The room was big, at least twenty feet by thirty, with high ceilings. Directly across from the door was a wall that was practically all windows. All of Paris was laid out below, as if they were peering down from a low-flying plane.
Nancy tore her attention away from the panorama and took in the room itself. It was furnished as a painter's studio, with three easels and a big, solid worktable in the center, a couple of comfortable chairs, and, in one comer, a compact kitchenette unit.
Was this the headquarters of a blackmailer?
While George and Pam prowled around the room, Nancy went over to one of the easels and examined the painting it held. Only half finished, it was an abstract in blues and grays that reminded Nancy of a stormy day at sea. She liked it, and she thought she recognized the style.
With growing excitement, she looked around the studio. Just behind the door, a bright yellow rain suit was hanging on a coatrack. On the floor under it was a pair of lobsterman's rubber boots.
"Pam! George!'' Nancy shouted, suddenly sure. Alarmed, the other two hurried over to her.
"Giuseppina Aria," Nancy said. "What's Giu-seppina? The Italian form of the name, Josephine. And what's an aria? An operatic solo. Don't you see? We had it all wrong. Giuseppina Aria wasn't blackmailing Josephine Solo. Giuseppina Aria was Josephine Solo!"
Chapter Fourteen
George's jaw dropped in astonishment. "You mean Solo was leading a double life?" she demanded. "Why?"
"And how?" added Pam, who was just as amazed.
"I don't know," Nancy admitted. "But lots of people, at some point in their lives, get the feeling that they'd like to start over with a clean slate. Maybe that was how Solo felt."
Pam was unconvinced. "I don't get it. She was famous, her paintings were selling for a lot of money, she could do whatever she wanted. Why start over, if you've got it all?"
Good question, Nancy thought. What had led Josephine Solo, at the height of her career, to want to become someone else? Then her eye fell on the uncompleted painting. It was as if Solo were speaking to her directly.
"Her work," Nancy said. "Look at the painting on the easel. It's in her earlier style, not the one that made her famous. Maybe she never really liked hyperrealism, even though she was so good at it. We'll have to ask Ellen. She may have some insights into Solo's frame of mind."
George gestured toward a long wooden rack near the door. Its two shelves were jammed with stacked canvases. "Whatever the reason, she certainly put a lot of effort into her new life," she said. "There must be thirty or forty paintings in that rack."
Pam let out a whistle. "Do you have any idea how much just one painting by Solo sells for these days?" she demanded. "We're looking at millions of dollars!"
"Maybe," Nancy said, walking over to the rack. She pulled out one of the canvases. As she expected, it, too, was an abstract, this time in dark, ominous shades. It was not signed or dated.
"Or maybe not," she continued. "A Solo sells for a lot, sure. But these aren't Solos, they're Arias. And in any case, under Solo's will they all go to Ellen's university. That should be a nice surprise for the people there."
George scratched her head and said, "I'm still in the dark. Okay, Solo wanted to go back to painting the way she used to paint. Why didn't she just do it, then? Lots of famous painters move from one style to another, don't they? Look at Picasso—I don't even remember how many different styles he worked in."
"I don't know," Nancy replied. "We may have to wait for Ellen's biography of Solo to find out. But maybe she wanted people to look at her new work without always thinking that it was by Josephine Solo."
"What do you suppose she was planning to do?" Pam wondered. "Just vanish?"
Nancy tried to imagine herself in Solo's shoes. "If I were she, I would have changed my bank account and gotten the new studio. Then, when the time came, I would have told everybody I knew that I'd decided to leave Paris, and I'd move to New Zealand or Montana or Nepal— some place fairly remote. Then I'd find new hangouts. In a town the size of Paris, that wouldn't be hard. And if I happened to run into somebody I knew, I'd say I was just passing through. It would probably work. Remember, we're not talking about hiding out from the police. Nobody would be actively trying to find her. She just hadn't gotten around to disappearing before she was run over by a truck."
"To think that this place has been sitting here gathering dust ever since she died," Pam said. "It's spooky. Why didn't anybody find out about it, like the phone company or the landlord?"
