Clue in the Ancient Disguise

by Carolyn Keene

  Pierre's face was glum. "I hope you will not decide too hastily, sir, now that my work has progressed this far. In spite of the accident, another computer manufacturer is also interested in my memory device."

  The young Frenchman told his backer about the call which he had already mentioned to Nancy. Then, pacing about the workshop with a worried expression, Pierre went on, "I will admit, sir, I was quite upset myself about that news broadcast. I only wish I could find out who circulated the story. I even called the radio station, but they could tell me nothing."

  "But they must have gotten their information somewhere" put in Nancy. "Wouldn't they reveal their source?"

  "They said only that someone had phoned the story to their news desk. The person who took it down simply assumed the call came from one of the news services to which the station subscribes. ,,

  Nancy frowned. "Obviously you have an enemy, Pierre. The caller must have been someone who's trying to stop you from selling your invention."

  Mr. Varney, with a look of alarm, said, "For your own safety's sake, my boy, maybe you ought to stop work for a while. Or perhaps move to another area."

  "But I am already set up here in River Heights, sir. Why should I leave when my work is progressing so well?"

  The financier pursed his lips and frowned. "At least think about it. I'll let you know my own decision soon." With a nod to both Nancy and Pierre, Varney left and drove away.

  Nancy, seeing that Pierre had a great deal on his mind in addition to his pressing work schedule, left soon afterward with a few parting words of encouragement. She drove to her father's office.

  Nancy gave a sigh of relief as she entered his comfortable private sanctum with its deep leather chairs, polished dark wood, and wall-wide shelves filled with law books.

  "Why, Nancy! This is a nice surprise." Carson Drew rose from behind his desk to give her a hug and a kiss.

  "Thanks for letting me barge in on you, Dad. I've had such an upsetting morning! And I need some good legal advice."

  "Well, tell your old dad all about it. Then we'll go and have a nice lunch." Mr. Drew waited until Nancy was comfortably seated, then settled down to listen.

  It was a relief to Nancy to tell her father about her accidental involvement in the prize painting dispute. She had just finished describing the angry call she had received during breakfast from Lee Talbot when the phone on Mr. Drew's desk rang.

  He picked it up, listened for a moment as his secretary told of someone on the line, and said he would take the call.

  "Carson Drew here . . . Oh yes, Counsellor . . . Hm. Well, why don't we meet here in my office at 3:30 this afternoon? If you care to bring your client, I'll have my daughter here at that time and we can discuss the matter . . . Very well, sir. See you at 3:30."

  Mr. Drew hung up and looked at Nancy. "That was Aaron Locke, Lee Talbot's lawyer. You're being sued for libel."

  16. The French Imposter

  Nancy gasped in dismay on hearing about the lawsuit. But Carson Drew merely smiled at his daughter.

  "Come now, don't be upset. I think a good lunch is just what you need. Let's go."

  "Okay, Dad," Nancy said, accompanying him out the office door. "You know, I think I'm as angry at Lee Talbot as I am worried."

  Mr Drew chuckled. "Good! But don't let it interfere with your appetite."

  They were soon seated in the quiet, oakbeamed, English-style restaurant that Carson Drew favored for its good food and efficient service.

  Nancy was so hungry that she tucked into her eggs Benedict and listened to her father discuss one of his interesting cases. When dessert arrived and he saw that she was in better spirits, he changed the subject.

  "Now let me tell you about a visit I had this morning concerning Pierre Michaud." Carson Drew paused to take a sip of coffee as Nancy looked up from her French pastry with keen interest.

  "A visit? . . . From whom?"

  "Fellow said his name was Henri Grison. A French lawyer."

  "What did he want, Dad?" Nancy asked.

  "Information about Pierre. Did I know him? Where was he staying? What was he doing here in the United States? Anything and everything he could pry out of me."

  "How much did you tell him?"

  "Exactly nothing, except that I'd met the young man in question." Carson Drew took a forkful of apple pie.

  "I wonder what he was after," Nancy mused aloud.

