Secrets Can Kill

by Carolyn Keene

  Chapter

  Twelve

  IN DISBELIEVING SILENCE Nancy watched her “contact” in front of an unseen video camera. She had to keep reminding herself that it wasn’t a performance. It was for real.

  Scene One—Daryl got into his Porsche and drove off, the camera lingering on a sign for Route 110 East.

  Scene Two—The Porsche pulled into the parking lot of a tacky-looking diner called the Red Caboose. Daryl got out of the car, walked across the street, and stood waiting on the sidewalk. Jake had obviously stayed behind, hidden somewhere in the Red Caboose lot.

  Scene Three—A heavyset man with thick hair and a bushy mustache joined Daryl on the sidewalk. Jake zoomed in for a closer shot. The camera zeroed in on an identification tag clipped to the man’s pocket. Nancy tried desperately to read the name. She thought she could make out an M and a D, but she wasn’t sure. Jake hadn’t been able to get a tight enough shot. Daryl and the man exchanged a few words, and then the man handed Daryl a small envelope, which Daryl stuffed in his jeans pocket. The man walked away, revealing on the chain-link fence behind him a sign, about one foot square. The letters were unreadable.

  Scene Four—Another shot of Daryl in his car, this time passing the high school on Bedford Road.

  Scene Five—The Porsche turned into a drive. No house was visible from the road, just an intricately scrolled wrought-iron fence on each side of the drive.

  That was it. Five short scenes that blew Nancy’s world apart. Less than an hour earlier, she’d been in Daryl’s arms, a victim of his warm eyes and smooth personality. Then suddenly she’d discovered that he, too, was a victim of Jake Webb’s scheming mind.

  A few things began to make sense—the way Daryl had tried to talk her out of dealing with Jake, his eagerness to know how the case was going and to see the tape. With a shudder, Nancy wondered what would have happened if he’d stayed long enough to see himself on the screen. Would he have killed Nancy for the tape, the way he might—just might—have killed Jake?

  Pushing that awful thought from her mind, Nancy jumped up and turned the tape off. Then she started pacing around the room.

  “Nancy,” Bess asked, “are you okay?”

  “Just totally confused.” Nancy managed a laugh. “I mean, obviously Jake had something on Daryl. But what? The tape really doesn’t show him doing anything wrong.”

  “It doesn’t show much of anything,” Bess agreed. “He just went someplace, met a man, and then went someplace else. I know!” she said. “Maybe he had a gambling thing going. You know, running numbers.”

  That made sense, Nancy thought. After all, with his father practically bankrupt, Daryl would want to keep up his slick lifestyle somehow. Gambling wasn’t so terrible, she told herself hopefully.

  “Well, we’re not getting anywhere sitting around talking about it,” George pointed out.

  “You’re right. Let’s get going. I want to try to follow Daryl’s route on the tape.” Nancy grabbed the keys to her car. “We know what the others did. Now let’s find out what Daryl’s secret is.”

  Nancy’s new car sped along Route 110. “Just keep your eyes open for that diner,” she reminded her friends.

  “I won’t miss it,” Bess said. “I’m famished.”

  “We’re not going there to eat,” George told her.

  “I know, but it wouldn’t hurt to get a takeout order. I was so busy with Alan that I didn’t even get lunch. Oh, Nancy,” Bess went on, “I can’t wait for you to meet Alan! He’s not only good-looking, he’s talented.”

  “At what?”

  “He plays the guitar, and he’s really serious about it. I’m sure he’ll be a superstar someday,” Bess said loyally. “Oh, I just remembered! His group’s playing for the Bedford High dance tomorrow night!”

  “Hey!” cried George. “Look on your right! It’s the Red Caboose.”

  Just as Daryl had done, Nancy pulled into the parking lot, and the three girls got out. Facing away from the diner, across Route 110, they could see the chain-link fence, and now that they had a full view, they could see several of the small, square signs attached to the fence at regular intervals.

  Beyond the fence was a vast complex of buildings. As Nancy and her friends crossed the street to the sidewalk where Daryl had met the man, Nancy wondered if the buildings were a factory of some kind.

