It was twelve o’clock when Judy and Pauline, her head held high, walked into the house. All the lights were on and the radio was going in Pauline’s parlor room, but, as no one was there, they went on through to the roof garden. Irene looked up from the hammock.
“Oh, there you are!” she exclaimed. “Dale and I have been so worried. We couldn’t imagine where you were.”
Pauline noticed the familiar use of his first name and winced. The young author had been sitting beside Irene, and now he rose and stood smiling. Again Pauline felt as if she wanted to run away, but this time it was impossible.
Judy excused their lateness as well as she could without telling them she expected that they would be dancing. Irene soon explained that.
“You missed the most wonderful time,” she said. “Dale was going to take us to a hotel roof garden to dance, but when you didn’t come in we had to wait.”
“You could have left a note,” Pauline replied. “I’m sorry to have spoiled your date.”
“It isn’t spoiled,” Dale returned. “With your consent, we are going tomorrow night.”
“Why with my consent? Irene is old enough to take care of herself.”
“But can’t you see?” he protested. “I want all three of you to come.”
“You can leave me out.”
“Why, Pauline,” Irene exclaimed, “I thought——”
“Never mind what you thought,” Judy interrupted. She knew that Irene had been about to say she thought Pauline wanted to meet interesting people. Then Dale would know she thought him interesting, and that wouldn’t be a very good thing to reveal right then. But Judy spoke more sharply than she realized, and her tone held the smallest hint of suspicion.
Irene’s expressive eyes were dark with reproach. “Judy!” she cried, almost in tears, “Now what have I done to offend you?”
“Nothing, dear. Nothing at all. I’m just tired.”
“You must be tired,” Dale put in. “Who wouldn’t be, after such a hectic day? But why take it out on Irene? She isn’t to blame if Her Majesty makes a grouch of herself.”
“Of course not,” Judy agreed, not quite sure that she spoke the truth. Certainly Irene had had something to do with Emily Grimshaw’s grouch for the old lady had not been herself since the moment she set eyes on the dainty figure in yellow, curled on her sofa in the office that morning.
“You don’t know the half of it,” she went on to explain. “Her Majesty, as you call her, acted queer and talked to herself like a crazy person all day. I didn’t dare speak to her for fear she’d go off in a fit again. She thinks someone, or something, came into the office. Did you ever hear of a person named Joy Holiday?”
“No, never,” Dale replied.
Then Judy turned to Irene. “Did you?”
“You know I didn’t,” she replied in surprise. “Why, Judy, you know everyone I know at home, and I have no friends here except Pauline. Why do you ask?”
“Because Emily Grimshaw thinks someone named Joy Holiday took those poems that were lost.”
“What poems?” asked Pauline.
“The ones Irene and I were reading this morning. Something happened to them. They aren’t anywhere. Of course someone took them, but the strange part of it is, we were the only ones in the office.”
“And you missed them right after Emily Grimshaw had that queer spell and collapsed?” Dale asked.
“Pretty soon afterwards.”
“I thought there was something fishy about that at the time,” he declared, “and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if the old lady made away with them herself.”
“But why should she? What would be her object in taking poems she expected to publish and then pretending not to know what happened to them?”
“It’s beyond me! Maybe she didn’t. They might have been accidentally brushed off the table when someone passed.”
“In that case they would have been on the floor,” Judy replied.
Dale Meredith was coming to some rapid conclusions, she thought—too rapid to be sincere expressions of his opinion. But what use could a successful young author make of faded manuscripts of melancholy poetry. A plot for a story, perhaps. That was pure inspiration! Those queer old poems might furnish plots for a great many mystery stories if anyone had the patience to figure them out. Ghosts ... towers ... thrills ... shivers ... creeps.... Dale Meredith could do it, too. All he needed was a little time to study the originals. The revised poems with corrections and omissions, Judy could see, wouldn’t do half so well.
But that would be cheating, stealing. No, there was another word for it—plagiarizing. That was it. But Judy had hoped that Dale was too fine a man to stoop to anything like that, even to further the interests of his stories.
“Better to crumble in a tower of flame....”
A line from one of the missing poems, but it did ring true. It was far better that Judy’s plans for both her friends should crumble before the flame that was her passion for finding out the truth.
