The Mystery of the Midnight Marauder

nervous ever since that night. He’s been waiting for his friend to show up with more meat! He’s even been out searching for his new pal. Now, let’s hope, he’s going to identify that new pal in no uncertain terms.”
    “I still don’t understand why the Midnight Marauder stole Celia’s necklaces,” Honey said thoughtfully.
    “I wouldn’t be surprised if those turn up soon, too,” Trixie answered. “The Midnight Marauder had to make everyone think that all these robberies were the work of a teen-ager, so the only things taken, apart from small sums of money—“
    “—were just window dressing,” Mart finished. “Yes, I see it all now. Hey, Trix,” he grinned at her, “I guess your brain isn’t so pea-sized, after all.”
    Trixie bit her lip. “Don’t say that, Mart,” she said, her voice low. “I could still be wrong. Suppose the Midnight Marauder doesn’t show up. Suppose—”
    She was still worrying about it as the police car turned onto the Albany Post Road. It glided to a silent stop outside the tall Victorian house, hidden from view by some bushes. As it did so, three other police cars coasted to a quiet halt behind it.
    Trixie had time to notice that Vera Parker, reporter’s notebook in hand, had successfully begged a ride from Sergeant Molinson.
    Now Vera Parker glanced at the three nervous Bob-Whites and said, “I know I owe you kids an apology. I’m sure now that I was wrong about what I wrote in my article. I think you kids are okay.”
    “Wow!” Mart breathed, as she hurried away. “And she doesn’t even know yet whether Trixie’s theory is right.”
    The wait seemed interminable. Twice, Trixie thought she saw the Midnight Marauder crouching low in the bushes of the front yard. Twice, it was only one of Sergeant Molinson’s men. The rest were deployed around the remaining grounds.
    At long last, their patience was rewarded. Slowly, a figure detached itself from the shadows and crept toward the house.
    Honey gasped. “It’s the Midnight Marauder!”
    A warning pressure from Trixie’s fingers on her arm silenced her.
    The mysterious figure carefully placed something in a flower bed by a window. Then it cautiously broke a small pane of glass, unlocked and opened the window, and climbed inside. After what seemed like hours, the figure again appeared in the window. It climbed out onto the windowsill and dropped lightly to the ground. It carried a small sack clutched in one hand.
    Placing it gently on the ground, the thief then reached down to the flower bed for the object hidden there.
    Quickly the thief moved to a blank wall at the side of the house. The figure raised its arm. The nozzle of a paint can was ready to write its impudent message once more!
    All this time, Reddy had been squirming and whining softly, while Trixie kept a tight grip on his collar. Suddenly Trixie let go of his collar, and he bounded from her side.
    The three Bob-Whites had never seen him run so fast. With his long tail streaming behind him, he flung himself toward that figure, who was dressed in dark slacks and a lighter-tone shirt. The stillness of the night was shattered by Reddy’s loud, joyous cries of welcome.
    Trixie watched as he hurled himself into the totally unprepared arms of his new friend. Trixie had time only to feel a pang of sympathy for the figure, who was struggling to escape Reddy’s slobbering kisses of welcome.
    Then the police closed in, and the excitement was all over.
    “This time we’ve really caught you, Midnight Marauder!” Sergeant Molinson announced, for the second time that evening. Then he couldn’t resist adding—without looking at Trixie, “I knew it was you all along.”
    He snapped the handcuffs around two slim wrists and stared at his prisoner. The prisoner was—the antique dealer, Margo Birch!

    Trixie had no chance to explain too much to the other Bob-Whites until after school the next day. Then they met in their clubhouse and listened quietly to all she had to say.
    “Of course,” Trixie finished, “Margo Birch was after those jewelry boxes all along. Most of them were junk—but one wasn’t.”
    “The ballerina?” Honey asked.
    Trixie nodded. “Yes, that’s the one. Somehow Grandpa Crimper had managed to find one true work of art along with all the other junk he bought. Margo Birch recognized its worth as soon as she saw it. She’s now told the police it’s worth ten thousand dollars. It once belonged to a Russian empress, you