Danger in Disguise Page 8

Nancy put off her pondering when she heard Chief McGinnis ask why someone as well fixed financially as Turner would bother committing petty blackmail.

  “Well, there’s no such thing as enough money,” he said with a smirk. “Besides, that nine-to-five stuff is a bore. I needed the stimulation of a challenge.” The smirk broadened. “I wanted to see if I could do it.”

  Looking at his arrogant expression through the glass, Nancy realized that this was the only part of Turner’s story that was the whole truth.

  He was lying about most everything. She was sure that what he wasn’t saying was what was really important to this very confusing case. But what was he hiding?

  And could she find out in time to save Michael Mulraney?

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  UNFORTUNATELY, CHIEF MCGINNIS didn’t see things the way Nancy did.

  “Of course we’ll check his alibi. But it sounds airtight—and we have no evidence to link him to the Novello girl’s death. There’s no reason to believe he’s not telling the truth,” he told Nancy as they walked toward his office.

  “You really believe her death was an accident or suicide?” she asked.

  “Well,” said the chief, “until we get some real proof to the contrary, I’m afraid we’ll have to accept that explanation.”

  Nancy persisted.

  “What about the limousine being sabotaged? And the tape in my car? Those weren’t coincidences. He must have known about those incidents at least.”

  “Nancy”—the chief laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder—“I have a lot of respect for your talent. But Turner made one good point. You have solved quite a few cases in this town, and I think you have to look at the possibility that you may have made some enemies. We’ll investigate, but I think it’s more than likely the threats are not related.” He gave her a tired smile.

  “Right now, we’ve got a full confession from a blackmailer. He’s out of commission, in jail. If we come up with anything that links him to these complaints of yours, I’ll let you know.”

  Nancy looked at Chief McGinnis and sighed. “Thanks, Chief,” she said, and did her best to smile.

  • • •

  Back at the small, neat house, by the time Nancy finished telling Marjorie Rothman about Turner’s confession, the older woman’s eyes had brightened considerably.

  “All day long I’ve been afraid and relieved at the same time,” she said. “It isn’t easy to know that I’ll always have to live with everybody knowing what I did.” She blew her nose on the crumpled tissue she had been twisting between her fingers.

  “I’m sorry I had to be the one to dredge all of this up,” said Nancy.

  She meant it. This was one “crime” she wished she hadn’t uncovered.

  “You mustn’t feel that way, my dear,” said Mrs. Rothman. “For the first time in years I feel free. I can face life with a clear conscience. You’ve done me a great service.”

  “And I have to ask one of you.” Nancy leaned forward and looked Mrs. Rothman in the eye. “I need your help.”

  “I’ll do anything I can,” said Mrs. Rothman. “What is it you need?” She seemed truly eager to help.

  “I have a phone number I need to trace to an address. . . .”

  “Of course. Since I’m an appraiser, I use all sorts of directories. It won’t be any trouble—just follow me.” Mrs. Rothman led Nancy to an immaculately organized study off the living room. She pulled a thick book with a green binding from a shelf over the desk.

  “This is what you’ll need. River Heights—Telephone Lines Indexed to Residence.”

  Nancy was relieved when Mrs. Rothman turned discreetly aside to look out the window. Nancy trusted the woman, but even so, people who knew too much seemed to find themselves in dangerous situations.

  She scanned the listings and easily located the address corresponding to the phone number on the recording she had reached on Turner’s phone.

  “Thank you so much,” Nancy said. She shook hands warmly as she said goodbye to Mrs. Rothman.

  Maybe this phone number would turn out to be a dead end, but it was all Nancy had to go on. She had to check it out as a last-ditch effort to uncover the truth.

  Whatever that may be, Nancy added to herself as she hurried down the shrub-lined path to her car.

  Looking at her watch, she was astonished to see that it was seven o’clock. It was too late to do any more today. Besides, she suddenly realized that she was starving. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast!

