Penny Nichols
and the
Black Imp

The Black Imp

CHAPTER I

The Black Imp

A slightly decrepit roadster lurched to an abrupt halt in front of the Altman residence, and the blond, blue-eyed driver hailed a plump, dark-haired girl who stood on the front porch.

"Hello, Susan. Been waiting long?"

"Only about ten minutes, Penny."

"I'm terribly sorry to be late, but I think we can still make it on time if we hurry."

Before replying, Susan Altman slid into the front seat beside her chum, Penelope Nichols. Then she said frankly:

"If we miss the affair altogether I shan't be broken hearted. I'm going solely to please you."

Penny laughed as she steered the car smoothly through traffic.

"I know you are, Sue. But I don't think we'll have such a dull time as you imagine. It isn't every day that one has an opportunity to see a five thousand dollar statue unveiled."

"Will the winner of the Huddleson prize get that much money?" Susan asked in awe.

"Yes, and they say the competition this year has been very keen. The showing today at the Gage Galleries is a private one—the general public won't be allowed to see the statues for a week or so."

"Then how do we get in?"

Penny displayed two printed cards. "Dad," she announced laconically.

Penny's father, Christopher Nichols, a noted detective, was well known in Belton City and had many influential friends. The tickets to the special showing of the prize statuary at the Gage Galleries had been presented to him and since he had no interest in the affair he had passed them on to his daughter.

"The winning statue is to be unveiled at three o'clock," Penny declared. "What time is it now, Sue?"

"Then we'll never make it," Penny groaned, stepping harder on the gasoline pedal.

"Say, you slow down or I'll get out and walk," Susan protested. "I don't intend to risk my life—not for any old statue!"

Penny obediently slackened speed. Although she drove well and had the car under perfect control she had been traveling a trifle fast. "That's better," Susan approved. "At this speed there's absolutely no danger——"

Her words broke off abruptly as Penny slammed on the foot brake so hard that she was flung forward in the seat. From a side street, a long gray sedan unexpectedly had entered the main boulevard, the driver utterly disregarding the stop sign.

Penny swerved in time to avoid a crash, but the fenders of the two cars jarred together.

The girls sprang out to see how much damage had been done. The driver of the gray sedan likewise drew up to the curbing and alighted. He was a tall, thin man with a black moustache, immaculately dressed in gray tweeds. He wore a gardenia in the lapel of his well-tailored coat.

"See what you've done!" he accused angrily before either Penny or Susan could speak. "Just look at that."

He pointed to the rear fender which had been badly dented and bent. Penny cast an appraising glance at her own car and was relieved to note that save for a few minor scratches it had not been damaged.

"It's too bad," she acknowledged with a polite show of sympathy. "Didn't you see the boulevard stop?"

The man turned upon her wrathfully. "Of course I saw it. And I made the required stop too."

"Oh, no you didn't," Susan interposed heatedly. "You just barged right in without looking in either direction."

"What do you intend to do about my fender?" the man demanded testily of Penny, ignoring Susan entirely.

"Nothing. The fault was entirely yours. You're lucky the accident wasn't any worse."

"We'll see about this," the driver snapped. He made a great ado of copying down the license number of Penny's car.

"If you're determined to make a fuss, I should advise you to see my father—his name is Christopher Nichols."

"Nichols, the detective?"

Penny could not restrain a smile for it was easy to see that the name had startled the belligerent driver.

"Yes," she admitted.

With a scowl, the man returned paper and pencil to his pocket, not bothering to copy down the entire license number.

"Why didn't you tell me that before?" he muttered, climbing back into his car.

"You didn't ask me."

The man drove away, while Penny and Susan, after making a careful examination of the roadster, continued toward the Gage Galleries.

"I guess it was lucky I had slowed down before we met that fellow," Penny remarked. "Otherwise I couldn't have stopped in time to avert a crash."

"Do you think he'll try to cause trouble?"

"I doubt it. Legally he hasn't any grounds for complaint. He probably thought he could bluff me into paying for a new fender, but when he discovered I had a detective for a father he changed his mind."

Penny chuckled softly and drew up at the rear entrance of the Gage Galleries. The street was crowded with fine limousines, but after searching for a minute or two the girls found a parking place.