When she came into the room she had noticed Dale Meredith’s portfolio on top of the radio. It was the same portfolio that he had carried on the bus, the same portfolio that he had taken away with him when he left Emily Grimshaw’s office. Now Judy remembered watching Dale and Irene from the office window as they walked through Madison Square. Irene had carried nothing except her brown hand bag. That was far too small to hold the manuscript. But Dale’s portfolio——Why, even now it bulged with papers that must be inside! Yes, Judy had to face it, Dale Meredith might have taken the poems. They might be inside that very portfolio!
Excusing herself, she went inside. Blackberry followed at her heels.
Torn between a desire to find out what had actually happened and a fear of throwing suspicion upon the man who was Irene’s ideal, Judy stood in the center of the room staring at Dale Meredith’s portfolio. Blackberry sat on the floor at her feet, and the thumping of his tail on the rug played a drumlike march in time to her heartbeats. This was nonsense—just standing there. It was her duty to find out the truth.
She took a quick step forward and reached for the portfolio, accidentally stepping on the cat’s tail. He yowled! Judy almost dropped the papers that she held, caught at them, told in one glance that she had been wrong and was about to put them back when the door slowly opened.
There was no way out. Dale and the two girls came into the room, stopped and stood speechless. Blackberry looked up at them as though expecting to be commended for sounding the warning.
“That cat’s as good as a watchdog,” Dale broke the silence by saying.
“I suppose I do look something like a burglar,” Judy retorted. “I’m not going to apologize for anything either. I simply had to know.”
“Know what?” Pauline asked.
“She wanted to find out if I took the lost poetry,” Dale explained. “That’s clear enough, and don’t think for a moment that I blame her. Any good detective would have done the same thing. Being a comparative stranger, I am the logical one to suspect. Irene, we all know, is above suspicion.”
“Well then, who did take the papers?” Pauline asked.
Dale only shook his head, refusing to propound any more theories about the affair. Judy turned to him gratefully.
“I felt sure you would be dreadfully mad at me for snooping in your personal belongings,” she said. “It’s nice to have you uphold me in my crude bit of detecting, and I do appreciate it. What puzzles me is this: nobody left the room ahead of you except——”
“Except me,” Irene broke in, “and you may be sure I didn’t take those papers.”
“We’re sure, aren’t we?”
Judy turned to the others and Dale nodded solemnly. It was Pauline who looked a little doubtful.
“What! Don’t you believe in her too?” Judy asked in surprise.
Pauline shrugged. “I suppose so, if she says she didn’t take them.”
“Then we all believe in each other, and it seems that even Emily Grimshaw believes in us,” Judy went on. “It appears that the next thing to do is find out who Joy Holiday is and how she could have entered the office without our knowing.”
“You’re pretty keen on solving this mystery, aren’t you?” Dale inquired.
“It’s just the way I am,” Judy replied. “I couldn’t bear not knowing. And I suspect that this Joy Holiday, whoever she is, had something to do with Miss Grimshaw’s collapse. Maybe tomorrow, if she’s in a pleasant mood, I’ll ask her about it.”
“Go easy,” Dale warned. “I’m beginning to think there’s more to this missing poetry business than may appear on the surface. What were they—very valuable manuscripts?”
“Valuable?” Judy repeated thoughtfully. “Why, I believe they were.”
“There was Golden Girl,” Irene put in. “You said that was valuable. It’s beautiful, too. I read it over and over and over——”
“You’re getting sleepy, Irene. And no wonder!” Pauline looked at her wrist watch a second time to make sure. Then she turned to Dale. “One o’clock! Oh, what a calling down I’ll get from Father if the housekeeper catches sight of you leaving at this hour of the night. Better tiptoe down the back stairs.”
“Okay! How about that roof garden tomorrow night?”
“Not tomorrow night,” Irene pleaded. “I’ll be too tired. Can’t we wait?”
“Saturday, then. How about it, Pauline?”
“I said I wasn’t going.”
“But you must go. We won’t go without her, will we, Irene?”
She shook her bright head and laughed, “Indeed we won’t. Don’t be a goose!”
Did they want her, too, Judy wondered. Then she thought of Emily Grimshaw, and her doubts vanished. She might have something interesting to tell them about Joy Holiday.
