Danger
at the
Drawbridge

By
MILDRED A. WIRT

Author of
MILDRED A. WIRT MYSTERY STORIES
TRAILER STORIES FOR GIRLS

Illustrated

CUPPLES AND LEON COMPANY
Publishers
NEW YORK

PENNY PARKER
MYSTERY STORIES

Large 12 mo. Cloth Illustrated

TALE OF THE WITCH DOLL
THE VANISHING HOUSEBOAT
DANGER AT THE DRAWBRIDGE
BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR
CLUE OF THE SILKEN LADDER
THE SECRET PACT
THE CLOCK STRIKES THIRTEEN
THE WISHING WELL
SABOTEURS ON THE RIVER
GHOST BEYOND THE GATE
HOOFBEATS ON THE TURNPIKE
VOICE FROM THE CAVE
GUILT OF THE BRASS THIEVES
SIGNAL IN THE DARK
WHISPERING WALLS
SWAMP ISLAND
THE CRY AT MIDNIGHT

COPYRIGHT, 1940, BY CUPPLES AND LEON CO.

Danger at the Drawbridge

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

The speeding automobile careened down the bank.
“Danger at the Drawbridge” ([See Page 157])

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE [1 AN ASSIGNMENT FOR PENNY] 1 [2 REPORTERS NOT WANTED] 9 [3 GIFT TO THE BRIDE] 19 [4 BEHIND THE BUSHES] 28 [5 THE MISSING BRIDEGROOM] 35 [6 A RING OF WHITE GOLD] 45 [7 THE FORBIDDEN POOL] 54 [8 PARENTAL PROTEST] 63 [9 A SOCIETY BAZAAR] 72 [10 A THROWN STONE] 79 [11 QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS] 88 [12 FISHERMAN’S LUCK] 96 [13 TWO MEN AND A BOAT] 105 [14 THE STONE TOWER] 113 [15 A CAMEO PIN] 122 [16 GATHERING CLUES] 129 [17 A SEARCH FOR JERRY] 140 [18 OVER THE DRAWBRIDGE] 149 [19 A DARING RESCUE] 158 [20 AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW] 164 [21 THE WHITE CRUISER] 171 [22 TRAPPED IN THE CABIN] 177 [23 AT THE HIDE-OUT] 184 [24 SECRET OF THE LILY POOL] 192 [25 VICTORY FOR PENNY] 203

CHAPTER
1
AN ASSIGNMENT FOR PENNY

Penny Parker, leaning indolently against the edge of the kitchen table, watched Mrs. Weems stem strawberries into a bright green bowl.

“Tempting bait for Dad’s jaded appetite,” she remarked, helping herself to the largest berry in the dish. “If he can’t eat them, I can.”

“I do wish you’d leave those berries alone,” the housekeeper protested in an exasperated tone. “They haven’t been washed yet.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a few germs,” laughed Penny. “I just toss them off like a duck shedding water. Shall I take the breakfast tray up to Dad?”

“Yes, I wish you would, Penny,” sighed Mrs. Weems. “I’m right tired on my feet this morning. Hot weather always did wear me down.”

She washed the berries and then offered the tray of food to Penny who started with it toward the kitchen vestibule.

“Now where are you going, Penelope Parker?” Mrs. Weems demanded suspiciously.

“Oh, just to the automatic lift.” Penny’s blue eyes were round with innocence.

“Don’t you dare try to ride in that contraption again!” scolded the housekeeper. “It was never built to carry human freight.”

“I’m not exactly freight,” Penny said with an injured sniff. “It’s strong enough to carry me. I know because I tried it last week.”

“You walk up the stairs like a lady or I’ll take the tray myself,” Mrs. Weems threatened. “I declare, I don’t know when you’ll grow up.”

“Oh, all right,” grumbled Penny good-naturedly. “But I do maintain it’s a shameful waste of energy.”

Balancing the tray precariously on the palm of her hand she tripped lightly up the stairway and tapped on the door of her father’s bedroom.

“Come in,” he called in a muffled voice.

Anthony Parker, editor and owner of the Riverview Star sat propped up with pillows, reading a day-old edition of the newspaper.

“’Morning, Dad,” said Penny cheerfully. “How is our invalid today?”

“I’m no more an invalid than you are,” returned Mr. Parker testily. “If that old quack, Doctor Horn, doesn’t let me out of bed today—”

“You’ll simply explode, won’t you, Dad?” Penny finished mischievously. “Here, drink your coffee and you’ll feel less like a stick of dynamite.”

