Playing With Fire

by Carolyn Keene

  Chapter

  One

  WOW!” GEORGE FAYNE exclaimed as she peered out the window of the Victory Airlines jumbo jet. “What an incredible city! It’s enormous!”

  Nancy Drew leaned in from her aisle seat to look over her friend’s shoulder for a glimpse of Los Angeles. “It is big,” she agreed. “And look—you can see the ocean!”

  The huge 747 jet had just crossed the rugged San Gabriel Mountains and was beginning its long, smooth glide toward Los Angeles International Airport. Below them the city stretched from the mountains to the coast, an endless carpet of houses, office buildings, and shopping malls carved into strange geometric shapes by the curving freeways. On the horizon lay the calm Pacific, blue and gleaming.

  George turned away from the window and ran her fingers through her dark, tousled hair. “When do you suppose Bess is coming back from the cockpit?” she asked as the seat-belt sign over their heads blinked on.

  Grinning, Nancy fastened her belt. “Probably in a minute or two,” she said. “I doubt Mark will let her land this monster.”

  Bess Marvin, George’s pretty blond cousin, had been riding in the aisle seat right across from Nancy and George. But right after they’d boarded the plane, she learned from the flight attendant that the copilot was an old friend, Mark Thompson. After takeoff she’d run a comb through her hair and checked her eye makeup before disappearing in the direction of the cockpit to renew her friendship.

  Bess had met Mark when she was working undercover as a flight attendant on a case Nancy solved for the president of Victory Airlines, Preston Talbot. It was that case—Wings of Fear—that was responsible for their being on the jumbo jet now.

  “You still haven’t told us exactly why Mr. Talbot is giving us an all-expense-paid trip to Los Angeles,” George reminded Nancy, stretching her arms above her head. “I’m not knocking it—a chance to spend some time in the California sun—but I’m still curious to know why he needs us.”

  “I know you are,” Nancy said. “But you did sleep the whole flight, and we might as well wait to talk about it until Bess gets back. Okay?”

  George nodded and leaned back and yawned. “Well, whatever Mr. Talbot has in mind for us, I have to admit that going first class is great. These seats are big enough for two people to share.”

  Nancy smiled without answering. She was thinking that if she could share her seat with anyone, it would be her boyfriend, Ned Nickerson. Nancy wished Ned could have come with them on this new case, but he had a special project due at his school, Emerson College.

  Still, he had taken time off to drive Nancy and her friends to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport for their 8 A.M. Saturday flight. Ned had held Nancy back as the other two climbed out of the car. He had given her a warm hug and a lingering last-minute kiss. She could still feel the touch of his lips on hers, and his warm arms . . .

  “I’m back!” Bess was bubbling, sliding into her seat and fastening her belt. She leaned across the aisle toward Nancy. “You should see all the controls Mark has to handle to make this thing fly.” Her eyes sparkled. “I just love to watch him. I don’t see how he remembers it all.”

  “He does get some help from the pilot and the flight engineer, doesn’t he?” George asked dryly.

  Nancy pushed her tote bag under the seat. “And from the autopilot and the on-board computer?”

  Bess dismissed their teasing with a careless wave of her hand. “Anyway, he said he’d call me at the hotel later. I can’t wait.”

  “Now that Bess is back,” George said, turning to Nancy, “you’d better brief us on this case.” The plane was banking in a wide turn, heading for its final descent onto the airport runway a few miles ahead.

  Nancy nodded, her face serious. “I told you that Mr. Talbot called me yesterday.” Bess and George nodded. “It seems that his airline owns the Victory Hotel in Los Angeles. There was a suspicious fire at the hotel on Thursday—probably arson—and he’s worried.

  “The fire was in the hotel vault,” Nancy went on, “and the cash receipts for the entire week were burned. But Mr. Talbot thinks the target was an antique miniature portrait of Napoleon. One of his guests had asked to have it put in the vault for safekeeping. The owner had apparently received an extortion note, and thought it would be safer in the hotel vault than at his bank.” Nancy paused. “There’s no way to be sure what the real target was, though. Or even if it was arson. Everything in the vault was a total loss, and the fire destroyed any clues to how it got started.”

