Playing With Fire, Page 2

  “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-head knocker. “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 was preparing 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 pa
y 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 the guard 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 what happened to your manuscript and Brent’s miniature. They’ll get the dress and burn 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—she just 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 café 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 café 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 the darkness 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.