that it is pointed out, I don’t remember having seen birds around it for some days.”
She had the door open, now. And clearly, distinctly, the three could hear the hall phone ringing.
Jess turned a face that was white toward Cole Wilson. He nodded.
“That may be the gang, wanting to contact you about your father.”
The two of them ran down the hall to the phone.
Mac did not follow them. He went to the giant tree in whose branches was the large birdhouse. There was a lower limb which he could just reach with a full jump upward. He got his bony hands over the limb and drew himself up like a circus acrobat.
In the hall, Jess grasped the phone like a drowning girl clutching at a life preserver.
“J-Jessica Marsden speaking,” she said.
The hunch had been correct. This was the call they’d come here for.
“Where have you been?” snarled a man’s voice. “Don’t you care if your father lives or not?”
“I c-care very much!”
“All right, then listen. And get this straight. Your old man is O.K., now. He won’t be if you don’t do as we say. We want that picture called ‘The Princess.’ Bring us that, and we’ll let your father go home with you. We’ll even let him take the picture back with him. We don’t want the thing, we just want to look at it and see if it is really a Vernier.”
Jessica’s shoulders slumped. Cole put an arm around them, in a purely brotherly way of course, to give her support. This was what Jess had known would happen, and what she had feared.
“Believe me when I say this,” she declared. “I don’t know where that picture is. Dad never told me. I can’t get it for you.”
“You’re lying. Anyhow, you’d better be lying.”
“I tell you, I don’t know. Listen. Get my father to tell you where it is. Then you tell me. I’ll get it for you, I swear; and I’ll bring it wherever—”
“Yeah!” barked the man. “You think we haven’t tried to make your father talk?”
“What have you done to him?” screamed Jess.
“Now, now, calm down. We didn’t do much. But he . . . he’s kind of asleep now. And he won’t . . . er . . . wake up for maybe some hours. We can’t wait that long. You get that picture and bring it to Grayson Cemetery in exactly an hour and a half.”
“They’ve tortured him into unconsciousness,” Jessica moaned to Cole, with her hand over the transmitter so her voice wouldn’t carry. Then she spoke into the phone again. “I simply don’t know where the picture is.”
“O.K.,” said the man on the other end of the line with a cold finality. “Then it’s all up with your father. So long.”
MacMurdie came in at just this moment. He had a long metal cylinder in his hand. “Got it!” he said.
“Oh, thank Heaven!” Jess clutched the phone. “Wait, whoever you are. Please wait! I can get the picture. I’ll bring it to you.”
There was so long a silence that she thought the man had hung up before hearing. But then he said: “Right. Hour and a half, Grayson Cemetery. And no tricks!”
Then he did hang up, and Jess and Cole turned to Mac.
The thing he had found in the birdhouse was a metal map case, of the type that could be hermetically sealed to protect valuable charts against weather. It was perfect to protect something else against weather, out there in a birdhouse where rain couldn’t come in but dampness could.
The rolled canvas in the metal map case was the wanted picture, all right. “The Princess,” in all its glowing colors and beautiful lines.
They stared at it. A beautiful thing, yes; but it had more than beauty. Somehow, in its interrelation of lines and colors, there was a deadly message. If they took it, the real picture, to the cemetery to get Jessica’s father, and if the gang outwitted them and got hold of the painting, none knew what catastrophe would follow. And it would be their fault.
“We’ll have to risk it,” said Cole soberly.
Mac nodded. “You let me carry this case,” he
She had the door open, now. And clearly, distinctly, the three could hear the hall phone ringing.
Jess turned a face that was white toward Cole Wilson. He nodded.
“That may be the gang, wanting to contact you about your father.”
The two of them ran down the hall to the phone.
Mac did not follow them. He went to the giant tree in whose branches was the large birdhouse. There was a lower limb which he could just reach with a full jump upward. He got his bony hands over the limb and drew himself up like a circus acrobat.
In the hall, Jess grasped the phone like a drowning girl clutching at a life preserver.
“J-Jessica Marsden speaking,” she said.
The hunch had been correct. This was the call they’d come here for.
“Where have you been?” snarled a man’s voice. “Don’t you care if your father lives or not?”
“I c-care very much!”
“All right, then listen. And get this straight. Your old man is O.K., now. He won’t be if you don’t do as we say. We want that picture called ‘The Princess.’ Bring us that, and we’ll let your father go home with you. We’ll even let him take the picture back with him. We don’t want the thing, we just want to look at it and see if it is really a Vernier.”
Jessica’s shoulders slumped. Cole put an arm around them, in a purely brotherly way of course, to give her support. This was what Jess had known would happen, and what she had feared.
“Believe me when I say this,” she declared. “I don’t know where that picture is. Dad never told me. I can’t get it for you.”
“You’re lying. Anyhow, you’d better be lying.”
“I tell you, I don’t know. Listen. Get my father to tell you where it is. Then you tell me. I’ll get it for you, I swear; and I’ll bring it wherever—”
“Yeah!” barked the man. “You think we haven’t tried to make your father talk?”
“What have you done to him?” screamed Jess.
“Now, now, calm down. We didn’t do much. But he . . . he’s kind of asleep now. And he won’t . . . er . . . wake up for maybe some hours. We can’t wait that long. You get that picture and bring it to Grayson Cemetery in exactly an hour and a half.”
“They’ve tortured him into unconsciousness,” Jessica moaned to Cole, with her hand over the transmitter so her voice wouldn’t carry. Then she spoke into the phone again. “I simply don’t know where the picture is.”
“O.K.,” said the man on the other end of the line with a cold finality. “Then it’s all up with your father. So long.”
MacMurdie came in at just this moment. He had a long metal cylinder in his hand. “Got it!” he said.
“Oh, thank Heaven!” Jess clutched the phone. “Wait, whoever you are. Please wait! I can get the picture. I’ll bring it to you.”
There was so long a silence that she thought the man had hung up before hearing. But then he said: “Right. Hour and a half, Grayson Cemetery. And no tricks!”
Then he did hang up, and Jess and Cole turned to Mac.
The thing he had found in the birdhouse was a metal map case, of the type that could be hermetically sealed to protect valuable charts against weather. It was perfect to protect something else against weather, out there in a birdhouse where rain couldn’t come in but dampness could.
The rolled canvas in the metal map case was the wanted picture, all right. “The Princess,” in all its glowing colors and beautiful lines.
They stared at it. A beautiful thing, yes; but it had more than beauty. Somehow, in its interrelation of lines and colors, there was a deadly message. If they took it, the real picture, to the cemetery to get Jessica’s father, and if the gang outwitted them and got hold of the painting, none knew what catastrophe would follow. And it would be their fault.
“We’ll have to risk it,” said Cole soberly.
Mac nodded. “You let me carry this case,” he
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