002 Deadly Intent (5 page)

Nancy didn’t like Harold Marshall’s tone, but she had to admit to herself that what he was saying jived with everything she’d heard about Barton’s thirst for privacy. “Maybe,” she said. “But wasn’t it strange to pull off this stunt right before the biggest of the ‘Rock for Relief’ concerts?”

“More publicity that way. Now, if we’re all finished here, you can show yourself out.”

Nancy took a few steps toward the door, where Vivian, who had stood there all the time, put an insistent hand on Nancy’s arm. The interview was clearly over.

“Oh, just one more thing, Mr. Marshall.” Nancy turned in the doorway. She asked if he’d ever seen the two men described to her by the Radio City guard.

Marshall shrugged. “How am I supposed to keep track of everyone who goes in and out of this place?”

Did I expect any other answer?
Nancy asked herself, leaving Harold Marshall’s office without further conversation. She found her way back to the elevator banks, rode down to the main floor, and walked past the indoor fountain and the
greenery that adorned the lobby, into the crisp midday sunshine.

Her head swam with conflicting thoughts as she made her way back to the hotel to meet George for lunch. Harold Marshall was one of the rudest, most self-important people she had ever met. But he was just the kind of person to cook up a sneaky publicity trick like the one he’d described. And the fact that no ransom note had been received would suggest that Barton hadn’t been kidnapped.

But what about the two mysterious men at the Music Hall and all the clues Nancy had discovered outside Barton’s dressing room? Marshall’s publicity scheme didn’t explain them.

And it didn’t explain something else,
Nancy thought.
That attack on me last night was no stunt. It was serious—deadly serious.

G
EORGE, CAN YOU
think of any reason why Harold Marshall would want his biggest star out of the way?” Nancy asked, helping herself to a breadstick.

“How do you know he’s not telling the truth?” George held down her napkin as a breeze drifted across the outdoor table at the café where the two girls were having lunch.

“I
don’t
know. That’s the trouble. It’s so confusing. But George, even if Barton isn’t in trouble, I’m absolutely convinced that something fishy is going on.” Nancy rubbed the back of her head as proof. “But how am I supposed to know
where to look when I don’t even know what I’m looking for?”

“You tell me, Nan. You’re the detective.”

“All I do know is that Harold Marshall is creepy. Poor Alan, getting his dream shattered by that goon.”

“Well, someone was going to do it sooner or later. That concert last night really put stars in his eyes. I mean, he’s acting totally blind as far as realistic expectations go.” George leaned over sideways to allow the waiter to put down a bacon cheeseburger in front of each girl and a basket of french fries between them. “Thank you,” George said, reaching for a fry. “Anyway,” she continued, “Bess isn’t helping matters. The way she’s been talking, you’d think Alan was going to be the next Bruce Springsteen.”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious that Harold Marshall cleared up that misconception quickly.”

“Mind if we join you?” Nancy heard a familiar voice behind her. She turned around to find Bess and Alan, both smiling broadly.

“Hi! What are you guys doing here? Bess, you said you and Alan were going to have lunch together somewhere.”

“We were, but we stopped off at the hotel first and got the most incredible news. We just had to tell you. The hotel manager said he’d recommended this place.” Bess plopped down in an empty seat beside Nancy. Alan sat next to George.

“So what’s happening?” Nancy asked, noting the looks of pure happiness on their faces. She was more than ready to hear some good news.

“They’ve decided that—” Bess and Alan both began speaking at once.

Bess laughed. “You go ahead and tell them, Alan. It’s your news.”

“Well, Vivian from the record company called,” Alan said breathlessly, “and they’ve decided they want me to cut an album for them!”

“What?” Nancy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But I saw Harold Marshall after you did and he said . . .” Her voice trailed off. There was no point in repeating what would only hurt Alan.

