High Risk (3 page)

Then Biggs leveled a finger at Ned and said, “One more slipup and you're out of a job!”

N
ANCY BIT HER LIP
. Poor Ned! He was really getting a working over.

At that moment the door to the head of the department's office opened and Joe Packard came out, briefcase in hand. Nancy had met him once or twice before. He was an imposing figure, very tall and lean, with a thick shock of white hair. He caught Nancy's eye and winked at her. Then he addressed Wally Biggs.

“Why don't you give the boy a break, Wally?” he said in a mild voice. “I think we can assume his motives were good, even if he was a little overzealous. I'm sure he won't do it again.”

Wally Biggs turned around, his jowls quivering. “Yes, Joe, but I—”

“No buts, Wally,” Packard said firmly. “I'm
sure Ned got the message. Now, why don't you go home? I'm sure you've had a long day.”

“Right,” Biggs said, trying to sound as if that were what he had been planning all along.

Nancy had to suppress a laugh. Packard had certainly taken the wind out of Biggs's sails!

Biggs caught Nancy's eye and glared at her before hurrying off.

When Biggs was out of earshot, Ned emerged from his office. “Hi,” he said to Nancy in a weak voice before turning to Joe Packard.

“Thanks a million, Mr. Packard,” he said. “I really appreciate your coming to my defense.”

The department head set down his briefcase and leaned against a desk. “I'm glad to know you're being vigilant,” he said, “although it does sound as if you may have gone overboard last night. But you're entitled to at least one mistake when you're starting out.”

“It wasn't a mistake!” Ned said earnestly. “I mean, the way I handled it was wrong—I admit that. But I know I'm right about Foyle faking his claim. I reread the report today, and it just doesn't ring true.”

Packard was frowning. “Foyle—Foyle,” he said. He took a book of cardboard matches from his pocket, pulled off a single match and peeled the thin layers of gray cardboard into little curls. Catching Nancy staring at him, he grinned. “Habit,” he told her. “I guess it's a holdover from the days when I smoked.

“Now, the Foyle claim,” he resumed, raising his eyes to Ned. “You told me about that case,
right? The man drove into a cement barrier, then claimed he had head injuries that would keep him from doing his job?”

Ned nodded eagerly. “Right.”

Packard shrugged. “Even if you're correct in saying that this man you saw last night is the same guy who filed the claim with us—and I'm not saying you
are
right—there's probably no way to prove the extent of his injuries. Head injuries are next to impossible to verify. The guy could be out of bed, even walking around, with a mild concussion or skull fracture.”

“But the medical report said he'd be out of commission for months,” Ned protested. “That's why he got so much money, because he couldn't work.”

“Out of commission and not able to work are two different things, aren't they?” Nancy put in.

Packard gave her an approving look. “Yes, they are, in this case. The fellow could be in some sort of job that requires a lot of reading, for example. With any kind of injury that affected his eyes, he'd be disabled as far as his work went, even if he could—say, for instance, go out to dinner. Tell me, who was the doctor who signed the claim?”

“His name is Dr. Robert Meyers,” Ned replied.

Packard snapped his fingers. “There, you see? Meyers is a fine doctor. In fact, he was my wife's physician for years. Solid man. And he was willing to sign the claim. That's why I told you to agree to a settlement, if you'll remember. The man did have the accident, and the money he got
from us is less than he would have gotten if we had gone to court—so don't worry about it.” He bowed in Nancy's direction. “Take this lovely young lady out to dinner instead.”

Nancy smiled. “Sounds good to me.”

After a minute Ned shook his head. “Thanks for your concern, sir,” he said. “But I can't just let it slide.”

“Well, I must say I admire your persistence,” Packard said with a smile. “All right, son. Go ahead and pursue this investigation if you want. Just make sure you're a little more discreet in the future.”

Ned grinned. “I will, sir.”

“Fine. And now I'd better say good night to you both. I'm late for an appointment,” Packard said. He picked up his briefcase and strode out.

“Where should we eat?” Nancy asked when Packard was gone.

Ned didn't seem to hear her. Raking his fingers through his light brown hair, he muttered, “You heard what Wally Biggs said about me being irresponsible. Nan, the only way I'll ever get Biggs off my back is to prove to him that I was right all along.”

“But Packard made it clear that he believes in you,” Nancy pointed out.

Ned shook his head. “Mr. Packard is a terrific guy, but I can't let him fight my battles for me. I have to follow this up, don't you see? Will you help me?”

In a flash, Nancy saw her summer with Ned being swallowed up by this investigation.

Then she mentally kicked herself for selfishness. She thought of all the times Ned had stood by her. How could she say no to him now? And besides, she'd been complaining about how she never saw him. This was her chance to spend more time with him.

“Of course I'll help, Ned,” she promised.

“You're terrific!” Ned said, breaking into a smile. Drawing Nancy into his strong arms, he planted a kiss on her lips.

“Mmmm. I'll go along with that,” Nancy murmured. A pleasant shiver slid along her spine as he held her. “So what do we do first?”

Ned laughed. “Boy, it feels funny to hear you asking me that instead of the other way around. Okay, here's the plan. I want to stake out this Foyle guy's house, starting now.”

