Ann Martin - Claudia And the Clue in the Photograph

"Claudia!" my mom called again.

"I'll be right down," I yelled. Then I reached for the phone and called Mary Anne.

"Hello?" she said sleepily.

"Mary Anne, It’s me, Claud. I think I found a clue in one of your pictures."

"Really?" She sounded alert now.

"Can you meet me at the bank at one o'clock?" I asked. "I'll head down there right after school. I'll bring the pictures for you to see. There's something I want to check out."

"I'll be there," said Mary Anne.

After I hung up, I grabbed a few things from my desk: the contact sheet, the loupe, and a roll of quarters I'd been meaning to bring down to the bank. I threw them into my knapsack and headed downstairs for breakfast.

At one o'clock sharp, I met Mary Anne in front of the bank. "Check it out," I said, showing her the contact sheet.

"What is it?" she asked. "I don't see anything funny. Unless you count that picture of Buddy making a face,"

I pointed to the three pictures I'd found that morning. "See how this window is lit up?" I asked.

"Whoa!" she said. "What do you think it means?"

"I don't know for sure," I said. I turned to look at the bank. "We'll have to go inside to figure out which room that window is in. I brought this roll of quarters, so we have an excuse to go in." I started toward the main door of the bank.

"Hold on," whispered Mary Anne, grabbing my arm. "Look!"

I followed her gaze, and saw the woman with the baby carriage walking toward us. "It’s her!" I hissed. "Let’s make sure to get a look at that so-called baby this time."

We walked toward the carriage, smiling. But

the woman turned it sharply and pushed it past us. I thought quickly. Could I distract her for a minute — just long enough to check under that yellow blanket inside the carriage?

Suddenly, I threw my quarter roll to the ground, and it split open, spilling all the coins.

"Oh, no!" cried Mary Anne.

"Oh, dear!" cried the woman with the baby carriage. She and Mary Anne bent to pick up the quarters. Quickly, I stepped forward and reached into the baby carriage. I flipped down the blanket and looked inside.

There was a baby in there.

A cute, red-haired, smiling baby, dressed in a little white sleeper with blue stars and moons all over it. As I gazed at the baby, the mother straightened up and glared at me. "Adorable baby," I said sheepishly.

The woman covered the baby up again and strode off, pushing the carriage quickly.

"Protective mom," I said to Mary Anne, shrugging. "At least we know she's innocent, though."

"You're right," said Mary Anne. "And that means — "

"That means Mr. Zibreski must be the thief!" I said, knowing as I said it that my reasoning was full of holes. "He's our only suspect now," I continued, trying to convince myself. I glanced at the bank, checking that window

again. Just then, I saw somebody staring out of the window, looking straight at me. "Oh. My. Lord." I said, under my breath.

It was Mr. Zibreski himself.

"Mary Anne!" I said. "He's staring right at us! Wait! Don't panic! Just act normal!" I felt frozen into place.

"Let’s get out of here!" said Mary Anne. She tugged at my arm.

We ran all the way home, checking over our shoulders at every corner. I was sure I saw him behind us a couple of times. For the rest of that afternoon I watched out my windows, sure that Mr. Zibreski had followed us. Detective work had always seemed fun, before. This time, it seemed dangerous. This time, we were mixed up with somebody who was stalking MS while we were stalking him.

Chapter 11.

"Sergeant Johnson, please." It was the next day, Friday, and Mary Anne, Stacey, and I were standing in front of the main desk at the police station.

The night before, Mary Anne had called me and we'd had a long talk. She was really worried about my safety, if there was "even a possibility" that Mr. Zibreski was following me. "I think we should go to the police again," she said. "Remember, Sergeant Johnson said to let him know if we found out anything more."

"But we still don't have any proof,” I said.

"I know," she answered. "But he might be interested in those pictures that show a light on in the bank. And it just seems to me that it couldn't hurt to have the police kind of looking out for you — for us. Know what I mean?"

Mary Anne had been pretty convincing, so as soon as I was done with my summer school

classes the next day, I met her and Stacey in front of the station. Of course, I'd brought the most recent pictures with me. (I'd made enlargements of the most interesting ones.) We marched right in.

"I'll see if he's here," said the officer at the desk. It was a woman this time. She punched a button on the intercom, and spoke into the phone in a whisper, looking at us over her glasses as she talked. I had a feeling she was wondering what business three teenage girls would have with Sergeant Johnson. When she finished speaking, she listened for a second, and then, looking surprised, she hung up. "He says he'll be right but," she told us. "Please have a seat."

The three of us crowded onto a bench. While we waited, I dug the pictures out of my backpack. I flipped through them again, and my heart sank a little. Sergeant Johnson probably wouldn't think much of them as evidence.

"What can I do for you girls?" Sergeant Johnson was standing in front of us, smiling.

I gulped. "You said to come back if we had any new evidence," I said. "Well, I don't know if these are evidence or not . . ."I held out the pictures, and Sergeant Johnson took them and leafed through them. "See, there's this light on in the window," I said, standing up and pointing to the picture he was looking at.

"And the same man is in some of these shots. We found out that his name is Mr. —“

"Why don't we go somewhere else to talk," Sergeant Johnson said abruptly, handing the pictures back to me. "Somewhere a little more private." He led us past the desk, telling the woman officer, "We'll be using interview room four."

The three of us exchanged glances as we followed Sergeant Johnson down the corridor. We passed a room full of police officers working at typewriters, and a water cooler where some other officers were standing around, talking. Then, Sergeant Johnson unlocked a door and ushered us into a small, quiet room which was empty except for a big table with several chairs around it.

I checked out the room. It looked just like one of those rooms in the movies, the ones in which the police question suspects. Sergeant Johnson closed the door behind us, and the noise made me jump a little. Suddenly, I felt my heart beating fast. Were we under suspicion, for some reason? Was Sergeant Johnson going to start interrogating us? I looked over at Mary Anne and noticed that she had turned very, very pale. Stacey seemed to be keeping it together, but I could tell she was nervous by the way she was twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

"Sit down, sit down," said Sergeant Johnson. "Make yourselves comfortable."

That was kind of hard to do, since the room wasn't exactly the coziest place I'd ever seen. We each pulled out one of the beat-up looking orange plastic chairs and sat down, but I noticed none of us relaxed. I, for one, was sitting on the edge of my seat. We sat along one side of the table, and Sergeant Johnson took a seat on the other side.

Sergeant Johnson looked across at us, and he must have seen how tense we were. "It’s okay, I'm not going to bite," he said. "Now, let’s see those pictures again." I pushed them across the table. Picking each one up in turn, he examined them closely.

"Very interesting," he said, nodding. He scribbled some notes in a little notebook and then slapped it shut. "Now, what were you going to say about Mr. Zibreski?" he asked me. He looked at me intently with those dear blue eyes.