"We're late," Penny announced. "Let's go in the back way. It will save time."

They entered the rear door. Hurrying along the dark corridor, intent only upon finding the main exhibition room, they did not observe a uniformed attendant who was approaching from the opposite direction bearing a canvas covered painting. The girls ran into him.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," Penny apologized. "I didn't see you at all."

The man muttered something which the girls did not catch.

"Can you tell us the way to the exhibition room where the Huddleson prize ceramics are being displayed?" Susan requested.

The attendant did not answer. Instead he moved swiftly on down the corridor with his burden.

"Real sociable, isn't he?" Penny commented. "But come on, Sue, we'll find the place without his help."

They followed the corridor until it branched off in several directions. As they paused uncertainly, another attendant approached them to inquire if he might be of assistance. In response to their question, he directed them to a room on the upper floor.

The girls heard a hum of voices as they entered the exhibition hall. After all they were not late. Artists, sculptors, society women and art critics were moving about the room in stately groups, peering curiously at the various statues which were displayed along the walls. Penny and Susan felt slightly ill at ease in such company. Save for one other girl who appeared to be about their own age, they were the only young people present.

After showing their cards of admission, Penny and Susan joined the milling throng. They peered at first one statue and then another, but were not really enthusiastic until they came to a tiny figure which seemed to be attracting more than its share of attention.

It was an unusual piece; a small, dejected imp of clay who sat hunched over a woodland log. The work had rhythm and grace.

The girls studied the placard beneath the figure and Penny read aloud:

"The Black Imp by Amy Coulter."

"Sort of cute, isn't it?" Susan commented.

From the conversation which flowed about them they quickly gathered that the Black Imp was considered by artists and critics to be one of the most promising entries in the contest. They heard several distinguished appearing persons say that they expected the figure to win first prize.

"I am not so sure of that," another gentleman disagreed. "The work deserves to win—but judges have strange opinions sometimes."

"Especially a judge such as Hanley Cron," the other added dryly. As he spoke, he jerked his head in the direction of a tall, thin man who stood at the opposite side of the room.

Until that moment, Penny and Susan had not noticed him. It was the same driver who had caused them so much annoyance.

"Gracious!" Penny exclaimed in an undertone as she made the disconcerting discovery. "Do you suppose he is Hanley Cron, the contest judge?"

"That's what those two men just said," Susan returned. "Let's get away from here before he sees us."

She tugged at her chum's hand but Penny would not budge.

"Why should we run away, Sue? The accident was all his fault. Anyway, I'm curious to see the statue he'll select as the prize winner."

"I hope he knows more about art than he does of driving automobiles."

"Hanley Cron," Penny repeated thoughtfully to herself. "I've heard that name before. Let me think—oh, now I remember. He's an art critic for the Belton City Star."

"I don't believe a man with his disposition could have a speck of judgment," Susan said irritably.

A soft, musical laugh caused them both to turn quickly. Directly behind stood the same girl they had noticed upon first entering the exhibition hall. She was slender and dark and wore her shining black hair in a becoming coil at the back of her neck.

"I couldn't help hearing what you said about Mr. Cron," the girl declared, regarding them with twinkling eyes, "and I do hope you're wrong. How dreadful it would be if he should award the five thousand dollar prize to some inferior piece of work—such as this silly Black Imp, for instance."

"Why, we think it's the best figure here," Penny said in some surprise. "Don't you consider Amy Coulter a good sculptress?"

"Only moderately so. The girl works hard and is pathetically ambitious, but it takes more than that to win a prize."

"You seem to know Miss Coulter well," Penny remarked.

"Yes, indeed. I might call myself her best friend."

"Are you an artist?" Susan questioned. Before the other could respond, a nicely dressed woman paused for a moment to admire the Black Imp.

"You are to be congratulated, Miss Coulter," she said, addressing the girl. "Your work has power. It deserves to win the prize."

The woman moved on and Penny and Susan found themselves staring at their new acquaintance in amazement.

"Are you Amy Coulter?" Penny gasped.

The girl smilingly admitted that she was. "I wanted to learn what you really thought of my little figure," she declared.

Penny and Susan assured her again that they liked it better than any piece they had seen.

"You don't look a bit like I imagined a famous sculptress would," Susan said, slightly in awe.

