“Sure.” Nancy didn’t like the grim expression on the detective’s face.
Lieutenant Kowalski took some snapshots out of his breast pocket, then showed one to Nancy. “Do you recognize this man?”
Nancy peered at the photo. A familiar face looked up at her—the face of a man in his early twenties, with a sharp nose, high cheekbones, and curly brown hair. His eyes were closed as if in sleep. She sucked her breath in sharply. The man was the same one who had been driving the station wagon that almost hit them on Millbank Lane.
“I saw him in Mapleton earlier this afternoon,” she said, handing back the photo.
“Mapleton!” Linda echoed, her eyes wide.
“Where in Mapleton?” asked Lieutenant Kowalski, his expression unreadable.
“Millbank Lane. Our cars nearly collided,” Nancy replied. She found herself wondering what this was all about. “Who is he?”
Features grim, Lieutenant Kowalski handed her another photo. “Right now he’s John Doe, an unidentified body at the town morgue.”
Gasping, Nancy stared at the second photo. This shot had been taken from farther away. The man lay in the snow, unmoving.
“That’s right. He’s dead.” Lieutenant Kowalski’s voice turned ominous. “One of our patrol cars found him just an hour ago. On a road in back of the Mapleton Country Club. Lying right beside an abandoned station wagon.”
“What are you implying, Lieutenant?” Nancy asked in a whisper.
“I’m not implying anything, Ms. Drew.” Kowalski was silent for a moment. “Actually, I have a question for you. What was John Doe doing with a piece of paper with your signature on it?”
Chapter
Nine
NANCY BREATHED DEEPLY, trying to remain calm. Unless she was wrong, Kowalski definitely suspected that she had something to do with John Doe’s death.
“Well?” snapped Lieutenant Kowalski.
“This is the latest in a long line of ridiculous accusations, Lieutenant,” Nancy answered evenly. “Until a couple of hours ago, when he passed me in his station wagon, I’d never seen that man before in my life.”
“What were you doing in Mapleton, Ms. Drew?” Kowalski asked with a challenge.
“Trying to prove my innocence,” Nancy shot back.
“You ran into John Doe on Millbank Lane, eh?”
“You have that backward, Lieutenant. He nearly ran into me. He came speeding up the street. I hit the brakes, skidded, and just managed to avoid him.”
“What time was this?” he asked.
“About two-thirty.”
“And who were you going to see on Millbank Lane, Ms. Drew?” The lieutenant’s voice was definitely sarcastic.
Nancy refused to be baited. “Elizabeth Hackney,” she replied calmly. “I wanted to talk to her about the woman who impersonated me.”
“Are you sure you weren’t in Mapleton to intimidate a prosecution witness?”
Nancy’s cheeks blazed angrily. “Lieutenant, I wasn’t trying to intimidate anybody. I was trying to find the woman who framed me—”
“That was at two-thirty. Where were you at four o’clock?” Kowalski interrupted.
Nancy hesitated. Her stomach felt as if it were filling with ice water. If she told him, he might arrest her for murder on the spot. But if she lied, and the lieutenant later discovered the truth, it would be ten times worse.
Mouth dry, Nancy answered, “The Mapleton Country Club.”
Lifting a pair of handcuffs from her belt, Linda Murillo came forward. “I think we’ve got enough, Pete.”
Lieutenant Kowalski froze her in her tracks with a withering glance. “If you don’t mind, Officer Murillo, I’d like to finish my interrogation.”
Chastened, she stepped back. “Yes, sir.”
Turning to Nancy, the lieutenant asked, “You said you were at the country club. Where?”
“The gatehouse. I was refused entry.” Nancy explained about her meeting with Danny. Lieutenant Kowalski then asked her for the full names and addresses of Ned and George.
Afterward he gave Nancy a speculative look. “So you can account for your time from the moment you left the Fayne girl’s house to the moment you pulled into the driveway.”
Nancy nodded in agreement.
“And you claim you were nowhere near the access road to the club’s golf course around four o’clock, is that correct?”
“I was at least a mile away, Lieutenant.”
