The Silver Cobweb

  “Yes, thank you.” Nancy smiled and nodded noncommitantly. “One thing, Mr. Shand. The thief dropped a small red object, and then stopped just long enough to snatch it up.”

  ‘What about it?”

  “I keep wondering what it was. Did you happen to catch a glimpse of it? It may sound very odd, but it looked like a red spider!”

  Nancy was watching the trucking tycoon closely as she spoke. At her last words, Shand’s face seemed to freeze---but not before Nancy caught a sudden startled look in his eyes.

  But he merely shook his head in reply, although his expression seemed somewhat tight-lipped. “Nope. I do remember him stopping to pick up something, but I wasn’t close enough to see what it was.”

  From that point on, Shand’s manner became strained and uncomfortable, and conversation lagged. Nancy rose from her chair. “Well, I’ve made my report, so I’d better be going.”

  Shand stood up quickly and wlked her to the door. “That’s what I like, the way you keep plugging away on a case. Keep up the good work, girlie!”

  One thing’s certain, nancy thought with a wry smile on her wy down to the lobby in the elevator. Once I mentioned a red spider, he couldn’t get rid of me fast enough!

  The next morning was Saturday and the opening day of the Oceanview Festival. Nancy picked up Bess and George early and drove to the Footlighters’ theater, where a big truck and two smaller ones were waiting to be loaded with scenery and sets. Everyone in the group was on hand, and the female members had called on their boyfriends or brothers or husbands to help.

  Margo and Hamilton Spencer were everywhere at once, making sure that all props and other items were put aboard in proper order.

  Finally everything was on the trucks, and the young people began piling into their waiting cars. Ned Nickerson and Dave Evans, a college pal who often dated Bess Marvin, climbed into the cab of the big truck, while other young men manned the two smaller ones. A holiday mood prevailed.

  Oceanview was about an hour’s right from River Heights. The festival performances were to be held in a a concrete amphitheater built on a hillside overlooking the town, with a splendid view of the sea.

  As they drove through the pleasant shore community, they saw flags flying, banners advertising the festival, and bunting decorating the shops. The town was already thronged with isitors for the week-long celebration.

  The Footlighters’ little caravan turned right at the waterfront onto a road which led up the hill from the heart of town to the gleaming white amphitheater.

  The Spencers led the procession to the back of the shell which enclosed the stage. Here’ the trucks were backed up, one by one, to a loading dock to discharge the scenery and props, which were then whisked down by elevator to underground storerooms.

  “Wow, what a setup! I just hope we learn our way around before Tuesday night,” Bess fretted after a bit of hasty exploration. “This place is a maze and the stage looks huge!”

  “Don’t worry,” Nancy said soothingly. “I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Spencer will have everything under control long before curtain time.”

  With everyone helping, the work was soon completed, and those of the group who had to return to River Heights began pulling out for home.

  “The opera tonight will be The Barber of Seville,” Nancy told her boyfriend. “I wish you and Dave could stay and see it.”

  “So do I,” Ned replied. “but we have to get these trucks back by five o’clock. That doesn’t mean we have to leave right away, though. Let’s go get some hamburgers and shakes, and then check out the beach.”

  “Good idea,” said George. “I’m starved!”

  “Hey, that’s my line!” said Bess in a shocked voice. “I thought you were the one who never got hungry?”

  Everyone burst out laughing.

  At about 3:30 that afternoon, the boys left for the return trip to River Heights. “See you tomorrow, Nancy!” Ned waved as he drove off.

  Nancy herself had planned to go home that evening after the opera. But Bess and George prevailed on her to stay overnight at their motel.

  “Sure I won’t be crowding you?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said George. “With accommodations so tight, everyone’ll be doubling up. The more the merrier!”

  Although at first they talked of enjoying a swim before dinner, the girls changed their minds and strolled back up the hill to the amphitheater. All three were fascinated by its vast size and were eager to look around leisurely, to familiarize themselves with its features, both above and below the ground.

