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ПРИЯТНОГО ЧТЕНИЯ!
Carolyn Keene
The Nancy Drew Files: Volume Twenty-Six
Playing with Fire
Copyright © 1988 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Nancy goes to L. A. to investigate arson—and has a hot time in Hollywood
Nancy, Bess, and George are summoned to Los Angeles by Preston Talbot, president of Victory Airlines. A priceless miniature portrait of Napoleon has mysteriously exploded in flames in the vault of the hotel he owns. Talbot offers the girls an all-expenses-paid trip, with first-class airfare, a limousine, and a posh suite at his hotel.
But before they can get carried away with Hollywood glamor, Nancy’s flight bag explodes at the airport. Then a valuable manuscript and a gown worn by the empress Josephine are torched. Nancy must trace the connection before she gets burned—for good!
FROM THE NANCY DREW FILES
THE CASE: Investigate the fiery destruction of a priceless portrait of Napoleon.
CONTACT: Preston Talbot, president of Victory Airlines and owner of the Victory Hotel, where the mysterious fire erupted in a locked vault.
SUSPECTS: Peter Wellington—an eccentric antiques dealer. He's been fingered by Brent Kincaid, the owner of the portrait, as the prime suspect.
Sheik Abdullah—the handsome billionaire who owned the portrait before Brent Kincaid won it from him.
Nicole Ronsarde—the French professor and book collector who planned to buy a valuable Napoleonic manuscript before a former student maliciously outbid her.
Chad Bannister—the hunk who's been asking a lot of questions about the portrait on his own time.
COMPLICATIONS: Two other Napoleonic treasures have gone up in smoke, and Nancy's trying to discover the connection. Meanwhile, Elaine Ellsworth, an insurance investigator, is keeping a careful eye on Nancy.
Chapter One
“Wow!” George Fayne exclaimed as she peered out the window of the Victory Airlines jumbo jet. “What an incredible city! It’s enormous!”
Nancy Drew leaned in from her aisle seat to look over her friend’s shoulder for a glimpse of Los Angeles. “It is big,” she agreed. “And look—you can see the ocean!”
The huge 747 jet had just crossed the rugged San Gabriel Mountains and was beginning its long, smooth glide toward Los Angeles International Airport. Below them the city stretched from the mountains to the coast, an endless carpet of houses, office buildings, and shopping malls carved into strange geometric shapes by the curving freeways. On the horizon lay the calm Pacific, blue and gleaming.
George turned away from the window and ran her fingers through her dark, tousled hair. “When do you suppose Bess is coming back from the cockpit?” she asked as the seat-belt sign over their heads blinked on.
Grinning, Nancy fastened her belt. “Probably in a minute or two,” she said. “I doubt Mark will let her land this monster.”
Bess Marvin, George’s pretty blond cousin, had been riding in the aisle seat right across from Nancy and George. But right after they’d boarded the plane, she learned from the flight attendant that the copilot was an old friend, Mark Thompson. After takeoff she’d run a comb through her hair and checked her eye makeup before disappearing in the direction of the cockpit to renew her friendship.
Bess had met Mark when she was working undercover as a flight attendant on a case Nancy solved for the president of Victory Airlines, Preston Talbot. It was that case —Wings of Fear —that was responsible for their being on the jumbo jet now.
“You still haven’t told us exactly why Mr. Talbot is giving us an all-expense-paid trip to Los Angeles,” George reminded Nancy, stretching her arms above her head. “I’m not knocking it—a chance to spend some time in the California sun—but I’m still curious to know why he needs us.”
“I know you are,” Nancy said. ‘‘But you did sleep the whole flight, and we might as well wait to talk about it until Bess gets back. Okay?”
George nodded and leaned back and yawned. ‘‘Well, whatever Mr. Talbot has in mind for us, I have to admit that going first class is great. These seats are big enough for two people to share.”
Nancy smiled without answering. She was thinking that if she could share her seat with anyone, it would be her boyfriend, Ned Nickerson. Nancy wished Ned could have come with them on this new case, but he had a special project due at his school, Emerson College.
Still, he had taken time off to drive Nancy and her friends to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport for their 8 a.m. Saturday flight. Ned had held Nancy back as the other two climbed out of the car. He had given her a warm hug and a lingering last-minute kiss. She could still feel the touch of his lips on hers, and his warm arms...
“I’m back!” Bess was bubbling, sliding into her seat and fastening her belt. She leaned across the aisle toward Nancy. “You should see all the controls Mark has to handle to make this thing fly.” Her eyes sparkled. “I just love to watch him. I don’t see how he remembers it all.”
“He does get some help from the pilot and the flight engineer, doesn’t he?” George asked dryly.
Nancy pushed her tote bag under the seat. “And from the autopilot and the on-board computer?”
Bess dismissed their teasing with a careless wave of her hand. “Anyway, he said he’d call me at the hotel later. I can’t wait.”
“Now that Bess is back,” George said, turning to Nancy, “you’d better brief us on this case.” The plane was banking in a wide turn, heading for its final descent onto the airport runway a few miles ahead.
Nancy nodded, her face serious. “I told you that Mr. Talbot called me yesterday.” Bess and George nodded. “It seems that his airline owns the Victory Hotel in Los Angeles. There was a suspicious fire at the hotel on Thursday— probably arson—and he’s worried.
“The fire was in the hotel vault,” Nancy went on, “and the cash receipts for the entire week were burned. But Mr. Talbot thinks the target was an antique miniature portrait of Napoleon. One of his guests had asked to have it put in the vault for safekeeping. The owner had apparently received an extortion note, and thought it would be safer in the hotel vault than at his bank.” Nancy paused. “There’s no way to be sure what the real target was, though. Or even if it was arson. Everything in the vault was a totalloss, and the fire destroyed any clues to how it got started.”
Bess looked puzzled. ‘‘Sounds like arson. But how could anyone start a fire in a locked vault and get out?”
‘‘That’s what we’ve got to find out. The hotel’s insurance company wants the fire investigated, but Mr. Talbot doesn’t want the police to be involved—at least for the time being. He’s worried that news of the fire might leak out. Victory Hotel is hosting some big society gala next week, and he wants to make sure it’s a success. He’s afraid that any bad publicity will keep people away.”
‘‘Is there a chance that a hotel employee might be involved?” George asked.
‘‘There’s a good chance,” Nancy replied. ‘‘Anyway, I think we should start by interviewing the employees. Mr. Talbot is meeting us at the airport, and we’ll be staying at the hotel. That’ll keep us close to any possible suspects.” The landing wheels of the jet hit the runway with a jolt, jarring Nancy in her seat. ‘‘Mr. Talbot’s also promised to lend us a car,” she added.
