002 Deadly Intent, Page 4

  GEORGE, CAN YOU think of any reason why Harold Marshall would want his biggest star out of the way?” Nancy asked, helping herself to a breadstick.

  “How do you know he’s not telling the truth?” George held down her napkin as a breeze drifted across the outdoor table at the café where the two girls were having lunch.

  “I don’t know. That’s the trouble. It’s so confusing. But George, even if Barton isn’t in trouble, I’m absolutely convinced that something fishy is going on.” Nancy rubbed the back of her head as proof. “But how am I supposed to know where to look when I don’t even know what I’m looking for?”

  “You tell me, Nan. You’re the detective.”

  “All I do know is that Harold Marshall is creepy. Poor Alan, getting his dream shattered by that goon.”

  “Well, someone was going to do it sooner or later. That concert last night really put stars in his eyes. I mean, he’s acting totally blind as far as realistic expectations go.” George leaned over sideways to allow the waiter to put down a bacon cheeseburger in front of each girl and a basket of french fries between them. “Thank you,” George said, reaching for a fry. “Anyway,” she continued, “Bess isn’t helping matters. The way she’s been talking, you’d think Alan was going to be the next Bruce Springsteen.”

  “Well, it’s pretty obvious that Harold Marshall cleared up that misconception quickly.”

  “Mind if we join you?” Nancy heard a familiar voice behind her. She turned around to find Bess and Alan, both smiling broadly.

  “Hi! What are you guys doing here? Bess, you said you and Alan were going to have lunch together somewhere.”

  “We were, but we stopped off at the hotel first and got the most incredible news. We just had to tell you. The hotel manager said he’d recommended this place.” Bess plopped down in an empty seat beside Nancy. Alan sat next to George.

  “So what’s happening?” Nancy asked, noting the looks of pure happiness on their faces. She was more than ready to hear some good news.

  “They’ve decided that—” Bess and Alan both began speaking at once.

  Bess laughed. “You go ahead and tell them, Alan. It’s your news.”

  “Well, Vivian from the record company called,” Alan said breathlessly, “and they’ve decided they want me to cut an album for them!”

  “What?” Nancy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But I saw Harold Marshall after you did and he said . . .” Her voice trailed off. There was no point in repeating what would only hurt Alan.

  “I know what he said.” Alan nodded. “But he must have changed his mind. There was a message from Vivian waiting for us when we got back to the hotel. I returned her call, and she told me to come right over to World Communications. Mr. Marshall wanted to congratulate me in person!”

  “What made him change his mind?” Nancy could picture the sneer on Harold Marshall’s lips as he mentioned Alan. She wouldn’t have expected him to change his mind for all the gold in Fort Knox.

  “I think it had something to do with Barton,” Alan said.

  “Barton!” Nancy sat straight up in her chair.

  “Yeah, that’s the other piece of great news,” Bess put in. “Alan saw him!”

  “When? Where?” Nancy’s head swam.

  “Right after I went back to Marshall’s office. Barton wanted to thank me for filling in for him, and he asked me to do his next couple of gigs while he stays out of the public eye for a while.”

  “You’re kidding,” Nancy said.

  “Nope. He was hanging around, waiting for a limo to take him to his beach house, that purple bandanna around his neck, sitting in an armchair drinking a beer and watching some movie on a VCR.” Alan leaned back in his chair with a happy sigh. “I guess he sort of coaxed Marshall into signing me on. And to think that until yesterday Barton was just someone I dreamed about meeting!”

  “Nan, George, isn’t it unbelievable?” Bess leaned over and grabbed Nancy’s arm.

  “Unbelievable,” Nancy echoed, meaning it more literally than Bess had. Was she to believe that Harold Marshall had so completely changed his mind about Alan? Or that the only person Barton Novak had asked to see was not a member of his own band, not a close friend or relative, but a fan he’d spoken with for no more than a few minutes?

  “Alan, are you sure about this?” she asked.

