015 Trial by Fire

  The trip was a long one and the traffic heavy. Nancy kept glancing behind her until she was certain they hadn’t been followed. By the time she got out at Fifth and Cranston, her pulse was normal again.

  And she made sure she checked the name on the side of the cab before it drove away. Gold Star Cab Company. A name to remember. And a face to remember, too, she thought, suddenly feeling guilty. She was already dating the best-looking guy in River Heights—Ned Nickerson. Although Jim Dayton, the name Nancy noticed on the cab driver’s license, did come pretty close.

  Nancy turned her thoughts back to the mystery. Why would a cab company be part of a plot to kidnap Ann? And why had the voice on that radio recognized her father’s name when he heard it?

  She had learned something. She just wasn’t sure what.

  She’d learned something else, too—a very expensive lesson. She could be used as a weapon against her father.

  Chapter

  Five

  THE TAXI RIDE had given Nancy a lot of time to think. She didn’t dare go back to the theater. Her kidnapper was no idiot. He would have guessed that she had driven to the Grand and would go back for her car. He’d probably be waiting for her. She’d have to leave the car there for a while.

  Then Nancy remembered she wanted to try to see her uncle Jonathan Renk. She could phone the police from his house.

  She hunted until she found another cab—not a Gold Star—and took it to the dignified old section of town where the judge lived in a large white house.

  “Something’s going on,” the cabbie said as they approached the front gate of the house. “I don’t think they’ll let me in there.”

  It looked as if every reporter in town was camped along the street. A policeman sat in a squad car blocking the gate, and a second stood guard on the sidewalk.

  Nancy was starting to say she’d get out right there when she noticed the reporters turning to stare into the taxi.

  Quickly Nancy gave the cabbie directions to the rear entrance. Then she paid him and got out. The back gate was closed, too, but she buzzed the house from the intercom hidden in one of the brick pillars.

  “It’s me—Nancy,” she told Mrs. O’Hara. After a two-second pause, the gate clicked open.

  The housekeeper was waiting for her and drew her into the kitchen. Before Nancy had a chance to ask to use the phone, Mrs. O’Hara said, “The judge is in the library. He knew you’d come today.” She patted Nancy’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve had the devil’s own time getting him to eat. With you here, I have an excuse to serve a small snack. Perhaps he’ll take a mouthful or two to be sociable.”

  “This isn’t exactly a social call,” Nancy said.

  “I know. But be kind to him. He’s a good man.”

  He had been, once, Nancy thought. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  She hesitated. What about talking to the police? She should do it—but the man who had abducted her was probably long gone. She had better see the judge while he was willing.

  She was leaving the kitchen when the housekeeper’s voice stopped her.

  “Nancy, your father. Tell him Katie O’Hara sends her regards, will you?”

  Nancy responded with a smile of gratitude and headed for the library.

  At her first sight of Jonathan Renk, her heart lurched. He looked terrible sitting behind his desk. A small man normally, the judge seemed to have shrunk to be only a miniature of his former self. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his skin looked slack and loose, like an old suit grown large because its owner had been dieting.

  He didn’t see her enter, but he must have sensed her presence because his chin came up sharply. But then he relaxed. There was a hint of a smile on his thin lips. “Oh, it’s you, Nancy. Come in, come in. I always forget how much you look like your mother.”

  Nancy needed no reminder of how far back his friendship with the Drews went. “Thank you for seeing me, Uncle Jon,” she said softly. “Mrs. O’Hara told me you aren’t feeling well, so I’ll try not to be long.”

  “I’d be grateful. I was about to go upstairs.”

  Taking a deep breath, Nancy searched for a way to begin. “Uncle Jon, I—I realize that you would have to report a bribery attempt, but—”

  “I should have known you’d appreciate my predicament,” the judge said, a trace of his old spark appearing. “Our system of justice is under attack from all sides, all sides. We on the bench are obligated to—”

  “Excuse me,” Nancy said, interrupting him. “I meant that I wouldn’t expect you to do anything else. But please tell me that no matter how it looks, you know my dad would never stoop to bribery.”