Saturday night came, and when Dale Meredith called, three visions of loveliness awaited him. Pauline wore peach-colored satin that trailed nearly to the floor. Irene’s new yellow dress with matching slippers of gold was truly appropriate for this occasion, and Judy looked like a sea nymph in a pale shade of green that made people wonder about the color of her eyes.
“It’s going to be a perfect evening,” Irene sighed ecstatically. “Even the moon came out to shine on the roof garden.”
It was all that Dale had described—palms, cut flowers, waiters in long-tailed coats who moved noiselessly between the tables, and a circle of floor for dancing. Colored lights played on the dancers tinting them with rainbows. To her surprise, Dale asked Judy for the first dance.
“Oh, no,” she replied quickly. “Really, I’d rather you danced with the other girls. You see, I can watch the lights while I’m sitting here. When I’m home again I won’t be able to watch lights on a roof garden. And I can always dance.”
Afterwards Judy felt almost sorry she had refused. The orchestra was playing beautifully, magic to any young girl’s feet. Now and then a soloist would sing the number as it was played. Judy listened, at first watching Dale and Irene, then Dale and Pauline as they moved in and out among the crowd of dancers. Finally, not watching anybody, she just sat thinking.
It had been a queer day. Strangely enough, Emily Grimshaw had not once mentioned the missing poetry. She seemed to take it for granted that neither Dale nor Judy were responsible. But she had gone about her work with a harassed expression and a droop to her shoulders that Judy had never noticed before. An opportunity came, and she had asked about Joy Holiday. She had found out something, too, and now as she sat alone at the table she puzzled as how best to tell Dale Meredith. At first she had planned to tell Irene but, on second thought, she had decided that it might be better for Irene not to know some of the things Emily Grimshaw had said.
“You must dance this one,” Dale urged her as the music began again. “Pauline is dancing with a friend of mine who just came in——”
“And I haven’t had a chance to finish this ginger ale,” Irene added.
Dale was curious to hear what she had found out. Judy could tell that as soon as he spoke to her alone.
“Her Majesty’s grouch gone?” he asked.
“A sort of depression has taken its place,” Judy explained as she swung into step. The floor was like glass and shone with their reflections. She could see Irene sitting next to the circle of light, sipping her ginger ale. There was another girl reflected on the floor beside her. Judy pointed it out to Dale—that golden reflection on the polished floor.
Just then the orchestra struck up a new tune. Soon the soloist joined in, singing the latest popular song:
“It sounds as if he meant Irene,” Dale whispered. “She’s a ‘golden girl’ tonight.” He glanced again at her reflection as the orchestra played on:
Irene looked up just as the music stopped. She smiled, and Dale’s eyes smiled back at her.
“Her hair is like the sun,” he said dreamily and half to himself.
“Yes,” Judy replied. “And her dress and slippers are golden. You’d almost think the song was written for her. It must have been written for someone very much like her, and whoever wrote it loved that someone dearly.”
“What was the poet’s name?” Dale asked.
Judy thought a minute. “It was Sarah Glynn—or Glenn. I don’t quite remember. I used to think the song was written by a man until Miss Grimshaw showed me the original manuscript. It’s one of the missing poems, you know.”
“And you didn’t find out a thing about it?”
“Yes, one thing.”
Dale’s face glowed with interest. “You did? What?”
“That Emily Grimshaw believes Irene’s name is Joy Holiday. I can’t convince her otherwise. And she is sure Joy Holiday took the poems. You know it’s ridiculous. Irene isn’t anybody but herself and wouldn’t have any use in the world for the faded old poetry. Besides, she said she didn’t take them, and I believe her.”
“Keep on believing her,” Dale advised as he ushered Judy back to the table. “My own opinion is that your beloved employer has worked a screw loose somewhere in her upper story.”
Judy giggled, partly from excitement. But the thought would be less entertaining when she was catering to the old lady’s whims at the office.
On the way home they discussed the mystery. When questioned, Irene seemed glad to contribute scraps of the missing poetry for the others to puzzle over. It was remarkable how much of it she remembered, and Dale was charmed with the soft tones of her voice as she recited.