Bess smiled happily. ‘‘First class all the way,” she said with a sigh. “I love it.” She glanced at Nancy and George. “Listen, would you guys mind if I took tonight off? I mean, I know we’re here to work, but I have the feeling that Mark is going to ask me to dinner when he calls, and—”
Nancy grinned. “And you just can’t turn him down. Right?”
Bess blushed. “Do you mind?” she asked anxiously.
Nancy waved her hand. “No, go ahead,” she said. “George and I can handle tonight. But we will all work today, and by tomorrow we should be really busy.”
***
“Nancy Drew!” Mr. Talbot strode out of the crowd in the airport corridor, his hand stretched out to her. “I’m glad you’re here. Did you have a pleasant flight?”
Mr. Talbot was a tall, well-dressed man with gray hair. He was smiling, but the smile didn’t quite disguise the tension in his face. Obviously the problem at the hotel was causing him deep concern. He had even moved temporarily to Los Angeles.
“It was a wonderful flight,” Nancy said. “You certainly know how to please your passengers.” She turned to George. “Mr. Talbot, I’d like you to meet my friend George Fayne. And you remember Bess Marvin, of course.”
“Of course,” Mr. Talbot said cordially. “I’m glad that both of you could come along. This isn’t going to be an easy case, I’m afraid. It—” He broke off and turned back to glance at someone standing a couple of feet behind him. “Oh, yes. I’d like you to meet Brent Kincaid. He’s the owner of the portrait that was destroyed in the hotel vault. His father is an old friend of mine, and they own Kincaid Studios here in L.A. Brent is staying at the hotel while renovations are being done on his house.”
Brent Kincaid stepped forward. He was a tall, deeply tanned young man with smooth dark hair and intense brown eyes. He smiled admiringly at Nancy as he shook her hand.
“Mr. Talbot has told me about you,” he said. “According to him, you’re a top detective with a pretty impressive record. I’m fascinated by mysteries. We film a lot of them, and I’m always interested in detectives and crime. I must say, though,’’ he added appraisingly, “that I wouldn’t have guessed you’re a detective. You’re much too pretty.’’
Nancy swung her woven straw tote bag over one shoulder and slid her brown leather purse over the other. “Thanks,” she said briefly. She was used to people’s surprise when they learned that she was a detective, but she wasn’t accustomed to the outright flattery she’d heard in Brent Kincaid’s voice. “It’s too bad about the portrait. But I hope we can wrap the case up in a hurry.”
“I hope so, too, Nancy,” Mr. Talbot said as he started to lead the way down the crowded corridor toward the baggage-claim area. “This whole thing could be very embarrassing for the hotel. The more quickly it’s solved, the better.”
Suddenly a group of noisy, flashily dressedteenage girls brushed past them. One had bright green hair, another was dressed in a skintight black leotard and a red metallic tunic, and a third was wearing a micro-mini purple skirt and knee-high purple boots. She had a purple tattoo just above her right knee.
George turned to stare. “Is that what they’re wearing in L.A. these days?” she asked. She looked down at her peg pants, black ankle boots, and oversize blue cotton sweater. “I feel kind of underdressed.”
Brent Kincaid laughed. “Remember,” he said, “Hollywood is just minutes from here. This is a crazy town. You’re likely to see anything—and anything is likely to happen.” As they moved around a corner, he gestured toward a luggage carousel that was just beginning to turn. “Your bags should be out in a minute,” he said. “Will you excuse me? I have to make a phone call.”
“I’ll go get a skycap,” Mr. Talbot said. “Then we can go right to the hotel.”
“Fine,” Nancy replied. She turned toward the carousel as Mr. Talbot and Brent Kincaid walked away. “I’m glad we’re traveling light,” she said, with a teasing grin at Bess. Bess had brought only two suitcases this time, both of them stuffed to bursting.
But Bess wasn’t listening. “I think I smell something—like smoke,” she said.
George frowned at her. “Don’t say things likethat, Bess,” she cautioned. “You could start a real panic in this crowd.”
“But it’s true,” Bess insisted. “I mean, I really do smell—” She grabbed Nancy’s arm. “Nancy!” she shrieked. “It’s your tote bag! I think you’re on fire!”
Chapter Two
Nancy slipped the smoking tote bag off her shoulder. Holding it at arm’s length, she shoved her way through the crowd and out the automatic door. Then she flung it into the street—right in front of a parked taxi.
There was a loud explosion and a brilliant flash of light. Nancy watched in horror as her bag disappeared in a cloud of white smoke and scattered debris.
“A bomb!” Bess exclaimed from right behind Nancy. She and George had just caught up. ‘‘Somebody dropped a bomb into your bag!”
‘‘Who threw that bag into the street?” An airport security officer rushed toward them, his gun drawn.
‘‘I did,” Nancy explained breathlessly. Herheart was still beating double time from the shock of the near miss. “It was on fire—”
“You’re under arrest,” the guard snapped. “Put your hands on your head.”
“You’re making a mistake, officer!” George protested. “Somebody planted that bomb in Nancy’s bag.”
“You two with her?” the guard asked George and Bess. George nodded.
“Hands on your heads too,” the guard growled. He pointed at Nancy. “You—got any identification?”
Nancy slowly took her hands down and opened her purse to pull out her driver’s license.
“We’re here as the guests of Mr. Talbot,” Bess wailed. “You know, the president of Victory Airlines.”
The guard grinned. “Yeah, and I'm here as the guest of the president of the United States,” he said.
Mr. Talbot elbowed his way through the crowd. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. Nancy had barely started explaining when Mr. Talbot pulled out his wallet and showed his identification to the guard. “I’ll vouch for them,” he said.
The guard stared openmouthed at Mr. Talbot. Nancy almost expected him to salute. Quickly he holstered his gun. “Yes, sir,” he said meekly.
Mr. Talbot turned to Nancy. “Now, Nancy, start over. What happened?”
“It looks as though somebody slipped something into my tote bag,” Nancy said. “Something designed to fry anything near it.” She stepped into the street and began to poke at the charred remains of her bag.
George and Bess followed her.
“Find anything?” George asked.
Nancy shook her head ruefully. “There’s not much left—and not a sign of whatever triggered the explosion.” She frowned. “It’s weird. There ought to be something left of the device that caused it. It must have been super-sophisticated to have completely disappeared.”
“I guess anybody could have stuck anything in your bag,” Bess said. “But it was so crowded that there’s no hope of finding out who. ”
Nancy nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “And there’s no way of finding out whether this bomb was meant for us or not. Either it has some connection to this case, or else it’s just the work of some sickie.”
George shivered. “Welcome to L.A.,” she muttered.
“So there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. I made my call,” Brent Kincaid announced as the automatic doors opened and he walked through them. “Are we ready to—What’s going on?” He stopped short, staring at Nancy digging at the remains of her bag.