“What about the note in his pocket with your name on it, Ms. Drew?”
“That’s very interesting, Lieutenant, but very circumstantial. And I do have an alibi with three witnesses.”
“Our handwriting expert says the note was written by a woman.”
Nancy filed that information away in her mind. “What did the note say?”
“The top portion had been torn off. All that was left was a signature: Nancy Drew.” He aimed a suspicious glance right at her.
“Lieutenant, why don’t you compare that handwriting with a sample of mine?” Nancy suggested. “The desk sergeant had me sign last night’s logbook when I was released.”
Flashing a dour look, Lieutenant Kowalski drew himself up to his full six-foot-three. “Let’s get your status straight right now, Ms. Drew.” His voice rose in volume. “You’re a suspect, understand?”
Nancy didn’t flinch. “And unless I’m wrong, I don’t have to answer any more of your questions until I see that you’ve got a warrant,” she said firmly.
Kowalski shook his head in disbelief. “Okay, Nancy Drew, you’ve got a point there. Come on, Officer Murillo. I think that’s enough for now.” Frowning, he turned and walked back to the unmarked police car.
Hands on her hips, Nancy watched as Kowalski and Murillo got back into the sedan and pulled out of the driveway. An apprehensive shudder ran through her. The circumstantial evidence against her was piling up. Just now she had admitted to being in Mapleton at the same time John Doe had been killed.
For a moment she found herself wondering what would happen if she couldn’t clear her name. The whole situation was frustrating and maddening.
Climbing the porch stairs, Nancy examined the real possibility that she might end up in jail, not only for extortion, but for murder, too. Then, with a determined sigh, she told herself that would never happen. She was innocent, and she knew it. Now she just had to find the proof.
• • •
Later that evening Bess and George came by for dinner. Nancy felt loose limbed and refreshed after a two-hour nap. The three of them had dinner with Carson and Hannah. After the dishes had been cleared away, Nancy’s father spread a copy of the Times across the living room table. He frowned at the headline and, turning the page, began to read.
When he finished, Nancy poured him a cup of tea. “What do you think, Dad?” she asked.
“I think you ought to go right down to the courthouse and sue Brenda Carlton!” George said heatedly.
Massaging his eyes, Carson sat back in his chair. “That would be a waste of time, George. The story’s not very flattering, I’ll admit. But if we filed suit, the judge would throw our case out of court in a minute.”
“You’re kidding!” Bess exclaimed.
“Afraid not, Bess.” Carson took a sip of tea. “In order for something to be libel, it has to be untrue or inaccurate or done in such a manner as to be deliberately malicious. Brenda’s key phrase here is ‘in connection with.’ That, unfortunately, is both true and accurate.”
Nancy tapped the page with her fingernail. “But, Dad, that makes me look guilty!”
Her father sighed again. “You’re right. People will see the word arrest and probably assume you’re guilty. But the courts can’t do anything about a false impression.”
And that false impression will finish me as a detective, Nancy thought miserably. No one will ever trust me again. My only hope is to clear myself, and to do that, I need an alibi.
Nancy looked at her father. She didn’t like to keep her pl
an for that night from him, but she had no choice. He’d never go for it.
George brought a plateful of cookies to the table. After refilling everyone’s teacups, Carson asked for an update of the case.
“All signs point to the Mapleton Country Club, Dad,” Nancy said, folding her hands on the tablecloth. “Both Mr. Eklund and Mrs. Hackney saw the impostor there. This may just be a coincidence, but Mrs. Hackney is involved with a newcomer to town—Barry Aitkin.”
“What makes you think there’s a connection?” Carson asked.
“What if the false Nancy had a male accomplice, Dad? And what if that accomplice is Barry Aitkin? The timing is right.” Somehow, Nancy knew it was a leap, but she didn’t have anything else to go on.
“There’s just one thing wrong with that theory, Nancy,” her father said. “Con artists never hang around after their sting. If Aitkin is the accomplice, then why is he still in Mapleton?”
“Good question.” Nancy smiled sourly. She wondered if she was ranging too far afield here.