Mr. Parker tossed the newspaper aside and made a place on his knees for the breakfast tray.

“Did I hear an argument between you and Mrs. Weems?” he asked curiously.

“No argument, Dad. I just wanted to ride up in style on the lift. Mrs. Weems thought it wasn’t a civilized way to travel.”

“I should think not.” The corners of Mr. Parker’s mouth twitched slightly as he poured coffee from the silver pot. “That lift was built to carry breakfast trays, but not in combination with athletic young ladies.”

“What a bore, this business of growing up,” sighed Penny. “You can’t be natural at all.”

“You seem to manage rather well with all the restrictions,” her father remarked dryly.

Penny twisted her neck to gaze at her reflection in the dresser mirror beyond the footboard of the big mahogany bed.

“I won’t mind growing up if only I’m able to develop plenty of glamour,” she said speculatively. “Am I getting any better looking, Dad?”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” replied Mr. Parker gruffly, but his gaze lingered affectionately upon his daughter’s golden hair. She really was growing prettier each day and looked more like her mother who had died when Penny was a little girl. He had spoiled her, of course, for she was an only child, but he was proud because he had taught her to think straight. She was deeply loyal and affectionate and those who loved her overlooked her casual ways and flippant speech.

“What happened to the paper boy this morning?” Mr. Parker asked between bites of buttered toast.

“It isn’t time for him yet, Dad,” said Penny demurely. “You always expect him at least an hour early.”

“First edition’s been off the press a good half hour,” grumbled the newspaper owner. “When I get back to the Star office, I’ll see that deliveries are speeded up. Just wait until I talk with Roberts!”

“Haven’t you been doing a pretty strenuous job of running the paper right from your bed?” inquired Penny as she refilled her father’s cup. “Sometimes when you talk with that poor circulation manager I think the telephone wires will burn off.”

“So I’m a tyrant, am I?”

“Oh, everyone knows your bark is worse than your bite, Dad. But you’ve certainly not been at your best the last few days.”

Mr. Parker’s eyes roved about the luxuriously furnished bedroom. Tinted walls, chintz draperies, the rich, deep rug, were completely lost upon him. “This place is a prison,” he grumbled.

For nearly a week the household had been thrown completely out of its usual routine by the editor’s illness. Overwork combined with an attack of influenza had sent him to bed, there to remain until he should be released by a doctor’s order. With a telephone at his elbow, Mr. Parker had kept in close touch with the staff of the Riverview Star but he fretted at confinement.

“I can’t half look after things,” he complained. “And now Miss Hilderman, the society editor, is sick. I don’t know how we’ll get a good story on the Kippenberg wedding.”

Penny looked up quickly. “Miss Hilderman is ill?”

“Yes, DeWitt, the city editor, telephoned me a few minutes ago. She wasn’t able to show up for work this morning.”

“I really don’t see why he should bother you about that, Dad. Can’t Miss Hilderman’s assistant take over the duties?”

“The routine work, yes, but I don’t care to trust her with the Kippenberg story.”

“Is it something extra special, Dad?”

“Surely, you’ve heard of Mrs. Clayton Kippenberg?”

“The name is familiar but I can’t seem to recall—”

“Clayton Kippenberg made a mint of money in the chain drug business. No one ever knew exactly the extent of his fortune. He built an elaborate estate about a hundred and twenty-five miles from here, familiarly called The Castle because of its resemblance to an ancient feudal castle. The estate is cut off from the mainland on three sides and may be reached either by boat or by means of a picturesque drawbridge.”

“Sounds interesting,” commented Penny.

“I never saw the place myself. In fact, Kippenberg never allowed outsiders to visit the estate. Less than a year ago a rumor floated around that he had separated from his wife. There also was considerable talk that he had disappeared because of difficulties with the government over income tax evasion and wished to escape arrest. At any rate, he faded out of the picture while his wife remained in possession of The Castle.”

“And now she is marrying again?”

“No, it is Mrs. Kippenberg’s daughter, Sylvia, who is to be married. The bridegroom, Grant Atherwald, comes from a very old and distinguished family.”

“I don’t see why the story should be so difficult to cover.”

“Mrs. Kippenberg has ruled that no reporters or photographers will be allowed on the estate,” explained Mr. Parker.

“That does complicate the situation.”

“Yes, it may not be easy to persuade Mrs. Kippenberg to change her mind. I rather doubt that our assistant society editor has the ingenuity to handle the story.”