  Bess looked puzzled. “Sounds like arson. But how could anyone start a fire in a locked vault and get out?”

  “That’s what we’ve got to find out. The hotel’s insurance company wants the fire investigated, but Mr. Talbot doesn’t want the police to be involved—at least for the time being. He’s worried that news of the fire might leak out. Victory Hotel is hosting some big society gala next week, and he wants to make sure it’s a success. He’s afraid that any bad publicity will keep people away.”

  “Is there a chance that a hotel employee might be involved?” George asked.

  “There’s a good chance,” Nancy replied. “Anyway, I think we should start by interviewing the employees. Mr. Talbot is meeting us at the airport, and we’ll be staying at the hotel. That’ll keep us close to any possible suspects.”

  The landing wheels of the jet hit the runway with a jolt, jarring Nancy in her seat. “Mr. Talbot’s also promised to lend us a car,” she added.

  Bess smiled happily. “First class all the way,” she said with a sigh. “I love it.” She glanced at Nancy and George. “Listen, would you guys mind if I took tonight off? I mean, I know we’re here to work, but I have the feeling that Mark is going to ask me to dinner when he calls, and—”

  Nancy grinned. “And you just can’t turn him down. Right?”

  Bess blushed. “Do you mind?” she asked anxiously.

  Nancy waved her hand. “No, go ahead,” she said. “George and I can handle tonight. But we will all work today, and by tomorrow we should be really busy.”

  • • •

  “Nancy Drew!” Mr. Talbot strode out of the crowd in the airport corridor, his hand stretched out to her. “I’m glad you’re here. Did you have a pleasant flight?”

  Mr. Talbot was a tall, well-dressed man with gray hair. He was smiling, but the smile didn’t quite disguise the tension in his face. Obviously the problem at the hotel was causing him deep concern. He had even moved temporarily to Los Angeles.

  “It was a wonderful flight,” Nancy said. “You certainly know how to please your passengers.” She turned to George. “Mr. Talbot, I’d like you to meet my friend George Fayne. And you remember Bess Marvin, of course.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Talbot said cordially. “I’m glad that both of you could come along. This isn’t going to be an easy case, I’m afraid. It—” He broke off and turned back to glance at someone standing a couple of feet behind him. “Oh, yes. I’d like you to meet Brent Kincaid. He’s the owner of the portrait that was destroyed in the hotel vault. His father is an old friend of mine, and they own Kincaid Studios here in L.A. Brent is staying at the hotel while renovations are being done on his house.”

  Brent Kincaid stepped forward. He was a tall, deeply tanned young man with smooth dark hair and intense brown eyes. He smiled admiringly at Nancy as he shook her hand.

  “Mr. Talbot has told me about you,” he said. “According to him, you’re a top detective with a pretty impressive record. I’m fascinated by mysteries. We film a lot of them, and I’m always interested in detectives and crime. I must say, though,” he added appraisingly, “that I wouldn’t have guessed you’re a detective. You’re much too pretty.”

  Nancy swung her woven straw tote bag over one shoulder and
slid her brown leather purse over the other. “Thanks,” she said briefly. She was used to people’s surprise when they learned that she was a detective, but she wasn’t accustomed to the outright flattery she’d heard in Brent Kincaid’s voice. “It’s too bad about the portrait. But I hope we can wrap the case up in a hurry.”

  “I hope so, too, Nancy,” Mr. Talbot said as he started to lead the way down the crowded corridor toward the baggage-claim area. “This whole thing could be very embarrassing for the hotel. The more quickly it’s solved, the better.”

  Suddenly a group of noisy, flashily dressed teenage girls brushed past them. One had bright green hair, another was dressed in a skintight black leotard and a red metallic tunic, and a third was wearing a micro-mini purple skirt and knee-high purple boots. She had a purple tattoo just above her right knee.

  George turned to stare. “Is that what they’re wearing in L.A. these days?” she asked. She looked down at her peg pants, black ankle boots, and oversize blue cotton sweater. “I feel kind of underdressed.”

