter,” she said to the postmaster, “after all is said and done, Mr. Dixon feels much worse over this than you do. I don’t see that your scolding and shouting help matters in the least. I came here to help. I have a brief description of a suspect, but we are wasting time now.”

Cutter’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“Of all the impudence in the world!” he roared. “You dare to tell me how to run my office and how to maintain discipline? Who are you, I’d like to know. Miss Wise Lady from Know-it-all, hey?”

Dixon put up an arm as if to ward off his superior’s blistering words from his young friend, but Nancy was fully capable of taking her own part. She was not in the least ruffled by the postmaster’s rudeness.

Waiting until he had finished, she merely asked:

“Are you interested in the description of the thief?”

“You can tell it to the Secret Service man,” Cutter snarled. “Ah, here he is now. Come in, Berger.”

Nancy turned to confront a most ordinary looking person, a man of medium height, with medium brown hair, a medium length nose—medium in every respect, which made him a very good Secret Service man indeed, for he looked like anything but a detective.

“What’s the fuss?” he asked quietly.

“This man here lost his mail pouch while calling on this young lady during working hours, that’s what the fuss is about,” Cutter barked.

Nancy, with a scornful glance at the official, told in as few words as possible the story of the afternoon’s mishap, and added the description of the suspected stranger as given her by Tommy.

“That was good work,” the Secret Service man said. “All right, Cutter, I’m on my way.”

“You know what to do,” Cutter said.

As Berger left, two other men entered the room. Through the open door Nancy caught sight of a score of men in the blue-grey uniform of mail carriers, all crowding into the anteroom to listen to the scandal.

“We’re from Headquarters,” one of the newcomers announced.

“Oh, yes, boys. Come in.”

Cutter repeated his boisterous and unfair description of the theft.

“And is this the dame?” one of the detectives asked with a jerk of his thumb toward Nancy.

“Please let me tell you what really happened,” Nancy said, and again gave the story of the robbery in detail.

“We got your address, but what’s your name?” the other plainclothesman asked, when she had finished.

“I am Nancy Drew.”

The detectives looked at each other, and then at Cutter, who leaned back in his chair with a changed expression on his face.

“You mean—THE Nancy Drew?” he asked.

“I’m the only one by that name in town,” she said simply.

Jesse Cutter leaned forward and there was a tone of respect in his voice when he spoke again. Carson Drew was a power in politics, and his daughter was not one to treat with disrespect.

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” he asked, gently for him.

“Mr. Dixon introduced me by name when we came in,” Nancy replied coldly.

“I—I didn’t hear,” Cutter said.

The plainclothesmen were also a little more courteous, but not more friendly. They had been twitted more than once by civilian acquaintances because of Nancy’s solution of problems which had baffled the police, and now that they were face to face with the young woman, her youth and composure nettled them more than a little.

“No use running her in to Headquarters, then,” said one to the other.

“Gosh, no!” replied his team-mate. “Come on, let’s get on the job. Do you want this old bird run in, Chief?”

“No, he’s under bond and Uncle Sam will keep an eye on him,” Cutter said.

He turned toward Dixon again.

“You may go home and stay there until you are wanted, Dixon. I suppose you know better than to leave town until this is cleared up.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Ira replied, clenching his fists nervously. “I want this cleared up so my record won’t be spoiled, of course. I’ll do anything you say.”

“And you, Miss Drew,” Cutter rose and smiled, “of course you will forgive my little burst of temper. It upset me, the news you brought. We’ll let bygones be bygones, and I thank you for your help in this matter.”

Nancy pretended not to see his outstretched hand.

“Of course I intend to do all I can to help my old friend Mr. Dixon,” she said sweetly. “Good afternoon, Mr. Cutter. If you will excuse Mr. Dixon, I’ll drive him home.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Cutter, staring at his still outstretched palm. Hastily he withdrew it and stuffed it into his pocket.

Nancy opened the door.

The anteroom and corridor were thronged with carriers and clerks, who hastily moved toward exits and stairs as Nancy emerged with Dixon.

All eyes were upon her, however, but with the composure of a queen Nancy walked through the curious throng to the waiting elevator. Then rose the voice of Cutter, shouting at the men to leave the office and be about their business.

“I—I’m obliged to you many times,” Dixon said to Nancy. “I can never thank you enough for standing by me, Miss Nancy. I can’t go with you now, though. Mr. Cutter was mistaken. I must stay and make out a report.”

“Don’t thank me,” Nancy said, squeezing the old man’s arm encouragingly. “I’ll try to do something to really win your praise. Now tell me something. Where does your half-brother live and what does he look like?”