Frances Bradford walked the girls to the sidewalk and said goodbye.
“Where are we going now, Nan?” George asked.
“Downtown,” Nancy answered, climbing into the car. “I’ve been thinking about the embezzled money. I want to check out a few things.”
“Such as?” Bess asked after she’d gotten into the back seat. George got into the front seat beside Nancy.
“Remember, Mark told us that Johnson had a million dollars in cash when he was trying to make his getaway,” Nancy said.
“That sure is a lot of money to be carrying around,” George commented. “I’d be afraid of losing it.”
“Or having it stolen,” Bess added.
“Exactly,” Nancy agreed, “Well, let’s say that somehow Johnson wasn’t killed in that crash. And that the money is still around.”
Beth leaned into the front seat, clearly intrigued. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that the money could still be somewhere in River Heights.”
Bess threw herself back into her seat and heaved a disappointed sigh. “Somewhere!” she said. “But how could we ever find it?”
“I don’t know,” Nancy had to admit. “But there’s got to be a way.” She drove downtown and pulled the car into a metered spot across from the post office, and the three girls got out.
“You two might as well do some window-shopping,” Nancy suggested. “I can meet you at the pizza place later. I’ll fill you in then.”
Bess pouted. “She’s trying to get rid of us, George.”
“What exactly are you going to be doing, Nancy?” George prodded.
“Talking to a banker about opening an account,” Nancy said casually.
“Bo-ring!” Bess sang out. All three girls burst out laughing.
When George and Bess had gone, Nancy stood on the post office steps and tried to imagine herself in the shoes of a man on the run. A man carrying a million dollars in cash in a suitcase. Where would I put it for safekeeping, she asked herself.
There was only one bank in her line of vision—River Heights Savings Bank, an old and elegant institution with granite columns on either side of the main entrance. Nancy thought of something her father had told her when she was a little girl—the best hiding place is in plain sight because that’s where people never think to look.
Nancy glanced at her watch. It was almost three. The bank would soon be closed for the day. Smoothing her hair, she strode across the street and ducked inside.
The atmosphere inside the bank was cool and hushed. A bald man with a bow tie sat at a service desk. As Nancy approached him, her heels clicked on the polished terrazzo floor.
“Do you wish to open an account?” he asked her, gesturing to the chair beside his desk.
“I’m not sure,” said Nancy, sitting down. “Actually I have some valuables that I’d like to keep safe.”
The man beamed. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Now, which is more important to you, being discreet or earning interest?”
“Discretion, definitely,” Nancy replied.
“I see.” The man pursed his lips. “Well, then, I recommend a safety deposit box.”
Nancy cocked her head. “Why is that?” she asked.
“First, because they’re completely private,” said the man, adjusting his bow tie. “You will be the only person to have access to the box. You will receive a key—the only key. Like this one.” He held up a silver key with the bank’s logo on it.
“And when can I use the box?” Nancy asked.
“During regular banking hours, of course,” the clerk told her, adding, “That includes our new Saturday morning hours.”
“Saturday morning? Isn’t that unusual for a bank?” Nancy couldn’t help asking.
“It’s getting quite common,” he announced. “It’s for our customers’ convenience. We’re just keeping up with the times. So, shall I start filling out the forms?”
Nancy got up. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I’ve got another appointment right now, though. I’ll come back later to open the box.” Giving the clerk an apologetic smile, she hurried from the bank.
Nancy emerged into the bright afternoon sunshine with a sense of accomplishment. A safety deposit box would have been the perfect place for Johnson to hide the money. He’d have the only key. Was a key what that man had been searching for in the old Chinese desk?
While she pondered the different pieces of the puzzle, a sharp light flashed in her eyes. She raised her head. The light came from a top floor window of a building across the square. The sun was reflecting off something in the window.
At that moment the reflection disappeared, and Nancy could make out a man holding a pair of binoculars in the open window. He lowered them and stood still, staring down at her.
