Don’t Look Twice (11 page)

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!”

W
HAT
?” N
ED CRIED.
“What are you talking about, Nan? I thought we already 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?”

“Turpentine?” Ned repeated.

“Right. He's having his house painted,” Nancy explained, “and the painters are using oil-based paints. While I was in his house, blindfolded, I smelled the turpentine. I didn't figure out what that meant until just now. I thought it meant I had been at some artist's studio.”

“Wait, wait.” Ned sounded dazed. “There's a basic problem here. Why would Bernard go to all this trouble and set up this whole elaborate thing? He works in the Amster Gallery. He could have retrieved that hidden Rembrandt any time he wanted.”

Nancy stamped her feet, which were getting cold. “Ah, but he couldn't,” she told Ned. “Not after Mr. Mason put in that new alarm system. It alerts the police if the painting frames are disturbed
at all. Bernard himself told me how it worked at the gala last night. He even told me that no one but Mr. Mason could disarm the system, which was a little careless of him.”

“I don't know—
I
never would have made the connections you did. How did you figure all this out?” Ned demanded.

Beep!
“You have ten seconds. Please deposit ten cents or your call will be terminated,” a recorded voice broke in.

Nancy groaned as she dug a dime out of her pocket. She fed it into the slot. “Look, Ned,” she said urgently, “I'll explain the rest to you later. Right now I want to tell the Masons what's going on and see if we can come up with a plan of action. Do you have their address?”

“Hang on.” There was a pause, then Ned said, “Twenty-three-oh-one James. Know where that is?”

“I'll find it,” Nancy assured him. “Oh, can you get over to the Sampsons' on your own? I'll meet you all there in a half hour.”

“Okay, see you then,” Ned said.

After climbing back into her Mustang, Nancy pulled a Chicago street map out of the glove compartment. The Masons' address wasn't far from where she was now. Good.

As she pulled up in front of the Masons' cozy brownstone, across from an elementary school, Nancy noticed a shiny black sedan in the driveway.
A light glowed through the sheer curtains of one of the windows. Someone was home.

She walked up the flagstone path and rang the doorbell. In a moment the front door swung open, and Nancy nearly gasped with shock.

Bernard stood there! She had completely forgotten that he was staying with the Masons while his house was being painted.

Bernard raised his eyebrows. “Hello, Miss Drew. What can I do for you?”

“I, uh—I was in the neighborhood and I just thought I'd let Mr. Mason know how much I liked the gala last night,” Nancy said quickly. It wasn't a great excuse, but maybe he'd buy it. After all, he didn't know she was on to him. If she just played it cool, she might be able to bluff her way out of this one.

“Oh, certainly. Come on in.” Bernard stood back to let Nancy by.

“Jonathan's in the basement, fiddling around with some restoration project,” Bernard continued, speaking over his shoulder as he led Nancy toward the back of the house. “I'm sure he'd love to speak to you himself. Here—it's right through this door.”

“Thanks,” Nancy said, turning to smile at him. She turned toward the staircase leading into the basement.

There were no lights on down there.

Too late her senses screamed at her that it was
a trap. Before she even had time to react, she felt strong hands on her back. They pushed her toward the stairs. The door was slammed shut behind her.

Her arms windmilled wildly as she fell. Her right hand brushed against a molded metal strip. Instinctively she grasped at it. A railing! Nancy held on to the thin piece of iron as if her life depended on it. Pain shot through her shoulder as her arm took the full momentum of her fall. But she gritted her teeth and didn't let go.

She heard a key turn in the lock in the darkness above her. Bernard chuckled before she heard him walk away.

When she no longer heard his footsteps, Nancy pulled herself to an upright position. She had caught herself right near the top of the flight of stairs. She felt along the wall until her fingers found a light switch. She flipped it and a single bulb came on overhead.

Nancy was furious with herself. “How could I have been so dumb?” she muttered aloud. “I walked right into his trap.”

Obviously Bernard had known from the moment he laid eyes on her that she knew his secret. He probably knew even before he saw me, Nancy reflected sourly. I'll bet Martha was on the phone to him the second I left her.

Well, she had to get out of this place as fast as possible. Bernard was probably escaping with the
Rembrandt at this very moment. Descending the steep, rickety wooden staircase, Nancy surveyed the basement.

Right away she spotted an exit route: a tiny, dirty window high up on the side wall. It was above her head, but Nancy dragged some old crates over and climbed onto them.

It took about three minutes to force the old window open, and another three to squeeze out. At one point Nancy thought she was hopelessly stuck, but after a panicky moment her hips popped through. Finally she lay sprawled on the frozen lawn behind the Masons' house.

After picking herself up and ignoring the protests of her wrenched shoulder, Nancy raced around to the front of the house. The black sedan was gone from the driveway, but maybe there was a chance she could catch up with Bernard. He couldn't have gotten far yet.

She sprinted across the street to her Mustang, fishing for the keys as she ran.

“Which way did he go?” she asked herself, turning the key in the ignition. Then she answered her own question—“Toward the North Side, I'll bet.” His house, the place where he'd held her captive, had to be somewhere in that area. He was probably on his way there now. If he got there before Nancy, he'd just pack up Denise and the Rembrandt and go somewhere else!

Nancy pulled out into the street and headed toward the North Side. It wasn't quite ten
o'clock, and there were few cars on the streets yet. All the better, Nancy thought. Bernard's sedan would be that much easier to spot. She fished out a woolen cap from her coat pocket and tugged it over her hair, then slipped on an old pair of sunglasses that she kept in the glove compartment. There—that would make her harder to recognize.

She spotted him as she was coasting to a stop at a traffic light. Maybe my luck is changing, she thought. Bernard's car was one lane over and a few yards ahead. His license plate was unmistakable; it read “BERN-ART.” Nancy had to chuckle. It was the perfect license plate for the vain assistant curator.

The light changed and they moved on. Bernard didn't seem to have spotted her, but Nancy was taking no chances. Now that she had found him, she stayed a cautious distance behind him.

More and more cars appeared on the road as they approached the bustling North Side area. Nancy edged a little closer to Bernard, afraid that she would lose him in the traffic.

Gradually she became aware that Bernard's car was speeding up. Has he spotted me? she wondered. She pressed more firmly on the accelerator, and the Mustang responded with a burst of power.

Ahead of her Bernard made an abrupt, unsignaled turn onto a big, busy street. Belmont, if Nancy remembered correctly. She accelerated
to follow him. He'd spotted her, she knew now. He was definitely driving faster.

Suddenly the red Temperature light on the Mustang's dashboard blinked on. Nancy groaned. What a time for the car to overheat! She only hoped it wasn't serious. She couldn't afford to stop now.

Bernard drove up the entrance ramp to Lake Shore Drive, Nancy right after him. She frowned. Was that steam rising from the hood of her car? “Don't do this to me now!” she exclaimed.

The Mustang wasn't listening, and suddenly its engine emitted a tortured whine. The car shuddered, and Nancy fought to keep control of the steering wheel. “Come on, car!” she cried.

As Nancy was starting over the Belmont Bridge, the Mustang's engine made a horrible grinding sound. The car jerked once, tires screeching. Then the engine died.

Nancy was stranded—in the middle of Lake Shore Drive!