“Who handles that?” Ned asked.
“A secretary down the hall.”
“We’d like to speak to her, please,” Nancy said.
The secretary showed Nancy and Ned the schedule of bookings for the apartment. Usually, they learned, the book hung on the wall beside the door. After Nancy questioned the secretary, it was clear that Ms. Amberton was right—anyone could have looked at the schedule.
Back in Ms. Amberton’s office, Nancy shook her head. “No leads in that direction,” she said.
“I’m becoming quite concerned.” Ashley Amberton went to the balcony door to look out across the river. “This thing seems to be getting bigger every day. First that business with Monique, now the threat against your life.” She threw Nancy a troubled glance. “Where is it going to end?”
“Do you know somebody named Lake Sinclair?” Nancy asked.
Ms. Amberton turned around sharply, surprise written across her face. “Lake Sinclair? Why, of course I know her. Her father is one of Mr. Cherbourg’s closest friends.” She studied Nancy, her brows drawn together in confusion. “Why do you ask?”
“Because,” Nancy said, “it looks like she might be another one of our blackmailer’s victims.”
“Lake?” Ms. Amberton exclaimed. “How did you find that out?”
Nancy told her what she had learned from Annette LeBeau.
“A hit-and-run?” Ms. Amberton dropped heavily into her desk chair. “You can’t be serious. Lake’s always been a little on the wild side, but she’d never do anything like that!”
“Maybe not,” Nancy replied, “but we can’t be sure about that, can we? And I have to follow every single lead, no matter where it takes me.”
The woman nodded, watching Nancy with a look of grudging respect. “I see,” she said softly, “that you are a very professional detective, Nancy Drew.” She reached for the phone. “I’ll set up a meeting with Lake.”
Lake Sinclair’s condominium, Nancy learned from Ms. Amberton, was located in a restored section of Old Montreal, near the wharves.
“You know what we could do?” Ned asked later that morning as they left the Cherbourg Building. “We could get a caleche—you know, a horsedrawn carriage—and ride in style. But only if you’ll promise not to say one word about business while we’re on the way!”
“Oh, Ned, it sounds so romantic!” Nancy cried. “But what about George?” She pushed up the sleeves of her royal blue cotton sweater. “Shouldn’t we call the apartment to see if she’s back from her jogging? Maybe she’d like to go, too.”
“Sure, but I think she has a date,” he said. Ned reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of Canadian coins. “Need change?”
“Yes,” Nancy said and grinned. “Thank you.”
Nancy let the phone ring a dozen times, but George didn’t answer. “I guess she did go out,” she said regretfully, hanging up the phone.
“So what do you say about that carriage ride?” Ned asked.
“What are we waiting for?” Nancy answered with a happy smile.
They walked over to the plaza, where Ned hailed a shiny black caleche, which was pulled by a large gray horse. Nancy climbed in, and just as Ned was about to get in beside her, he held up his hand. Asking the driver to wait for a minute, he disappeared in the direction of a flower stand. When he came back, he was carrying a tiny bouquet of violets and lilies of the valley. He handed them to Nancy with a grand flourish.
“Oh, Ned,” she said, touched. “How sweet!” She held the violets against her blue sweater. They looked even more fragile and exotic against the bold color of her top.
“It wouldn’t be a spring day in Montreal without flowers,” Ned said, climbing in beside her.
Nancy leaned back in the seat, breathing in the rich fragrance of the flowers. The bright spring sunshine warmed her as the horse pulled the caleche away from the curb.
“This was a great idea,” she said. Ned was right—for the next few minutes, Nancy would forget all about the case and just enjoy the Montreal sunshine and Ned there beside her.
Ned pulled his guidebook out of his pocket and looked through it. “Here on the left, ladies and gentlemen,” he intoned, glancing up, “is the famous Nelson Column, dedicated to the British commander who—”
Nancy sat straight up. “The Nelson what?”
“The Nelson Column. Right over there.”
Nancy looked where Ned was pointing. At one end of the open square stood a tall stone column with a statue on the top. “That’s the place!” Nancy exclaimed.
