The Mystery of the Vanishing Victim

that, although the Ford Company claimed that the car could hit sixty miles an hour, fifty-five is the top speed I’ve managed with it.”
    “This is a pretty expensive piece of rummage, isn’t it, sir?” Jim asked, his eyebrows pulled together in a worried frown.
    Mr. Burnside nodded. “This car is worth several thousand dollars,” he said.
    “Gleeps!” Trixie exclaimed. She stared at the car again. “Do you really think anyone will pay that much for it? I mean, I’d hate for the hospital to get less than your donation is worth.”
    “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Mr. Burnside told her. “The Model A is a favorite of antique-car collectors. Why, I average at least one call a week from someone who wants to buy the car, and I’ve never even had it up for sale. That’s why I wanted you to come and pick it up right away. I figured you could letter a sign to put on the car, telling where and when it will be sold. If you drive it around town for a few days while you’re picking up other donations, you’re bound to attract a lot of attention.”
    “And people coming to the rummage sale to see the car will wind up buying other things! Oh, Mr. Burnside, that’s a great idea!” Trixie exclaimed. “I’m glad you said we had to come and get the car right away. Oh, that reminds me—why did you say we all had to come, and why did you say we had to bring the station wagon?”
    Mr. Burnside chuckled. “I wanted the Model A to be a surprise,” he said. “I didn’t want to tell you about it over the phone. But I did want you to be able to take it with you. So I wanted to make sure Brian would be along to drive it. I know he’s a pretty good mechanic, and these antique cars can be tricky. I asked you all to come to make sure that Brian would be along, and I asked you to bring the station wagon because otherwise you might have come in Brian’s jalopy—and for anyone but Brian, that’s every bit as tricky to drive as the Model A.“
    “That solves the mystery, all right,” Trixie said. “Well, I think there’s an even bigger mystery to be solved now,” Brian said. “How can you bear to part with this beautiful piece of machinery?”
    Mr. Burnside looked solemn for a moment. “I have had a few twinges, I admit,” he said. “But there are two reasons for donating the car to the sale. The first one is that I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks last year, and I had excellent care. Donating the car is one way I can express my gratitude.
    “The second reason is that I would have had to get rid of the car, anyway. It would be foolish to let it sit outside and rust.”
    “Why don’t you put it in that garage?” Di Lynch asked.
    Mr. Burnside lost his solemn look. “The Model A was in the garage until last week. Then it lost out—” Mr. Burnside crossed to the garage and raised the door—“to this!”
    Trixie blinked. The vehicle inside the garage was the strangest-looking thing she’d ever seen. It stood high off the ground, like the Model A, but it had only two seats, and they were out in the open. The steering wheel stuck up from the front of the car on a long shaft. The wheels of this car were thin, with open spokes that looked like those on a wagon wheel.
    Under the car she saw a round, silvery metal tank with faucet handles attached to it.
    “It’s a Stanley Steamer!” Brian shouted. “Wow! I never thought I’d see one in person.”
    “In person,” Mr. Burnside repeated. “A nineteen-oh-nine Stanley Runabout Model E-two. Two cylinders, ten horsepower, and as fascinating a machine as you’ll ever see anywhere.”
    Brian had already raised the hood, and Trixie stepped forward to look into the maze of piping underneath. “That doesn’t look like any engine I’ve ever seen,” she said.
    “That’s because you’ve never seen a steam-driven car before,” Brian told her. “They were phased out years and years ago. But they were supposed to be wonderful to ride in.”
    “Would you like a ride?” Mr. Burnside asked.
    “Oh, I wasn’t hinting,” Brian said hastily.
    “I know you weren’t,” the man told him. “But I was kind of hoping you’d ask. I lit the pilot light a while ago, just in case.”
    “You mean this car has a pilot light like a gas stove has?” Honey asked, wide-eyed.
    “It does indeed,” Mr. Burnside said. “That’s the major problem with these cars: They’re wonderful to ride in, but they’re a dreadful nuisance to get started. You have to