“Well—” Bess started to answer him but was interrupted by the guard, who appeared to be coming out of a fog.
“I do have to ask you to come to the office,” the officer said, with a quick glance at Mr. Talbot. “I’ll need to fill out a report on this incident.”
Mr. Talbot nodded. “Of course. We might as well get this over with,” he told Nancy.
It took only a few minutes to answer the guard’s questions. When he’d finished filling out the report form, he carefully set his pencil back in a jar. “Those are the facts,” he said. “But I’d like to know what really happened.”
Nancy stood up slowly, saying, “You’re not the only one.”
Mr. Talbot got up then, too. “If there are any further questions,” he said, “you can reach Miss Drew at the Victory Hotel.”
***
“Whew,” George said, flopping down onto a velvety sofa in the Victory Hotel’s executive suite. “I’m sure glad that's over.” She grinned at Nancy. “Any more bombs up your sleeve, Nancy?”
“Don’t even mention bombs,” Bess said with a shudder. She glanced up from the desk where she was leafing through a newspaper and looked admiringly at the mauve and blue upholstered sofa and chairs, the mirrored wall, the vases of fresh flowers on every polished dark wood table.“What a super suite! Talk about plush! Mr. Talbot certainly knows how to treat his guests.”
“Now we’ll just have to do everything we can to deserve it,” Nancy said as she walked into one of the bedrooms. She unzipped her suitcase and began to unpack the clothes she had brought—one favorite dressy outfit for dinner, a couple of casual skirts, and jeans for daytime. “He looks as though he’s lost a lot of sleep over all this,” she called into the living room. “I hope we can figure out what happened in a hurry.”
“What’s our plan?” George asked, following Nancy into the bedroom.
“I’m interviewing the chief of hotel security at eleven, and Brent Kincaid asked me to have lunch with him at noon.” She glanced over at George. “It’s possible he’s involved. His painting was bound to have been insured, and he could make big bucks from the fire.”
“Maybe so,” George said. “What do you want Bess and me to do?”
“Talk to the clerk who checks items into the vault. Maybe he’ll remember something that—” Nancy broke off as Bess came into the room with the newspaper in her hand.
“Nancy!” Bess said excitedly. “Somebody in this town has a grudge against Napoleon! Look!” She pointed to a headline on the society page. It read, “Flaming Napoleon Still Unsolved.”
Nancy took the paper and sat down besideGeorge. “‘Wealthy book collector Amanda Hyde-Porter,’ ” she read aloud, “ ‘is still mourning the loss of her valuable manuscript, Napoleon and Josephine. The original handwritten draft of Francois LaMotte’s famous play was mysteriously burned last week while it was under close security in her Bel Air mansion. Police confess they have no clues in the baffling case.’ ”
“Wow!” George said breathily. “Another torching!”
“Yeah,” Nancy said grimly. “It looks as if our arsonist has a Napoleon fixation, doesn’t it? I have the feeling that this is going to be a very interesting case!”
***
It was noon. Nancy stepped inside the lavishly decorated hotel dining room and looked around. Brent Kincaid was sitting alone at a comer table. As she walked up to him, he stood quickly and pulled out her chair with a polite flourish.
“Thank you, Mr. Kincaid,” she said.
“Please—call me Brent,” he said.
Nancy smiled. “Thank you, Brent.” She picked up her menu and studied it for a minute. “Everything looks great. What do you recommend?”
“Well, you are in California. Why don’t you try something a little different? Perhaps the warm duck salad with raspberry vinegar andbaby vegetables? I’m having the squid-ink pastamyself.”
Nancy winced inwardly. ‘‘The salad soundsfine.”
After the waitress had taken their orders, Brent put his elbows on the table and leaned in toward Nancy. ‘‘Well, Mademoiselle Detective, have you solved our mystery yet?” he asked.
‘‘Not yet,” Nancy admitted. She wasn’t going to admit it to Brent, but her forty-five-minute interview with the hotel security chief had yielded nothing beyond what she already knew. The cash receipts had been in the safe all week, but Brent hadn’t put the Napoleon miniature in the vault until Thursday night, just before eight. The alarm had gone off at 3 a.m. Friday. The guard had opened the vault to find a smoldering pile of ashes. There were absolutely no physical clues to the cause of the fire, and the security chief had told Nancy that the arson investigators from the insurance company were utterly baffled. They’d spent hours looking for some trace of an incendiary device, but they’d found nothing.
‘‘Well, perhaps I can help you a bit,” Brent said. ‘‘As you know, I’m staying in the hotel while my house is being redecorated. On Wednesday night I returned to my suite and found an extortion note under my door. It demanded a million dollars in twenty-four hours—or the Napoleon would be destroyed.”He broke off to smile at the waitress as she brought them their cold watercress and zucchini soup. “I’ve given the note to the insurance investigators, of course.”
“Was there anything distinctive about the note?” Nancy asked. “Handwriting, paper, anything like that?”
Brent picked up his spoon. “The letters had been hand-stenciled, so the handwriting couldn’t be traced. But the paper was distinctive, I guess—gray with a thin red border.” He flashed Nancy a smile. “By the way, I hope you’re not considering me a suspect. If you are, I can tell you that you’re wrong.”
Nancy looked at him. “Why?” she asked quietly. “Why aren’t you a suspect?”
“Because the painting wasn’t insured,” Brent replied calmly, dipping his spoon into his soup.
Nancy frowned. “But you just said that you gave the note to the insurance investigators—”
“The hotel’s insurance investigators,” Brent corrected her. “I’d just acquired the miniature a few days earlier, and I hadn’t insured it yet. I’ve already told Mr. Talbot that if the hotel’s insurance pays up, I’ll donate the money to charity. There’s no way the miniature can be replaced, and I’m not interested in making money out of it. That would give me the creeps.”
“Do you know anybody who might have a motive to destroy your painting?” Nancy asked.
Brent shrugged. “Not really. I know somebody who’s crazy enough to do it,” he said. “His name’s Peter Wellington. He owns an antique shop out in Venice. He says his antiques are for sale, but I suspect that he’s more of a collector than a dealer. Anyway, he was after me for days to let him buy the painting. I kept saying no, but he wouldn’t give up. He’s a real nut. Maybe he figured that if he couldn’t have it, nobody—”
He broke off abruptly and shook his head. “But I’m probably wrong,” he said. “At this point I’m willing to suspect anyone. I’m sure Wellington’s harmless.”
“I wonder,” Nancy said thoughtfully, “whether he might be interested in manuscripts.”
Brent’s head snapped up. “Manuscripts?”
Nancy handed Brent the newspaper clipping Bess had shown her. “It’s possible that the two crimes are connected,” she said.
