101 The Picture of Guilt Page 4

  They arrived at their stop, left the train, and walked upstairs to the street.

  "Madame de Reduane," George said doubtfully, Studying Nancy's notes. *'Are you sure this is the right place?''

  Nancy looked up at the elaborately carved facade of the building and the uniformed, white-gloved doorman who was watching them curiously. "This is the address," she replied.

  As she and George approached the entrance, the doorman saluted and said, "Mesdemoiselles Dey-rew et Fay-ne? The countess is expecting you."'

  "Countess?" George mouthed silently to Nancy. Nancy raised her eyebrows and gave a slight shrug.

  Another man in uniform took them up three floors in an elevator that looked like a polished brass cage. As the elevator came to a halt, the mahogany doors facing it opened. A girl in a black uniform and frilly white apron curtsied and said, "This way, please."

  Nancy and George followed her into a huge living room crowded with antiques. The tall windows faced onto the Seine. In the distance the Eiffel Tower stood out lacelike against the sky.

  Nancy was imagining the Countess de Reduane to be middle-aged and frighteningly elegant. The woman who appeared in the doorway was no more than thirty-five and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

  "Hello, Nancy, George," she said, in a perfect American accent. "Have a seat. Would you like a soda or anything?"

  She smiled at their surprise and confusion. "My dad's American," she explained, **and I spent part of my childhood in Philadelphia before we moved to Paris. Fm really curious about your call. Why me?''

  Nancy explained about finding her name in Josephine Solo's appointment book.

  "Dear Aunt Jo," the countess said wistfully. "Her death was such a loss—to the art worid, of course, but to me personally, too."

  "She was your aunt. Countess?" George asked, puzzled.

  "Oh, please, call me Cynthia," she replied with a smile. "And, no, we were only distantly related. But she was one of my mother's oldest friends. And when I got to know her again, after I started collecting her work, it seemed natural to call her what I had as a child. She liked it. She was quite lonely in many ways."

  Nancy took in the beautiful room. Half a dozen paintings hung on the walls. Four were abstracts and the other two realistic. "Are these all Solos?" she asked.

  "That's right," Cynthia replied. "I was very lucky to find so many from her early period, and to buy them before the prices started to climb. Now, of course, they would be out of reach for an individual collector like me."

  As the conversation continued, Nancy gradually realized that Cynthia hadn't known Josephine Solo well as a person, only as an artist. She claimed to know nothing at all about Solo's relationship with Censier or about any enemies the painter might have had.

  Back on the sidewalk, George said, 'That was a big, fat zero/'

  "Not quite," Nancy replied. "It tells us that one of the people Solo saw the most of in the last months of her life hardly knew her at all. Let's see what we can learn from the last person on ou^ hst, Gail Fountain."

  "The woman who wrote those French cookbooks?" George demanded. "Wow—we have two of her books at home. Terrific recipes, but very complicated."

  Fountain lived in a rundown building near the center of Paris. Nancy and George trudged up four flights of uncarpeted stairs and knocked on her door. No answer. They tried again. Finally they started to leave.

  At that moment a woman who was in her forties, wearing a tweed skirt and Irish sweater, came barging up the stairs. The string shopping bag on her arm overflowed with vegetables.

  "You must be George and Nancy," she said breathlessly in accented English. "I'm Gail Fountain. I'm so sorry I'm late. When I walk into a food store, I go into a trance. Please come in."

  She led them into a big, cheerful kitchen dominated by a cast-iron restaurant range, and they sat down around one end of a long, time-scarred oak table.

  "It's interesting," Fountain said, after Nancy explained that they were researching the last year of Solo's life. "I must have been as close to Jo as anyone, but after your call, I realized that there was so much I didn't know about her, especially in the last year or two."

  "Why was that?" asked George. "Were the two of you out of touch?"

  The food writer shook her head. "Not at all. We lunched together at least once a week and spoke on the phone even more often. But Jo kept things to herself. It was as if she was afraid that sharing them with others might spoil them."

  After a pause she added, "Here's an example. The last few months before she died, Jo seemed happier than I'd ever seen her. I commented on it more than once, but she just smiled mysteriously and changed the subject."

