This Side of Evil (7 page)

“All our other leads have dried up,” Nancy pointed out. “The car is the only thing we have to go on right now.”

“Still,” Ms. Amberton persisted, “it’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“Don’t worry—we’ll find it,” Nancy promised. “There are three of us to work on it.”

Ms. Amberton sighed. “Well, if you think you must,” she said. “But be careful. Remember that last warning. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to your friends, would you?”

Finding the yellow Mercedes wasn’t as easy as Nancy had thought it would be. Reasoning that the most obvious way to get a specific type of car would be to rent one, they started calling rental agencies the next day. It was one dead end after another. Not a single agency had a yellow Mercedes to rent. Even worse, nobody had any idea where one could be found.

It was already the middle of the afternoon, and they had called all the agencies in the phone book. George plopped down on the sofa and sighed dejectedly. “This is nothing but a wild-goose chase,” she said.

Nancy thumbed through the Yellow Pages, thinking. “Wait,” she said. “There’s something we haven’t thought of.”

“What’s that?” Ned asked, coming from the kitchen with three glasses of lemonade.

“What else? A Mercedes dealer!” Nancy exclaimed. “Maybe he’d know.”

George shrugged. “Of course. And there seems to be only one dealer for this whole area,” she said, handing the phone to Nancy.

“A yellow Mercedes?” the manager of the Mercedes dealership said when Nancy reached him. “Actually, it just so happens that I do have one on the lot. It’s probably the only one for sale in Montreal.” He laughed. “Yellow must be a very popular color this year.”

“Really?” Nancy asked, suddenly even more interested. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, yesterday a man wanted to test-drive a Mercedes—but it had to be yellow. He brought it right back after the drive, and he said he didn’t want it. It’s still here and still as beautiful as ever.”

“Hmmm,” Nancy said. “Who was this man? I wonder if I know him.”

“You might,” the dealer replied. “He’s a very influential man in Montreal.”

“Oh?” Nancy sat tensed on the edge of the sofa. “What’s his name?”

“I really shouldn’t say,” said the dealer. “But, oh, well, he was Pierre Cherbourg.”

Chapter Ten

“
P
IERRE
C
HERBOURG!”
N
ANCY
exclaimed.

“Well, not Mr. Cherbourg himself, of course,” the dealer added hurriedly. “I didn’t deal with him directly. Just his chauffeur—Jacques Olivier—late yesterday afternoon. Now, when can I arrange a test-drive for you?” the dealer asked smoothly. “Would today be convenient?”

“No, not today,” Nancy replied. “I have some other pressing business to attend to. I’ll call later to make the appointment.” She hung up.

“Mr. Cherbourg?” Ned and George asked in unison.

Nancy shook her head and reached for the lemonade Ned had brought. “It was the chauffeur,” she said. “The dealer lent the car to Jacques Olivier.”

“But wait, the driver had long auburn hair,” Ned reminded them.

“It could have been a wig,” Nancy replied with a shrug.

“Of course!” Ned exclaimed. “The chauffeur tried to steal Lake’s car—and when he got scared off by the alarm, he borrowed one. And then he dressed up like Lake to fool us into thinking it was her behind the wheel!”

George shook her head. “This whole thing is too confusing,” she said, frowning. “It’s giving me a headache.”

“Want to know the best cure for a headache?” Nancy asked, getting up. “Action!”

George’s frown turned suspicious. “What kind of action?”

“Come on, gang. We’re going to question a certain chauffeur!”

Jacques Olivier, Nancy learned from the personnel department at Cherbourg Industries, lived in a small white cottage behind the Cherbourg mansion. It was late afternoon by the time they got there. Nancy, with Ned and George right behind her, walked up the brick path that led to the doorstep of the cottage. To her left, Nancy could see the large garage. Inside was the Cherbourg limousine.

“I don’t hear anything,” George whispered after Nancy had knocked twice.

She knocked harder. “The car’s here,” she said. “I think he’s hiding out.”

Finally, after Nancy had knocked a fourth time, the door opened a tiny crack.

“Who is it?” Jacques asked. His voice was fearful.

“It’s Nancy Drew,” Nancy told him. “I need to talk to you.”

The door slammed shut. “Go away,” Jacques called, his voice muffled through the door. “I’m sick. I don’t want to see anybody.”

“But it’s important,” Nancy insisted. She hesitated. “If I can’t talk to you, I suppose I’ll have to go see Ms. Amberton—or maybe even Mr. Cherbourg.”

