Ann Martin: Claudia And the Clue in the Photograph

As soon as I'd finished the roll, I rushed back into the darkroom to develop it. And by the time the film was finished, the day had flown by and my dad was calling me downstairs for supper. I tore myself away from the darkroom and tried to act normal while I ate with my family. Then, after supper, I forced myself to stay out of the darkroom and spend one last hour with my math book. I hadn't forgotten about my test.

By one o'clock on Monday, I was back in the darkroom, the math test behind me. (I was pretty sure I had passed, thanks to Janine's help.) Quickly, I made prints from the new negatives, again blowing them up as much as I could. Then I hung those pictures underneath

the pictures I'd hung up the day before. Now one whole wall in my room was totally covered with photographs.

I started to look them over, but I had only checked out two or three of them when my friends started to show up. "Wow," said Kristy, when she walked into my room and saw the display of photos. "You've been working hard."

"I guess I have," I admitted. I had been totally obsessed with printing those pictures, so obsessed that it hadn't even seemed like work.

"Look at how much more you can see," said Stacey, gazing at a picture of the lady with the baby carriage. "I can even see the baby's foot in this one. It’s poking out from under the blankets."

"How cute," said Mary Anne, sighing.

"I never noticed before how Mr. Zibreski has a little bald spot," said Mal, giggling a bit.

"This is great," said Shannon, after she had walked up and down the room and looked at each photo. "All the pictures are here, and they're all in order. Plus, you've blown up each one to show the most important details. If we don't find any new dues this time, there aren't any to be found."

"Well, that was my idea," I admitted. "I was hoping we could take one last look, just to be

sure we didn't miss anything the other times."

And that’s exactly what we did. For the next fifteen minutes, there was total silence in my room as my friends and I pored over the pictures, hunting for a due, any clue that might help us solve the mystery once and for all.

"What about the ring this woman is wearing?" Jessi asked finally. She was looking at a blown-up picture of the lady with the baby carriage. "Is that some kind of secret symbol?"

Mal peered at it. "Oh, that’s one of those Irish wedding rings," she said. "You know, two hands holding a heart? I think they're really pretty."

"But it’s not a clue," said Jessi, shaking her head.

"Neither is the baby's blanket," said Mary Anne, "but I have to say that it’s really neat how somebody embroidered all those animals on it." She had her nose pressed up to one of the pictures.

"Let’s be serious," said Kristy. "I mean, I think we really need to examine these pictures of Mr. Zibreski. After all, Sergeant Johnson did say that he was under investigation."

We clustered around the pictures of Mr. Zibreski and concentrated on them. We looked closely at his pockets — both the ones in his pants and the ones in his jacket — to see if money could be hidden in them. We checked

to see if he could be hiding money under his shirt, but he was too slim for that. We even peered at his eyes, to see if he had "that guilty look," as Stacey said.

Nothing.

Then, all of a sudden, I noticed something interesting. "Look," I said. "In this picture he's looking at his wristwatch. And in the next one, he's checking the bank dock, as if he wants to be sure he has the right time."

"So?" asked Kristy. "What’s wrong with that?"

"Why is he wearing a wristwatch, when he carries that big pocket watch?" I asked.

"Whoa!" said Stacey. "Good point." She bent to look at the picture more closely. "I always thought there was something interesting about that banker's watch he carries," she added.

"Interesting?" asked Jessi in a strange voice. "You could say that. Check it out, guys," she went on. "The time on the pocket watch never changes, even when the time on the bank dock does. What could that mean?"

"That the pocket watch .is a fake!" yelled Kristy.

"I'll bet he's hiding something inside it. Something that has to do with the robbery," said Shannon. "A — a microchip or something."

Suddenly, out of the blue, I remembered a conversation I'd had in the bank one day with Charlotte. "Or," I said, realizing that the case was about to fall together, "a key."

"A key?" asked Mary Anne.

"That’s right," I said. "I'd bet anything that he has a key in there. A key to a safe deposit box, where he's hidden the money he took. He must have known the police would search his desk and his apartment, but he figured they'd never look inside his watch. That’s probably why he was so cooperative — he thought he'd outsmarted the police!"

"Claudia!" Kristy said, looking at me admiringly. "You're a genius. That’s it! What else could it be?"

"Let’s take these pictures down to the police station right this minute," said Stacey, starting to pull them down off the walls. The rest of us helped, and within a half hour we were all sitting across from Sergeant Johnson, in that same room with the same orange plastic chairs. Only this time, there was one big difference.

Mr. Zibreski was in the room with us. The police had been in the middle of questioning the banker one more time when we arrived. When we showed Sergeant Johnson the pictures, he nodded. "Very interesting," he said. "This might just be the final

piece of evidence. I'll take them in and show them to our suspect. I think this might lead to a confession!"

"If it does, we want to be there!" said Kristy, putting her hand over the pictures and looking stubborn.

Sergeant Johnson didn't look pleased, but he thought about it for a minute. Finally, he brought us into the room with Mr. Zibreski and asked us to explain what we thought the pictures meant.

I was so nervous I thought I'd pass out. But I took a deep breath and started to explain how the pictures proved that the watch wasn't working. "See?" I said, pointing to the pictures I'd laid out on the table. "The second hand on the dock is moving in this shot, and in these — five, six, seven ..." Then I pointed to the part of the super-enlarged pictures showing Mr. Zibreski's watch. "But the second hand on the watch just stays absolutely still." I looked up at Sergeant Johnson, and he gave me a little nod and a smile. "That’s how we figured out that the watch doesn't work at all, and that there must be some other reason why he —" I looked at Mr. Zibreski. ”Why you were still carrying it."

Sergeant Johnson looked over at Mr. Zibreski, too. "May I see the watch?" he asked.

Mr. Zibreski unhooked it from the chain and

handed it over without a word. He looked terrified.

Sergeant Johnson pried open the back of the watch, and something fell out, making a jingling noise on the table. My friends and I leaned in for a closer look.

It was a key.

"All right, all right," said Mr. Zibreski suddenly. His voice was gravelly, and sounded strained. "Is it a confession you want? Well, here it is. Check box five twenty-eight. The money's all there."

"All of it?" Sergeant Johnson asked coolly. He never seemed to get excited. Personally, I was about to jump out of my chair, and I could tell my friends were too, but I knew we had to let Sergeant Johnson handle the situation his own way.

"All of it," said Mr. Zibreski, sounding tired now. "I haven't spent a penny."

And that was that. A few minutes later, two police officers came in and led Mr. Zibreski away. (I actually felt kind of sorry for him — he looked miserable.) Sergeant Johnson thanked us and told us he'd be in touch, and we left the police station.

Out on the street, we let loose with all the excitement that we'd built up in that little room. We jumped around, screamed, and gave each other high fives. "He was clever,