  Nancy stopped at a pay phone and called Hannah Gruen. “Where have you been?” the housekeeper asked, her voice full of concern. “Ned called twice. And Bess and George have been sitting here waiting for you to come back for the last hour. They almost had me convinced to call the police! What kind of case are you on, anyway?”

  “Oh, Hannah.” Nancy laughed. “I’m fine-except that I’m half dead of hunger. I’m on my way home now. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there.”

  “All right,” Hannah grumbled. “I’ll scrape some dinner together. Just be glad your father’s out of town, or we’d have search parties out by now.”

  “On my way,” Nancy repeated, and hung up.

  When she got home, she found that Hannah had “scraped together” roast chicken and potatoes, with blueberry pie for dessert. Bess and George were only too happy to stay when Hannah pressed them, although Bess looked rather pale. “I haven’t felt well since last night. A little carbon monoxide poisoning goes a long way toward killing an appetite,” she said with a rueful grin.

  “I have some news that should put you back on the road to recovery,” Nancy promised.

  Over the meal, Nancy brought them all up to date, sketching out the details of Turner’s confession. She included a description, for George’s benefit, of his obnoxious attitude.

  “That creep. It makes me sick to think that someone so low could have ruined the lives of such good people,” George said. Then she frowned. “Speaking of Turner’s victims, I talked to Michael this morning. He’s decided to go to the Immigration and Naturalization Service on Monday to turn himself in.”

  Bess gasped. “That means he’s sure to be deported!”

  “Yes, but his foreman will handle the business until Michael’s brother can get here. The family has applied for and gotten immigration status. They’ve been on the list for three years, and Michael told me that their green cards came through.”

  Nancy understood how difficult it must be for Michael to take this step. His family would finally be coming to America, but he wouldn’t be there.

  “But it’s not over yet,” Nancy said. “Turner isn’t the only one involved. Somehow his blackmail scheme has gotten him involved with Deep Voice. And Deep Voice is part of something bigger. And there’s still Kathy’s murderer.”

  “But isn’t that Turner?” Bess asked.

  “There’s been no arrest,” Nancy said, staring at her plate.

  “I know the mystery isn’t solved yet, Nancy, but do you think you’d have time tomorrow to come to a party for the campaign workers?” asked George.

  “Sounds like fun. Where’s it going to be?”

  “Don’t know yet. But Jethro Serkin is giving it.”

  Serkin! Nancy perked up. He was one of the people Turner had named for his alibi. She needed to talk to Jethro Serkin—and here was her chance. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

  “Hey, Nan!” Bess piped up. “You’ll never guess who called me this morning for details on last night’s fund-raiser. Brenda Carlton! Do you think I should tell her about our adventure afterward?”

  Nancy groaned. Brenda Carlton’s father owned one of River Heights’ biggest newspapers. But that fact didn’t make Brenda a born journalist. She wasn’t all that good at what she did, but she made up for it by being incredibly aggressive and obnoxious. She also liked to think of herself as a brilliant detective. More than once she had practically blown an important case for Nancy by interfering at the wrong time.

&nb
sp; George was grinning. “I know, Bess. Why don’t you send her to interview the man of the hour—Franklin Turner? I’m sure he’d have a lot to tell her. In fact, they might just get along really well.”

  Bess started to giggle. “Oh, George, don’t give me any ideas!” she protested.

  Nancy laughed too. Bess and George could always take her mind off her troubles.

  She decided to forget about the case for the night. She’d take a hot shower, call Ned, get some sleep—and the next day she’d wrap the case up. The answers were all there, waiting for her to unravel. It was only a matter of time.

  • • •

  The next morning, as Nancy parked near the address she’d found in Marjorie Rothman’s directory, she wished she’d enlisted her friends’ help. She was in front of a downtown commercial high-rise, and she had no way of knowing which office belonged to the phone number from Turner’s console.

  Inside, she scanned the directory, recognizing some of River Heights’ more prestigious law firms and private investment companies. Then she saw something she knew couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “Serkin, Edwards, Palmer, and Lang, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 1500,” read the listing halfway down the second column.

