The Secret of the Scarlet Hand, page 1
Contents
* * *
1 The King’s Carving
2 The Scarlet Handprint
3 Danger in the Garden
4 The Code Is Cracked
5 Splashdown
6 A Call in the Night
7 A Suspicious Character
8 A Strange Gathering
9 Trapped!
10 A Not-So-Secret Society
11 The Missing Papers
12 A Slippery Character
13 A Clue from the Past
14 Ring Around the Robber
15 A Last-Minute Confession
16 Many Happy Returns
1
The King’s Carving
“So this is Beech Hill!” Nancy Drew exclaimed. She and her two friends stepped out of their rental car and stared in awe at the mansion in front of them. The elegant building was made of red brick and pale stone. The rolling grounds surrounding the house were a lush green.
“It’s totally amazing,” said George Fayne, Nancy’s slim, dark-haired friend. “Welcome to lifestyles of the rich and famous.”
“Are you sure it’s okay to go in dressed like this?” George’s cousin Bess Marvin asked. She nervously smoothed her blond hair and tucked her crewneck sweater into a pair of jeans.
All three girls were dressed casually. They had arrived in Washington, D.C., from River Heights the night before with Nancy’s father, Carson Drew. He had invited them along on his trip to a legal seminar in the nation’s capital.
“I’m sure we’re dressed fine,” Nancy assured Bess. “Remember, it’s a museum now, not someone’s estate. And we’re just visiting my dad’s friend Susan Caldwell. She’s the director here.”
“What kind of museum is it?” Bess asked.
“Dad told me they exhibit pre-Columbian art,” Nancy explained. “He says it’s all stuff from South and Central America, dating from before Christopher Columbus landed there.”
“You mean art from the Aztec and Inca civilizations?” George’s eyes lit up. “I remember studying them in world history.”
Nancy pulled open the mansion’s heavy, polished oak door. The girls stepped into a grand, marble-floored lobby. Nancy gave her name to a guard sitting behind a large oak desk. “Mrs. Caldwell is expecting me,” she added.
As the guard phoned in their arrival, the three friends gazed around the octagonal lobby. Long galleries stretched off it in different directions.
“This is so elegant!” Bess sighed as she took in the shining marble floors, gleaming wood doors, and burnished brass fixtures. “Whoever used to own this house must have been really rich.”
Just then a petite, middle-aged woman entered the lobby through a side door. She had short blond hair and was wearing a tailored silk suit. The woman held out her hand to Nancy. “You have to be Nancy Drew,” she said with a friendly smile. “You look so much like your father.”
Nancy returned her smile. “Except for my hair,” she said, gesturing to her shoulder-length reddish blond hair. “Everyone says I get it from my mother’s side of the family.”
Nancy’s mother had died when she was a young child. Since then her father had raised her, along with the help of their housekeeper, Hannah Gruen.
Nancy introduced Susan Caldwell to Bess and George. “Dad sends his regards,” she added.
“I hope I’ll see him while you’re here,” Susan Caldwell said. “He and my husband were close friends in law school, but we haven’t seen Carson for a few years now.”
“I’m sure you’ll get together,” Nancy said. “He has to be in meetings all day, but most of his evenings are free.”
“Well, would you like to see Beech Hill?” Susan asked. “It’s an extraordinary place. Let me give you a tour.”
Mrs. Caldwell led Nancy and her friends through a door into a high-ceilinged gallery. It was like entering another world. The gallery’s free-standing glass cases and wall-mounted displays were filled with beautiful objects—bowls, medallions, small statues, ornaments—some made of gold, others of stone. Nancy was mesmerized by the objects’ colors and textures.
“Beech Hill was originally the home of Samuel and Lavinia Cartwright,” Susan Caldwell explained. “They bought the house and land in the 1930s and named it Beech Hill for the old copper beech tree in the main garden.”