His was a face Nancy recognized—the man Mark Rubin had identified as J. Christopher Johnson!
Chapter
Ten
HER HEART POUNDING, Nancy stared up at the man in the window. Johnson, or whoever he was, watched her for a moment longer, then abruptly moved away from the window.
“Hi, Nancy!”
Spinning around, Nancy saw Bess and George coming toward her on the sidewalk.
“What’s wrong?” George asked, seeing the startled expression on her friend’s face.
“I just saw Johnson,” Nancy cried, her heart racing. “Up there!” She pointed to the empty window.
“I don’t see anybody,” Bess said.
“We haven’t got a minute to lose,” Nancy said, hustling her friends across the street. When they reached the front door of the building, she said, “You two go around to the back and cover it. I’ll go in the front.”
Bess and George raced through the parking lot on one side of the building. Nancy strode in the front entrance. Pulling open the metal door, she walked into a small, dirty foyer with yellowing walls.
A black directory hung over a set of smudged buttons and a gritty intercom. There were few names on it, and most of them had missing letters. Each floor had two apartments, one marked F and the other R. That had to mean front and rear, Nancy thought. She reached for the red button marked 6F, since the man had been watching her from the top-floor front apartment.
There was no answer. Pressing the buzzer for 6F again, Nancy waited. Still no answer. She pulled hard on the inside door that led to the first floor corridor and a stairwell. Despite its battered condition, it was securely locked.
Nancy considered, then pressed the button marked 6R. Almost immediately the lock on the inside door buzzed ferociously. She pushed it open. Taking the steps two at a time, she raced up to the top floor. A pasty-faced woman in a flower-printed dress stood in an open doorway at one end of the hallway.
“Are you the social worker?” she demanded.
“No,” Nancy answered. “I came to see your neighbor, actually. Do you know if he’s home?”
The woman was visibly annoyed. “Fat chance,” she said, turning back to her apartment.
“Wait a minute,” Nancy said, gulping to catch her breath after running up six flights. “I’m sure I saw him at the window as I was walking over here.”
“Look, I don’t know nothing about nothing,” the woman said. “I stay out of their way, and they stay out of mine, know what I mean?”
“Sure, I know what you mean.” Nancy nodded. “But, see, Mr. Johnson wanted to hire me to paint his apartment. I misplaced the apartment number.” She pointed to 6F. “Is that Mr. Johnson’s?”
“Johnson? Never heard of him,” the woman snapped. “You got the wrong building.”
“Maybe I got the name wrong,” Nancy said, trying to be as pleasant as possible.
“Maybe you mean Wilson,” the woman told her.
Nancy slapped her forehead. “Of course! Mr. Wilson.”
“Well, it beats me why he wants his apartment painted. It isn’t like he’s around to enjoy it, if you know what I mean.”
“Why?” Nancy said, puzzled. “Did he g
o somewhere?”
The woman stared. “Honey, he sure did. He’s in jail downtown!” She glanced furtively down the hallway to see if anyone else was within hearing distance and lowered her voice. “And, honey, if you want my advice, I’d steer clear of any painting jobs for him. If you want to get paid, that is.”
Nancy looked indignant. “He’s broke?”
“He’s as crooked as they come,” the woman said forcefully.
“I can’t believe it! He was so pleasant when I met him. He’s a medium tall man of about thirty-five, right?” Nancy probed. “With a mustache?”
The woman shot her a puzzled look. “He was thirty-five a long time ago,” she said crossly. “Artie Wilson is sixty if he’s a day. Honey, you got the wrong guy.” Without another word, she stepped back and shut the door.
Nancy waited a moment, thinking what to do next. She walked to the far end of the hallway and knocked on the door of 6F. No response. Putting her hand gingerly on the doorknob, she turned it. It was locked.
It’s probably just as well, Nancy thought. If Johnson really was in there, he wouldn’t give me a friendly reception.