  "Precisely what I asked him after he finished trying to pump me for information," Mr. Drew replied.

  "Yes?" Nancy prompted.

  "He said Pierre was an unsavory character, out to cheat people out of their money—a con man, in fact. He claimed to have followed Pierre's trail from Paris to this country. But he never did give me a straight answer to my question regarding his own interest in Pierre Michaud."

  Carson Drew reached into his pocket and took out a business card, which he handed to Nancy. "So after he left my office, I called one of my French legal colleagues, gave him the address on the card, and asked him to check out Grison."

  "Has he reported back yet?"

  "Yes, just a few minutes before you showed up in my office. He told me there's no attorney at that address, and no such person as Henri Grison even practicing law in Paris."

  Somehow Nancy was not too surprised at this news. Suddenly she had an inspiration. Could Henri Grison be the menacing thug who had been following her, and who had lain in wait for her outside the house the other night?

  "Dad, was Grison a rather tough-looking, swarthy man with thick, dark eyebrows and sort of a heavy jut jaw?"

  "Doesn't sound much like him. This fellow was a tall man, slightly balding, with glasses."

  Nancy sighed and smiled. "I guess this isn't my day."

  While her father was finishing his coffee,

  Nancy excused herself to call Police Chief McGinnis from the telephone booth in the restaurant's lounge.

  "Chief McGinnis, this is Nancy Drew. I won't keep you but a minute. May I ask a favor?"

  "Any time, Nancy. Just fire away."

  The teenage detective related the details of Louise Duval's death thirty years ago.

  "Would you please check the police files to see if there was any report of foul play in connection with her heart attack? I mean, did her maid or doctor call in to report that it was brought on by a red car trying to run her down? And if so, was there any follow-up investigation?"

  "Hm." The police chief paused to consider for a moment. "That may not be too easy, Nancy. I'm not sure how complete our files would be, going that far back. But I'll see what I can find out and let you know if I turn up anything."

  After thanking him, Nancy hung up.

  The Drews walked back to the law office together and Nancy said good-bye. "I really feel a lot better, Dad," she said cheerfully as they parted. "See you at 3:30."

  Nancy got into her car, keyed the ignition, and swung out into traffic. She was going to keep her promise to drop by Emily Owsler's apartment.

  Gradually, she became aware that she was being followed. But this time it was not a big, old-fashioned red car. It was a smaller, dark green one. To make sure her imagination wasn't working overtime, Nancy pulled over to the curb as if for a closer look at some dresses on display in a shop window. Sure enough, the shadow car too came to a stop down the block. And as Nancy drove away, the dark green car also pulled out from the curb again to follow her.

  Nancy decided on a plan. A minute or two later, after passing a gas station, she stopped for a second time, pulling over to the curb abruptly just past the service station driveway. Taking out her compact, she pretended to check on her hair and makeup. But as the dark green car went by, she noted the license plate number and studied its driver in her compact mirror.

  He was the swarthy snoop she had just described to her father!

  Closing her purse, Nancy quickly backed around into the gas station driveway, then sped off in the opposite direction. After zigzagging back and forth for a number of blocks, sh
e felt confident that she had shaken off her pursuer.

  Before reaching Emily Owsler's home, however, Nancy stopped at a corner phone booth and called Chief McGinnis.

  "Sorry to bother you again," she apologized, "but I'm being followed by a man in a dark green car. If I give you his license plate number, could you check it out, please?"

  "Sure thing, Nancy. I'll let you know as soon as I have any information."

  Nancy finished the trip to Emily Owsler's apartment and rang the doorbell, wondering if her visit would prove a waste of time. One look at Miss Owsler's happy face, however, was a more than sufficient answer, in one respect at least. The lonely old woman obviously enjoyed having company and was delighted at the chance to become involved in something exciting.

  "Oh, Nancy, I do hope you can get a clue from this album!" she said, leading the way into her tiny, crowded living room.

  "We both hope so," Nancy responded with a smile.

  "I keep it in this closet," Miss Owsler went on, opening a door in one corner of the room.

