Playing With Fire Read online

  “This is like a museum,” Bess whispered.

  Nancy looked around. The shop was like a museum, and she’d have bet that nothing had been sold out of it for years. No wonder Brent had said that Wellington was more of a collector than a dealer. The man who had gathered all this stuff must be at least a little crazy, she thought. But was he crazy enough to want to destroy a painting he couldn’t add to his collection? And what about Amanda’s manuscript and the Empress’s Flame?

  Suddenly there was a muted clatter from the back of the shop. Nancy and her friends stiffened. A dusty velvet curtain covering the doorway to the back stirred for an instant as if touched by a sudden wind and then parted slightly. And in the next second Nancy found herself looking down the gaping muzzle of an antique musket!

  Chapter

  Four

  WHAT ARE YOU girls doing in my shop?” a voice demanded crankily from behind the curtain. “Didn’t you see the sign on the door?”

  “But we saw someone come out,” Nancy managed to say while staring at the musket. “And we thought you were open.” The gun looked too old to do much damage, but she couldn’t be sure. She swallowed. “Would you mind putting that gun down? It’s making me nervous.”

  Still holding the musket, a man emerged from behind the green velvet curtain. He looked as if he were in his sixties, with wispy gray hair and a straggly Van Dyke beard. A red paisley shawl was draped over his stooped shoulders. He peered down at the gun cradled in his arm. “Gun? Oh, yes. Pardon me, ladies. I was adjusting the flintlock, you see, and—” Suddenly he scowled at them. “You haven’t answered my question. What do you want? Didn’t you see the sign on the door?”

  “We’d like some information,” Nancy said. “My name is Nancy Drew. I’m a private detective, and I’m investigating a case of arson. Brent Kincaid’s miniature portrait of Napoleon was burned on Friday. Do you know anything about it?”

  Peter Wellington cackled scornfully. “What do I know? I know it was a case of just retribution, that’s what I know. That painting was never meant to be owned by Kincaid. Why, he wouldn’t know an antique from a piece of junk. And just look at the way he got his hands on it. Dishonest, that’s what / say.”

  Nancy’s ears pricked up. “Just how did Brent acquire the miniature?” she asked. “And how much did he pay for it?”

  Wellington laughed sarcastically. “Why, young lady, it didn’t cost him a penny. Brent Kincaid won that miniature—in a poker game.”

  “A poker game?” George repeated.

  “Kincaid is L.A.’s biggest playboy gambler,” Wellington said, emphasizing his words with a wave of the musket. “He won that miniature from Sheik Abdullah.”

  “Sheik who?” Nancy asked incredulously.

  “Sheik Hassan Karim Abdullah,” Wellington said. “Lives in the most expensive house in Malibu.” He peered craftily at Nancy. “If I were trying to solve this case, I’d have a serious talk with Abdullah. Maybe the sheik didn’t take kindly to losing his favorite portrait.”

  “And you?” Nancy asked quickly. “How did you feel when Kincaid refused to sell you the miniature?”

  Wellington turned and put the gun in a rack on the wall. Beside Nancy, Bess breathed an audible sigh of relief. “You win some, you lose some,” Wellington replied. “At my age, I’m philosophical about such things. But I do hate to see a fine piece like that destroyed. It was a shame about the fire.”

  Nancy frowned. What Wellington had said sounded reasonable enough, but he had avoided her eyes when he answered the question. Did he know more than he was telling her?

  “I must say, the subject seems to be a popular one,” Wellington went on. “The young man who was in here just before you also asked about Kincaid’s miniature.”

  “A young man? Did he have a beard?” Nancy asked, remembering the guy she’d seen furtively leaving the shop.

  Wellington nodded.

  “Did you get his name?”

  “Never thought to ask it. He wanted to know about other local collectors of Napoleonic relics. I gave him some names—Amanda Hyde-Porter, Diana Normandy—”

  Nancy cleared her throat. “Diana Normandy? Doesn’t she own the Empress’s Flame?” she asked casually.