“Nancy!” George hissed. “That’s blackmail!”

“You bet,” Nancy agreed grimly. “Fight fire with fire, I always say.”

The door opened again, a little wider this time. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?” Jacques whispered.

“I will if I don’t get some answers,” Nancy replied in a firm voice. He backed up and let them in.

All the curtains and shades had been drawn. Jacques was obviously hiding out. What was he afraid of?

The chauffeur closed the door behind them. “What do you want to know?” he asked nervously.

“We want to know why you borrowed the yellow Mercedes from the Mercedes dealer,” Nancy said.

Jacques’s face paled. “But I didn’t—”

“There’s no use denying it,” Nancy told him. “We’ve already talked to the dealer. He’ll swear that you borrowed it.” She looked around. “Where’s the wig you wore when you nearly ran us down?”

Jacques sagged weakly into a chair. “I threw it away,” he said in a broken voice. “Into the trash can.”

“Speaking of trash cans,” George said, “who took the money out of the trash can at Nelson’s Column yesterday afternoon?”

“Money?” Jacques shook his head frantically, his eyes wide with fear. “I didn’t take any money.”

“Well, then,” Nancy responded, “tell us what you
do
know.”

“Somebody called me on the telephone yesterday at around noon,” the chauffeur said. “I couldn’t recognize the voice. I couldn’t even tell whether it was a man or a woman. I was instructed to—” He swallowed hard. “I was instructed to—to borrow the yellow Mercedes belonging to Mademoiselle Sinclair.”

“You mean,
steal
it, don’t you?”

Jacques shifted uneasily. “I didn’t want to do it, mademoiselle,” he said. “But the person said that if I followed his instructions, I would be free. There would be no more blackmail payments—ever!”

“So when you couldn’t steal Lake Sinclair’s car, you went to the Mercedes dealer,” Nancy supplied. “And then you came after us.”

“I was told you’d be in the plaza at five. I was told not to let you walk away.” He thought for a moment, and then repeated miserably, “I didn’t want to do it. Even though I wanted to be free of the blackmail, I couldn’t bring myself to kill you.”

“You mean you missed us on purpose?” Ned asked.

“At the last moment I swerved.”

“It’s a good thing you did, too,” Nancy said. “If you’d hit us, it would have been a cinch for the police to track you down in that car. The blackmailer knew what he was doing. You were a sitting duck.”

Jacques nodded. “I am sorry,” he whispered again.

In the taxi on their way back to the apartment, Nancy stared out the window, thinking. “You know,” she said after they had climbed out and Ned paid the driver, “maybe we were tricked.”

“How?” Ned asked, pocketing the change.

“Maybe last night’s drop was a phony—set up to lure us to the plaza. Maybe
we
were the sitting ducks, and the blackmail money was just a decoy.”

“You might have something there,” George said. They got into the elevator and pushed the button for the sixth floor.

“If that’s true,” Ned remarked, “then Dandridge would have to be in on it.”

“Maybe Dandridge
is
in on it,” Nancy said. “Maybe he set the whole thing up. When we confronted him in his office, he could have shown us that money just to throw us off—to convince us that he was a victim, too.”

“Sure!” George exclaimed. “Then he could have called Jacques Olivier and arranged to have him run us down!”

“That makes sense,” Ned said slowly. “In fact, Dandridge is the only one who knew that we were going to be there at five o’clock.” He pulled out his key to the apartment and opened the door.

Nancy frowned. “It
does
make sense, but—” Something was nagging at the back of her mind. What
was
it?

“Listen, you guys,” George said, dropping wearily onto a chair, “I’m ready to stop exercising my brain for a few hours and exercise my stomach. What do you say to some dinner?”

“Yeah, I’m starving.” Ned grinned. “Do you have somewhere in mind?” he asked.

“Well, it just so happens,” George said airily, “that Pierre works in a
great
restaurant.”

“But we’ve already had so much French food,” Nancy objected.

“Actually, it’s a Greek restaurant. Over on Prince Arthur Street.”

“What’s a guy named Pierre doing working in a Greek restaurant?” Ned asked with a laugh.

“Beats me.” George shrugged. “Anyway, we had lunch there the other day and the food is terrific!” She kissed the tips of her fingers. “What do you say?”

Nancy giggled and turned to Ned. “How do you say yes in Greek?” she asked.

