“Isn’t that a lovely piece?” the secretary asked, following her look. “It’s the crown Josephine wore when she was made empress. Sheik Abdullah has given it to his fiancée to wear at their wedding this Saturday.”
Nancy gasped. “Josephine’s crown?” It had to be the very one that the empress wore with the Flame! Was this the connection they were looking for?
The secretary smiled. “You are quite right to be impressed. It is indeed a royal treasure. But come this way—the sheik is waiting.”
“I don’t believe this, Nancy,” Bess said in a small voice as they continued down the hall.
Ahead, ten-foot-high double doors opened to reveal a spacious pillared room with a gold carpet running the length of its floor. On the far side of the room, behind a carved wooden writing table, sat a dark-haired man of middle height wearing a beautifully tailored business suit. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, Nancy thought, but he looked like a king.
“His excellency, Sheik Hassan Karim Abdullah,” the secretary said, bowing low. “I present to you Miss Nancy Drew and her friends, Bess Marvin and George Fayne.”
Nancy stared. The gold carpet stretched for miles, and she couldn’t bring herself to begin the long walk toward the sheik. Behind her, George gave her a nudge. “Go on, Nancy!” she whispered.
“It’s all right, Miss Drew,” the sheik said in a kindly voice as Nancy hesitated. He stepped out from behind his desk. “I’m afraid all this formality is a bit intimidating, isn’t it?”
Nancy smiled, trying not to show her nervousness. “It’s just that you don’t meet real sheiks every day,” she said.
“Then let’s not be so formal,” Sheik Abdullah replied. He motioned toward a corner of the room carpeted with Persian rugs and filled with pillows. “Come, we’ll sit here and have some tea.” He looked at Bess and George. “Or perhaps a soda?”
“A soda would be nice,” Bess said, suddenly finding her voice.
“I understand that you’re here to ask me about the Napoleon miniature,” Abdullah said after a servant had brought them their drinks. “The one that I unfortunately lost to Mr. Kincaid.” He sighed. “I have learned a good lesson—never bet on an inside straight.”
Nancy tried to keep from smiling. “I suppose you know that the miniature was destroyed.”
The sheik nodded. “What a pity. It was a most unique piece of art. Why, the frame alone was worth—” He broke off abruptly. “But of course, you have come to ask me whether I could have been responsible for its destruction.”
Nancy slowly nodded her head once. Obviously Sheik Abdullah didn’t believe in beating around the bush.
The sheik bowed his head. “I must often ask forgiveness,” he said contritely, “for my many faults. I am impetuous and inclined to extravagance, and I have a great love of beautiful women.” He looked straight at Nancy. “But I do not carry the sins of extortion and arson on my conscience. You will have to look elsewhere for your—”
“Oh, Hassan! Darling Hassan!” A woman’s excited voice interrupted from the back of the room. “The gown’s just arrived. It was so beautiful that I couldn’t resist trying it on—and the crown, too. Please, won’t you take a moment to look?”
Sheik Abdullah beamed and stood up. “Of course, my dear,” he said indulgently, holding out his hand. “I’m sure my guests will be interested to see it, too. Come and model it for us.”
As Nancy turned to look, she gasped in astonishment. A radiantly beautiful young woman was walking toward them. On her head was Josephine’s diamond-and-pearl crown. And the dress she wore was the Empress’s Flame!
Chapter
Ten
NANCY!” BESS GASPED barely audibly, her hands flying to her mouth. “It’s the Flame! And the girl who’s wearing it is Sheila Sessions—you know, the movie star!”
“But it can’t be the Flame.” George was whispering too. Her eyes were fixed on the gown. “The Flame is gone!”
Nancy turned to Sheik Abdullah. “That’s a marvelous gown,” she said as calmly as she could. “Where did you get it?”
“It is a wedding gown fit for an empress,” Abdullah boasted. “Indeed, it was designed for an empress—Napoleon’s Josephine. Sheila will wear both the dress and the crown when we are married on Saturday. Come closer, Sheila, my love, so the girls can see. Nancy Drew, this is my fiancée, Sheila Sessions. Perhaps you have seen her in films.”
