This Side of Evil (4 page)

Nancy sighed. “It looks just the way it must have looked a hundred years ago.”

“Yeah,” Ned replied as a car zipped around them. “If you ignore the cars.” He slipped his arm around Nancy, and she dropped her head against his shoulder. “Hey,” he said, nudging her. “There’s Notre Dame. Isn’t it beautiful?”

She turned and saw the pretty stone church with its central spire and two side pinnacles in front of them. And then she imagined her wedding day in a church just like that. What would her dress look like, and what would Ned—

“Hey, Drew,” Ned said, “you got something on your mind?”

Nancy blushed. “Not at all, Nickerson,” she said, smiling. “Not at all.”

Ned’s arm tightened around her and he bent toward her, his lips close to hers. “Nancy,” he said softly, “I—”

Just at that moment, a car careened recklessly around them, grazing the wheel of the caleche. The frightened horse neighed, rearing up on his hind legs as the driver fought to control him. The horse raced off at breakneck speed, the carriage bouncing down a narrow cobblestone alley and around a corner, where its wheels ran up over the high curb. The carriage began to tilt dangerously.

“Hang on, Nancy!” Ned cried, holding her tight. “We’re going over!”

Chapter Five

T
HE BOUNCING CALECHE
teetered on two wheels as the driver yanked desperately on the reins, pulling with all his strength and shouting, “Whoa! Whoa!” Nancy found herself thrown into one corner, with Ned’s arms tight around her. She held her breath as the carriage rocketed over the curb and into the crowded street. But it stayed upright! After a moment the driver managed to bring the terrified horse under control. Amazingly no pedestrians had been injured.

“Are you okay?” Ned asked breathlessly when they finally came to a stop.

“I—I guess so,” Nancy answered, her voice shaky as she tried to sit up straight. She rubbed her throbbing temple where she had bumped it.

Ned climbed out of the carriage and turned back to help Nancy down. She got out and began to dust herself off.

“Monsieur, mademoiselle, a thousand pardons! Please don’t go!” the driver cried, climbing down from his perch. “My horse was frightened by the car, that’s all.”

Nancy nodded. “I know,” she said, rubbing her head. “But I think I’ve had enough of caleches for one day.” She reached into the carriage to pick up her flowers, and looked at Ned. “How about if we walk the rest of the way?”

“Good idea,” Ned said. He tried to pay the driver, but his money was refused.

Lake Sinclair lived in one of the restored brick-and-stone buildings on Saint-Denis Street. On the outside the building looked as if it were untouched by modern technology. It appeared hundreds of years old, with its quaint iron railings and gray-green slate roof. Even the parking area had been cleverly disguised to look like an old brick courtyard.

But inside, Lake Sinclair’s house was ultramodern, filled with sophisticated contemporary furniture and a few pieces of exceptional art. Lake herself was a beautiful young woman, only a few years older than Nancy. She was dressed in a chic white jogging suit. Her bright auburn hair had curled in damp tendrils around her face, which was flushed with color.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she said, tossing her long hair carelessly. “I’ve just gotten back from a run in the stadium, and I haven’t had time to change.” She led them down a softly lit hallway. Off to one side, Nancy could see what looked like an athletic training room. It was full of exercise machines and weights. George would love this, Nancy thought.

“In the stadium?” Nancy asked eagerly. “My friend George is dying for a chance to run in Olympic Stadium, but we’ve been told it’s closed to the public.”

“I’m sure my dad would be glad to arrange something,” Lake replied, showing them into the living room. She sank down onto the plush sofa and a white angora cat jumped up on her lap, purring loudly. “He’s on the board of directors at the stadium.”

“That would be great,” Nancy said as she and Ned took the chairs opposite the sofa. “George will be delighted.”

Lake looked at Nancy. “Ashley said that you’re a private detective, and she asked me to—to cooperate with you, whatever that means.” She hesitated, her eyes flickering from Nancy to Ned. “What can I do for you?”

Nancy leaned forward. Sometimes it was better to start out with small talk. In this case, though, she had the feeling that she would get more out of Lake if she took the direct approach.

“You can tell us about the blackmail demands you’ve been getting,” Nancy said.

Lake’s face paled suddenly. “Blackmail?” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know anything about blackmail.”

“We think you do,” Ned replied sternly. “We think you know a great deal about it.”

