The Mystery of the Vanishing Victim

didn’t go through the hotel switchboard—or at least one where the operator wasn’t so easy to bribe. She gave me the number Meiser called, found out the street address for that number, and repeated the whole conversation the minute he hung up.
    “I could have gone right to Eileen’s house, but I decided to follow Hank, just to see what kind of tricks he might pull. I saw him stop to talk to you young people. And while I waited, I realized I didn’t need Hank anymore. I knew where the miser was, and I didn’t care whether the cops or the coroner got him first.”
    Trixie shuddered. Honey had been right—Andy Kowalski had no sense of right or wrong. He was like a child who only cared about getting his own way, with no thought about what pain he might cause getting it. She felt as though she’d heard all she wanted to.
    “I kept underestimating Eileen, though,” their captor continued. “When Hank didn’t show up on schedule, she locked that house up as tight as a drum. I couldn’t get to her or her kids without breaking the door down, and that would have brought the cops down on my neck. I went from this house to the hospital and back again, waiting for something to break. Wouldn’t you know, I’d taken an hour off to get some sleep, when Hank left the hospital and came here. I almost had a chance to snatch the kids this afternoon, but then you two came along and scared them off.”
    Their captor checked his watch again. “I guess I owe you girls something for that, don’t I? And I just might pay off, if Meiser doesn’t show his face pretty soon.”
    As if on cue, a crack of light appeared at the front door of the house across the street. The crack widened, and Henry Meiser stepped outside.

The Drop • 11

    TRIXIE RECOGNIZED Henry Meiser immediately, although the white bandages were no longer on his head. He walked stiffly, one arm held to his stomach as though his ribs were still giving him a lot of pain. From the other hand dangled a large brown paper bag. It banged against his leg with every other step he took.
    Trixie expected to see him come to the van, but instead he started off down the sidewalk on the other side of the street.
    “That’s it,” Andy Kowalski said, putting the car in gear. “At least, that better be it, or you girls are in big trouble.”
    “What’s happening, Trixie?” Honey whispered into her friend’s ear.
    Trixie shook her head. The same question was running through her own mind, but she had no idea how to answer it.
    She thought frantically, trying to piece together the information she had. “That better be it,” their captor had said. He must have been referring to the miser, since that was what he had come to the house to get. That meant the miser was—or should be—in the paper bag.
    The plan must be for the inventor to drop the bag off somewhere. Once Andy Kowalski was sure that the miser was really there, he’d let the girls go—she hoped.
    “That better be it.” The phrase repeated itself in Trixie’s mind. But was that it? Henry Meiser had been willing to go to prison rather than to reveal what the miser was. Would he give it up to save two girls he hardly knew?
    Trixie remembered what Mr. Meiser had said the night of the hit and run and again that day at the hospital. “Don’t get involved” was Henry Meiser’s motto. “Don’t trust anyone” was the primary rule by which he lived his life.
    “We’re involved with you now, Mr. Meiser.” Her lips moved, but no sound came out. “Oh, please, please don’t let us down. We’re more important than any invention.” She could only hope that Henry Meiser was thinking the same thing.
    She wondered suddenly who had thought of the drop-off. That would make a big difference. If it had been the inventor’s idea, it could mean that he hoped to drop off another worthless scrap of tin and get away, leaving the girls captive. Meanwhile, Eileen could take her children—and the real miser— and run away again.
    Or would Mr. Meiser even care if he got away, as long as his invention was safe? Andy Kowalski had said he talked to the invention as if it were a real person. Would he be willing to protect it with his life, as parents sometimes did for their children?
    Trixie held her breath as the driver pulled the van over to the curb. But nothing happened. He just sat, car still in gear, for a few moments.
    “Meiser’s moving like a turtle,” he muttered. “His ribs must be giving him fits. He’s