  The skin around his mouth tightened. “You can’t know what a person will do until you’ve carried his burden, sat in his place.”

  “But—”

  “I will say that Carson has always represented the best of his generation in the protection of our laws.”

  “And that hasn’t changed. You know how dedicated he is. He would never bribe anyone, Uncle Jon. He’s innocent!”

  The judge, dwarfed behind the massive desk, nodded wearily. “Then there’s no need to worry. It’ll be proven in a court of law. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired. It’s been a bad week. My Martha was buried a year ago yesterday, you know.”

  Nancy was startled. She hadn’t realized it had been a year since the judge’s wife died. But she couldn’t let him go yet. “Wait, please, Uncle Jon. Just a minute more.”

  He pushed himself to his feet, supporting himself on the edges of the desk. “There’s nothing more to be said.”

  “Uncle Jon, please! It was someone else’s voice, someone imitating him on that tape!”

  “Tape?” For a second the judge’s eyes were vague and unfocused.

  “I’m sure a voice analysis will prove it wasn’t my father, but in the meantime, his reputation will be . . .” Nancy broke off and stared at him, a funny feeling creeping up the back of her neck. “You do tape your calls?”

  “I—” Judge Renk seemed confused, uncertain. “Yes. No matter. It was definitely Carson’s voice. He called me the day before yesterday, and—”

  “When?” The judge’s statement had triggered a memory—her father grumbling about a one-hour morning meeting that had lasted until almost ten o’clock that night. “I even had lunch and dinner brought in,” Carson Drew had said. “I was in that room so long, I got cabin fever.”

  “You say he called you the day before yesterday, Uncle Jon? But I know he was in a meeting from eight-thirty in the morning until ten at night.”

  “Then he must have called during a break.” He spoke hurriedly, as if he were running out of breath. “That’s it, during a break.”

  “What time was it?”

  “I—I don’t remember exactly. I’ll have to think about it. I—” Frowning, he rubbed his forehead. “Maybe it was the day before that.”

  Nancy felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach as the beginning of a very unpleasant and unexpected suspicion began to filter through her mind.

  “I’ll have to check,” the judge was saying. “I—” Suddenly his voice failed, and he shook his head. “Carson doesn’t deserve this.”

  It came so softly that Nancy almost missed it. “ ‘Doesn’t deserve . . .’ This is a frameup, and you’re a part of it, aren’t you?” Suddenly she knew it for certain, and the realization left her stunned. “You made the bribery accusation, knowing it wasn’t true!”

  The judge tried to bristle, but it didn’t work. “I won’t be talked to like this,” he said, blustering.

  Darting behind the desk, Nancy leaned over him. “You lied, Uncle Jon! Why? Why?”

  “Please, you don’t understand.”

  “Oh, Uncle Jon! What would Aunt Martha say if she knew? She used to say my dad was like a son to her! So did you! Yet you’re trying to ruin him! He’ll be disbarred, go to prison—”

  “It won’t come to that. I won’t let it.”

  “We were almos
t killed last night! Ann Granger and my father and me—because we were with her! Her car was rigged to explode when she opened the door. She’s in the hospital right now.”

  “No,” the judge whispered.

  “And about an hour ago a man tried to kidnap me. It was going to be a swap—my life for the name of Ann Granger’s contact!”

  The judge’s face was pale. “They wouldn’t.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? They are capable of anything! It’s up to you to stop them! You, protector of our system of laws!”

  With his own words used as a weapon against him, the judge seemed to collapse. “No more, Nancy. I swear to you I never thought it would go this far, never thought—” He dabbed at his forehead. “Get the police, Nancy. I’ll do what has to be done.”

  Nancy’s sense of triumph was muted by a deep sadness. One of her childhood idols had crumbled before her eyes. “There’s a squad car out front,” she said softly. “I’ll ask one of the officers to come in.” She hurried from the room, afraid he would change his mind.