  "What do you think it meant?" Nancy asked.

  "I don't know," Fountain replied. "I did wonder if she had fallen in love, but if she had, I have no idea with whom, or why she would keep it secret from her friends."

  "A romance?" George asked dubiously. She and Nancy were climbing the stairs from the metro station to the street shortly after their visit to Gail Fountain. "Wouldn't you think we'd have heard about it before now?"

  "Not if Solo was as close-mouthed as people have indicated. She could have been keeping it to herself," Nancy replied. **And people of all ages do fall in love. I wonder if Ellen has any ideas about it.''

  They were just passing a bakery. The window was filled with pastries of every sort. George grabbed Nancy's arm and said, "Look at that fabulous raspberry tart! Let's get one for dessert tonight."

  Nancy laughed. *'You sound like Bess! But you're right, it does look delicious."

  They bought the tart and continued toward the apartment. They were just a few steps away, crossing the mouth of a narrow side street, when a sudden noise alerted Nancy.

  She jerked her head around. A motorbike, the kind Keith had called a mobylette, had just veered away from the curb and was rapidly picking up speed. She and George were directly in its path.

  Chapter Six

  NANCY GRABBED George by the shoulders and jumped out of the way of the speeding moby-lette. Her heel caught on one of the paving stones, but she managed to keep her balance and get a good look at the motorbike. The rider was wearing a fiill helmet with 6aik visor and a dark green jimipsuit—not much hope of identifying him or her from that. But fastened to the luggage carrier of the motorbike was a large metal box with the words Pizza Pow! in bright red.

  "These motards," a middle-aged man said angrily in French. "Never do they notice if someone is in the way! Are you all right, mademoiselle? Shall I caU for the police?'"

  "No, we're all right, thank you," Nancy assured him. Inwardly, she was furious. A moby-lette had almost hit Keith earlier in the day. A coincidence? Or part of a connected sequence? Did any of the students in Ellen's program have a job delivering pizzas?

  The man shrugged and turned away.

  "Oh, Nancy, how awful!" George exclaimed.

  She was staring down at the ground. The white cardboard box from the bakery lay flattened, with the mark of a tire right across it. A smear of crushed raspberries spread across the pavement.

  "Never mind," Nancy said. "Just be glad it was the raspberry tart and not one of us! Come on, let's toss that one and go back for another."

  Upstairs, Nancy located the telephone book and studied the list of Pizza Pow! branches. There was one only a few blocks away. "Let's take a look," she suggested to George.

  They found the place easily, by the row of mobylettes parked at the curb. As they drew near, a girl in a red jumpsuit and white helmet came out, put a boxed pizza in the metal container on the back of one of the mobylettes, and sped away.

  "Look," Nancy said, pausing next to the nearest motorbike. "The keys are in the ignition. Anybody could ride off on one."

  "Anyone with nerve," George commented.

  They went inside. Two guys and a girl, all in red jumpsuits, were sitting on folding chairs, talking. Behind a counter, an older man was taking an order over the phone. He hung up and turned to Nancy a
nd George.

  "You wish to order a pizza?" he asked.

  "No," Nancy replied. "You might be interested to know that half an hour ago, we were nearly struck by a Pizza Pow! mobylette."

  The man regarded her warily. "We have many deliverers. What was the number of the machine?"

  "I don't know," Nancy said. "But the rider was wearing a green coverall and a black helmet."

  A look of relief crossed the man's face. "Ah! All of our team wear red jumpsuits and white helmets. Perhaps you mistook the name?"

  "No, I saw it clearly," Nancy told him. "Could somebody have, uh, borrowed one of your motorbikes this afternoon?"

  "It happens now and then," he admitted. "But not today. Another branch, perhaps?"

  After a few more questions, Nancy and George returned to the apartment and began calling other Pizza Pow! agencies. On the third try they found one near the canal St. Martin that had had a mobylette stolen that afternoon. The police had just found it parked near the Bastille.

  "The canal St. Martin isn't far from here," George said, studying a city map. "We should get the addresses of people in the exchange program. One of them might live near there."