“Then why don’t you send one of the regular reporters? Jerry Livingston, for instance?”

“Jerry couldn’t tell a tulle wedding veil from one of crinoline. Nor could any other man on the staff.”

“I could get that story for you,” Penny said suddenly. “Why don’t you try me?”

Mr. Parker gazed at his daughter speculatively.

“Do you really think you could?”

“Of course.” Penny spoke with assurance. “Didn’t I bring in two perfectly good scoops for your old sheet?”

“You certainly did. Your Vanishing Houseboat yarn was one of the best stories we’ve published in a year of Sundays. And the town is still talking about Tale of the Witch Doll.”

“After what I went through to get those stories, a mere wedding would be child’s play.”

“Don’t be too confident,” warned Mr. Parker. “If Mrs. Kippenberg doesn’t alter her decision about reporters, the story may be impossible to get.”

“May I try?” Penny asked eagerly.

Mr. Parker frowned. “Well, I don’t know. I hate to send you so far, and then I have a feeling—”

“Yes, Dad?”

“I can’t put my thoughts into words. It’s just that my newspaper instinct tells me this story may develop into something big. Kippenberg’s disappearance never was fully explained and his wife refused to discuss the affair with reporters.”

“Kippenberg might be at the wedding,” said Penny, thinking aloud. “If he were a normal father he would wish to see his daughter married.”

“You follow my line of thought, Penny. When you’re at the estate—if you get in—keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Then you’ll let me cover the story?” Penny cried in delight.

“Yes, I’ll telephone the office now and arrange for a photographer to go with you.”

“Tell them to send Salt Sommers,” Penny suggested quickly. “He doesn’t act as know-it-all as some of the other lads.”

“I had Sommers in mind,” her father nodded as he reached for the telephone.

“And I have a lot more than Salt Sommers in my mind,” laughed Penny.

“Meaning?”

“Another big story, Dad! A scoop for the Star and this for you.”

Penny implanted a kiss on her father’s cheek and skipped joyously from the room.

CHAPTER
2
REPORTERS NOT WANTED

In the editorial room of the Riverview Star heads turned and eyebrows lifted as Penny, decked in her best silk dress and white picture hat, clicked her high-heeled slippers across the bare floor. Jerry Livingston, reporter, stopped pecking at his typewriter and stared in undisguised admiration.

“Well, if it isn’t our Bright Penny,” he bantered. “Didn’t recognize you for a minute in all those glad rags.”

“These are my work clothes,” replied Penny. “I’m covering the Kippenberg wedding.”

Jerry pushed his hat farther back on his head and grinned.

“Tough assignment. From what I hear of the Kippenberg family, you’ll be lucky if they don’t throw the wedding cake at you.”

Penny laughed and went on, winding her way through a barricade of desks to the office of the society editor. Miss Arnold, the assistant, was talking over the telephone, but in a moment she finished and turned to face the girl.

“Good morning, Miss Parker,” she said stiffly. An edge to her voice told Penny more clearly than words that the young woman was nettled because she had not been trusted with the story.

“Good morning,” replied Penny politely. “Dad said you would be able to give me helpful suggestions about covering the Kippenberg wedding.”

“There’s not much I can tell you, really. The ceremony is to take place at two o’clock in the garden, so you’ll have ample time to reach the estate. If you get in—” Miss Arnold placed an unpleasant emphasis upon the words—“take notes on Miss Kippenberg’s gown, the flowers, the decorations, the names of her attendants. Try to keep your facts straight. Nothing infuriates a bride more than to read in the paper that she carried a bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley and roses while actually it was a bouquet of some other flower.”

“I’ll try not to infuriate Miss Kippenberg,” promised Penny.

Miss Arnold glanced quickly at her but the girl’s face was perfectly serene.

“That’s all I can tell you, Miss Parker,” she said shortly. “Bring in at least a column. For some reason the city editor rates the wedding an important story.”

“I’ll do my best,” responded Penny, and arose.

Salt Sommers was waiting for her when she came out of the office. He was a tall, spare young man, with a deep scar down his left cheek. He talked nearly as fast as he walked.

“If you’re all set, let’s go,” he said.

Penny found herself three paces behind but she caught up with the photographer as he waited for the elevator.

“I’m taking Minny along,” Salt volunteered, holding his finger steadily on the signal bell. “May come in handy.”

“Minny?” asked Penny, puzzled.

“Miniature camera. You can’t always use the Model X.”

