Contents
1. Blast from the Past
2. Oldies but Goodies
3. Double Vision
4. Without a Trace
5. The Truth Will Out
6. Partners in Crime?
7. Not So Candid Camera
8. A Thief in the House
9. Nancy Nabbed
10. Pretty as a Picture
11. Caught in the Act
12. Bad News Blues
13. Double Exposure
14. A Clever Ruse
15. Over the Edge
1. Blast from the Past
“Nancy! You're drenched!” Bess Marvin wailed one
stormy October Friday as her friend Nancy Drew
dashed up the steps of the Lakeview University Sports
and Recreation Center. A red-and-gold banner,
reading Old Can Be Gold, snapped over the entrance
in the gusty wind.
Protected from the rain by the portico, Bess had the
hood of her pink vinyl raincoat turned down and was
fluffing out her straw blond hair. Bess's cousin and
Nancy's other best friend, George Fayne, stood beside
a large parcel swathed in black plastic trash bags. The
three girls had driven to Chicago to check out the
antiques and collectibles appraisal show.
Nancy threw back the hood of her slicker and shook
out her thick red-blond hair. “My socks may be soaked,
but at least this isn't!” The eighteen-year-old produced
a blue plastic folder from under her raincoat. Her blue
eyes shone with delight as she announced, “My dad's
Al Capone Wanted poster is still in perfect condition.”
“And the poster's what counts here,” Bess declared.
“While you were parking, I picked up our admission
tickets and a brochure.” The corners of several pages
were already dog-eared. “There's a guy here who owns
Crime Shoppers and Pop Smart. His blurb says he's
interested in all sorts of crime memorabilia.”
“Let's go for it,” Nancy said.
The three friends marched into the state-of-the-art
sports facility and lined up to check their coats. A large
crowd bearing shopping bags, carryalls, and carefully
wrapped bundles milled around the spacious lobby.
Nancy smiled as she glanced at George and Bess in
front of her. They were cousins and best friends but so
different. Blue-eyed Bess, curvy, fair, and on the short
side, was passionate about shopping, clothes,
decorating magazines, antiques, and boys— not
necessarily in that order. Tall, slim, athletic, with a mop
of short dark curls and sparkling brown eyes, George
vastly preferred wilderness camping to hanging out at
malls.
George bent over and unwrapped her bundle,
revealing a rectangular worn brown leatherette suitcase
with metal hardware on the corners. The hardware was
dull, rusty, and dented.
“What's that?” Nancy asked as George folded up the
trash bags and stuffed them into her jacket pocket.
“An old reel-to-reel tape recorder.”
“Where'd you find it?” Bess asked.
“Under the eaves in the attic. I bet it's been there
since before we bought the house.”
“I hope it didn't get wet,” Nancy commented.
“It was all wrapped up. But considering how long it's
been up there, it could be moldy and useless.”
“Didn't you bother to see if it works?” Bess sounded
shocked.
“No, actually,” George admitted with a sheepish
grin. “I didn't even look for anything to bring until this
morning.”
Bess sighed and patted her small pink handbag. “I
only hope Grandma Marvin's Depression-era bracelet
is a treasure. Not that I wouldn't love it even if it's
totally worthless,” she added, then stepped up to the
coat check.
Smiling at the girls, the woman behind the counter
took their coats. “Hope you enjoy Old Can Be Gold,”
she told them, handing Nancy all three tags. “Keep
your ticket stubs—the admission is good for the
weekend. And we also have a door-prize drawing every
three hours.” She checked her watch and made a face.
“You missed the last one for today, but starting at ten
tomorrow we'll resume the drawings. Prizes are
donated by the appraisers and range in value from a
couple of bucks up to three hundred dollars. If you
like, you can bring your things to those long sorting
tables where workers will direct you to the right
appraisers. Or you can just browse the show.”
“We already know about one appraiser,” Bess told
her, “so I think we'll head over there.”
The girls made their way into the cavernous gym-
nasium until they were standing in an aisle, staring at a
sign: Crime Memorabilia and Pop Culture Treasures.
“I guess this is the place,” Nancy said, “though I
don't see any appraiser around.” As she approached,
she saw the table was covered with a green felt cloth.
On it she spotted an old fingerprinting kit. The long
narrow box was open, its contents protected by an
acetate sleeve. Inside the red-and-black checkerboard
box was a magnifying glass, a tube of powder, and some
papers and other objects. “This must be ancient!” she
exclaimed.
“I guess to a girl your age, 1920 seems ancient,” a
gruff voice interjected. “Hands off unless you want to
buy it!”
