En Garde (Nancy Drew (All New) Girl Detective Book 17) (5 page)

There was a quick cut to Una, holding up her bandaged arm. From the miserable expression on her face, I could guess she wasn’t happy about showing off her injury on TV.

The camera went back to Mourbiers. “When the referee looked at the glove,” he continued, “it became clear that it was not Una’s own glove. Someone must have placed this damaged gauntlet with her equipment. I merely questioned the referee about the possibility of sabotage, and then suddenly this other coach, this Kovacs fellow—that’s Bela Kovacs, who runs the Salle Budapest fencing school—got completely out of hand.” The image on screen switched to footage of Kovacs charging at Mourbiers, his hair wild and his eyes blazing.

“Do you think this penalty has taught him a lesson?” the reporter asked.

Mourbiers shrugged expressively and cast a sorrowful
look up to the ceiling. “If only life were that simple. But I don’t know if it is possible for an old dog like Bela Kovacs to learn such new tricks. He learned the sport many years ago in Hungary, you see. Hungarians were always known to be vicious fighters. Like Attila the Hun, for example.”

My father snorted. “That’s a low blow, bringing in Attila the Hun!”

“Bela Kovacs carries on that tradition of winning at all costs,” Mourbiers continued. “I’ve known Bela many years. We met when we competed against each other in ’76, at the Olympics in Montreal. There were rumors about him even then. I don’t know—if I were hiring a fencing master to teach my child this sport, I wouldn’t send him to study with a man of such questionable reputation. I wouldn’t send him to Salle Budapest.”

The reporter faced the camera and announced, “This is Kelly Chaffetz, at the University of River Heights field house. Steve, back to you.”

My dad lowered the volume as the next segment began—late-breaking coverage of a grocery store grand opening over in Farmingville. “That must have been some fencing match,” he said. “Did you witness the fight, Nan?”

I sighed. “Yes, I was right there. One of George’s friends was involved.”

“The girl with the bandaged arm?” Hannah asked, her voice full of concern.

I shook my head. “No, George’s friend DeLyn caused the injury. She didn’t mean to—in fact, she felt pretty lousy about hurting her opponent. And on top of that, she lost the bout because her coach started the fight.”

“So her coach is this Hungarian man?” Dad clarified. His lips twitched with a smile he couldn’t ward off. “Attila the Hun’s descendant?”

“Come on, Dad, Bela Kovacs isn’t that bad,” I protested.

“Of course he isn’t!” Dad said. “It was so obvious that Frenchman was trying to ruin his competitor’s reputation. I’m just surprised the TV station ran such a one-sided piece. But you, Nancy, I trust. So what’s your impression of Bela Kovacs?”

I settled back in my chair, trying to sort out my thoughts. “Well, he’s not a guy I’d invite to dinner anytime soon,” I admitted. “He isn’t the model of a supportive, nurturing teacher. Ned took a couple of classes with him last winter and he’s terrified of him.”

Hannah paused in her needlework. “Ned? Why, that boy usually gets along very well with people.” Hannah’s kind of partial to Ned Nickerson, for obvious reasons.

“But on the other hand, George takes fencing lessons from Bela Kovacs and she thinks the world of him,” I said, determined to be fair-minded.

“I don’t need hearsay. I need your direct impression,” my father insisted. He’s a lawyer—and a pretty successful one at that. He hates fuzzy thinking. I guess I get that from him too.

I thought for a minute. “I did see Kovacs speak pretty rudely to George’s friend DeLyn, and it made me uncomfortable. But he was giving her solid coaching advice, about doing warm-ups and preparing mentally for her match. I never heard him tell her to cheat.”

Dad nodded. “In the law, we have some pretty clear guidelines about this sort of thing,” he said. “You can be sued if you spread lies about someone. Even if the information you spread is true, you can still be sued for slander if it’s proven you did it for a malicious reason. Now, clearly this Mourbiers fellow is trying to ruin Bela Kovacs’s reputation. For all we know, those accusations may be true. But he has no right to go on television and make such remarks, especially not when Kovacs had no chance to defend himself.”

“That poor man’s business could be ruined by this,” Hannah said, jabbing her needle into her canvas with an outraged scowl.

“Are you saying Bela Kovacs could sue Paul Mourbiers for slander, Dad?” I asked.