She continued talking as the girls admired the objects in the room. “When Samuel Cartwright was sent as the American ambassador to Mexico, he got interested in the native Indians who lived there before the Spanish arrived—the Olmec, Maya, and Aztec peoples. He started to collect pre-Columbian art, although other art collectors at the time thought he was crazy.”
“Why?” Nancy asked. Looking at the beautiful objects in the gallery, it was hard to imagine anyone not being interested in them.
“They thought these were works by primitive, uneducated people—not art at all,” Susan answered. “They thought it wasn’t worth buying.”
“It’s a pity it didn’t stay that way,” a voice with a soft Latino accent spoke up behind them. Nancy turned and found herself facing a dark-haired young man with intense eyes.
“People like the Cartwrights stole my country’s art,” he said bitterly. “They locked it away so only rich Americans could see it.”
“Beech Hill is open to the public,” Susan protested. “Anyone can come here—you know that, Alejandro.”
“It’s not that simple.” The young man scowled. “Is the art of your country thousands of miles away where your people can never see it?”
“Alejandro?” a brisk voice called from the next gallery. A gray-haired older man entered, his thick black spectacles magnifying the concerned look in his eyes.
“Hello, Henrik,” Susan said. “Alejandro and I are having our usual discussion.”
The director was obviously trying to play down Alejandro’s anger. But Nancy could tell from Susan’s expression that the young man’s accusations bothered her.
The man called Henrik laid a friendly hand on Alejandro’s shoulder. “My friend, you need to be more diplomatic.” Nancy noticed that he spoke with an accent, too. She guessed he was German or Dutch. “After all, you are a diplomat,” Henrik added with a smile. But his smile went unreturned. Instead Alejandro just glowered.
“I’m afraid I’m forgetting my manners,” Mrs. Caldwell said, changing the subject. “Nancy Drew, George Fayne, and Bess Marvin, this is Henrik van der Hune, our curator. And this young fellow is Alejandro del Rio, a cultural attaché with the Mexican consulate.”
The girls shook hands with van der Hune and del Rio as Susan explained how she knew Nancy and her friends and why they were at Beech Hill. Nancy couldn’t help noticing that Alejandro del Rio refused to meet anyone’s eyes.
“Alejandro is here to discuss the details of the Mexican consulate’s exhibition next month,” van der Hune told Susan. “We’ve been going over some of the objects we will be loaning them.”
Del Rio turned to Susan. “Isn’t the new carving you’ve acquired on exhibit yet?”
Susan paused before she replied. “No, the display case still isn’t ready.”
Del Rio sighed. “I’ve been waiting to see it. You know why,” he added.
“Alejandro,” Susan retorted sharply, “that piece came into this country years ago—well before the U.S. made it illegal to import Mexican antiquities. Isn’t it better for it to be displayed here instead of being hidden away in someone’s private collection, as it used to be?”
“The best situation would be to return it to my country,” del Rio shot back.
“Alejandro, I hear what you say,” van der Hune put in. “I somewhat agree with you, I must admit. It was wrong for American collectors to take the art of your country away.”
“Honestly, Henrik, what’s done is done.” Susan frowned at the museum’s curator. “Are we supposed to return everything now?”
“You could start with the carving you just bought,” del Rio told her.
Before Susan could reply, van der Hune took del Rio by the elbow. “Come, Alejandro, we still have work to do,” he said smoothly. “Good morning, ladies. Enjoy your stay in Washington.” Then he and del Rio left through the side door.
Susan Caldwell sighed. “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” she apologized. “Alejandro can be very rude.”
“What exactly is he objecting to?” Nancy asked, puzzled. “Don’t the museums in Mexico have any pre-Columbian art?”
“Of course they do,” Susan Caldwell said. “The national museum in Mexico City has a splendid collection. But that’s not what bothers him. I’m afraid I’d have to bore you with a lot of history to explain it properly.”
“That’s okay,” Bess piped up. “We’re used to being bored during history lessons.”
George winced and then jabbed her cousin in the side.