“Oh,” murmured Penny. Deeply embarrassed, she remained silent as the elevator shot them down to the ground floor.

Salt loaded his photographic equipment into a battered press car which was parked near the loading dock at the rear of the building. He slid in behind the wheel and then as an afterthought swung open the car door for Penny.

Salt seemed to know the way to the Kippenberg estate. They shot through Riverview traffic, shaving red lights and tooting derisively at slow drivers. In open country he pressed the accelerator down to the floor and the car roared down the road, only slackening speed as it raced through a town.

“How do you travel when you’re in a hurry?” Penny gasped, clinging to her flopping hat.

Salt grinned and lifted his foot from the gasoline pedal.

“Sorry,” he said. “I get in the habit of driving fast. We have plenty of time.”

As they rode, Penny gathered scraps of information. The Kippenberg estate was located six miles from the town of Corbin and was cut off from the mainland on three sides by the joining of two wide rivers, one with a direct outlet to the ocean. Salt did not know when the house had been built but it was considered one of the show places of the locality.

“Do you think we’ll have much trouble getting our story?” Penny asked anxiously.

“All depends,” Salt answered briefly. He slammed on the brake so suddenly that Penny was flung forward in the seat.

Another car coming from the opposite direction had pulled up at the side of the road. Penny did not recognize the three men who were crowded into the front seat, but the printed placard, Ledger which was pasted on the windshield told her they represented a rival newspaper in Riverview.

“What luck, Les?” Salt called, craning his neck out the car window.

“You may as well turn around and go back,” came the disgusted reply. “The old lady won’t let a reporter or a photographer on the estate. She has a guard stationed on the drawbridge to see that you don’t get past.”

The car drove on toward Riverview. Salt sat staring down the road, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the steering wheel.

“Looks like we’re up against a tough assignment,” he said. “If Les can’t get in—”

“I’m not going back without at least an attempt,” announced Penny firmly.

“That’s the spirit!” Salt cried with sudden approval. “We’ll get on the estate somehow if we have to swim over.”

He jerked the press card from the windshield, and reaching into the back seat of the car, covered the Model X camera with an old gunny sack. The miniature camera he placed in his coat pocket.

“No use advertising our profession too early in the game,” he remarked.

Twelve-thirty found Penny and Salt in the sleepy little town of Corbin. Fortifying themselves with a lunch of hot dog sandwiches and pop, they followed a winding, dusty highway toward the Kippenberg estate.

Presently, through the trees, marking the end of the road, an iron drawbridge loomed up. It stood in open position so that boats might pass on the river below. A wooden barrier had been erected across the front of the structure which bore a large painted sign. Penny read the words aloud.

“‘DANGEROUS DRAWBRIDGE—KEEP OFF.’”

Salt drew up at the side of the road. “Looks as if this is as far as we’re going,” he said in disgust. “There’s no other road to the estate. I’ll bet that ‘dangerous drawbridge’ business is just a dodge to keep undesirables away from the place until after the wedding.”

Penny nodded gloomily. Then she brightened as she noticed an old man who obviously was an estate guard standing at the entrance to the bridge. He stared toward the old car as if trying to ascertain whether or not the occupants were expected guests.

“I’m going over to talk with him,” Penny said.

“Pretend that you’re a guest,” suggested Salt. “You look the part in that fancy outfit of yours.”

Penny walked leisurely toward the drawbridge. Appraisingly, she studied the old man who leaned comfortably against the gearhouse. A dilapidated hat pulled low over his shaggy brows seemed in keeping with the rest of his wardrobe—a blue work shirt and a pair of grease-smudged overalls. A charred corn-cob pipe, thrust at an angle between his lips, provided sure protection against the mosquitoes swarming up from the river below.

“Good afternoon,” began Penny pleasantly. “My friend and I are looking for the Kippenberg estate. We were told at Corbin to take this road but we seem to have made a mistake.”

“You ain’t made no mistake, Miss,” the old man replied.

“Then is the estate across the river?”

“That’s right, Miss.”

“But how are guests to reach the place? I see the sign says the bridge is out of commission. Are we supposed to swim over?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” the old man answered evenly. “Mrs. Kippenberg has a launch that takes the folks back and forth. It’s on the other side now but will be back in no time at all.”

“I’ll wait in the car out of the hot sun,” Penny said. She started away, then paused to inquire casually: “Is this drawbridge really out of order?”