Lake took a deep breath. “And what makes you so sure of that?” she asked in a challenging voice. Her eyes darted from one to the other.

“I talked with Annette LeBeau yesterday,” Nancy replied. “She told me that you offered to sell her some of your family’s jewelry. She also told me why.”

Lake gasped, her fingers tightening in the fur of the angora cat.

Giving her a direct look, Nancy explained, “I was asked to come to Montreal to break up a blackmailing scheme that appears to be centered at Cherbourg Industries. We know of four victims already. The same person could be blackmailing you. We’ll have an even better chance of finding out who it is if you’ll help us.”

Lake looked at Nancy for a minute, her mouth tight. Then her lips began to tremble and tears gathered in her eyes, and her cat ran and hid under the sofa.

“It’s not just the blackmail that’s been tearing me apart,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “It’s knowing what I did to that poor little girl. Every night I dream about it—about the awful crash and the blood.” She buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

“The girl you hit with your car—your yellow Mercedes?” Nancy asked softly.

Lake nodded. She looked up, her eyes filled with tears. “It was dark and rainy, and I was driving very fast. The child ran out in front of me and I hit her.”

“You didn’t stop, did you?” Nancy said.

Wordlessly Lake shook her head. After a moment she said in a shaky voice, “The next day I called the hospital, pretending to be a friend. I found out who she was. Then I promised her parents I would pay all of the hospital bills and find her the best plastic surgeon in the city, if only they wouldn’t tell the police who had done it. It cost a fortune, but I
had
to do it.”

“But why?” Ned asked. “If she ran out in front of you, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe not.” Lake bit her lip so savagely that it started bleeding. “But I couldn’t take that chance. If my father ever found out what happened, he would have taken away my allowance, my car.” She turned to look at the room around them. “I would have lost this house, and all my beautiful things.”

“But now you’re about to lose everything to a blackmailer,” Nancy said.

Lake sighed and pointed to an empty spot on the wall. “The painting that was hanging there was my favorite. I sold it last month for nearly fifty thousand dollars. And every penny went to the blackmailer. I’ve sold nearly all the jewelry I inherited from my grandmother. There isn’t much left.” She shrugged sadly.

“How does the blackmailer contact you?” Nancy asked.

“Letters,” Lake said. “Then I put the money—usually ten thousand at a time—in a red plastic sack and drop it in the trash can beside Nelson’s Column.” She laughed shortly. “I suppose the blackmailer hangs around and watches, then picks it up after I’ve gone. Pretty expensive trash.”

Nancy flashed a look at Ned. It was the same modus operandi, or mode of operation. It must be the same blackmailer! Ned nodded. “Who could have found out about the accident?” he asked Lake.

She shrugged. “Somebody at the hospital, I guess. I went to visit the girl there once. I didn’t give my name, though, and I wore a scarf and an old coat so I couldn’t be recognized.

“You said something about plastic surgery,” Nancy observed, taking out her notebook. “Are you paying the bills for the girl’s surgery by check?”

Frowning, she said, “Of course. But Emile Dandridge is the best plastic surgeon in the city,” she tried to explain. “I mean, he does cosmetic surgery, and lots of his patients don’t want anybody to know about their tucks and lifts. His work is always
very
confidential. I can’t imagine that anybody in his office could be a blackmailer.”

“Well,
somebody
is,” Nancy said pointedly. She wrote down Emile Dandridge’s name and the address and phone number that Lake gave her. Then Lake went upstairs and brought down the blackmail letters, all carefully locked in a heavy metal box. Nancy scanned them quickly. She couldn’t be sure without a closer examination, but they looked exactly like the others.

“I—I hope you can find out who’s doing this and make him stop,” Lake said. The cat came out from under the sofa and rubbed against her. She picked it up, burying her face in its soft fur. “I don’t know how much longer I can go on this way.”

Outside, Nancy and Ned hailed a cab and went back to the apartment. On the coffee table there was a scrawled note from George. “Gone for a ride with Pierre,” it read. “Back at six.”

“Pierre?” Nancy said, reading the note. “I guess he’s the guy she met at Chez Soda.”

“I suppose,” Ned answered. He pulled the drapes open, and the late-afternoon sunlight flooded the living room.

Ned ran his fingers through his brown hair. “So, what’s next?”

“How about if I make us some lemonade? I saw a mix in the cupboard in the kitchen.”