“Hey, you’re right!” Ned said. “The place our blackmail victims leave their payoffs!”
Nancy stared at the column. There was a trash can a few yards from it, probably the very one where the victims made their drops.
She thought for a moment. “You know, Ned,” she said, “maybe the quickest way to wrap up this case would be to wait until there’s another letter. Then stake out the drop and wait for the blackmailer to—”
Ned began to laugh. “Do you realize what we’re doing?” he asked.
Guiltily, Nancy nodded. “Yes,” she said with a sigh. “We’re talking business again.”
Ned squeezed her hand. “I understand,” he said softly. “It’s just so much a part of you that you can’t really put it out of your mind, can you?”
Nancy shook her head. “Yes, I can,” she said stubbornly. “Starting right now!”
After a while the caleche turned down a side street, the horse’s hooves clip-clopping steadily on the pavement. The brick and fieldstone houses and small shops were built close to the street. They had steeply pitched copper roofs with dormer windows and brightly colored shutters. Some of the buildings also had wrought-iron balconies, and every now and then Nancy glimpsed a shaded courtyard, hidden between buildings. There were old-fashioned street lamps on every corner and pots of flowers beside the doorways.
Nancy sighed. “It looks just the way it must have looked a hundred years ago.”
“Yeah,” Ned replied as a car zipped around them. “If you ignore the cars.” He slipped his arm around Nancy, and she dropped her head against his shoulder. “Hey,” he said, nudging her. “There’s Notre Dame. Isn’t it beautiful?”
She turned and saw the pretty stone church with its central spire and two side pinnacles in front of them. And then she imagined her wedding day in a church just like that. What would her dress look like, and what would Ned—
“Hey, Drew,” Ned said, “you got something on your mind?”
Nancy blushed. “Not at all, Nickerson,” she said, smiling. “Not at all.”
Ned’s arm tightened around her and he bent toward her, his lips close to hers. “Nancy,” he said softly, “I—”
Just at that moment, a car careened recklessly around them, grazing the wheel of the caleche. The frightened horse neighed, rearing up on his hind legs as the driver fought to control him. The horse raced off at breakneck speed, the carriage bouncing down a narrow cobblestone alley and around a corner, where its wheels ran up over the high curb. The carriage began to tilt dangerously.
“Hang on, Nancy!” Ned cried, holding her tight. “We’re going over!”
Chapter Five
THE BOUNCING CALECHE teetered on two wheels as the driver yanked desperately on the reins, pulling with all his strength and shouting, “Whoa! Whoa!” Nancy found herself thrown into one corner, with Ned’s arms tight around her. She held her breath as the carriage rocketed over the curb and into the crowded street. But it stayed upright! After a moment the driver managed to bring the terrified horse under control. Amazingly no pedestrians had been injured.
“Are you okay?” Ned asked breathlessly when they finally came to a stop.
“I—I guess so,” Nancy answered, her voice shaky as she tried to sit up straight. She rubbed her throbbing temple where she had bumped it.
Ned climbed out of the carriage and turned back to help Nancy down. She got out and began to dust herself off.
&nb
sp; “Monsieur, mademoiselle, a thousand pardons! Please don’t go!” the driver cried, climbing down from his perch. “My horse was frightened by the car, that’s all.”
Nancy nodded. “I know,” she said, rubbing her head. “But I think I’ve had enough of caleches for one day.” She reached into the carriage to pick up her flowers, and looked at Ned. “How about if we walk the rest of the way?”
“Good idea,” Ned said. He tried to pay the driver, but his money was refused.
Lake Sinclair lived in one of the restored brick-and-stone buildings on Saint-Denis Street. On the outside the building looked as if it were untouched by modern technology. It appeared hundreds of years old, with its quaint iron railings and gray-green slate roof. Even the parking area had been cleverly disguised to look like an old brick courtyard.
