"Where does he live?" asked George.
Nancy consulted another page. "On the place du Tertre," she replied. "That sounds familiar."
"Sure," Pam said. "It's that picturesque square up on Montmartre, the old bohemian quarter of Paris. You've probably seen hundreds of paintings of it."
"Well, why don't we take a look at the real thing?" Nancy demanded with a grin.
After calling to make sure that Leduc was in and would talk to them, the three girls made their way to Montmartre. This involved taking the metro, then walking up a winding street, then boarding a cable car that ran up the side of a very steep hill.
"I'm glad we're not doing this on foot," George ^ remarked, gesturing toward the equally steep 1 flight of steps that paralleled the tracks. "Look at the hundreds of steps."
The car bumped to a stop and they got out. The terrace was already crowded with tourists. Some were aiming their cameras and camcorders at the panoramic view of Paris to the south. Others were gaping up at the shining white domes and towers of the church of Sacre-Coeur, built on the highest point in town.
As Nancy and her friends left the cable car station, they found their way blocked by a thick clump of sightseers. Nancy moved to one side and began to edge past them. Suddenly somebody bumped into her, hard. She tried to regain her balance by taking a quick step backward and to the left, but there was nothing under her foot. As she started to fall, she looked over her shoulder and saw, stretching down behind her, the immensely long, steep flight of stone steps.
Chapter Seven
AS SHE FELT HERSELF start to topple backward, Nancy heard cries of alarm from some of the nearby crowd. She twisted her waist and flung her arms out, hoping to grab George or Pam or a total stranger—anyone or anything to save herself from a crippling or even fatal fall. But her friends had walked a few steps ahead, and there was no one near enough. She took a deep breath and tried to prepare herself for the shock.
Suddenly a strong hand closed around her forearm and there was an arm around her waist, keeping her from falling. She groped with her left foot and found the next step down from the terrace. Trembling, she stood upright and looked at her rescuer. To her astonishment, it was David.
"Hey, Nancy, you could have had a nasty fall. What happened?" David asked, still clasping her arm and waist. "Did you get dizzy or something? You should be more careful."
"Somebody in the crowd shoved me," Nancy replied grimly, scanning the faces nearby. She didn't see anyone she knew. "I'm glad you were here to help."
George and Pam rushed back to her side. "Nancy, are you all right?" George demanded.
Nancy nodded. "I'm fine, thanks to David."
Pam stared at her brother. "What on earth are you doing here?" she demanded. "You said you'd be working at Professor Mathieson's."
"I was," he replied. "But I came across something to check out—a copy of a letter from Solo threatening to sue some guy named Leduc for infringing on her rights. His address is near here, on the place du Tertre."
"That's amazing!" Pam said, wide-eyed. "We're just on our way there ourselves!"
"Oh? Why?" David asked in a puzzled voice.
"We're doing some research on Solo, too, Nancy quickly explained. "Leduc was one of the people she had appointments with in her last few months. Do you have that letter you mentioned?"
"No, I left it at the professor's," David replied. He still seemed puzzled, but didn't ask any further questions.
Nancy raised her eyebrows at George. Pam was right—David's appearance on the scene was an amazing coincidence—if it was a coincidence. There were other possibilities, however. David could have followed them, or eavesdropped from Professor Mathieson's apartment when they were on their way out. Or Pam could have told him where they were going and why.
And what about her recent attack? She was pretty sure that it had been deliberate. It was unlikely to be a random assault, especially after that near-miss by the mobylette the night before. No, it seemed as if somebody wanted to scare her off the case, or injure her badly enough to keep her from going on with it. But who?
Perhaps Censier? Or someone working for him? Somebody could have been trailing them the night before, and this morning as well. Nancy resolved to keep a more careful eye out for anyone following them. And what about Leduc? But she quickly dismissed that possibility. After their phone call, he knew they were coming, but not why. And how could he know what Nancy and her friends looked like?