  “Bingo,” Nancy whispered.

  The fifteenth floor was as deserted as the rest of the building. Someone had accidentally left the front door unlocked. But Nancy didn’t doubt that there’d be pretty advanced security for the offices. She’d had some experience picking locks, but even her talents had their limits. A credit card won’t do the job here, Nancy told herself, surveying the state-of-the-art office doors.

  As it happened, she didn’t need to be particularly resourceful after all. The door to Serkin’s office was unlocked. Attorneys did work strange hours. Being the daughter of one had taught Nancy that.

  She eased the door open and stepped quietly into a spacious reception area. There were no windows, but soft lights illuminated several eighteenth-century paintings on the walls. Plush maroon leather couches were placed at right angles to each other.

  She was halfway across the thickly carpeted room when she heard voices. Whoever was working wasn’t alone. She’d better do what she’d come for and get out fast.

  She had to find out if the phone number from Turner’s phone console corresponded to Jethro Serkin’s office number. She had a strong suspicion that it did.

  Crossing the room to the receptionist’s desk, Nancy concentrated on making as little noise as possible. She tuned in to the hum of conversation coming from down the hall. If they heard her, they would stop talking, and that would be her signal to take off.

  She leaned over to check the operator’s phone bank, but before she could make out the number in the low light, she heard a rumbling bass voice behind her.

  “Will this help?”

  The desk light snapped on.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  THERE WAS NO MISTAKING that deep and threatening voice. It was the same one she had overheard in the copy room and again in the limousine.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” he said in a tone dripping with silky sarcasm. “I’m Jethro Serkin. By the way, can you see to find what you’re snooping for? Could I make it easier for you by turning on more lights?”

  Nancy looked down at the number on the phone. It was the same as the one from the recording she’d heard on Franklin Turner’s phone. “I can see well enough,” she said, trying desperately to keep the fear out of her voice.

  “And now that you’re here, Nancy Drew, you might as well be comfortable.” Serkin motioned to a tall, broadly built man standing in the doorway that led to an inner office.

  “Do whatever it takes, Gus, to make sure she won’t budge for a while. I’ll be back.” He turned to Nancy. “Then you and Gus and I will have a little chat.”

  Gus led her down a long hallway to a small office and tied her to a very uncomfortable Chippendale straight-back chair.

  Nancy could hear Serkin’s voice rumbling from the adjoining room. She could tell by the way his comments stopped and started that he was talking on the phone. She strained to hear, but all she could make out were his final words when he raised his voice to say, “Don’t worry. She’ll stay here.”

  Gus seemed amused. “Sometimes even the best detectives can find themselves in really tough spots. Looks like it’s your turn.”

  Nancy knew she had to act quickly. Gus picked up a magazine and soon became engrossed. She tried to loosen the rope while he was preoccupied. But just as she was beginning to work the knot free, Serkin emerged from his office. He saw what was happening immediately.

  “You idiot.” Gus cowered under Serkin’s withering stare. “First you lost Mulraney, then you botched the limo rig. Get the chloroform.”

  Nancy tried to struggle, but Serkin fixed her with a look. “Don’t even think about it,” he advised. Then Gus returned and clamped a sweet-smelling cloth over her mouth and nose.

  This is it, Nancy thought as she drifted away. My detective days are over.

  • • •

  “Nancy, wake up. Please.”

  Someone was yelling at her, but she was still too woozy to tell who it could be.

  “Nancy. It’s me. Michael Mulraney.”

  Images floated back across her brain. She thought she saw Gus’s face. She forced her eyes to open, shaking her head to clear the cloudiness there. A dull throb pulsed at her temples as she remembered where she was. Then she saw Michael sitting across from her, tied to a matching Chippendale chair.

  “I got a phone call saying you were in trouble,” he explained. “I was to come alone and tell no one or else you’d be killed. That’s what they said.”