But inside, Lake Sinclair’s house was ultramodern, filled with sophisticated contemporary furniture and a few pieces of exceptional art. Lake herself was a beautiful young woman, only a few years older than Nancy. She was dressed in a chic white jogging suit. Her bright auburn hair had curled in damp tendrils around her face, which was flushed with color.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” she said, tossing her long hair carelessly. “I’ve just gotten back from a run in the stadium, and I haven’t had time to change.” She led them down a softly lit hallway. Off to one side, Nancy could see what looked like an athletic training room. It was full of exercise machines and weights. George would love this, Nancy thought.
“In the stadium?” Nancy asked eagerly. “My friend George is dying for a chance to run in Olympic Stadium, but we’ve been told it’s closed to the public.”
“I’m sure my dad would be glad to arrange something,” Lake replied, showing them into the living room. She sank down onto the plush sofa and a white angora cat jumped up on her lap, purring loudly. “He’s on the board of directors at the stadium.”
“That would be great,” Nancy said as she and Ned took the chairs opposite the sofa. “George will be delighted.”
Lake looked at Nancy. “Ashley said that you’re a private detective, and she asked me to—to cooperate with you, whatever that means.” She hesitated, her eyes flickering from Nancy to Ned. “What can I do for you?”
Nancy leaned forward. Sometimes it was better to start out with small talk. In this case, though, she had the feeling that she would get more out of Lake if she took the direct approach.
“You can tell us about the blackmail demands you’ve been getting,” Nancy said.
Lake’s face paled suddenly. “Blackmail?” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know anything about blackmail.”
“We think you do,” Ned replied sternly. “We think you know a great deal about it.”
Lake took a deep breath. “And what makes you so sure of that?” she asked in a challenging voice. Her eyes darted from one to the other.
“I talked with Annette LeBeau yesterday,” Nancy replied. “She told me that you offered to sell her some of your family’s jewelry. She also told me why.”
Lake gasped, her fingers tightening in the fur of the angora cat.
Giving her a direct look, Nancy explained, “I was asked to come to Montreal to break up a blackmailing scheme that appears to be centered at Cherbourg Industries. We know of four victims already. The same person could be blackmailing you. We’ll have an even better chance of finding out who it is if you’ll help us.”
Lake looked at Nancy for a minute, her mouth tight. Then her lips began to tremble and tears gathered in her eyes, and her cat ran and hid under the sofa.
“It’s not just the blackmail that’s been tearing me apart,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “It’s knowing what I did to that poor little girl. Every night I dream about it—about the awful crash and the blood.” She buried her face in her hands and began to sob.
“The girl you hit with your car—your yellow Mercedes?” Nancy asked softly.
Lake nodded. She looked up, her eyes filled with tears. “It was dark and rainy, and I was driving very fast. The child ran out in front of me and I hit her.”
“You didn’t stop, did you?” Nancy said.
Wordlessly Lake shook her head. After a moment she said in a shaky voice, “The next day I called the hospital, pretending to be a friend. I found out who she was. Then I promised her parents I would pay all of the hospital bills and find her the best plastic surgeon in the city, if only they wouldn’t tell the police who had done it. It cost a fortune, but I had to do it.”
“But why?” Ned asked. “If she ran out in front of you, it wasn’t your fault.”
“Maybe not.” Lake bit her lip so savagely that it started bleeding. “But I couldn’t take that chance. If my father ever found out what happened, he would have taken away my allowance, my car.” She turned to look at the room around them. “I would have lost this house, and all my beautiful things.”
“But now you’re about to lose everything to a blackmailer,” Nancy said.
Lake sighed and pointed to an empty spot on the wall. “The painting that was hanging there was my favorite. I sold it last month for nearly fifty thousand dollars. And every penny went to the blackmailer. I’ve sold nearly all the jewelry I inherited from my grandmother. There isn’t much left.” She shrugged sadly.
“How does the blackmailer contact you?” Nancy asked.
“Letters,” Lake said. “Then I put the money—usually ten thousand at a time—in a red plastic sack and drop it in the trash can beside Nelson’s Column.” She laughed shortly. “I suppose the blackmailer hangs around and watches, then picks it up after I’ve gone. Pretty expensive trash.”