"I've been wondering about that, too," Nancy said, her eyes sweeping the studio. In the comer near the door was a small pile of envelopes. She picked them up. There were half a dozen from Credit Lyonnais, Aria's bank. On one, the flap was unglued. Nancy opened it. Inside was a one-page bank statement.
"So that's it," Nancy said, after scanning the statement. "Solo, as Aria, must have owned this studio. And she arranged for her bank to pay the carrying charges and the utilities automatically, every month. As long as there was enough money in the account to cover the bills, no one would have any reason to suspect anything."
After a pause, she added, "No one—except Jules."
"You think this was his amazing discovery?" George asked.
"I doubt if he knew about this studio," Nancy replied. "But we know he found out about Aria's bank account, and he may have figured out that Aria was Solo. He knew a lot more about Solo's life than we did, after all. He'd been studying her daily activities, her moods, everything. Her moods—why were we so blind? Gail, one of the people who knew Solo best, told us that she'd never seen her happier. But someone who's being bled dry by a blackmailer doesn't go around being happy. We should have known that we were on the wrong track."
"We have to tell Ellen about this right away,'* George said. "She's going to be shocked out of her mind. Let's go find a telephone."
"There's one here somewhere," Nancy reminded her. "And as of this morning, it was working."
"I don't see it," Pam said. "Do you suppose it's in the closet?" She went over to a narrow door and pulled it open.
"Oh, look!" she exclaimed. "It's not a closet, it's a bedroom. And there's the phone."
Nancy and George followed Pam into the small room. The only furnishings were a narrow bed, a dresser, and a wicker chair next to the window. The telephone was on the floor next to the bed.
Nancy was about to dial Ellen's number when George raised her head, suddenly alert. Nancy gave her an inquiring glance. George put her finger to her lips, then pointed toward the half-open door to the studio. Nancy heard it, too— the faint sound of cautious footsteps. Someone was out there!
"We'd better let the professor know about this," Nancy said in a normal tone of voice as she tiptoed toward the door. She gestured for George and Pam to follow her.
"What is it?" Pam demanded, alarmed. "Is there someone—"
From the studio, Nancy heard a sudden rush of footsteps. She dashed through the doorway, but already the studio was empty. The front door stood ajar. The intruder had escaped.
Pam was nearest to the door. She ran out onto the landing. Nancy and George were close behind her. A black-clad figure was vaulting down the stairs, three at a time. Nancy had just enough time to glimpse a black leather wristband. A moment later, the downstairs door slammed shut.
Nancy ran down the stairs and out the door, but the narrow, dead-end street was empty. At the comer where it joined a major street, a steady stream of tourists flowed past.
"No point in chasing him," Nancy said to Pam and George, who had joined her. "There are so many people on the street that we'd never manage to find him."
Pam grabbed Nancy's arm. "But, Nancy—that was Keith!" she gasped. "Fm sure it was! What was he doing here? Why did he run away?"
Nancy met George's eyes. A lot of questions had just been answered.
"He must have followed us here," Nancy re-phed. She turned to re-enter the building, then paused and added, "I just realized something else. The person
who attacked me in the courtyard last night was wearing a leather wristband."
"Keith attacked you?" Pam whispered. "Oh, no. There must be a mistake. He'd never—"
"I'm sorry, Pam," Nancy said. "But I'm wondering if Keith is really the person you think he is. Did you ever get the feeling that he's spent a lot of time in Paris before this semester? He seems to know a lot of people and a lot about the town for someone who arrived in September."
"I did wonder about it," Pam admitted. "But so what if he's been here before?"
"I don't know," Nancy said. "I'm moving pieces of the puzzle around, hoping that some will fit together. Keith's a painter, and he knows Paris. What if he spent time here before and got to know Josephine Solo? He knows a lot about her work and has strong opinions about it, that's for sure. I noticed that at the open house."
George eyed Nancy closely. "Do you mean that Keith is our bad guy?"