  “Sure I’m sure.” Alan grinned, his brown eyes shining. “Bess and I are going over to get a tour of the recording studios later this afternoon, and Marshall’s having Vivian draw the contracts up this week. So let’s celebrate! Lunch is on me!”

  The food was wonderful, and the weather at the outdoor patio was perfect, but throughout the rest of the meal, Nancy’s thoughts spun. If Barton was fine, there was no mystery at all, was there? But what about the wallet and the two mysterious men? And what about Harold Marshall’s offer to Alan? Just that morning, Marshall was calling Alan an idiot who “banged out a couple of Barton Novak’s riffs.” Now he was signing a record contract with him.

  Nancy had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was very wrong. But she kept her thoughts to herself until after Bess and Alan had left for World Communications. It wasn’t until she and George were on their way back to the hotel that she confided her feelings.

  “George, don’t you think Alan’s announcement was kind of, well, weird?”

  “What do you mean, Nancy?”

  “I mean, everything’s happening so fast. One day Alan’s taking guitar lessons in River Heights, and the next day he’s signing a solo recording contract with one of the biggest labels in the business. George, we both know Alan’s got a lot of talent, but this is just a little too much for me to believe.”

  “What’s not to believe? By the end of the week, Alan’s going to have a World Communications recording contract in his hands!” George was matter-of-fact. “I mean, it is pretty wild, but it’s true.”

  “I don’t know. What if Harold Marshall is stringing Alan along? I don’t like that man.”

  “You think he might not come through?” George asked. “Then why would he make the offer in the first place?”

  “I wish I could tell you.” Nancy flung her hands up in despair. “I keep trying to get answers on this case, but all I get are more questions.”

  “And what about Barton?” George voiced one more of those questions as they rounded a corner and came to their hotel.

  “Barton—a guy who agrees to disappear right before a concert he’s spent months planning. It doesn’t figure.” Nancy pressed her lips together.

  The doorman opened the hotel door, and Nancy and George crossed the tiled lobby floor to the front desk. “Well, what do you intend to do?” George asked.

  The clerk on duty handed Nancy and George their keys and also gave Nancy a slip of paper with a telephone message on it. Carl Rutland, security guard at Radio City Music Hall, it said. Found something you might want to know about. A telephone number was written at the bottom.

  “This might answer your question,” Nancy told George. “Come on. Let’s go up to my room and find out what Mr. Carl Rutland has to say.”

  • • •

  As Nancy fitted her key in the lock, she heard her telephone ringing. “Maybe that’s him calling back,” she said to George. She pushed the door open and raced for the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hi, beautiful,” a male voice said.

  “Ned! Hi!” Nancy felt herself smile at the sound of Ned Nickerson’s mellow baritone. “How are you?”

  “Curious, actually. I read in today’s paper that Barton Novak vanished right before his concert, and I was wondering what happened. Weren’t you supposed to hear Bent Fender play?”

  Nancy eased herself onto the edge of the bed. “It’s a pretty strange story. At first I was sure Barton had been kidnapped, but now it turns out that it’s really just a publicity gimmick. I think. I mean, I don’t know what to think. Ned, I don’t know if I’ve got a mystery to solve or not.” Nancy’
s words came out in a fast, nervous rush.

  “Nan,” Ned said slowly, “slow down and tell me all about it.”

  Nancy took a deep breath and recounted everything that had happened since her arrival in New York.

  When she was done, Ned let out a long, low whistle. “Sounds like you’ve run into some people who play awfully rough. That blow on the head is serious. I don’t like it at all,” he said, worry rising with his voice.

  “Ned, I’m fine,” Nancy assured him. “The worst part isn’t the bump on my head. It’s that I don’t know if the wallet has anything to do with Barton or the two men backstage, or anything. I’m so keyed up. I don’t know whether to forget this business or what.”

  “Well, how about a consultation?” Ned suggested. “Say, in about two hours? I can get on the road right away.”

  “You’re coming up from school to spend some time with me in New York? Oh, Ned, that sounds great! I’m sure you can share Alan’s room with him.”

