The Indian Burial Ground Mystery

“I’ll bet it’s the same bunch. Take a look around, will you?”
    The two policemen left the room, one heading into the living room, and
the other out the front door.
    “The men will see if they can find any clues around the house,” he said
glumly. “We’ll dust for fingerprints, of course. But if it’s the same burglars,
they won’t leave any prints. Now, Miss Trask, would you step into the living
room with me? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    Miss Trask led the way. When the sergeant got to the large double doors,
he turned back to the little group in the foyer. “Please don’t leave yet,” he
told them. “I’d like to talk with you when I’m through.”
    Honey sank down on a damask chair and began to rub her forehead. “I
can’t believe it,” she said weakly. “I’d better call my parents. They have to
know about this.”
    Di sat down on the arm of the chair and rubbed the back of Honey’s neck.
Trixie was lost in thought again. Gripping her flashlight, she turned and
walked out the front door.
    “Hey, Trixie,” Mart called after her, “Sergeant Molinson said—”
    “I know what he said, and I’m coming right back,” Trixie said hastily. “There’s
something I have to check first. It might be a clue.” Trixie quickly walked
down the broad front steps of the Manor House, and stood uncertainly in the
driveway. Turning on the flashlight, she scanned the loose gravel. The broad
beam of light swung slowly back and forth as she walked around the circular
drive. At last, on the east side of the great curve, she found what she was
looking for—deep skid marks in the gravel.
    Thoughtfully, she stared at the marks, determining their direction. Then
Trixie continued along the circular drive until she came to the point where it
joined the tree-lined road leading off the estate. There at the corner of the
well-manicured lawn stood a big oak tree. Trixie walked over to it and shone
her flashlight beam on the lower part of its trunk.
    What she saw confirmed her suspicions. Hunks of bark had been gouged out
of the tree. This must have been what the car hit, Trixie
reasoned. Miss Trask said she’d heard the sound of crunching metal after
the car had started. If the burglars were driving fast without headlights, they
probably missed the turn right here. Bending close, Trixie carefully
scanned the damaged tree and found flakes of yellow paint stuck to the trunk.
    “Just as I thought,” she muttered.
    Straightening up quickly, Trixie ran back to the house and went inside.
Mart and Dan were with Sergeant Molinson , and Honey
was on the phone, speaking tearfully with her father. Miss Trask stood next to
her, an arm resting affectionately on the girl’s shoulders.
    Not wanting to interrupt, Trixie went over to Di, who was looking
nervously at the pile of almost-stolen goods.
    “Why is Honey crying?” Trixie asked softly.
    “It’s the Renoir,” Di whispered back. “When Miss Trask was in the living
room with Sergeant Molinson , she saw that it wasn’t
hanging on the wall. Since it isn’t in the pile, either, it must be gone.”
    “Oh, no,” Trixie said. “What are they going to do?”
    “Try to catch the burglars, I guess,” Di answered sadly. “But if the
newspaper stories are true, that won’t be easy. Sergeant Molinson thinks it’s the same bunch, and they haven’t been able to catch them so far.”
    The double doors to the living room swung open, and a subdued Dan and
Mart came out into the foyer.
    “Sorry we couldn’t be of more help,” Dan said.
    “Don’t worry about it,” Sergeant Molinson said
gruffly. “I think that’s all for now. You kids better get home.”
    “What about us?” Trixie asked. “Don’t you need to question us, too? I
think I might have a clue.”
    “I doubt it, since you weren’t here when all this happened,” Sergeant Molinson answered abruptly. He turned to Dan and Mart.
“Would you see that the young ladies get home safely? We have a lot more work
ahead of us, and it’s past their bedtime.”
    “Past my bedtime!” Trixie burst out angrily. But at a warning glance
from Dan, she quieted down, a look of grim determination on her face.
    If the sergeant isn’t interested in what I have to say, she thought, then I can’t force him to listen.
    “It would be better for all concerned if you kids didn’t get involved,”
the sergeant said with a pointed stare at Trixie. He never liked it when Trixie
tried to get involved in a case.