Nancy's mind was clicking away. Bree's answer satisfied her. If Bree had been trying to pin the blame on Kristin unfairly, she would have told Nancy that everything was wonderful.
No, Bree obviously had mixed feelings about her future stepmother. She didn't feel that Kristin was right for her father. And Bree felt guilty about that.
Nancy felt sorry for the girl whose life had seen such upheaval. She wondered if Brian Gordon was aware of his daughter's emotional turmoil.
Her thoughts turned back to the case. So Lucinda Prado's fiery temper had caused her to make an enemy of Kristin Stromm. But had Kristin hated Lucinda enough to kill her?
Nancy nosed the Renault into the stream of rush-hour traffic in the city. The car crept along the Boulevard Pomare, serenaded by loud car horns.
With a sigh of relief, Nancy pulled into the Hotel Taravao's parking lot. "A traffic jam in Tahiti!" She got out of the car and grinned. "Even in paradise!"
Opening the car's trunk, she removed the spear gun shaft and the box containing Tayo's evidence. She wrapped the spear in a beach towel so it wouldn't attract attention. "One more question, Bree, before I get this evidence locked up. Did you tell anyone where we were going this morning?"
"Yes. I had breakfast with Dad and Krissy. She came over early this morning to see Dad and make up for their fight last night. I told them I was going to Orohena."
Nancy shut the trunk lid. "Were they the only people you told?"
"Yes. Oops, no, wait a minute!" Bree tapped her temple, as if to jog her memory. "Rupert stopped by just about then. He always comes by the hotel and mooches breakfast if he can. Oh, yes, and Manda had some vouchers for Dad to sign. She was there, too."
"Thanks, Bree."
Nancy watched as Bree pushed through the glass doors into the lobby. In the last forty-eight hours the girl had learned of her mother's murder and the probable murder of an old friend. She was holding up pretty well under the strain, Nancy mused as she headed for the lobby.
A curly-haired Tahitian manned the front desk.
"May I help you, mademoiselle?"
"I'd like to store these overnight in the security vault." Nancy pushed the box and spear across the polished desktop.
The clerk had Nancy fill out a claim check. As Nancy watched him carry the items into the manager's office, she felt a small prick of guilt at not sharing all her suspicions with Bree. Obviously, someone had followed them from Opane's village to the waterfall. But how had he known that they would be at the village in the first place?
There were two possibilities, Nancy decided. Either their pursuer had been out on the highway, watching for Nancy's maroon Renault, or else he or she had overheard Bree telling her father about the trip.
When the clerk returned, Nancy thanked him. Then she realized he might be of more help. "Have you worked here long?" she asked politely.
"Ten years, mademoiselle."
"I guess you know the Gordons pretty well."
Teeth gleamed as he smiled. "Very well, indeed. I remember when Mademoiselle Bree was this high." His palm fluttered beside his waist.
Thinking fast, Nancy said, "We had a lovely drive today. It's a shame Ms. Stromm couldn't come with us."
The clerk blinked in surprise. "She didn't? Mademoiselle, she ran out of here right after you did."
Excitement made Nancy's pulse pound. "Really?"
"Yes." The clerk nodded. "Come to think of it, Madame Withers went out then, too."
Nancy blinked in surprise. "Oh," was all she said.
"Yes. Madame Withers asked me to phone a cab. After that I saw that other fellow—"
"Monsieur Holmberg," Nancy guessed.
"Yes, that's him. I saw him waiting rather impatiently at the bus stop just in front—here," he said, pointing.
"What about Bree's father?" Nancy asked.
"The monsieur I did not see leave," the clerk said matter-of-factly. "He phoned the desk to tell me he didn't want to be disturbed. Strange . . ."
"What's strange?" Nancy asked quickly.
"The cleaning woman said she saw Monsieur Gordon from the sundeck. He was walking down the beach toward the center of town."
"Have any of them returned?"
"I could not say, mademoiselle."
Nancy knew she had taken the interrogation as far as she could without making him suspicious. Thanking him for his help, she picked up her claims receipt and strolled away.