“Sounds good,” Ned agreed. He followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the door jamb, watching as she took down a pitcher and some cups. The kitchen looked almost new. Obviously, it hadn’t been used very much.

“Let’s see,” she said, going over to the cabinet above the stove. “I think the mix was up here.” She reached up over her head and tugged on the door.

“That’s funny,” she said. “I don’t remember this cabinet being so hard to open.”

She yanked again, and the door popped open. As Nancy struggled to keep her balance, she saw the metal Thermos that was perched on the very edge of the top begin to wobble. It was going to fall! Instinctively, Nancy put up a hand to shield her face, but she was too late. A dense white mist poured out of the Thermos. Whatever it was, it was steaming—and it was about to splash into her eyes!

Chapter Six

W
HAM!
N
ANCY WAS
hit. Ned had just knocked her out of the way of the steaming waterfall. The two of them landed on the floor next to the sink, and a moment later Nancy sat up, dazed. For a second she just sat still with Ned’s arms wrapped protectively around her. She sank back against him as she watched the cloud of white vapor spilling from the stove onto the floor.

“Let’s get out of here, Ned!” she cried, struggling to her feet. “Somebody rigged that cannister to fall when the door was opened. It could be poisonous!”

“Wait,” Ned said calmly. “If somebody had wanted to poison us, he wouldn’t have tried anything so complicated, or so messy.” He shook his head, frowning. “No, this isn’t poison.”

“Then what is it?” Nancy asked. She stepped closer and looked at the puddle on the floor. It was already beginning to evaporate into clouds of steam. “It’s steaming—is it hot?”

Ned disappeared into the living room. In a minute he came back with a floppy green leaf from a philodendron plant. Carefully he dipped the leaf into what was left of the puddle. When he pulled it out seconds later, it was covered with frost. And when he tapped it gently on the counter, it shattered into a dozen pieces of what looked like green ice!

“It’s frozen!” Nancy exclaimed. She looked at Ned. “Wow! Where did you learn that trick?”

“Freshman chemistry,” Ned replied, staring at the shattered leaf. “This stuff is probably some sort of a liquefied gas.”

“But what kind?” Nancy asked.

“I don’t know—yet,” Ned said thoughtfully. “Actually, the possibilities are pretty limited. When most substances get this cold, they freeze solid.”

“Like the leaf,” Nancy said.

“Yeah. Like the leaf.” Ned leaned closer. “Let’s see. There’s no color—that white steam is probably just the water vapor in the air freezing when it comes in contact with the gas.”

Nancy sniffed. “I don’t smell anything, either.”

“Neither do I,” Ned said, reaching for the box of matches on the stove. “I wonder if it burns.”

Nancy grabbed his arm. “Are you crazy, Nickerson? The air is filled with the stuff. If it’s flammable, this place could go up like a box of fireworks!”

“My bet is that it isn’t,” Ned argued. “But you’re right. We need to be on the safe side.” He got out a long-handled spoon and carefully scooped up a spoonful of the fuming liquid. Carrying the spoon into the other room, he touched a match to it. The flame died immediately. “My bet is that this stuff is liquid nitrogen—it doesn’t burn.”

“Okay, enough with the chemistry lesson,” Nancy said impatiently. “What would have happened if this stuff had gotten in my eyes a few minutes ago?”

Ned looked at her seriously. “You’d probably be blind,” he said. “And you’d need plastic surgery. You’d be badly scarred.”

Nancy shuddered, thinking how narrowly she had escaped. If it hadn’t been for Ned’s quick action . . .

“Who would have access to liquid nitrogen?” she asked, pushing the thought of danger away. “It’s not the kind of stuff you’d find on the drugstore shelf, is it?”

Ned shook his head. “Only chemists, physicists, people who work with low-temperature materials—they’re the ones who’d be likely to have it,” he said. “Like astronomers making artificial comets, or doctors and medical technicians who freeze tissue for microscopic slides, or manufacturers—”

“Doctors!” Nancy interrupted him excitedly. “Plastic surgery! Emile Dandridge is a plastic surgeon!”

“Hey, yeah,” Ned said. “In fact, up until a few years ago, doctors used liquid nitrogen to burn off warts.”

“Then he—or somebody in his office—could have access to it,” Nancy pointed out thoughtfully. “And the same person could have known about Lake Sinclair making those payments for the girl!” She looked at Ned. “Let’s go see how the booby trap was set up. Maybe that’ll give us a clue.”