“You got me,” Ned confessed.

“Well, then, I guess I’ll just have to say
oui
,” Nancy replied, and they all laughed.

The food
was
terrific, Nancy agreed after she had finished her dolmas, Greek salad, and slice of rich, sweet baklava for dessert. Afterward, there was live bouzouki music. Then Pierre, who Nancy decided was really cute, joined them for dancing. Yawning, Nancy and Ned said their good nights early, leaving George in the arms of her Frenchman. They held hands as they walked back to the apartment in the soft spring night, talking quietly and admiring the lighted shop windows.

“It really
was
a terrific evening,” Nancy said when they got back to the apartment.

“Yeah,” Ned agreed softly. “And you know, I’m not tired anymore. Let’s see if we can find some good music to dance to.”

Nancy smiled. “Good idea,” she said. Ned fiddled with the tuning knob for a moment. The station he got was playing one of their favorite love songs. Nancy nodded to Ned, and when he stood back up, she went into his arms. The two of them danced slowly around the living room.

“You’re so wonderful,” Ned whispered into Nancy’s hair. His arms tightened around her.

Nancy felt herself growing breathless as she leaned against Ned’s chest. “So are you, Nickerson.”

Gently, Ned leaned down and touched his lips to hers. “Oh, Nancy,” he whispered, “I—”

Just then there was a knock on the door. Nancy pulled away and started for it. “Somebody’s got an absolutely
rotten
sense of timing.”

Ned shook his head. “It’s pretty late for anybody to stop by,” he told her, putting his hand on Nancy’s arm. “Let me handle this.”

“But—” she started to protest.

“Listen, after all the things that have happened in the past few days,” Ned whispered firmly, “I’m not taking
any
chances.” He stepped in front of Nancy. “Who is it?” he called loudly.

There was no answer.

“Who is it?” Ned called again, more sharply.

“The porter,” came the muffled reply.

“Stand back,” Ned ordered Nancy. “This could be dangerous.” Then slowly, cautiously, making sure that the chain was hooked, he began to open the door.

Chapter Eleven

“
H
ERE YOU ARE
, sir,” the man said. “This arrived for you just now.”

“Don’t tell me,” Nancy groaned. “It’s another threatening letter.”

“I don’t think so,” Ned said, looking at the white envelope he had been handed. “This one has a return address on it. It’s from Lake Sinclair—to all three of us.”

“Well, then, open it,” Nancy commanded.

Ned opened the envelope and took out two red tickets and a green one. “Hey, they’re passes!” he exclaimed. “To get into Olympic Stadium.”

Nancy took the passes from him. “The green one is for George,” she said, reading the fine print. “It lets her onto the track. And the red ones get us into the press box. But they’re only good from eleven to twelve tomorrow. That’s weird.”

“And here’s a note,” Ned said, reaching back into the envelope. “ ‘Here are your passes,’ ” he read. “ ‘Nancy and Ned can watch from the press box while George makes her debut appearance in Olympic Stadium.’ It’s signed ‘Lake.’ ”

The door opened as George let herself into the apartment. She looked dreamy and starry eyed. “Hi,” she said vaguely, hardly noticing them. She drifted toward the bedroom.

Nancy reached out and grabbed the sleeve of George’s sweater. “Hey, George, we’ve got something for you,” she said.

“That’s nice,” she said, stopping.

Nancy waved the pass in front of her friend’s eyes. “Drew calling Fayne,” she said. “Drew calling Fayne. Come in, please.”

“Huh?” George’s eyes refocused. “What’d you say?”

Ned laughed. “We said that Lake got us those passes. You’ll get your chance to run in Olympic Stadium.”

George squealed and grabbed the pass, jumping up and down with excitement. “I can’t believe it!”

“And we’ll be there to watch,” Nancy said. “We’ve got passes to the press box.”

“Speaking of tomorrow,” Ned said, looking at Nancy, “what’s on the agenda?”

Nancy sat down on the sofa and pulled her knees up under her chin. “Well, I’ve been thinking,” she said. “About Dandridge, that is.”

“What about him?” George asked.

“We definitely can’t strike him off our list of suspects. There’s every possibility that yesterday’s drop was a dummy.”

“So what do you want to do?” Ned asked, sitting down beside Nancy.

“We’re going to question him again,” Nancy said. “First thing in the morning. If he’s been telling us the truth, his bank account should show some very large cash withdrawals—and no substantial deposits.”