Nancy's mouth was a straight line as she thought, and her blue eyes were troubled. She didn't like the way the facts were adding up. Bree had told all four of them that she was driving down south to visit Opane. Within minutes of Bree's departure, all four had abruptly left the hotel.
Then someone had tried to kill Bree at Vaipahi waterfall. Coincidence?
Nancy couldn't help remembering that the same four people had disappeared from Faretaha the night Lucinda Prado had been murdered.
Kristin Stromm—Rupert Holmberg—Amanda Withers. Was one of them a murderer?
A queasy surge chilled Nancy as she focused on the fourth suspect—Bree's own father!
Chapter Seven
The next afternoon Nancy brought her evidence to the gendarmerie. A policeman escorted her to the detective bureau.
Captain Tuana Mutoi, the chief of detectives, was a tall, good-looking man in his early thirties, with curly, jet black hair, deep-set eyes, and a firm chin. Nancy was struck by how dashing he looked in his khaki uniform and white cap.
Mutoi listened politely as Nancy told her story. His eyes dispassionately studied the spear and the severed anchor chain.
"That's where we stand right now," Nancy concluded, smoothing her cotton skirt. "The way I see it, whoever killed Lucinda Prado and Tayo
Kapali is still here on the island. He or she got nervous when Bree started looking for Tayo. That's when the murder attempts began."
"Are you asking for protection for yourself and Mademoiselle Gordon?" Captain Mutoi asked, folding his hands on the blotter.
"Not exactly," Nancy replied. "I was hoping we could work together on this. Maybe smoke him out."
The captain smiled indulgently. "Mademoiselle Drew, I think you'd better leave police work to the professionals."
Nancy had heard words like those enough times before to know that she shouldn't let her frustration show. Instead she gave him an engaging smile and replied evenly, "Captain, I have helped police departments in the States on many occasions—"
"I'm sure you have," he interrupted smoothly, putting the anchor chain back in its box. "And I thank you for bringing this matter to my attention." Skepticism laced his words as he reached for the spear gun shaft. "I'll have the lab dust this for fingerprints."
Nancy's heart sank. From his tone of voice, she could tell that any such test would have an extremely low priority.
Captain Mutoi leaned back in his chair. "Is there anything else we can do for you?"
Nancy chose her words carefully. "Maybe there is. Would you mind if I had a look at the original Southwind accident report?"
"What for?"
"Bree's told me so much about it," Nancy added, hoping her alibi sounded plausible. "I'm curious."
"I can't see any harm in that." Leaning forward the captain wrote Nancy a permission slip. "There! You'll find the archives upstairs. Oh, and if you come across anything else like this"—he tapped his pen on the spear-gun shaft—"by all means, let me have a look."
After thanking Captain Mutoi, Nancy went upstairs. The archives clerk handed her a thick volume and pointed out an empty desk at the far end of the room.
Nancy spent the next few hours reading the report of the inquest. She covered everything, from Tahiti's weather that day to a description of the collision to Lucinda Prado's autopsy. On her notepad, Nancy jotted down the names of witnesses who had appeared at the inquest.
When she was finished, Nancy returned the book and went downstairs to the maritime office. Most of the witnesses had been boat owners anchored near the Sou
thwind. It was a long shot, but Nancy wanted to see if any of them were still in Tahiti.
She was in luck. Of the eight boat owners who originally gave testimony, two were still listed as residents by the maritime office. Nancy hurriedly copied their current addresses. Then, after thanking the clerk, she strolled out of the office.
As she walked past the detective bureau, she heard a pair of masculine voices, one of them Captain Mutoi's. Their words caught her attention, and she halted for a moment to listen.
"What have you got on the smugglers, Lucien?"
"My informers tell me there's a new shipment of computer parts in town, sir. Very expensive goods, I hear. Prototypes of Japan's newest hardware—system cards, mostly, with multi-megabyte memory capacity. The word is that they're soon to be shipped to South America."
Frustration deepened the captain's voice. "Who, Lucien? Who's behind this?"
"No one knows, sir. They're well organized— and well hidden!"
"Put everyone on it. Double-check every ship leaving Papeete," Captain Mutoi ordered. "This gang has been plundering Japanese computer factories for years. The Japanese police traced them here to Tahiti. Both Japan and our government want us to put them out of business—for good!"