The old man was deliberate in his reply. He blew a ring of smoke into the air, watched it hover like a floating skein of wool and finally disintegrate as if plucked to pieces by an unseen hand.

“Well, yes, and no,” he said. “It ain’t exactly sick but she sure is ailin’. I wouldn’t trust no heavy contraption on this bridge.”

“Condemned by the state, I suppose?”

“No, Miss, and I’ll tell you why. This here bridge doesn’t belong to the state. It’s a private bridge on a private road.”

“Odd that Mrs. Kippenberg never had it repaired,” Penny remarked. “It must be annoying.”

“It is to all them that don’t like launches. As for Mrs. Kippenberg, she don’t mind. Fact is, she ain’t much afraid of the bridge. She drives her car across whenever she takes the notion.”

“Then the bridge does operate!” Penny exclaimed.

“Sure it does. That’s my job, to raise and lower it whenever the owner says the word. But the bridge ain’t fit for delivery trucks and such-like. One of them big babies would crack through like goin’ over sponge ice.”

“Well, I rather envy your employer,” said Penny lightly. “It isn’t every lady who has her own private drawbridge.”

“She is kind of exclusive-like that way, Miss. Mrs. Kippenberg she keeps the drawbridge up so she’ll have more privacy. And I ain’t blamin’ her. These here newspaper reporters always is a-pesterin’ the life out of her.”

Penny nodded sympathetically and walked back to make her report to Salt.

“No luck?” he demanded.

“Guess twice,” she laughed. “The old bridgeman just took it for granted I was one of the wedding guests. It will be all right for us to go over in the guest launch as soon as it arrives.”

Salt gazed ruefully at his clothes.

“I don’t look much like a guest. Think I’ll pass inspection?”

“Maybe you could get by as one of the poor relations,” grinned Penny. “Pull your hat down and straighten your tie.”

Salt shook his head. “A business suit with a grease spot on the vest isn’t the correct dress for a formal wedding. You might get by but I won’t.”

“Then should I try it alone?”

“I’ll have to get those pictures somehow,” stated Salt grimly.

“Maybe we could hire a boat of our own,” Penny suggested. “Of course it wouldn’t look as well as if we arrived on the guest launch.”

“Let’s see what we can line up,” Salt said, swinging open the car door.

They walked to the river’s edge and looked in both directions. There were no small boats to be seen. The only available craft was a large motor boat which came slowly downstream toward the open drawbridge. Penny caught a glimpse of the pilot, a burly man with a red, puffy face.

Salt slid down the bank toward the water’s edge, and hailed the boat.

“Hey, you, Cap’n!” he called. “Two bucks to take me across the river.”

The man inclined his head, looked steadily at Salt for an instant, then deliberately turned his back.

“Five!” shouted Salt.

The pilot gave no sign that he had heard. Instead, he speeded up the boat which passed beneath the drawbridge and went on down the river.

CHAPTER
3
GIFT TO THE BRIDE

“Perhaps he didn’t hear you,” said Penny, peering after the retreating boat.

“He heard me all right,” growled Salt as he scrambled back up the high bank.

Noticing a small boy in dirty overalls who sat at the water’s edge fishing, he called to him: “Say, sonny, who was that fellow, do you know?”

“Nope,” answered the boy, barely turning his head, “but his boat has been going up and down the river all morning. That’s why I can’t catch anything.”

The boat rounded a bend of the river and was lost to view. Only one other craft appeared on the water, a freshly painted white motor launch which could be seen coming from the far shore.

“That must be the guest boat now,” remarked Penny, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. “It seems to be our only hope.”

“Let’s try to get aboard and see what happens,” proposed the photographer.

They walked leisurely back toward the guard at the drawbridge, timing their arrival just as the launch swung up to the landing. With a cool assurance which Penny tried to duplicate, Salt stepped aboard, nodded indifferently to the wheelsman, and slumped down in one of the leather seats.

Penny waited uneasily for embarrassing questions which did not come. Gradually she relaxed as the boatman took no interest in them and the guard’s attention was fully occupied with other cars which had driven up to the drawbridge.

A few minutes later, two elderly women, both elegantly gowned, were helped aboard the boat by their chauffeur. One of the women stared disapprovingly at Salt through her lorgnette and then ignored him.

“We’ll get by all right,” Salt whispered confidently.

“Wait until Mrs. Kippenberg sees us,” warned Penny.

“Oh, we’ll keep out of her way until we have our story and plenty of pictures. Once we’re across the river it will be easy.”

“I hope you’re right,” muttered Penny.

