The Mystery of the Ghostly Galeon

she said, her voice shaking. “Did someone come to help you? If not, who’s that man sitting at the desk?”
    “Man? What man?” Mart demanded, spinning around to see.
    The breathless Bob-Whites stared silently as Trixie ran across the room. She gently touched the motionless figure on the shoulder.
    Horrified, they watched it topple sideways and collapse in a stiff heap on the floor.
    “Quick!” Honey cried. “He’s probably suffering from smoke inhalation. Oh, Brian, you’ll have to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.” But when Brian reached the prone figure, he found out what Trixie had already discovered.
    “I’m afraid,” he said slowly, “that mouth-to-mouth resuscitation won’t help him at all.”
    Mart gasped. “You mean he’s—”
    “I mean,” Brian answered, “that our friend here would be the last one to need it. You see, he’s nothing but a life-sized dummy.”

Phantom From die Past • 7

    JIM LOOKED BEWILDERED. “I don’t believe it,” he said, bending down to see the dummy’s painted face. “It looks so lifelike.”
    “It sure does,” Mart agreed, nudging it gently with the toe of his sooty sneaker. “You know, it seems to be one of those manikins you see in department stores. But what’s it doing here? And whose room is this, anyway?”
    No one had a chance to answer him, however, for in the next moment, Miss Trask and her brother rushed into the room. They were followed by four of the hotel staff, all of whom were wearing the now-familiar pirate costumes.
    Less than a minute later, two fire fighters hurried into the room and checked the damage.
    Everyone listened as Brian explained what had happened. Then Mr. Trask said, “I owe you all a debt of thanks. If you hadn’t acted so quickly, there’s no telling what would have happened.“
    “Yes,” one of the fire fighters said as they went out with the remains of the mattress. “A fire in a mattress may appear to be out but actually smolder and rekindle later. These young people did a very thorough job.”
    Embarrassed at all the praise, the Bob-Whites couldn’t think of a thing to say.
    “We were glad we could help,” Trixie said at last, “though when we saw the dummy—the manikin—sitting at that desk, we were shocked. We thought for a moment he was a real person.“
    “A manikin?” Mr. Trask said, noticing it for the first time. “Well, I’m blessed! Where on earth did that come from?”
    “It’s mine,” a quiet voice said from the doorway. “I—er—I use him in my work. His name is Clarence.” And sandy-haired Mr. Appleton, whom Trixie had last seen sitting at the captain’s table, hurried into the room.
    He frowned when he saw the mattress on the floor. Then Trixie saw him shoot a worried glance toward a half-opened drawer in the desk.
    Before he closed it hastily, Trixie caught a glimpse of spiky handwriting covering what looked like a pad of yellow paper.
    “What happened here?” Mr. Appleton asked. “And how did you all get in? This door was locked when I left this afternoon.”
    “It wasn’t locked when we got here,” Dan said slowly. “In fact, the whole incident is kind of strange.”
    “What do you mean, ‘strange’?” Mr. Trask asked sharply.
    “The fire started in the mattress,” Brian explained. “There’s no question about that. But the thing is, we think it was deliberately set.”
    Miss Trask gasped. “Oh, Brian! Are you sure?“
    “Of course the boy isn’t sure,” her brother boomed. “How could he be? Besides, who would want to do a thing like that?”
    Trixie found her gaze wandering to Mr. Appleton. He was standing with his back to the desk, almost as if he wanted to hide whatever was inside it.
    “I certainly hope none of you think I had anything to do with this,” he said loudly. “I haven’t been anywhere near the second floor for the last three hours.”
    “Of course we don’t think anything of the kind,” Mr. Trask said.
    All the same, Trixie thought Mr. Trask looked worried as he gave instructions to his staff to move Mr. Appleton to another room at once.
    Miss Trask must have thought so, too. Only Trixie, who was standing next to her, saw her rest one hand on her brother’s arm. “Do you really think it was an accident, Frank?” she asked. “I was just downstairs talking to that dreadful waiter you call Weasel. He was telling me that there’s been a series of odd happenings all summer long—”
    “Then you shouldn’t believe