Pure Poison

by Carolyn Keene

  • • •

  “Taxi!”

  Nancy’s voice rose above the din of midday traffic, mixing with the honking of horns and the roar of engines. She could feel her energy ebbing with every passing minute. The lack of sleep was really beginning to affect her.

  She’d had no luck at either of the city’s airports, and no luck at the bus or train stations, either. She knew there must be a hundred places with lockers in town. Nancy sighed to herself. How would she ever find the right place?

  After her last unsuccessful try, Nancy had decided to take another tack: she’d called Jillian Riley to see if she could meet with her. But Ms. Riley was out of town on assignment for the day. Then she’d phoned Della Hawks, but the maid informed her that Mrs. Hawks was out shopping and wouldn’t be back until late.

  Nancy sighed. It wasn’t her day. She looked around for the thousandth time to make sure she wasn’t being followed. All day long she’d had a creepy feeling of being observed by unseen eyes, tailed by unseen feet. But every time she checked, there was no one.

  “Taxi!” Just when she thought she’d never get the attention of any of the speeding cabs, one pulled over for her, and she hopped in, practically crashing onto the worn vinyl of the back seat. “Fifteen twenty-five Memorial Boulevard,” she told the driver, giving the senator’s address. She needed sleep now, more than anything—then she’d investigate the health clubs in town. Maybe the columnist had been a member of one of them.

  Nancy closed her weary eyes for a moment, or was it longer than that? She couldn’t tell—she only knew that a jarring stop at a red light opened her eyes.

  Nancy didn’t recognize the area they were in, but Washington was a big city and she realized there were quite a few neighborhoods she had never visited. As long as the driver knew where he was going, she didn’t care.

  Staring sleepily out the back window, Nancy saw two hulking men, moving down the sidewalk, getting closer and closer to her.

  Nancy glimpsed a familiar pair of shoes as they stepped onto the curb. A shiny pair of two-toned brown tasseled loafers was heading her way, fast. Nancy gasped. These two men had probably been following her all day, waiting for a moment when she was trapped.

  Moving quickly, Nancy tossed a ten-dollar bill onto the driver’s seat, flung open the door, jumped out, and broke into a run. The shouts of her pursuers rang in her ears as the horns blared for her cab to proceed.

  There was no time to look back, and no need, either. Nancy knew what was behind her—two hulks, probably armed and probably just waiting to get a clear shot at her!

  Nancy sprinted into an alleyway, then onto a small street that emptied into another, and another. In this part of town, the streets were narrow and crooked, the buildings old. Unfortunately, no one seemed to work in the neighborhood, which meant that it was completely deserted at three in the afternoon on a business day. Just like the other night, there was no one to step in and save her. She was all alone, with two thugs closing on her!

  With some quick maneuvering she gained a few more yards on her pursuers, turning a corner just before they rounded the last one. She ducked into a shadowy doorway for a couple of minutes to make sure they hadn’t seen her, and when no footsteps sounded in the street, she stepped out and looked around.

  Besides looking old, the area Nancy was in looked distinctly foreign. Signs were written in Chinese or Japanese. Then she noticed the sign on the restaurant across the street—Little Saigon, it said. Aha, thought Nancy. This was a Vietnamese neighborhood.

  A phone, thought Nancy. I’ve got to get to a phone. Maybe Marilyn knows this area, and she can come pick me up.

  There didn’t seem to be any pay phones on the block, but when Nancy turned the corner she saw a familiar sign, blinking red, on and off, on and off—YMCA. Thank goodness! she thought, hurrying to the front door. There would surely be a phone in here.

  Then she got a wild idea. Another thing the YMCA would have was lockers—lots of them!

  Entering the building, Nancy paid the usage fee at the door and began looking around. There were no phones in sight, but Nancy wandered around the building, searching for the locker rooms. Up on the second floor, she came across a sign for the men’s and women’s locker rooms.

  After running to the women’s locker room Nancy dashed up and down the rows of lockers, searching for the 600s. But the highest number she could find was 499. If Beverly had hidden anything in this YMCA, it was in the men’s locker room. Pretty smart, thought Nancy as she hurried down the hall toward it.

  Pushing open the door with one hand, Nancy listened for sounds indicating someone was inside. But the gym seemed deserted on a workday afternoon, and Nancy slipped in. She kept her eyes on the lockers, hoping she wouldn’t come across any towel-draped male bodies.

  Nancy ran through the locker room looking for number 663. There it was! She took the key from her bag and quickly inserted it in the lock. It turned on the first try!

  The door sprang open, and Nancy gasped—inside was an envelope. Was it the chapter on the fourth of the big four? She ripped it open and peeked inside.