"Perhaps that's because I'm not famous."

"You will be after the prize award is announced," Penny assured her. "Everyone is saying your entry is the best."

"I do think the Black Imp is good," the girl admitted slowly. "Of course I was only joking about it a moment ago. I've labored over it for months and it's my best work. I'm hoping—almost praying that I'll win the prize. The money would mean everything to me."

Before either Penny or Susan could speak, an elderly woman clapped her hands sharply together to attract attention. Immediately the room became quiet.

"If you will kindly find seats, the program will start," the woman announced.

Susan and Penny secured chairs in the second row. When they looked about for Amy Coulter they noticed that she was sitting at the rear of the room, looking tense and worried.

"Miss Coulter was nice, wasn't she?" Susan whispered. "I hope her entry wins."

"So do I. You can tell this contest means a lot to her."

When Hanley Cron was introduced to the audience he was greeted with a mild round of applause in which Susan and Penny did not join. They listened closely to his speech however, and were forced to acknowledge that the man was a good public speaker. His manners before a crowd could not be criticized for he was both pleasant and witty. He praised in general terms all of the many fine entries in the contest, and mentioned perfunctorily his regret that each contestant could not be awarded the coveted prize.

Susan grew impatient. "Why doesn't he get to the point?" she fretted.

At length the man did. As he prepared to make the all important announcement many leaned expectantly forward in their chairs. Susan smiled confidently back at Amy.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Hanley Cron intoned, "I take great pleasure in awarding the five thousand dollar Huddleson prize to James Comberton for his truly remarkable creation, 'Winged Night.'"

A little buzz of excitement and obvious disappointment greeted the announcement. Susan and Penny were aghast. While they did not pretend to be art critics, the statue which had been selected seemed to them far inferior to the Black Imp. Apparently, many other persons shared the same opinion.

As Hanley Cron, a trifle defiantly, went on to explain the various points of merit which had caused him to select the prize winning statue, some openly shook their heads in disagreement. There was a great deal of whispering.

"Poor Amy!" Penny commented regretfully to her chum. "She was so hopeful of winning."

"And she should have too!" Susan whispered indignantly. "I told you Hanley Cron couldn't know anything about judging a statue. He's just a noisy talker!"

Penny smiled, knowing that her chum's opinion was decidedly biased. The girls were tactful enough not to turn and stare at Amy, but when it was possible to look back without appearing to do so, they glanced toward the seat in the rear row which the young sculptress had occupied. It was empty.

"I guess she slipped away as soon as she heard the bad news," Penny said regretfully. "The announcement must have been a bitter disappointment."

Hanley Cron ended his speech a few minutes later and a silent, dissatisfied crowd arose to depart. Penny and Susan hurriedly started toward the door, preferring to get away before the art critic recognized them.

They did not reach the outside corridor, for a uniformed attendant came swiftly into the room, closing the door firmly after him.

"No one must leave this room!" he commanded the startled group. "A shocking thing has just occurred. Someone has stolen a priceless Rembrandt painting from the adjoining exhibition hall!"

CHAPTER II

A Mysterious Package

A stunned silence greeted the attendant's announcement, then the room hummed with excited comment. Not in many years had anyone attempted to steal paintings or art treasures from the Gage Galleries for the institution was closely guarded. Hanley Cron stepped forward to ply the attendant with questions regarding the theft.

"You say a valuable painting has disappeared from the adjoining room?"

"Yes, a priceless Rembrandt. It was a very small painting—one which could be smuggled out under one's coat."

"And when was this loss discovered?"

"Only a few minutes ago, sir. The picture and the frame both were taken. The museum authorities have ordered that no one shall leave the building without submitting to a search."

A few of the visitors were indignant at such a requirement although the majority readily acknowledged that the order was a necessary one. "It's ridiculous to suspect anyone in this room," Hanley Cron began, and then stopped. He looked quickly about and asked abruptly: "What became of that girl who was sitting in the back row?"

"I think she left directly after your announcement regarding the prize," Penny informed when no one spoke.

For the first time the art critic fastened his gaze upon the two girls. He instantly recognized them and his face darkened.

"Who was the young woman?" the attendant questioned Penny.

"Her name was Amy Coulter, I believe."

