002 Deadly Intent Read online

  “Not exactly.” Mark Bailey spoke up. “A few years back—twice—he just took off. We were scared stiff at first because he didn’t tell anyone anything, but both times it turned out that he just couldn’t cope with the pressure of being a super-celebrity. The first time he flew off to some island in the Mediterranean and rented himself a house on the beach for a few weeks. The second time he spent the weekend with some friends in the country.”

  “Yeah, but Mark, don’t forget, that was two years ago,” Roger said, “when we were just starting to make it big. Barton’s gotten much better about dealing with his fame.” A worried look crossed his face. “I just don’t have the same feeling about this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look,” Roger said, “this whole ‘Rock for Relief’ thing was his idea. I know he’s pretty quiet about his sister, but he’s totally devoted to her. You know that. He wouldn’t let her—or anyone like her—down.”

  “What does his sister have to do with it?” Nancy asked.

  “She’s been in a wheelchair all her life,” Roger explained. “That’s one of the reasons Barton got the idea for these shows. I’m positive that he wouldn’t run out on us now. Besides, if he were planning on going, he wouldn’t have left all that stuff in his dressing room. Even his guitar is there.”

  Jim Parker ran a nervous hand through his short dark hair. “But he’s got two other guitars, Roger. I don’t know. Barton’s done some crazy things.”

  Nancy listened carefully. Barton was beginning to be a real human being to her, with fears and weaknesses like any person. If he had chosen to vanish before, she had to consider the possibility that he might do it again. On the other hand, there was evidence to the contrary.

  Nancy sighed. “I can’t begin to make guesses about someone I’ve just met, but I’m inclined to agree with Roger. Vanishing just before a big show like this doesn’t make sense and isn’t going to be overlooked by the press. If Barton wanted to get away from it all, he couldn’t have picked a worse moment to do it.”

  “Look, everything you’re saying sounds reasonable,” Linda volunteered, “and it’s true that Barton’s become more comfortable being, well, being a hot item, but just recently he’s been a lot more like the old Barton. I don’t know, he seems really uptight about something.”

  Nancy couldn’t help thinking about the urgency she’d sensed when Barton had asked about her detective work. “Linda, do you have any idea what was bothering him?”

  Linda shrugged. “Beats me. But he’s been acting weird for the past couple of weeks. Ever since . . .”

  “Ever since what?”

  “Ever since we started talking about our new contract.” Linda’s olive complexion went pale. She glanced from one member of Bent Fender to the next. “You don’t think he’s going to leave the band, do you?”

  “No way, Lin,” Roger reassured her. “Look at the way he’s been going at the songs he’s writing for the new album. He’s totally into the music we’re making now.” Roger paused. “But he has been tense about the contract.” He turned to Nancy to explain. “He thinks we’re not getting all the royalties we’re entitled to. He started fighting with our agent and our producer. That’s why we called your father. We decided to bring in a lawyer.”

  Nancy nodded. But before she could ask more questions, the telephone in Barton’s dressing room rang shrilly.

  Mark grabbed the receiver. “Yes?” Pause. “Hey, thanks for calling. Have you found him yet?” His expression darkened, and Nancy held her breath. “Right. Okay, I understand.”

  “That was the stage manager,” Mark said when he hung up. “No trace of Barton, and the audience is getting pretty rowdy. They want to know why we’re not on stage. What do we do?”

  Jim shook his head thoughtfully. “Whew. All those handicapped kids are out there. We can’t let them down.”

  “Yeah, but how are we supposed to play without the main attraction?” Linda asked, her tough tone barely hiding the concern in her voice. “Boy, if this is Barton’s fault, I’m going to make him disappear for good.”

  “I could cover the leads,” Mark said, “but can you imagine doing ‘Fever’ with one guitar?”

  “ ‘Fever?’ What a great tune. I can play every riff in that song,” Alan said.

  Roger spun around and looked him squarely in the eye.

  “Hey, I’m sorry.” Alan looked at the ground, embarrassed. “At a time like this I guess no one wants to hear me go on about playing your music.”

