En Garde (Nancy Drew (All New) Girl Detective Book 17) (2 page)

I couldn’t help laughing as we walked across the parking lot. “You take a two-day fencing workshop and suddenly you have an enemy for life. What
did
that man do to you?” I asked.

Ned grinned back, but he stuck to his point. “It was so brutal. Every move I made, Bela Kovacs said it was totally wrong. The way he kept sniping at me, I felt so clumsy.”

“Your fencing looked fine in that Shakespeare
play,” I reassured him. “That’s why you took the workshop, right?”

“Yup, I went through two long, grueling days of torture so I could learn enough fencing to do three minutes of stage dueling,” Ned agreed. “George came along to keep me company, and now she’s hooked for life. It’s all my fault!” He pretended to plunge a dagger into his heart and then staggered dramatically for a few steps.

“Shhh, there she is,” Bess warned us, as she waved across the parking lot.

Standing in front of the University of River Heights field house, I could spot George’s short dark hair, the ends spiky and mussed as always. Usually George is the tallest girl in any group, but the girl she stood next to now was just as tall, with elegant, erect posture. The same was true of the guy they were standing with. Seeing them, I self-consciously straightened my own shoulders. All three were dressed in white—flat white shoes, white knee socks, white knickers, and white turtlenecks. The dazzling white outfits were particularly striking against George’s friends’ dark African-American skin. They looked impressive, I had to say.

“That must be DeLyn and her twin brother,” Bess said as we hurried to join George and her companions. “George is always talking about them. They’re
supposed to be fabulous fencers. They’ve studied with Kovacs for years.”

“I remember seeing them around the salle—that’s what fencers call the studio where they train,” Ned said. “The twins are incredible. I hope we get the chance to watch them fence today, too.”

“Hi, guys!” George called out to us. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Hey, you can’t have your first fencing match without your regular cheering section,” I declared.

George grinned nervously, pulling her bulky equipment bag onto her shoulder. “Well, this won’t count toward national ranking—it’s just an informal meet. But Bela says it’ll be good for me to get some bout experience.”

At the words “Bela says,” Bess flashed me an I-told-you-so look. Good thing George didn’t notice, since I could hardly keep from giggling.

“This is DeLyn and Damon Brittany,” George went on. “Nancy, Ned, and my cousin Bess.”

“Glad to meet you,” Damon said with a smile and a hearty handshake.

DeLyn stuck out her hand too, but she didn’t speak, and her smile struck me as pretty forced. Why? I wondered. Pre-match nerves, maybe.

We stood there for a minute, chatting about the tournament. I noticed DeLyn’s distracted gaze sliding
away, scanning the parking lot. I looked around too. (One thing you should know about me: I’m curious. Way too curious, some folks would say.)

That’s when I spotted him, lingering behind a parked car two rows away, like he was waiting for someone. A guy with shaggy, shoulder-length brown hair and a restless way of moving that raised my radar. (See, I’ve got this radar for trouble and it’s almost never wrong.)

Hunched inside a shabby overcoat, hands jammed deep in his pockets, he was kind of scuzzy. The guy wore raggedy jeans and worn high-top sneakers. I had this weird feeling about him, like I’d seen him somewhere before. I stole a quick look at DeLyn, wondering if she’d been looking for him. But her eyes were flitting in another direction.

Ignore him, I told myself. You’re here to watch George fence—don’t let your detective imagination run away with you. I focused on the conversation.

“We’d better go inside now,” George said. “Bela hates it when we’re late. He says that discipline is the most important element of fencing.”

DeLyn rolled her eyes. “Bela says a lot of things, George,” she muttered.

“What was that?” George asked brightly.

“Nothing,” DeLyn replied. “Let’s go in.”

We filed along with the spectators entering the
field house. Inside the cavernous space, bleachers were set up along all four walls. Over the field house floor, where I’d often played basketball, several long beige plastic mats had been rolled out lengthwise. Each was about fifteen yards long and six feet wide. Lots of wires and cables snaked across the floor, attached to clunky metal boxes.

“Is this where they fence?” Bess asked uncertainly.

“Sure, over there on those strips,” Damon explained. “During a tournament, several bouts take place at the same time, each one on its own strip. It can get pretty confusing. But each bout has its own referee, and those electronic boxes keep score. You’ll see when they get started. The black screen on the side of the box lights up and shows the score.”