  “Alan? You mean Bess’s new superstar? The one who was offered the recording contract?”

  Nancy frowned. “Yeah, Bess’s superstar. And Ned, maybe you can help me figure out what’s going on here.”

  “I’ll do everything I can,” Ned promised. “And if anyone tries to knock you over the head again, I’ll give them a taste of their own medicine.”

  “My hero,” Nancy giggled. “But don’t forget, I’m the one with the brown belt in karate.”

  “Do you have to remind me?” Ned said, groaning.

  “Well, I won’t try any of my new moves on you this time,” Nancy said solemnly. “Except maybe on the dance floor. Roger Gold is taking us to a wild new club tonight.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Good. It’s a date.” Before saying goodbye, Nancy gave Ned the address of the hotel. “There’s an indoor parking lot right across the street,” she added.

  “Well, you look a little happier than you did a few minutes ago,” George observed from the couch. “Love, love is the miracle drug,” she sang teasingly. It was the refrain of one of Bent Fender’s new songs.

  “George, do you think Ned’s ready to forget about Daryl?” Nancy felt herself blush.

  “I don’t know, Nan, but a few days together in the most exciting city in the world ought to do something for the two of you.”

  “Hmm. You know, this might turn out to be a good vacation after all. If I could just stop worrying about Barton, and Alan’s record contract . . .” Nancy felt herself coming down to earth. “Speaking of which, I better call that security guard back.”

  She dialed the number on the message sheet. “Hello, is this Carl Rutland?” she asked the man who answered the telephone.

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, this is Nancy Drew. From the concert last night.”

  “Oh, Miss Drew. Yes. Hello.”

  “You said you found something?”

  “That’s right. Well, first of all, whoever gave you that knock on the head came in and out by the fire escape, off one of the dance studios. When I checked the windows leading out to it, I found that one of the latches had been forced open, and we always keep them locked.”

  “Mr. Rutland, do you think someone would go through all the trouble of climbing the fire escape and breaking in just to steal a wallet?” Nancy asked.

  “Maybe. But it would be very risky. There are too many people around the Music Hall when there’s a rock concert. You know, fans come without tickets and try to scalp them or just sneak in, and they wind up hanging around outside. Anyway, there’d be too good a chance of being caught.”

  “Then,” Nancy mused aloud, “there must have been something worth far more than money in that wallet. Well, thank you for the information, Mr. Rutland.”

  “Wait, that’s not the only thing I wanted to tell you,” Carl Rutland said. “I found something outside Barton Novak’s dressing room, near all those boxes and things.”

  “You did?” Nancy was alert.

  “Yeah. A scarf. A violet-colored scarf with designs on it.”

  “Mr. Rutland,” Nancy said hoarsely, in a flash of understanding, “you mean you found a purple bandanna—a square of heavy cotton, with a sort of leafy pattern stitched on it in green?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Is it yours?”

  “No. No, it’s Barton Novak’s, sort of his good luck charm,” Nancy said, “and one of a kind. His sister did the embroidery.” Nancy remembered reading that in several articles about Barton. “He never plays a concert without it. Um, Mr. Rutland, when did you say you found the bandanna?”

  “Last night, after they took you home. I’ve got it right here in my pocket.”

  “Last night?” Nancy’s brain was working overtime. “Well, just hold on to it. I’ll make arrangements to get it from you.” Nancy thanked the man again and got off the phone in a hurry, her hand trembling as she hung up the receiver.

  “Nancy, what’s the matter? You look like that security guard has been telling you ghost stories or something,” George said.

  “No, not ghost stories. Something much more real and much more frightening. It’s Alan, George. He’s been lying to us!”

  Chapter

  Six

  GEORGE’S EYES WIDENED. “What do you mean?”

  “That guard found Barton’s bandanna,” Nancy explained.

  “So? Maybe he dropped it without realizing.”

  “But don’t you see?” Nancy felt sick at the realization. “Just this morning, Alan told us he saw Barton. And he said that Barton was wearing that bandanna!”