"A friend of yours?" Hanley Cron demanded with an unpleasant inflection to his voice.

"I met her for the first time this afternoon."

"Does anyone know anything about this girl?" the art critic questioned the crowd in general.

Although a number of persons were slightly acquainted with the young sculptress, no one could offer any information regarding her character. Susan and Penny grew slightly annoyed at Hanley Cron's method of handling the situation.

"I don't see that Amy Coulter has any connection with the disappearance of the painting in the adjoining room," Penny said impatiently. "She came here today because of her entry, 'The Black Imp' was being considered in the contest. I have no doubt that she left because the award was bestowed upon another statue."

"I'll see if the young woman is still in the building," the guard announced.

He went away, returning in a few minutes accompanied by an official of the museum.

"Apparently, Miss Coulter has left the Galleries," the latter informed in a worried manner. "Can anyone here furnish us with the girl's address?"

"I believe she lives in a rooming house somewhere on Pearl Street," a woman in the crowd spoke up. "I hope you are not trying to connect the poor girl with the loss of the painting."

"Unfortunately, she is under suspicion," the official replied.

"Surely the girl had a right to leave the building when she chose!" Penny exclaimed.

"It happens that she was seen by a guard hurrying away from the Galleries with a flat package under her arm. She left by a back stairs and was not observed until she was stepping into a taxi cab. The attendant tried to stop her but was too late."

"And was the package this girl carried the approximate size of the stolen painting?" Penny asked incredulously.

"The guard reports that it was. He was almost certain it was a painting."

Penny and Susan were amazed at the information. They did not believe that Amy Coulter had the slightest connection with the disappearance of the famous picture and were astonished that the official seemed to be of a contrary opinion.

"Miss Coulter couldn't have taken the painting," Penny declared impulsively. "Why, she was here in this room until just a few minutes ago."

"Did you notice the exact time at which she left?" Hanley Cron demanded.

"No, but——"

"Then you have no evidence to offer. It looks to me as if you're trying to protect this girl."

"I only want to see justice done. And I do have evidence!" Penny's face brightened with excitement. "As my friend and I were coming into the building we met an attendant who was moving a small canvas-covered painting down a back corridor. We accidentally bumped into him and he became very confused."

"That's true," Susan added quickly. "We both noticed that the man acted strangely as if he had been caught doing something wrong."

"Do I understand that you are suggesting this attendant of the Galleries was the one who stole the painting?" Cron demanded with a superior, amused smile.

"I'm not suggesting anything," Penny returned, "but there's just as much evidence to support such a belief as there is that Amy Coulter took the picture."

"Can you describe this attendant?" the official questioned.

"He was short and heavy-set, with dark hair and eyes. His face was slightly furrowed and he wore a regulation blue uniform."

Susan was amazed at her chum's accurate description of the attendant, for she could not have recalled any of his features. However, Penny was naturally observant, as her father had trained her to take mental note of persons she met without making a special effort to do so.

"Your description seems to fit one of our new employees," the official said slowly. "A man by the name of Hoges. I will question him immediately although I feel confident that he was only moving a picture according to orders."

After a very perfunctory examination the persons who had been detained in the exhibition room were permitted to leave. Penny and Susan lingered after many had gone, hoping to be of assistance in identifying the attendant who was under suspicion. As it turned out they had a long wait for nothing. The official who had made it his business to investigate Hoges' record reported that the attendant was not to be located. He had left the Galleries for the day.

"Isn't that rather suspicious?" Penny inquired.

"No, he was off duty at three o'clock."

"But we saw him moving the picture a little after that hour," Susan informed.

"He may have been working a few minutes overtime. Hoges is considered an honest employee. He came to us highly recommended. I am told that he had been ordered to move several pictures this afternoon."

There was nothing more that Penny or Susan could say. As they were departing the police arrived upon the scene to make an investigation of the theft. The girls saw Hanley Cron and the official talking with the officers and they heard Amy Coulter's name mentioned.

"It's ridiculous to try to throw the blame on her," Penny declared as she and Susan went to their parked car. "You can be sure that painting wasn't stolen by any novice."

"Amy might have done it out of spite," Susan suggested slowly. "Because she was provoked about the prize."

"It doesn't sound reasonable to me, Sue. Wait until the police get busy on the case. They'll soon prove that she had nothing to do with the theft."