“Damon, look, the TV station sent a news reporter,” DeLyn said, tugging on her brother’s sleeve and pointing.

We looked over to the end of the field house, where the basketball hoops were normally hung. A cameraman was assembling his equipment, while a petite woman in a pink sweater and black pants was testing out a recording mike.

For some reason, Damon didn’t look exactly happy about this new development. “Since when does the local station care about fencing?” he grumbled. “There must be some mistake—they must have thought they
were coming here to cover a basketball game.”

“Now, Damon, you’ve heard what Bela says,” George reminded him. “Thanks to all the great competition in the area, the local fencing scene is getting hot.”

“It’s certainly more interesting than the usual local news,” Ned said. “I mean, who wants to watch another grocery store grand opening?”

“Maybe Bela called the station himself and told them about the tournament,” George said. “It’ll be free publicity for the salle.”

“Ooh, George, your first victory might be captured on TV,” Bess exclaimed. “But how do we know which space you’ll be fencing on?”

Damon shrugged, still looking uneasily at the camera crew. “Bela will tell us who’s fencing where and when, and we’ll tell you so you can be in the right place. Each fencer has several bouts scheduled against different opponents. It depends on how many fencers are registered for each class. We’re all ranked according to age and experience.”

George smiled. “Yeah, good thing. A novice like me won’t have to face old pros like DeLyn and Damon.”

I checked out DeLyn’s response—a lukewarm smile and averted eyes. What was her problem? She and George were supposed to be friends. I didn’t get why she was acting so cold.

“There are different events for different weapons, too,” Damon went on. “Foil—that’s what George is fencing with now. And then épée and saber.”

“Those are larger swords,” George explained.

“And heavier. Plus, they’re covered by different rules,” Damon added. “With épée and saber, you see . . .”

My mind drifted back to the scuzzy guy in the parking lot. I finally remembered where I’d seen him before. It was last Saturday, outside Bela Kovacs’s fencing studio. I’d been there picking up George after her lesson. He was sitting on a bench and minding his own business, but something about him told me he was up to no good.

“This is no time to lose your focus!” a man’s voice snapped beside me. I jumped slightly, pulled back from my wandering thoughts.

A wiry man in a neatly pressed suit and tie had joined our group. His longish hair stuck out in all directions, dark and curly with streaks of silver at the temples. His eyes were dark and fiery, too, with shadowy circles underneath. The Brittany twins’ great posture was nothing compared to this guy’s. He stood completely lithe and erect. Something about him crackled with energy.

Behind him I caught sight of Ned’s face, flickering with panic. I’ve hardly ever seen Ned scared of anything,
so it was a total shock. Stranger still, a split second later he melted into the crowd and vanished.

“Bela!” George greeted the man eagerly.

In one move, Bela managed to scowl at DeLyn, toss Damon a look of scorn, and then pivot tenderly toward George. “My precious prodigy!” he exclaimed, rolling his r’s with a European accent. “I trust you slept well last night and had a robust breakfast? Preparation is paramount!”

Believe it or not, George—my buddy George—actually blushed at her fencing master’s words. “I know, Bela,” she said meekly.

“You, my child, my great new discovery,” Kovacs declared with a flourish of his left hand. “You will make me proud today, yes?”

George grinned. “I’ll try my best.”

Kovacs took hold of George’s shoulders and, bending forward, planted a good-luck kiss on her forehead. “Your best, and nothing less,” he murmured proudly. “Then victory is assured.” He dropped his hands and swiveled toward DeLyn. “And what have you to say for yourself?” he barked.

DeLyn clenched her jaw. “I’m ready, Bela.”

“Are you?” Kovacs cocked a shaggy eyebrow, and his nostrils flared. “I haven’t seen you do your stretching exercises yet. You’ve drawn Una for your first bout, you know.
Una
.” His lip curled in scorn.

“You’re kidding—Una?” Damon asked with a nervous twitch.

DeLyn shrugged carelessly. “No big deal, Bela—I’ve beaten her before.”

“Have you? Have you beaten her
lately
?” Kovacs scoffed. His dark eyes drilled into hers for a moment. Then he spun on his heel and stalked away.