Nancy chuckled. “Please tell us,” she urged Susan.
“Well,” the director began, “when the Spanish conquerors arrived in Mexico in the fifteenth century, they destroyed the culture of the Aztecs. Very little Aztec art remained once they were done. It’s still a sore point for many Mexicans.
“In the late nineteenth century,” she went on, “archaeologists discovered the ruins of the Maya and Olmec peoples—Indians who had lived in Mexico before the Aztec empire. But as they dug up these artifacts, many of the sacred sites were robbed. This happened frequently during the time when the Cartwrights collected.”
“So del Rio thinks some of the objects here were stolen from those sites?” Nancy asked.
Susan Caldwell shook her head. “No. If they were, they would have been returned long ago,” she said. “In the 1970s and 1980s, the United States and many Latin American countries agreed to stop the removal of pre-Columbian art from its native country. Experts also checked the origins of any pre-Columbian art that had already been removed. If something looked like a stolen piece, the art was sent back to its country of origin. The Cartwrights, though, had been very careful. Every piece they bought had a solid provenance.”
“Provenance?” Bess echoed. “What do you mean?”
“It’s like a pedigree. It tells where the art came from and who owned it,” Susan Caldwell explained.
George still looked confused. “So what’s del Rio’s objection?” she asked.
“Alejandro is upset that the art was removed at all,” Susan said. “Mexican nationalists—many of them of Indian descent, like Alejandro—bitterly resent the Spanish conquistadors who destroyed their art centuries ago. And they say that the American art collectors are like modern-day conquistadors, taking away the rest of Mexico’s artistic heritage.”
“What is this carving Beech Hill has just acquired?” Nancy asked.
“Oh, it’s very special,” Susan said enthusiastically. “It’s a carving of the face of Lord Pacal, the ancient king of Palenque, one of the most prominent Mayan cities. The ancient Maya believed that it held the king’s spirit. It was a sacred object.”
“It must have been very expensive,” Nancy commented.
Susan smiled. “Let’s just say it was in the million-dollar range,” she said. “It’s rare and quite beautiful. And yes, its provenance checks out clean.”
“Can we see it?” Nancy asked, intrigued.
The museum director thought for a moment. “I don’t see why not,” she finally said. “It’s downstairs, locked in a storage case. Actually, I haven’t seen it myself since we purchased it.”
She led the girls to the door where Henrik van der Hune and Alejandro del Rio had exited. They all went down a set of narrow stairs and passed through a maze of gray-carpeted hallways.
Susan finally stopped at a plain black metal door. She pulled a set of keys from her skirt pocket, chose one, and fit it into the keyhole. The door swung open.
When Susan flipped on an overhead light, Nancy noticed they were in a square room. Two of the walls were fitted with floor-to-ceiling shelves for holding pottery, sculpture, and other artifacts. There was also a massive storage case with lots of drawers and a long wooden table.
Susan crossed to the storage case. She scanned the labels on the drawers, then inserted another key into the tiny lock on one drawer. Pulling it out gently, she reached in and removed a well-worn cardboard gift box about the size of a deck of cards.
“Not the most attractive packaging in the world,” Susan admitted with a smile, “but it serves the purpose. Isn’t it hard to believe that something so valuable could be this small?”
With a flourish, she swept the lid off the box. “Here he is—Lord Pacal!”
The girls crowded around in anticipation, eager to see the priceless carving of the king. But as Susan Caldwell tilted the box for them to see inside, Nancy let out a loud gasp.
Aside from some lumpy cotton, the box was empty.
Lord Pacal was gone.
2
The Scarlet Handprint
“The carving is missing?” Susan Caldwell cried. “It can’t be!” She flew back to the storage drawer and began to poke around inside.
“Maybe it fell out,” she muttered. She reached her hand deeper into the drawer. When she pulled out her hand again, she was clutching something in her palm.
“What did you find?” Nancy asked.