While Salt’s task of taking pictures might prove relatively simple, she realized that her own work would be anything but easy. She could not hope to gather many facts without talking to a member of the family, and the instant she admitted her identity she likely would be ejected from the grounds.

“I boasted I’d bring in a front page story,” she thought ruefully. “I’ll be lucky if I get a column of routine stuff.”

The boat was moving slowly away from the landing when the guard at the drawbridge called in a loud voice: “Hold it, Joe!”

Penny and Salt stiffened in their chairs, fearing they were to be exposed. But they were both greatly relieved to see that a long, black limousine had drawn up at the end of the road. The launch had been stopped so that additional passengers might be accommodated.

Salt nudged Penny’s elbow.

“Grant Atherwald,” he contributed, jerking his head toward a tall, well-built young man who had stepped from the car. “I’ve seen his picture plenty of times.”

“The bridegroom?” Penny turned to stare.

“Sure. He’s one of the blue-bloods, but they say he’s a little short on ready cash.”

The young man, dressed immaculately in formal day attire, and accompanied by two other men, came aboard the launch. He bowed politely to the elderly women and his gaze fell questioningly upon Penny and Salt. But if he wondered why they were there, he did not voice his thought.

As the boat put out across the river Penny watched Grant Atherwald curiously. It seemed to her that he appeared nervous and preoccupied. He stared straight before him, clenching and unclenching his hands. His face was colorless and drawn.

“He’s nervous and worried,” thought Penny. “I guess all bridegrooms are like that.”

A sharp “click” sounded in her ear. Penny did not turn toward Salt, but she caught her breath, knowing what he had done. He had dared to take a picture of Grant Atherwald!

She waited, feeling certain that the sound must have been heard by everyone in the boat. A full minute elapsed and no one spoke. When Penny finally glanced at Salt he was gazing serenely out across the muddy water, his miniature camera shielded behind a felt hat which he held on his knees.

The boat docked. Salt and Penny allowed the others to go ashore first, and then followed a narrow walk which wound through a deep lane of evergreen trees.

“Salt,” Penny asked abruptly, “how did you get that picture of Atherwald?”

“Snapped it through a hole in the crown of my hat. It’s an old trick. I always wear this special hat when I’m sent out on a hard assignment.”

“I thought a cannon had gone off when the shutter clicked,” Penny laughed. “We were lucky you weren’t caught.”

Emerging from behind the trees, they obtained their first view of the Kippenberg house. Sturdily built of brick and stone, it stood upon a slight hill, its many turrets and towers commanding a view of the two rivers.

“Nice layout,” Salt commented, pausing to snap a second picture. “Wish someone would give me a castle for a playhouse.”

They crossed the moat and found themselves directly behind Grant Atherwald again. Before the bridegroom could enter the house a servant stepped forward and handed him a sealed envelope.

“I was told to give this to you as soon as you arrived, sir,” he said.

Grant Atherwald nodded, and taking the letter, quickly opened it. A troubled expression came over his face as he scanned the message. Without a word he thrust the paper into his pocket. Turning, he walked swiftly toward the garden.

“Salt, did you notice how queerly Atherwald looked—” Penny began, but the photographer interrupted her.

“Listen,” he said, “we haven’t a Chinaman’s chance of getting in the front door. That boy in the fancy knickers is giving everyone the once over. Let’s try a side entrance.”

Without attracting attention they walked quickly around the house and located a door where no servant had been posted. Entering, they passed through a marble-floored vestibule into a breakfast room crowded with serving tables. Salt nonchalantly helped himself to an olive from one of the large glass dishes and led Penny on toward the main hall where many of the guests had gathered to admire the wedding gifts.

“Now don’t swipe any of the silver,” Salt said jokingly. “I think that fellow over by the stairway is a private detective.”

“He seems to be looking at us with a suspicious gleam in his eyes,” Penny replied. “I hope we don’t get tossed out of here.”

“We’ll be all right if Mrs. Kippenberg doesn’t see us before the ceremony.”

“Do you suppose Mr. Kippenberg could be here, Salt?”

“Not likely. It’s my guess that fellow will never be seen again.”

“Dad doesn’t share your opinion.”

“I know,” Salt admitted. “We’ll keep watch for him, but it would just be a lucky break if it turns out he’s here.”

Mingling with the guests, they walked slowly about a long table where the wedding gifts were displayed. Penny gazed curiously at dishes of solid silver, crystal bowls, candlesticks, jade ornaments, tea sets and service plates encrusted with gold.

