“Well, as a matter of fact,” she said, “there is something I need to ask you. Would you mind if I . . .” And she told him what she had in mind.
There was a long silence. Then Sheik Abdullah sighed. “What you are asking is very difficult,” he said. “Are you sure there is no other way to achieve your purpose?”
“I wish there were,” Nancy said sincerely. “But I’m afraid there isn’t.”
“Very well, then,” the sheik answered reluctantly. “I will do as you ask. You may expect your package before three this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Nancy said. “Thank you very much.” She hung up.
“What time are we going to the studio?” Bess asked, coming into the room. “I can’t wait to pick out my costume.” She grinned. “I’ve made up my mind—I am going to be Marilyn Monroe.”
Nancy looked at her watch. “Well then,” she suggested, “why don’t we go now? I want to be back here before the middle of the afternoon.”
But the phone rang just as they were getting ready to leave. Nancy answered it. It was Amanda.
“I just wanted to be sure that you and your friends are coming to the party tonight,” she said in a friendly voice. “It’ll be a lot of fun.”
“We’re planning on coming,” Nancy said. “In fact, we’re on our way over to Kincaid Studios right now to pick out our costumes.”
“Wonderful!” Amanda exclaimed. “Well, then, see you tonight.”
Nancy frowned as she said goodbye and put down the phone. “Who was it?” George asked.
“It was Amanda,” Nancy said. “She was making sure that we’re going tonight.”
“Well, we are,” Bess said, picking up her purse. “Come on, let’s go.”
• • •
On the way over to the studio, Nancy told the others about her plan, and they talked over what they were going to do at the party. George had decided to go as Princess Leia. When they got to the studio’s costume department, she went in search of a brown Princess Leia wig and a white dress. Bess raided the costume rack for a low-cut, lipstick-red dress with a tight skirt. She also found a pair of fifties-style spike heels to match the dress. Nancy found just what she was looking for—a floor-length fake ermine cape and a gold-colored crown studded with pearls. Then they all headed back for the hotel.
The three girls returned to the hotel with their costumes at one-thirty. By three o’clock, Sheik Abdullah’s promised package had arrived—a huge, fat box. Nancy opened it to make sure that what she needed was there, then closed it again and put it under her bed for safekeeping. She left Bess and George excitedly trying on their costumes and went off to tell Mr. Talbot what she had in mind.
When Mr. Talbot heard Nancy’s conclusions about Chad and her scheme for the evening, he nodded. But there was a look of desperation in his eyes.
“I hope you’re onto something, Nancy,” he said. “Time’s running out.” He frowned. “This Bannister—if he’s our man—could be dangerous. Use the hotel security police if you need them. And be careful.”
• • •
“Wow!” exclaimed Bess as the three girls got off the elevator on the mezzanine, where the ball was being held. “What a great room!”
Nancy pulled her cloak tighter around her and looked around. The four-story atrium above them was filled with balloons, and in one corner a band was playing. There were palms and potted plants everywhere, and the area was already crowded with hundreds of costumed partygoers.
“Chad said he’d meet me at the fountain downstairs—in ten minutes,” George said, consulting her watch. She patted her Princess Leia wig nervously and looked at Bess. “Are you coming with me?”
“Do we have to go already?” Bess objected. She straightened her red skirt. “We just got here. I’d like to check the party out.”
Nancy shook her head. “Business before pleasure, remember? And we agreed that George may need some backup. You two get Chad, and as soon as I locate Brent, Amanda, and Diana, we’ll all meet in Mr. Talbot’s office. With a little luck we’ll be through in an hour or two and still have some time to party.”
Nancy watched as Bess followed George down the stairs toward the fountain in the middle of the lobby below. Seconds later, she saw Brent walking toward her. He was dressed like the villain in a TV western—black hat, black shirt, black pants, black cowboy boots, even a black leather holster with an authentic-looking pearl-handled revolver.
“Oh, there you are, Nancy,” Brent called as he made his way to her through the crowd. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” He glanced around. “Where are your friends?”
