This Side of Evil

  Carolyn Keene

  This Side of Evil

  Chapter One

  “HEY, THIS ISN’T bad!” George Fayne exclaimed, looking around the nicely furnished apartment. “Not bad at all.” She sat down on the floor in front of the stereo and began to fiddle with the knobs, tuning in a rock music station. “Look—there’s even a VCR,” she added. “If we get bored, we can always rent a movie.”

  Nancy Drew shrugged out of her black linen jacket and walked into the bedroom. Twin beds—room for both her and George. Ned Nickerson, Nancy’s longtime boyfriend, could sleep on the living room sofa. “You’re right,” she agreed happily as she walked back into the living room. “Pretty neat. There’s even a kitchen, so we can fix our own meals if we want to.”

  The apartment where they were to stay during their trip to Montreal, Canada, was small. It was on the sixth floor, though, and had a terrific view of the Saint Lawrence River. Nancy went to the window and looked out across the wide and gray river, which was crowded with ships. In the distance was a green island, dotted with oddly shaped buildings.

  “That’s Sainte-Hélene’s Island,” Ned said, coming up behind Nancy. “Where Expo Sixty-seven was held.” He slipped his arm around Nancy’s shoulders affectionately. “Maybe the world-famous detective could take a couple of hours off work to go sightseeing over there,” he suggested.

  Nancy returned his hug. “I hope so,” she murmured, leaning against him. It was great to have Ned with her on this case. They’d been apart so often in the past few months that just being with him was like being on vacation—even if she did have to work. She thought back to her last case, Wings of Fear, which had taken Bess and her to Seattle, without Ned.

  Nancy was in Montreal at the request of Ashley Amberton, executive secretary at Cherbourg Industries, to investigate a blackmailing operation within the company. It shouldn’t be a big job, Ashley Amberton had told her, and it should leave some time for fun.

  First, only George was going to accompany Nancy. But since Ned was on a break from Emerson College, he decided to come along as well to give Nancy a hand and—he said—to make sure she took some time off. This couldn’t have made Nancy happier; it was spring, and spring in Montreal was beautiful and could be very romantic.

  “Can you see Olympic Stadium?” George asked eagerly, coming to the window. She ran her fingers through her short, curly dark hair. “I can’t wait to go running there.”

  “According to the map, the stadium’s over that way.” Nancy pointed upriver. “But I told you, George, I don’t think there’s a track in Olympic Stadium any longer. I’ve seen the Montreal Expos playing baseball on TV there, and I’ve never seen a track.”

  “There’s got to be a track in there somewhere,” George argued. “I mean, you don’t just destroy a place like that.” She laughed, her dark eyes sparkling. “The case of the missing track—I guess that’s the first mystery we have to solve.”

  Nancy tossed her shoulder-length reddish gold hair. “That’s your mystery,” she told George, glancing at her watch. “I’ve got my own to solve. I’d better get going.”

  “Let me get my camera, and I’ll walk with you part of the way,” Ned said, picking up his tan windbreaker. “I’m going sightseeing.”

  Cherbourg Industries Ltd. occupied a tall chrome-and-glass building on Saint-Antoine Street in downtown Montreal, only a short walk from their apartment. Nancy took the elevator to Ashley Amberton’s office on the fifteenth floor.

  The office was wonderfully luxurious. Ms. Amberton must be a powerful person at Cherbourg Industries, Nancy thought, looking around. There was a balcony overlooking the river, velvety carpet on the floor, even a television set. A large telescope stood beside the window. Curious, Nancy bent over to peer through it. All she could see, though, was a large gray cargo ship with Cherbourg on the side. It was docked beside a mountain of crates on the wharf. Not a very inspiring view.

  “And have you deduced the purpose of the telescope, Nancy Drew?” a woman asked coolly, her clipped speech emphasizing her air of efficient authority. The woman who had come into the room was tall and attractive in a tailored navy suit. Her black hair was pulled back into a French braid. Behind her black-rimmed glasses, her eyes were a pale, icy blue. She appeared to be around thirty.