  “No, maybe we do,” Roger said, studying Alan intently. “Can you play all our tunes?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Really well,” Bess added proudly. “He has a great voice, too.”

  Roger grabbed Barton’s guitar from the corner of the room and fiddled with the knobs and dials on the amp. “Try the fast middle section on ‘Fever.’ ” He pressed the guitar into Alan’s hands.

  Astonishment filled Alan’s brown eyes. Roger flashed him a smile of encouragement. “Go ahead,” he said.

  Nancy listened as Alan tuned the guitar strings and, after taking a long, deep breath, sang the familiar Fender music in a clear, confident voice.

  “Not bad.” Linda’s face was serious, her eyes appraising. “What else can you do?”

  “How about ‘Little Brother’?” Jim asked, as Alan finished up on ‘Fever.’ “Do you know that one?”

  Alan’s brow crinkled in concentration. “That’s an oldie,” he said, “but I think I can do it.” Once again, music filled the room as Alan broke into a slow, dreamy number from Bent Fender’s first album.

  “What do you say?” Roger addressed his fellow band members. One by one, Nancy saw them signal their approval.

  “Champ,” Roger said, putting his hand on Alan’s shoulder, “how would you like to be our pinch hitter tonight?”

  As if in a fog, Alan put down the guitar. “Me? You want me to play with Bent Fender? Here?”

  “We need your help,” Roger said.

  “We’ll pull you through the rough spots,” Mark promised.

  Nancy watched as Alan’s angular features reflected a rainbow of emotions from doubt to dazed happiness. Then the smile left his face. “What about Barton?” he asked suddenly. “Are you going to call the police?”

  “They wouldn’t take this seriously,” Roger replied gloomily. “Not after the other two times. Barton’s earned himself quite a reputation.”

  “But you can’t just do nothing,” George said.

  Nancy cleared her throat. Despite seeing her dreams of vacation vanishing as rapidly as Barton had, she said, “Look, maybe I could—”

  “Nancy, would you?” Roger didn’t even wait for her to finish her sentence. “I can’t tell you how grateful I’d be.”

  Linda, Jim, and Mark echoed his sentiments.

  “Nancy Drew can’t turn down a chance to do some sleuthing,” George said. “It’s in her blood to track down clues.”

  Nancy had to admit that George was right. Nothing was more of a challenge than solving a mystery. But just then, the tingle of enthusiasm that she usually felt at the beginning of a case was overshadowed by her worries about Barton. Maybe he was running away again, but if not, she couldn’t lose any time. He might be in terrible danger.

  • • •

  As she combed the halls of the renowned Radio City Music Hall, Nancy could hear strains of the concert coming from the direction of the stage. Alan’s playing wasn’t as slick or polished as Barton’s, but from what Nancy could hear, his fingers were really flying over Barton’s guitar. The rest of the band was helping Alan out by covering more of the leads themselves and taking more solos. Still, Alan was winging it like a true pro.

  Nancy wished she could be in the wings watching, but finding Barton came first. Bess and George had offered to help her, but she insisted they enjoy the show, telling them she would come get them if she needed their help. Bess, in particular, had looked relieved, obviously not wanting to miss a single note of
Alan’s performance.

  The sounds of the concert grew clearer as Nancy entered an elevator, pressing the button for the street level. When the elevator door slid open and she headed for the guards’ booth, the music grew faint again.

  The guards and some of Fender’s roadies were playing cards. But the bearded guard she had met before looked up from his hand when Nancy asked about Barton. “Novak hasn’t shown yet,” he said.

  “And you haven’t seen anyone back here besides the people with the band?”

  “The only folks I let in—besides you and your friends—were these guys here,” he pointed to the three card-playing roadies, “the gal running the lights, the guy at the sound board, the stage manager, and the two who were unloading equipment before the show.”

  “What two?” One of the roadies, a lanky, fair-haired young man, put down a can of beer and shot the guard a puzzled look. “We unloaded all the equipment this morning.”