There was one person who had definitely been on the scene this morning, and that was David. And what better way to divert suspicion from himself than to rescue Nancy from an attack that he himself was responsible for?
"Nancy?'' George said insistently. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Nancy blinked and glanced around at the sunny terrace of Sacre-Coeur. The others were staring at her with worried expressions. How long had she been standing there, looking blank and pursuing her thoughts?
"I'm fine," she said firmly. '*Let's go find the place du Tertre and Monsieur Leduc."
The address Nancy had written down turned out to be an art gallery. In the window to the left of the door was a painting of two wide-eyed urchins playing on a cobblestone street, with the dome of Sacre-Coeur in the background. It wasn't much different from dozens of paintings Nancy had seen at street fairs back in the States. But in the other window was an ultrarealistic, almost photographic painting of a tabletop, with a coffeepot, cup, and a plateful of toast. It reminded Nancy of the Solo on the wall of Professor Mathieson's apartment, but the signature in the lower right comer read Leduc.
The gallery door was locked. Nancy knocked. After a moment a man came out of the back room. He had a thin, pointed moustache under a sharp nose, and he was wearing a light-colored smock, a blue polka-dot cravat, and a beret.
"I don't believe it," Pam murmured. "He's like a French artist from an old Hollywood movie."
"Yeah," David added, snickering. "A bad old Hollywood movie."
The man opened the door wide and said, in a stagy French accent, "Please to entray, ladies and gentleman. In this musee are featured the works of one of the most profound creators of our time, the celebrated Phillipe Leduc."
Nancy looked around. On white-painted brick walls were half a dozen canvases of wide-eyed urchins, an equal number of quaint Paris street scenes, and three in the Solo-like hyperrealist style.
"May we speak to Monsieur Leduc?" Nancy asked. "I called eariier. My name is Nancy Drew.''
The man's face fell as he realized that they weren't there to buy a painting. "I'm Leduc," he said. "What can I do for you?"
Nancy said, "We're working on a class project about the life and work of Josephine Solo, and we understand that you knew her well."
"But of course!" Leduc made an expansive gesture with his left arm that nearly hit David in the eye. "Madame Solo was always a source of inspiration to me. She used to say—^joking, of course—that I followed her so closely that I stepped on her heels."
"Some of your paintings are very much in her style, aren't they?" David asked in his role as a student of art history. "In fact, that one in the window is close to being an exact copy of one of hers."
Leduc gave David the sort of look he might have given a bug that had just turned up on his dessert. "Great artists have always given homage to other artists in this way," he answered stiffly. "It is a gesture of admiration, nothing more.''
Nancy, recalling the letter David had found, asked, "We've heard rumors that Josephine Solo was threatening to sue you. Is that true?"
"Madame Solo was my friend and teacher," Leduc said, continuing in his thick French accent. "Her death was a great loss to me and to the world of art. I can say no more. Now, you will please to excuse me, I am vairy busy man."
He reopened the door and held it while they filed out, then shut and locked it behind them.
"Well!" George exclaimed.
Pam shook her head in disbelief.
"A very bad old Hollywood movie,"
David said, grimacing to keep from exploding in laughter. Then he glanced at his watch and added, "Oops, I'd better dash. I'm supposed to be at the Orsay Museum in just ten minutes. Excuse me, I am vairy busy man!"
The girls chuckled as he hurried off in the direction of the metro. Then Nancy's face sobered as she recalled that David had left the open house early, not long before Jules's accident. Did that mean he had an alibi? Or just the opposite? He did have a possible motive. With Jules out of the way, David stepped into the job that he'd wanted so much. Nancy resolved to question David about that appointment of his the next time she saw him.
"I'd better go, too,'' Pam said. "I'm supposed to have lunch with a school friend who's here for a few days. Can I link up with you guys later? I'll give you a call."
"Great," Nancy replied.