  Brent Kincaid laughed. “Remember,” he said, “Hollywood is just minutes from here. This is a crazy town. You’re likely to see anything—and anything is likely to happen.” As they moved around a corner, he gestured toward a luggage carousel that was just beginning to turn. “Your bags should be out in a minute,” he said. “Will you excuse me? I have to make a phone call.”

  “I’ll go get a skycap,” Mr. Talbot said. “Then we can go right to the hotel.”

  “Fine,” Nancy replied. She turned toward the carousel as Mr. Talbot and Brent Kincaid walked away. “I’m glad we’re traveling light,” she said, with a teasing grin at Bess. Bess had brought only two suitcases this time, both of them stuffed to bursting.

  But Bess wasn’t listening. “I think I smell something—like smoke,” she said.

  George frowned at her. “Don’t say things like that, Bess,” she cautioned. “You could start a real panic in this crowd.”

  “But it’s true,” Bess insisted. “I mean, I really do smell—” She grabbed Nancy’s arm. “Nancy!” she shrieked. “It’s your tote bag! I think you’re on fire!”

  Chapter

  Two

  NANCY SLIPPED THE smoking tote bag off her shoulder. Holding it at arm’s length, she shoved her way through the crowd and out the automatic door. Then she flung it into the street—right in front of a parked taxi.

  There was a loud explosion and a brilliant flash of light. Nancy watched in horror as her bag disappeared in a cloud of white smoke and scattered debris.

  “A bomb!” Bess exclaimed from right behind Nancy. She and George had just caught up. “Somebody dropped a bomb into your bag!”

  “Who threw that bag into the street?” An airport security officer rushed toward them, his gun drawn.

  “I did,” Nancy explained breathlessly. Her heart was still beating double time from the shock of the near miss. “It was on fire—”

  “You’re under arrest,” the guard snapped. “Put your hands on your head.”

  “You’re making a mistake, officer!” George protested. “Somebody planted that bomb in Nancy’s bag.”

  “You two with her?” the guard asked George and Bess. George nodded.

  “Hands on your heads too,” the guard growled. He pointed at Nancy. “You—got any identification?”

  Nancy slowly took her hands down and opened her purse to pull out her driver’s license.

  “We’re here as the guests of Mr. Talbot,” Bess wailed. “You know, the president of Victory Airlines.”

  The guard grinned. “Yeah, and I’m here as the guest of the president of the United States,” he said.

  Mr. Talbot elbowed his way through the crowd. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. Nancy had barely started explaining when Mr. Talbot pulled out his wallet and showed his identification to the guard. “I’ll vouch for them,” he said.

  The guard stared openmouthed at Mr. Talbot. Nancy almost expected him to salute. Quickly he holstered his gun. “Yes, sir,” he said meekly.

  Mr. Talbot turned to Nancy. “Now, Nancy, start over. What happened?”

  “It looks as though somebody slipped something into my tote bag,” Nancy said. “Something designed to fry anything near it.” She stepped into the street and began to poke at the charred remains of her bag.

  George and Bess followed her.

  “Find anything?” George asked.

  Nancy shook her head ruefully. “There’s not much left—and not a sign of whatever triggered the explosion.” She frowned. “It’s weird. There ought to be something left of the device that caused it. It must have been super-sophisticated to have completely disappeared.”

  “I guess anybody could have stuck anything in your bag,” Bess said. “But it was so crowded that there’s no hope of finding out who.”

  Nancy nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “And there’s no way of finding out whether this bomb was meant for us or not. Either it has some connection to this case, or else it’s just the work of some sickie.”

  George shivered. “Welcome to L.A.,” she muttered.

  “So there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. I made my call,” Brent Kincaid announced as the automatic doors opened and he walked through them. “Are we ready to—What’s going on?” He stopped short, staring at Nancy digging at the remains of her bag.

  “Well—” Bess started to answer him but was interrupted by the guard, who appeared to be coming out of a fog.

  “I do have to ask you to come to the office,” the officer said, with a quick glance at Mr. Talbot. “I’ll need to fill out a report on this incident.”

  Mr. Talbot nodded. “Of course. We might as well get this over with,” he told Nancy.