  It was a wad of hundred-dollar bills!

  Nancy stuffed the envelope into her purse. She felt as if she were on a scavenger hunt!

  Shutting the locker and pocketing the key, she dashed for the exit. If the thugs did find her in the locker room, she’d have no escape. And she suspected the men in the gym wouldn’t be too happy to see her there, either!

  The thing to do now was get back to the senator’s, call Captain Flynn, and show him everything she’d managed to find. The captain was on the senator’s side—he would be fair, withhold rash judgments, show consideration for her career and for Teresa’s safety. It was ironic. The thugs had tried to capture her, but they’d ended up helping her find a clue.

  Just as Nancy reached the door to the locker room, it swung open. She jumped behind a row of lockers. Peeking around the corner, she watched a slim Asian man of about thirty-five enter the room and look furtively around to make sure he wasn’t being observed. He wore faded army fatigues over a torn blue work shirt. On his face was a terrible, disfiguring scar, as if he’d been knifed from temple to chin.

  As Nancy watched, the man drew a key from his pocket and made his way down the row of lockers. He drew something from the pocket of his fatigue jacket—a cassette tape, it looked like—and bent down to open a locker.

  Nancy almost cried out in surprise—the locker the man had just opened was number 663!

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  SLAM!

  The sound of the locker door banging echoed off the walls. The man muttered curses in a foreign language, stuffed the tape and the key back into his fatigue jacket, and stormed out of the locker room. After a moment Nancy followed him to the door, keeping a safe distance.

  In his anger, the man seemed to have forgotten the secrecy of his errand. He continued to toss curses into the air, not caring who heard him, not checking to see if he was being followed.

  He had intended to trade that tape for the money! Nancy realized. This man was being paid by Beverly Bishop for whatever information was on that tape. It must have been very important, too, judging by the size of the payoff.

  As she hurried to stay close to the man, Nancy thought back to her interview with the dead columnist. Beverly had said the information on the fourth person of the “big four” was in her head. When Nancy found out about the locker, she’d assumed Ms. Bishop had just said that to impress her, and that the real files were hidden somewhere. She had been partially right.

  The truth was that even the columnist didn’t know the whole story about the last of the big four. She must have arranged to buy the information from the man with the scar. The trade would take place at locker 663—the man would get a bundle of hundred-dollar bills, and Beverly Bishop would get the dirt she needed to bury someone else in scandal. Only—maybe—that someone had decided that murder was a better alternative. . . .

&nb
sp; After a brief walk down narrow streets and around shadowy corners, the man with the scar disappeared into a doorway. A minute or two later, Nancy crossed the street and entered the same vestibule.

  Looking at the names on the doorbells didn’t help—she didn’t even know the man’s name. She ran back onto the street, crossed to the other side, and looked up at the windows, hoping to catch sight of her quarry in one of them. But no luck—most of the windows had drawn shades, or masses of plants in them, and there were no telltale movements.

  After ten fruitless minutes, Nancy sighed in resignation and turned to go. Rounding the corner of the building, she noticed that there, on the street level, was the Little Saigon restaurant she’d seen before. On a sudden hunch, she went in and took a seat at the counter.

  At one table sat a group of old men playing cards and drinking tea. Other tables were occupied by couples, business associates, even a family with a screaming baby and an unruly toddler. A lone waiter bustled back and forth, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, trying to keep track of all the orders.

  Nancy ordered tea and a rice dish, and then scanned the room and its occupants again. A plan was forming in her head. She needed to talk to the man upstairs. If she could find him, she felt sure she could get the tape. After all, she had what he was looking for.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the waiter.

  The man rushed past her shaking his head apologetically. “Sorry—very busy,” he called out over his shoulder.

  Nancy frowned. She had to talk to someone! The fat man sitting next to her at the counter seemed to sense her frustration. “Can I help you?” he asked, smiling. “My name is Tran,” he added with a friendly nod. “What is it that you need?”

  “Oh, thank you. I’m looking for a man I met last week,” Nancy began, ad-libbing as convincingly as she could. “I’ve forgotten his name, I’m afraid. But he had a scar on his cheek, here.” Nancy drew a line down her cheek with her finger. “And I’m sure he said this was his address, although he didn’t mention a restaurant.”

  “I think you mean Louie, huh?” Tran prompted her.

  “Louie, yes, that’s it! Silly of me to forget, wasn’t it?”

  “Louie does not like people to forget his name,” Tran said, waggling a finger at her and winking mischievously. “He’s a pretty tough cookie! Ha, ha, ha!” He exploded in gales of laughter, drawing amused stares from some of the clientele.