As Pam, too, started toward the metro, Nancy wondered about her as well. She had been so insistent about helping with the investigation. But after one interview, she made an excuse to leave. Was the excuse genuine? Then why hadn't Pam mentioned a lunch date before? Maybe detective work simply wasn't as thrilling as she had expected, but she was too polite to say so. Or maybe she was the kind of person who fluttered from one interest to another, easily losing enthusiasm when she didn't see instant results.
"What did you think of that guy Leduc?" George asked, as she and Nancy paused at the comer to let a tour bus go by.
"A genuine tin-plated phony," Nancy said promptly. "And he was certainly stealing ideas from Solo, and she knew it and was threatening to take action. Her death was very convenient for him. But I don't think that means he killed her. At worst, he would have had to stop copying her and start copying some other famous artist."
"Yes, but— Oh, Nancy, look," George said.
One of the many sidewalk artists who were installed around the sides of the square had done a lightning sketch of Nancy and was displaying it to the small crowd that had gathered to watch.
Catching her eye, he motioned to the folding chair next to his easel.
"Please, I will do in pastels for free," he said. "Only because you are so beautiful. If you do not like enough to buy, I keep as a souvenir."
The many eyes turned on her made Nancy's cheeks grow warm. "No, thank you," she said, shaking her head and smiling.
"Oh, go on," George whispered to her.
"No, I couldn't, really," Nancy whispered back. "I want to go back to the apartment and try to set up appointments with the people still on our list. We also need to contact the police. Fd like to know what they made of Jules's death, and whether his briefcase ever turned up."
As she and George turned to leave, the artist rolled up his sketch of Nancy and presented it to her with a bow. "To remember Paris," he said.
Nancy knew that she would, with great fondness.
When they reached the apartment, Nancy found a note from her father.
Nan—
Call Professor Mathieson as soon as you get in. She says it's important but not urgent.
I have a business dinner and have to go to the theater this evening, but what do you and George think about brunch tomorrow?
Dad
Nancy showed the note to George, then went to the telephone.
"Fve stumbled across something rather odd," Ellen said, after Nancy identified herself. **rd like to know what you and George think of it. Can you come up now?"
Upstairs, the professor led Nancy and George into her ofl&ce at the back of the apartment. Cardboard cartons were stacked against one wall, and the desk—a door supported by two sawhorses—was cluttered with papers.
"I don't know if I told you that Jo had very little money in the bank when she died," Ellen said. "That always puzzled me. Her works sold for very handsome prices, after all. This morning I decided to try to find out where the money went. Unfortunately, French banks don't send back your cancelled checks, but I did manage to locate Jo's most recent checkbook. Here, take a look and see if anything strikes you."
George peeked over Nancy's shoulder as she leafed through the check stubs. Finally Nancy closed the checkbook and said, "During the last few months of her life, every time money came into her account, Solo immediately wrote a large check—anywhere from six thousand to almost thirty thousand francs—to someone called G.A. Who is G.A.?"
"I have no idea," Ellen replied. "I haven't been able to think of anyone with those initials among her acquaintances. And I know of no one to
whom Jo would have willingly given practically every cent she had."
"Willingly," Nancy repeated slowly. "There's another possibility, though. One that probably occurred to you, too. Maybe she didn't give the money willingly. Maybe Josephine Solo was in the clutches of a blackmailer."
Chapter Eight
"Blackmail!" George exclaimed. The word hung in the air Uke a dark, ominous cloud. "But who would blackmail Solo, and over what?"
"We obviously don't know," Nancy replied. "Somebody who knew something about her that she didn't want the rest of the world to know."
"There was never a breath of scandal about Jo," Ellen said. "She was devoted to her work. You could almost say that her work was her life. I would never have picked her as a likely target for a blackmailer."
"She was paying practically everything she had to this G.A.," Nancy pointed out. "Can you think of a better explanation than blackmail?"
Geoige said, "Maybe she had a sick relative with huge medical bills. Or maybe her mother was in a nursing home."