  "Good idea," Nancy replied, making a note. She tried Ellen's number, but she got the answering machine. She left a message explaining what she wanted, then she and George turned their attention to fixing dinner.

  That evening they told Carson Drew about their day and what they had discovered.

  "The incident with the mobylette makes me think that we're onto something/' Nancy concluded. "Unless it was a coincidence, somebody knows we're asking questions about Solo's death and is upset enough to try to frighten us off—or worse."

  Nancy's father held up a hand like a traflBc cop. "Now hold on," he said. "All you really have at this point is two apparently accidental deaths, possibly linked, and the fact that you were nearly hit by a motorbike. But I was nearly hit today, too, by some idiot on a motorcycle. As far as I'm concerned, the only sane rule in Paris is, assume that anyone on two wheels—and most of those on four wheels—is totally nuts!"

  Nancy and George laughed at his vehemence, but then Nancy was quiet for a moment. "Dad, do you really think that our whole investigation is nonsense?" she asked.

  "I didn't say that," Carson replied. "But watch out that you don't jump to conclusions."

  Nancy promised, and meant it.

  After dinner, and helpings of the second raspberry tart, Nancy decided to take a stroU to the Bastille, while George got ready for her date with James. As Nancy left the apartment, David came down the stairs, looking tired.

  "Oh, hi," he said. "Are you on your way out? I'm just knocking off my first day of work. You know I'm working for Professor Mathieson now, don't you? I hate to say it, considering the way it happened, but this is a real break for me. It won't be easy, taking Jules's place. He did an amazing amount of work in the last couple of months. If only his notes were better organized. Fm going to end up retracing a lot of what he did."

  Nancy wondered. Was David really as callous about the death of Jules as he sounded?

  "What are you working on?" she asked.

  David rolled his eyes. "Letters, newspaper clippings, checkbooks, old bills, you name it. Solo left all her papers and stuff to Professor Mathieson, you see. There's a stack of cartons in the back room. Some of them have barely been looked at. And they're not in any real order, either. Jules made a start at sorting it out, but there's still a ton to do."

  "I'm going for a walk," Nancy said, as they emerged onto the street. "Would you like to join me? Fm headed toward the Bastille."

  "Sure, it's on my way home," David rephed. "Pam and I are sharing a place over near the canal St. Martin. It's a neat neighborhood, and just a fifteen-minute walk from here."

  "Somebody mentioned a good pizza place near there," Nancy said. "It had a funny name— Pizza Pow! Do you know it?"

  David shrugged. "Sure, it's just around the comer from us. But it's strictly delivery, and I don't think the pizzas are that great, either."

  They turned right. The streets were jammed. In the darkness, the yellow and blue sign for Credit Lyonnais, a bank, glowed brightly over the sidewalk. At the comer a mobylette zipped by them as they were about to cross the street.

  "Those look like fun, don't they," Nancy said brightly. "Have you ever been on one?**

  "I've ridden motorcycles back home," David replied. "But the way people drive in this town, I think I'd be too scared to try it here."

  Ahead, the glass and white marble facade of the Bastille Opera was brightly lit. At least a hundred people were lounging on the monumental steps that led up to the entrance.

  As they walked past one of the bigger caf^ that faced the Place de la Bastille, Nancy spotted Pamela at a front row table on the terrace. The guy she was with had his back to Nancy, but it could have been Keith. Nancy glanced over at David. He was staring straight ahead, his face rigid.

  "Nancy, David," Pamela called, waving. When Nancy waved back, Pamela gestured to the empty chairs at her table.

  "Why don't we join them?" Nancy suggested.

  David grunted a reply, but followed her to the table, where he took the seat farthest away from Keith. He sat silently while Nancy and Pamela chatted about Paris, the weather, and what a treat it was to be able to sit at an outdoor cafe in November. Then, as the waiter came over to take their orders, David stood up.

  "I'm really beat," he announced. "Fm going home and bag some zzz's. See you later.''

  Pam watched unhappily as her brother walked away. Then she turned to Nancy. '^David's pretty stressed about this new job," she said. "It's very important to him to do well at it."