“But the gown,” Nancy persisted, her mind racing. “Where did you get the gown?”
The sheik smiled. “I bought it from a dealer in Venice who specializes in Napoleonic items.”
Nancy stiffened. “Peter Wellington?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed.” Abdullah looked surprised. “You know him?” To Sheila he said, “thank you, my dear, for showing us the gown.”
Nancy nodded grimly. “I know him. Are you sure,” she asked as the movie star left the room, “that the gown is authentic?”
“Of course,” the sheik said, sitting down again. “Wellington guaranteed it, and his reputation as a dealer is beyond reproach. And I certainly paid for an authentic gown—over a quarter of a million dollars.”
A quarter of a million dollars for what had to be a copy! But Nancy didn’t tell the sheik what she was thinking. Instead she asked, “Did Mr. Wellington himself make the guarantee? I mean, did you talk with him personally?”
The sheik looked thoughtful. “Well, no,” he said. “I didn’t. I spoke with his secretary on the telephone. She’s the one who called to tell me that the gown was available. I made all the arrangements with her, and the actual transaction was done by a courier service called Security Unlimited.”
Nancy raised her eyebrows. Secretary? Peter Wellington’s shop wasn’t large enough for a secretary.
Sheik Abdullah was watching Nancy shrewdly. “Perhaps you have reason to believe,” he said, “that the gown my fiancée is wearing is not the authentic Flame.” Nancy started to speak, but he silenced her by holding up his index finger. “If that is true, I only ask you to keep this to yourself. As long as Sheila is content with her wedding gown, I am content. The question of authenticity does not concern me.”
“Well then,” Nancy said, standing up, “I think we’d better be on our way. We have work to do.” A little nervously, she held out her hand. Was there a special way of saying goodbye to a sheik?
“Thank you for coming, Miss Drew.” The sheik took her hand and bowed deeply over it. Then he bowed to George and Bess. “I wish all of you the greatest luck in your search.”
“Thanks,” Nancy said fervently. “I have a feeling we’re going to need lots of luck.”
• • •
“Do you really think that Peter Wellington had anything to do with stealing and selling the copy of the Flame?” George asked as Nancy parked the car in a beachfront parking lot in Venice an hour later.
“I don’t know,” Nancy said. “But it’s our best lead at the moment. I only hope that Mr. Wellington is here so we can ask him about it. I’d like to talk to his secretary, too—if there is such a person.”
The sign that hung on Peter Wellington’s door read, “Out to Lunch.”
“Speaking of lunch,” Bess said brightly, “we haven’t had ours yet.” She pointed across the street to the café where they’d been before. “How about having a sandwich over there? Maybe that guy with the surfboard will stop in again.”
George laughed. “Food and guys,” she said teasingly. “The top two on Bess’s greatest hits list.”
But Bess wasn’t paying any attention. She was already halfway across the street. “I think I’ll have a Reuben,” she said over her shoulder, “with lots of cheese.”
The café was crowded, and the only table left was partly under a balcony. Bess relaxed happily in her chair after they’d given the waitress their orders. “I just love to watch the people in a place like this,” she said. “Look at those kids over there. They look as though they’ve just walked off the set of a surfing movie.”
“And those guys,” George said, gesturing toward a flamboyant group with hair dyed all colors of the rainbow. “They could star in a science-fiction special. What costumes!”
“That reminds me,” Nancy recalled. “When I talked to Brent this morning, he asked me about choosing our costumes for the party Friday night. Have you thought of what you’d like to be?”
“Maybe I’ll go as Princess Leia,” George said as the waitress set their plates in front of them. “I really like the way she—”
“Look!” Bess interrupted, tugging on George’s arm. “Isn’t that Chad Bannister?”
Nancy looked up. What was Chad Bannister doing in Venice? Had he come back to talk to Wellington? And if he had, why?
“Chad?” George exclaimed, looking delighted. Before Nancy could stop her, she stood up and waved. “Chad! Hi—Over here! It’s George!”