“They’ve gone to meet someone who has some important information about the case,” Nancy explained. “I’ve asked them to meet me in Mr. Talbot’s office in a few minutes. Would you help me find Amanda and Diana? I don’t want to be too businesslike at a party, but I think we’re close to wrapping this up, and it would be a good idea if all of you were in on the conclusion.” As she talked, Nancy kept glancing at Brent’s gun. “You know, that thing looks real,” she finally said.
“What? Oh, the gun.” Brent laughed. “It’s supposed to look real—real enough to fool the audience, anyway. But of course it only shoots blanks. What are you supposed to be, by the way? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you left your cloak with the hat-check clerk?”
Nancy shook her head. “Thanks,” she said, smiling slightly. “It’s part of the costume.”
Brent shrugged. “Whatever you say. Let’s look for them over here—I think I saw Amanda.”
Nancy and Brent had only walked ten or twelve steps before they were accosted by an older woman in a hideous chicken costume.
“Oh, hello, Brent!” she said excitedly. “I’m so glad I ran into you. I just heard about your portrait. What a terrible—”
“Hello, Grace,” Brent interrupted her in a resigned voice. It was obvious that he wasn’t crazy about talking to her right then, but he felt obligated to be polite. “Grace, this is my friend Nancy Drew. Nancy, this is Grace Murchison, an old friend of my father’s. Yes,” he added to Grace, “losing the portrait was a disappointment. But these things happen. It’s really not all that important. Now, if you’ll excuse us—”
“No, I suppose it isn’t important,” Grace chirped. “At least, not for you. Your situation isn’t at all like Amanda’s or Diana’s. I mean, losing those antiques must really have been a blow to them, what with their finances.”
Somewhere in the back of Nancy’s mind an alarm bell rang. “Their finances?” she asked out loud, not meaning to.
Grace fluttered the wings of her costume, obviously pleased to have an attentive audience for her gossip. “My dear, it’s the very latest. I just heard it tonight. It seems that Amanda is going to have to start selling everything she owns to pay for those horrible investments she made on the stock market last year. As for Diana”—she clucked—“she’s never been one to hang onto money. Her parties are fabulous, but her caterer told me just this afternoon that she still owes him money for the last—”
“We’ll see you later, Grace,” Brent said. He took Nancy’s elbow firmly.
“Wait,” Nancy objected. “I want to ask—”
“Hey, Brent!” The young man standing in front of them was dressed like a punk rock star, with a bright red double guitar slung over his shoulder. “I just wanted to tell you how terrific that demolition scene was in Street Savvy. You’ve got a real knack for special effects, man.”
“Sam Brown—Nancy Drew,” Brent said curtly. “Sam’s my best stunt man, Nancy.” He began to pull Nancy away, but she hung back.
“A knack for special effects?’* she asked. Hadn’t Brent told her that explosions weren’t his line of work? That the studio had hired the best demolitions expert that money could buy?
Sam grinned at Nancy. “When it comes to pyrotechnics and demolition,” he said, “Brent’s got the touch. He’s the best demolitions man in the business. Why, he builds whole films around fires and
explosions.”
Nancy stared at Brent.
Roughly, he grabbed Nancy’s hand. “Come on, Nancy!” he commanded. “See you later, Sam,” he added over his shoulder as he propelled Nancy through a door. Nancy stepped into an empty hall, hardly aware of where she was. Her mind was racing, putting everything together.
Amanda and Diana desperately needed money. Brent knew how to handle fires and explosives, and he probably had access to state-of-the-art materials that burned without a trace. There it was—means, opportunity, motive—and suddenly a half-dozen other ideas began to click.
Nancy whirled around to face Brent. “You!” she exclaimed. “It’s been you three all along!”
Brent shrugged. “Why, of course,” he returned affably. “But what are you going to do about it?” he asked slowly, raising his arm.
Nancy looked at his hand. She was staring down the barrel of Brent’s drawn revolver.
Chapter
Seventeen
THAT GUN IS real,” Nancy said breathily. The four large bullets in the revolver’s exposed cylinder obviously weren’t blanks.