Brent studied the clipping and handed it back. “It does look as if our arsonist might have had two targets,” he agreed. “Would you like to meet Amanda, by the way? I could arrange an introduction.”
“You know her?” Nancy asked.
“We took classes together at UCLA several years ago. We bump into each other occasionally.”
“Yes, I would like to talk to Amanda,” Nancy said. “Maybe she could give us a lead on—”
“Mr. Brent Kincaid?” someone interrupted.
Nancy looked up. A steely-eyed woman dressed in a tailored business suit was standing beside their table. Her ash blond hair was pulled back into a bun, and she carried a slim leather briefcase. As Brent Kincaid stood up, she held out her hand and said crisply, “I’m Elaine Ellsworth, with Pacific Insurance. I’m helping to investigate the fire. I believe you spoke with my colleague, Al Lawson.’’
“Of course,” Brent said, shaking her hand. “This is Nancy Drew. She’s a pri—”
“I work for Preston Talbot,” Nancy interrupted quickly.
Ms. Ellsworth acknowledged Nancy with a cool nod. Then she turned back to Brent. “Could we meet in Mr. Talbot’s office at three this afternoon?” she asked. “I have some questions for you.”
“Sure,” Brent said. “You don’t want to talk right now?”
Ms. Ellsworth shook her head. “I’d prefer to meet privately, if you don’t mind.” Her eyes flicked briefly at Nancy. “At three, then,” she said, and she walked briskly away.
“Well,” Brent said after Ms. Ellsworth had gone, “looks as though you’re going to have some help with your case.”
Nancy only nodded. She wasn’t sure that Elaine Ellsworth was the kind of help she needed.
***
“So you drew a blank when you talked to the hotel clerk,” Nancy said, pulling Mr. Talbot’s white Lincoln up to the curb in front of Amanda Hyde-Porter’s house.
George nodded. “He couldn’t tell us a thing,” she said. “He inspected the painting when he checked it into the vault, but he didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.” She shook her head with a puzzled look. “I just don’t get it. If the arsonist had used an incendiary device, wouldn’t it have left some kind of residue?”
Bess shivered. “Maybe it’s something supernatural. I’m reading this novel where a little girl can start fires just by thinking about—”
Nancy gave her a look. “Natural or supernatural,” she said, “we’re left with nothing to go on. I talked to Mr. Talbot. He confirmed the fact that Brent’s portrait wasn’t insured and that Brent promised to donate anything he gets from the insurance company to charity. So it looks as though we can take Brent off our list of suspects.” She glanced at her watch. “We’d better stop sitting here and get out of the car. Amanda Hyde-Porter is expecting us.”
“So this is how people live in Bel Air,” Bess said a little enviously. The whole street was lined with huge, expensive houses securely nestled behind lush green hedges.
The Hyde-Porter house was a white brick mansion. Marble steps led up to its dark mahogany front door with a gleaming brass lion’s-headknocker. “I wonder,” George mused as they walked up the three steps, “how many movie stars live in this block.”
“Movie stars?” Bess squealed. “Do you really think—”
“Shh,” Nancy cautioned. “I hear someone coming.”
The front door opened, and a young woman stood looking at them. Her shining dark hair was pulled dramatically over one ear. She was wearing a white silk tunic over white silk pants and Egyptian thong sandals. She made Nancy feel very young and unsophisticated.
“Amanda?” Nancy asked. The woman nodded. “I’m Nancy Drew,” Nancy said. “And these are my friends, Bess Marvin and George Fayne. Brent Kincaid suggested that we talk with you about the Napoleon manuscript.”
“I was expecting you,” Amanda said. “Come in.” They stepped onto the black- and white- checkered marble floor of the foyer. Amanda led them into an enormous library, lined floor to ceiling with books.
Nancy looked around. She had never seen so many books in a private home—and many of them looked valuable, if she could judge by their leather and gilt bindings. “This is quite a collection,” she said.
“My father’s,” Amanda said shortly. “I inherited it. Mostly. I have bought one or two volumes, and I’ve sold one or two pieces. I waspreparing to sell the Napoleon manuscript, which I had bought. In fact, I even had a buyer who had made a fabulous offer. Unfortunately, it was a lot more than the insurance company is willing to pay.” She gestured toward some leather chairs, and the girls all sat. “I’m not sure why Brent thought we should talk,” she said. “The insurance company is handling the investigation, and I don’t really have anything to—”
“He suggested it,” Nancy said, “because he thought there might be a connection between your loss and his.”
Amanda raised her carefully shaped eyebrows. "His loss? I don’t understand.”
Nancy told her briefly about the burning of the Napoleon miniature and the extortion note Brent had received. “Are any of the details of Brent’s case similar to yours?” she finished.
“Well, there is one similarity,” Amanda said, tapping her manicured nails on the arm of her chair. “I also got an extortion note on gray notepaper with a red border. It said pretty much the same thing—that I had twenty-four hours to come up with the money, or else I’d lose the manuscript.”
“You decided not to pay up?” George asked.
Amanda’s dark eyes were cool, her face calm. “I don’t like extortion,” she said. “I called the police immediately. They put a guard on the room where the manuscript was kept. But theguard was totally useless. The next morning, I discovered—”
There was a squeal of tires just then in the drive outside, followed by the sound of the front door banging open. “Amanda!” a woman’s voice cried hysterically. “Amanda, where are you?”
“I’m in the library, Diana,” Amanda called.
They heard feet racing through the hall, and then a redheaded young woman burst in through the doorway. She was dressed in green silk pants and a blue shirt, with heavy gold chains around her neck and gold bracelets clanking on both wrists. With a theatrical gesture, she flung her arms into the air.
“Oh, Amanda!” she wailed tragically. “They’re going to destroy Josephine’s dress! You have to help me stop them!”
Amanda stood up and took the young woman by the shoulders. “Calm down, Diana,” she said in a firm voice, “and tell me what happened.”
“What happened?” Diana said shrilly, collapsing dramatically onto a sofa. “If I don’t come up with a million dollars by tomorrow night, the Empress’s Flame will be destroyed!”
Chapter Three
Bess looked confused. “Flame?” she asked. “They’re going to destroy a flame?”
“It’s a dress,” Amanda told her. “Diana owns a world-famous collection of old clothes. One piece is called the Empress’s Flame. It’s a valuable old dress—”
Diana sat up and began to dry.her eyes. “It’s a priceless antique dress,” she said emphatically. “It was worn by the empress Josephine at her husband’s coronation—”
"Napoleon's?” Nancy asked, interrupting. Three cases of extortion and arson involving Napoleonic relics—they had to be related.