Dad tapped his temple, thinking. “I’m not sure he’d have a case,” he said. “Those are usually tough cases to prove. First, he’d have to produce evidence that the news report cost him a significant amount of business. It’s no good just saying someone made you look bad—you have to show concrete damages. And then you’d have to prove that Mourbiers did it intentionally.”

“Like, for example, if Mourbiers had called the TV station and got them to cover the fencing tournament in the first place?”

Dad raised his eyebrows and asked, “Did he?”

“Maybe. It’s just a hunch.”

Dad rolled his eyes and lifted up his newspaper. “Hunches don’t stand up in a court of law, Nancy. I hope you don’t think this is another case for you to solve.”

“No one has asked me to get involved,” I answered. That was true—no one had. But I
was
starting to get curious on my own behalf.

“It sounds as if these two coaches go back a long way,” Dad continued. “Whatever lies between them, you won’t clear it up with a few discreet inquiries. You can’t fix all the problems in the world, you know.”

True. But when I thought about how miserable Una and DeLyn had looked when their coaches started fighting, it made me wish there was something I could do about it.

The next afternoon I parked outside Salle Budapest. I’d promised to pick up George after her fencing clinic, but I was also there because I was curious. I wondered whether Hannah was right. Could a small story on the nightly local news really destroy the reputation of Bela Kovacs?

I studied my surroundings for a minute before getting out of my car. I’d been to Salle Budapest several times before, meeting George before or after classes, but I’d never really looked at it before. It was a stand-alone, one-story cinder-block building, faced with tan bricks. It had a blacktop parking area surrounded by weeds, a garbage bin out back, and an air-conditioning unit humming alongside it. Nothing special.

I’d never paid attention before, so I couldn’t tell if today there were fewer cars parked there than usual. As I scanned the lot, though, I did remember seeing Raggedy Man there a few days ago. Funny thing—I kept forgetting about that guy when other things were on my mind. But for some reason, I couldn’t ignore him entirely. I didn’t know yet if he was a
piece in this fencing-school puzzle, but if he was, he sure didn’t fit right.

Leaving my car, I went through the front entrance, a swinging glass door with the name
SALLE BUDAPEST
painted in curly red and black letters. The small raised entry area was cluttered with metal folding chairs and bulky canvas equipment bags that students had dumped onto the floor. Beyond an iron railing, you went down one step into the main studio, a large fluorescent-lit room with a varnished blond wood floor. One side wall was lined with mirrors. Accordion-fold doors along the other side wall hid shelves loaded with equipment—swords, masks, doublets, lamés, boxes of tangled electric body cords, scoring equipment. Until the tournament yesterday, I hadn’t even known—or cared—what most of it was used for. At the back of the studio, a gray upholstered partition sectioned off a few office cubicles. It wasn’t a very complicated setup.

I stepped over several equipment bags and perched on one of the folding chairs. I supposed they’d been put there so parents could wait for their children, but I’d never seen any parents there. It wasn’t a cozy place to hang out.

While I waited for George, I tried to estimate whether there were fewer students here than usual.
The studio didn’t look crowded, but then it never had when I’d been there before.

Seeing me, George came leaping over to the railing. She pushed her wire-mesh mask up and grinned. Her brown eyes sparkled, and she looked totally pumped up. “I just wanted to do one more round against Edwina,” she said. “It won’t take more than five minutes. Can you wait?”

“Sure, I’m in no hurry. Go ahead.” I smiled. It was good to see George eager to fence again. She’d seemed kind of down after she lost her match yesterday.

“Bela gave me some really great tips for what to work on,” George said. “He says that sometimes you benefit more from a loss than from a victory. That girl I fenced yesterday? Bela deliberately matched me against her because she was so much better than me. That’s the best way to learn, Bela says. I scored more points against her than he expected! He was really proud.”

“Good for you, George!” I said.

George fiddled with the silver duct tape wrapped around the point of her sword. “I thought something was weird—the electric button came disconnected,” she said. “The machine didn’t register when I touched Edwina’s lamé. Now I’ll beat her for sure!” She smacked her mask back down, whirled around,
and bounced off to where her partner waited on the fencing strip.

