High Risk (5 page)

“Second, we need to figure out why Foyle went to the warehouse. And third, we have to determine how the killer escaped after committing the crime.”

Ned suddenly sat up a little straighter. “You just jogged my memory,” he said. “When I was groping around in the dark, I heard a car starting up somewhere close outside. It didn't register until now.”

“Hey, we're getting somewhere already,” Nancy said, pleased.

“But how can we prove to the police that there was someone else there?” George asked.

“We'll go to the warehouse and look for physical evidence,” Nancy answered. “But that'll have to wait. I'm sure the area will be swarming with police for the next twenty-four hours or so. So I think we should start by interviewing Foyle's landlady. She may be able to tell us who the victim's friends were.” She turned to her boyfriend. “Ned, did you get her name?”

“Mrs. Godfrey, I think,” Ned replied after thinking for a moment.

Nancy stood up. “Okay. George and Bess, why don't you come with me to see Mrs. Godfrey.”

“Sounds good,” George said.

The girls left Ned at his house and piled into Nancy's Mustang. When they reached 421 Beechwood Street in Mapleton, Nancy parked, and they all trooped up the concrete stoop. Nancy rang the doorbell.

A minute later a gaunt-faced woman with steel gray hair done up in a tight bun opened the door. “I hope you're not reporters,” she said in a disapproving voice. “I have nothing to say.”

“Uh, no, we're not reporters,” Nancy said, taken aback. “Actually, Mrs. Godfrey, we're detectives. My name is Nancy Drew, and these are my associates, Bess Marvin and George Fayne.”

“Hmmph. Look like a bunch of teenage girls to me,” the woman said, frowning. “What do you want?”

“May we come in?” Nancy asked.

Grudgingly, Mrs. Godfrey stood aside and let the girls in. They followed the landlady through the foyer and into a spotless living room with starched white curtains and carefully polished wooden furniture.

“Mrs. Godfrey, we're investigating the death of your tenant, Toby Foyle,” Nancy said in a matter-of-fact voice.

The girls took seats on the sofa, and Mrs. Godfrey perched on a straight-backed chair facing them.

The lines around Mrs. Godfrey's mouth deepened. “I don't like to speak ill of the dead,” she said, “but I can't say I was surprised to hear that that young man had come to a bad end. He was a sly one. But you're wasting your time investigating. The police told me they already caught the boy who did it—said it's the same young man who came here last night looking for Mr. Foyle.” The landlady shook her head. “I never would have pegged him for a criminal.”

“He isn't one!” Bess burst out. “Ned didn't do it!”

Mrs. Godfrey gave the girls a questioning look. “So you know the boy?”

“Yes, we do,” Nancy admitted. She hadn't wanted to tell Mrs. Godfrey about her connection with Ned, but now that the story was out, she saw no point in denying it. “And we know Ned didn't kill Toby. But we have to prove that to the police.”

Suddenly Mrs. Godfrey's face softened. “I
liked the look of that boy when he came to the door last night. If I can help, I will.”

“Oh, thank you!” Nancy cried.

“What do you want to know?” asked Mrs. Godfrey.

“First of all,” Nancy said, leaning forward, “tell us what you know about Toby Foyle. How long did he live here? Where did he work? What did you think of him?”

“Who were his friends?” George put in.

“Well—” Mrs. Godfrey pursed her lips. “Mr. Foyle moved in about six months ago. He rented the rooms on the top floor. That suite has no kitchen, but it does have a private bath, and he said that was all he needed. I'd let you see it, only the police were here this morning and sealed the whole floor off.”

Nancy was disappointed. She had hoped she might be able to look around Foyle's apartment for clues, but she couldn't ask Mrs. Godfrey to break the police seal.

“As for working,” Mrs. Godfrey was saying, “I don't believe Mr. Foyle had a steady job—I didn't ask, since I'm not one to pry—but he always paid the rent on time. He kept very odd hours, though, no routine. A couple of times when I cleaned his rooms—that was part of our agreement, that I would clean for him—I found racing forms.”