At a table twenty feet away, Chad looked up with a smile, and then the smile froze on his face.
He jumped up and began to run toward them. “Watch out, George!” he shouted. “Run!”
To Nancy, events suddenly seemed to happen in slow motion. George had started toward Chad, but not far enough.
From the balcony above her, an enormous clay pot filled with trailing ferns had started to fall—straight for her head!
Chapter
Eleven
INSTANTLY NANCY REACHED out and shoved George as hard as she could. George stumbled forward but was clear of the plant. The pot crashed against the side of their table, smashing glasses and scattering dirt and green ferns.
“George!” Chad exclaimed, helping her to her feet. “Are you all right?”
“Just barely,” George said shakily. “If that pot had hit me, it would have killed me!” She turned her head into Chad’s shoulder and buried her face in his shirt.
People started to come over and ask if everything was all right. The manager rushed out and apologized, telling the girls to order whatever they wanted—lunch was on the house.
“Did you see what happened?” Nancy asked Chad after they were alone again.
Chad’s arm was still around George’s shoulders. “Not really,” he said. “Whoever was sitting at the table on the balcony above you must have knocked the pot down by mistake. I looked up just in time to see someone push against it, and—”
Nancy asked sharply, “Did you see who it was?”
Chad shook his head. “No. And whoever it was was gone instantly.”
Nancy looked up at the balcony. Chad was right.
Nancy took the outside stairs up to the balcony. A waitress was just beginning to clear away the half-eaten meal left there.
“Did you see who was sitting here?” Nancy asked breathlessly.
“No. My shift just started. The waitress who had this table left a couple of minutes ago. She was pretty mad, though. Whoever was at this table left without paying.”
“Do you think it was the same person who tried to kill us on the highway?” George asked as Nancy came back down the stairs.
“I’d bet on it,” Nancy said. “They probably followed us here.”
“Should we call the other waitress at home?” Bess asked.
“I doubt it would do any good. I’m sure the person was disguised.”
Back at their table, Nancy turned to Chad. “It was lucky for George that you happened to be here,” she said casually. “Do you have business in Venice?”
Chad grinned easily. “No. I just thought I’d come down and see the sights,” he said. His grin widened as he looked down at George. “You know, I was thinking after we said good night last night that I’d like to show you my boat. How would you and your friends like to go sailing?”
George threw Nancy an oh-let’s-please look, and Bess gasped. “Go sailing? That’d be great, wouldn’t it, Nancy?”
Nancy nodded. If they went sailing with Chad, maybe she’d have a chance to get something important out of him about his connection to this case. Besides, she’d thought of a couple more questions to ask Nicole Ronsarde, whose boat was at the same marina.
“Good,” Chad said comfortably. “Then it’s settled. How about today in a couple of hours?” As the girls nodded, he squeezed George’s hand, then bent to kiss her. “Now you owe me for two rescues,” he said with a grin and left.
“Isn’t he great?” George said, watching Chad walk away.
Nancy hated to say anything, but she had to. “George,” she cautioned, “I hope you won’t forget that we’re working. Chad Bannister is involved in this case somehow. And we’ve got to find out just how he’s involved.”
“Oh, I’ll remember,” George promised hastily. “I mean, I really like Chad, but—” She broke off and pointed across the street. “Hey, it looks like Mr. Wellington’s shop is finally open.” She sounded relieved. Obviously she didn’t want to talk about Chad.
Nancy stood up. “Okay,” she said. “You guys coming with me?” And the three of them crossed over to Peter Wellington’s shop.
Mr. Wellington was engrossed in repairing a lacquered music box when Nancy, Bess, and George came into the shop. He looked up in mild surprise.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said to Nancy, and he went back to his work.
“Sorry to bother you again,” Nancy said, “but I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Empress’s Flame.” She was watching him closely, but he made no visible reaction. Nancy went on. “I understand that your secretary made arrangements to—”
Peter Wellington cackled. “My secretary?” he asked. “Now, that’s a good one. What would I want a secretary for?” He laughed again. “Except to dust things, maybe.”
