Very Deadly Yours (7 page)

“Here,” she said breathlessly when she rejoined the three men. “Look at this. I was just wondering if any of you might have seen the person who dropped off this letter. That's all.”

All three men bent their heads over the paper. “Wow, this guy sounds like a real sicko,” Todd said after a minute. “Why's he bothering you, anyway?”

“I—I'm not really sure,” Nancy said, lying. “Maybe it's someone who doesn't want me working here or something.”

Bill was looking puzzled. “But you say you're just a temp?”

“Well, yes, kind of,” said Nancy, wishing her rehearsed story had explained things better.

“Well, then, why would someone want you out of here?” he asked. “The only person who could get an ad in in the middle of the week like this
would be someone who worked for the paper. But if you're just working here as a temp, why would anyone want you off the job?”

“Wait a minute,” Nancy said. “Why does it have to be someone who works for the paper?”

“Well,” said Bill, “the Personals column is only updated once a week. The new ads always come out in the Sunday paper. Only someone who knows how to get a new ad into the computer can have them printed—all our typesetting is computerized. Now here's a brand-new ad out on Tuesday. How could it have come from outside?”

“He's right,” Todd put in. “Whoever it was would have had to slip the ad past Lena Verle to get it printed now.”

Nancy's lips were a tight line. She could think of one person who'd wanted her out of this job even though she was just a “temp.” She could think of one person who'd have no trouble slipping an extra ad into the paper. Lena Verle.

“So Lena
is
out to get me!” she said under her breath.

L
ISTEN, GUYS
, I have to get back to work,” Nancy said abruptly. She wanted to get through the confrontation with Lena as quickly as possible. “It's been nice talking to you, though. Thanks a lot.”

“Hey! Aren't you going to take your supplies?” Todd called after her.

“Oh! Yes, of course. Thanks.” Nancy turned around and scooped the boxes into her arms. She had forgotten about the original reason she had come down there.

“Well, it's been real,” Steve said as Nancy whirled around to leave for the second time.

Back at Lena's cubicle, Nancy dumped the
supplies unceremoniously on the desk. “Here you go,” she snapped before a surprised Lena had had time to say anything. “So. You still have it in for me, is that it?”

Lena looked honestly bewildered. “In for you?” she echoed.

“The guys in the mailroom just told me that only someone from the paper could have placed that ad. And there's only one person on this paper—as I figure-—who wants me out of here. You.”

“But I
don't
want you out of here anymore,” Lena protested. “Haven't we been through this already? I had nothing to do with that ad!”

“You're the only person who could—” Nancy stopped short. She had just caught sight of a piece of stationery on Lena's desk. The reason she noticed it was that it had Lena's initials on it. And some kind of message—a message that didn't look friendly.

Nancy reached over and picked up the piece of paper. “Hey!” Lena protested, but Nancy was already reading aloud. “ ‘Dear Lena: Enclosed is a message for next week's Personals column. Thanks for bending the deadline this once.' ” Nancy glanced quickly at Lena, who looked stunned. “ ‘And the message,' ” she continued, “ ‘in case you've forgotten, is this: Watch out, N.D. If you don't get out of here, expect the worst. You'll get it.' Well, Lena? Who sent you this?”

“I—I've never seen it before!” Lena stammered.

“That's funny. Whoever wrote it seems to know
you
awfully well.” Nancy sat down in the chair next to Lena's desk and rubbed her eyes wearily. “Come on, Lena,” she said. “You'd make it a lot easier for yourself if you'd just tell me who wrote the letter. I'm going to find out, anyway, and it'll save us both time.”

Lena opened her mouth, then shut it again. “I swear I don't know who sent that. You can believe me or not. It's up to you. But I can't tell you who sent that letter, because I don't know.”

Nancy was silent for a second. “What can I say? I don't believe you. I can't force you to tell me anything, so I guess there's no point in going on with this right now. You don't mind if I hang on to the note, do you?” She was standing and putting the piece of paper into her purse as she spoke.

“Where—where are you going?” But Nancy didn't answer.

She was going upstairs to talk to Mr. Whittaker. Not to tattle on Lena. Nancy wasn't about to make any accusations unless she had definite proof. But at the moment, Mr. Whittaker seemed to be her only ally.

• • •

“No, I have to admit I hadn't noticed this ad,” Mr. Whittaker told her a few minutes later, shaking his head with disbelief. “But the men in
the mailroom are right. Only someone on the staff could have inserted this. And that can only mean that—it's hard to believe, but—”

“That whoever placed today's ad also placed the original one, the one Bess answered?” Nancy finished for him. “It's the only explanation I can think of, too. There's no reason anyone on the staff should want me off this case otherwise.”

That meant that the “accident” with the bricks on the scaffolding probably hadn't been a coincidence at all.

“Well, do you have any suspects?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, but—” Nancy stopped short. She had just realized something. Mr. Whittaker might be a suspect himself.

But how can he be? she thought. The editor in chief of the
Record?
It was impossible to imagine him being involved.

On the other hand—now that she thought about it—he did fit Bess's description of the guy she had met in the restaurant. And Nancy had known plenty of criminals who seemed incapable of doing anything wrong. As far as opportunity went, Mr. Whittaker was as much a suspect as anyone else.

“Nancy? Are you there?” he asked her, smiling. “I said, do you have any suspects?”

Nancy forced herself to smile back. “Of course I do. But I know you'll understand that I should keep them to myself for now.”

“I understand.”