Nancy hesitated. "Well, it's starting to look that way," she said finally. "Pam, have you ever seen Keith wear a dark green jumpsuit?"
Pam gave her a nervous look. "He paints in something like that," she replied. "Why?"
"The guy who tried to run us down the other day was wearing one," George explained.
"Oh, no," Pam said, with a hint of a sob. "I know Keith better than that. I'm sure he'd never hurt anybody on purpose. If it was he, maybe he was just trying to scare you."
"If so, he succeeded," Nancy said.
"We should go upstairs and call Ellen, right now," Pam said. "She has to know about this. And what about calling the police?"
"We should definitely call Ellen," Nancy said.
"As for the police, I think we need some advice about how to deal with them. It's all pretty fuzzy, what we have to tell them. Maybe my dad will have some ideas about how to handle the situation."
Nancy returned to the bedroom and dialed Ellen's number. George and Pam followed her in. After four rings the answering machine picked up. Nancy left a message explaining where they were and what they had found. As she was finishing, she heard an odd click. The line went dead.
"That's funny," she said, turning to George and Pam. "I wonder what—"
Suddenly the bedroom door slammed shut. Nancy rushed over and twisted the knob, but it did no good. Someone had locked them in!
Chapter Fifteen
THE INSTANT Pam realized that someone had locked them in, she rushed over to the door and started pounding on it with her fists.
"Let us out of here," she shouted, her voice close to hysterical. "Please, let us out!"
Nancy took Pam by the shoulders and turned her away from the door. "Save your energy," she advised. "You'll need it later."
Meanwhile, George had rushed over to the window and tugged at it. It didn't budge.
"What's the story?" Nancy asked when her friend had turned back.
"No good," George reported, shaking her head. "It's painted shut. And the building's on a steep slope, so we're what amounts to five or six floors high. No fire escapes, either, We'll just have to wait for someone to let us out."
"Why did Keith lock us in?" Pam demanded. "rU never forgive him for this. Fve always hated being shut up, and he knows it!''
Nancy realized that, stripped of its emotional overtones, Pam's question was a good one. Why had Keith—if it was Keith—locked them in? What did he hope to accomplish?
"Nancy," George said in a low voice, "I hear voices in the other room."
Nancy went to the door and pressed her ear against it. George was right, there were voices. Two of them. One voice had the timbre of Keith's, but the other was unfamiliar. Nancy couldn't make out any words, but after a moment she heard something bump on the floor, followed by the sound of footsteps that seemed to leave the studio. She remained at the door, barely breathing. After several minutes of silence the footsteps returned, followed by more bumping noises and another departure. A few minutes later, the pat-tem repeated itself a third time.
"What is it? What's happening out there?" Pam demanded.
"I'm not sure," Nancy responded grimly. "But I can guess. You're the one who pointed out that the paintings out there are worth millions. Well, it looks as if a couple of people—Keith is probably one of them—have decided to take those millions for themselves. I think they're carrying the canvases away at this very moment."
Nancy scrutinized the door, but it was obviously too solid to break down. The lock was old fashioned, but it, too, was solid. Was there something she could use to try to pick it? She began to prowl around the room for anything to use as a tool. After a few minutes she realized that her search was pointless. The closest she came to something useful was an ordinary nail file, and there was no way to bend that into an effective lockpick.
"Nancy, come listen,'' George whispered urgently. "They're arguing."
Nancy joined George at the door and listened. It did sound like an argument, though only Keith's voice was raised, and he was speaking in French.
No, not speaking—shouting. ''Je ne te laisserai pas passer ga!'* he said. "I won't let you get away with that!"
There was the sickening sound of a blow, then the thump of a body hitting the floor. A few moments later the outer door slammed.
"What happened?" Pam demanded.
"I think Keith and his partner had a falling out," Nancy reported.
"What were they arguing about?" George asked. "How to split up the loot?"
"Maybe," Nancy said thoughtfully. "But I don't think so. I heard Keith say somethmg about a dirty trick and not going along with it."
