The Case of the Lost Song

  Contents

  1. Blast from the Past

  2. Oldies but Goodies

  3. Double Vision

  4. Without a Trace

  5. The Truth Will Out

  6. Partners in Crime?

  7. Not So Candid Camera

  8. A Thief in the House

  9. Nancy Nabbed

  10. Pretty as a Picture

  11. Caught in the Act

  12. Bad News Blues

  13. Double Exposure

  14. A Clever Ruse

  15. Over the Edge

  1. Blast from the Past

  “Nancy! You're drenched!” Bess Marvin wailed one

  stormy October Friday as her friend Nancy Drew

  dashed up the steps of the Lakeview University Sports

  and Recreation Center. A red-and-gold banner,

  reading Old Can Be Gold, snapped over the entrance

  in the gusty wind.

  Protected from the rain by the portico, Bess had the

  hood of her pink vinyl raincoat turned down and was

  fluffing out her straw blond hair. Bess's cousin and

  Nancy's other best friend, George Fayne, stood beside

  a large parcel swathed in black plastic trash bags. The

  three girls had driven to Chicago to check out the

  antiques and collectibles appraisal show.

  Nancy threw back the hood of her slicker and shook

  out her thick red-blond hair. “My socks may be soaked,

  but at least this isn't!” The eighteen-year-old produced

  a blue plastic folder from under her raincoat. Her blue

  eyes shone with delight as she announced, “My dad's

  Al Capone Wanted poster is still in perfect condition.”

  “And the poster's what counts here,” Bess declared.

  “While you were parking, I picked up our admission

  tickets and a brochure.” The corners of several pages

  were already dog-eared. “There's a guy here who owns

  Crime Shoppers and Pop Smart. His blurb says he's

  interested in all sorts of crime memorabilia.”

  “Let's go for it,” Nancy said.

  The three friends marched into the state-of-the-art

  sports facility and lined up to check their coats. A large

  crowd bearing shopping bags, carryalls, and carefully

  wrapped bundles milled around the spacious lobby.

  Nancy smiled as she glanced at George and Bess in

  front of her. They were cousins and best friends but so

  different. Blue-eyed Bess, curvy, fair, and on the short

  side, was passionate about shopping, clothes,

  decorating magazines, antiques, and boys— not

  necessarily in that order. Tall, slim, athletic, with a mop

  of short dark curls and sparkling brown eyes, George

  vastly preferred wilderness camping to hanging out at

  malls.

  George bent over and unwrapped her bundle,

  revealing a rectangular worn brown leatherette suitcase

  with metal hardware on the corners. The hardware was

  dull, rusty, and dented.

  “What's that?” Nancy asked as George folded up the

  trash bags and stuffed them into her jacket pocket.

  “An old reel-to-reel tape recorder.”

  “Where'd you find it?” Bess asked.

  “Under the eaves in the attic. I bet it's been there

  since before we bought the house.”

  “I hope it didn't get wet,” Nancy commented.

  “It was all wrapped up. But considering how long it's

  been up there, it could be moldy and useless.”

  “Didn't you bother to see if it works?” Bess sounded

  shocked.

  “No, actually,” George admitted with a sheepish

  grin. “I didn't even look for anything to bring until this

  morning.”

  Bess sighed and patted her small pink handbag. “I

  only hope Grandma Marvin's Depression-era bracelet

  is a treasure. Not that I wouldn't love it even if it's

  totally worthless,” she added, then stepped up to the

  coat check.

  Smiling at the girls, the woman behind the counter

  took their coats. “Hope you enjoy Old Can Be Gold,”

  she told them, handing Nancy all three tags. “Keep

  your ticket stubs—the admission is good for the

  weekend. And we also have a door-prize drawing every

  three hours.” She checked her watch and made a face.

  “You missed the last one for today, but starting at ten

  tomorrow we'll resume the drawings. Prizes are

  donated by the appraisers and range in value from a

  couple of bucks up to three hundred dollars. If you

  like, you can bring your things to those long sorting

  tables where workers will direct you to the right

  appraisers. Or you can just browse the show.”

  “We already know about one appraiser,” Bess told

  her, “so I think we'll head over there.”

  The girls made their way into the cavernous gym-

  nasium until they were standing in an aisle, staring at a

  sign: Crime Memorabilia and Pop Culture Treasures.

  “I guess this is the place,” Nancy said, “though I

  don't see any appraiser around.” As she approached,

  she saw the table was covered with a green felt cloth.

  On it she spotted an old fingerprinting kit. The long

  narrow box was open, its contents protected by an

  acetate sleeve. Inside the red-and-black checkerboard

  box was a magnifying glass, a tube of powder, and some

  papers and other objects. “This must be ancient!” she

  exclaimed.

  “I guess to a girl your age, 1920 seems ancient,” a

  gruff voice interjected. “Hands off unless you want to

  buy it!”