  Nancy straightened up. It was definitely the woman she had spoken to on the telephone, Ashley Amberton. “I suppose,” Nancy said with a smile, “that you’re checking out the Cherbourg dockings.”

  “Exactly,” Ms. Amberton said, sitting down in the black leather chair behind the massive desk. “I report the exact time of each ship’s arrival directly to Mr. Cherbourg.” She gave Nancy a measuring look. “I must say I’m surprised. From all I’ve read about you and your successes, I expected someone older.”

  Nancy grinned and took the chair in front of the desk. It was a comment she was used to hearing from her clients. “Youth doesn’t necessarily mean inexperience, does it?” she replied meaningfully as she glanced around the elegant office. Ashley Amberton had obviously come a long way in a short time herself.

  Ms. Amberton raised her thinly plucked eyebrows and gave a crisp nod. “I trust you’re getting settled into the suite—you and your friends,” she said. “You did bring your friends?”

  Nancy nodded. “Ned’s gone sightseeing, and George is trying to find out what they’ve done with the track in Olympic Stadium. She wants to run there.”

  “Good. I hope they find Montreal interesting for the short while you’re here,” Ms. Amberton said with a smile. “I mean, this should be a very easy case for a detective of your spectacular talents, Ms. Drew. I’m sure you’ll wrap it up in no time.”

  “I hope so.” Nancy took out her notebook. “Why don’t you tell me what you know about these blackmail schemes?”

  “Very well. There are three cases, so far as I know,” Ms. Amberton said, leaning back in her chair and removing her glasses. “The first involves my secretary, Monique Levere.” She nodded toward a glass window. Nancy could see a secretary at work in the adjacent office. “Monique usually sits there, but she’s at home with the flu today.”

  Nancy raised her pencil. “Would it be possible for me to interview her at home this afternoon?”

  “Of course. I’ll have Cynthia phone and tell her to expect you.” Ms. Amberton picked up the telephone and spoke into it briefly. She sounded like someone who was used to being obeyed. In the outer office, the secretary hung up the phone and made a note on her pad.

  “The second victim,” Ms. Amberton continued, looking back at Nancy, “is one of our file clerks, Becky Evans. She works down at the end of the hall.”

  “And the third?”

  “The third,” Ms. Amberton said, “is Mr. Cherbourg’s chauffeur, Jacques Olivier. I will arrange for you to interview both of them.” She leaned forward and put her glasses back on, speaking in clipped syllables. “Even though this is a minor matter, Ms. Drew—nothing similar to the major crimes you are used to dealing with—it must be cleared up immediately. Mr. Cherbourg is concerned about his employees. He’s also worried that if people find out about this, it may reflect badly on the company. That’s why we haven’t called the police. It’s a matter of the company’s reputation.”

  “Of course,” Nancy said soothingly. “I understand how important it is to get to the bottom of this quickly.”

  “And there’s one more thing,” Ms. Amberton added. “It’s imperative that I know everything you discover, no matter how inconsequential, so that I can keep Mr. Cherbourg informed.” She tapped her long, red-polished nails against the desk. “Is that clear?”

  “Yes, of course,” Nancy said with an inward sigh. It was always better to have free rein on a case, but she could understand that M
s. Amberton needed to be on top of things. “Now, can you tell me how you learned about the blackmail? Did the victims come and tell you about it voluntarily?” Nancy couldn’t imagine wanting to tell her troubles to anyone with such cold eyes.

  Ms. Amberton lifted her chin. “Of course not,” she said. “I found a blackmail letter in Monique’s desk drawer. When I confronted her with it, she told me that it was the third one she’d received.”

  “What about the other two?”

  “A few days later I found Becky in tears in the washroom. When I pressed her, she confessed that she was also being threatened. I noticed Jacques acting strangely that same day, and he finally told me what was going on. Like Monique, they both received letters demanding money or their crimes would be revealed.”

  “How much were the payments?”

  “Small amounts—fifty or a hundred dollars at a time. Of course, none of the victims have much money to spare.”

  Nancy looked at her. Ms. Amberton’s stare was chilly. “And their crimes?”