Nancy flashed a look at Ned. It was the same modus operandi, or mode of operation. It must be the same blackmailer! Ned nodded. “Who could have found out about the accident?” he asked Lake.
She shrugged. “Somebody at the hospital, I guess. I went to visit the girl there once. I didn’t give my name, though, and I wore a scarf and an old coat so I couldn’t be recognized.
“You said something about plastic surgery,” Nancy observed, taking out her notebook. “Are you paying the bills for the girl’s surgery by check?”
Frowning, she said, “Of course. But Emile Dandridge is the best plastic surgeon in the city,” she tried to explain. “I mean, he does cosmetic surgery, and lots of his patients don’t want anybody to know about their tucks and lifts. His work is always very confidential. I can’t imagine that anybody in his office could be a blackmailer.”
“Well, somebody is,” Nancy said pointedly. She wrote down Emile Dandridge’s name and the address and phone number that Lake gave her. Then Lake went upstairs and brought down the blackmail letters, all carefully locked in a heavy metal box. Nancy scanned them quickly. She couldn’t be sure without a closer examination, but they looked exactly like the others.
“I—I hope you can find out who’s doing this and make him stop,” Lake said. The cat came out from under the sofa and rubbed against her. She picked it up, burying her face in its soft fur. “I don’t know how much longer I can go on this way.”
Outside, Nancy and Ned hailed a cab and went back to the apartment. On the coffee table there was a scrawled note from George. “Gone for a ride with Pierre,” it read. “Back at six.”
“Pierre?” Nancy said, reading the note. “I guess he’s the guy she met at Chez Soda.”
“I suppose,” Ned answered. He pulled the drapes open, and the late-afternoon sunlight flooded the living room.
Ned ran his fingers through his brown hair. “So, what’s next?”
“How about if I make us some lemonade? I saw a mix in the cupboard in the kitchen.”
“Sounds good,” Ned agreed. He followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the door jamb, watching as she took down a pitcher and some cups. The kitchen looked almost new. Obviously, it hadn’t been used very much.
“Let’s see,” she said, going over to the cabinet above the stove. “I think the mix was up here.” She reached up
over her head and tugged on the door.
“That’s funny,” she said. “I don’t remember this cabinet being so hard to open.”
She yanked again, and the door popped open. As Nancy struggled to keep her balance, she saw the metal Thermos that was perched on the very edge of the top begin to wobble. It was going to fall! Instinctively, Nancy put up a hand to shield her face, but she was too late. A dense white mist poured out of the Thermos. Whatever it was, it was steaming—and it was about to splash into her eyes!
Chapter Six
WHAM! NANCY WAS hit. Ned had just knocked her out of the way of the steaming waterfall. The two of them landed on the floor next to the sink, and a moment later Nancy sat up, dazed. For a second she just sat still with Ned’s arms wrapped protectively around her. She sank back against him as she watched the cloud of white vapor spilling from the stove onto the floor.
“Let’s get out of here, Ned!” she cried, struggling to her feet. “Somebody rigged that cannister to fall when the door was opened. It could be poisonous!”
“Wait,” Ned said calmly. “If somebody had wanted to poison us, he wouldn’t have tried anything so complicated, or so messy.” He shook his head, frowning. “No, this isn’t poison.”
“Then what is it?” Nancy asked. She stepped closer and looked at the puddle on the floor. It was already beginning to evaporate into clouds of steam. “It’s steaming—is it hot?”
Ned disappeared into the living room. In a minute he came back with a floppy green leaf from a philodendron plant. Carefully he dipped the leaf into what was left of the puddle. When he pulled it out seconds later, it was covered with frost. And when he tapped it gently on the counter, it shattered into a dozen pieces of what looked like green ice!
“It’s frozen!” Nancy exclaimed. She looked at Ned. “Wow! Where did you learn that trick?”
“Freshman chemistry,” Ned replied, staring at the shattered leaf. “This stuff is probably some sort of a liquefied gas.”