  It took only a few minutes to answer the guard’s questions. When he’d finished filling out the report form, he carefully set his pencil back in a jar. “Those are the facts,” he said. “But I’d like to know what really happened.”

  Nancy stood up slowly, saying, “You’re not the only one.”

  Mr. Talbot got up then, too. “If there are any further questions,” he said, “you can reach Miss Drew at the Victory Hotel.”

  • • •

  “Whew,” George said, flopping down onto a velvety sofa in the Victory Hotel’s executive suite. “I’m sure glad that’s over.” She grinned at Nancy. “Any more bombs up your sleeve, Nancy?”

  “Don’t even mention bombs,” Bess said with a shudder. She glanced up from the desk where she was leafing through a newspaper and looked admiringly at the mauve and blue upholstered sofa and chairs, the mirrored wall, the vases of fresh flowers on every polished dark wood table. “What a super suite! Talk about plush! Mr. Talbot certainly knows how to treat his guests.”

  “Now we’ll just have to do everything we can to deserve it,” Nancy said as she walked into one of the bedrooms. She unzipped her suitcase and began to unpack the clothes she had brought—one favorite dressy outfit for dinner, a couple of casual skirts, and jeans for daytime. “He looks as though he’s lost a lot of sleep over all this,” she called into the living room. “I hope we can figure out what happened in a hurry.”

  “What’s our plan?” George asked, following Nancy into the bedroom.

  “I’m interviewing the chief of hotel security at eleven, and Brent Kincaid asked me to have lunch with him at noon.” She glanced over at George. “It’s possible he’s involved. His painting was bound to have been insured, and he could make big bucks from the fire.”

  “Maybe so,” George said. “What do you want Bess and me to do?”

  “Talk to the clerk who checks items into the vault. Maybe he’ll remember something that—” Nancy broke off as Bess came into the room with the newspaper in her hand.

  “Nancy!” Bess said excitedly. “Somebody in this town has a grudge against Napoleon! Look!” She pointed to a headline on the society page. It read, “Flaming Napoleon Still Unsolved.”

  Nancy took the paper and sa
t down beside George. “ ‘Wealthy book collector Amanda Hyde-Porter,’ ” she read aloud, “ ‘is still mourning the loss of her valuable manuscript, Napoleon and Josephine. The original handwritten draft of François LaMotte’s famous play was mysteriously burned last week while it was under close security in her Bel Air mansion. Police confess they have no clues in the baffling case.’ ”

  “Wow!” George said breathily. “Another torching!”

  “Yeah,” Nancy said grimly. “It looks as if our arsonist has a Napoleon fixation, doesn’t it? I have the feeling that this is going to be a very interesting case!”

  • • •

  It was noon. Nancy stepped inside the lavishly decorated hotel dining room and looked around. Brent Kincaid was sitting alone at a corner table. As she walked up to him, he stood quickly and pulled out her chair with a polite flourish.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kincaid,” she said.

  “Please—call me Brent,” he said.

  Nancy smiled. “Thank you, Brent.” She picked up her menu and studied it for a minute. “Everything looks great. What do you recommend?”

  “Well, you are in California. Why don’t you try something a little different? Perhaps the warm duck salad with raspberry vinegar and baby vegetables? I’m having the squid-ink pasta myself.”

  Nancy winced inwardly. “The salad sounds fine.”

  After the waitress had taken their orders, Brent put his elbows on the table and leaned in toward Nancy. “Well, Mademoiselle Detective, have you solved our mystery yet?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” Nancy admitted. She wasn’t going to admit it to Brent, but her forty-five-minute interview with the hotel security chief had yielded nothing beyond what she already knew. The cash receipts had been in the safe all week, but Brent hadn’t put the Napoleon miniature in the vault until Thursday night, just before eight. The alarm had gone off at 3 A.M. Friday. The guard had opened the vault to find a smoldering pile of ashes. There were absolutely no physical clues to the cause of the fire, and the security chief had told Nancy that the arson investigators from the insurance company were utterly baffled. They’d spent hours looking for some trace of an incendiary device, but they’d found nothing.