Brent smirked. “Right the first time. Now let’s go for a ride.” He gestured toward a service elevator. “Your friends are waiting.”
“I should have known,” Nancy said furiously. “It was so obvious!”
The door opened. Brent nudged her onto the elevator and pushed the Down button. “Well, don’t be too hard on yourself,” he said. “This plot’s more complicated than any movie I ever put together.”
After a few seconds the elevator door opened onto a loading dock at the rear of the hotel. In the dim light, Nancy could see George, Bess, and Chad—their hands raised—standing against a cement wall. In front of them stood Diana, wearing her Snow White costume, and Amanda, who was dressed as Catwoman in a black body suit. In Amanda’s gloved hand was a small pistol, and she had a coil of rope over one shoulder.
“Well, well,” Amanda said sarcastically when she saw Nancy. “If it isn’t our wonder-girl detective.”
Brent grinned. “Yeah, we’re all here now. One big, happy family.” He frowned slightly. “She seems to have the basic plot figured out, but I’d like to find out exactly what she knows.”
“That might take a while,” Nancy said. “Do you mind if I get comfortable?” She slipped the ermine cloak from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Then she took something out from under her arm and handed it to Amanda. “I believe this will prove what really happened to Napoleon and Josephine. It’s a few pages from the manuscript you sold to a dealer in San Francisco.”
Diana stared at Nancy, her mouth gaping open. “She’s wearing the real Flame!” she blurted out, unable to believe what she was seeing. “She must know that the copy was burned!”
“Shut up, Diana!” Amanda snarled.
But Diana kept on talking. “You said that when we sold the fake gown to the sheik it’d be safe!” She dropped her head into her hands and began to sob. “Why did I let you talk me into this?”
“I talked you into it?” Amanda sputtered. She turned on Diana as if she’d forgotten that the others were there. “When you told me how much Peter Wellington wanted to give you for the gown, you practically begged me to arrange a scam for you. Since the terms of your uncle’s will kept you from selling the dress, you had to be able to get the money out of it somehow.”
“So you made a secret copy, in addition to the one we all knew about,” Nancy said. “And that’s what went up in smoke—not the real one. Just a worthless reproduction.”
“Hardly worthless,” Brent said in an offended tone. “Do you have any idea what a good reproduction costs these days?”
“But in the case of Amanda’s manuscript,” Nancy reminded him, “it didn’t cost a cent. All you did was put a stack of papers into an envelope—an envelope that also contained one of your little high-tech fire-starting gimmicks.” She glanced at Brent. “It was the same sort of gimmick that you dropped into my tote bag at the airport, I suppose. An incendiary device that works without leaving a trace.”
Brent grinned. “Really neat, huh? It’s a simple device—nitrated plastic that burns itself completely—but something that nobody’s thought of before. It really had the cops and the insurance investigators scratching their heads.”
“And you attached another of your little fire-starters to the copy of the Flame, didn’t you?” Nancy continued.
George shook her head. “Whoa, back up! Let me get all this straight. The Flame that we were guarding was a copy? The dress that burned wasn’t the original?”
“That’s right, George,” Nancy said. “All told, our friends here had three Flames. There was the original, which they hid. Then there was the copy Amanda and Diana made before we arrived, and which they planned to burn.”
“Wait!” Diana cried. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t know anything about that first copy. Amanda and Brent stole the original and left me that fake. Then they told me I could only have part of the money if I cooperated with them. Otherwise, I wouldn’t get the Flame back. They forced me to go along with their scheme!”
“But it sounds as though you were willing enough to make some money,” George said to Diana.
Nancy nodded. “And then I suggested that a decoy copy be made—the third Flame.”
Bess frowned. “So then, after the fire, they hid both the burnt dress and the decoy so that we wouldn’t guess what had happened. And then they sold the unburnt copy of the Flame to the sheik.” She paused, looking at Amanda. “Didn’t you worry that the sheik would figure out that he’d bought a fake?”