  Bess reached the fence first. “ ‘Private—Authorized Personnel Only,’ ” she read from one of the signs. Then she was quiet as Nancy and George joined her and read what was printed below that, in smaller letters. “U.S. Government.”

  “I didn’t know there were any government offices out here,” George said. “What is it, I wonder. A research place or something?”

  “Let’s find out,” Nancy said. “I’m sure anybody who works at the Red Caboose knows what it is.” She spoke calmly, but inside she was becoming very nervous. What could Daryl possibly have to do with the U.S. Government?

  “It’s an Air Force defense plant, honey,” the man behind the counter said, in answer to Nancy’s question. “They’re up to their ears in secrets over there—designs for bombs, blueprints for nifty little radar devices that’ll track down a missile before it’s even left the ground, stuff like that.” He gave the counter a swipe with his dishcloth and shook his head. “Tell you the truth, I get scared sometimes. If the United States is ever attacked, you can bet some country’s got a bomb picked out for that place. And you know what that means for the Red Caboose.”

  • • •

  Nancy and George were reeling from the idea that Daryl might be involved in spying somehow. Bess tried to perk them up as they walked out to the car. “Look,” she said hopefully, “it might not be as bad as it seems. We don’t know what that man on the tape gave Daryl. Maybe Daryl started a private messenger service.”

  “Maybe,” Nancy said. But her thoughts were whirling around madly. Jake wouldn’t have bothered with Daryl if Daryl were innocent. But what exactly was he guilty of? And how big was this case going to get? It had started out as petty vandalism, then it moved up to blackmail, and then to murder. Now what? Could it really be espionage? “Let’s take a ride to Bedford,” she said. “I want to find out exactly where Daryl delivered that envelope. That must be what he did, even though Jake didn’t get it on tape.”

  It was dark by the time they reached Bedford Road, and as they drove by the high school, the road became darker. This was the super-rich section of Bedford, “The Mansion Mile,” as Nancy had heard someone in school call it. But from the road, with high shrubbery and thick groves of trees masking the grounds, it was hard to see any landmarks.

  Finally, though, George spotted the wrought-iron fence they’d seen on the tape, and Nancy turned into what seemed like a private drive. There was no gate and no sign to tell them whose property they were on.

  “What do we do now?” Bess asked. “Pretend we’re lost?”

  “Good idea.” Nancy drove through the opening in the fence.

  As soon as they were on the property, the drive curved sharply to reveal a gate anchored to two moss-covered pillars. In the glare of the headlights the girls could easily read the sign posted on the gate: “U.S.S.R.—Private Property.”

  “U.S.S.R.?” Bess said. “What country are we in, anyway?”

  “I think it’s an estate, a kind of compound for diplomats,” George told them. “I remember reading that a lot of countries buy foreign property so their officials can have someplace to go to relax. We’re not all that far from the U.N., you know.”

  “We’re not all that far from the defense plant, either,” Nancy said.

  Before anyone had a chance to comment on that remark, the gate swung open and searchlights flooded the area. The girls heard the sound of an engine and saw a pair of headlights round a curve in the drive in front of them. The headlights were getting closer fast, and they were heading straight for Nancy’s car!

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  THE FLOODLIGHTS LIT up
the Mustang, throwing everything outside it into pitch darkness, except for the two headlights. They were dancing over the bumpy drive, looming closer and closer.

  “Who do you suppose that is?” Bess squinted in the glare. “It’s coming awfully fast!”

  George cleared her throat. “Somehow, I don’t think it’s a welcoming committee.”

  “Let’s get out of here!” cried Nancy.

  As the headlights approached the gate, Nancy stepped on the gas, steered the Mustang into a tire-screeching U-turn, and peeled out of the drive. Just as they neared Bedford Road, Bess let out a faint shriek and pointed to a clump of bushes at the end of the drive.

  Nancy gasped. Jumping over the bushes and onto the drive directly in front of her car were two figures. In the beam of the headlights, the girls could see that they were men, dressed in black jumpsuits of some kind. One was hefting a long-barreled pistol. The other was unslinging a rifle from his shoulder.