“I don’t know.” Susan slowly opened her fingers. Lying in her palm was a small square of folded paper.
“It looks like a note,” George said.
With trembling fingers, Susan opened the small square.
The paper was covered with black handwritten characters unlike any Nancy had ever seen before. In the center of the unfolded sheet was an ominous-looking bloodred handprint.
Susan pointed to the black characters. “These are Mayan glyphs,” she said in a dazed voice. “Each one stands for a word.”
“Can you read what it says?” Nancy asked.
The director shook her head. “There are some scholars who are experts at reading Mayan glyphs. Unfortunately, I’m not one of them.”
“What about the handprint?” Nancy asked. “Do you know what that means?”
Susan shuddered. “I’m not sure. It looks like blood, doesn’t it?”
“That handprint sure is gruesome,” Bess agreed, her eyes wide.
“Let’s make sure none of us touches anything in here,” Nancy warned. “The police will want this room just as it was when we entered.”
Susan gave Nancy a curious look. “Do you know something about police investigations?”
“Nancy’s got quite a reputation as a detective back in River Heights,” Bess declared.
“You really solve mysteries?” the museum director exclaimed. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—you are Carson’s daughter.”
“I’ve solved a few cases,” Nancy admitted modestly. “But an art theft like this should involve the police. We’d better call them.”
Susan Caldwell nodded in agreement. But before heading for the phone, she reached out and grabbed Nancy’s hand. “Please tell me you’ll help, too,” she said urgently. “This statue was my responsibility—I have to see that it’s returned to the museum.”
“Sure,” Nancy said, a little surprised at Susan’s reaction. “As long as the police know I’m involved.”
The director’s face lit up. “Of course. I’ll call the police now. Would you mind staying here until I return?”
The girls agreed, and Susan hurried back up the stairs.
“Well, so much for a nice relaxing vacation,” Bess groaned. “I should have known: where Nancy Drew goes, mystery follows. We’ll never get in any sightseeing now.”
Nancy smiled at her friend’s good-natured complaint. “We’ve got to help Susan, Bess. She’s my dad’s friend.”
“I can’t believe the statue was stolen,” George remarked. “The security seems pretty tight around here.”
Nancy nodded and began a quick check of the room. There were no signs of forced entry at the door or near the drawer where the carving was stored. A quick scan of the glossy linoleum floor didn’t reveal any clues either.
“When the police come, they’ll dust for fingerprints,” Nancy remarked. “But I bet they won’t find any. This theft seems well planned—the thief even left his calling card.” She pointed to the mysterious note lying on the table.
“That thing gives me the creeps,” Bess said. “I wonder what the handprint means.” She hesitated. “Then again, maybe I don’t want to know.”
Susan returned a few minutes later and announced that the police were on their way.
“It doesn’t look like anyone forced his way in,” Nancy told her. “Who has keys to this room?”
“Just me,” Susan replied, “and Henrik van der Hune, the curator you met earlier.”
“No one else?” Nancy asked. Susan shook her head. “What about the cleaning people?”
“When they come, either Henrik or I stand outside,” Susan explained. “It’s awkward, but there’s no way around it. The museum can’t afford to lose something as valuable as the carving.”
“Do you keep a set of spare keys anywhere?” Nancy asked.
Susan shook her head again. “Only Henrik and I have keys,” she repeated.
Before Nancy could ask about who might have a motive to steal the carving, the door flew open.
“Susan! One of the guards just told me!” Henrik van der Hune stood in the doorway, looking distraught. “Is it true?”
“I’m afraid it is, Henrik,” Susan admitted. “The carving is gone.”
“But how?” He looked completely baffled.
“We don’t know,” she replied. “The police should be here any minute.”
A deep voice came from behind van der Hune: “Excuse me.” A tall, heavyset man in plain dark clothes pushed past the curator and entered the room. “Mrs. Caldwell?” he asked. “Detective Briscoe of the District Police. Your assistant sent me down here.”