Looks as if Bree and I are on our own, Nancy thought, striding into the parking lot. The Tahi-tian police have their hands full with those computer smugglers.
Minutes later Nancy was strolling along Charterboat Row, the section of waterfront devoted to sports fishing. Sleek cabin cruisers bobbed in the gentle swell, sunlight flashing on their chrome fittings.
She spied the name Galilee on the stern of a sturdy Gulfstar 36. A wiry, brown-skinned man in a Greek skipper's cap stood on her foredeck, expertly winding a line around a cleat.
Cupping her hands to her mouth, Nancy cried, "Ahoy, the Galilee!"
"Bonjour, there." The man's U.S. accent fractured the French words.
Nancy switched to English. "Hi, I'm looking for Josh Tuttle."
"You found him."
"My name's Nancy Drew. I'm a friend of Bree Gordon's. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the Southwind. Do you mind?"
"Not at all." He walked around the deck and put down the gangway for Nancy. "Welcome aboard! How is young Bree, by the way?"
"Pretty good. She's going to UCLA these days." Nancy followed him into the boat's screened cabin. He gestured to a settee, and she took a seat. "Did you know the Gordons very well?"
Tuttle grinned. "Well enough. There are no secrets in boat basins. I liked them. No movie-star airs on that Lucinda. When she was out here on vacation, she was plain old Mrs. Gordon, and that's the way she liked it."
"How did Brian Gordon strike you?" Nancy asked."
"Money-hungry—" Tuttle broke off quickly and narrowed his eyes. "You ask a lot of questions, Ms. Drew. How come?"
"Some disturbing questions have come up
about the wreck of the Southwind. Bree asked me to check them out." Nancy settled back in the cushions. "Would you mind telling me about the accident?"
"Sure! I'm used to it by now. Why, I'm practically the boat basin's official Southwind historian." Now Tuttle seemed to enjoy peering into the past. "I'd just gotten back from a day trip. Found a snug anchorage near the lee shore and put down a pair of anchors."
"It seems I've found an expert sailor," Nancy commented.
"Been at it twenty years." Tuttle grinned selfconsciously, then took a quick breath. "Anyway, the night Lucinda died, there was a big storm. It kicked up quite a chop. I could feel the surge tugging at Galilee's hull.
"At about two a.m. I heard a motor and thought, 'What fool's out on a night like this?' I went topside, just in time to see Lucinda go by in a dinghy headed for Southwind. Thought she'd capsize in the swell, but she just rode the current all the way and climbed on board Southwind. Quite a sailor, that woman!
"Anyway, I went below, then I remembered that I'd left my deck lights on. So I went topside again. And Southwind was gone now! All I saw was one moored boat and the channel buoy. It sure was rough water out there! The buoy's bell was ringing, and its little green light was swinging back and forth. I doused my deck lights and hit the sack."
"When did you hear about the wreck?"
"Next morning. It was all over Papeete."
Nancy mulled over his story. Tuttle had seen Lucinda board the Southwind at 2:00 a.m. When he went topside again at 2:30, the vessel was gone. That matched the times in the official report.
Standing, Nancy gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks for taking time to talk to me, Mr. Tuttle."
"Any friend of Bree's is a friend of mine." He slid the screen door open for Nancy. "You tell her I said hi."
"I will," Nancy promised, halting at the gangway. "Oh, one more thing—you wouldn't know where I might be able to find Pierre Panchaud, would you? I didn't see his name on file at the maritime office."
Genuine surprise washed over his face. "That's strange! Talk around town is that Pierre's got his own boat."
"I didn't see it listed," Nancy replied.
"Maybe you're right." Tuttle shrugged. "I haven't seen Pierre working these waters, and I'm out every day. Try the Cafe Chat Noir ashore. I hear Pierre hangs out down there."
"Cafe Chat Noir." Nancy committed the name to memory. "Where do I find it?"
"Rue des Ecoles." He tilted his head eastward. "But you be careful down there, Ms. Drew. That is one rough neighborhood!"
The Cafe Chat Noir stood on a narrow side street, flanked by a couple of taverns. Its checkerboard awning had seen better days. The silhouette of a huge black cat, outlined in neon, perched on top of a weather-beaten cinema marquee.