“So what if the sheik did recognize the dress as a copy?” Amanda sneered. “We were safe, because he thought the dress came from Peter Wellington. He didn’t know who he’d bought it from.” She smiled mirthlessly. “Anyway, we still have the original. It’s hidden at my house—and it ought to bring a fortune.”
Nancy glanced at Brent. “You must still be looking for a buyer for your original miniature.”
Brent laughed. “Well, actually, I’m so fond of it I think I’ll keep it. I don’t need the money.” He gestured at Amanda. “I only got into this to help Catwoman dig her way out of a bad financial situation. And besides, it gave me a chance to pursue my favorite hobby—burning things up.”
Nancy turned to Diana. “And you went along with their schemes because you couldn’t sell the Flame. Your uncle’s will prohibited it. So they promised to help you for a share of the profits.
“What threw me off,” said Nancy, “was that it didn’t occur to me that we were dealing with three criminals.” She focused on Amanda. “I suppose it was you who posed as Peter Wellington’s secretary, wasn’t it?”
Amanda nodded, smiling slightly. “Good ploy, huh? And that crazy old professor—she was a terrific target for a frame-up.”
“But by the time we got to the sheik,” Nancy continued, “you must have been really desperate. Was it you and Diana who tried to wipe us out on the highway? And later, when we were having lunch in Venice?”
“I didn’t want to do it,” Diana whimpered. “Amanda made me.”
George didn’t see Amanda’s grimace of disgust. She was looking at Chad. “But what about Chad?” she asked Nancy. “If they’re crooks, how’s he involved?”
“Yeah,” Brent demanded. “Who are you—a cop?”
Chad didn’t answer. Brent shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter, anyway. You’re in it now. Enough talking. Amanda, tie them up.”
Amanda slipped the rope off her shoulder and began to tie Nancy’s hands behind her back. “Looks like you came prepared,” Nancy observed. “You’ve obviously been planning this for a while.”
Amanda laughed. “Did you think we wanted you to come to the party just to have fun?”
Brent stepped over to a large open Dumpster at the edge of the loading dock. Halfway up one side was a latched door through which the trash was dumped. Brent swung the door open and kicked an empty soft-drink case in front of it.
>
“Don’t tie their legs,” Brent told Amanda as she finished tying Nancy’s hands and began to work on George. “They need to climb in.”
Diana’s eyes widened, and her hand flew to her mouth. “What are you going to do with them?” she asked fearfully.
“What do you think?” Brent snapped, motioning to Nancy. “Get over here.”
With Brent’s gun at her back, Nancy climbed into the Dumpster. She was followed by George, Bess, and Chad.
At least we won’t be sitting in garbage, Nancy thought. The Dumpster was empty except for several rolls of old carpeting and a couple of broken bottles.
“If you’re lucky,” Brent said, “this will be over in a hurry.” Then he slammed, the door behind them.
Through the metal walls they could hear Amanda talking to Brent. “Diana and I are heading back to the party to set up an alibi,” she said.
“I’ll be right with you,” Brent answered.
There was a scratching noise—a match being lit?—followed by a soft hiss. A small metal canister with a smoking fuse sailed over the top of the Dumpster and landed on the roll of carpet.
Seconds later the carpet was ignited.
“Nancy!” Bess cried. “What are we going to do?”
“Well, we can’t scream for help. That might bring them back,” Nancy said tensely. The fuse was burning down fast. It looked as though they had about half a minute to free themselves. Nancy dropped to her knees and bent backward over the broken bottles, “I think we can cut ourselves free with these!” she cried.
Maneuvering across the floor, Nancy handed George a large piece of broken glass. In seconds George had cut Nancy’s ropes. She scrambled for the canister, but as she reached for it a tongue of molten flame leaped out of a crack in the bomb. A choking, acrid stench filled the air.
“Nancy, get back! That’s phosphorus!” yelled Chad. “It’ll eat right through your hands if you touch it!”
Gasping, Nancy threw herself backward. The sizzling plume of flame arched down to the spot where she had been standing a moment earlier. Eye-burning smoke rolled as the acid hit the Dumpster floor.