Ellen shook her head. "Jo's parents have been dead for years, and she was an only child. She had no close relations at all. I suppose she could have been giving the money to someone to invest for her/' she added. "But in that case, the person would have come forward after Jo died."
"If he or she was honest," George said. "But what if she was the victim, not of a blackmailer, but of a con artist? You know—^Invest in my diamond mines and double your money.'"
"Good thinking, George," Nancy said. "That makes a lot of sense."
"Ye-e-s," George replied hesitantly. "Except for one thing. I've heard stories of desperate victims killing a blackmailer, but I never heard of a blackmailer killing his victim. Or a con artist, either. The whole point is to keep the victim alive and paying."
"True. But what if you turn on him and threaten to expose him?" Nancy asked. "A hardened, desperate criminal might go to any extreme to silence you, even if it meant pushing you in front of a truck. But here's something else. Gail Fountain thought Solo might have been involved in a romance. What if her new partner was the one she was giving all her money to, and she decided to break it off?"
Ellen was looking back and forth between George and Nancy. "I can see that Bob wasn't exaggerating when he talked about your detective talent," she remarked. "This is an education for me. But I don't know about Jo's being involved with anyone. I think I would have, though goodness knows she was fond of keeping secrets. And the police thought that Jo's death was an accident. I have a copy of their report in my files. What if they were right? I know I said I thought it might not be, but what if? Doesn't that destroy your theory?"
Nancy shook her head. "Not at all. Solo was practically broke when she died, thanks to those payments to G.A. What if she was being driven frantic by demands she couldn't meet? Or by the fear of finding herself penniless?"
Ellen was shocked. "Surely you're not suggesting that Jo deliberately stepped in front of that truck," she gasped.
"It's a possibility," Nancy replied. "But even if she didn't, her state of mind could have made her less careful than usual. And in that case, it seems to me that the person who helped create that state of mind bears a lot of the responsibility for her death."
"Nancy?" George said. "Do you think this is the amazing discovery that Jules made, that Solo was being bled white by someone? Jules might even have managed to find out who G.A. really is."
"But died under the wheels of a truck before he could pass on the information," Nancy added. "Yes, George, I'd call that o
ur strongest theory at this point. But what we really need isn't another theory, it's more evidence. And for a start, I'd like to have a clearer picture of Josephine Solo's death. It happened somewhere near here, didn't it?" she asked Ellen.
The professor nodded. "That's right—at the comer of the rue de Charonne and the rue Leon Frot. They're both pretty narrow, and the rue de Charonne is a very busy street. I'm surprised there aren't more accidents there."
"Were there any witnesses?" Nancy asked.
"There must have been," Ellen replied. "But the police report doesn't give their names."
Nancy drummed her fingers on the desk. "Would you see if you can put your hands on that report?" she asked. "Meanwhile, I'd like to ask around near the place where it happened. It's not all that long ago. People might still remember."
"I'll do that. And please let me know what you find out," the professor replied. "Jo was my good friend. If she was in the grip of some evil person, I want to know about it. Nothing will bring her back, but at least I could tell the person what I think of him."
Nancy and George stopped in the apartment to leave a note for Carson telling him where they were going. Then they set off to follow Geoi^ge's map to the intersection of the rue de Charonne and the rue Leon Frot. Their route took them along quiet side streets lined with old stone buildings. Some had freshly cleaned facades and
new windows. Others looked as if they hadn't been maintained since they were built a hundred years earlier. From one of the courtyards came the high-pitched whine of a power saw and the sharp, tangy smell of sawdust. The window of a nearby shop displayed hundreds of intricate brass fittings for fine furniture. Nancy would have liked to go more slowly and explore, but the investigation was more important than sightseeing.
The rue de Charonne was as narrow and busy as Ellen had said. As Nancy and George turned onto it, a green city bus sped by only inches from the curb. The front tire hit a puddle, sending a sheet of water onto the sidewalk. Nancy jumped back just in time. George wasn't so quick. She first glared at her soaked shoes and socks, then at the bus.
The Picture of Guilt Page 5