“I see,” Nancy said. If that was true, then whoever had sold the gown could have been trying to throw suspicion onto Mr. Wellington. That almost automatically took him off her list of suspects. Still, she had to be certain. “Well then,” she asked, “do you know anything about the sale of the Flame to Sheik Abdullah?”
“To the sheik?” Peter Wellington looked up, surprised. “How’d Diana manage that?”
Nancy was listening carefully. It sounded as if he didn’t know that the Flame had been destroyed. “I thought her uncle’s will forbade her to sell any of his collection,” he continued. “And anyway, what would Abdullah want with a dress? He collects jewelry and art—not costumes.”
“He bought it for his fiancée,” Bess said. “They’re getting married on Saturday.”
Mr. Wellington nodded. “I see, I see,” he said. “So he bought the dress to go with the crown he bought last year.” He sighed. “Of course, he can afford to buy what he wants. With all that oil money—” He stopped, frowning. “Do you hear something in the back room?”
Swiftly Nancy stepped to the green velvet curtain and pulled it aside. The small storage room was empty, but the back door was open. Somebody had been listening and left in a hurry.
She walked back to Mr. Wellington. “Nobody’s there now,” she said. “So, you’re sure you don’t know anything about the Flame? I’m sorry to keep asking.”
Mr. Wellington shook his head. “Not a thing,” he said.
Outside the shop, George stared at Nancy. “But you didn’t tell him that you suspect that Abdullah bought a copy,” she said.
“Well,” Nancy replied, “he obviously didn’t know that the Flame had been destroyed. That means—” She broke off abruptly. Down the street, hurrying off in the opposite direction, was Chad Bannister. Had he been the eavesdropper in Peter Wellington’s back room?
• • •
“So we’re going to Beverly Hills tomorrow to see Diana?” George asked. The girls were driving along the palm-lined drive to Marina del Rey to meet Chad.
Nancy nodded. “There are some things that keep bothering me,” she said. “For instance, I want to know more about those burglar-proof display cases.” She pulled the car over and stopped. “Well, here we are. We have a little time before we meet Chad, so I’d like to stop at Professor Ronsarde’s houseboat, if you
don’t mind. I want to ask her a couple of questions.”
Nancy led the way along the pier. She had changed into a blue-striped tank top and khaki shorts, and the afternoon sun was hot on her bare arms and legs. It was clear and breezy—perfect for sailing. But first Nancy had to ask Professor Ronsarde whether she had ever met Peter Wellington. Maybe there was a connection between—
Nancy sensed something was wrong as they stepped up to the professor’s houseboat. The front door was standing open, and a half-dozen cats were milling about on the deck, mewing plaintively.
“Oh, poor kitty,” Bess said, bending over to pat one. “You look positively starved.”
Nancy knocked at the open door, but there was no answer. All she could hear was the sound of a radio playing somewhere inside and the cats meowing around her.
“Look, Nancy,” George said. She was pointing through the open door into the hall. “Do you think there was a fight here?”
Nancy stepped into the hallway and looked where George was pointing. The living room was a mess. Books that had been stacked were scattered around on the floor. The professor’s green blouse lay crumpled in a corner. In the small galley kitchen a pan of cold eggs sat on the stove, and the faucet was running.
As Bess stepped into the kitchen and turned off the water, Nancy picked up the professor’s blouse. What she saw made her heart leap into her throat. There, on the front, was a smear of blood!
Chapter
Twelve
BLOOD!” GEORGE GASPED, staring at the stained blouse. She looked up, her eyes round. “Do you suppose that the professor was—”
“Murdered?” Bess finished George’s sentence for her.
“We can’t jump to conclusions,” Nancy said cautiously. “For all we know, the professor might just have gone out in a hurry. After all, she isn’t exactly the world’s tidiest person.”
“But the blood?” George asked.
“There isn’t much of it,” Nancy said. “She might have cut herself or something.”
Playing With Fire Page 6