The Mystery of the Ghostly Galeon

us to clear out of your way,” Brian told Miss Trask after Weasel had gone to make another search.
    She wasn’t listening. She was gazing around the room as if she were remembering long-ago days when she was small. Had this once been her father’s office? Trixie wondered. Had she once been bounced on his knee at this very desk?
    A few minutes later, Trixie’s thoughts were interrupted when Weasel tapped on the door and walked in once more.
    “I’ve searched everywhere,” he said flatly. “He’s not in the wine cellar or the laundry room. I’ve been looking for him because we’ve got troubles in the kitchen.”
    Miss Trask hesitated. Then she said, “Very well, I’ll come myself.”
    “You do not need to depart anywhere, Miss Trask,” a loud voice said from the doorway, and Gaston marched into the room.
    With a dramatic sweep of his hand, he whipped his chef’s hat from his head and flung it on the desk.
    “I look for Monsieur Trask,” he announced, “but him I cannot find. So I tell his sister. It is this. I quit! This job is driving me oranges!” Weasel muffled a snicker. “I think you mean bananas.”
    He was ignored. “My cherry tart,” Gaston said, “she is très bonne , trèsmagnifique —the best in all of the United States. On this everyone agrees. And what am I demanded to call it? The Cannonball Pie! Pah! My assistant chefs, they have to wear the oh-so-ugly pirate costume. Pah, again! And now this man, this clumsy Weasel, who calls himself a waiter, drops my beautiful cake on the carpet, plop! And so I say enough is too much! Tonight I leave! Give me please my wages. I wish to leave the Pirate Inn forever.”
    “I told you we had troubles,” Weasel murmured, sounding almost glad that he had been proved right.
    There was silence. Then Mart turned to Gaston. “Please, sir, surely matters can’t be that bad. Without you, the inn would not be the success it is. Your marvelous cooking brings everyone here.“
    “This is true,” Gaston said simply. “I am, without the doubt, one of the world’s best chefs. For this, I am paid much money by Monsieur Trask, who is sometimes, though not always, a shrewd man. But even for him I will not stay. You will tell him, please, that Gaston Gabriel is packing his bags. My money I will have now!” Miss Trask did her best to persuade him to change his mind, but Gaston wouldn’t listen.
    “Very well, then,” she said slowly at last. “We can’t, of course, force you to stay against your will. But as for your salary, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until my brother returns. The money is in the safe, and I don’t know its combination anymore.”
    Gaston tried to argue with her, but Miss Trask merely continued to smile and shake her head.
    When the chef had gone, Weasel Willis intoned, “Good, very good, Miss Trask. The boss couldn’t have handled that situation any better himself. Cookie’s temper never lasts long, you know. In fact, this is the third time this month he’s handed in his notice. But making him wait for his money was a good idea. Your brother never locks the safe these days, but Cookie doesn’t know that.” Miss Trask looked startled. “Doesn’t lock the safe? He has to lock it. There must be thousands of dollars in it!”
    She rose to her feet and hurried aciross the room. The Bob-Whites saw her hesitate for one long moment as she knelt on the floor beside the safe. Then they saw that it opened at once to her touch. They also saw that its shelves were bare. The money, like its owner, was gone.

A Fruitless Search • 10

    MISS TRASK’S FACE was white as she rose slowly to her feet. “I simply don’t understand it,” she exclaimed. “The money should be here.”
    “I guess it still would be if we hadn’t had that attempted robbery last month,” Weasel remarked.
    Trixie drew in her breath sharply. “What attempted robbery?”
    “I told you we’d had troubles,” Weasel said. “This one started late one night when everyone had gone to bed. The boss’s bedroom is directly over this room, and around two o’clock in the morning, he thought he heard someone moving around down here.”
    “Who was it?” Brian asked.
    Weasel rasped a thoughtful thumb across the stubble of his beard. “He never did find out,” he said. “By the time he got down here, whoever it was had gone. But there had been a prowler, because when he looked in here, he found that someone had tried to jimmy open the safe. You can still see