The figure turned around and began to walk away, through the tunnel toward the street. “Wait!” I yelled. But that only seemed to propel him faster, and within moments, I’d lost sight of him.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I muttered to myself, and took off running. Thank goodness I was wearing flats, I thought as I charged across the parking lot and through the dark tunnel. I popped out onto a busy thoroughfare lit by streetlights and scanned the street for the figure. He was about thirty feet away, heading toward town at a brisk clip. I chased after him, shouldering past groups of tourists, the frigid air burning my lungs. He must have heard the rapid slap slap slap of my shoes on the pavement coming closer, because he turned to see me approaching and immediately took a sharp right to cross the street at the red light. I pushed myself for a burst of speed, managing to make it halfway across the road before the light began to change.
But there must have been a slick of black ice right near the curb, because before I knew what was happening, my feet had gone out from under me, and I fell headfirst into the pavement. I managed to put my hands up before my face hit the ground, but I couldn’t save my knees from whacking painfully against the asphalt. I looked up to find the figure, but my eyes were blinded by headlights—coming right toward me.
I gasped and tried to get up, only to slip and fall again. The car was virtually on top of me now and didn’t look like it was going to stop. Time seemed to slow as the yellow light filled my whole vision, my whole world.
Suddenly I felt a firm grip on my coat, and the sensation of being yanked off the street with extreme force. My hip bumped the curb as I slid away, and I watched in horrified silence as a black taxicab ran straight over the spot where I’d been lying just seconds ago. I scrambled to my feet and hissed with pain, feeling the spot on my side where I was sure a bruise was forming.
“You’re welcome,” said a voice next to me, and I turned to see the tall figure I’d been chasing standing there. Had I heard that voice before somewhere?
I felt my face get hot with anger. “You never would have needed to do that if you hadn’t run away in the first place. Who are you? Why don’t you want to talk to me?”
There was a pause. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” the man finally asked.
I shook my head. “Whatever it is that’s going on here—you better believe I’m not letting it go. My friend is in danger.”
The man’s brows furrowed at this bit of news. “Your friend . . . ?” he asked.
“Bess Marvin. She’s been kidnapped,” I told him. “Whoever took her left a note with the front desk threatening to hurt her if I don’t stop snooping around. Do you know anything about that?”
The man cursed under his breath and muttered, “It’s even worse than I thought.” Sighing, he said, “Well, you give me no choice then.” He stuck his hand into his parka and began to pull something out.
My heart leaped into my throat. Was he reaching for a gun? A knife?
I relaxed as I saw what he was really going for—a badge. It had a picture of the globe with a sword running through it, and the words INTERNATIONAL POLICE—INTERPOL engraved above and below. On the ID card above was a photo of a familiar face.
“Charles Dubois?” I said incredulously.
Charles pulled the hood of his parka down, revealing an expression full of frustration. “You’re an undercover agent?” I asked.
“Oui, for now,” he said. “Though you aren’t making it easy for me, mademoiselle!”
“You aren’t here because someone is sabotaging the dog show,” I said, my mind whirling. “You’re here because of something else, aren’t you?”
Charles cleared his throat and studied the street around us. “Walk with me,” he murmured. “If we are going to talk about this, we need to do it on the move.”
We began strolling side by side, heading back in the direction of the château. “For several years now,” Charles began, “I have been investigating an international jewel thief who is allegedly traveling around the world, posing as a dog show exhibitor. We got wind of the situation from some of our agents in Europe—but the problem was that no one knew anything about the thief, nothing at all.”
I was confused. “Why would a jewel smuggler want to pretend to be a dog show competitor?”
“When you travel with animals, particularly show dogs,” Charles explained, “it’s easy to sneak things through customs in the crates. Show dogs are given a bit of leeway because their owners are so . . .” Charles seemed to have difficulty with what he wanted the next word to be. “Particular,” he finally said, “about their animals. And no one would blink at an exhibitor with several championships under their belt doing a lot of international travel. It’s part of the job, after all, going from one show to another.”
I nodded. “Okay, that makes sense.”
Charles went on. “The only information we have is snippets of recorded conversations picked up about someone called ‘Surefire.’ We figure that’s the thief’s code name, so we’ve been able to trace this person from one dog show to another, but we’ve never been able to catch him or her in the act. I’ve been posing as an exhibitor myself, competing in show after show, in an effort to arrest Surefire. Before this I was in Finland, and then the latest bread crumb led us here, to my hometown, so I’ve been very hopeful that I’ll be able to track the thief down in Quebec City. But then this whole chewing-gum debacle happened . . . and you showed up. La petite inspecteur.”
I cringed a little at the word “petite,” which sounded insulting coming out of his mouth. “Hey!” I said, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “Louise Alain asked for my help, and I gave it. If I had known what I was walking into, I would never have put my friend at risk.”
Charles stopped too and rubbed his face with his hands. “Oh, I know, mademoiselle. Je suis désolé. The thing is, I’ve been chasing this criminal for a long time—I don’t want him to fall through my fingers. And with this newest development with Mademoiselle Marvin, it’s all become very . . . complicated.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But it’s not just complicated for us—it’s complicated for them, too. Kidnapping Bess was a risky move. A desperate move. Now we know for certain that they’re here, and unless they were very careful, they will have left behind a clue.” I reached into my purse and pulled out the handkerchief with the fibers inside. “And let me tell you something,” I added, handing the evidence to Charles. “They weren’t very careful.”
