055 Don't Look Twice Page 7

  The one thing Nancy knew was that a few questions would be answered at twelve-thirty. And she would be there.

  Glancing at her watch, she noticed that it was already ten forty-five. The gala was only supposed to go till eleven. She had to sneak back downstairs and find Ned and the others. If she was going to remain inside until twelve-thirty, she needed someone outside to make sure she could get out then.

  Nancy made her way down the sweeping staircase and into the ballroom. Only a handful of people were still there. She walked through it and into the adjoining room, Ned, Martha, and Tim Raphael were sitting against one wall, deep in conversation. Dave and George were standing together in front of one of the paintings.

  "Nancy!" Ned said, standing up. He looked relieved to see her.

  "Hi!" said Nancy. "Ned, come here. I want to show you something." She took his hand and practically dragged him into the ballroom.

  "You have to cover for me," she said as soon as they were out of earshot of anyone else. "Fve got to stay here until twelve-thirty. Fm going to hide out upstairs until everyone is gone. When you go back into the ballroom, pretend I had to go home."

  "Why?" Ned asked. "What's going on?"

  Nancy quickly explained what she had overheard upstairs and what she planned to do. "I want to see which painting they're after and try to find out where they're taking it," she concluded.

  ''I don't like to leave you here alone," Ned told her.

  "I'll be fine, as long as you're standing by to rescue me if anything goes wrong," Nancy told him. She grinned. "My hero."

  Ned gave a half smile, then looked deeply into Nancy's eyes. "Be careful," he said, and drew her into his arms. She felt so warm and secure that she didn't want him to ever let her go.

  "I hope we find Denise soon," Ned added.

  Nancy drew back abruptly, feeling as if she'd just had cold water poured on her head. Why did he have to keep reminding her of how much he cared for the missing girl?

  "Yeah, me, too," she said, trying to sound normal. "See you in a few hours."

  Nancy stole back up the staircase and into the file room. It seemed a good place to hide until people had left the gallery. She found a dark comer and made herself comfortable.

  It was eleven-fifteen. An hour and a quarter to wait. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.

  When her eyes snapped open a while later, it took her a moment to remember where she was. It was dark and quiet in the file room. She looked at her watch. Two minutes to midnight.

  She stood up, stretched her legs, and walked quietly to the door. The floorboards creaked loudly, and she stopped, her heart beating fast. No one came, no footsteps, no alarms. She was alone in the gallery.

  Nancy opened the door and slipped out into the hallway. She could see the red emergency exit lights at the ends of the hall. The staircase was unlit, but the burnished wood seemed to glow with a light of its own. Nancy fought the jitters that were beginning to make her stomach chum.

  Slowly and deliberately she walked down the staircase and into the ballroom. A few dim lights had been left on, as if to keep the paintings company. Nancy moved from painting to painting.

  Somehow, without the bright light and the clamor of the artsy crowd, the paintings came to life. She stopped in front of The Young Boy. Sitting in his huge velvet chair, the small, thin, dark-haired boy looked incredibly sad and alone. She turned away, then gazed over her shoulder at the painting. Sad eyes gazed back.

  Suddenly Nancy heard the bolt move on the front door. Her heart began thudding in her chest. It wasn't twelve-thirty yet—they were early! Where should she hide?

  She squeezed behind the door leading from the ballroom to an adjoining room just as footsteps echoed in the ballroom. Because the door was slightly ajar, Nancy could see out. It was Mr. Mason, and he was alone. He took a key from his pocket and stuck it into a plate in the wall. It was

  the new alarm panel, Nancy guessed. Obviously he was turning it off.

  She watched as Mr. Mason dragged a chair over to The Young Boy and stood on the chair to unhook the painting from its supporting wires. He almost fell under the weight, and Nancy suppressed her instinct to move forward to help him. He recovered his balance and slowly eased the painting down onto the floor.

  Mason walked directly toward Nancy, and for a moment her heart was in her throat, but he just flipped on the storage room light on the other side of her doorway. He returned from the room with a handful of tools. Nancy could see his heavily lined face in the spill from the fluorescent lights. He flicked the switch to Off* again, then walked as if in a dream, past her and back to the painting on the floor.