“Nothing trashy here,” muttered Salt.

“I’ve never seen such an elegant display,” Penny whispered in awe. “Do you suppose that picture is one of the gifts?”

She indicated an oil painting which stood on an easel not far from the table. So many guests had gathered about the picture that she could not see it distinctly. But at her elbow, a woman in rustling silk, said to a companion:

“My dear, a genuine Van Gogh! It must have cost a small fortune!”

When the couple had moved aside, Penny and Salt drew closer to the easel. One glance assured them that the painting had been executed by a master. However, it was the subject of the picture which gave Penny a distinct start.

“Will you look at that!” she whispered to Salt.

“What about it?” he asked carelessly.

“Don’t you notice anything significant?”

“Can’t say I do. It’s just a nice picture of a drawbridge.”

“That’s just the point, Salt!” Penny’s eyes danced with excitement. “A drawbridge!”

The photographer glanced again at the painting, this time with deeper interest.

“Say, it looks a lot like the bridge which was built over the river,” he observed. “You think this picture is a copy of it?”

Penny shook her head impatiently. “Salt, your knowledge of art is dreadful. This Van Gogh was painted ages ago and is priceless. Don’t you see, the drawbridge has to be a copy of the picture?”

“Your theory sounds reasonable,” Salt admitted. “I wonder who gave the painting to the bride? There’s no name attached.”

“Can’t you guess why?”

“I never was good at kid games.”

“Why, it’s clear as crystal,” Penny declared, keeping her voice low. “This estate with the drawbridge was built by Clayton Kippenberg. He must have been familiar with the Van Gogh painting, and had the real bridge modeled after the picture. For that matter, the painting may have been in his possession—”

“Then you think the picture was presented to Sylvia Kippenberg by her father?” Salt broke in quickly.

“Yes, I do. Only a person very close to the bride would have given such a gift.”

“H-m,” said Salt, squinting at the picture thoughtfully. “If you’re right it means that Clayton Kippenberg’s whereabouts must be known to his family. His disappearance may not be such a deep mystery to Mamma Kippenberg and daughter Sylvia.”

“Oh, Salt, wouldn’t it make a grand story if only we could learn what became of him?”

“Sure. Front page stuff.”

“We simply must get the story somehow! If Mrs. Kippenberg would just answer our questions about this drawbridge painting—”

“I’m afraid Mamma Kippenberg isn’t going to break down and tell all,” Salt said dryly. “But buckle on your steel armor, little girl, because here she comes now!”

CHAPTER
4
BEHIND THE BUSHES

A large, middle-aged woman in rose-colored silk, crossed the room directly toward Salt and Penny. Her pale blue eyes glinted with anger and there were hard lines about her mouth. She walked haughtily, but with grim purpose.

“Unless we do some fast talking, out we go!” muttered Salt. “It’s Mrs. Kippenberg, all right.”

They stood their ground, knowing they had been recognized as intruders. But before the woman could reach them she was stopped by a servant who spoke a few words in a low tone. For a moment Mrs. Kippenberg forgot about Penny and Salt as a new problem presented itself.

“I can’t talk with anyone now,” she said in an agitated voice. “Tell them to come back later.”

“They insist upon talking with you now, Madam,” replied the servant. “Unless you see them they say they will look around for themselves.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Kippenberg drew herself up sharply as if from a physical blow. “Where are they now?”

“In the library, Madam.”

Penny did not hear the woman’s reply, but she turned and followed the servant.

“Saved by the bell,” mumbled Salt. “Now let’s get away from here before she comes back.”

They pushed through the throng and reached a long hallway. Mrs. Kippenberg had disappeared, but as they drew near an open door they caught sight of her again. She stood just inside the library, her back toward them, talking with two men who wore plain gray business suits.

Penny half drew back, fearing discovery, but Salt pulled her along. As they went quietly past the door they heard Mrs. Kippenberg say in an excited voice:

“No, no, I tell you he isn’t here! Why should I try to deceive you? We have nothing to hide. You are most inconsiderate to annoy me at such a time!”

Penny and Salt did not hear the reply. They reached an outside door and stepped down on a flagstone terrace which overlooked the garden at the rear of the grounds.

“Who were those men, do you suppose?” Penny whispered, fearful that her voice might betray them.

“Officers of the law, I should guess,” Salt replied in an undertone.

“Government men?”