  Crossing the marble foyer, Nancy heard footsteps. Mrs. O’Hara was just at the entrance to the library, a tray of covered dishes in her hand. “I’ll be right back,” Nancy called to the housekeeper.

  “Hurry, then. It’s soup, nice and hot.”

  As Nancy opened the front door, a shot shattered the silence behind her. She whirled around. Mrs. O’Hara, one foot across the threshold to the library, dropped the tray. Heavy soup bowls and spoons went flying—the crockery shattering and soup splattering everywhere.

  Then the housekeeper screamed, a wail of horror that ricocheted against the paneled walls and pierced Nancy’s heart with dread.

  Mrs. O’Hara turned toward her, eyes wide and horrified. “Oh, Nancy! The judge has shot himself!”

  Chapter

  Six

  THE NEXT TIME Nancy looked at her watch, it was four forty-five, and the judge’s body was being carried out the front door. Mrs. O’Hara had been mistaken. Jonathan Renk had not fired the weapon himself. A neat round hole in the window behind him made it clear that he had been shot from outside. And proof of Carson Drew’s innocence had died with him.

  The house and grounds were swarming with police. Nancy felt as if she had been there for days. She had told three different officers what happened in minute detail. She had also been fingerprinted to eliminate her prints from the others in the room, even though it was obvious the shot had come from outdoors.

  Her announcement that the judge had been planning to admit his part in the frameup had been met with raised eyebrows. The police had only her word for it, and that wasn’t enough considering the situation with her father. Discouraged, she stopped trying to convince them after a while.

  Now the pace of activity had begun to slow. Nancy sat near the bottom of the staircase and tried to sort out her feelings.

  She had gone through her ordeal alone. Her father was in court. Ned was out job hunting.

  She’d had to be the professional Nancy Drew and react to the emergency—checking for a pulse she knew would not be there, getting the police, trying to calm Mrs. O’Hara, answering the same questions again and again.

  That phase was over. She could be plain Nancy Drew for a few minutes and feel the pain of her loss. Her uncle Jon was dead, a friend she had known all her life. And even though he’d proven himself to be less than admirable during his last few days, at the end he had shown himself to be a friend of the Drews, ready to do anything to clear Nancy’s father. Her head lowered, her arms wrapped around her knees, Nancy let herself grieve for Jonathan Renk.

  Finally the mournful chime of his grandfather clock reminded her of the time. She had work to do, a case to solve. And with her father’s accuser dead, she was back to square one.

  But first there was a nagging question to deal with. How was it that her uncle Jon had been shot immediately after he had decided to come clean? It was as if his murderer had been right there with them. Was it possible—?

  Nancy got up and peeked into the library. Two men in shirt-sleeves were talking in a corner. Behind them a police photographer hopped around taking pictures, his flash attachment flaring. Nancy backed away and headed for the kitchen.

  Mrs. O’Hara was resting in her room next to the kitchen. She was stretched out on her bed, eyes closed. Her television was on with the sound turned down.

  “Mrs. O’Hara, how are you feeling?” Nancy asked gently.

  The housekeeper opened her eyes and gave a weak smile. “Better, lass. Are they done? Have they taken him away?”

  “Yes. Do you feel like talking?”

  “Aye.” Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she sat up. “It’s time I pulled myself together. There’s so much to do. There are the funeral arrangements to start—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve called Hannah, and she’s on her way here. She and my dad will help you.”

  Dad. Nancy had been almost glad he hadn’t been home. She didn’t want to be the one to have to tell her father about the murder of his old friend. Giving the news to Ann and Bess had been bad enough.

  “Mr. Carson would do that? Help with services for the judge?” the housekeeper was asking. “Even after everything—”

  “Of course. He thought the world of Uncle Jon. Mrs. O’Hara, have any workmen been here recently? Perhaps someone from the telephone company?”

  “No, there’s nothing wrong with our phones.”