  At this late hour of the afternoon, a sort of suspenseful hush seemed to have settled over the place, as if in anticipation of the excitement to come. Only a few people were prowling about backstage. The scenery was now in place for the opera, and one or two members of the orchestra were practicing in the pit. Otherwise the evening’s performers seemed to be napping in their dressing rooms or to have gone off for an early meal.

  Nancy, who had wandered away from her two companions, came upon a luxurious lounge with deep leather chairs and soft lights. At one end, a group was softly talking, while at the other, relaxing with a newspaper, sat Renzo Scaglia.

  He looked up as Nancy opened the door, then leaped to his feet with a smile of recognition. “Ah, my dear Miss Drew! Welcome to the green-room! Come in, do!”

  “I’m just exploring this wonderful theater,” Nancy explained. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “No, no, no. Not at all! For me, talking is relaxing, and that’s what I’m doing now---relaxing before tonight’s performance. I shall be singing the role of Count Almaviva, did you know?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen the posters---and I’m looking forward to hearing you.”

  At Scaglia’s insistence, she took a chair and prepared to chat for a while, feeling this might be an opportunity to gain some interesting information. “Haven’t you forgotten something, Signor Scaglia?” she inquired, her lips twitching in a faint smile.

  “Forgotten something? How do you mean, my dear?”

  “When we met in River Heights, you challenged me to solve a crime that had once been committed here.”

  “Ah . . . that.” The tenor looked slightly embarrassed, as if he wished he had never brought up the subject. “It is of no importance now, believe me---hardly worthy of your detective skill.”

  “Don’t you at least care to tell me about it?”

  “Another time, perhaps. Why waste these pleasant moments with talk of such matters?” Scaglia dismissed the subject with a smile and a graceful wave of his hand.

  Nancy was puzzled, as well as a trifle disappointed. For some reason, the singer appeared to have decided it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. However, she might still pick up a few useful facts. “Tell me, Signor Scaglia---did you know Madame Arachne Onides well?

  The bearded singer glanced at her sharply, but replied after only an instant of hesitation. “Ah yes, I knew her very well indeed. She was---is unforgettable. What a voice, what fire, what verve! But alas, Arachne was also cruel, devious . . . even unscrupulous.”

  Once launched on the subject, Renzo Scaglia talked freely about the famous prima donna. Nancy was amazed at things he told concerning her spendthrift ways, her greed, her stinginess, her generosity, her petty jealousy, her willingness to strike down anyone who stood in her way. But above all, he talked about her wonderful talent and her blazing ambition to become the world’s greatest opera diva.

  Nancy found it difficult, however, to make out Scaglia’s own attitude toward Madame Arachne. At times he seemed to be sneering at her, at others his tone was adoring. The picture he painted added up to that of an intensely beautiful, gifted woman who was also a mass of contradictions.

  “Dare I ask if you were in love with her?” Nancy said softly.

  Scaglia heaved a sigh and looked soulfully at Nancy. “I can tell you this, my dear. When Arachne died in that devastating plane crash at sea, for me a light went out of the world---never again to se
e her or hear . . . !”

  Suddenly the bearded tenor stiffened. His eyes looked past Nancy---at someone or something that plainly did not please Renzo Scaglia.

  10. A Sinister Symbol

  Nancy turned, wondering who or what had caused Scaglia to react so strangely. She saw that a man had just entered the greenroom. Nancy recognized him at once.

  He was the mustached, courtly-looking gentleman whom she had seen leaving Brett Hulme’s workshop on Monday afternoon!

  The recognition was mutual. “Well, well, well! What a pleasure!” the newcomer exclaimed. “We meet again, young lady!”

  Nancy smiled back. “So we do!”

  Today he was sportily dressed in a casual white Italian suit and open-necked silk sport shirt. But his moustache was as glossily waxed and twirled as before, and he was brandishing a bamboo cane in the same jaunty way that a British military officer carries his swagger stick. Though slender and youthful in bearing, the man appeared to be in his late fifties.

  Scaglia looked perplexed. “You two know each other?”

  “Only by sight,” said Nancy, her blue eyes sparkling merrily. “We’ve never been formally introduced.”