“I suspect he didn't make his money working as an accountant,” Nancy murmured.

“He had to have lied about his job,” George said.

Bess nodded her agreement. “Please go on,” she told the landlady.

“He didn't have many friends that I know of,” Mrs. Godfrey announced. “Few people ever called or visited, except for that girlfriend of his, Michelle Ferraro.” Mrs. Godfrey shook her head disapprovingly. “She was as bad as a whole army, though. Why, she would call here four or five times a day. I finally had to ask Mr. Foyle to get a phone installed. He got it in just last week.”

“Michelle Ferraro.” Nancy thought of the blond girl who had been in Conchita's with Foyle. Could that have been Michelle? “Do you have her phone number, by any chance?” she asked.

“No, but it's probably in the book. She lives over in West Mapleton, I believe.”

“Well, thank you very much for talking with us, Mrs. Godfrey,” Nancy said. She rose to go, then paused because she had almost forgotten to ask the most important question. “Just one last question—did Mr. Foyle seem in good health to you during the past month?”

“In good health?” Mrs. Godfrey seemed surprised. “Yes, he seemed fine. Why?”

Nancy explained about Foyle's insurance claim. As she talked, Mrs. Godfrey's lips pressed into an even thinner line.

“There wasn't a thing wrong with him,” she declared when Nancy was finished. “He was just plain lying, that's all. I always suspected the man was a scoundrel, and this just proves it.”

Nancy gave Mrs. Godfrey her telephone number
in River Heights, just in case the landlady remembered anything more. Then she and her friends said goodbye.

“Nan, do you think that insurance claim is important to your investigation?”

Nancy shrugged. “Definitely indirectly, because it proves what kind of character Foyle was. Possibly directly—how it ties in I don't exactly know yet. One thing is clear to me, though. Foyle
did
fake the insurance claim, and he knew that Ned knew about it. He was really scared that night at Conchita's. At the time I thought it was because he was afraid Ned might hit him, but now I think it was because he realized Ned had found him out.” She steered into a left turn, then bit her thumbnail thoughtfully.

“It's possible that he had an accomplice in this scheme. His girlfriend, maybe—or more likely, the doctor who signed the claim. And it's also possible that the accomplice killed him to keep him from panicking and blowing the whole scam.”

“Wow! Good thinking!” George said, leaning forward from the back seat. “So now I guess we have to check out this Michelle, as well as the doctor who signed the claim form.”

“Exactly.” Nancy parked in front of Ned's house, and the girls went inside. While Bess and George told Ned about their talk with Mrs. Godfrey, Nancy looked up Michelle Ferraro's address and phone number. She dialed, but there was no answer.

By now it was almost seven o'clock, and Mrs. Nickerson invited the three girls to stay for dinner. Bess and George were expected home, so they took off in George's car, but Nancy stayed. She had a feeling Ned needed her right then. He looked pale and worn. The Nickersons' phone had been ringing all afternoon with reporters from the local papers trying to get statements from Ned or his parents.

Conversation at the dinner table was strained. No one really wanted to talk about the charges that were hanging over Ned's head, but it seemed false and trivial to talk about anything else. Finally Nancy and Ned excused themselves and went out to sit on the swing on the front porch.

The evening was warm. The air was filled with the scent of flowers, and the light from the windows made little pools of illumination in the heavily shaded yard.

Ned drew in a deep breath. “On a night like tonight, it's hard to believe any of this is really happening,” he said sadly.

“I know.” Nancy put her hand in his. “I promised your mom and dad that we'd get you off, and I won't let any of you down. We'll solve this case one way or another.”

“Have I told you lately how great you are?” Ned asked with a tender smile. “I do love you, Nan—and I have faith in you.” Rising, he pulled her up and into his arms. They stood that way for a long moment, just enjoying the warmth of being close.

Nancy turned her head as she heard a faint rustling noise in the grass beside the porch. “What's that?” she asked, peering into the darkness.