Annoyed by the speaker's rude tone, Nancy turned
and glared. The man was scruffy and bearded. His hair
was salt-and-pepper gray, and he smelled unpleasantly
of cigarette smoke. He was only a little taller than
Nancy, with a wiry build and muscles that bulged
under the sleeves of his black T-shirt.
“I wasn't going to touch it,” Nancy said.
“Good,” the man snapped.
“Anyway, who are you?” Bess inquired sharply.
“Wes Clarke, proprietor of Crime Shoppers.” The
man's brusque tone had softened slightly. “You can
find me online at CrimeShoppers.com or right here in
downtown Chicago.” He turned to Nancy. “Sorry to be
so suspicious, but in my business . . .” He stroked his
beard, then shrugged.
For some reason this guy creeped Nancy out, and
she said coolly, “If something's that precious, you
should lock it up.”
“Oh, the more valuable things are locked up, believe
me,” he snapped right back. “So what are you girls
interested in?”
Nancy was tempted to say “nothing” and walk away,
but this guy was the only crime specialist at the show.
She silently counted to ten, then calmly opened her
portfolio. “One of my father's clients gave him this
poster some time ago. When I mentioned I was coming
here, he suggested I check out the
value. You are an
appraiser?”
“The best in the field around here,” the man said,
seemingly oblivious to Nancy's chilly tone. He held out
his hand. Reluctantly Nancy passed him the poster. It
was black and white, and the old paper was yellowed
and fraying at the edges. With surprising care Wes
removed it from its clear protective sleeve.
He turned it over, held it closer to his eyes, then let
out a snort. “Fake,” he pronounced, and gave it back to
Nancy. “Sorry, but it's not the genuine article. At least
a dozen of these turn up at every show.”
Nancy frowned. “How can you tell—I mean so
quickly?”
Wes Clarke narrowed his eyes. “I am an expert. But
if you want the details, it's simple. This is computer
generated. Nineteen-twenty is pretty ancient when it
comes to printing processes. In those days posters were
done on presses, with moveable type. This is obviously
a photo reproduction.”
“But the paper's old,” Bess pointed out.
“About a year old, if that,” Clarke responded. “It's
artificially aged to look old. Believe me, these are
pretty good fakes, but they can't fool anyone who
knows the first thing about collectibles from the pe-
riod.”
“So it's worthless?” George asked.
“Pretty much. Now, if it were the real thing, it would
be worth quite a bit. Maybe even a thousand bucks.”
Nancy inserted the poster in the protective sleeve
and put it back in her folder. “I'm half tempted to just
toss it,” she said.
“Don't do that,” Wes said. “It's fun to frame and put
up in your room, or wherever. Some folks find the
gangster era here in Chicago romantic.”
Nancy frowned. The idea of bootleggers gunning
one another down ranked far down the list of what
Nancy considered romantic.
Clarke didn't seem to notice her distaste. “That's
what keeps me in business. The next best thing to
knowing how to commit the perfect crime is collecting
memorabilia from notorious criminals.”
“That's weird,” Bess said.
“To each his own,” Clarke countered, then his eyes
lit on George's tape recorder. “That's probably not
worth much either—yet,” he told her. “But hold on to
it. Another fifty years and it'll be a real collectible.
Reel-to-reel machines are going to be as valuable as
early nineteenth-century cameras are now.” As he
spoke, a man with a framed Humphrey Bogart movie
poster walked up. The appraiser turned to him, and the
girls hurried away.
“Yuck,” Bess whispered to Nancy. “That guy was
seriously creepy.”
Nancy tried to stifle her disappointment. “I hope
Dad isn't too let down when I tell him this is a fake.”
Next Bess found a Depression-era jewelry appraiser.
The woman examined the delicate bracelet Bess had
brought. “I'm afraid these stones are only glass, so this
probably wouldn't bring more than fifty dollars or so,
though it is a very pretty piece. It's a copy of a Diana
Toffel design. These red stones would be rubies in a
genuine Toffel.” Noticing Bess's disappointed face, the
woman patted her hand. “But this is still a very nice
bracelet.”
“Bess Marvin! Is that you?”
Bess turned to her left, where a slender girl with
chin-length silky auburn hair was smiling at her.
“Lisa?” Bess gasped. “Lisa Perrone—what are you
doing here?” Bess reached out and hugged her friend,
then noticed Lisa's red Old Can Be Gold T-shirt. “You
work for these people?”
“I'm interning for them for the year. It's part of my
work-study job here at Lakeview because the arts and
antiques program includes learning appraisal work.”
“It must be fun,” Bess said enviously, then turned
quickly to Nancy and George. “This is Lisa Perrone.
She worked in that antique clothing store, Threads and
Shreds.”