  The woman shrugged. “Petty, of course, little things out of their pasts that they don’t want anyone to know about. A few years ago, Monique forged a check. She paid the money back, and the case was dismissed since it was her first offense. The file clerk stole some jewelry and was sent to jail for six months. And Jacques, the chauffeur—well, his crime was a good deal more serious. In fact, I haven’t even told Mr. Cherbourg about it for fear that he would dismiss Jacques.”

  Nancy frowned. “What is it?”

  “The man was involved with drugs, I’m afraid.” Ms. Amberton tapped her fingers briskly on the desk. “Mr. Cherbourg is adamant about not employing drug users.”

  Nancy closed her notebook and stood up. “I’d like to see both the file clerk and the chauffeur, please. And could you give me Monique Levere’s home address?”

  At that moment the door opened and a young woman stumbled in, looking dazed. It was the same woman who had been sitting at Monique’s desk.

  “Oh, Ms. Amberton,” she gasped. “The most awful thing has happened!” She began to cry.

  “Stop that sniffling, Cynthia,” Ms. Amberton snapped. “And speak up. What is it?”

  The young woman gulped back a sob. “It’s Monique! She tried to commit suicide this morning, and her roommate, who answered the phone in her apartment, said she will probably die!”

  Chapter Two

  MONIQUE HAD BEEN taken to the hospital in an ambulance, Nancy learned after Cynthia quieted a little. Ms. Amberton arranged for Mr. Cherbourg’s chauffeur to drive Nancy to the hospital, and he was waiting downstairs when she hurried out.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he said, opening the door of the long black limousine.

  “Bonjour,” Nancy said, climbing into the backseat. She remembered that in Montreal most people spoke French. “Could I ask you a few questions?” she began as they rushed toward the hospital. In French, Nancy asked the chauffeur about the blackmail demands he had received, but he couldn’t tell her much more than she already knew.

  “Oui,” he said. “There were letters, two of them. They wanted money, more money than I have.”

  “But you paid?” Nancy asked.

  He nodded, looking straight ahead. “When Ms. Amberton found out that I was in trouble, she lent me the money. I cannot pay her back, but at least I am no longer afraid of losing my job because I cannot meet the demands of the blackmailer.”

  Nancy frowned. She’d almost rather risk the wrath of a blackmailer than borrow money from someone like Ashley Amberton. “Did you save the blackmail letters?”

  He pulled some papers out of his uniform pocket and handed them to her. “Here they are,” he said, with what sounded like relief. “I hope you catch this crook. It is a horrible thing to be blackmailed. I live in fear every day of losing my job.”

  “I understand,” Nancy told him. “I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll do my best to get this straightened out as soon as possible.”

  She got out of the limousine in front of the hospital. Hurrying up the steps, she glanced quickly at the two letters the chauffeur had handed her. The message, typed in French, was identical in each one: “Put $2,000 in a red plastic bag and drop it into the trash can at Nelson’s Column on Monday at noon. If you don’t, your employer will learn about the drugs.”

  Monique Levere was alive, Nancy discovered, but pale and groggy after her narrow escape from an overdose of sleeping pills. There was a frightened look in her eyes as she lay in the hospital bed.

  Nancy introduced herself and asked Monique what had happened. In a small voice the young woman told Nancy that she’d been sick for a few days. She had taken a sleeping pill in the middle of the night, and the next thing she knew, she was in the emergency room having her stomach pumped.

  “I told the police a million times that I took only one pill, to help me sleep,” Monique said. “They don’t believe me, though. They say I got sleepy and took the whole bottle by mistake—or that I tried to kill myself!”

  “Did you keep the bottle beside your bed?” Nancy asked calmly.

  Monique nodded, obviously fighting hysteria. “I think somebody put something into that pill! I think somebody tried to kill me!”

  Nancy sat down beside the bed. “Can you think of a reason why someone might want to kill you?” she asked.

  Monique shook her head. “Not unless it was the blackmailer.” She gulped. “I can’t pay any more. Maybe he got tired of waiting for me to pay and decided to kill me.”

  “How much have you paid altogether?” Nancy asked.