  She watched as he slowly unhinged the painting from the frame and began working his way around the borders of the canvas.

  "It's true," he muttered after a moment. "I wish it weren't, but it is." He sank down heavily on the floor, his face in his hands.

  The sudden sound of another voice made Nancy jump.

  "Jonathan, for goodness' sake, get ahold of yourself"

  It was Bernard. His voice sounded high and thin to Nancy, as if she were hearing it in a dream. "Why are you doing that now?" he demanded.

  "I couldn't wait. I had to see if it was true/' Mr. Mason said in a hollow voice. "They were right. They did smuggle a Rembrandt in behind the Pieters painting. Why?"

  A Rembrandt! Nancy nearly cried out in shock. So that was what this case was all about!

  "That robbery two years ago at the Davis Gallery probably made them think we would be an easy target—a small gallery that could be hit easily. They would rob us, and everyone would think it was just some minor Dutch painting that had been taken. No one would guess that behind it was a Rembrandt that had been smuggled out of Holland."

  Mason raised a hand as if he couldn't bear to hear any more. "Just help me get it out and we'll hang the Pieters again. The sooner we get this to them, the sooner we'll get Denise back. We'll take it to them tomorrow afternoon."

  Nancy watched as the two of them skillfully removed the top canvas and separated it from the Rembrandt that had been concealed underneath. Nancy strained to see the Rembrandt, but she couldn't get a glimpse of it in the dim light.

  Next Mr. Mason and his assistant replaced the Pieters in the frame and carefully put the Rembrandt in a portfolio-size steel box that Bernard had brought with him. The whole operation must

  have taken about an hour and a half. Nancy's legs ached from standing. She watched as Mr. Mason replaced the Pieters on the wall and rearmed the security system with his key.

  Quickly the two of them straightened up the room. This time Bernard went into the storage room to put the tools away. As she heard the closet door opening she noticed the same chemical smell that had wafted out earlier that day. This time she recognized it.

  The smell was turpentine. Turpentine was what she smelled when she had been kidnapped.

  Turpentine was what oil painters used to clean their brushes, Nancy knew. Did that mean she had been taken to an artist's studio? Was that where Denise was being held?

  They were leaving now. Nancy crept out from behind the door and followed the men into a back room. She watched as Bernard unlocked the door that led into the back garden of the mansion. That must have been how he had gotten in earlier, Nancy guessed.

  Just before leaving, Bernard stopped at the door and punched a few numbers on a keypad beside the door. A red light went on.

  Too late, Nancy realized what was happening. Bernard had set the door alarms. She was trapped inside!

  Chapter Twelve

  NANCY didn't panic. After Mr. Mason and Bernard left, she went to check the front door. There was an identical keypad there. If she opened either door, an alarm would go off and summon the police.

  Well, that would be one answer, she thought. But bringing the police in now could jeopardize Denise's safety. If the kidnappers found out that the police were involved, they might just kill Denise and make a fast escape.

  Then Nancy
heard a gentle but steady tapping. It was coming from somewhere at the back of the house. The hair on the nape of her neck stood on end. Who—or what—was making that sound?

  Gulping down her fear, she walked deliberately toward the sound. She followed it into the kitchen. In there it was very loud. It was coming from behind a latched door that looked as if it might lead to a basement.

  ''Who's there?" Nancy asked. Her voice sounded hoarse to her own ears.

  ''Nancy, it's us!"

  Nancy sighed out loud with relief. It was Ned! She unbolted the door and saw him, George, and Dave in the dim light.

  "How did you get in here?" she demanded. Then she flung her arms around Ned's neck. "Never mind—I'm just glad you did. I thought I was trapped for the night!"

  "Hey, you told me to be your hero," Ned reminded her with a grin.

  "Can we get back out that way?" asked Nancy, pointing into the darkness behind them.

  "Yup. Stay close behind me," he answered, reaching for her hand. They crept down the stairs into a dank, musty-smelling basement.

  "This way," whispered Ned. He led them out a large metal door that creaked. Flakes of rust drifted off the bolt. They were below ground level at the side of the mansion.