"He isn't all bad, then," Pam said. "Maybe he'll let us out of here."
"I doubt if he's in any shape to/' Nancy replied, remembering the sound of the falling body.
"There's something I don't understand," George said. "How do the crooks expect to get away with those paintings? Once we tell the authorities about finding the paintings here, it's all over for them. They'll never be able to sell them. Didn't they think of that?"
Nancy sniffed the air, then sniffed again, before saying grimly, "I'm afraid they did. I smell smoke. And we're locked in. Unless we find a way out fast, I don't think we're going to be telling the authorities anything!"
"Oh, no!" Pam exclaimed. Her face turned white. "Nancy, George, what are we going to do?"
"We'll just have to think of something," Nancy replied. She rattled the door handle, then tugged at it. There was no give at all. When she backed off a couple of steps and slammed into the center of the door, all she got was a sore shoulder.
The smell of smoke was stronger now. Nancy could see little gray wisps drifting in through the gap at the bottom of the door.
"I hate being locked in," Pam said, her voice shrill. "I hate it!"
"What if we shout for help?" George asked.
"It's worth trying," Nancy replied, and then, in a voice too low for Pam to hear, added, "but I doubt if anyone will get here in time."
George nodded and went over to the window. Wrapping her leather jacket around her fist, she smashed one of the panes, then leaned out and began shouting, "AufeuIAufeu!"
Nancy studied the bottom of the door. The smoke was thicker and darker now. She recalled a trick she had read about. Could it possibly work?
Moving quickly, she picked up the nail file and tore a sheet of paper from a sketchpad. After getting down on one knee, she slid the paper under the door, carefully positioning it under the door handle. Then she bent closer to the old-fashioned lock, peered through the keyhole, and gave a loud sigh of relief. The key was still there. She had been counting on that.
As carefully as a surgeon performing an operation, Nancy inserted the nail file into the keyhole and felt for the rounded end of the key's shaft. Twice the point of the file slipped past the key. Nancy stopped and wiped her palms on her shirt sleeves, then tried again. This time, she felt resistance when she moved the file. She pressed a little harder, but nothing happened. Was the key stuck in the lock? If so, there was no hope.
Taking
a deep breath, Nancy pushed still harder. Suddenly the key slipped out of the lock and clattered to the floor. Had it landed on the sheet of paper or bounced off? She slowly pulled the edge of the paper toward her. To her relief, she felt the weight of the key on it. Now she had to slide the paper back under the door without knocking the key off.
"Nancy, hurry!" Pam called. Then she broke into a fit of coughing.
Nancy shut her mind to Pam and George, to the smoke in the air, to everything except the weight of the key on the sheet of paper. She inched the paper toward herself, then stopped when she felt the key bump against the bottom edge of the door. Was there room for it to clear? She lay down on her stomach and peered under the door. The floor was irregular, making the gap a little larger to the left. She slid the paper in that direction, then pulled it toward her again.
"Yes!" she shouted as the tip of the key appeared under the door. She grabbed it and put it in the lock and turned it. Before opening the door, she pressed her palm to the center panel. It felt a little warm, but not hot. "Come on, you two, let's get out of here," she yelled to George and Pam.
The upper half of the big studio was dark with smoke. Nancy knelt and quickly scanned the room. The shelves that had held Solo's paintings were empty now. Under them, a pile of rags smoldered. So far, the fire had been contained to the rags, but suddenly, as Nancy watched, a tongue of flame shot up and began to lick the charred upright that supported the shelves.
"Water, quick!'' Nancy shouted. George ran to the kitchenette and started filling pans at the sink, Nancy and Pam ran back and forth pouring water over the burning rags. The smoke turned white. At last the flames vanished.
"Keith!" Pam shouted.
Nancy turned. Pam was rushing toward the door, where a person dressed in black lay facedown on the floor. Nancy hurried to join her. Keith had a nasty-looking bump on the left side of his head, just above the ear. Nancy felt the pulse in his neck. It was strong and steady.
The Picture of Guilt Page 9