When the word “Joy” came up for the fifth time Judy stopped her to exclaim, “That must mean Joy Holiday, the girl Emily Grimshaw thinks took the poetry.”
“Then she must have been ‘Golden Girl,’” Irene said unexpectedly.
Dale turned to her in surprise. “That’s right! We never thought of that. I’m glad to see you so interested in it; I thought at first you weren’t keen on detecting.”
“I’m not,” Irene admitted. “It’s the poetry I like.”
Judy shuddered. “Those creepy poems! I’d rather read a good murder mystery any day. At least there’s always a solution. What do you suppose this poet means when she says ‘Better to crumble in a tower of flame than sit with ghosts...’? Could the ghosts be memories, too?”
“They could be,” Irene said thoughtfully. “It’s queer, but Golden Girl mentions a tower.”
“So it does!” Dale exclaimed, growing excited. “It looks as though there might be some connection. Do you know, girls, we may find the solution to this whole mystery in that poetry!”
“I have some of the typewritten copies. I’ll hunt through them for clues,” Judy promised.
Unexpectedly, the next day Jasper Crosby came into the office with another lot of his sister’s poems. This time they were in a tin box with padlock attached.
Judy listened in silence as the earlier manuscripts were discussed, wondering how Emily Grimshaw would break the news of their disappearance. Presently she realized that the poet’s brother was being kept in ignorance of the whole affair. Worse than that, he was being deceived. What did the agent mean by saying the publishers were considering Sarah Glenn’s work?
Thinking there might be some mistake, Judy refrained from asking questions until she and her employer were alone again. Then she expressed herself frankly.
“It isn’t right,” she declared, “not to tell him the truth about those poems. We can’t publish them when they’re lost.”
“Tut, tut, child,” Miss Grimshaw reproved in a patronizing tone that always annoyed Judy. “You must never correct your elders. Haven’t you heard that there are tricks to all trades?”
“Not dishonest tricks.” Judy’s scruples about deceit and treachery had made her over-bold.
“Look here, Miss Bolton,” her employer cried. “If this position means anything to you, learn to keep a civil tongue in your head. I have evidence enough against you right now to place the blame on your shoulders if I wanted to. The idea! Talking about dishonest tricks! Wasn’t it a dishonest trick that somebody played on me?”
“Yes, Miss Grimshaw,” Judy answered penitently. “I shouldn’t have spoken so hastily, and if you blame me....”
“But I don’t blame you, child. You’re as innocent as I am. That’s why I hired you—because I knew I could trust you.”
This unexpected praise brought a flood of color to Judy’s cheeks. She mumbled something intended for an acknowledgment. Not hearing the interruption, her employer went on talking.
“I know we can’t keep putting Jasper Crosby off forever, but, don’t you see, we must do it until the poems are found? I’m ruined if we don’t.”
“I suppose he would hold you responsible,” Judy ventured.
“He would exactly,” the agent declared. “He’d charge me with gross negligence or something of the kind and sue me for more money than Sarah Glenn’s royalties would bring in a lifetime. He’s just crooked enough to get away with it. And,” she finished tragically, “all our time and work will go for nothing. Oh, Miss Bolton, if you can help me, won’t you do it? You’re clever. Perhaps you can figure it out. My mind gets all befuddled of late—ever since Joy Holiday came back. Find her. She’s got the papers.”
“I’ll do my best,” Judy promised, genuinely moved. She resolved to tackle this new task her employer had given her with all the seriousness it demanded. But whom was there to suspect? Joy Holiday, as far as she could figure out, was a creature of Miss Grimshaw’s imagination, a ghost. Judy refused to believe in ghosts or be frightened by them. That angle of the mystery she dismissed as wholly implausible. She had proved Dale Meredith’s innocence to her own satisfaction, and Irene hadn’t taken the poetry. Judy felt sure of that.
She was still sure the following Thursday when she and Pauline planned a birthday party for her. Dale happened to come in the office, and Judy told him. Together they arranged a surprise dinner. At first he wanted to take them to an exclusive restaurant but was soon won over when Judy suggested a meal served out on the roof garden. Pauline liked the idea, too, and found a great deal of pleasure in planning the menu. She telephoned to the market and ordered a good-sized capon; nuts, celery and raisins were to go into the dressing. There would be fruit cups and salads, and ice cream for dessert and, of course, a cake with candles. Judy came home early to make the cake. While Pauline helped Mary put on the roast she continued fixing things, waiting for Dale who expected to arrive ahead of Irene.