  "How did you manage to get in this door?" asked Nancy.

  "With a little help from Mr. Sampson's toolbox and a little brainwork," Ned replied.

  "Don't forget the part about the rusted lock," put in George, with a grin.

  "Here, I brought your coat," she added, handing it to Nancy. ''We were smart enough to take it with us when we left."

  Nancy was glad. The night had turned shaq^ly cold. And, she suddenly realized, she was starving.

  ''What do you say to a little midnight raid on the Sampsons' fridge?" she asked. "I have a lot to tell you guys, and we need to make some plans."

  The foursome made hot chocolate and cinnamon toast in the Sampsons' kitchen while Nancy told them what she had discovered.

  "It was a professional smuggling operation, and Denise was kidnapped to make Mr. Mason cooperate," Nancy said, slowly stirring her hot chocolate.

  "You're saying we should follow Mr. Mason to find out where he has to take the Rembrandt," Dave said, his eyes widening.

  "Right. Luckily, I heard them talking about the 'drop,'" said Nancy. "It's supposed to happen tomorrow afternoon."

  "Do you think we could get Mr. Mason to let us help him?" asked George.

  "Or get him to cooperate with the police," said Dave. "This is really way over our heads."

  "I think I should try to contact Mr. Mason and let him know we know what's going on," said Nancy. "He may agree to let us help. Even if he doesn't cooperate, though, we might be able to follow him to the drop."

  "As long as we don't do anything to endanger Denise," said Ned quietly.

  Nancy felt a pang. Of course she wouldn't do anything that would put Denise in danger. How could Ned think she would?

  "Well, I say we get some sleep and rendezvous here in the morning," said George. "Even detectives need to sleep."

  After Ned and Dave left, Nancy and George lingered at the kitchen table a little longer, finishing their hot chocolate.

  "What's up. Nan?" George asked after a few moments of silence. "You seem pretty moody about something. It's not just the case, is it?"

  "George, I think Ned's kind of in love with Denise," Nancy blurted out.

  "What?" George asked incredulously.

  "And I'm afraid I'm not doing my best on this case, because if I solve it I'll be the one who ends up bringing them together," Nancy rushed on. There, she had said it.

  "Nancy," said George firmly, "I really don't believe that Ned is in love with Denise."

  "Oh, George, don't tell me you didn't notice the way they looked at each other at Puccini's?" Nancy bit her lip. It hurt to think about.

  There was a silence. "Okay, maybe. But I didn't think it was him as much as it was her," George said at last.

  Nancy smiled wearily. It was good to have a friend who always knew the right thing to say.

  "So—how are you and Dave getting along?" she asked, changing the subject.

  "He's great," said George. "I do like him, but he doesn't make my heart go ba-boom, if you know what I mean." She grinned. "Sorry to disappoint you."

  Nancy laughed. "Well, I'm sure I'll get over it," she told her friend. "Come on, let's clean up here and get some sleep."

  Nancy was up and dressed by eight-thirty the next morning. She hadn't slept well—her mind was working overtime.

  Questions gnawed at her as she lay in bed. The biggest of them was, who had set up the kidnapping? Who knew enough to set up the whole practical-joke idea at Puccini's? Martha or Tim Raphael might be able to help out with that.

  Another nagging question—what was Martha doing when she hid that Pieters painting in the closet? She must have known there was a Rembrandt behind it—why else would she have singled it out? What was she up to?

  Nancy needed some answers. A good place to start would be Martha Raphael. It was Sunday morning—the perfect time for a surprise visit.

  Nancy rummaged through her purse for a program from the basketball game and looked up the bio on Tim Raphael. She remembered reading in there a reference to where he had grown up.

  "Bingo," she said softly. He lived in the Lakeview section of Chicago. She went to the phone book and soon found the address of the only Raphael in Lakeview.

  It was a gray, blustery morning, and the smell of snow was in the air. The Chicago streets were quiet as Nancy sped along in her Mustang. The Raphaels lived in a nice, middle-class neighborhood, in a two-story brick house with a small yard. There was a driveway next to the house, and a basketball hoop hung from the garage door.