“Right before I started college,” Lisa said, offering
her hand to Nancy and George. Bess introduced her
friends.
“You're not here just for the day?” Lisa asked. “It's a
long trip to have to go back tonight.”
“We're staying at a dorm. There was a deal for
people who came to the show,” Nancy told Lisa.
“You've got to stay with me,” Lisa said firmly.
“You have space for all three of us?” George asked.
“I have space for ten of you!” Lisa giggled. “I'm
living at my aunt and uncle's condo. I save loads of
money, which means I don't have to drop out of
school.”
“I remember you said that money was tight,” Bess
commiserated.
“But I've landed on my feet big time,” Lisa said.
“The apartment is a real palace—on Lake Shore Drive.
There are three bedrooms, three baths. Besides, if you
guys stay with me, I can show you around a bit.”
“You're sure it'll be okay with your aunt and uncle?”
Bess asked.
Lisa dismissed Bess's objections with a wave of her
hand. “Even if they were here, they wouldn't care. But
they're in Malaysia until early next year. I'm apartment
sitting, actually. Anyway, tonight there's a really cool
party. You guys have to come.”
“Far be it from me to pass up a party,” Bess said.
“I'm game,” George said eagerly.
“Me, too.” Nancy grinned. Just the prospect of
staying at a comfortable condo rather than in a dorm
went a long way toward lifting her spirits.
“Then it's a deal. There's plenty of parking inside
the building.” Lisa looked at George's tape recorder.
“Hey, is that an old tape recorder?” George nodded.
“There's a guy who specializes in old appliances. He'd
have a good idea what something like this is worth.”
“Probably not much,” George said.
Lisa shrugged. “You may be right, but, hey, you
never know. One person's junk is another person's
treasure. I'll walk you over to the table.”
Leading the way, Lisa negotiated the crowd, landing
the girls at the end of a short line of collectors hugging
a variety of old toasters, mixers, and antique
telephones. “You're sure this guy knows about tape
recorders?” George whispered.
“One of the appraisers here will,” Lisa promised.
There were several appraisers behind the table, so
George's turn came quickly.
“I know this is a bit of a wreck, but you never know,”
George told the appraiser with a self-deprecating
laugh.
The appraiser returned her smile. He was a
pleasant-faced man whose suit hung loosely on his thin
frame. He saw Lisa, and his smile stretched from ear to
ear. “Friends of yours?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lisa answered. “This, by the way, is Dave
Leinberger,” she told the girls, then turned back to
/>
Dave. “I thought this looked kind of unusual.” She
pointed to the box.
“It does. The carrying case is probably a custom
job.” The appraiser carefully picked up the case and
examined the underside. Then he carefully un-snapped
the two metal latches on the front of the case. When he
lifted the lid, some of the leatherette crumbled off onto
the table.
“It's really in bad shape,” George said, but Dave
wasn't listening.
“Now, this is something unusual,” he murmured. “A
custom job. This tape recorder is professional quality.”
He motioned for the girls to gather round. To Nancy's
eye the machine looked pretty normal, if old. There
was an empty reel on one side of the machine and a
spoke to hold a second reel on the other. A row of
knobs ran directly below the reels.
Nancy touched a small brass knob on the front of
the case. Until the case had been opened, it wasn't
visible. “What's that for?”
“Looks like a drawer of some sort,” Lisa said.
“Let's see what's inside.” Dave eagerly opened it.
The drawer was lined with a faded and moldy
velvetlike fabric. A small, flat, black cardboard box was
inside. Dave picked it up, and even though he lifted
the cover gingerly, the cardboard began to fall apart in
his hands. “This hasn't been stored very well,” he
remarked with a frown.
Nancy peered into box and saw a spool of tape. “Do
you think anything's on it?” she asked.
“Let's see.” Dave met Nancy's eyes and grinned.
“This is the fun part.” He first put the tape in the
machine, then plugged the machine in. A little red
light lit up on the console.
“It works!” Lisa gasped.
“Maybe,” Dave warned. “I'm not sure the mech-
anism isn't rusted out.” He examined the various
knobs, then turned one.
Both spools began to revolve; then suddenly a
couple of guys' voices came through the speakers.
Nancy couldn't quite make out the words. Something
about one last shot at it. Then a voice counted, “And a
one, and a two, and a three, and—” Suddenly a familiar
gravelly voice began barking a version of a song Nancy
knew from somewhere.
“I don't believe this!” George gasped. “That sounds
like Lou Knight.”
“That's right,” Bess said. “But I've never heard that
version of Dark Side Blues,' have you?” She turned to
The Case of the Lost Song Page 1