Since it looked like I’d be staying for a while, and I was getting thirsty, I went off in search of some water. I tiptoed down the length of the main studio, carefully hugging close to the equipment closet wall—no point in getting in the way of the fencers. They would be armed and dangerous!

I reached the far end, where I suspected there would be a bathroom. I poked my head around the partition. Damon was sitting in the first cubicle, schoolbooks spread open on a battered metal desk. He looked up, smiled, and parted his lips to say hello. But just then we both heard Bela Kovacs bark from the next cubicle, “Damon! Is the answering machine on?”

“Yes, Bela,” Damon said, rolling his eyes at me.

“Good!” Bela replied gruffly. “Don’t waste your time answering the phone anymore.”

“But Bela, you hired me to answer the phone,” Damon replied, looking confused. “That was supposed to be my job—”

“Today it is not your job!” Bela snapped, peering over the partition. “Why pick up the nasty thing? It’ll just be some more cowardly students canceling their lessons. Or maybe it will be another smothering, weak-willed parent, whining that she has to withdraw her spoiled offspring from my classes.”

Damon sighed. “Now, Bela, you can’t blame people for reacting to that news show. It’s only natural, until they learn the true story. . . .”

The cubicle wall shook as Kovacs pounded it in fury. “That scheming French weasel provoked me!” he shouted. Everyone in the salle could hear him, of course. A sick silence fell over the entire studio.

“You know the whole thing was a setup,” Kovacs ranted on. “Mourbiers got
his own fencer
to fake an injury, just to ruin me. In all my years, I have never seen such unethical conduct!”

Damon jumped up. “Bela, please, quiet down. Everyone’s listening.”

A moment’s seething silence followed. I sidled away, trying to look casual. I didn’t want to intrude—but I sure wanted to hear Bela’s reply.

Draping himself over the cubicle wall, Damon went on in a soft, pleading voice, “This will die off in a few months, Bela. Students will return. They won’t go all the way to Cutler Falls to study with Mourbiers—why, that’s twenty miles! They might do it a few times, but they’ll get tired of the drive and they’ll come back here. Don’t worry, Bela—your business will survive in the long run.”

Another heavy silence. Then the old Hungarian’s voice, shaking, replied, “The long run? Damon, how long do you expect me to wait this out?”

Damon hesitated. “A few months, maybe—four or five.”

“Four or five months!” Bela snorted. “Is that all? And how do you propose I keep this business running until then?” He paused, as if trying to steady his shaking voice. Then he went on, slowly and wearily, “I can’t wait that long, Damon. You know I put all my savings into this new building—and then borrowed more. The place is mortgaged to the hilt. The rates are so high—” I heard him slam his fist into the desk. “The bankers are bleeding me dry!”

He paused again. Then he spoke so softly, I had to lean forward to catch his words. “Every month I earn just enough for that month’s payments. There is no cushion anymore. And my creditors have grown tired of my excuses. If I fall short this month . . . they will close me down.” He paused, then burst out with a strangled sob. “Salle Budapest will be no more!”

I
couldn’t see Bela
Kovacs at that moment—and I didn’t want to. It was bad enough to have to look at Damon Brittany’s face. His eyes had gone blank and his mouth sagged open. His shoulders and chest sank, as if he were caving in from the inside.

Figuring that Damon didn’t want anybody to see his pain at that moment, I ducked into the bathroom and pulled its flimsy wooden door shut behind me.

When I came out a minute later, Damon was gone. His books had been swept off the desk, the desk chair was still rocking, and the back door to the salle was swinging. He sure got out of there in a hurry.

Well, I couldn’t blame him. The news of Kovacs’s impending bankruptcy obviously upset Damon. I
was impressed that someone like Damon, who had been with Bela for years—who really knew him—cared this much about the crusty old guy. That told me one thing: There must be more good in Bela Kovacs than I had realized.

And right now, he needed a friend.

Sometimes I have more nerve than is good for me. This was one of those times. Without a second thought, I walked around the wall of the inner cubicle and faced Bela Kovacs.

The Hungarian was slumped over his desk, head burrowed in his folded arms. Hearing my footsteps, he lifted his head just enough to snarl, “Go away, Damon. You have your orders.”

“It isn’t Damon, Mr. Kovacs,” I said.

He looked up slowly. “So who is it? Another student wishing to defect? Come to torment me, on the worst day of my life?”