  Wellington nodded. “A real jewel of a dress. I tried to buy it from her, but she refused. Something about her uncle’s will. I’m an expert, you see, at restoring old costumes—although I must say, that gown is in remarkable condition. It doesn’t need any work.”

  So Wellington had tried to buy Diana’s dress. Everything he said seemed to bring him closer to the crimes. “What about Amanda Hyde-Porter?” Nancy asked.

  “It was a real pity about that manuscript.” Wellington gave a heavy sigh. “I spotted it just as it came on the market, but Amanda beat me to it. It was a treasure.” He scowled at Nancy. “If you’re thinking I put a torch to that script, forget it. I wanted it, to be sure. But I would never harm an antique just to get even with somebody. That would be madness. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  As she preceded Bess and George out onto the sunny street, Nancy tried to decide what she thought of Peter Wellington. Was he putting on an act? It was hard to imagine him setting fire to anything—especially an antique—but there was something almost fanatical about him. And that bothered her.

  At least he had given her a new lead—Sheik Hassan Karim Abdullah—and a question to answer. Who was the bearded young man she had seen leaving Wellington’s shop? And what was his interest in this case?

  • • •

  “Well, here we are,” Nancy announced a few hours later, swinging the white Lincoln into the palm-bordered drive that led up to Diana Normandy’s Beverly Hills mansion.

  Bess leaned forward and nervously scrutinized herself in the car’s mirror. “Do you think we’re dressed okay for the party?” she asked. Back at the hotel after their morning in Venice, she had changed into a peach-colored dress that emphasized her curvy figure and had fastened her shoulder-length blond hair back with gold clips.

  “You and Nancy both look terrific,” George said. George looked great herself in a lipstick-red jumpsuit and red sandals.

  Nancy checked her makeup quickly. She’d chosen a pair of white linen pants and a gold top that brought out the bright highlights in her red-blond hair. “Okay, gang,” she said, getting out of the car. “Let’s get to work.”

  Diana’s house is even more imposing than Amanda’s, Nancy thought as a uniformed maid answered the doorbell and let them in. Outside, it looked like a transplanted Southern plantation house, with tall white pillars spaced across the front. Inside, it was crammed with artwork—paintings, sculpture, books, costumes.

  “Isn’t this a fabulous place?” Diana asked, rushing toward them. She was wearing a long black frizzy wig with a leopard-printed minidress cinched in at the waist with a heavy gold belt. She giggled. “I inherited it all from my uncle Samuel. If it were up to me, I’d sell all this stupid old junk in a minute and spend it all on parties. Unfortunately, my uncle’s will forbids me to sell any—”

  “So there you are, Diana,” Amanda said, interrupting and running up behind her friend. She turned to Nancy. “Oh, hi, Nancy. I’m glad you’re here.” She lowered her voice. “The dressmaker delivered the substitute gown a little while ago. Both of the dresses are upstairs in the costume display room. And you don’t need to worry. The locks on the display cases are burglar-proof. Come on up—we’ll show you.”

  Nancy and her friends followed Diana and Amanda up the stairs to a large paneled room whose walls were lined with glass cases displaying costumes of all periods. On one side of the room, French doors were open. They led onto a balcony that overlooked a lush green garden and an enormous swimming pool. Already, maids in black uniforms were laying out a lavish buffet on tables beside the pool, and a band was setting up.

  “Look, Nancy!” George exclaimed, pointing to a gown hung on a dress form in front of a closed case.

  Nancy took a deep breath. �
��So this is the Flame,” she said admiringly. The bare-shouldered gown was made of flame-colored satin with a subtle pattern woven into it. It had a high waistline and short, puffed sleeves. An ornate gold brooch, shaped like a crown, was fastened to the bodice. “It’s beautiful,” she added. “And in such good condition! You’d never know it’s almost two hundred years old.”

  “Actually, it’s not,” Amanda corrected her. “That’s the copy. This is the Flame.” She unlocked a display case and took out another gown draped on a dress form.

  “Why,” Bess exclaimed, her eyes widening, “it’s identical!”

  “Of course,” Amanda said with a laugh. “That’s the point, isn’t it? We want the extortionist to mistake the copy for the original.”