  Annoyed by the speaker's rude tone, Nancy turned

  and glared. The man was scruffy and bearded. His hair

  was salt-and-pepper gray, and he smelled unpleasantly

  of cigarette smoke. He was only a little taller than

  Nancy, with a wiry build and muscles that bulged

  under the sleeves of his black T-shirt.

  “I wasn't going to touch it,” Nancy said.

  “Good,” the man snapped.

  “Anyway, who are you?” Bess inquired sharply.

  “Wes Clarke, proprietor of Crime Shoppers.” The

  man's brusque tone had softened slightly. “You can

  find me online at CrimeShoppers.com or right here in

  downtown Chicago.” He turned to Nancy. “Sorry to be

  so suspicious, but in my business . . .” He stroked his

  beard, then shrugged.

  For some reason this guy creeped Nancy out, and

  she said coolly, “If something's that precious, you

  should lock it up.”

  “Oh, the more valuable things are locked up, believe

  me,” he snapped right back. “So what are you girls

  interested in?”

  Nancy was tempted to say “nothing” and walk away,

  but this guy was the only crime specialist at the show.

  She silently counted to ten, then calmly opened her

  portfolio. “One of my father's clients gave him this

  poster some time ago. When I mentioned I was coming

  here, he suggested I check out the
value. You are an

  appraiser?”

  “The best in the field around here,” the man said,

  seemingly oblivious to Nancy's chilly tone. He held out

  his hand. Reluctantly Nancy passed him the poster. It

  was black and white, and the old paper was yellowed

  and fraying at the edges. With surprising care Wes

  removed it from its clear protective sleeve.

  He turned it over, held it closer to his eyes, then let

  out a snort. “Fake,” he pronounced, and gave it back to

  Nancy. “Sorry, but it's not the genuine article. At least

  a dozen of these turn up at every show.”

  Nancy frowned. “How can you tell—I mean so

  quickly?”

  Wes Clarke narrowed his eyes. “I am an expert. But

  if you want the details, it's simple. This is computer

  generated. Nineteen-twenty is pretty ancient when it

  comes to printing processes. In those days posters were

  done on presses, with moveable type. This is obviously

  a photo reproduction.”

  “But the paper's old,” Bess pointed out.

  “About a year old, if that,” Clarke responded. “It's

  artificially aged to look old. Believe me, these are

  pretty good fakes, but they can't fool anyone who

  knows the first thing about collectibles from the pe-

  riod.”

  “So it's worthless?” George asked.

  “Pretty much. Now, if it were the real thing, it would

  be worth quite a bit. Maybe even a thousand bucks.”

  Nancy inserted the poster in the protective sleeve

  and put it back in her folder. “I'm half tempted to just

  toss it,” she said.

  “Don't do that,” Wes said. “It's fun to frame and put

  up in your room, or wherever. Some folks find the

  gangster era here in Chicago romantic.”

  Nancy frowned. The idea of bootleggers gunning

  one another down ranked far down the list of what

  Nancy considered romantic.

  Clarke didn't seem to notice her distaste. “That's

  what keeps me in business. The next best thing to

  knowing how to commit the perfect crime is collecting

  memorabilia from notorious criminals.”

  “That's weird,” Bess said.

  “To each his own,” Clarke countered, then his eyes

  lit on George's tape recorder. “That's probably not

  worth much either—yet,” he told her. “But hold on to

  it. Another fifty years and it'll be a real collectible.

  Reel-to-reel machines are going to be as valuable as

  early nineteenth-century cameras are now.” As he

  spoke, a man with a framed Humphrey Bogart movie

  poster walked up. The appraiser turned to him, and the

  girls hurried away.

  “Yuck,” Bess whispered to Nancy. “That guy was

  seriously creepy.”

  Nancy tried to stifle her disappointment. “I hope

  Dad isn't too let down when I tell him this is a fake.”

  Next Bess found a Depression-era jewelry appraiser.

  The woman examined the delicate bracelet Bess had

  brought. “I'm afraid these stones are only glass, so this

  probably wouldn't bring more than fifty dollars or so,

  though it is a very pretty piece. It's a copy of a Diana

  Toffel design. These red stones would be rubies in a

  genuine Toffel.” Noticing Bess's disappointed face, the

  woman patted her hand. “But this is still a very nice

  bracelet.”

  “Bess Marvin! Is that you?”

  Bess turned to her left, where a slender girl with

  chin-length silky auburn hair was smiling at her.

  “Lisa?” Bess gasped. “Lisa Perrone—what are you

  doing here?” Bess reached out and hugged her friend,

  then noticed Lisa's red Old Can Be Gold T-shirt. “You

  work for these people?”

  “I'm interning for them for the year. It's part of my

  work-study job here at Lakeview because the arts and

  antiques program includes learning appraisal work.”

  “It must be fun,” Bess said enviously, then turned

  quickly to Nancy and George. “This is Lisa Perrone.