“It looks great!” he exclaimed as soon as he opened the door and saw the table set in the center of the roof garden. It was decorated with yellow candy cups and tall yellow candles. “And isn’t it lucky that I brought yellow flowers?”
“You knew we’d be decorating in yellow,” Pauline charged as she took the flowers and buried her face in their fragrance. Then, while Dale stood admiring the tasteful arrangement of the table, she placed them as an appropriate centerpiece. Everything was ready, and it was after six o’clock.
“Irene ought to be here,” Judy said anxiously. “I wonder where she went.”
Pauline had seen her go out early that morning, carrying a borrowed book.
“She’d stop in on her way home to return it. Dale, why don’t you and Judy go down to the bookstore and meet her?”
“Can’t you leave the dinner long enough to come with us?”
Pauline laughed. “I guess I could if you want me. There’s a chance of missing her, though. She may come from another direction.”
Dale helped Judy and Pauline with their wraps, and together they walked toward the bookstore. It was only a short distance, but the cool air felt good to Judy after having spent all afternoon over the cake. As they walked they watched for Irene. She would be wearing a brown suit with a close-fitting brown hat to match, Pauline said. The outfit was new and she wondered if, for that reason, they had missed her.
At the bookstore, however, the girl who took care of lending out books from the circulating library told them that Miss Lang had not been in since morning when she returned a book.
“What could have happened to her?” Judy exclaimed in real concern.
“Perhaps she went out shopping to celebrate. I’ve seen girls shop before. They never leave the stores until closing time.”
“It’s closing time now.”
“And she’ll probably be waiting for us back at the house,” Dale prophesied cheerfully.
“Oh,” exclaimed Judy, “I hope she doesn’t peek in the ice box and see her cake. I do believe I forgot to put Blackberry out, and if he smells that chicken....” She finished the sentence with a gesture of hopelessness.
Blackberry was out—out on the roof garden—when they returned. Sensing a party in the air, he had taken advantage of his mistress’ absence and upset the vase of yellow flowers. There were bits of chewed flower petals and ferns scattered all about.
“You bad cat!” cried Judy, shaking him. “Just look what he’s done. And Irene isn’t here yet! Let’s hurry and put the place in order before she comes. Collect the flowers, Dale, won’t you? I think I can save a few of these ferns.”
She was on her knees, hunting for pieces of them as she spoke.
“And I’ll get Mary to wipe up the water and put on a clean cloth,” Pauline offered.
Soon everything was in order again.
Oliver had hung a string of Japanese lanterns all the way across the roof garden. They were a little too low, and for a few more minutes Dale and the girls busied themselves with a pole, raising them to a higher level.
Meanwhile it had grown dark, and Judy suggested lighting the candles on the table so that Irene would see them the moment she opened the door. Then they planned to call out, “Surprise!” all at once. Judy could imagine the rest—Irene laughing, exclaiming, her two eyes like stars as she enjoyed her very first birthday party.
In the kitchen below a sizzling noise called Mary to the oven. The roast needed basting again. It was too brown already, but she couldn’t take it off and let it get cold. The potatoes had cracked open and their jackets were done to a crisp. She turned the flame as low as she dared and faced about to see Dale and the girls standing in the doorway.
“Getting hungry?” she asked.
“A little. Irene ought to be here by now.”
“I know it,” the housekeeper replied, “and the dinner will be spoiled if we let it wait much longer.”
Eight o’clock came and still no Irene. By nine o’clock Judy was in tears. She felt that something dreadful must have happened and suggested calling up hospitals to see if there had been any accidents. After the calls were completed Dale returned to the kitchen and stood looking at the dinner.
“You might as well eat some of the chicken,” Mary suggested. She placed it on a platter and carried it up to the roof garden, but they ate only a little, cut from underneath where it wouldn’t show. Then they left the table as it was, waiting for Irene.
The yellow candles burned lower and lower. Finally they flickered and went out. Pauline gave a little start, but Judy sank back in her chair shaking with sobs.