Reluctantly, Nancy turned around and began to go down the stairs. Who is Artie Wilson? she wondered. And what was Johnson doing in his apartment—if it was Johnson that she had seen at the window. She rounded the second-floor stairwell and headed for the final flight of stairs.
“Stop right there,” growled an angry male voice.
Fear shot through Nancy. When she turned around, though, she realized immediately that this wasn’t the man she’d seen in the window. This one had curly black hair, dark skin, and piercing dark eyes.
“You selling something?” he demanded, blocking her way.
Nancy stepped back. “Selling?”
“We don’t allow door-to-door salespeople in this building. I’m the super here, and I want you out on the double.”
“Actually, I was looking for someone who lives here,” Nancy said.
“Who?” the building superintendent demanded.
“The tenant in Six-F,” Nancy told him. “Artie Wilson.”
“What are you from, the probation department or something?”
“I’m from social services,” said Nancy, silently thanking the woman in 6R for the inspiration. “I’ve been assigned to Mr. Wilson’s case. I’m trying to help him get a job.”
The man looked Nancy up and down. “You seem a little young to be a social worker.”
“Maybe,” Nancy said coldly. “Do you have any idea when Mr. Wilson will be in?”
“You know he’s in jail?” the super said sharply, still eyeing Nancy with suspicion.
“Well, yes, of course. Or rather, he was. Isn’t he out now?”
“You got your dates mixed up. He’s still in the slammer downtown. But I heard he was going to be out real soon.” The super snickered. “Good luck finding him a job. He isn’t exactly the hardworking type.”
The super started down the last flight of stairs and Nancy followed. “He was in prison for robbery, wasn’t he?” she asked, taking a wild guess and hoping that it wasn’t too far off.
The super laughed. “You government people sure get things mixed up. No, he doesn’t have the guts for something like that. Wilson’s a specialist.” They reached the first floor landing. “He was in for forgery. Had a regular factory up there cranking put phony IDs, social security cards, driver’s licenses, passports, the whole bit.”
Nancy snapped her fingers. “Of course, it was stupid of me to forget. And I just read his file this morning.”
“Yeah, well, read it again,” the super told her. He opened the door and motioned for her to leave by jerking his head toward the street.
Nancy stepped out into the late afternoon sun. Forgery? She shook her head, mystified. Once again she looked up at the sixth-floor windows. They were empty. But the open window where she had spotted the man watching her was now closed.
Whatever the super and the woman in 6R said, someone had been in that apartment. And if what they’d told her was true, it wasn’t Artie Wilson.
Bess and George trotted around the side of the building and ran up to her.
“What happened?” George asked anxiously.
“You first,” Nancy said. “Did anyone leave the building through the back door?”
George shook her head. “Nope. Not that we saw, and we’ve been standing there ever since you went inside.”
“How about you, Nan? Find anybody?” Bess asked.
“I found out there’s a forger by the name of Artie Wilson who lives in the apartment where I saw the man in the window. But he’s in prison.”
“So do you believe Mark now?” George asked. “Do you actually think Johnson is alive?”
Nancy pursed her lips and nodded. “It certainly seems like a possibility.”
Bess let out a low whistle. “But how, Nancy? After a helicopter explosion like that?”
“That’s the next thing we’re going to find out, Bess,” Nancy told her friend. They had reached her car and she stopped at the curb. “Wait right here, you two. I want to make a few phone calls. I won’t be long.”
Nancy trotted over to a nearby telephone booth. Her first call was to Mark at the pizza parlor.
“Hi, Nancy. I’m on the other line. Can I call you back?” he asked.
“This’ll just take a minute,” she told him. “I wanted you to know I’m going to charter a helicopter for tomorrow night. I want to duplicate Johnson’s last ride. It may teach us something.”
“Good idea,” Mark said. “It worked when we found those mangled sunglasses.”
“I’ll call you to let you know the time,” she said before she hung up.