“There's one thing I'd like to do, though,” Nancy said, “and that's to get Bess over here to look around. If she recognizes anyone, the case'll be over today.”

“Well, I—I suppose that would be all right.” Was it her imagination, or did he suddenly look wary?

“Great!” Nancy said enthusiastically. “I'll call her right away. Do you think I could make the call from your office? I'd rather not broadcast this any further than I have to.”

“Absolutely,” said Mr. Whittaker. “I'll let you have a little privacy, too.” Before Nancy could tell him that it wasn't really necessary, he had left the room.

He really does seem nice, Nancy thought as she dialed Bess's number. I'd hate to think he could be involved in this.

She sighed in frustration when she got a busy signal. Wasn't any part of the case going to go her way?

Five minutes and three calls later, the line was still busy. I'll just try once more, Nancy thought—and on the last try she got Bess.

“Nancy! I heard about Ned. How is he?” Bess asked as soon as she heard Nancy's voice.

“He's doing okay. It's a long story. But that's not why I called.” Quickly Nancy filled Bess in on everything that had happened. “Could you come down here and take a look around?” she finished.

“Sure I'll come over,” her friend said, “if I
have
to. Is it okay if I bring George with me?”

“Sure,” Nancy said.

“All right. See you in half an hour.”

“Bess!” Nancy said in the split second before Bess hung up. “What was the name of that guy's friend—the one he said you'd murdered?”

“The Glove, he said. Why?”

“I'm just going to see if I can turn up anything about him in the morgue.”

“The morgue!” Bess shrieked. “You're going to the morgue?”

Nancy smiled. “The
newspaper
morgue. The reference files here. Whoever the Glove was, he may have made the papers when he was murdered.”

“Nan, I'm going to hang up before you tell me something that will make me even more nervous.”

• • •

Bess would have been a
lot
more nervous if she'd been reading over Nancy's shoulder a few minutes later. The
Record's
library had the past ten years of newspapers on microfiche. It didn't take Nancy long to discover that the Glove's death
had
made the papers. And it was a pretty gruesome death.

The man's real name wasn't the Glove, of course. It was John Engas, and he was an ex-con who had done time for armed robbery and forgery. He'd been in violation of his parole to be
in Chicago at all, and the police had apparently never discovered what he was doing there. He had been killed in a traffic accident that had left his body so mangled that it took days to identify the remains. Yes, Nancy thought, it was a good thing Bess wasn't there reading right then.

Whoever the guy placing the ads was, his having been friends with John Engas didn't say much for him. But why had he accused Bess of leaving the Glove to die? Engas's body had been the only one in the car, and there was no evidence that he'd had any passengers.

Nancy rubbed her eyes. Boy, she thought, you could go blind reading off these machines. She was just about to turn off the microfiche machine when another article caught her eye.

“
STILL NO SUSPECTS IN FIRST LINCOLN ROBBERY,
” said the headline. One of Chicago's biggest banks had been robbed in broad daylight, and the robbers were still at large. None of the money stolen had made its way back into circulation. In fact, the police had found no clues at all.

Something about the robbery sounded familiar, though. Was it the date? Quickly Nancy checked the story about John Engas again. Yes, the robbery and his car accident had taken place on the same day.

Was it possible that there was a connection between the two events? Engas had been previously jailed for robbery. He had violated his parole to be in Chicago at the time of the
robbery. Maybe he had robbed First Lincoln himself!

No cash had been found in the car, Nancy reminded herself. Still, it was an awfully strange coincidence—if it was a coincidence.

Nancy checked her watch. She'd have to think about all this later. Bess and George would be there any minute now.

She decided to go up to walk past Mr. Whittaker's office before going down to her floor. “Your friend on the way?” he asked.

“She'll be here any minute,” Nancy said cheerfully. And you're the first person I'll introduce her to, she thought.

“Oops! Sorry, Bill,” she said. She had just collided with Bill Stark as she was turning away from Mr. Whittaker's office.

“Did I hear you say someone's coming to visit?” he asked.

“My friend Bess Marvin,” Nancy answered. “I'm just giving her a look around the place.”

“Well, bring her down to the mailroom!” Bill urged.

Nancy smiled. “You bet I will,” she said.

She was relieved to see that Lena wasn't sitting at her desk when she got there. But the phone was ringing steadily.

“Lena left early. She said she wasn't feeling well. Now, pick up that phone!” Lucy Price called over to her. “It's been ringing for
hours!”

Nancy looked at her watch again. Bess and George were probably waiting for her downstairs—but she had to answer this anyway. She picked up the receiver. “Personals,” she said.

“I—I'd like to answer one of your ads,” said a girl's voice at the other end. “Is this the right place for that?”

“Well, the regular editor's away from her desk now,” said Nancy, “and we don't usually take ads over the phone. But why don't you leave your message? If the editor needs more information, she can get in touch with you.”

“Okay,” said the girl. “Here it is. ‘Sorry it took you so long to catch up with me. I'll meet you on Tuesday at eight o'clock at the coffee shop on Fortieth and East. Signed, the Blonde in White.' ”

Nancy's heart was racing, but she forced herself to speak calmly. “Fortieth—and—East,” she repeated, writing it down.

But that was that very night! “Miss, I'm afraid—” Nancy began. But the person at the other end had already hung up.

There was no way the ad could get in that day's paper. It was already out. And whoever had been calling seemed to have forgotten that she'd have to pay for the ad before it could run at all.