Charles touched the fibers with his finger and smiled. “Well, Mademoiselle Drew,” he said. “Perhaps having you around won’t be such a headache, after all.” He began to pick up the pace again, taking a shortcut back toward the hotel. “Dépêchez-vous!” he said, hurrying me along. “The clock is ticking, and you and I have a crime to solve.”
CHAPTER FIVE
On the Scent
AS WE MADE OUR WAY back to Château Frontenac, moments after I’d texted George to meet us in the lobby, I spied Louise and Angie walking out the front door, with Marge and Marshmallow Fluff in tow. Angie was holding both leashes so Louise could concentrate on walking with her crutch.
“Aha,” said Louise as we approached, eyeing us both suspiciously. “Are you consorting with the enemy now, Nancy—or just grilling him for information?”
Charles coughed and gave me a warning look.
“I was just getting a little overheated inside that crowded ballroom,” I lied, “so he brought me out here for some fresh air.”
“How kind of you, Chuck,” Louise said, still suspicious. Charles cringed visibly at the nickname. “But don’t think you can charm your way to Best in Show!” She waggled her finger at him disdainfully before turning to me again. “Where are your two girlfriends, anyway? Why didn’t they help you?”
Charles coughed again, more forcefully this time.
Louise stared at him. “What’s with you?” she asked. “Cold getting to you?”
“Uh, the girls turned in early for the nigh
t,” I said quickly. I felt terrible for lying to Louise, but I had no choice. “It’s been a long day for all of us.” I turned to the dogs, hoping to change the subject. “Oh, Marshmallow—you look well after your ordeal!” Sure enough, the big white dog seemed no worse for wear, except for some small tufts of hair missing from a couple of spots on her back. Her huge pink tongue lolled out in excitement at the sound of her name, and she happily slurped my hand, covering it entirely with goo.
“Yech,” I said with a strained smile as I wiped it on my coat. “Good girl. Nice girl.”
“I did my best with her coat,” Angie said with a shrug. “The gum wasn’t that badly stuck, so I got most of it off without having to cut the fur. Hopefully it won’t hurt her chances with the judges too much.”
“It’s hardly noticeable,” I assured her, scratching the big sheepdog behind the ears. “She’s a great dog, They’d be fools not to see that.”
Angie beamed, and the dogs began to pull impatiently on their leads. “Duty calls!” Angie called out, and the two women walked past us down the sidewalk.
“Whew,” I said to Charles when they were finally gone, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “I hate not being able to tell her what’s really going on.”
“It’s the only way to keep everyone safe—and find your friend,” Charles assured me. “Keep the circle small. Louise Alain keeps secrets like a sieve holds water—she’s the last person who needs to know all this.” He held open the door and I walked inside.
I smirked. “You just don’t like that she calls you Chuck.”
“Pah!” Charles spat. “ ‘Chuck’ is what you call a call a piece of meat—and not a very good one, mind you.” Clearly, I had hit a nerve.
“Fine,” I agreed. “We won’t tell Louise. But not telling George is a deal breaker. She and I come as a pair.”
Charles sighed hugely and pinched the bridge of his long nose with his manicured fingers. “All right, all right! You can tell her. Ach . . . one little girl detective is bad enough, and now I have to deal with two. . . .”
I crossed my arms and gave him a stern look. “Without this ‘little girl,’ Monsieur Dubois, you would have no leads at all!”
Charles raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alors, you are correct, mademoiselle. Let’s find Mademoiselle George and get upstairs quickly so I can contact my superiors.”
George appeared from a hallway just as Charles and I walked into the crowded lobby. Apparently the masquerade ball had just ended, and guests were still milling about before heading up to their rooms for the night. “George!” I called out over the murmur of conversations. She heard me and hurried over, casting a questioning look at Charles standing beside me. “Um, I’ll explain in the elevator,” I murmured, casting glances around at who might be listening.
George nodded wordlessly and followed Charles and me into the closest elevator, where two other guests were standing. Charles pushed the button for the penthouse. Just as the doors were about to close, Valencia Vasquez glided into the elevator. “Ah!” she sighed with relief. “Just made it.” She yawned luxuriously, and in the waft of her breath came the distinct scent of cherries. I wrinkled my nose—not my favorite smell. “So,” she said, eyeing me, “did you enjoy the party, Nancy?”
“It certainly was something,” I said truthfully.
“I saw your friend nabbed the handsome wolf man as her dance partner. I have to admit, I’m a little jealous,” she told us.
I felt my breath catch in my throat and Charles stiffen beside me. “Who is he, anyway?” I asked carefully. “Have you seen him before—one of the dog owners, maybe?”
V shook her head. “No, I’d remember him if I had. And anyway, I overheard him telling her that he doesn’t even like dogs, so I can’t imagine why he’d want to hang out with the likes of us!” She laughed. “Well,” she said as the elevator doors opened. “This is me! Good night, all!”