  “Hundreds of dollars,” Monique moaned. “Maybe as much as five hundred.”

  Nancy shook her head. Five hundred dollars was not that much, really. And there was no reason to believe the blackmailer would gain anything from Monique’s death. “What did the letters say?”

  “They all said the same thing: Tut the money into a red plastic bag and throw it in the trash can at Nelson’s Column. If you don’t, your mother will find out that you are a forger and a thief.’ It was so long ago,” she added, “and in another city even. I never dreamed anyone would find out about it! I thought I was safe!”

  “Why your mother?” Nancy probed.

  Monique broke into tears. “My mother is old and sick. News like that could kill her!” She looked up imploringly, tears streaming down her face. “You’ve got to find the blackmailer, Ms. Drew! My mother’s life depends on it, and so does mine!”

  “Have you still got the letters?”

  “They’re at home.” She turned her head away, sniffling loudly. “You can have them if you want.”

  “What about the bottle of sleeping pills?” Nancy stood up to go.

  “The police took it, but I know it was empty.” She turned back toward Nancy and smiled weakly. “If you see Ms. Amberton today, please tell her that I’ll be back at work very soon. And thank her for coming to my apartment yesterday and bringing me flowers. They’re beautiful.”

  I guess I’ll have to revise my opinion of Ashley Amberton, Nancy thought as she left the room. Lending money to one of the blackmail victims, bringing flowers to a sick employee. Maybe she wasn’t really as unfeeling as she appeared.

  Nancy walked down the front stairs, biting her lip with a puzzled frown. It hardly seemed possible that a blackmailer—any blackmailer—would run the risk of discovery over such small amounts of money. And was it only hysteria, or did Monique have reason to believe that she had narrowly escaped being a murder victim?

  The chauffeur was waiting outside the hospital to drive Nancy back to the Cherbourg Building. She was silent most of the way, thinking through what she had learned so far. Monique’s story seemed convincing. Nancy was sure she honestly thought she hadn’t taken enough of the sedative to cause any harm. Had someone slipped something else into the bottle?

  “I have one more question,” she said, leaning forward to talk to the chauffeur as they wove through the heavy late-afternoon traffic on Université Ave
nue. “Do you have any idea how the blackmailer could have learned about your drug use?”

  Jacques shook his head. “No,” he replied, “but I did spend two years in prison, so I suppose it is a matter of public record.” He hesitated, glancing nervously at Nancy. “I even changed my name from Xavier to Olivier on my application for this job—just to make sure my past was not found out. I don’t know how the blackmailer has managed to trace me.”

  “Merci,” Nancy replied. “Oh, and one more thing, Jacques. Please be careful.”

  “But why?”

  “Because at least one person,” Nancy said slowly, “believes that our blackmailer may also be trying his hand at murder.”

  In the lunchroom at the Cherbourg Building, Nancy met with the file clerk, Becky Evans. Becky was a nervous little blonde with large frightened eyes. She kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure nobody was listening.

  “I’ve heard about Monique,” Becky whispered. “Is—is she going to be all right?”

  Nancy nodded. “She’s still a little groggy, but she’ll be fine in a day or two. I must tell you, though, that Monique suspects that the medication she took was poisoned,” Nancy said, stirring her coffee.

  Becky was staring at her, her eyes dark with fear. “Poison?” she whispered.

  Nancy nodded. “There’s no way to be sure, at least not yet. But you should be careful.” She took out her notebook. “Now, what can you tell me about the blackmail letters you’ve received?”

  “I’ve gotten three of them over the last six months,” Becky said, swallowing hard. Reaching into her shoulder bag, she pulled out an unopened envelope. “And here’s the fourth.” She thrust it into Nancy’s hands. “This was in my mailbox when I went home for lunch today.”

  Nancy examined it closely. It was a plain white envelope, postmarked in Montreal. “How do you know it’s from the blackmailer?”

  Becky pointed at the typed address. “Because it looks just like the others. It’s addressed to Rebecca Veronica Evans, and I never use my full name. Besides, it doesn’t have a return address. You open it. I just can’t look.”