The Mystery of the Antique Doll

the wheel, and staggered out onto the road. He was still wearing the rumpled trench coat. He walked slowly toward them. His craggy face was set in a very disagreeable expression, and he didn’t look as though he had anything pleasant to say either.
    Scowling, the man stopped when he got directly in front of them. With a flourish, he pulled off his hat and nodded his head.
    “Mademoiselles,” he said. His voice was rather high-pitched, and Trixie had the overwhelming urge to giggle. “Mademoiselles, I am Inspector Marcel Patou of the Paris Sûreté, and I arrest you in the name of the French authorities!”
    “What?” Trixie and Honey said together, astounded. “Arrest?”
    This was the second time in little more than twenty-four hours that someone was threatening them with arrest—and they hadn’t done a thing!
    “That is correct,” the man continued. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat with an exaggerated motion. As he pulled out a shiny badge, his handkerchief and a notebook fell to the ground. When he bent down to retrieve the items that had fallen, his hat dropped to the ground as well.
    “My identification,” Inspector Patou said, extending the badge in their direction. At the same time he was trying to juggle his hat, pen, and notebook—and doing a poor job of it.
    Trixie took the badge and peered at it in the dying light. It certainly looked authentic, and she handed it to Honey. Honey’s hand trembled as she took it. After looking at it briefly, she handed it back.
    At that moment, Inspector Patou sneezed loudly, and the badge dropped to the ground between them. Trixie couldn’t control the laugh that bubbled up inside her chest as she quickly stooped to get it.
    She cleared her throat and tried to sound grown-up as she handed the badge back to him. “You are obviously who you say you are, but you have the wrong people, Inspector. By the way, you’ve neglected to tell us what we are being arrested for.”
    “Trixie!” Honey gasped in dismay. Honey would never have spoken that way to an adult. She was amazed at Trixie.
    “You are under arrest for counterfeiting, of course,” the French policeman answered. He wiped his brow with the rumpled handkerchief, then put it in his pocket. “I have been following you two young ladies since you made the pickup in Paris. You stopped at a shop called Emile Faurier—of this you are already aware—and took a package from a man named André. It is this package about which I am now speaking.”
    He stopped and carefully watched the expressions on the two faces before him.
    “Yes, I can see that you know of which I speak,” he continued, satisfied with himself. “Now then, young ladies, that particular shop has been under surveillance for a year, and we of the Sûreté know it is an outlet—as you say—for very high quality engravings used in making the currencies of many different countries. Since you and I both know that you picked up the plates, you might just as well tell me where they are now, and we will be finished with all this conversation.” He folded his arms across his chest, waiting for a reply.
    “We didn’t pick up any plates, sir,” Trixie said, feeling a little frightened. “We picked up an antique doll. That was what was inside the box.”
    It had dawned on Trixie that they might still be in a lot of hot water. It would be one thing if the doll wasn’t in their possession. Unfortunately, however, it was sitting at home on her dressing table. And the two miserable plates were sitting right next to it! If this detective followed them home, he would find the doll and naturally think them guilty.
    “I do not believe you, I am afraid,” he said, with a condescending smile. “How do two young ladies like yourselves get a ride to and from Paris in a Lear jet, eh? It smells to me of dirty money, mademoiselles, dirty money!”
    “Now wait a minute!” Honey snapped angrily. “That plane belongs to my father! It has absolutely nothing to do with dirty money, and I won’t let you say things like that about my father!”
    “Aha!” Inspector Patou said, whipping out his notebook and pencil. Another shower of little papers fell to the ground at his feet, as he quickly scribbled something down. “So it is your father who is the counterfeiter, eh?”
    Honey stamped her foot in vexation, but Trixie began to speak quietly.
    “Excuse me, Inspector,” she said calmly, “but I think I can help you. We picked up the doll at