  The closet contained a few coats and jackets and an umbrella. On a shelf above the rack lay a thick, old black book with a hat on top of it. Emily Owsler reached up with both hands. But as she tried to hold the hat and take down the book, she lost her grip on the heavy album and it fell to the floor. A folded, yellowing sheet of parchment spilled out from between its pages.

  "Oh dear, how clumsy of me," Miss Owsler quavered.

  Nancy picked up the album and glanced at the parchment, which had come open. Suddenly her eyes sparkled with excitement. "Why, it's an old letter," she exclaimed, "written in French!"

  Even more important, Nancy saw at a glance, it began with the words Ma chere Yvette !

  17. A Tantalizing Translation

  Nancy understood French and could hardly wait to read the letter. Miss Owsler insisted that the young sleuth sit down and make herself comfortable on the overstuffed sofa, while she went to the kitchen and made them some tea.

  As the elderly woman bustled off to the kitchen, Nancy eagerly perused the letter. It was dated March 23, 1797, from Brighton, England.

  Dear Yvette,

  I must write in haste in order that this letter may go aboard the mail packet before it sails. I regret to report that all our efforts have still failed to find your precious lost treasure so unhappily left behind by force of circumstance when you crossed the Channel from France three years ago. Wartime turmoil renders our search ever more difficult, hut do not despair! Our efforts will continue without cease! Meanwhile, my husband and I send our best wishes and hopes that you and Paul may find happiness in your new home in the United States.

  Your loving sister, Charlotte

  As she finished reading the letter, Nancy's thoughts raced back to last night's scene in the Thorpes' attic, when she and Lisa had found Yvette's wedding ring. Nancy was now more convinced than ever that her guess was right about Yvette's having been wed twice. If she had lived in France before marrying Paul, perhaps her previous marriage had occured in that country, and her husband, Philippe, had died there before her crossing to England.

  But what was the "lost treasure" referred to in the letter? And what had Louise Duval found out about it? Was that what the present mystery was all about, and what the various unknown parties in this case were hunting for?

  Nancy barely had time to consider these questions when Miss Owsler came back with tea things on a tray.

  "Now, dear, we'll have a nice cup of tea while we look through the album," she said.

  As they sat side by side on the sofa sipping their tea, with Miss Owsler turning the pages and commenting on the snapshots and other photographs, Nancy's thoughts were still occupied with the letter. She scarcely noticed the pictures as the former maid pointed them out.

  But suddenly the woman exclaimed triumphantly. She was pointing to a photo of Louise Duval standing with a man in front of a building that looked like an old gristmill, of the kind still found in the Northeastern states.

  "That's him!" Emily Owsler cried. "That's the man Miss Duval hired to do the research for her that summer just before she passed away! I remember his face now."

  "Oh, wonderful!" Nancy could hardly believe her good luck, but realized she had better not congratulate herself too soon without more to go on. "Does seeing his picture by any chance remind you of his name?"

  "Oh dear ... let me see now." The elderly woman thought hard, then shook her head, looking crestfallen. "I'm afraid not," she confessed, smiling wistfully. "I seem to have a hard time remembering names these days."

  "My goodness, don't worry about that," Nancy said with a gentle laugh. "So does everybody at some time or other. What about the place, though? That building looks like an old mill. Have you any idea where the picture may have been taken?"

  Again Emily Owsler raked her memory but was forced to give up. "No, I'm afraid not, dear," she said, shaking her head regretfully.

  "Never mind, Miss Owsler. You've been a tremendous help! Would you mind letting me borrow this picture for a day or two? I'll be very careful with it."

  "Yes, of course. Do take it. I hope it will help you solve your mystery case." And Emily Owsler began carefully peeling the glued photo from the album page.

  After thanking the woman for the tea and the valuable discoveries they had just made, Nancy returned to her blue sports car parked in the street below.

  She was eager to show the snapshot to Professor Crawford's daughter. But remembering the 3:30 appointment at her dad's office with Lee Talbot and his attorney, Nancy curbed her impatience and turned her car toward the law office.