“I know what he said.” Alan nodded. “But he must have changed his mind. There was a message from Vivian waiting for us when we got back to the hotel. I returned her call, and she told me to come right over to World Communications. Mr. Marshall wanted to congratulate me in person!”

“What made him change his mind?” Nancy could picture the sneer on Harold Marshall’s lips as he mentioned Alan. She wouldn’t have expected him to change his mind for all the gold in Fort Knox.

“I think it had something to do with Barton,” Alan said.

“Barton!” Nancy sat straight up in her chair.

“Yeah, that’s the other piece of great news,” Bess put in. “Alan saw him!”

“When? Where?” Nancy’s head swam.

“Right after I went back to Marshall’s office. Barton wanted to thank me for filling in for him, and he asked me to do his next couple of gigs while he stays out of the public eye for a while.”

“You’re kidding,” Nancy said.

“Nope. He was hanging around, waiting for a limo to take him to his beach house, that purple bandanna around his neck, sitting in an armchair drinking a beer and watching some movie on a VCR.” Alan leaned back in his chair with a happy sigh. “I guess he sort of coaxed Marshall into signing me on. And to think that until yesterday Barton was just someone I dreamed about meeting!”

“Nan, George, isn’t it unbelievable?” Bess leaned over and grabbed Nancy’s arm.

“Unbelievable,” Nancy echoed, meaning it more literally than Bess had. Was she to believe that Harold Marshall had so completely changed his mind about Alan? Or that the only person Barton Novak had asked to see was not a member of his own band, not a close friend or relative, but a fan he’d spoken with for no more than a few minutes?

“Alan, are you
sure
about this?” she asked.

“Sure I’m sure.” Alan grinned, his brown eyes shining. “Bess and I are going over to get a tour of the recording studios later this afternoon, and
Marshall’s having Vivian draw the contracts up this week. So let’s celebrate! Lunch is on me!”

The food was wonderful, and the weather at the outdoor patio was perfect, but throughout the rest of the meal, Nancy’s thoughts spun. If Barton was fine, there was no mystery at all, was there? But what about the wallet and the two mysterious men? And what about Harold Marshall’s offer to Alan? Just that morning, Marshall was calling Alan an idiot who “banged out a couple of Barton Novak’s riffs.” Now he was signing a record contract with him.

Nancy had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was very wrong. But she kept her thoughts to herself until after Bess and Alan had left for World Communications. It wasn’t until she and George were on their way back to the hotel that she confided her feelings.

“George, don’t you think Alan’s announcement was kind of, well, weird?”

“What do you mean, Nancy?”

“I mean, everything’s happening so fast. One day Alan’s taking guitar lessons in River Heights, and the next day he’s signing a solo recording contract with one of the biggest labels in the business. George, we both know Alan’s got a lot of talent, but this is just a little too much for me to believe.”

“What’s not to believe? By the end of the week, Alan’s going to have a World Communications recording contract in his hands!” George was
matter-of-fact. “I mean, it is pretty wild, but it’s true.”

“I don’t know. What if Harold Marshall is stringing Alan along? I don’t like that man.”

“You think he might not come through?” George asked. “Then why would he make the offer in the first place?”

“I wish I could tell you.” Nancy flung her hands up in despair. “I keep trying to get answers on this case, but all I get are more questions.”

“And what about Barton?” George voiced one more of those questions as they rounded a corner and came to their hotel.

“Barton—a guy who agrees to disappear right before a concert he’s spent months planning. It doesn’t figure.” Nancy pressed her lips together.

The doorman opened the hotel door, and Nancy and George crossed the tiled lobby floor to the front desk. “Well, what do you intend to do?” George asked.

The clerk on duty handed Nancy and George their keys and also gave Nancy a slip of paper with a telephone message on it.
Carl Rutland, security guard at Radio City Music Hall,
it said.
Found something you might want to know about.
A telephone number was written at the bottom.

“This might answer your question,” Nancy told George. “Come on. Let’s go up to my room and find out what Mr. Carl Rutland has to say.”