George must have read her mind. “It’s possible ‘Nancy Drew’ didn’t even have an accomplice, you know.”
“And if she did, he could be anyone,” Bess added. “There’s no reason to believe it was this Aitkin guy.”
It could even be Kowalski’s dead man, Nancy thought to herself. The con artist might have killed her own partner, hoping to frame Nancy again and clear a path for her getaway.
“You’re all right,” Nancy said dejectedly. “We’re assuming that Aitkin’s a con artist, and that he’s this Nancy’s accomplice. There’s just no proof or even grounds to suspect him.”
“You know, Nancy,” Carson said slowly, “I just wonder—”
“What, Dad?” Nancy asked expectantly.
“It’s a real leap, but let’s say you’re right, and Aitkin is part of the scam somehow.” He grew quiet and thought for a moment. “No, it’s too much of a coincidence.”
“What is?”
Frowning, Carson Drew gave his daughter a long, hard look. “Remember what I told you about Joe Crain promising revenge?” Bess and George looked confused, but Nancy nodded.
“Well,” Carson went on, “what if Barry Aitkin is really Joe Crain?”
“Who?” Bess and George asked at once.
Nancy briefly explained about the Chicago trial and how Crain had promised revenge. “It’s too farfetched, Dad.”
“I know, Nancy,” Carson said. “Still—the more I hear about this, the more it sounds like it’s a Joe Crain scam!”
Chapter
Ten
NANCY FLASHED HER FATHER a surprised look. The idea was incredible, but what if he was right?
“In what way does it sound like Joe Crain?” she asked.
Carson pushed his empty teacup and saucer away. “Crain used to work the same kind of split-deposit scams your false Nancy has been working on her victims,” he explained.
“Did he use a female accomplice?” Nancy prodded.
“No,” Carson said slowly. “He worked alone. Let’s think, though. What else do you know about Aitkin?”
George spoke up. “Sarah—that’s Mrs. Hackney’s maid,” she explained, “told me he’s a lot younger than Mrs. Hackney.”
“Bingo!” Carson said. “Crain used to prey on older women. He’d work his split-deposit scams on them.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You know, Aitkin could very easily be Crain. This ‘Nancy Drew’ game could be a diversion. Maybe he used it to move in on Mrs. Hackney. He might want to take a bigger bite out of the Hackney fortune.”
“But,” Nancy asked, “wasn’t he in jail in Chicago all this time?”
“Nope, his lawyer had him out on bail, and the DA said he rarely showed up at court. We really didn’t have anything on him—just on his brothers.”
“If Aitkin is Crain, his con game accomplishes two goals. It frames me and puts him in a position where he can work a con on Mrs. Hackney.”
Carson leaned back in his chair. “Exactly.” Rising from his seat, he added, “In the meantime, Nancy—if you can spare a few minutes—how about drawing up a list for me?”
“What sort of list?”
“A comprehensive record of all the places you’ve been in the last two weeks and all the people you’ve spoken to.” Nancy’s father was dead serious. “I’ll need to call those people as witnesses if I have to defend you in court.”
Bess swallowed hard. “Do you really think they’ll charge Nancy?”
“They might,” Carson said candidly, his expression shadowed by worry. “If they do, we should be prepared. I’ll need detailed alibis from you.”
Noting his worried expression, Nancy realized she should tell him about Lieutenant Kowalski’s visit earlier.
“Dad,” she began, “I may need more alibis than you think.” She explained about Kowalski’s suspicions that she was somehow involved in John Doe’s death.
“That’s awful!” George burst out when she was finished, and Carson frowned deeply.
“I know you didn’t have anything to do with it, Nancy,” he said, “but from now on, please be careful. And keep detailed records of where you go and who’s with you. Kowalski seems pretty serious about pursuing these charges.”
“He sure does,” Bess said. “Oh, Nancy, this is like a nightmare.”
Somehow Nancy managed a wan smile. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m going to wake up from it and everything will be okay.” It better be, she thought grimly.
• • •
“Let’s get under cover,” Nancy whispered, slamming the Mustang’s passenger door.