  “Then kindly allow me to do so!” By now, Renzo Scaglia had regained his poise, his white teeth flashing in a brilliant smile. “This gentleman, my dear, is Mr. Eugene Horvath---whose late wife, Madame Arachne Onides, we were just discussing. And this attractive young lady, Gene, is the famous girl detective, Miss Nancy Drew!”

  “How very unusual!” he exclaimed, starring at her more admiringly than ever. “I must confess, Miss Drew, I have never met either a police detective or a private eye before. But seeing one as lovely as you makes me feel I’ve been missing something all these years!”

  Nancy found his flattery pleasant, but too obvious to raise a blush. “ I doubt if I qualify as a private eye,” she chuckled. “I’m strictly an amateur at detecting.”

  “My dear Miss Drew, you’re entirely too modest!” Horvath protested. “I’ve read about the mysteries you’ve solved---at least the more sensational ones that have been reported in the papers. Keep on as you’re going, and you may well end up on a par with Sherlock Holmes!”

  Seeing the twinkle I his eyes, the young sleuth burst out laughing. But Scaglia said drily:

  “Watch out, nancy, or you’re more likely to end up as the latest celebrity in Gene’s menagerie! I should have warned you: he makes a hobby of ‘collecting’ famous people.”

  With a tinge of malice, the tenor added, “In fact I sometimes think that’s how he came to marry Arachne.”

  If Horvath was offended by his remark, he gave no sign. Instead he inquired good-naturedly, “Are you here in Oceanview for festival week, Miss Drew? . . . or may I call you Nancy?”

  “Please do,” the teenager replied gracefully. “No, I’ll be going home tomorrow. But I do hope to come back later and see more of the festival events---besides tonight’s opera, I mean.”

  “If you two will excuse me,” Renzo Scaglia cut in coldly, “ I really must be getting back to my dressing room, to begin warming up for this evening’s performance.”

  With a stiff little bow, he turned and strode out of the greenroom. Nancy knew that he was irritated by Eugene Horvath’s arrival. But she could not tell if this was merely due to a star’s egotistical annoyance at no longer being the center of attention, or what seemed more likely, whether he actively, and perhaps jealously, disliked Horvath…

  “A very great tenor!” the latter remarked after he had gone. “One of the greatest since Enrico Caruso---perhaps the greatest. My adored Arachne was very fond of him. And he of her.”

  With a wry smile, Horvath went on, “Indeed, I sometimes wonder if Renzo has ever forgiven me for marrying her. But enough of all that! Let us go outside, my dear, and see what is happening on stage.”

  From the way he walked freely about the amphitheater and exchanged joking remarks with people they passed, Horvath seemed to be a well-known festival personage. Nancy assumed this was because he was the widower of Madame Arachne.

  The hum of activity had increased. Stagehands were busy adjusting lights and scenery inside the festival shell. Onstage, a television reporter was now interviewing one of the festival officials.

  “Did you come to Oceanview alone, nancy?” Horvath inquired.

  “No, with some friends,” she replied. “We belong to a little theater group from River Heights called the Footlighters. They’re to do a play here on Tuesday.”

  “Ah! Then you’re also a budding actress?”

  “Only an understudy,” Nancy twinkled.

  “In that case, tell your director he’s overlooking a great possibility!”

  “It’s kind of you to say so, but I prefer detecting.” Changing the subject, Nancy said hesitantly, “Mr. Horvath, I know you lost your wife. Do you mind talking about her?”

  “Of course not, my dear. There’s no one I’d rather talk about than Arachne. What would you like to know?”

  “How did the two of you happen to meet and marry?”

  Horvath explained that he had long been an admirer of the famous diva and had been thrilled to meet her at a dinner party in New York. Having been told by their hostess that he was a retired, wealthy businessman, Arachne asked his advice about certain investments.

  Later, Horvath related, he became her business manager and eventually, as their relationship grew closer, she accepted his proposal of marriage.

  “We had only a year of happiness together before her tragic plane accident”---Horvath sighed deeply---“but I am the luckiest man in the world to have had such a wife as Arachne for even that long. I shall cherish her memory always!”