Diana nodded. Tears brimmed in her eyes again. “Amanda, where am I going to get a million dollars by tomorrow night? I know whathappened to your manuscript and Brent’s miniature. They’ll get the dress and bum it—I know they will. And you know I don’t have any—”
Amanda patted Diana’s shoulder gently. “Now, stop worrying, Diana,’’ she said, comforting her friend. “I’m sure we can stop them somehow. It’s lucky you came when you did. This is Nancy Drew,” she added, nodding toward Nancy. “She’s a famous detective. Maybe she and her associates can help you.”
“Oh, could you?” Diana exclaimed. She cast a wide-eyed, hopeful look at Nancy and the others. “If you could do something—anything—to save the Empress’s Flame, I’d be so grateful.”
“Do you happen to have the extortion note with you?” Nancy asked.
“I do,” Diana said. She fished in the pocket of her pants and pulled out a crumpled piece of gray paper. She thrust it at Nancy. "Keep the awful thing,” she said, her voice breaking dramatically. “I don’t want to look at it again.”
Nancy smoothed the note. “ ‘It’ll cost you a million to keep the Flame,’” she read aloud. “‘You have until tomorrow night to find the money.’ ”
George looked at Amanda. “Is this the same paper your extortion note was written on?” she asked.
Amanda nodded. “I recognize the red border. My note also asked for a million dollars.”
“But I don’t have a million!” Diana cried, burying her face in her hands.
“But maybe you have another choice,” Amanda interrupted. “Maybe Nancy could guard the Flame. That is, if you’d be willing, Nancy.”
But Nancy thought of a better idea. “How about substituting a copy of the Flame?” she asked. “That way, the original would be safe while we used the copy to trap the arsonist.”
“Great idea!” Amanda said enthusiastically. She turned to Diana. “I know a costumer for one of the studios who could easily make a copy of the Flame. She works incredibly fast, too. Do you have a photo of the dress? I think she could work from that.”
Diana nodded eagerly. “I’ve got the perfect shot,” she said.
“Wonderful,” Nancy said. She looked at the note again. “I think the real dress is safe until tomorrow evening. But you’d better arrange for a police guard starting sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
“A police guard?” Diana wailed. “But what about my party? Tomorrow I’m giving my biggest party of the year, and I can’t have the police crawling all over my house. They’d ruin everything!”
“Well, in that case,” Amanda asked reasonably, “would you be willing to guard the dress, Nancy?”
“Oh, please say you will, Nancy,” Diana said plaintively.
Nancy thought quickly. Being on the scene would give her a much better chance to catch the extortionist. “I’ll be happy to guard it,” she said. “I think we should swap dresses and set up the guard in the afternoon. If the dress is ready, that is.”
She turned to Amanda. “I asked Brent to suggest any possible suspects in the case. Can you think of anyone who might have a motive for these crimes?”
Amanda looked troubled. “There is one person, but—no, I guess she wouldn’t be...” Her voice trailed off, and Nancy wondered if she was trying to protect someone. “Well, you might at least want to talk to her,” Amanda said at last. “Her name’s Professor Nicole Ronsarde, and I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who hates Napoleon as much as she does.”
“Hates Napoleon?” Bess asked blankly. “Why would anybody hate somebody who’s been dead for a couple hundred years? It doesn’t sound rational.”
Amanda shook her head sadly. “That’s just the point. It isn’t rational. Professor Ronsarde can trace her family back to the time of Napoleon. One of her ancestors was tortured by Napoleon. She’s a real nut on the subject—shejust hates him. I know all this because I was a student of hers once.”
It sounded to Nancy as if Professor Ronsarde would be worth investigating. “Where can I find her?” Nancy asked.
“She lives on a houseboat at Marina del Rey,” Amanda told her. “I can give you the dock number.” She turned solicitously to Diana. “Are you feeling better now?”
“Oh, yes,” Diana said cheerfully. “Now that I know the Flame will be safe, I can enjoy my party. Amanda, you have the best ideas.”
“Why don’t you give Nancy your address, Diana?” Amanda suggested. “She and her friends can be on their way while I call the costumer and help you with your plans for tomorrow.”
Diana jotted down her address and handed it to Nancy. “I live in Beverly Hills. Come dressed for a party,” she said to the three girls, smiling happily. “We’ll have a fabulous time.”
“What a flake,” George muttered as they walked down the circular drive to Mr. Talbot’s car. “That Diana’s a character.”
“Yes, but a party," Bess said, her eyes sparkling. “A real Beverly Hills party! I wonder what we should wear?”
“We’re not going to be guests, Bess,” Nancy reminded her. “Probably no one will even see us. But tonight you’ll get a chance to party. Mark’s taking you out, isn’t he?”
“Uh-huh,” Bess said, and she fell into a daydream, forgetting everything but Mark.
***
The next morning the girls drove south from Los Angeles to Venice, a colorful community of artists’ shops and inviting-looking restaurants clustered picturesquely beside the ocean. As they walked along the famous Venice boardwalk, they constantly had to dodge skateboarders and rollerskaters.
“Everyone’s on wheels here!” Bess said, giggling. It was her first real comment of the day. All she’d done till then was sigh and say what a great time she’d had with Mark. That was it—nothing else.
“Look, Nancy, isn’t that what we’re after?” George asked, pointing to a sign in a window.
Nancy glanced up. They were standing in front of a tiny shop. On its window, in ornate gold letters, was printed Wellington’s art and antiques. The shade was pulled down, so the girls couldn’t see inside. A sign on the door said, “Open at 11.”
Nancy glanced at her watch. “It’s ten-thirty,” she said. “Let’s have something to drink while we wait for Peter Wellington.”
The girls headed across the street toward a small cafe with bright red sidewalk tables. They chose a table in the sunshine, ordered lemonade, and sat back to watch the parade of people on the boardwalk.
“Wow, look at that tan,” Bess exclaimed as a guy walked into the cafe balancing a surfboard on his head. “And those muscles! What a hunk!”
“Watch it, Bess.” George laughed. “You might forget Mark.” She turned just then and saw a guy step off a skateboard and prop it up against a table while he ordered iced tea. His T-shirt was blazoned with the words “Skateboard Champion.” “Champion, huh?” she muttered skeptically. “I’ll bet I could show him a trick or two on that skateboard.”
Nancy laughed and leaned back in her chair. George, a gifted athlete, could never resist a challenge. “Go to it, George,” she teased.
Then she frowned. The door of Wellington’s shop—the door that bore the “Closed” sign— had just opened. A handsome, dark-bearded young man stepped out, looked around furtively as if to be sure he wasn’t being followed, and disappeared around the corner.
“I wonder who that is?” Nancy murmured. “Let’s go over and check it out.”
Bess paid the tab and joined Nancy and George across the street. Nancy tried the doorknob of the shop. It turned easily. The three girls slipped inside.
