En Garde (Nancy Drew (All New) Girl Detective Book 17) (12 page)

Bess shook her head. “But what motive would he have for hurting Una? If he wants to get back at his sister, hurting her main rival wouldn’t do it.”

George and I traded glances. “Doug Calley told us he’d heard that Damon and Una were dating,” George suggested. “My first reaction was, no way. From what I’ve heard him say, he can’t stand her. But now I wonder . . .”

I was starting to wonder too. It seemed like none of us really knew Damon Brittany. We had no idea what made him tick—or what he was capable of doing.

And that could be very dangerous.

Walking into the field house the next morning, we were the first spectators through the door. I nudged
Bess. “Look—the TV station sent a crew again.”

“Maybe this is the follow-up Derrick promised,” Bess said hopefully.

I frowned. “That’s not Derrick over there—it’s Kelly Chaffetz again. Hoping to get a repeat of Tuesday’s excitement on camera, I’ll bet.”

“You can’t blame her,” Ned said. “Bela blew his chance at getting some positive spin when he sent the TV crew away from the salle on Wednesday. Kelly Chaffetz won’t pass up the opportunity to get some more juicy footage for tonight’s show. It’s all about the ratings, you know.”

“Well, she won’t get anything juicy if I have anything to do with it,” I said. “That’s what we’re here to prevent. Ned you find Damon, and don’t let him out of your sight. He’s probably in the men’s locker room. I’ll keep my eyes open for any kind of sabotage in the women’s locker room. I wish we’d been able to get in here earlier. Too bad you weren’t fencing today, George.”

“Can’t help it if I’m not on the college team,” George said. “And the way I’m fencing, I don’t expect a scholarship in my future either.” She gave me a rueful smile. “Bess and I will stay out here. I’ll find Bela and stick to him like a burr. Bess, you follow Paul Mourbiers—at least he won’t recognize you.”

I completely ignored the sign reading
COMPETITORS ONLY
taped to the locker room door. In the confusion inside, with all the fencers getting into their white tunics and breeches, no one stopped me. Of course, I had intentionally dressed in white clothes so I wouldn’t stand out in the fencing crowd.

I smiled and said hi to every girl I passed, and they always smiled back as if they recognized me. I personally have a great memory for faces and names, but most people don’t—and they hate to admit it. If you act like they should know you, they pretend they do. And that was enough for me to blend in. I even poked into a few open lockers and equipment bags, pretending they were mine. By now I was familiar with fencing equipment. I knew what was supposed to be in there and what wasn’t.

Crouching down between two rows of lockers, I couldn’t see the locker room entrance. But when a tense hush fell over the room, I figured someone important had just arrived. I crept to the end of the lockers and peered around. Una had just walked in, head high, looking as nonchalant as possible. Right behind her was DeLyn, also looking as if she had no idea who Una was.

You know who they reminded me of at that moment? Bela Kovacs and Paul Mourbiers. Funny
how the arrogant attitudes of the teachers had rubbed off on their students.

Both DeLyn and Una were bound to recognize me and wonder why I was there. But that couldn’t be helped—I had to find a way to check their equipment. Waiting until Una’s back was turned, I walked boldly out into the main aisle. “Hi, DeLyn!” I said.

DeLyn’s eyes opened wide in surprise, but she didn’t give me away. “Hi,” she replied.

“Say, do you have an extra foil I could borrow?” I asked, keeping up the pretense that I was a fencer.

She shoved her bag toward me with her toe as she strapped on her tunic. “Bela fixed my foil for me—it’s in there. And I’m not fencing foil today, only saber.”

I knelt down and began to check her equipment. “You have all your sabers?” I asked, thinking about the sword that had been stuck in my door.

She looked perplexed. “Yes, why?”

“No reason.” I picked up her gauntlet and tested the seams, then checked the electrical plug on both of the lamés she had brought.

Just then Una came cruising past DeLyn, her mask under one arm, a saber cocked jauntily in her gloved hand. “Better get a move on, DeLyn,” she said, tossing her words coolly over one shoulder as she passed by. “We’re paired for our first bout, and it starts in three minutes. You don’t want to forfeit again.”

“You’d better hope I do—it’s your only chance of winning,” DeLyn shot back. I stole a glance at DeLyn. She didn’t look half as confident as her words made her sound.