  She worked in that antique clothing store, Threads and

  Shreds.”

  “Right before I started college,” Lisa said, offering

  her hand to Nancy and George. Bess introduced her

  friends.

  “You're not here just for the day?” Lisa asked. “It's a

  long trip to have to go back tonight.”

  “We're staying at a dorm. There was a deal for

  people who came to the show,” Nancy told Lisa.

  “You've got to stay with me,” Lisa said firmly.

  “You have space for all three of us?” George asked.

  “I have space for ten of you!” Lisa giggled. “I'm

  living at my aunt and uncle's condo. I save loads of

  money, which means I don't have to drop out of

  school.”

  “I remember you said that money was tight,” Bess

  commiserated.

  “But I've landed on my feet big time,” Lisa said.

  “The apartment is a real palace—on Lake Shore Drive.

  There are three bedrooms, three baths. Besides, if you

  guys stay with me, I can show you around a bit.”

  “You're sure it'll be okay with your aunt and uncle?”

  Bess asked.

  Lisa dismissed Bess's objections with a wave of her

  hand. “Even if they were here, they wouldn't care. But

  they're in Malaysia until early next year. I'm apartment

  sitting, actually. Anyway, tonight there's a really cool

  party. You guys have to come.”

  “Far be it from me to pass up a party,” Bess said.

  “I'm game,” George said eagerly.

  “Me, too.” Nancy grinned. Just the prospect of

  staying at a comfortable condo rather than in a dorm

  went a long way toward lifting her spirits.

  “Then it's a deal. There's plenty of parking inside

  the building.” Lisa looked at George's tape recorder.

  “Hey, is that an old tape recorder?” George nodded.

  “There's a guy who specializes in old appliances. He'd

  have a good idea what something like this is worth.”

  “Probably not much,” George said.

  Lisa shrugged. “You may be right, but, hey, you

  never know. One person's junk is another person's

  treasure. I'll walk you over to the table.”

  Leading the way, Lisa negotiated the crowd, landing

  the girls at the end of a short line of collectors hugging

  a variety of old toasters, mixers, and antique

  telephones. “You're sure this guy knows about tape

  recorders?” George whispered.

  “One of the appraisers here will,” Lisa promised.

  There were several appraisers behind the table, so

  George's turn came quickly.

  “I know this is a bit of a wreck, but you never know,”

  George told the appraiser with a self-deprecating

  laugh.

  The appraiser returned her smile. He was a

  pleasant-faced man whose suit hung loosely on his thin

  frame. He saw Lisa, and his smile stretched from ear to

  ear. “Friends of yours?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Lisa answered. “This, by the way, is Dave

  Leinberger,” she told the girls, then turned back to
/>
  Dave. “I thought this looked kind of unusual.” She

  pointed to the box.

  “It does. The carrying case is probably a custom

  job.” The appraiser carefully picked up the case and

  examined the underside. Then he carefully un-snapped

  the two metal latches on the front of the case. When he

  lifted the lid, some of the leatherette crumbled off onto

  the table.

  “It's really in bad shape,” George said, but Dave

  wasn't listening.

  “Now, this is something unusual,” he murmured. “A

  custom job. This tape recorder is professional quality.”

  He motioned for the girls to gather round. To Nancy's

  eye the machine looked pretty normal, if old. There

  was an empty reel on one side of the machine and a

  spoke to hold a second reel on the other. A row of

  knobs ran directly below the reels.

  Nancy touched a small brass knob on the front of

  the case. Until the case had been opened, it wasn't

  visible. “What's that for?”

  “Looks like a drawer of some sort,” Lisa said.

  “Let's see what's inside.” Dave eagerly opened it.

  The drawer was lined with a faded and moldy

  velvetlike fabric. A small, flat, black cardboard box was

  inside. Dave picked it up, and even though he lifted

  the cover gingerly, the cardboard began to fall apart in

  his hands. “This hasn't been stored very well,” he

  remarked with a frown.

  Nancy peered into box and saw a spool of tape. “Do

  you think anything's on it?” she asked.

  “Let's see.” Dave met Nancy's eyes and grinned.

  “This is the fun part.” He first put the tape in the

  machine, then plugged the machine in. A little red

  light lit up on the console.

  “It works!” Lisa gasped.

  “Maybe,” Dave warned. “I'm not sure the mech-

  anism isn't rusted out.” He examined the various

  knobs, then turned one.

  Both spools began to revolve; then suddenly a

  couple of guys' voices came through the speakers.

  Nancy couldn't quite make out the words. Something

  about one last shot at it. Then a voice counted, “And a

  one, and a two, and a three, and—” Suddenly a familiar

  gravelly voice began barking a version of a song Nancy

  knew from somewhere.

  “I don't believe this!” George gasped. “That sounds

  like Lou Knight.”

  “That's right,” Bess said. “But I've never heard that

  version of Dark Side Blues,' have you?” She turned to