The shop was in deep shadow. Only a dim, dusty light filtered in around the front window shade. Nancy shivered, wrinkling her nose against the musty odor of old books. In thedarkness she heard a clock ticking and the eerie tinkling of a small mechanical music box.
The walls of the tiny shop were covered with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with dusty antiques: old-fashioned gold jewelry, leather-bound books, a pair of tarnished swords, a plumed soldier’s helmet. Mysterious shapes loomed out at them from the shadows, and a gilt-framed portrait of Napoleon frowned solemnly down from high on a wall.
“This is like a museum,” Bess whispered.
Nancy looked around. The shop was like a museum, and she’d have bet that nothing had been sold out of it for years. No wonder Brent had said that Wellington was more of a collector than a dealer. The man who had gathered all this stuff must be at least a little crazy, she thought. But was he crazy enough to want to destroy a painting he couldn’t add to his collection? And what about Amanda’s manuscript and the Empress’s Flame?
Suddenly there was a muted clatter from the back of the shop. Nancy and her friends stiffened. A dusty velvet curtain covering the doorway to the back stirred for an instant as if touched by a sudden wind and then parted slightly. And in the next second Nancy found herself looking down the gaping muzzle of an antique musket!
Chapter Four
“What are you girls doing in my shop?” a voice demanded crankily from behind the curtain. ‘‘Didn’t you see the sign on the door?”
“But we saw someone come out,” Nancy managed to say while staring at the musket. “And we thought you were open.” The gun looked too old to do much damage, but she couldn’t be sure. She swallowed. “Would you mind putting that gun down? It’s making me nervous.”
Still holding the musket, a man emerged from behind the green velvet curtain. He looked as if he were in his sixties, with wispy gray hair and a straggly Van Dyke beard. A red paisley shawl was draped over his stooped shoulders. He peered down at the gun cradled in his arm.“Gun? Oh, yes. Pardon me, ladies. I was adjusting the flintlock, you see, and—” Suddenly he scowled at them. “You haven’t answered my question. What do you want? Didn’t you see the sign on the door?”
“We’d like some information,” Nancy said. “My name is Nancy Drew. I’m a private detective, and I’m investigating a case of arson. Brent Kincaid’s miniature portrait of Napoleon was burned on Friday. Do you know anything about it?”
Peter Wellington cackled scornfully. “What do I know? I know it was a case of just retribution, that's what I know. That painting was never meant to be owned by Kincaid. Why, he wouldn’t know an antique from a piece of junk. And just look at the way he got his hands on it. Dishonest, that’s what I say.”
Nancy’s ears pricked up. “Just how did Brent acquire the miniature?” she asked. “And how much did he pay for it?”
Wellington laughed sarcastically. “Why, young lady, it didn’t cost him a penny. Brent Kincaid won that miniature—in a poker game.”
“A poker game?” George repeated.
“Kincaid is L.A.’s biggest playboy gambler,” Wellington said, emphasizing his words with a wave of the musket. “He won that miniature from Sheik Abdullah.”
“Sheik who?” Nancy asked incredulously.
“Sheik Hassan Karim Abdullah,” Wellington said. “Lives in the most expensive house in Malibu.” He peered craftily at Nancy. “If I were trying to solve this case, I’d have a serious talk with Abdullah. Maybe the sheik didn’t take kindly to losing his favorite portrait.”
“And you?” Nancy asked quickly. “How did you feel when Kincaid refused to sell you the miniature?”
Wellington turned and put the gun in a rack on the wall. Beside Nancy, Bess breathed an audible sigh of relief. “You win some, you lose some,” Wellington replied. “At my age, I’m philosophical about such things. But I do hate to see a fine piece like that destroyed. It was a shame about the fire.”
Nancy frowned. What Wellington had said sounded reasonable enough, but he had avoided her eyes when he answered the question. Did he know more than he was telling her?
“I must say, the subject seems to be a popular one,” Wellington went on. “The young man who was in here just before you also asked about Kincaid’s miniature.”
“A young man? Did he have a beard?” Nancy asked, remembering the guy she’d seen furtively leaving the shop.
Wellington nodded.
“Did you get his name?”
“Never thought to ask it. He wanted to know about other local collectors of Napoleonic relics. I gave him some names—Amanda Hyde-Porter, Diana Normandy—”
Nancy cleared her throat. “Diana Normandy? Doesn’t she own the Empress’s Flame?” she asked casually.
Wellington nodded. “A real jewel of a dress. I tried to buy it from her, but she refused. Something about her uncle’s will. I’m an expert, you see, at restoring old costumes—although I must say, that gown is in remarkable condition. It doesn’t need any work.”
So Wellington had tried to buy Diana’s dress. Everything he said seemed to bring him closer to the crimes. “What about Amanda Hyde-Porter?” Nancy asked.
“It was a real pity about that manuscript.” Wellington gave a heavy sigh. “I spotted it just as it came on the market, but Amanda beat me to it. It was a treasure.” He scowled at Nancy. “If you’re thinking I put a torch to that script, forget it. I wanted it, to be sure. But I would never harm an antique just to get even with somebody. That would be madness. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
As she preceded Bess and George out onto the sunny street, Nancy tried to decide what she thought of Peter Wellington. Was he putting on an act? It was hard to imagine him setting fire to anything—especially an antique—but there was something almost fanatical about him. And that bothered her.
At least he had given her a new lead—Sheik Hassan Karim Abdullah—and a question to answer. Who was the bearded young man she had seen leaving Wellington’s shop? And what was his interest in this case?
***
“Well, here we are,” Nancy announced a few hours later, swinging the white Lincoln into the palm-bordered drive that led up to Diana Normandy’s Beverly Hills mansion.
Bess leaned forward and nervously scrutinized herself in the car’s mirror. “Do you think we’re dressed okay for the party?” she asked. Back at the hotel after their morning in Venice, she had changed into a peach-colored dress that emphasized her curvy figure and had fastened her shoulder-length blond hair back with gold clips.
“You and Nancy both look terrific,” George said. George looked great herself in a lipstick-red jumpsuit and red sandals.
Nancy checked her makeup quickly. She’d chosen a pair of white linen pants and a gold top that brought out the bright highlights in her red-blond hair. “Okay, gang,’’ she said, getting out of the car. “Let’s get to work.”
Diana’s house is even more imposing than Amanda’s, Nancy thought as a uniformed maid answered the doorbell and let them in. Outside, it looked like a transplanted Southern plantation house, with tall white pillars spaced acrossthe front. Inside, it was crammed with artwork—paintings, sculpture, books, costumes.