“Better get out there,” I murmured to DeLyn. Seeing Una’s equipment bag sitting on the floor, I scooted over to it. None of the other fencers noticed me unzipping the bag and slipping my hand inside.

A foil, a spare gauntlet, an extra saber—the usual equipment. I pulled out a wrapped-up cube of rosin, which I knew fencers rub into their shoes to ensure good traction on the mat. A small box of Band-Aids and antiseptic ointment, in case of blisters or scrapes, I imagined. Or another sword scratch. I remembered that saber bouts were different from foil bouts. Saber fencers can score a touch on a much greater area of the body—the thighs and arms as well as the torso—and can score touches with the side of the blade, not just the tip. Saber fencers have a much greater chance of getting gouged. It takes nerves of steel to fence saber.

I thrust my hand into Una’s bag one more time and hit a small, hard glass object, about three inches high. I pulled it out. It was a brown glass medicine bottle, with a yellowing label from a local pharmacy. Inside was a colorless sort of crystalline powder. I scanned the label curiously.

My heart skipped a beat.

According to the label, this was a bottle of strychnine.

Have you ever seen anybody die of strychnine poisoning? I bet not. I have been told it’s one of the most gruesome deaths possible—every muscle in the body arcing in endless spasms and convulsions, the face contorting in a horrible grimace, until eventually, the victim dies of sheer exhaustion. I did not want to see my first strychnine death today.

Clutching the deadly bottle in my hand, I jumped up, grabbed the bag by its handles, and raced out of the locker room, heading for the fencing area. My heart was hammering and my blood was roaring in my ears.

Across the field house floor, I spotted Una’s tall, slim figure advancing down the mat, saber in hand, against DeLyn. Una’s arm rose, saber glinting. She lunged toward DeLyn and slashed her sword downward in a long diagonal stroke. DeLyn yelped and twisted away, her gloved hand rising to her cheek.

I gasped. Una had just grazed DeLyn’s cheek with the edge of her saber.

And if Una’s blade was coated with strychnine powder . . . DeLyn could die!

I
ran to the fencing
strip, with Una’s bag banging against my legs. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed someone else running toward the mat from another direction—Damon. And Ned was not far behind.

Damon reached the strip first. “Referee, inspect that fencer’s sword!” he demanded, pointing at Una.

Una stood, seething, on the mat, her sword dangling at her side. The TV cameraman was heading our way. And I could see Bela and Mourbiers both striding toward the mat.

“And go through her equipment bag, too!” Damon added.

“Damon, what are you doing?” DeLyn protested. “I’m fine—it’s just a scratch.”

The referee frowned. He wasn’t the same official who’d overseen the girls’ bout on Tuesday, but he clearly knew the history of Una and DeLyn’s rivalry. “Where is your equipment bag?” he asked Una.

“In the locker room,” she began, “but—”

“No, it isn’t—I’ve got it here!” I announced, holding up Una’s bag. The referee gave me a curious look. I couldn’t see Una’s face under the mask, but I guess she was perplexed too. I didn’t bother to explain—there was no time to waste.

I glanced nervously at DeLyn. The scratch on her cheek wasn’t deep—but you don’t need much of a laceration for strychnine to work inside the body. Reaction to strychnine starts ten to twenty minutes after exposure, beginning with a stiff neck and shoulders. A victim’s chance of survival is much greater if you begin treatment before the symptoms start. I wasn’t going to wait for the referee to finish searching the bag.

“What did you expect they’d find, Damon—this?” I asked. I held up the medicine bottle.

Damon jerked back, startled. “Wha—”

“The label says this is strychnine,” I said as quietly as possible to the referee, throwing a nervous look over my shoulder at the TV camera behind us. Ned, reading my mind, stepped in front of the camera so the cameraman had to shut it off.

“I found it in Una’s bag a few minutes ago,” I went on. “I don’t know why it’s there—but if she put this on her saber blade, DeLyn needs her stomach pumped right away. Once the strychnine gets into her system—”

“Did I just hear something about my baby needing her stomach pumped?” asked Mrs. Brittany, thrusting her arms wide as she marched through the crowd. “What is in that bottle, Miss Drew? Damon, what do you know about this?”

How had she heard me? Oh well. “Damon, you put that bottle in Una’s bag, didn’t you?” I asked.

Damon flinched—and then nodded reluctantly.

Mrs. Brittany gasped. “Why, Damon, why would you want to hurt your sister?”

