The Mystery of the Midnight Marauder

face. Suddenly she realized what had attracted Mart’s attention.
    Ruthie Kettner was standing in the store’s far corner, which was reserved for artists’ supplies. She was about to make a purchase—and that purchase was a large paintbrush.
    “Maybe,” Mart said slowly, “I was wrong about Lester Mundy after all. Maybe it’s Ruthie who’s the Midnight Marauder.”
    Trixie frowned. “Whoever it is,” she replied, “I know one thing for sure. If you’re that worried about it, we’d better find out—and fast.”

    When the elevator jolted to a stop, Trixie was the first one out of it. Quickly she led the others to the restaurant’s entrance and stood looking about her.
    Although it was still early for lunch, many of the tables were filled with people who were lingering over their morning coffee. Trixie guessed that they were really waiting for the rain to stop.
    At a table a short distance away, two dark-haired women were deep in conversation—although the small, thin one seemed to be doing all the talking. The other, a sharp-faced woman in her early thirties, appeared to be asking occasional questions and taking notes of the answers.
    Trixie stared at the notetaker. “Who is that?” she asked.
    Mart scowled. “Her name’s Vera Parker, and she’s a reporter for the Sleepyside Sun. She’s been snooping around all morning.” He sighed. “I think she’s planning to write an article about juvenile delinquents. I heard Sergeant Molinson talking to her earlier.”
    “And who’s the other lady?” Honey asked. “I’ve seen her somewhere before.”
    “That’s Margo Birch,” Di answered promptly.
    “She’s a well-known New York antique dealer. I think she lives around here, though. She’s been interviewed on television—”
    “And hasn’t her picture been on the cover of magazines and stuff like that?” Jim interrupted.
    Di nodded.
    “Maybe that reporter’s planning on doing two articles,” Dan remarked. “One on antiques and the other on—”
    “Juvenile delinquency?” Margo Birch said, raising her voice suddenly. “Ah, yes, I could say a lot on that subject. It’s one of the major problems of our society today.” She smiled at her companion. “Though, of course, I don’t pretend to be an expert on that matter.”
    The reporter leaned across the table and asked a question that Trixie couldn’t hear.
    Margo Birch settled back in her chair. “Why, my dear,” she drawled loudly, “but I don’t blame the youngsters at all. No, not in the slightest. It’s parents , you see, who must bear the full responsibility for the actions of their children. Oh, yes, spare the rod and spoil the child. An old saying, but a true one.”
    Mart shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
    All at once, Trixie had a feeling that it had been a mistake to come here. She had been right all along, wanting to go home to talk. At home it was safe—and quiet. At Crabapple Farm there were no loud, insistent voices from which to try to escape.
    “Now take the business with this disturbed teenager,” Margo Birch was saying. “Everyone’s been talking about it this morning. What is it he’s calling himself? The Midnight Marauder?”
    Vera Parker seemed to be about to answer. Then she turned her head and saw the Bob-Whites watching from the doorway. Then she said something in an undertone to Margo Birch.
    In the next moment, there was one of those inexplicable silences in the restaurant. It was as if everyone had, for some reason, stopped talking to hear what was going to happen next.
    What happened next was that Margo Birch opened her eyes wide and said, in a penetrating whisper, “One of the suspects? Where? Which one? Oh, my goodness, but you simply must point him out.”
    Immediately, everyone seemed to be staring in the same direction—toward the Bob-Whites.
    Trixie heard one man say loudly, “Did you hear that? One of those kids is the Midnight Marauder. I’ll bet it’s that blond kid with the curly hair and the sulky expression, who—”
    Mart didn’t wait to hear any more. At once he turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the restaurant. His ears were red, and Trixie could see that the back of his neck was, too.
    Mart didn’t wait for the creaking elevator. He rushed for the top of the wide staircase and was already halfway down it when the Bob-Whites caught up with him.
    “Ooh! What an awful woman!” Trixie stormed, her blue eyes flashing with indignation. “I don’t