Nancy’s second call was to Mac MacIlvaney, “Mac? I need to charter a helicopter for tomorrow night. I’d like to go up at exactly the same time Johnson made his ride.”
“That would be about seven-fifteen,” he answered. “What’s this all about?”
“I’ll fill you in tomorrow night, Mac,” she said, quickly hanging up. She made a third phone call to Chief McGinnis at the River Heights Police Department and managed to catch him just as he was leaving for the day.
“Arthur Wilson?” McGinnis said when Nancy inquired about the forger. “A convicted felon, as I recall. Hang on, I’ll see what I can find out.”
A minute later the chief came back on the line. “Yup, we got him here, Nancy. He violated his parole in a minor way, so a judge ordered him to serve another two months of his sentence. He’s due out in two days, on Friday at five o’clock.”
“Any chance I can visit him in jail before then?” Nancy asked.
“During regular visiting hours, sure.” McGinnis sounded alarmed. “Say, what do you want to see him for? He’s not a pleasant character.”
“Just following my nose,” Nancy told him. “I have one more question—did you ever lab test Johnson’s bloody clothing after the explosion?”
“No, I don’t think so. Why?”
“Chief, I’m beginning to believe Christopher Johnson is still alive,” Nancy said. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll keep you posted on what I find out.”
Nancy hung up and ran back to where Bess and George were standing. “Big day tomorrow,” Nancy told them. “Want to come out to the airport with me at around dusk?”
“Sure, Nancy,” Bess said. “Why?”
“We’re going on a helicopter ride,” Nancy said with a mischievous grin.
• • •
Late the next morning Nancy drove to the River Heights Jail and asked to see Artie Wilson.
“You have twenty minutes,” the guard said, ushering her into the waiting area. “The prisoner will come into cubicle fourteen. You can speak to him through the Plexiglas screen.”
Nancy seated herself on a hard plastic chair and waited. In a few minutes a thin, stooped, white-haired man appeared on the other side of the window. He cast Nancy a dark look and sat down.
“Artie Wilson?” Nancy a
sked, meeting his cold gaze with her own cool stare.
“Yeah,” the man answered, sticking his chin out defiantly. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m here to find out what happened to the money that was embezzled from the Anderson corporation,” Nancy said quietly.
Her bold statement obviously startled Wilson, but his expression immediately hardened into a sullen stare.
“What’s it to you?” he demanded, his lip curling.
“The question is, what’s it to you?” Nancy shot back, keeping her gaze level and steady.
Wilson slouched in his chair. “Let me tell you something, young lady. I don’t know who you are, but I don’t like people sticking their noses in where they don’t belong.”
“You’re in touch with Christopher Johnson,” Nancy bluffed. “I know he’s alive. And I also know he’s hiding out at your apartment.”
Wilson blanched. His hands began to tremble, and he dropped them to his lap. “I don’t have to talk to you,” he spat. “I don’t even know who you are, lady.”
He leaned close to the Plexiglas, his eyes flashing. “I’m not saying Johnson’s alive, and I’m not saying he’s dead. But I’ll tell you this. If you know what’s good for you, keep your nose out of other people’s business—or you could end up getting hurt real bad!”
Chapter
Eleven
NANCY DIDN’T FLINCH. So Artie Wilson was threatening her—or warning her, she thought. Well, she’d heard threats before. She stood and pushed her chair back.
“Nice talking to you, Mr. Wilson,” she said coolly.
“I’ve lived a long time by keeping my mouth shut,” Wilson snarled. “I advise you to do the same.”
The guard approached and put his hand on Wilson’s arm. Wilson walked away.
Nancy watched him go. She still didn’t know how to connect a convicted forger to Christopher Johnson’s crime, and the whole case was beginning to frustrate her. Maybe that night, though, she’d learn something at the airport, if all went well.
Fifteen minutes later Nancy was pulling into her driveway. Hannah Gruen was standing at the front door, taking in the mail.