“Likely as not. I don’t believe the locals would bother her. Anyway she’s got the wind up and you can tell she’s scared silly in spite of all her back talk.”

“You know what I think they’re after?” Penny said thoughtfully.

“Well, if I had just one guess,” Salt replied, “I’d say they are after Mr. Kippenberg.”

“I agree with you there.”

“Sure, why else would they come sleuthing around at a time like this? The answer is simple. Daughter gets married. Papa wants to see his darling do it. Therefore, boys, we’ll spread a net for Daddy and he might plump right into it.”

“So that’s the way a G man’s mind works?” laughed Penny.

“But I would take it that Kippenberg is no fool,” Salt went on. “If they really have a ‘man wanted’ sign hung on him he would be too cagey to come around here today.”

They were standing beside the stone balustrade which bounded the terrace. Below them the green foliage of the gardens formed a dark background for the playing fountains. A cool breeze drifted in from the river and rattled a window awning just over their heads.

“We’re in an exposed place here,” observed Salt uneasily. “Maybe we ought to find a hole somewhere.”

“We’ll never learn anything in a hole,” Penny objected. “In fact, we’re not making much progress in running down any sort of story. I do wish we could have heard more of that conversation.”

“And get thrown out on our collective ear before we even have a chance to snap a picture of the blushing bride!”

“Pictures! Pictures!” exclaimed Penny. “That’s all you photographers think about. How about poor little me and my story? After all, you can’t bring out a paper full of nothing but pictures and cigarette ads. You need a little news to go with it.”

“You like to work too fast,” complained Salt. “Right now the thing to do is to keep out of sight. I’m telling you the minute Mrs. Kippy finishes with those men she’ll be gunning for us.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to go into hiding.”

“First, let’s mosey out into the rose garden,” Salt proposed. “I’ll take a few shots and then we’ll duck under somewhere and wait until the ceremony starts.”

“That’s all very well for you,” grumbled Penny, “but I can’t write much of a story without talking to some member of the family.”

Salt started off across the velvety green lawn toward the rose arbor where the service was to be held. Penny followed reluctantly. She watched the photographer take several pictures before a servant approached him.

“I beg your pardon,” the man said coldly, “but Mrs. Kippenberg gave orders no pictures were to be taken. If you are from one of the papers—”

“Oh, I saw her in the house just a minute ago,” Salt replied carelessly.

“Sorry, sir,” the servant apologized, retreating.

Salt finished taking the pictures and slipped the miniature camera back into his pocket.

“Now let’s amble down toward the river and wait,” he said to Penny. “We’ll blossom forth just as the ceremony starts. Mrs. Kippy won’t dare interrupt it to have us thrown off the grounds.”

They walked down a sloping path, past a glass-enclosed hothouse and on toward a grove of giant oak and maple trees.

“It’s pleasant here when you’re away from the crowd,” Penny remarked, gazing up at the leafy canopy. “I wonder where this path leads?”

“Oh, down to the river probably. With water on three sides of us that’s a fairly safe guess.”

“Which rivers flow past the estate, Salt?”

“The Big Bear and the Kobalt.”

“The same old muddy Kobalt which is near our town,” said Penny in surprise. “I’ll always think of it as a river of adventure.”

“Because of Mud-Cat Joe and his Vanishing Houseboat?”

Penny nodded and a dreamy look came into her eyes. “So much happened on the Kobalt, Salt. Remember that big party Dad threw at the Comstock Inn?”

“Do I? Jerry Livingston decided to sleep in Room Seven where so many persons had disappeared.”

“And then he was spirited away almost before our very eyes,” added Penny. “Days later Mud-Cat Joe helped me fish him out of this same old Kobalt. For awhile we didn’t think he’d ever pull through or be able to tell what had happened to him.”

“But as the grand finale you and your friend, Louise Sidell, solved the mystery and secured a dandy story for the Star. Those were the days!”

“You talk as if they were gone forever,” laughed Penny. “Other good stories will come along.”

“Maybe,” said Salt, “but covering a wedding is pretty tame in comparison.”

“Yet this one does have interesting angles,” Penny insisted. “Can’t you almost feel mystery lurking about the place?”

“No, but I do feel a mosquito sinking his stinger into me.” Salt slapped vigorously at his ankle.

They followed the path on toward the river, coming soon to a trail which branched off to the right. Across it had been stretched a wire barrier and a neatly lettered sign read:

NO ADMITTANCE BEYOND THIS POINT.

“Why do you suppose the path is blocked off?” Penny speculated.