“What, no dinner
again?”
Nancy complained in a teasing voice.

“I know a deli that makes great sandwiches,” Ned retorted. “I'm treating.” He went into his office to straighten up his desk. “I got Foyle's address off his claim form,” he continued, talking over his shoulder. “I figure we'll spot him entering or leaving. Then, after we make sure it's the same guy we saw in the restaurant last night, we'll take a photograph.”

“Sounds like a good start,” Nancy told Ned as they walked down the stairs. “But will that prove anything? All that shows is that it's the same guy. It doesn't prove anything about his head injury either way.”

“Ah! That's phase two,” Ned told her. He
raised a finger to wave good night to the security guard. “I'm going to follow our friend T. N. Foyle around with my camera until I can get a shot of him doing something that he absolutely could not do with a serious head injury.”

“Like what?” Nancy asked.

“Like dance. If only I'd thought of this last night! Didn't you hear Foyle and his girlfriend make plans to go dancing?”

Nancy nodded. “Sounds good to me.” She thought of warning Ned that his plans would involve long hours of tracking, on top of the time he put in at work. But all she said was “Let's go!”

First they went to Kirshner's delicatessen, where Ned bought thick roast beef sandwiches and cans of soda. Then, following Ned's instructions, Nancy drove to 421 Beechwood Street, the address T. N. Foyle had listed on his claim form.

Foyle's home was in an undistinguished-looking town house on a narrow one-way street near the center of Mapleton. A few lights showed in the first-floor windows. Nancy parked under some low-hanging branches across the street.

“So tell me about this claim,” she urged Ned as they ate their sandwiches.

Ned sipped his soda. “Well, according to the report, Foyle was driving at night and skidded on an oily patch on the road. The car went out of control, and he slammed into a barrier and hit his head. He managed to walk to a house to call for an ambulance. A few days later he threatened to bring a suit against Mapleton for not keeping its roads clean. His claim was that the town's
negligence had caused him injuries that made it impossible to do his job—he's an accountant. Mutual Life insures the town for liability, so that's where I came in. Mr. Packard said the court costs and all would be horrendous, so we decided to offer him a settlement, which he accepted.”

“Sounds pretty straightforward to me,” Nancy said.

Ned went on, “The reason I'm suspicious is that Foyle's symptoms—double vision, stuff like that—didn't start until a couple of days
after
the doctor at the hospital emergency room checked him out and said he was okay. I suspect that he thought it over and decided that if he could fake symptoms, he could make a mint by suing the town for damages. Since I'm the one who investigated the claim, I feel responsible for straightening the whole mess out.”

“It seems like a long shot,” Nancy remarked, half to herself.

Ned didn't answer, but Nancy saw him frown and immediately felt a pang of guilt. Was she being too discouraging? Could George be right about her not wanting Ned to get involved in investigative work?

“But if anyone can solve this case, you can, Mr. Insurance Dragon,” she added quickly, and was pleased that Ned smiled at her.

After a few minutes Ned got out of the car. “I'm going to ring the doorbell,” he told Nancy. “If Foyle answers, I'll snap his picture. If anyone
else answers, I'll ask for Foyle and see what happens.”

“Be careful,” Nancy called after him. She watched him cross the narrow street and go up to the door. After a moment it was answered by a thin, elderly woman. She and Ned spoke briefly before he turned around and came back to the car.

“That was Foyle's landlady,” he reported. “She says she has no idea when he'll be in.”

“Well, these things happen,” Nancy told him. She eased her seat back to get a little more legroom. “Now I guess we just watch and wait.”

Four hours later Nancy was feeling tired and grimy, and her neck was stiff from staring at the house across the street.

“Ned,” she said. “It's after eleven, and I'm beat. Can we try again tomorrow?”

“Okay, okay,” he said, yawning. “I guess we've done enough staking out for one day.”

Giving Ned a grateful smile, Nancy started the car and drove the short distance to his house.

“I'll call you in the morning,” he told her. He gave her a quick kiss and got out. “And, Nancy, remember one thing—I'm not going to give up until I prove my case.”

• • •

On Saturday morning Nancy hung around the house for an hour or so, waiting for Ned's call, but it didn't come. When she tried to call him, the line was busy. At last she decided to go out and run some errands.

When she came home at two, she asked Hannah if Ned had called.

The gray-haired housekeeper looked up from the kitchen table and smiled at Nancy. “No, he hasn't,” she replied. “Do you two have plans for today?”

“I thought we did,” Nancy said, frowning. “He was supposed to call me this morning.”

At that moment the telephone rang, and Nancy sprang for it. It was Ned, calling from what sounded like a phone booth.

“Ned, what's up? Have you been tailing Foyle?” Nancy asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” Ned said. His voice was high and strained. “Foyle is dead.”

“What?”
Nancy nearly dropped the phone. “Ned, what's going on?”

“Foyle is dead,” Ned repeated, “and I'm at the Mapleton police station—under arrest. Nancy, they think I killed him!”

F
OR A SECOND
Nancy couldn't even breathe. Ned under arrest—for
murder?

“Did—did I hear you right?” she croaked at last. “They think
you—”