The Mystery of the Queen's Necklace

“because he wasn’t there at all! He’d left a wax dummy in the window to foil the villain.”
    Unfortunately, the famous flat wasn’t open to tourists, as the Bob-Whites were told by a cross older woman who came to the door.
    “There! You see?” Trixie said, disappointed. “They don’t like us. You’d think she could at least have given us a peek.”
    “She didn’t seem very friendly,” Honey had to admit. She sighed.
    “It’s just the well-known British reserve,” Mart said.
    “Never mind, Trix,” Jim told her. “We can go see Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum instead. Look—it’s right around the corner.”
    “Gleeps,” she said, cheering up in a hurry. “Let’s go!”
    “First we’d better fortify ourselves with a cuppa tea and some of those luscious gatewks,” Jim said.
    “Let’s hurry up, though,” Trixie said impatiently. “We still have to see Westminster Abbey and the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace—”
    “And take the cruise down the Thames,” Honey added as they trooped into a small café and sat down at one of the gleaming wooden tables. “And see London Bridge—”
    “You can’t see London Bridge,” Mart said. “It’s in Arizona.”
    “Arizona!” Trixie exclaimed. “You’re kidding!”
    “That’s right,” Jim said. “Some rich guy bought it and carted it over to Lake Havasu City in Arizona. The funny thing is—”
    The funny thing about London Bridge was forgotten when a tall man in a white apron came out of the kitchen to take their orders. With his bushy moustache, he looked more than a little stern.
    “Mart, you’ll spoil your appetite,” Honey said. “You look about ready to gobble up your menu!”
    “I’m all for the British custom of eating five times a day,” said Mart.
    Everybody laughed—not that it was all that funny, but just because they were having a good time. They giggled even more over some of the strange-sounding foods—things like kippers and crumpets. Everything sounded so tempting.
    The waiter glared down at them, and Trixie squirmed. After they’d finally made up their minds and the man had disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors, she asked, “Why do I keep having that strange feeling that they hate us?”
    “Because you’re a shamus,” teased Mart, “and you always have strange feelings about people you meet.”
    “Oh, Trix, they don’t hate us,” Honey said quickly.
    “We do act sort of silly, you know—the way we make jokes about their money and the way they talk and all. And we take up so much room on their subways and buses. You can’t blame someone for getting mad when he gets a subway door shut in his face.”
    “Honey’s right,” Jim said soberly.
    Trixie flushed. She was born friendly. She enjoyed making new friends, and it bothered her when people weren’t friendly back to her. I guess I’m just too impulsive, she thought to herself. I'll probably never be as tactful and considerate of other people’s feelings as Honey is. Still, I wish Jim wouldn’t be so quick to side with Honey!
    “I read somewhere,” Jim went on, “that there was resentment of Americans after the Second World War. The English were still on strict rations, while the American tourists could have everything they wanted and were sometimes pretty rude about getting it.”
    “On the other hand,” Mart said, “the tourist industry is very important to their economy.”
    “Maybe they wish it wasn’t,” Honey commented wisely, just as the waiter entered with their orders.
    Trixie had ordered a trifle, which was a conglomeration of pound cake, jelly, custard, fruit, and whipped cream, flavored with wine. As heavenly as it tasted, Trixie forced herself to eat a little faster than normal.
    “We don’t have much time,” she kept reminding the others. “Miss Trask says we’ll only be in London for two or three days, and we’ve just barely started on sight-seeing, much less on solving our case.”
    She grew even more impatient when they had all finished and the waiter didn’t appear with their bill. They could hear dishes rattling in the kitchen, but nobody came through the swinging doors. They were the only patrons in the small café.
    “Couldn’t we just leave the money on the table?” she said at last.
    “We could if it was dollars,” Jim agreed, “but I still haven’t got the hang of this English money.” He took out his wallet and riffled through the pound notes, which somehow didn’t look as