“Isn’t this a fabulous place?’’ Diana asked, rushing toward them. She was wearing a long black frizzy wig with a leopard-printed minidress cinched in at the waist with a heavy gold belt. She giggled. “I inherited it all from my uncle Samuel. If it were up to me, I’d sell all this stupid old junk in a minute and spend it all on parties. Unfortunately, my uncle’s will forbids me to sell any—”
“So there you are, Diana,” Amanda said, interrupting and running up behind her friend. She turned to Nancy. “Oh, hi, Nancy. I’m glad you’re here.” She lowered her voice. “The dressmaker delivered the substitute gown a little while ago. Both of the dresses are upstairs in the costume display room. And you don’t need to worry. The locks on the display cases are burglar-proof. Come on up—we’ll show you.”
Nancy and her friends followed Diana and Amanda up the stairs to a large paneled room whose walls were lined with glass cases displaying costumes of all periods. On one side of the room, French doors were open. They led onto a balcony that overlooked a lush green garden and an enormous swimming pool. Already, maids in black uniforms were laying out a lavish buffet on tables beside the pool, and a band was setting up.
“Look, Nancy!” George exclaimed, pointingto a gown hung on a dress form in front of a closed case.
Nancy took a deep breath. “So this is the Flame,” she said admiringly. The bare-shouldered gown was made of flame-colored satin with a subtle pattern woven into it. It had a high waistline and short, puffed sleeves. An ornate gold brooch, shaped like a crown, was fastened to the bodice. “It’s beautiful,” she added. “And in such good condition! You’d never know it’s almost two hundred years old.”
“Actually, it’s not,” Amanda corrected her. “That’s the copy. This is the Flame.” She unlocked a display case and took out another gown draped on a dress form.
“Why,” Bess exclaimed, her eyes widening, “it’s identical!”
“Of course,” Amanda said with a laugh. “That’s the point, isn’t it? We want the extortionist to mistake the copy for the original.”
“But this dress doesn’t look two hundred years old either,” George said, fingering the real Flame’s fabric. “It looks brand—”
Outside, the musicians crashed into a rock tune and drowned out her words completely.
“Do I have to hang around up here, Amanda?” Diana asked, raising her voice. “People will be arriving any minute now, and I want to—”
“Oh, go on,” Amanda said a little impatiently. She turned to Nancy. “That reminds me—there’s something I have to attend to, Nancy. Would you mind putting the original dress away for me?”
Nancy looked around the room. “We’re going to hide it in one of the locked cases,” she said. “But we’ll leave the copy out in plain sight.”
“Whatever you say. You’re in charge.” Amanda handed Nancy the keys. “Let me know if you need anything, and I’ll check in with you when I get a chance. Good luck!” With a quick smile, she followed Diana out of the room.
Bess leaned forward and touched the Flame reverently. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked, awe in her voice. “Just imagine—the empress Josephine wore this very dress herself.”
“It is lovely,” George said. “With the shimmering fabric in that color, I see why it’s called the Flame. I can’t get over how new it looks.”
“Obviously it’s been very well preserved,” Nancy said. “It was probably in a museum somewhere until Diana’s uncle bought it.”
“I’d love to try it on,” Bess said, still looking wistfully at the Flame. “But I’d need to lose another five pounds. Actually, it’s about your size, George.” She turned to Nancy. “Do you suppose it’d be all right if George tried it on?”
“That’s an antique! It’s irreplaceable. You could ruin it if you tried it on,” Nancy said.
“I don’t agree,” said George, gently fingering the sleeve of the dress. “The fabric looks as though it’s in perfect condition. And it alsolooks as though it would fit me perfectly. Oh, come on, Nan! Just this once! I’ll never get another chance to wear something an empress wore.”
Nancy reached out and touched the fabric herself. George was right—it did seem to be in perfect condition. “Okay,” she finally said. “But only for a minute. And please, please, be careful!”
It took only a minute for George to step out of her jumpsuit and pull the Flame over her head. There was a long mirror on one side of the room, and she turned around in front of it, adjusting the gold brooch on the bodice.
“Oh, George,” Bess said in an awestruck voice. ‘‘You look just like an empress! You’re beautiful!”
Nancy stared at her friend. In Empress Josephine’s gown, shoulders back, head held high and proud, George did look like a queen. It was a remarkable transformation. ‘‘I think you missed your calling, George,” Nancy said with a laugh. ‘‘You should have been an empress. Okay, you guys, let’s put the dress away for safekeeping right now. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to—”
George took one more turn in front of the mirror. Then she stopped, a puzzled look on her face. Her fingers went to the golden crown at the bodice. ‘‘You know, something seems odd aboutthis dress, Nancy,” she said. “Something—” And then she let out a terrified shriek.
Nancy whirled around. There was a soft hiss, and two wings of bright flame flared where the bodice met the skirt of the Empire-style gown. In an instant the fire had ignited the bodice, and the sleeves and the skirt were veiled in a curtain of smoke.
In another few seconds George would be a human torch!
Chapter Five
Without an instant’s hesitation, Nancy spun George around and threw her to the floor.
“Roll, George!” she shouted. “It’s your only chance! Roll!” While she was barking orders at George, Nancy picked up one corner of the oriental rug covering the floor and ran with it toward George. With one enormous tug, she lifted it high and covered her friend, beating out the last licks of tiny flame.
George staggered to her feet. She was groggy from the smoke and in shock. Lurching wildly, she went out on the balcony for some fresh air. She fell against the railing and continued to fall—headlong over the rail—straight into the pool twenty-five feet below. A split second later, Nancy followed.
The water closed over Nancy’s head, but she surfaced quickly, gulping great lungfuls of air. George! Where was George? She didn’t see her anywhere.
“There she is!” a man yelled from the edge of the pool.
“I’ll get her!” another man shouted. Nancy heard a splash as somebody dived in.
“Nancy!” Bess cried from the balcony. “I think she’s unconscious.”
Nancy heaved herself out of the pool. On the other side a crowd was gathering as a man in the water was supporting George’s limp body. Nancy dashed around the pool and helped to pull George from the water.
“Artificial respiration!” a woman gasped. “Give her artificial respiration!”
“No,” the man answered. “She’s breathing.”
Gently Nancy touched George’s forehead. She was unconscious and breathing rapidly; there was a lump the size of an egg on her forehead. The Empress’s Flame, charred and wet, clung to her lithe frame.
“Let’s get her inside and warm her up,” a man’s voice said. “She’s in shock.”
Nancy looked up, amazed. The voice belonged to the same bearded young man she had seen coming out of Peter Wellington’s shop earlier that morning—and he was dripping wet. He had jumped into the pool to rescue George.
Carefully, he scooped her up and carried her toward the house.
“I’ll take care of her,” Nancy told the crowd of people who’d gathered around the pool. “I’m working for Diana. You all go back and have a good time.” She didn’t want everyone trooping along behind them.