  “No strangers at all?”

  “Not a one, until that crowd of reporters showed up yesterday morning. Pesky bunch. One of them had the brass to follow the cable TV man right in the back door. I told him what I thought of him, that I did. The repairman, too, until he told me who he was and what he wanted.”

  “You weren’t expecting a repairman?” Nancy’s pulse quickened.

  “No. He said some kids had been tampering with the cable junction box out on the street, and he was checking to make sure they hadn’t interfered with the pay-channel service—the movies and such.”

  “That was yesterday morning?”

  “No, I’m wrong. It was afternoon.”

  “How long was he here?”

  “No time at all. Maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “And you were with him the whole time?”

  “Goodness, no. I was fixing the judge’s lunch, so I showed the man where the sets were and left him to it.” She stopped when she saw one of the detectives standing in the doorway.

  “Are you up to talking to me now?” he asked kindly.

  He was just the excuse Nancy needed to leave. “I’ll wait outside, Mrs. O’Hara.” She had some searching to do.

  The library was empty. The black dust of the fingerprint experts and the tiny hole in the window were the only signs that anything unusual had happened there. A television was set into the wall behind sliding doors. Nancy opened them and gazed thoughtfully at the big blank screen.

  The channel-selector box was on a shelf beneath the set. It was small and rectangular, about the size of an answering machine. Nancy slid the shelf out until she could see the phone numbers of the cable company printed on a label stuck to the side of the selector. Unwilling to touch anything on the judge’s desk, she went out into the hall to use the phone.

  After two minutes of conversation with the dispatcher of the cable TV’s service department, her suspicions were confirmed—they had not sent a repairman.

  Nancy went back to stare at the set. She ran her fingers along the outer edges of the television, reaching as far into the recess as she could. There was nothing there, and the set was too heavy for her to pull out alone.

  The shelf below was still extended. She slid it back into position, then remembered she hadn’t examined the channel selector. She picked it up and looked at all sides. Nothing. She checked the bottom. Nothing. She had set it down before she realized she had seen something after all.

  Nancy turned the selector over again. It sat on four rubber rings that protected the furniture from being
scratched. About the size of dimes, the thick rings had screws in their centers attaching them to the base of the box. In three of the rings, the screws were visible. But in the fourth was a tiny, metallic cylinder.

  She found what she had been looking for. The room was bugged.

  Nancy went back to Mrs. O’Hara’s room. Mrs. O’Hara’s television sat there, the selector on top, a silent witness to the conversation between the housekeeper and the detective. Finger to her lips, Nancy beckoned them out to the kitchen and into the pantry.

  “What’s up?” the detective asked impatiently.

  Nancy told him what she had found. “That’s how they knew he was about to admit everything! They must have had someone nearby, just in case.”

  The detective’s face told her he wasn’t ready to take her word for it. “I’ll go check,” he said.

  “And I let him in!” Mrs. O’Hara said tearfully after he had left. “It’s all my fault!”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Nancy said to assure her. “When a man shows up in a cable company truck, you expect him to be what he says he is.”

  “But he didn’t—show up in the usual truck, I mean.” She pulled a handkerchief from her apron and dabbed at her eyes. “It was a white van like the one the cable company uses, but I didn’t notice until he was leaving that it didn’t have the purple letters on the sides.”

  “It didn’t?”

  “There was tape on the sides, long strips of it. Maybe there was a sign under it. I was busy. I just didn’t think—And it had a bent front fender that ripped into some of the rosebushes as it came through the back gate.”

  “Ms. Drew?” the detective said softly, pausing on his way past the pantry door. “My apologies. You were right.” He smiled. “Thanks.” Then he was gone again.

  Chalk one up for our side, Nancy thought and then turned back to the housekeeper. “What did the man look like, Mrs. O’Hara?”

  “Oh my. Forty, maybe. Not tall, not short. Average, he was, wearing the purple cable company cap. That’s all I really looked at.”