  “But this dress doesn’t look two hundred years old either,” George said, fingering the real Flame’s fabric. “It looks brand—”

  Outside, the musicians crashed into a rock tune and drowned out her words completely.

  “Do I have to hang around up here, Amanda?” Diana asked, raising her voice. “People will be arriving any minute now, and I want to—”

  “Oh, go on,” Amanda said a little impatiently. She turned to Nancy. “That reminds me—there’s something I have to attend to, Nancy. Would you mind putting the original dress away for me?”

  Nancy looked around the room. “We’re going to hide it in one of the locked cases,” she said. “But we’ll leave the copy out in plain sight.”

  “Whatever you say. You’re in charge.” Amanda handed Nancy the keys. “Let me know if you need anything, and I’ll check in with you when I get a chance. Good luck!” With a quick smile, she followed Diana out of the room.

  Bess leaned forward and touched the Flame reverently. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked, awe in her voice. “Just imagine—the empress Josephine wore this very dress herself.”

  “It is lovely,” George said. “With the shimmering fabric in that color, I see why it’s called the Flame. I can’t get over how new it looks.”

  “Obviously it’s been very well preserved,” Nancy said. “It was probably in a museum somewhere until Diana’s uncle bought it.”

  “I’d love to try it on,” Bess said, still looking wistfully at the Flame. “But I’d need to lose another five pounds. Actually, it’s about your size, George.” She turned to Nancy. “Do you suppose it’d be all right if George tried it on?”

  “That’s an antique! It’s irreplaceable. You could ruin it if you tried it on,” Nancy said.

  “I don’t agree,” said George, gently fingering the sleeve of the dress. “The fabric looks as though it’s in perfect condition. And it also looks as though it would fit me perfectly. Oh, come on, Nan! Just this once! I’ll never get another chance to wear something an empress wore.”

  Nancy reached out and touched the fabric herself. George was right—it did seem to be in perfect condition. “Okay,” she finally said. “But only for a minute. And please, please, be careful!”

  It took only a minute for George to step out of her jumpsuit and pull the Flame over her head. There was a long mirror on one side of the room, and she turned around in front of it, adjusting the gold brooch on the bodice.

  “Oh, George,” Bess said in an awestruck voice. “You look just like an empress! You’re beautiful!”

  Nancy stared at her friend. In Empress Josephine’s gown, shoulders back, head held high and proud, George did look like a queen. It was a remarkable transformation. “I think you missed your calling, George,” Nancy said with a laugh. “You should have been an empress. Okay, you guys, let’s put the dress away for safekeeping right now. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to—”

  George took one more turn in front of the mirror. Then she stopped, a puzzled look on her face. Her fingers went to the golden crown at the bodice. “You know, something seems odd about this dress, Nancy,” she said. “Something—” And then she let out a terrified shriek.

  Nancy whirled around. There was a soft hiss, and two wings of bright flame flared where the bodice met the skirt of the Empire-style gown. In an instant the fire had ignited the bodice, and the sleeves and the skirt were veiled in a curtain of Smoke.

  In another few seconds George would be a human torch!

  Chapter

  Five

  WITHOUT AN INSTANT’S hesitation, Nancy spun George around and threw her to the floor.

  “Roll, George!” she shouted. “It’s your only chance! Roll!” While she was barking orders at George, Nancy picked up one corner of the oriental rug covering the floor and ran with it toward George. With one enormous tug, she lifted it high and covered her friend, beating out the last licks of tiny flame.

  George staggered to her feet. She was groggy from the smoke and in shock. Lurching wildly, she went out on the balcony for some fresh air. She fell against the railing and continued to fall—headlong over the rail—straight into the pool twenty-five feet below. A split second later, Nancy followed.

  The water closed over Nancy’s head, but she surfaced quickly, gulping great lungfuls of air. George! Where was George? She didn’t see her anywhere.

  “There she is!” a man yelled from the edge of the pool.

  “I’ll get her!” another man shouted. Nancy heard a splash as somebody dived in.

  “Nancy!” Bess cried from the balcony. “I think she’s unconscious.”