Penny was so confident of such an outcome that she did not feel greatly concerned for Amy. Although she had talked with the girl only a few minutes, she had taken an immediate liking to her. Both she and Susan had been keenly disappointed at Hanley Cron's decision to award the five thousand dollar prize to an entry other than the Black Imp.

Penny dropped Susan off at the Altman residence, and then, since it was nearly time for her father to leave his office, stopped at the Nichols' Detective Agency to take him home.

Christopher Nichols was a tall, dignified looking man with appraising gray eyes and a slight tinge of gray in his hair. He had solved many unusual cases and it was said of him that he was one of the shrewdest detectives in the state.

Mr. Nichols took his own accomplishments in a matter-of-fact way, but he liked to boast of his attractive daughter's ability as a sleuth. He was very proud of Penny and teased her by frequently referring to the mysteries which she had solved. In the first volume of this series, entitled, "Penny Nichols Finds a Clue," the girl had been instrumental in capturing a daring gang of auto thieves. Later she visited a queer old mansion in the mountains and by her discovery of an underground tunnel and a secret staircase cleared up "The Mystery of the Lost Key."

Now as she entered her father's office, it did not occur to Penny that she had embarked upon a new adventure. She perched herself on the corner of the desk and swiftly gave an account not only of the daring theft at the art museum, but of her unpleasant meeting with Hanley Cron. Mr. Nichols was deeply interested in the details of the theft.

"A Rembrandt," he whistled softly. "That painting must represent quite a tidy sum of money."

"How much?" Penny inquired curiously.

"Oh, I'd not venture to say without knowing more about the picture. Offhand I'd guess several thousand dollars."

"Doesn't it seem silly to think that Amy Coulter could have anything to do with the theft?"

"Upon the face of it, yes," the detective replied slowly. "Of course the girl may have been an agent of another. Picture thefts usually are accomplished by several crooks working together."

"The girl didn't look like a crook, Dad."

"Appearances often are deceitful, Penny. Some of our most dangerous criminals would pass on the street as ordinary citizens. However, I do not doubt that the girl is innocent. It does seem a little strange that she succeeded in carrying a package out of the building without being stopped by a guard, but probably she will be cleared of suspicion within a day or so."

Mr. Nichols locked his desk for it was time to close. As he and Penny were preparing to leave, the secretary appeared in the doorway.

"A man to see you, Mr. Nichols."

"A man did you say?" the detective asked with a twinkle. "Or a gentleman?"

"A man," the secretary repeated firmly. "And an unpleasant appearing one at that."

"Did you tell him that we are just closing the office?"

"I did, Mr. Nichols, but he insisted that his business was very urgent. He refused to give his name."

The detective frowned and then asked: "Would you say the man is an underworld character?"

"He looks it. Shall I tell him you cannot see him this afternoon?"

"No, I'll see him," Mr. Nichols decided. "You may send him in."

Penny arose to leave. "I suppose I'll have to go," she grumbled.

"Duck into the next room if you like," the detective said. "If the conversation gets too interesting, stuff cotton in your ears."

Penny laughed and quickly secreted herself in the private study which adjoined her father's office. She closed the door between the rooms but was careful to leave a generous sized crack through which she could both see and hear.

Scarcely had her father seated himself at his desk when the visitor entered. The secretary's appraisal of the man had not prepared Penny for his actual appearance. He was a stout person, prosperous looking, with several glittering diamond rings on his stubby fingers. His clothes were cut in the latest style, his shoes were brilliantly shined, and he carried a sporty cane.

When Penny surveyed the visitor's face she knew why her father's secretary had catalogued him as an underworld character. His expression was hard and ruthless, his smile cold and sinister.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Nichols," the man said in a purring voice. "You know my name I think."

The detective's eyes narrowed as he recognized the visitor but otherwise his expression did not alter. He said evenly:

"Yes, I know you very well indeed—Max Lynch!"

Penny, crouching at the door, felt a chill of excitement pass over her body as she heard the name. Max Lynch was a notorious crook, a swindler and a gambler, a man who often had been accused of crimes but seldom convicted of them.

"Well, what's your game this time, Max?" the detective demanded sharply. "What brought you here?"