  "Don't worry, I understand," Nancy replied. She turned to Keith, "That was a really fun restaurant you took us to today."

  A frown crossed Pam's face. Keith must have noticed because he quickly said, "I happened to run into George and Nancy over near the Beaux-Arts at noon." To Nancy, he added, "Glad you liked it. It's a favorite of mine."

  Nancy raised an eyebrow. So when Keith and Pamela were together earlier, he hadn't mentioned that he had just had lunch with Nancy and George. Why not?

  Keith finished his cup of espresso and pushed his chair back. "I've got a lot of loose ends to tie up," he said, adding, "I don't have any change, Pam. Will you take care of my coffee?"

  "Sure," Pam said, but she didn't sound happy.

  He cupped her chin in his hand and turned her face toward his. "I'll call you tomorrow," he promised. "Nancy, don't forget about Alain and Didier's party. It should be a blast."

  "You know Keith's friends?" Pam asked, as he walked toward the metro entrance.

  "Not really," Nancy replied. "One of them came over to our table at lunch and asked us to the party. Are you going?"

  Pam began to tear little pieces oflf her paper napkin. "I don't know ... A lot of people I know will be there. But Keith asked me to go with him, and David—well. . ." She broke off and stared down at the table.

  "Doesn't David like Keith?'' asked Nancy.

  Pam's cheeks reddened. "He doesn't like me dating him," she admitted. "He says Keith's top old for me, as if it's any business of his. And as if it mattered. There are just a few years' difference, anyway. Keith really knows Paris, he knows all sorts of interesting people, and he likes me a lot. That counts for more than his being a few years older than I, doesn't it?"

  "That depends," Nancy said cautiously. "How do you feel about him?"

  "I think he's really cute, in a moody kind of way," Pam replied. "And I enjoy going places with him and talking to him about all kinds of things. Isn't that enough? I don't have to fall in love with every guy I go out with, do I?"

  "Of course not," Nancy assured her with a laugh. "It sounds to me as if your brother is just a little bit old-fashioned, that's all."

  Pam took a deep breath and seemed to relax. "I'm glad I ran into you. For another reason, too. Professor Mathieson told me about what you're doing—investigating
what happened to Jules, I mean. And I'd like to help you."

  Nancy frowned. "I'm not sure—" she began to say.

  "No, wait,'' Pam said, putting her hand on Nancy's arm. "I feel awful about Jules. If somebody did attack him, it's important that they be caught. But besides that, I've always loved mysteries. I couldn't bear to be in the middle of one and not take part. I'll do whatever you need me to and I won't get in your way. If I do, just tell me to buzz off and I will. Please?"

  Nancy thought fast. Pam seemed sincere in her desire to help, and it might be very useful to have someone who was part of the exchange program and knew all the participants. But what if Pam had some less honorable reason for wanting to keep tabs on the case? After all, both her twin brother and current boyfriend were suspects. What if she intended to act as a spy for one or the other of them? In that case, it might be a very shrewd move to have her around, where Nancy and George could keep a close eye on her and discover whether she was spying and for whom.

  Nancy took a deep breath. "All right, Pam, you're on," she said. "Why don't you come by our apartment first thing tomorrow? We can have some breakfast and plan our next moves."

  "Wow, thanks, Nancy," Pam said, her face beaming. "I'm psyched! Tell you what—on the way over, I'll pick up fresh croissants."

  The next morning Carson had a breakfast meeting. After he left Nancy asked George, "How was your date last night?"

  George groaned. "James is very sweet,'' she replied. "But when he asked me on a walking tour, he really meant it. We must have walked for miles! But it was worth it. Paris is really gorgeous at night, with so many monuments lit up."

  The doorbell rang; It was Pam with a bag of croissants. Nancy set the table, while George started a pot of coffee. Then the three girls sat down and enjoyed the rich, flaky pastry.

  Nancy carefully wiped her fingers, then leafed through her notes from the day before. "Here's somebody we ought to talk to," she announced. "Phillipe Leduc. His name cropped up several times in Solo's date book, and twice it had exclamation points after it. I couldn't reach him yesterday afternoon, but maybe we'll have better luck today."