  George began to look sick too. “Oh no.”

  “Even if he was a little flaky, I always thought I could trust Alan,” Nancy said. “But now I don’t know what he’s gotten into—except that it’s really dangerous.” She got up and headed for the door.

  “Hey, where are we going?” George grabbed a sweater from the bed.

  “To find Alan.” Nancy slipped on her jeans jacket and took the room key. “He and Bess must be getting their tour of the World recording studios right now.” She put an insistent hand on George’s back and moved her toward the door.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to call him there?” George suggested.

  Nancy shook her head vigorously. “No way. What if they wind up putting us through to Vivian or Mr. Marshall’s office? I don’t want them to know anything about this. I want to get Alan alone. Besides, I need to see the expression on his face when we confront him with his lie. It would be worth a thousand words, as they say.” Nancy stepped out of the room.

  George followed, a worried look in her brown eyes. “Nancy, do you think Bess knows Alan’s lying? I mean, it seems so impossible—”

  “I know. Bess has never been anything less than a hundred percent straight with us. I’m sure she wouldn’t hold anything back. One thing really scares me, though. If Alan isn’t the kind of guy we think he is, Bess could be in trouble.” Nancy locked the room and headed for the elevator, with George a few steps behind her.

  “But, Nancy, it’s so obvious that the guy is nuts about Bess. And don’t forget, he helped us solve your last mystery.”

  “I know. I only hope he’s got a good explanation for this.”

  Finding Alan turned out to be easier said than done. When Nancy and George arrived at World Communications, the receptionist told them that the recording facilities were not housed in the same building as the executive offices. “Our recording is done by an independent company. Oraye Sound.” She wrote down Oraye’s address.

  “Is it far from here?” Nancy asked.

  “All the way downtown.”

  Nancy took that to mean yes. “Come on, George. It looks like you and I are going for a little cab ride.”

  They raced outside and hailed a taxi. “205 East Fourth Street,” Nancy told the driver. “And go whatever way’s the fastest. It’s important.”

  “Lady, it’s always important. Everyone in this town is always in a hurry,” the taxi driver responded. “But I�
��ll do my best. Of course, going through midtown this time of day, there’s always traffic.”

  “Isn’t there some way to avoid it?” George asked. “This really is an emergency.”

  “Then you shoulda chartered a helicopter.” The driver swung out into the flow of cars, inches in front of a gray hatchback. The driver of the gray car let out an angry blast of his horn.

  “Oh brother,” grumbled Nancy a few minutes later, looking nervously at her watch. “We could walk faster than this.” She pulled several crinkled dollar bills out of her jacket pocket. “We’ll get out here,” she announced, before they had reached their destination. She pushed the money through the opening in the Plexiglas shield that separated the driver from his passengers. “Keep the change.”

  The taxi came to a halt, and she jumped out. “Come on, George. Maybe we can still make it down there before Bess and Alan leave.”

  The girls reached East Fourth Street in record time. “We should have recruited you for girls’ track in high school,” George panted.

  Nancy wiped her forehead. “Let’s see,” she said, trying to catch her breath, “194, 196 . . . It must be on the other side of the street. 201. Yeah, there it is, 205.”

  Nancy rang the buzzer for Oraye Sound, Inc., and she and George entered the building and headed for the fifth floor. The elevator opened on a large area divided into a number of work spaces by movable partitions. Several halls branched off in different directions from the central space. People rushed back and forth busily, and the hum of voices filled the room. In one corner was a large desk that was not hidden behind any of the dividers; a young man sat behind it, typing.

  Nancy and George approached him, and Nancy cleared her throat. He looked up from his typewriter. “Hi, are you with the NYU group?” he asked. “You’re late,” he continued, without waiting for an answer. “The tour’s started already. They’re down that way, in one of the editing rooms.”

  “NYU?” Nancy asked.

  “Yes. New York University. Aren’t you film students?”

  Nancy shook her head. “Actually, we’re here looking for our friends, Alan Wales and Bess Marvin.”