Ned nodded in agreement. Together they dashed into the trees bordering the Mapleton Country Club. Behind them George flicked on the Mustang’s headlights and drove away. She and Bess were going to wait for Ned and Nancy at a nearby diner. Nancy had instructed them to return in thirty minutes and flash their headlights three times so she and Ned would know it was them.
“Why not wait here?” Bess had asked.
“It’s too dangerous,” Nancy explained. “Since the police found ‘John Doe’ here, they’ll be patrolling the area. We can’t risk them finding you here.”
George had nodded in agreement and was now driving off with Bess in the front seat. Nancy sighed in relief and turned back to Ned.
“The snow’s really coming down,” Ned said, pulling his knitted cap down to cover his red-rimmed ears. Together they hiked through the country club’s private woodland. After a minute or two, Nancy picked out two snowy fairways and the eighteenth hole of the club’s golf course. Beyond, cloaked by a gauzy curtain of falling snow, lay the main clubhouse.
Nancy and Ned stalked across the fairway, making as little noise as possible. Finally they stopped beneath a window at the rear of the clubhouse. Peering over the sill, Nancy looked into the darkened magazine room. Seeing it was empty, she pulled a lock-pick tool out of her inside coat pocket and painstakingly removed the screws that held the storm window in place. When she was finished, Ned helped her lower the window to the ground.
“You’re impressive, Drew,” Ned whispered.
“Ssssssh!” Nancy took a stick of gum from her parka pocket, and as Ned looked on, Nancy neatly folded the gum’s tinfoil.
“What’s that for?” Ned mouthed.
Nancy pointed out two small plastic contact boxes on the inner window frame. Silver tape ran halfway across the glass, then branched out into a pattern of paper-thin wires. With utmost precision, Nancy took the wad of tinfoil and carefully slid it between the window and its frame. Drawing a long, slow breath, Nancy eased it into the contact box. She paused for a moment, allowing her hands to stop shaking. Then she did the same thing with the other contact box.
“Now, if I’ve done this right—” Nancy’s palms pressed at the window frame’s crosspiece. “I should be able to open this without bringing the whole Mapleton police department down here.”
With a soft grunt of effort, Nancy pushed up the window. She found herself ten
sing all over, waiting for the alarms to go off. Instead there was silence. A warm indoor breeze wafted into her face.
Two minutes later Nancy and Ned were moving stealthily down the darkened corridors of the country club. Ned took the lead. Nancy felt for the wall with her right hand, letting her vision adjust to the gloom.
Nancy heard the slam of a distant door and the far-off mutter of a radio. With one or more night watchmen on duty, she knew she and Ned would have to be extremely careful.
“This is it!” Ned had stopped and was tapping on a stout oak door. “The records room.”
“Are you sure?” Nancy asked softly.
Ned nodded firmly. “I recognize it from visits with my dad.”
When Nancy gave him a curious look, Ned explained. “He was in charge of the membership committee for a year.”
“You never told me that!” Nancy exclaimed.
“You never asked,” Ned said, his eyes twinkling in amusement. “Why don’t I keep an eye out here while you look?”
Good old Ned, Nancy thought as she eased open the door to the records room. She slipped soundlessly into the pitch-dark office.
Crossing the room, Nancy took a penlight out of her pocket, flicked it on, and, masking the back glow with her left hand, surveyed the desk. A thick book lay on the ink-stained blotter. Nancy’s beam picked out its gilt-edged title—Club Register.
She reached out to pick up the book, then thought twice. Before Nancy made her search in the club’s register, she wanted to search the membership files to see if she could learn a little more about Mrs. Hackney’s new boyfriend, Barry Aitkin. There might be a file on him if he had joined the club recently.
Ball bearings moaned softly as Nancy rolled out the top drawer of the room’s only file cabinet. Holding the penlight in her left hand, she hastily searched the files. Familiar names appeared—James Nickerson, Donald Eklund, Elizabeth Hackney.
The second drawer held the New Members file. Nancy took out the one file in the folder, flipped it open, and began to read.