  Driving along Main Street, she decided to stop at the River Heights Camera Shop and pick up her developed roll of film and pictures. They included an enlarged print of her photograph of the museum's painting.

  With this safely in her purse, Nancy drove to the appointment in a slightly more confident frame of mind.

  The teenage sleuth arrived at the office only moments after Lee Talbot and his lawyer had appeared. The artist, elegantly dressed as always, was so angry he was barely civil. Ignoring his rude manner, Carson Drew introduced Nancy to Talbot's small, sharp-featured attorney, and they all sat down.

  Brushing aside Mr. Drew's efforts to set out the facts clearly and without bias, Aaron Locke belligerently began telling the Drews that Nancy had grievously wronged Lee Talbot and besmirched his reputation and character, and that the only problem to be resolved was how much should be paid to his client in damages.

  "Well now, before we get to that," Carson Drew's voice cut incisively through Locke's blustering speech, "let's get a few preliminary facts straight. What exactly does Mr. Talbot have to say regarding this alleged resemblance of his prize-winning painting to the picture in the museum?"

  Lee Talbot glared haughtily at the distinguished lawyer. "I have nothing to say, sir! I've been to our local museum, naturally, and I may have seen the picture in question at some time or other. Perhaps there may even be some slight superficial resemblance. But any allegation of copying is ridiculous!"

  "Very well, you've heard my client's answer," Aaron Locke said in a hard voice. "Now then, are you going to settle . . ."

  Before he could go any further, Nancy took the enlarged photograph of the museum painting out of her shoulder bag. Without a word, she handed it to Lee Talbot and his lawyer, who were sitting next to each other.

  No words were needed. At sight of the photograph, the blond artist's mouth dropped open in shocked surprise, and the look on his lawyer's face froze in dismay. It was clear from their expressions that both had instantly realized how suspiciously alike the two painting were!

  Nancy said quietly, "Of course I've said nothing yet to the police, Lee. But when they see the evidence, they might get the idea you had a motive for those museum break-ins ... in other words, that you were trying to remove or destroy the original painting that would prove your plagiarism."

  Lee Talbot's face had turned sickly pale. Nancy had ch
osen her words carefully, to see how he would respond. But his reaction had already convinced her that the artist was innocent and had not deliberately copied the museum work. More likely he had seen the picture at some time in the past, and its composition had impressed him so much that the image had lodged deep in his memory, and then emerged again in his own painting without conscious intent.

  Talbot looked helplessly at Aaron Locke, who by now had lost all of his own bluster and aggressiveness. Both were silent, obviously at a loss for words.

  Carson Drew stepped into the void. "Perhaps, Mr. Locke, you'd like time to consult with your client?"

  The other attorney cleared his throat. "Tell you what, Counsellor. I'll call you tomorrow morning. Perhaps we can work something out." Aaron Locke had recovered his facade.

  But Lee Talbot looked steadily at him, then at Nancy's father and. said, "No, Mr. Drew. We won't be calling you. I don't want—"

  Locke hastily interrupted, "Now, now! We'll talk before coming to any decision." And, both having risen, he hustled the artist out the door.

  Carson Drew smiled at Nancy. "I don't think we'll hear any more threats from those two. Congratulations! You handled that beautifully."

  Nancy drove her father home that afternoon with a considerably lighter heart. She was looking forward to helping Hannah with dinner and was just putting on an apron in the kitchen when the phone rang. She answered it and heard the kindly baritone voice of Police Chief McGinnis.

  "Hi, Nancy. Chief McGinnis here. I have a trace on that license number you gave me. The car belongs to a rental agency, and their records show it was signed out to a French tourist, a man named Andre Freneau."

  Nancy felt a thrill of satisfaction. At last she had identified her swarthy shadow! "I don't suppose you'd know if he has any criminal record?"

  "That's the next step, Nancy. I've already put through a request for information on him to Interpol. But it may take time. I'll get back to you as soon as I learn anything."