  His fond recollection and description of Madame Arachne, thought Nancy, certainly differed from Renzo Scaglia’s!

  As they went on chatting, she asked if he remembered Maggie Farr.

  “Arachne’s former dresser? Of course!” Horvath responded. “Do you know her?”

  “We met recently. I’m sorry to say she’s now in the hospital, suffering from a stroke.” Nancy explained that Mrs. Farr had lost her power of speech, but had tried to communicate something about a spider, which in turn seemed to relate in some way to her former mistress, Madame Arachne. “Do you have any idea what she might be talking about?”

  “Not the slightest.” Horvath looked surprised and puzzled. “It sounds rather weird. Are you sure her mind hasn’t been affected?”

  I don’t think so. At least her dotor hasn’t suggested any such thing.” Privately nancy was taken aback by his suggestion. Was it ossible that Maggie might be hallucinating, or having delusions which caused her to lose touch with reality?

  But no! Nancy rejected the notion at once. The very coincidences relating Maggie’s cryptic message to Kim Vernon, a spiderlike object, and Madame Arachne---coincidences which at first had seemed too great to accept---were also too great to be brushed aside as mere whimsical ravings.

  However, the mention of the spider had reminded Nancy of someone else. “By the way, do you know if your wife was acquainted with Brett Hulme?” she asked casually.

  “Oh yes, indeed,” Horvath nodded. “One might almost say Brett was a protégé of hers. Arachne helped launch his career, you see. When he first opened his design studio, she introduced him to many celebrities who later wore his creations and thus made his work famous. And she also used her influence to get his designs exhibited in museums and galleries.”

  Nancy’s conversation with the late opera star’s husband was interrupted as she caught sight of Bess and George. They had just come up from the complex of rooms and passageways below stage.

  When her two friends waved to Nancy, she beckoned them over and introduced them to Eugene Horvath. Bess dimpled excitedly as he took their hands in turn and gave each a little bow. She was obviously bowled over by his elegant style of dress and urbane, courtly manner.

  “You must all come out to my island estate sometime during the festival,” remark
ed Horvath, beaming at the three pretty girls.

  “My very own, not too far offshore. My chauffeur will come and pick you up and drive you to the boat landing, then bring you out to the island in my motor cruiser.”

  “Isn’t he charming!” gushed Bess after they had parted from Horvath and he had gone over to speak to the conductor of the orchestra.

  “Cool it,” teased George. “He hasn’t proposed yet---remember, he’s still in mourning for Madame Arachne!”

  That night, the girls thoroughly enjoyed The Barber of Seville as performed by the festival opera company, and next morning they went swimming off Oceanview’s splendid white sandy beach.

  Much to her friends’ regret, however, Nancy insisted on driving back to River Heights on Sunday afternoon. She was keenly determined to pursue her investigation of the mystery.

  As soon as she got home, Nancy telephoned Buzz Hammond, the golf pro at the River Heights Country Club, to ask him for the address and phone number of the riverside cottage where Kim Vernon was staying. In light of her emotional outburst when questioned about Madame Arachne or a spider, Nancy hoped the golf star might now be willing to talk more freely.

  Kim agreed to see Nancy early Monday afternoon. The two girls sat in chintz-covered, deep-cushioned chairs in the cheerful living room of the cottage.

  Kim’s manner was calm and pleasant. However, she seemed no more inclined that she had before to discuss the reasons for her withdrawal from the Charleston Cup match. “Let’s just say I felt I needed a rest from competition,” she told Nancy.

  “May I ask a more personal question?”

  Kim chuckled. “No harm in asking. That’s not saying I’ll answer it.”

  “Why did you pick River Heights as a place to stay?” said Nancy.

  Kim shrugged. “As I told you, I’ve always liked this town. It’s near my brother in Bradley. And of course being offered the use of this cottage also had a lot to do with it.”

  “Did the fact that Brett Hulme lives near here also have anything to do with it?”

  The black-haired golf star seemed to wince slightly, and blushed. “I . . . I certainly wouldn’t object to seeing him again . . . if that’s what you’re getting at.”