  Nancy heaved herself out of the pool. On the other side a crowd was gathering as a man in the water was supporting George’s limp body. Nancy dashed around the pool and helped to pull George from the water.

  “Artificial respiration!” a woman gasped. “Give her artificial respiration!”

  “No,” the man answered. “She’s breathing.”

  Gently Nancy touched George’s forehead. She was unconscious and breathing rapidly; there was a lump the size of an egg on her forehead. The Empress’s Flame, charred and wet, clung to her lithe frame.

  “Let’s get her inside and warm her up,” a man’s voice said. “She’s in shock.”

  Nancy looked up, amazed. The voice belonged to the same bearded young man she had seen coming out of Peter Wellington’s shop earlier that morning—and he was dripping wet. He had jumped into the pool to rescue George. Carefully, he scooped her up and carried her toward the house.

  “I’ll take care of her,” Nancy told the crowd of people who’d gathered around the pool. “I’m working for Diana. You all go back and have a good time.” She didn’t want everyone trooping along behind them.

  Diana was waiting for them in the den. “What happened?” she demanded as the stranger gingerly put George down on a sofa. “She’s all wet! Why did you put her on my silk sofa?” Then her eyes widened as she saw the dress. “The Flame! Oh no! Is it—?”

  “How is she, Nancy?” Bess asked, dashing into the room with a blanket in her arms and Amanda on her heels.

  “What’s going on?” Amanda asked. “I saw a body fall into the—” Her hand flew to her mouth when she saw George. “Oh no!”

  Nancy nodded grimly. “It’s the Flame, I’m afraid. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. George was wearing it when it suddenly went up in—” She stopped. George’s eyelids were flickering open. “George, are you all right?” Nancy asked.

  George choked and struggled to sit up. “I—I think so,” she said in a dazed voice. “I’m just—dizzy, that’s all.”

  “You’ve got a few burns. I think we’d better get you to the hospital,” Nancy told her. “The lump on your head doesn’t look serious, but it wouldn’t hurt to have it examined, just to rule out concussion. And we do have to see how badly you’ve been burned.”

  “I’ll take her.” It was Brent Kincaid. Nancy hadn’t seen him come in, but now he was standing next to Amanda. “My car’s right outside.”

  “Good,” Nancy said. “But first we need to get her out of that wet dress. I don’t think she’s so badly burned that we have to leave it on her.”

  After everyone had left the room,
Nancy and Bess carefully peeled George out of the dress and wrapped her in the blanket. “Nan, I should have listened to you. The Flame is ruined,” George said, staring woefully at the charred and tattered dress. “Look, even the brooch is gone.”

  “It’s my fault too,” Bess said. “I feel like such a—What are you doing, Nancy?”

  Nancy was bent over the dress, examining it closely. “I’m trying to figure out how the fire started,” she said. “I mean, this whole thing is crazy. The flames just leaped out of nowhere!”

  “Brent’s brought the car to the front door,” Amanda said, walking back into the room with Diana.

  “Okay, we’re coming,” Nancy replied. “It would probably be a good idea to take the Flame back upstairs and lock it up.”

  Amanda nodded. “I’ll do it right away,” she promised. She gestured to the patio. “But first I think I’d better let everybody know that things are under control.”

  “Of course,” Nancy said absently. She turned to Diana. “What can I say? I’m so sorry this happened. It was completely unprofessional of me to let George try on the dress. I—I wish I could—”

  “Well, I am upset, naturally, but there’s no use thinking about it now,” Diana cut in. “I’ll just have to live with it, I guess. You’d better get George to the hospital, and we can talk about this later.”

  “All right,” Nancy said bleakly.

  • • •

  It was several hours later when Nancy got back to Diana’s mansion. Amanda met her at the front door. “How’s George?” she asked.

  “The doctor says she’s going to be okay,” Nancy said. “She was lucky. She got out of it with only a few burns and a headache. Bess took her back to the hotel in a taxi.” She paused for a moment and listened to the loud music and voices from the back of the house. “It sounds as if the party’s still going on.”