Suddenly a black, hunched shape loomed up out of the shadows. Nancy gasped. And then the night exploded in fierce white light.

N
ANCY DUCKED INSTINCTIVELY
, pulling Ned down with her. Green and orange afterimages danced in front of her eyes.

“What was that?” Ned cried.

“That was a primo shot to go with my article in tomorrow's paper,” came a familiar voice.

“Brenda Carlton,” Nancy muttered. Now her vision was beginning to clear, and she could see the outlines of the teenage reporter's face as the tall, dark-haired girl approached.

Brenda wrote for a River Heights paper called
Today's Times
, which was conveniently owned by her father, Frazier Carlton. The young reporter was a frequent thorn in Nancy's side. Her competitive nature drove her to meddle whenever
she could in order to get a hot scoop. In the past her interference had almost blown several of Nancy's cases.

Brenda pushed back her dark hair and smiled triumphantly. “Yes, it's me—in the flesh,” she purred. “Now, what should my caption be? ‘Teen Sleuth Gets Friendly with Murder Suspect'? Or maybe ‘Sleuth Nancy Drew and Murder Suspect Ned Nickerson: Could a Crowbar Pry These Two Apart?' ”

“I ought to rip the film right out of your camera,” Ned said angrily.

Brenda tossed her head and said, “What a splash this'll make! All the other reporters just got the bare details off the police band radio. But I tried harder—and now I've got a terrific photograph of the prime suspect! Just wait until you see the paper tomorrow.”

Nancy could imagine the trashy, sensational story Brenda would write. An article like that could permanently damage Ned's reputation, even if Nancy did manage to solve the case eventually. She
had
to talk Brenda out of it.

“Brenda,” she said, “you know Ned. You know he didn't kill that man. But your article could really hurt him. Give us a break, will you?”

“I'm a reporter,” Brenda said haughtily. “I tell the facts the way I see them.”

“When it suits your style,” Ned muttered, but Nancy put a hand on his arm. This was no time to antagonize Brenda.

“Listen,” Nancy said, trying a different tactic.
“You're a smart girl, Brenda. You and I both know that Ned is innocent. So why not use that?”

“What do you mean?” Brenda asked, her voice suspicious.

“I'm offering you a scoop to end all scoops,” Nancy said quickly. “I'm going to track down the real killer—and I promise that when I do, you'll get the exclusive story. That is, if
you
promise not to write any stories about Ned before then. How about it—is it a deal?”

Brenda was silent for a moment. “How do I know you'll call me?” she asked at last.

Rolling her eyes, Nancy said, “You'll have to trust me. I give you my word of honor.”

After another long pause Brenda said, “Okay. I'll be waiting to hear from you. And you'd better call me soon, Nancy Drew.” With that, Brenda flounced off to her car.

“Thanks,” said Ned, breathing a sigh of relief. “That was some fast talking you did, Nancy.”

“Right,” Nancy replied. She didn't add what she was thinking—all the fast talking in the world wouldn't help Ned, unless she delivered on her promise and caught the real criminal!

• • •

The next day Nancy got up early. She went out and bought copies of the Mapleton papers, which she brought home to read along with the River Heights papers. She was a little cheered to see that, although Foyle's murder had made the front pages, a bureaucratic scandal in Chicago had stolen the headlines. The pieces on Foyle's murder
were short and not very detailed. Still, Ned's high-school yearbook picture did appear in two of the articles, and his name was mentioned in all of them.

Nancy decided not to call on Bess and George to help that day. She wanted to track down suspects, and she preferred to do that by herself. A gang of girls wouldn't put a reluctant talker at ease.

By ten-thirty, Nancy was on the road to Mapleton. She had already called Ned and gotten the name and home address of the doctor who had signed the medical report for Toby Foyle's false claim. Foyle had gone to Dr. Robert Meyers three days
after
his accident, Nancy recalled. That was pretty suspicious. The question was, had the doctor been an innocent dupe in Foyle's insurance scam, or was he a participant?