The Mystery of the Vanishing Victim

at the man. “Maybe we should have stopped and given him a ride,” she said.
    “In other words, the monitions of our parents have failed to inculcate even a modicum of perception in their distaff offspring,” Mart said.
    “Moms and Dad have warned me about not taking rides from strangers,” Trixie admitted.
    “But you, naturally, feel that giving a ride to a stranger is a whole different thing,” Brian said. “Well, it isn’t. And when you get your driver’s license, you’ll get that side of the lecture repeatedly, believe me.”
    “It just seems that with four of us and only one of him—” Trixie began defensively.
    “The one of him could be accompanied by a gun that would outnumber all of us pretty effectively,” Brian said.
    “Pooh! That man didn’t look as if he had a gun,” Trixie protested.
    “What does a man with a gun look like?” Brian retorted.
    “I—I don’t know. Tough. Mean. That man back there just looked sort of sad and... and lonely,” Trixie declared.
    “A sociopathic murderer might be expected to experience a paucity of companionship,” Mart said wryly.
    “I just hate to think the world is such an awful place that people can’t help other people anymore,” Trixie said sadly.
    “That’s a pretty big conclusion to draw from the fact that it’s unwise to pick up hitchhikers, Trix,” Brian told her. “There are still plenty of ways to help people, as you, of all people, should know. But you’re not responsible for helping everyone, not if it puts you in jeopardy.”
    “I wish we could talk about something else,” Honey said, shivering. “This is reminding me of all the horrible stories they used to tell us in boarding school, to make sure we wouldn’t even consider taking a ride from a stranger.”
    “What kind of stories?” Trixie asked, turning to face her best friend.
    “Oh, Trixie, they were perfectly awful! One of the schools I went to was way out in the country, and sometimes we’d get so bored that we’d feel we just had to go to town and browse through the stores or have a soda in a real restaurant.
    “But the headmistress would tell us stories of girls who had decided to hitchhike into town and had been murdered or had to jump out of the car because somebody pulled a gun on them.” Honey shivered again. “It sounded so awful, I was afraid even to try walking into town, let alone thumbing a ride.”
    “Do you think the stories were true?” Trixie asked. “I do,” Brian said. “Oh, they may not all have happened to girls from that particular school, but those things do happen, Trixie.”
    “All right,” Trixie said. “You’re right and I’m wrong. We shouldn’t pick up hitchhikers, and it’s a good thing we didn’t pick up the man back there.” The four Bob-Whites lapsed into silence, each thinking gloomy thoughts about dangerous strangers.
    The silence was broken by two loud backfires from the Model A. And when the silence returned, it was total—the car’s engine had died!
    Skillfully, Brian steered the coasting car to the side of the road.
    “Brian, what happened?” Honey asked nervously.
    “I don’t know,” Brian replied tensely. “I guess this is some of the temperamental behavior Mr. Burnside warned us about.” He leaned back for a moment and took a deep breath. Then he opened the door, stepped out of the car, and walked around to the hood.
    Trixie looked around to get her bearings and felt a sinking feeling in her stomach when she saw where they were. It was the worst part of Sleepyside to get stalled in: an area of warehouses and boarded-up shops. The nearest public telephone, like the nearest service station, was blocks away. And anyone they might encounter here would not be roaming the streets looking for a chance to be helpful to four stranded young people.
    Trixie started as she felt Honey’s hand, icy cold, clasp her forearm. She put her own hand over Honey’s in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. Trixie was the braver of the two girls, although Honey had changed a lot from the timid creature she’d been when she first came to Sleepyside. But right at this minute, after the scary stories they’d just been discussing, Trixie felt far from brave.
    “Can I do anything to help, Brian?” Mart asked. His simple words were, to Trixie, a bad sign. When Mart abandoned his complicated vocabulary, it usually meant he was worried.
    “Slide into the driver’s seat, and try turning the engine over when I tell you