The Mystery of the Vanishing Victim

be very pleased with it. You won’t blame me for milking it for as much excitement as I can.”
    The man’s frank admission broke the tension, and the Bob-Whites grinned back at him.
    “All right,” he said. “I’ll take you to it. Follow me.” He walked straight through to the back of the house and out into the backyard.
    Actually, Trixie thought, backyard was the wrong word for the expanse of beautifully kept lawn that seemed to go on and on for miles. They were walking toward a garage that stood at the back of the property. Trixie frowned and looked back over her shoulder toward the house. Just as she remembered, there was a two-car garage attached to the house. So this must, instead, be some sort of storage shed.
    Mr. Burnside halted a few yards from the shed. “There’s my donation,” he announced, making a sweeping gesture.
    Trixie stared in confusion. She didn’t see the donation. There was just the shed with an old car parked next to it.
    “Oh, no!” Brian shouted. “Mr. Burnside, don’t tell me— You’re not—”
    Mr. Burnside nodded, the big grin on his face once again. “That’s right,” he said. “My donation to the rummage sale is a genuine, beautifully restored and working Model A Ford.”
    Brian let out a long, low whistle, and Trixie took another look at the old car. It wasn’t just an old car, she realized now. It was an antique. It was also—it had to be—the most valuable donation they had yet received for their rummage sale.
    Brian, Mart, and Jim were swarming over the car. Dan Mangan, who shared his Uncle Regan’s love of horses over all automobiles, was only slightly less enthusiastic.
    Even Trixie and Honey, who were far more interested in mysteries than in motors, had to admit that the car was a beauty. It had a high, square, boxy shape, and alongside the doors, wide running boards that curved up to become the front and back fenders. The wheels had open spokes, like those oh a bicycle, and the spare tire was mounted just in front of the door on the driver’s side.
    “Tell us about it, Mr. Burnside,” Brian said as he circled the car, peering closely at every detail.
    “Well, it’s a nineteen-thirty-one Deluxe Phaeton Model A. The first Model A was built in nineteen twenty-seven, just a few months after Lindbergh made the first solo flight across the Atlantic. And the car caused almost as much excitement as Lucky Lindy did. In some towns, they had to call out the police to control the crowds that gathered to look at the first Model A’s.”
    “It must have created quite a sensation, after the old tin Lizzies,” Brian said.
    “Tin who-sies?” Trixie asked.
    “Tin Lizzie is what they called the Model T Ford,” Mr. Burnside explained. “The Model T was a pretty primitive-looking beast, compared to this car. In fact, this Model A was nicknamed the ‘Baby Lincoln,’ because it looked so much like the more expensive car. But this one cost only five hundred eighty dollars when it was new. There were less expensive Model A’s, for as little as four hundred thirty dollars, too.”
    “Good old Henry Ford was really determined to put the whole country on wheels, wasn’t he?” Jim observed.
    “He certainly was,” Mr. Burnside said. “In fact, before the first Model A appeared, Ford Motors had already manufactured fifteen million Model T’s, so he was well on his way to fulfilling that dream.
    “You can see Ford’s idea of designing a car for people with average incomes by looking at the height of the Model A. It has over nine inches of ground clearance, because Ford was thinking of people who would drive it through the backwoods, on rough dirt roads.”
    “May I open the hood?” Brian asked.
    “Go ahead,” Mr. Burnside said. “It opens from the side, and the hood is hinged in the middle. It has a standard three-speed transmission and a singledisc clutch. The first Model A’s, the ones built back in nineteen twenty-seven and nineteen twenty-eight, had a multiple-disc clutch that was pretty difficult to manipulate.”
    Trixie suddenly felt as if she’d been transported to a foreign country. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” she told Mr. Burnside.
    “Well, I can,” Brian retorted. “And I think it’s fascinating. Please go on, Mr. Burnside.”
    “There’s a lot more to tell you, but I think it would be better to save it for another time. Right now,” he said, turning toward Trixie with a twinkle in his eyes, “let me just add