Clutching her shoulder bag, Nancy walked inside, out of the early-evening dusk. An old-fashioned ceiling fan twirled lazily. An empty stage, its curtains down, marked the far end of the restaurant.
Nancy was suddenly aware of a presence at her side. She turned at once.
The maitre d' eyed her coolly. He reminded Nancy of the fat man in the old movie The Maltese Falcon.
"A table, mademoiselle?"
"Actually," Nancy said, "I'm looking for a man named Panchaud. Pierre Panchaud. Have you seen him around?"
His lips tightened. "Now and then."
"Do you know where I might find him?"
The maitre d' turned his palms upward in a gesture of ignorance.
"How about Pierre's friends?" Nancy persisted.
"You might talk to them." Looking a bit smug, he pointed to a pair of rough-looking French sailors seated at a table near the stage. "New boys in town, but Pierre finds them friendly enough."
"Thank you." Nancy manufactured a bright smile, then headed across the room.
The men stood as Nancy approached their
table. One was thin-faced and swarthy, with buck teeth. The other was taller, built like a linebacker, wearing a striped shirt and a black beret.
"Excuse me," Nancy said. "Could you tell me where to find Pierre Panchaud?"
Thin Face sneered at her. "Get lost!"
Nancy tried her most winning smile. "Look, I just want to ask him a few questions about—"
Black Beret grabbed a tall wine bottle from the table. In one quick move he smashed it against the chair. Brandishing the bottleneck like a knife, he aimed the razor-sharp fragment at Nancy's face!
Chapter Eight
The jagged bottle edge rushed toward her. Heart hammering, Nancy threw herself sideways to avoid the thrust, and at the same moment grabbed the Frenchman's wrist and turned it aside. Then, stepping in close, she smashed her right elbow into the thug's bicep.
Black Beret shrieked in pain. His nerveless fingers dropped the broken bottle. It shattered on the floor. Thin Face rushed her. "You little—!" Bracing herself against the table, Nancy launched a scissor kick at the newcomer. Her sole struck the sailor flush on the jaw, knocking him sprawling.
Suddenly a deafening electric bell rang out. Nancy looked up just in time to see the maitre d' lift his hand
from a countertop button.
A voice hollered, "It's a raid!" A rear door burst open. Dozens of panicky, well-dressed people rushed into the room. Brushing her hair out of her face, Nancy stared in confusion.
Then she caught a glimpse of a stunning blonde in a shimmery emerald evening gown, eyes wide with alarm, sprinting away on her stiletto heels.
Nancy blinked in recognition. Kristin Stromm! What was she doing there?
Nancy heard footsteps running behind her. Turning, she saw her two erstwhile opponents scramble for the front door. Although she was tempted to give chase, she decided to let them go. She was more interested in what Kristin was doing here.
A quick peek through the open doorway provided the answer. A roulette wheel crowned one long table. The others were covered with green felt and white dice.
The maitre d' waddled past Nancy and closed the door. "Now that you've chased all my customers away, would you kindly leave?"
Nancy folded her arms. "Gambling's illegal in French Polynesia, isn't it?"
The maitre d' tossed her a defiant look. "You didn't actually see anyone gambling, did you?"
No, thought Nancy, but I saw you hit the alarm
button. And I doubt Kristin Stromm comes here for the cuisine.
"Goodbye, mademoiselle." His pudgy finger pointed at the front door. "If you really are looking for Pierre Panchaud, I understand he owns a dive shop on the Rue des Halles."
"Why didn't you tell me that before?" Nancy asked, thoroughly annoyed.
The maitre d' shrugged indifferently. "I didn't know you were an agent of the Deuxieme Bureau before."
Nancy understood at once, and she couldn't suppress a grin. The Deuxieme Bureau was the French FBI. Seeing her karate performance, the maitre d' must have thought she was an undercover cop and had hit the alarm button.
Smoothing her skirt, Nancy walked out of the cafe. She couldn't shake the image of the fleeing actress. So Kristin liked to gamble. Nancy wondered what to make of that fact—and if Bree or Brian Gordon knew about it.