Damon raised his hands, pleading. “Hurt DeLyn? Never! Sheesh, there’s nothing in that bottle—just some bath salts.”

I felt an enormous sense of relief—DeLyn was safe! But it was time to bring Damon to account. “Then why does the label say strychnine?” I asked him. “And why did you put it in Una’s bag?”

The referee crossed his arms. “Look, we have a fencing bout to complete here. If this injury isn’t serious, we should get on with it. You folks discuss this elsewhere.”

Damon threw his arms up and stalked off through
the crowd. But I wasn’t going to let him get away—and neither was Bela Kovacs. We were right behind him. Ned, Bess, and George followed us. So did Paul Mourbiers and Mrs. Brittany. A crowd of curious onlookers trailed after us, including Kelly Chaffetz and the cameraman, although their camera was still turned off. There was another guy there who looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him—a thin young man with a brown ponytail, dressed in a neat polo shirt and khakis. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists and glaring at Damon, as if he wanted to take him apart.

At the edge of the fencing floor, Bela grabbed Damon’s arm and spun him around. “What are you up to, Damon?” Bela demanded. “If you are behind all this mischief—it could ruin my business—” Bela’s face twisted suddenly. “After all I have done for you! I have loved you like my own son.”

Damon swallowed, his face sorrowful. “I never meant to hurt the salle, Bela. It was just—I had to get back at Una. How could she break up with me?”

“You mean all of this is . . . over a girl?” Bela looked confounded.

Damon hung his head. “I knew you wouldn’t like it, Bela—me dating a Salle Olympique girl. We went out for a couple of months, but I kept it from you. Then last week she broke it off. Some old
boyfriend—a guy her father didn’t like—she said she couldn’t get over him.”

The skinny young man in khakis gasped, then grinned. That’s when I realized who it was—Doug Calley. He had cleaned up a lot since yesterday. Maybe he had finally realized that that creepy stalker routine was no way to win a girl.

“I had to get back at Una,” Damon repeated in a stubborn voice.

“So you sabotaged her equipment?” I guessed.

He nodded sullenly. “On Tuesday, before the bout. I ripped open a gauntlet and peeled the coating off the wires on her lamé. Then I put that faked-up poison bottle in her bag. I didn’t want her to get hurt—I just wanted her to get into trouble with the referees for improper equipment. Maybe she’d lose a bout—that would serve her right.”

“But it was DeLyn who ended up losing Tuesday’s bout,” Bess said.

Damon kicked the steel foot of the bleachers. “Yeah, that backfired. But that was because Mourbiers tricked you into losing your temper, Bela.”

“I did not—he lost his own temper!” Bela protested.

Damon didn’t look like he believed that. “He knew just what to say to get you going, Bela. And all because the TV crew was there, filming it. That’s
what hurt your business, Bela—not anything I did.”

Bela frowned. “But if you hadn’t damaged the gauntlet—”

Damon brushed that fact aside with a wave of his hand. “When I saw the effects of that—people canceling their lessons, the bank breathing down your neck—well, that made me fighting mad. I decided to beat Mourbiers at his own game. I’d heard you accuse him of sabotaging the bout, so I decided to make it look like he really was sabotaging your business.”

“So that’s why you tampered with the equipment at Salle Budapest?” I said. “Removing the sword tips, putting the ampoule of smelling salts inside DeLyn’s mask—”

Damon looked surprised that I’d figured that out. “I intended to pull it off of DeLyn before the fumes overcame her. But somehow our masks got switched—I think George did it accidentally.”

George flushed. “Now that you mention it, I did hand DeLyn her mask that evening . . . at least I thought it was hers. . . .”

Damon shook his head in disgust. “And all along, there you were, Nancy, pretending to be a friend, when you were really a detective, snooping on us.”

“Bela asked me to,” I told Damon. “I was hoping to help the salle.”

“You knew, somehow—and that’s why you stuck your saber in her door,” Bess concluded.

“Well, you can clear off now, Nancy,” Damon said. “There’s nothing to investigate. No one has been hurt, outside of a few minor scratches.”

“You’re wrong there, Damon,” said another man, pushing through the cluster of onlookers. Wearing a university sweatshirt and carrying a clipboard, he was clearly the coach of Damon and DeLyn’s college fencing team. “Something has been hurt by all this mischief,” he said gravely. “The integrity of fencing. This isn’t a sport where people do things like damaging other athletes’ equipment. I’m very disappointed in you.”