It wasn’t until the final guest had departed and the elevator doors were shut that Charles stabbed the emergency stop button. The car lurched to a halt in between floors, and George nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Hey!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing? Nancy, should I punch this guy or what?”
“No, no!” I stammered. “He’s okay—Charles is with the international police! He’s undercover.”
“Oh,” George said, sagging with relief. And then a moment later, “Oh!” She perked up again, realizing the elevator was less dangerous and the situation more interesting than she’d expected. She waggled her eyebrows. “A secret agent! Wait . . . so you must have been right, Nancy—this is about more than just some chewing gum, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “A lot more.” While I filled George in, Charles took a photograph with his phone of the grayish-white fibers I’d found in the tire tracks and sent it to his bosses at Interpol. By the time I had finished my story, Charles’s phone had already binged an answer.
“Paper fibers,” he said, looking up at us, “probably from a pulping factory. That’s their best guess without actually seeing the evidence firsthand. It’s a good guess—there are quite a few such factories in the city, and some of them are abandoned. We’ve seen them used before as hideouts. . . .” Charles tapped his chin, looking like he was piecing it all together. “At this time of year they would need to turn on the power for heat. Which would require going to the factory before picking her up . . .”
“Okay—let’s go! What are we waiting for?” George said, moving to restart the elevator.
Charles turned to her, clearly shaken out of his thoughtful reverie. He put his hand on George’s arm. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “it is not that easy. We can’t just go running to every factory in town looking for your friend. These fibers might not have anything to do with the kidnapping, even. Let the professionals do their work. I promise you, I will keep you and Nancy updated.”
George opened her mouth to argue, but I shook my head. George swallowed the words and stood silent, her face a thundercloud.
“Merci,” Charles said. “For now, let us go back to our rooms. It’s late, and tomorrow is a big day . . . for more reasons than one. No matter what, you two need to act as if everything is normal. Your friend Bess has taken ill, or gone on an errand—something to explain her absence. If the enemy catches wind of my identity, or that you two are still actively trying to root him out, I cannot guarantee the safety of Mademoiselle Marvin.”
I gritted my teeth. Doing nothing was never my strong suit. But there was no other way right now. I nodded.
“Bien,” Charles said approvingly. “The show must go on.” He then restarted the elevator and pushed the button for the ninth floor, where most of the dog show competitors were staying. “Ach!” Charles exclaimed as the elevator lurched into life once again. “In all the excitement, I’ve forgotten all about young Coco. She’ll need walking, and here I am with all this work to do.”
“We’d be happy to walk her for you,” I offered. “I need the practice . . . and frankly, I can’t imagine getting much sleep tonight, with things as they are.”
Charles looked at the two of us skeptically, but finally relented. “D’accord. But please, whatever you do, don’t allow her to consort with neighborhood mongrels or eat any rubbish from the ground! That’s the last thing I need. First a kidnapping, then a dog with a tummy ache on show day . . .”
Ten minutes later, after a lengthy speech about Coco’s very particular care, George and I were back on the street, walking Coco the Weimaraner around the perimeter of the hotel. “I don’t know what Charles was talking about,” George commented. “I think this dog would rather starve to death than eat anything other than gourmet cuisine.”
I chuckled. Like her owner, Coco Diamonds Are Forever was used to the finer things in life. She walked with her elegant gray head held high, looking down on any other dogs that came by and barked or tried to sniff her. Louise certainly seemed to be onto something with the idea that dogs mirrored their own
ers.
“Hey,” George said quietly as we turned a corner. “Isn’t that Joe? That big guy from the dog show?”
I looked where she was pointing and saw a hulk of a man across the street from us, wearing a brown parka and walking a basset hound, who herself was dressed in a fleece overcoat and boots. “I think so,” I replied, squinting to see better in the dark.
As we watched, another man jogged to catch up with him. He said something to Joe, but instead of stopping to talk to him, Joe waved the man away and began to walk faster. However, this didn’t seem to deter the man, who pursued Joe down the street.
“Let’s cross here,” I muttered to George, who nodded knowingly. I wanted to see exactly how this was going to play out.
Pulling our own parkas down over our faces, we followed a little ways back as the man tried to keep pace with Joe’s enormous strides away from him down a deserted side street. “Wait up,” the man called out. “Bull’s-Eye!”
At that, Joe stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and allowed the man to catch up with him. George and I dove behind a Dumpster to avoid being seen as Joe whirled around and grabbed the man by his coat collar, lifting him up from the ground like he weighed nothing.
The man yelped in shock. “Hey!” he protested, squirming in Joe’s grip. “Let me go!”
Joe’s voice was low and dangerous. “Listen very closely,” he said. “You don’t know me. Do you understand? You’ve never seen me before.”
“Uh, okay,” the man said, his voice full of fear. “Okay, man, be cool. I didn’t mean any harm. Please.”
Joe dropped the man, and he stumbled as he landed back on his feet. “You best remember that,” he said. He took a wallet from his pants pocket and pulled a few bills from it. “Here,” he said, handing the money to the man. “This never happened. Clear?”
The Stolen Show Page 4