  Instinctively Nancy moved her foot onto the brake pedal. But then she stopped. “What am I doing?” she said. “If they think I’m going to slow down and make small talk while a gun is pointed at me, they’re crazy!”

  Nancy moved her foot back to the gas pedal and stepped on it, mashing down on the horn at the same time. Bess put her hands over her eyes, but George and Nancy saw the two men hold their pose—legs wide apart, guns at the ready—for about two seconds. Then, as the Mustang bore down on them, they jumped aside. Wheels spinning and gravel flying, the car swerved sharply onto Bedford Road.

  “Are we going to live?” Bess asked.

  “Not if we don’t hurry,” Nancy answered. “Look.”

  Behind them, turning out of the private drive and coming fast, was a dark-colored, unmarked van.

  “It’s not over yet,” Nancy said. “Let’s see how far they’re willing to go.”

  Except for Nancy’s car and the van, Bedford Road was nearly deserted. Nancy raced the car past other estates, past the high school, past a solitary jogger in white. The van stayed close behind, not losing an inch.

  Suddenly Nancy saw a traffic light ahead of her. It was green, and Nancy eased up on the gas pedal.

  “What are you doing?” Bess cried. “They’ll catch us!”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Nancy slowed as much as possible, keeping her eyes on the traffic light. Behind them, the van’s headlights were bright enough to read by. The light changed to amber and Nancy felt a jolt as the van rammed into the back of her car.

  George’s head snapped back as the van once again made contact with the Mustang. “Uh, Nancy,” she said, “if you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do, do it now. The light’s been yellow for five seconds.”

  “Right. Hang on!” Nancy pushed the gas pedal and raced through the intersection just after the light turned red. The van’s brakes screeched, but then its driver decided to risk running a light. It tore through the intersection only a few feet behind the Mustang.

  Nancy shook her head in disbelief. “Where are the police when you really need them?” she joked. Actually, she was glad that a police car hadn’t been lurking at the intersection. A high-speed chase through the streets of Bedford might get the driver of the van in trouble. But when he showed his diplomatic papers or whatever he carried around with him, he’d be off the hook. Then Nancy could do one of two things—blow her cover or get arrested. Neither choice was very appealing.

  Reluctantly Nancy slowed the car to a respectable speed. “Anybody got any suggestions?” she asked.

  Bess spoke up immediately. “Let’s eat.”

  “Oh, Bess,” George said with a moan. “Get serious, will you? There’s a lunatic on our tail.”

  “I am serious,” Bess protested. “There’s a pizza place just ahead on the right, and it looks jammed. Do you really think those creeps would follow us in there?”

  “I’m ready to try anything,” Nancy said, and swerved sharply into the parking lot of Guido’s Pizza. As she squeezed the car into the last available spice, she glanced into the rearview mirror. The van slowed for a moment, then sped down the block and out of sight.

  “It worked,” she said, with a shaky laugh. “You were right, Bess. I guess it would have blown their image if they’d followed us to Guido’s and shot us over a pepperoni pie.”

  “Speaking of pepperoni,” Bess said, “I really am starving.”

  “So am I,” Nancy agreed. “Let’s go pig out.”

  Guido’s was jammed, as Bess had predicted, but the three girls managed to find a table near the kitchen door. As Nancy sank into a chair, she glanced around and saw several kids from Bedford High, including Carla Dalton. Terrific, she thought, Carla’s a quick way to ruin an appetite. Carla was talking to somebody whose back was to Nancy. She was so involved in whatever she was saying that she didn’t notice anyone else.

  When their pizza arrived, Nancy discovered that not even Carla Dalton could kill her appetite. Hungrily, she and Bess and George wolfed down slices of the big pie, not saying much of anything. When only one slice was left, Nancy leaned back in her chair and sipped her Coke. “Well, we finally know what Daryl’s secret is,” she said quietly, “and it’s a lot worse than shoplifting.”

  Bess nodded. “It’s really unbelievable, though. I mean, a high-school kid involved in spying? Who would ever guess?”

  “That was probably the point,” George said. “But Daryl’s not the worst one. That man from the defense plant and probably one of the diplomats—they’re the real bad guys.”

