Murder For Love

"But from the time I got involved in that sorority smuggling ring, nothing has been the same," Nancy remembered. She prepared a cup of tea and then began to examine a small ivory igloo on the table beside her. When she apparently pressed a concealed spring, a blank-faced figure in a tiny fur-trimmed parka popped out of the igloo-much like a cuckoo from a clock. His right hand clutched a miniature harpoon dangling on a string. Nancy was so nervous-a fact that surprised her-that she almost spilled the tea, and as she juggled the cup in its saucer, the tiny harpoon fell from the figure's grasp and pricked the back of her left hand.

"Here any regular reader would expect that I have been poisoned," laughed Nancy to herself as she reassembled harpoon and hunter. However, she fell asleep instantly and was awakened two hours later by Bess Nickerson, sounding the door chimes. "What happened, Nancy? You look as if you've been drugged." Bess was wearing a parka with a fur edge, River Heights fashion that season. "Did I awaken you?"

"Yes, I was probably drugged." Nancy was so used to that familiar trick that it hardly bothered her. "Here's the culprit." She produced the hunter in his igloo. "It reminds me of that Confederate soldier doll whose sword pricked me in old Mrs. Struthers' mansion."

"Oh, Nancy, we were so scared when you wouldn't wake up! And I thought your father would die!" squealed Bess, who still squealed habitually.

"Well, he did," said Nancy grimly. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean literally." Nancy had been Carson Drew's assistant, his confidante, his fair-haired daughter. She had looked after his ties and handkerchiefs and had arranged his appointments. He gave her his most important mystery cases. To ease her grief over his death, Nancy had thrown herself into various charitable amusements. She won the River Heights bake-off and captured a silver loving cup in a bowling tournament. During one week she had assumed a dramatic stage role when the leading lady became ill. Nancy learned her lines in an afternoon. She had similarly substituted in a trapeze act when a circus stopped in town. But none of these pastimes satisfied her. Recently she had gotten out her silver badge, resolving to return to her detective work with renewed energy.

"Shouldn't we sit down and talk?" said Bess. "I must remove this wet parka."

Nancy parked the parka on the hall tree, and they repaired to the parlor, where the souvenirs of Nancy 's cases were lined up on the mantel-the old clock, the Turnbull urn, the Paul Revere bell, the heirloom cameo, and several glossy mink pelts. The room had been the scene of many confidences between Carson Drew and his clients, and between father and daughter. Ha

Nancy got straight to the point. "Bess, I have reason to believe my father was murdered."

" Nancy!" Bess seemed shocked. "I thought you had given up mysteries."

"Mysteries are my destiny. And this one leads me into dangerous new territory."

" Nancy," said Bess warmly. "I feel you are much too preoccupied with the loss of your father. It's not good for you. And besides, as you say, it may be too dangerous."

"I think you understand, Bess, that my father meant everything to me. He was responsible for that premature career of mine-the glory of it, the brilliant girl detective following in his footsteps. He set standards that I had to live up to, and the resulting acclaim I received spurred me on. I ca

"I see what you mean," Bess murmured.

"And the most important mystery of my career is unfolding before me now. It has to do with my parentage."

"Your parentage!" exclaimed Bess, wide eyed.

"You know I never knew my mother," said Nancy.

"She died when you were three. All the books say that."

"All the same I can't remember her. Father told me very little about her. He was always evasive. What if she is still alive? What if some dread secret lurks in my past? She may have been murdered or kidnapped. Anything could have happened. And Father may have wanted to keep it from me. There may be a co

"And you think he was murdered." Bess shivered. "Oh, Nancy!"

"Exactly. And here is my first clue."

Expectantly, Bess examined the ivory igloo. "Where did you get it?"

"It came in a parcel the day of Father's death. No return address. Only a label on the igloo-Nome, Alaska."

Nancy produced the packaging from her secret clue drawer. Big block print letters addressed Carson Drew. Nancy had examined the wrapping inside and out with her magnifying glass and found no clues.

"What co

"I don't know. You see, I found it beside him when I found him slumped over, dead, right there where you're sitting -in that very spot, Bess. I paid no attention to the figurine until much later, and I was too distressed at first to imagine a co

Nancy showed Bess how the whale-hunter fit inside the igloo and popped out like a cuckoo. Bess pointed out the drop of fluid at the point of the harpoon.

"It's only a mild drug," Nancy said dismissively. "But my father may not have been able to survive a mild drug. Or perhaps he died of shock-from some unknown horror! The igloo could have reminded him of something. The doctors merely proclaimed heart failure. A vague diagnosis." "Are you going to notify the police?" "No, I prefer not to at present."

Da

"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 ma

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.