“I—I’m not superstitious,” she blurted out. “I’m trying to be sensible about it, but do you think it’s sensible just to wait?”
“There isn’t anything else to do unless we notify the police, and then, if she had just been to a movie, wouldn’t she have the laugh on us?”
“But, Pauline, she isn’t thoughtless.”
“I could tell that,” Dale put in seriously. “She’s a mighty fine little girl. I know how you feel, Judy. I’ll stand by. Didn’t Irene and I wait up that night for you—and nothing had happened except that you took a walk?”
Dale was comforting. It was nice to have him there, especially when Judy knew that he was as interested as she in Irene’s safe return. But Judy could not help thinking of Farringdon and the enthusiasm with which the boys there would help her if they only knew.
Pauline thought of Farringdon too.
“Maybe Irene didn’t like it here in New York and went home,” she suggested.
“But the house is empty,” Judy objected. “There really isn’t any home in Farringdon for her to go back to. She doesn’t even know where they are going to live when her father is well again. He’s in a sanitarium now, and I hate to notify him if there’s any other way. It really would be better to notify the police.”
“I guess you’re right,” Dale agreed. “If she isn’t home by midnight we might try it. Things do happen—and especially to pretty girls,” he added gravely.
It was five minutes to twelve when footsteps were finally heard outside the door. Dale started to his feet, and Judy rushed toward the door, then halted with a cry of disappointment as she recognized the now familiar, “Hit’s Oliver, Miss.”
Pauline opened the door and urged him to come in.
“Irene isn’t home yet, and Mr. Meredith was waiting,” she explained. “Did you happen to see her?”
“Well, let me think a minute.” The English servant passed his fingers through his thinning hair. “Indeed, yes, Miss Pauline, I did see her when the post came this morning. She stood hin the vestibule reading a letter.”
“Did she seem worried, as if it were bad news?”
The man shook his head. “Indeed, she seemed quite ’appy over hit. She went out a bit later ’umming a tune, ‘De de-de da de. Da de da. Da de dum’—like that.”
He had given a crude imitation of the first notes of Golden Girl.
“She was very fond of that song,” Dale remarked after Oliver had left. He was helping the girls with their wraps preparatory to calling at the police station.
Again Judy thought about the papers. Could their disappearance and Irene’s, in some way, be connected? She mentioned the possibility to Dale but he thought it unlikely.
“At any rate we know Irene didn’t take them, and when we make our report to the police we had better leave the papers entirely out of it.”
“And the name ‘Joy Holiday’?” Pauline questioned.
“Yes, for the present. We want to do all we can to save her from embarrassment until we have an explanation. I feel sure that, whatever it is, it will be—like Irene—satisfactory.”
“I’m glad you believe in her, Dale,” Judy said. She hoped, with all her heart, that Irene would prove herself worthy of his loyalty.
At the police station the sergeant on night duty at the desk did not take their story very seriously. He had a great many such cases, he explained, most of which solved themselves. His questions, however, suggested terrifying possibilities. Did she have any enemies, any rejected suitors, any hostile relatives? Was she wearing any valuable jewels? How much money did she have in her purse?
Judy thought it was about ten dollars.
“Ten dollars could take that girl a long way,” the officer said significantly. “What about publicity on the case? We broadcast a general alarm for missing persons every evening over the radio.”
Undecided, the girls appealed to Dale. “What do you think?”
“That’s another day. If she’s not home by then, by all means, yes. Anything to find her.”
“We’ll do our best for you. I’ll assign the case to the Detective Bureau right away, but be sure and telephone at once when she comes home. And take my word for it, she’ll show up before morning,” the sergeant prophesied as they turned to go.
“He probably thinks she’s only out on a party,” Pauline said later.
“But he doesn’t know Irene,” Judy reminded her. “She’s not the kind of girl police officers are used to dealing with.”
“You bet she isn’t,” Dale agreed fervently. He promised to be back as soon as it was daylight and urged the girls to try and get a little rest in the meantime. Judy surprised him a few hours later by announcing that she intended to spend the day at the office.
“Emily Grimshaw may know something about this,” she explained. “At least I intend to find out all there is to know about this Joy Holiday person. If there really is someone who looks exactly like Irene it might get her into a good deal of trouble.”