  “Daryl’s not squeaky clean, though,” Nancy remarked. “I’m sure he knew exactly what he was doing.” She wasn’t really shocked anymore, just angry. And she was more angry at herself than at Daryl. If only she hadn’t been so stupid, such an easy mark for Daryl’s charms! If she’d kept her mind on her job and her hands to herself, she wouldn’t be feeling like such a sucker.

  First things first, she told herself. Solve the case. Then you can kick yourself for being such a dummy!

  Bess broke into her thoughts. “What kind of stuff do you think Daryl was taking from the guy at the defense plant? Blueprints? Secret designs for bombs?”

  “Probably,” Nancy said. “And I’ll bet it paid really well.” Well enough, she figured, to keep gas in Daryl’s Porsche and a grin on his face. “Daryl did it for the money, I’m sure, not for any political reason.”

  “I guess it beat bagging groceries after school,” George commented. “Daryl must have thought he had it made.”

  “He did, until Jake found out,” Nancy said. “It must have freaked him out, but he was so cool, you would never have guessed. What an actor!” Had Daryl been acting with her, too? she wondered. Coming on to her just so she wouldn’t suspect him? She had to admit that that was exactly what he’d done, and she’d fallen for it! Well, she’d stopped falling, and now her eyes were wide open. “What I have to find out,” she told the other two, “is who killed Jake. Was it someone from the compound or the man at the defense plant? Or was it Daryl? Or Hal or Walt or Connie?”

  “Do you really think Daryl could have done something like that?” Bess asked.

  “I’m just not sure,” Nancy admitted. “But I have to find out. The question is how? I can’t just walk up and—” she broke off suddenly.

  “What is it?” George asked.

  “Look who’s here.” Nancy pointed to Carla Dalton’s table. Carla and the person she’d been with had stood up and were threading their way through the crowded room. Carla’s companion was Brenda Carlton. They were headed toward Nancy.

  “What’s the ace reporter doing here?” George wondered.

  “She’d better not be following me,” Nancy said grimly. “We made a deal. If she messes me up, I’ll take her reporter’s notebook and burn it.”

  “Who’s she with?” Bess asked.

  “Oh, that’s the famous Carla Dalton.” Nancy laughed. “The one who likes to let people fall off trampolines.” She giggled and then whispered, “I wonder what she’d say if she
knew her ex-boyfriend was a spy?”

  “She’d probably chew him out for being stupid enough to get caught,” Bess joked.

  As Brenda and Carla approached the girls’ table, Brenda gave Nancy a sideways glance and a nasty wink. Nancy felt like throwing the last slice of pizza at her and watching the tomato sauce ooze down Brenda’s black suede boots, but she held herself back.

  Carla was chattering away about Bedford High’s big dance as she and Brenda walked by, but she took the time to jostle the girls’ table hard enough to spill Nancy’s Coke.

  Bess took a wad of napkins out of the container and handed them to Nancy. “Carla doesn’t give up, does she?” she said, seething. “I don’t understand why you haven’t gotten back at her.”

  But Nancy had other things on her mind. Brenda, for one. Had she been following them? If she had, Nancy would have to be super careful. The case was at its trickiest point. She couldn’t afford to let Brenda’s nose for news get even a whiff of what was going on.

  Then there was Daryl Gray. How was she going to handle him? “Of course!” she said suddenly. “Carla just gave me the answer.”

  “The answer to what?” George asked.

  “How to get Daryl to spill his guts,” Nancy told her. “Bess, you said Alan Wales is playing at the dance tomorrow night, right? So you’ll be there, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” Bess said dreamily. “I’m his biggest fan.”

  “Good, I might need your help.” Nancy turned to George. “Yours, too.”

  “But I don’t have a date.”

  “I’ve got one for you.”

  “I don’t like blind dates,” George protested.

  “Trust me,” Nancy said with a grin. “You’ll love the guy I have in mind.”

  “So how are you going to handle Daryl?” Bess wanted to know.

  “Very carefully,” Nancy said. “But no matter what, tomorrow night, I’m going to pop the question to him. Only it won’t be one he’s expecting.”