  “Well, it’s at least partly true. I am definitely in trouble. And now, Michael—”

  Nancy didn’t get the chance to finish her sentence. The door opened, and Jethro Serkin appeared.

  “Did you sleep well? I certainly hope so, because we’re all going to a party. And you, my friends, are the guests of honor. Though not, I’m afraid, for long.”

  Serkin grinned at Nancy and Michael as Gus got them out of their chairs and shoved them along, still securely bound, out the door and up to the roof. There a helicopter was waiting, its rotor whirring in readiness for whatever journey Serkin had planned. “Where are we going?” asked Nancy.

  “Don’t worry. You’re sure to enjoy yourselves. My friend’s lakeside estate is a charming place to throw a lavish bash for hardworking campaign workers.”

  The pieces clicked together. Tim Terry’s voter-registration-drive outing. It looked as if Nancy was going to be there after all. She leaned toward Michael and whispered what little she knew about the event. Serkin turned to look at them.

  “You wouldn’t be making plans, Nancy, would you?” asked Serkin. “You should be trying to guess what sort of surprise I have planned for you. Or are you too busy enjoying the scenery?”

  Nancy had been looking out the window, trying to keep her bearings. They were flying away from River Heights, toward secluded Cedar Lake, where Ned Nickerson’s parents kept a summer cottage.

  If only Ned were there now!

  After a short flight, they landed on a wide, manicured lawn. Serkin hadn’t exaggerated about this being a lakeside estate. The house was large as a palace, and under other circumstances Nancy might have agreed that it was also charming.

  Gus pushed Nancy and Michael from the helicopter, leading them across the expanse of lawn to a nearby enclosed veranda. Inside, the morning light and soft breeze played on the array of plants and flowers. Unfortunately, Nancy was in no mood to appreciate their beauty.

  “What exactly do you have in mind?” she asked. “Why keep us in suspense?”

  “You are about to meet a very important man, who also happens to be my boss.” Serkin was enjoying his little guessing game.

  He turned to greet a tall, distinguished-looking man dressed in tennis clothes who was strolling onto the verand
a. He flashed a gold-toothed smile at her.

  Nancy bit her lip. Suddenly she could hear Dee Shannon saying, “He never smiled . . .” It all made sense now. But why, oh why, had it taken her so long to figure it out?

  When Nancy first saw him at the fund-raiser, Bradford Williams had impressed her as a pleasant, if bland-looking, man. Looking at him now she had a feeling she was going to have to reconsider that evaluation.

  “Let me introduce myself, Ms. Drew,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me—let me guess,” Nancy said. “Michael Mulraney, I presume.”

  Williams’s eyes flickered, and for a second Nancy had an ugly glimpse of his true character. Then he smiled, and the impression of charm and pleasantness returned. “Impressive!”

  He turned to Michael. “My namesake. I’m so very pleased to meet you.”

  Serkin and Gus stood by as Williams took a seat in a white wicker armchair. As he talked, it felt to Nancy as if the airy and empty space around them had begun to fill with Williams’s personality.

  “It was a mistake to stir things up the way you have, Ms. Drew. You really should have left Mr. Mulraney—or perhaps I should call him Mr. Dougherty—to fend for himself. Why couldn’t you simply back off when we asked you so nicely? Still, a man with my past has to admire such bravery.”

  Nancy remembered what she’d learned at the pool hall. She was dealing with a professional killer. “Your methods don’t seem to have changed too much,” she said. “Only now you have other people do the dirty work for you.”

  “Exactly. And Jethro tried very hard, on my orders, of course, to dispose of you. Usually he’s quite good at that.”

  “But we managed to ruin your plans.”

  “Not just my plans. My future. Or potentially so. Until Franklin Turner’s silly blackmail scheme uncovered the inconvenient presence of a second Michael Mulraney, I had succeeded masterfully with my little masquerade.”

  “You staged your ‘death’ very effectively,” said Nancy, trying to give the impression she knew the whole story instead of only bits and pieces.