Diana was waiting for them in the den. “What happened?” she demanded as the stranger gingerly put George down on a sofa. “She’s all wet! Why did you put her on my silk sofa?” Then her eyes widened as she saw the dress. “The Flame! Oh no! Is it—?”
“How is she, Nancy?” Bess asked, dashing into the room with a blanket in her arms and Amanda on her heels.
“What’s going on?” Amanda asked. “I saw a body fall into the—” Her hand flew to her mouth when she saw George. “Oh no!”
Nancy nodded grimly. “It’s the Flame, I’m afraid. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. George was wearing it when it suddenly went up in—” She stopped. George’s eyelids were flickering open. “George, are you all right?” Nancy asked.
George choked and struggled to sit up. “I—I think so,” she said in a dazed voice. “I’m just—dizzy, that’s all.”
“You’ve got a few bums. I think we’d better get you to the hospital,” Nancy told her. “The lump on your head doesn’t look serious, but it wouldn’t hurt to have it examined, just to ruleout concussion. And we do have to see how badly you’ve been burned.”
“I’ll take her.” It was Brent Kincaid. Nancy hadn’t seen him come in, but now he was standing next to Amanda. “My car’s right outside.”
“Good,” Nancy said. “But first we need to get her out of that wet dress. I don’t think she’s so badly burned that we have to leave it on her.”
After everyone had left the room, Nancy and Bess carefully peeled George out of the dress and wrapped her in the blanket. “Nan, I should have listened to you. The Flame is ruined,” George said, staring woefully at the charred and tattered dress. “Look, even the brooch is gone.”
“It’s my fault too,” Bess said. “I feel like such a— What are you doing, Nancy?”
Nancy was bent over the dress, examining it closely. “I’m trying to figure out how the fire started,” she said. “I mean, this whole thing is crazy. The flames just leaped out of nowhere!”
“Brent’s brought the car to the front door,” Amanda said, walking back into the room with Diana.
“Okay, we’re coming,” Nancy replied. “It would probably be a good idea to take the Flame back upstairs and lock it up.”
Amanda nodded. “I’ll do it right away,” she promised. She gestured to the patio. “But first I think I’d better let everybody know that things are under control.”
“Of course,” Nancy said absently. She turned to Diana. “What can I say? I’m so sorry this happened. It was completely unprofessional of me to let George try on the dress. I—I wish I could—”
“Well, I am upset, naturally, but there’s no use thinking about it now,” Diana cut in. “I’ll just have to live with it, I guess. You’d better get George to the hospital, and we can talk about this later.”
“All right,” Nancy said bleakly.
***
It was several hours later when Nancy got back to Diana’s mansion. Amanda met her at the front door. “How’s George?” she asked.
“The doctor says she’s going to be okay,” Nancy said. “She was lucky. She got out of it with only a few bums and a headache. Bess took her back to the hotel in a taxi.” She paused for a moment and listened to the loud music and voices from the back of the house. “It sounds as if the party’s still going on.”
Amanda smiled. “Diana’s parties always go on—and on and on.” Then she grew serious. “I suppose you want to look at the remains of the Flame. It’s upstairs, with the copy.”
Nancy nodded and followed Amanda up to the display room. “There must be some clue to what started the fire,” Nancy said. “I expected to find some trace of an incendiary device whenI looked at the dress earlier. But I didn’t see a thing.”
As they reached the door of the room, Diana joined them. Nancy turned to her. ‘‘Do you have the key to this room, Diana?”
‘‘Oh, the room’s not locked,” Amanda said. She pushed on the door. It swung open.
‘‘Don’t you think it should be locked?” Nancy asked.
Diana looked confused. ‘‘Well, I—”
‘‘We didn’t really think we needed to lock it,” Amanda interrupted. ‘‘After all, the arsonist has already done his work, hasn’t he? The Flame’s destroyed.”
Nancy sighed. Don’t remind me, she thought. She knew it would be a long time before she could forgive herself for what had happened. ‘‘I suppose you’re right,” she said.
The room was dark. Nancy switched on the lights—and what she saw stopped her in her tracks. The dress forms were there, but they were both empty.
Behind Nancy, Amanda gasped and Diana gave a loud shriek. ‘‘The gowns have been stolen!” Diana cried. ‘‘The Flame is gone!”
Chapter Six
Outside, the musicians had taken a break, and Diana’s voice was loud in the silence. “There’s a thief in my house! I’m going to call the police!”
“But I—I don’t understand,” Amanda said, her forehead wrinkled. “Who would steal a damaged antique gown? And what would anyone want with a copy?”
“Obviously,” Nancy said, “the thief didn’t want anybody to examine that dress. He might have taken the copy just to confuse the issue. Or he might not have been sure which one was real. And, of course, hiding the dresses also hides any clue to how the Flame caught on fire.”
Suddenly the sound of a shuffling step in the hallway caught her attention. Nancy steppedswiftly and silently to the door and yanked it open.
Outside, bent over slightly as though he’d been listening, stood the bearded, good-looking man she had seen coming out of Wellington’s shop—the same one who had pulled George out of the pool.
“Oh, hello,’’ the young man said mildly, straightening up. He brushed his sun-streaked brown hair back with his fingers and smiled. “I thought I saw you come upstairs. I just wanted to ask about your friend George. Is she all right?’’
Nancy stared at him suspiciously. He returned her gaze, his blue-green eyes steady. She was positive that he’d been eavesdropping outside the door. Why? What was his connection to the case? “The doctor said she’d be okay with a little rest,” she said. “Uh, what did you say your name was?”
“Oh, Chad!” Diana exclaimed, dashing into the hall. “I understand that you're the one who jumped into the pool to save Nancy’s friend from drowning.” She fluttered her long eyelashes flirtatiously. “Chad Bannister is my new neighbor,” she said.
Chad grinned at Nancy, and a dimple formed in his cheek. He was gorgeous, Nancy thought. “Could you tell your friend that I’ll give her a call this evening? Whenever I save a girl from drowning, I like to check up on her.”
“Miss Normandy?” A maid was standing in the doorway. “The police are here.”
“Oh! Send them up,” Diana said. “Nancy, we called the police. It’s not that I don’t think you’re—I just wanted to call in the police for the record.”
“It’s a formality for the insurance company,” Amanda interrupted. “After discussing it, we definitely want you to stay on the case, Nancy—so don’t worry about that.”
I’ll try not to, Nancy thought.
***
George put down the telephone beside the sofa in their hotel suite. Her cheeks were pink, her dark eyes sparkling. “Is Chad Bannister really that good-looking, Nancy?” she asked.
“What’s the matter, George?” Bess teased. “Can’t you remember?”
George touched the lump on her head, looking frustrated. “That’s the funny part,” she said. “I can’t remember anything from the time I put on the dress until I woke up on the sofa.”
“I know your head s