The Mystery of the Millionaire

and we don't need our depositions until the case goes to court. As for the map, maybe Mr. McGraw had already found out, through one of his contacts, that Mr. Ramsey had been taken out of the area, to Buffalo. I admit that Mr. McGraw wouldn’t have the good manners to apologize for having us draw the map for nothing, but that doesn’t make him dishonest.” Honey paused for breath. Then she added, “You had a chance to prove that Mr. McGraw wasn’t interested in the assignments; you only had to remind him about them. But you didn’t do it. You just jumped to your own conclusions and refused to have anything more to do with the case.”
    “I still say that reminding him of the assignments wouldn’t prove a thing. If you think it’ll prove something, I’m willing to try it.” Trixie stood up and walked to the door of Honey’s room. “Come on,” she said over her shoulder.
    “Where are we going?” Honey asked.
    “We’re going to use the telephone to call Mark McGraw in New York City. I want you to be listening in. He’ll probably say he wants the assignments, after he finally remembers giving them to us. But you’ll hear the dishonesty in his voice first.”
    “He could be in Buffalo by now,” Honey said. “Laura sent him the money yesterday.”
    “Then I can at least leave a message with his secretary. Oh, Honey, I felt so helpless when Dad told Mart there was nothing he could do about losing his money to those crooks. Well, this is something I can do something about—and I’m going to do it!”
    Honey knew her best friend too well to think that there was a chance of getting her to change her mind once she was as set on a course of action as she was at the moment. Reluctantly, she followed her sandy-haired friend to the telephone table in the upstairs hallway.
    Trixie lifted the receiver, then held the button down for a moment as she remembered something she wanted to say to Honey. “I’ll pay for the call out of my next allowance. Just let me know how much it is.”
    In spite of herself, Honey giggled. “There may be some dishonest people in the world, Trixie Belden, but you certainly aren’t one of them. I’m your partner, so I’ll pay for half of the call. Now, dial!”
    Trixie dialed the number for directory assistance in New York City. When the operator answered, she said, “I’d like a listing for a Mark McGraw. He’s a private detective.”
    “One moment, please,” the operator said. Computer sounds came through the wire as Trixie waited impatiently. “Still checking,” the operator said.
    Trixie shifted from one foot to the other. She straightened as the operator came back on the line. “Checking in the white pages and in the business directory under ‘Investigators-Private,’ I find no listing for a Mark McGraw. I’m sorry.” Trixie barely remembered to thank the operator before she slammed down the receiver and turned to Honey, who was watching her expectantly. “That detective is a fake!” Trixie snapped.

The Getaway ● 12

    HONEY LOOKED STUNNED. “There must be some mistake,” she said breathlessly.
    “The operator couldn’t find a listing for Mark McGraw in New York City. That doesn’t leave much room for mistakes,” Trixie said solemnly.
    Honey shook her head in reluctant agreement, then brightened. “Maybe his name isn’t spelled the way it sounds,” she said.
    “How many ways can there be to spell ‘McGraw’?” Trixie asked scornfully.
    Honey snapped her fingers. “M-c-G-r-a-t-h, for one,” she said. “Daddy has a friend who spells his name that way and pronounces it ‘McGraw.’ I remember one time Daddy had a meeting with him, and he told Miss Trask to call and say he’d be late. Miss Trask got absolutely frantic, because she couldn’t find the name in Daddy’s address book. She finally called Mr. McGraw—spelled t-h —and it turned out to be the right person.”
    Trixie reached for the phone. “I’ll call the operator back—”
    “No,” Honey interrupted. “I have a better idea. Daddy has the New York City telephone directories in his office. We’ll look there. Then we’re bound to find Mark McGraw, no matter how he spells his name.”
    The girls spent the next twenty minutes huddled together over the directories, their shoulders touching as one read a left-hand page and the other read a right.
    When Trixie finally straightened up, clutching her aching back, her face was pale under its covering of freckles. “There’s not a