  Nancy walked up the steps. Before she even knocked on the door, it opened. Tim stood there, his face blank with surprise at seeing her.

  "I was just getting the paper," he said. "Hi."

  "Hi," said Nancy. Beyond Tim she could see Martha sitting at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a coffee mug. "I just wanted to ask your sister a few questions."

  "Martha?" Tim raised an eyebrow at Nancy. "Be my guest—but be careful. Martha's not a morning person." Picking up the paper, he went into the living room with it, casting a curious glance at Nancy over his shoulder as he did.

  Martha sat at the table in pink long-underwear pants and a flannel shirt. Her short, platinum blond hair stuck up in places, and mascara from the night before was smudged under her eyes.

  "I know why you're here," she said before Nancy could even say hello. "Tim told me you

  were a detective. Something tells me you're investigating something to do with the gallery/'

  "That's true," said Nancy. If Martha wanted to make it easy for her, that was just fine.

  "You probably want to know why I hid that painting in the closet." She looked defensive. "Well, the truth is very simple. Bernard told me that he wanted to examine it before it was hung, but he didn't want Jonathan to know. So I put it aside for him."

  "Why didn't he want Mr. Mason to know?" asked Nancy, puzzled.

  "Bernard had a hunch that the painting was worth more than we thought. He didn't want Jonathan to get credit for its discovery."

  "Bernard had a hunch . . ." Nancy repeated. Did he know there was a Rembrandt hidden behind The Young Boy? No, he couldn't have because Martha had hidden the painting in the morning, and according to Mr. Mason, the kidnappers hadn't called to demand the Rembrandt until the afternoon.

  Unless— Nancy drummed her fingers on the table. An idea was dawning on her—an idea that made her pulse race.

  She leaned forward and looked at Martha. "Two quick questions," she said.

  "Go ahead." Martha squinted blearily at Nancy, then took a long swallow of coffee.

  Nancy held up her forefinger. "One—on Friday night you say Bernard worked straight through with you until nine o'clock. Think carefully, Martha. Did he leave the gallery at any time before
that? For example, did he go out to get dinner, or anything?''

  ''I don't— Wait a second. He did go out around seven forty-five to pick up Chinese food for all of us. He was gone for about twenty minutes."

  Aha! One more question, and Nancy'd be sure.

  "Two," she said. "You told me his place was being painted. Do you know whether the workers are using oil-based paints or latex?"

  Martha's eyes widened. "Oil, I think," she said. "It lasts longer. But what does that have to do with anything?"

  Nancy was already halfway to the door. "I'll explain later," she said. "I've got to run. But you've been very helpful."

  "Well, I didn't mean to be," Martha said dryly. "I just get tired of taking the blame sometimes."

  Nancy hurried out to her car, jumped in, and sped away. Two blocks from the Raphaels' house, she stopped at a pay phone to call Ned.

  "Ned," she said as soon as he came on the phone, "I know who the kidnapper is. It's Bernard!"

  Chapter Thirteen

  "WHAT?" Ned cried. "What are you talking about. Nan? I thought we aheady ruled him out."

  "We were wrong," Nancy replied. "Or, rather, I was wrong. The clues were all there, but I never put them together."

  "What clues?" Ned wanted to know.

  "Well, remember when Denise said that a friend of her father's named Bernard had recommended Puccini's to her? That meant he knew she was going to be there, right?"

  "Right," Ned agreed. "But so what? He has an alibi for that entire night, doesn't he?"

  "No, he doesn't!" Nancy crowed. "I just talked to Martha—she says he was gone between seven forty-five and eight o'clock or so, picking up Chinese food. The Amster Gallery is only about

  five minutes from the gym where your game was. He could have hurried over, slipped the note into Tim's locker during the halftime chaos, and still had time to get the Chinese food. And then, remember Martha said he left around nine o'clock? He came straight to his house, where his accomplices were waiting with me. He took one look at me, saw that I wasn't Denise, and told them to get rid of me." Nancy shook her head, annoyed with herself. "I knew I recognized his voice from somewhere," she muttered. "I just didn't make the connection. And the smell of turpentine—how could I have missed that?"