DeLyn Brittany stared after him with such hurt and despair, it almost broke my heart.

R
ight then and
there, I took back everything negative I had thought about DeLyn Brittany. No wonder she was acting weird around George—she was jealous! George had evidently become the fencing master’s new star, and DeLyn felt threatened. That was only natural.

“Who’s this Una you’re all talking about?” Bess asked Damon.

Damon took his eyes off his sister’s stricken face. “Una Merrick. She fences for Salle Olympique, over in Cutler Falls.”

“Salle Olympique?” George repeated. “Our big rival?”

DeLyn tossed her head. “They think they’re our rivals. But Salle Budapest is better than Salle
Olympique. We’ll show them this afternoon.”

“That’s right,” Damon said, clenching his fist. “Lyndie, you can beat that spoiled rich girl. Teach Una who’s boss. I’ll be rooting for you. Come on, let’s start our warm-up stretches.”

As the Brittany twins slipped off through the crowd, I turned to George for information. “I know Kovacs’s studio is called Salle Budapest. But Salle Olympique?”

“The word
salle
is French for ‘room.’ In fencing, it’s the technical term for any fencing school,” George explained. “Bela named his Salle Budapest because he’s Hungarian, from Budapest. There’s a great tradition of fencing in Hungary. Salle Olympique is run by a Frenchman named Paul Mourbiers. I’ve seen him around. He should be—oh yeah, there he is.”

She pointed across the tournament floor. I followed her finger and saw a tall, slim man with dark red hair, cut short and severe. Even though he was Bela Kovacs’s physical opposite, the similarities between the two were striking. Both wore dark suits and had elegant postures, and they gave off the same vibrant energy. They’re like clones, I thought to myself. I bet that Paul Mourbiers had the same manners—or lack of them—that Bela Kovacs did.

Mourbiers began to cross the field house floor
with long, precise strides, swerving around the fencing strips. Next to me, George drew in a sharp breath. Then—was it my imagination?—a nervous hush seemed to settle over the field house, as if several people were holding their breath all at once.

It didn’t take more than a second for me to spot what others had already seen. Bela Kovacs, wild hair flying, was walking purposefully across the fencing floor from the other side. Though neither of them appeared to notice the other, the two fencing masters were definitely on course to collide.

Which one would step aside first?

“Go, Bela,” I heard George mutter softly beside me.

They were within a few feet of each other now. Mourbiers’s chin was lifted high and his hands were clasped behind his back. He refused to look at Kovacs. Meanwhile, Kovacs’s jaw was set like a bulldog’s, his eyes were studiously on the ground, and his hands were planted stubbornly behind his back. Each man refused to look the other’s way.

And then, as if on cue, both teachers swung their eyes to the center. Their gazes met and locked. Even from yards away, I felt the heat of their smoldering glares. Decades of hatred seemed poured into that one instant of eye contact.

People all around me gasped.

And then Kovacs and Mourbiers walked past each other—Mourbiers with a disdainful shrug, Kovacs with a defiant head toss. That was it. Moment over.

“Wow, what was that about?” I whispered to George, as the room began to buzz again with conversation.

“Don’t even ask,” George groaned. “Bela hates Paul Mourbiers—hates him with a passion. Mourbiers moved into the area and started his fencing salle six years ago. He really cut into Bela’s business. But the whole thing between them goes back a lot further. I’ll explain later—right now I have to go warm up. The preparation routine is essential, Bela says.”

“Sure thing. Good luck, George!” I said as she walked away.

“Break a leg!” Bess added.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to say that,” I reminded Bess. “That’s only for actors in a play. We don’t really want George to break a leg here.”

“Whatever,” Bess said with a giggle and a shake of her hair. “It sure looks like theater to me.”

“Our first bouts are about to begin. Will spectators please leave the fencing floor,” a voice announced over the PA system. Bess and I headed for the bleachers. We’d forgotten to ask which fencing strips George, DeLyn, and Damon would be competing on, but the stands weren’t crowded—I figured we could move to
the best viewing spot when we saw our friends arrive on their strips.

Looking up into the bleachers, I spotted Ned. He gave me a sheepish wave. I shook my head as I hopped up the steps to join him. “You are such a coward,” I teased him. “The minute you saw Bela Kovacs, you ran for the hills.”