  The guard frowned. “You’re off the wall,” he snapped. “Those guys had passes, and they were carrying boxes and stuff.”

  “They weren’t with us,” another roadie declared.

  Nancy drew in her breath. “Sounds like trouble.” She opened her shoulder bag and took out a felt-tipped pen and the tiny notebook she always carried with her. “Tell me everything you can remember about those guys,” she said.

  “One of ’em was real big—tall with brown hair,” said the bearded guard. “How was I supposed to know they didn’t belong here? And those boxes—they looked like they had instruments in them, you know—”

  “Guitar cases?”

  “Yeah, I guess. And they had a huge brown box, too, looked like the kind that refrigerators are packed in. Actually, they left with that one. Said they were taking out a broken speaker.”

  Nancy’s heart sank, a terrible thought occurring to her. “Was that box large enough to hold a person?”

  “I don’t believe it!” exclaimed the blond-haired roadie, throwing down his cards. “Did you let some thugs carry Barton out of here in a box, you morons?”

  “Please!” Nancy shouted. She got the group calmed down and continued to pump the guards for information about the two unknown men. “Was the tall man’s hair straight?” she prodded. “Curly?”

  “Straight. Not too much of it, I don’t think. I sort of remember a bald spot. And he was a heavy fellow. Dressed in jeans and a jeans jacket.”

  “What about the other one?” Nancy said.

  “Younger. Your age, maybe. Shorter, but he looked strong. Dark wavy hair. Longish. Parted on the side. He had on slacks.”

  “Gray ones, I think,” put in the other guard. “And a button-down shirt. Oh, and he had on a heavy gold chain and a gold ring. I noticed the ring when he showed us their passes. Real different looking, like a sea serpent or something, and it had little red jewels for eyes.”

  “That’s terrific,” Nancy said. “Thank you. Anything else you can think of that might help me?”

  “Well,” one of the guards said slowly, “we have had a little trouble around here lately—break-ins, equipment missing, that sort of thing. But I don’t see what that would have to do with Barton.”

  “All right,” said Nancy. “Well, you’ve been a big help.”

  “Now what are you going to do?” the roadie asked.

  “I want to take one more look around and make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

  Nancy didn’t discover anything more in the basement or on the street level. The rehearsal studios were dead ends. But as she poked around near Barton’s dressing room, she spotted two black instrument cases. She’d seen the cases earlier and thought nothing of them, but because of her talk with the security guards, she raced over and unlatched them. Empty. They’d probably been carried in just so the two mysterious men would look as if they belonged backstage.

  Nancy poked at one of them. It moved slightly, and she noticed something new—a fat wallet. She picked it up, turning it over in her hand. The wallet was made of soft, top-quality leather, decorated on one side with a tooled design of a dragon, its tail curled into the letter L. It was bulging with money.

  Nancy ran her finger over the raised leather. Suddenly she remembered the guard’s description of the gold ring one man was wearing. He had said it was shaped like a sea serpent—but couldn’t the sea serpent have been a dragon?

  Eagerly, Nancy opened the wallet to see what other clues she could find, but just as she did she heard a noise behind her. She whipped around and felt a dull thud on her head. It was the last thing she remembered before everything went black.

  Chapter

  Three

  THE BACK OF Nancy’s head ached when she woke up. Her fingers discovered a large bump, and she rubbed at the soreness. It was then that she recalled being struck. She blinked hard, pulling herself to her feet. The walls around her seemed to spin, and she put her hand out to steady herself.

  From the direction of the concert hall came the sound of applause, stamping feet, and cheering fans. Was the show already over? That would mean she’d been out for at least an hour. Taking a few deep breaths, she tried to clear her head. Then she remembered the wallet.

  She looked on the floor, under the instrument cases, behind pieces of scenery, inside boxes of props. The wallet was gone. “What on earth is going on?” she whispered in frustration.

  “Nan? Did you say something?” George appeared around the corner, followed by Bess, Alan, and the members of Bent Fender.