• • •

As Nancy fitted her key in the lock, she heard her telephone ringing. “Maybe that’s him calling back,” she said to George. She pushed the door open and raced for the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi, beautiful,” a male voice said.

“Ned! Hi!” Nancy felt herself smile at the sound of Ned Nickerson’s mellow baritone. “How are you?”

“Curious, actually. I read in today’s paper that Barton Novak vanished right before his concert, and I was wondering what happened. Weren’t you supposed to hear Bent Fender play?”

Nancy eased herself onto the edge of the bed. “It’s a pretty strange story. At first I was sure Barton had been kidnapped, but now it turns out that it’s really just a publicity gimmick. I think. I mean, I don’t know what to think. Ned, I don’t know if I’ve got a mystery to solve or not.” Nancy’s words came out in a fast, nervous rush.

“Nan,” Ned said slowly, “slow down and tell me all about it.”

Nancy took a deep breath and recounted everything that had happened since her arrival in New York.

When she was done, Ned let out a long, low whistle. “Sounds like you’ve run into some people who play awfully rough. That blow on the head is serious. I don’t like it at all,” he said, worry rising with his voice.

“Ned, I’m fine,” Nancy assured him. “The
worst part isn’t the bump on my head. It’s that I don’t know if the wallet has anything to do with Barton or the two men backstage, or anything. I’m so keyed up. I don’t know whether to forget this business or what.”

“Well, how about a consultation?” Ned suggested. “Say, in about two hours? I can get on the road right away.”

“You’re coming up from school to spend some time with me in New York? Oh, Ned, that sounds great! I’m sure you can share Alan’s room with him.”

“Alan? You mean Bess’s new superstar? The one who was offered the recording contract?”

Nancy frowned. “Yeah, Bess’s superstar. And Ned, maybe you can help me figure out what’s going on here.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Ned promised. “And if anyone tries to knock you over the head again, I’ll give them a taste of their own medicine.”

“My hero,” Nancy giggled. “But don’t forget, I’m the one with the brown belt in karate.”

“Do you have to remind me?” Ned said, groaning.

“Well, I won’t try any of my new moves on you this time,” Nancy said solemnly. “Except maybe on the dance floor. Roger Gold is taking us to a wild new club tonight.”

“Sounds great.”

“Good. It’s a date.” Before saying goodbye,
Nancy gave Ned the address of the hotel. “There’s an indoor parking lot right across the street,” she added.

“Well, you look a little happier than you did a few minutes ago,” George observed from the couch. “Love, love is the miracle drug,” she sang teasingly. It was the refrain of one of Bent Fender’s new songs.

“George, do you think Ned’s ready to forget about Daryl?” Nancy felt herself blush.

“I don’t know, Nan, but a few days together in the most exciting city in the world ought to do
something
for the two of you.”

“Hmm. You know, this might turn out to be a good vacation after all. If I could just stop worrying about Barton, and Alan’s record contract . . .” Nancy felt herself coming down to earth. “Speaking of which, I better call that security guard back.”

She dialed the number on the message sheet. “Hello, is this Carl Rutland?” she asked the man who answered the telephone.

“Speaking.”

“Hi, this is Nancy Drew. From the concert last night.”

“Oh, Miss Drew. Yes. Hello.”

“You said you found something?”

“That’s right. Well, first of all, whoever gave you that knock on the head came in and out by the fire escape, off one of the dance studios. When I checked the windows leading out to it, I
found that one of the latches had been forced open, and we always keep them locked.”

“Mr. Rutland, do you think someone would go through all the trouble of climbing the fire escape and breaking in just to steal a wallet?” Nancy asked.

“Maybe. But it would be very risky. There are too many people around the Music Hall when there’s a rock concert. You know, fans come without tickets and try to scalp them or just sneak in, and they wind up hanging around outside. Anyway, there’d be too good a chance of being caught.”