  “Did you find out anything about Barton?” Roger called to her.

  “Did you hear Alan? Wasn’t he incredible?” That was Bess.

  “Did you miss the whole concert, Nancy?” asked Linda.

  “Hey, one person at a time,” Nancy replied weakly. Her friends’ faces looked blurry.

  “Nancy, are you okay? Is something the matter?” George asked. She and Bess rushed to Nancy’s side.

  “I’m not sure. I found something—that much I know. A wallet. But just as I was taking a look at it, someone hit me over the head, and I blacked out. When I came to, the wallet was gone.”

  “Someone knocked you out?” Bess’s voice was a frightened whisper. “Do you know who did it?”

  Nancy shook her head. “Maybe the same people who have Barton. Or maybe just some creep who wanted the wallet. It was full of money, and the guard said there have been some break-ins recently.”

  “But you said somebody might have taken Barton.” Roger Gold’s voice trembled.

  “Well, I think so. Two men were back here before the show . . .” Nancy told them everything she had found out. “I want to look around a little more,” she said, finishing up. “Maybe that wallet wasn’t the only thing around that might tell us something. Ouch.” She put her hand to her aching head.

  “You’re not looking for another thing tonight,” George told her firmly. “You’ve got some bump there. We’re putting you right to bed and getting you an ice pack.”

  “But George . . .”

  “Your friends are right,” Linda said. “In fact, it might be a good idea to have a doctor take a look at you.”

  “I’m all right, really,” Nancy insisted, but as she spoke, the hall began to spin and she felt her knees weaken. She reached out to lean on Bess’s shoulder.

  “Nancy, the doctor is a good idea,” Bess said.

  “But if there are other clues . . .”

  Roger spoke up. “We’ll have the security guards search every inch of this place and report back to you if they find anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Well, okay,” Nancy agreed grudgingly. She did feel awfully woozy.

  She let the band members put her and her friends in a taxi to the hotel, but not before promising them that she would be back on the case first thing in the morning.

  At the hotel, the house physician gave Nancy a clean bill of health, much to everyone’s relief.

  Carson Drew had arrived home from the opera to find his daughter in bed in the luxurious suite they we
re sharing. An ice pack rested on her head, and Dr. Harris was bending over her.

  “Dad, you should be getting used to my misadventures by now,” Nancy joked weakly.

  But the tight lines around Carson Drew’s mouth did not soften even after the doctor announced that his daughter was going to be as good as new in the morning. Nancy knew that her father worried about her.

  “You go right to sleep and get a solid night’s rest,” Dr. Harris told Nancy. “That’s my prescription.”

  Nancy nodded sleepily. Once she was alone—her friends in their own suite, her father in the next room—she tried to go over the evening’s events in her mind. But she was thoroughly exhausted. Try as she might to stay awake for just a few minutes longer, she felt herself drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  • • •

  “Sleeping beauty,” Bess giggled.

  “Shh. You’ll wake her up,” George whispered. “Let’s just leave the tray.”

  “But the omelet will get cold,” Bess protested.

  “Bess, you know Dr. Harris said she needs rest.”

  Nancy rolled over and pulled at the quilt that covered her. She opened one eye. Her friends were setting a breakfast tray on the table in the corner of the room. “S’all right, you guys,” she mumbled, still half asleep. “I’m getting up.”

  “Nan! Good morning, sleepyhead.” Bess flounced down on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  Nancy pulled herself into a sitting position, leaning against the backboard of the king-size bed. She checked the bump on her head and found that the swelling had gone down. “Pretty good.” She looked around the hotel room. “Hey, it’s nice in here, huh?” She hadn’t had a chance to look around much when they’d checked in, and after the concert nothing could have been farther from her mind than the hotel room.

  “Yeah, and get a load of the view,” George said, pulling open the curtains to reveal the skyline of New York’s midtown, sparkling in the early-autumn morning sunshine.

  “The Empire State Building!” Nancy noted enthusiastically.