  “Do you know which apartment he’s in?” Nancy interrupted. “I really do have to see him.”

  Tran’s laughter ebbed, a little too quickly, Nancy thought. “You forget about Louie, miss,” he advised her. “He’s always with new girlfriends, so you forget him, okay?”

  “No, no, it’s not like that,” Nancy corrected him. “It’s—it’s business, you see.”

  Tran’s face darkened, and he almost looked like a different person without that broad smile. He leaned in toward her and, in a low voice, muttered, “You CIA?”

  Nancy struggled not to look shocked. “Um, no, I’m not,” she said quickly. Then, taking a chance, she asked, “Is Louie?”

  Tran’s reaction surprised Nancy again. He broke suddenly into his biggest laugh yet and said, “Not anymore, he’s not!

  “So,” he said, when he had finally stopped giggling. “If you are not from the CIA, where are you from?”

  Nancy took a deep breath. “Beverly Bishop,” she said, looking at Tran intently.

  Tran’s face betrayed nothing. He merely nodded and said, “I will go get Louie.” In a flash, he was gone.

  Nancy looked around her while she finished her tea and waited for Tran to return. It was amazing, she thought, how far and wide Beverly Bishop had roamed in search of scandal. And she wondered about the Vietnamese connection, too. Did the scandal, whatever it was, go back all those years to the war?

  A few tense minutes later, Tran returned. He was alone and still unsmiling. After threading his way nimbly through the narrow aisles between tables, he sat back down on his stool next to Nancy. “Louie says he wants to see you. Top floor in the back. Ring bell number Five-R.”

  “Thank you so much, Tran,” Nancy said sincerely. Leaving her check and the tip on the counter, Nancy made her way out of the restaurant and around the corner to the building entrance. Pressing 5-R, she shifted uncomfortably, wondering if she was walking into a trap. There was still time; she could leave now, call Captain Flynn, and have the police take Louie in for questioning. But when the buzzer sounded, Nancy pushed the door open and went in. She was so close to an answer—she could feel it! She couldn’t slow down now.

  Five flights of steps later, she stood in front of a gray steel door and knocked loudly three times. The door opened, and Nancy walked in.

  The studio apartment was full of Vietnam War memorabilia—bayonets, medals, framed commendations from the U.S. and Vietnamese governments, and photographs covered the walls.

  Louie walked over from the window and faced Nancy, arms folded across his chest. Silently he watched her as she took in the surroundings.

  “I was a special agent during the war,” he explained, noticing her reaction to the extensive collection of war mementos. “Undercover CIA, worked with Green Berets, SEALs, everybody.”

  In the dim light Nancy could just make out his chiseled features and the hideous scar that marred his otherwise handsome face.

  “Vietcong cut my face,” he explained, watching every movement of her eyes. One false move, and Nancy knew she was as good as dead. Louie was not a man to fool with.

  “Beverly sent me,” Nancy said, hoping Louie hadn’t heard she was dead. She didn’t see a TV in the room, which was a good sign.

  “You got the money?” he asked. “Why didn’t she put it in the locker?”

  “It’s not safe anymore,” Nancy explained, hoping she sounded convincing. She felt as if she were being X-rayed by Louie’s practiced eye, as if he could see right through her every lie.

  Without waiting for him to respond, Nancy reached into her bag and tossed Louie the envelope of bills. He opened it and quickly counted the money, making sure every last hundred was there. When he was finished, he nodded, relaxing a little.

  “Beverly’s going to sell a million copies of her book with this,” said Louie, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the tape. He held it up, then pretended to toss it to Nancy. She reached out to catch it, but Louie stopped at the last moment and said, “Too bad Beverly’s not alive to enjoy her big success.”

  Nancy’s blood froze. So he knew! What did Louie do to people who lied to him? She looked nervously at the assortment of weapons in the room.

  “Tran tells me Beverly got killed last night,” said Louie, perching himself on the arm of a chair. “He reads every paper in town, that guy. Knows everything.” He smiled now, a wide, evil, grisly smile almost the length of his scar. “Maybe you killed Beverly, huh? You got her money, right?”

  “No!” Nancy said, trying to stay calm. “I didn’t kill her.” She decided to take a chance to see if Louie knew anything. “I’m trying to find her killer,” she announced. “Do you know who did it?”

  Louie burst out laughing. Shaking his head in amusement, he tossed her the tape, saying, “There’s your murderer, lady. You better find him before he finds you!” And using his index finger as a gun, he pretended to shoot her. “Bang,” he said softly.

  So! thought Nancy. The killer is a he! She would know who he was soon enough, when she returned to the apartment and played the tape. After saying goodbye to Louie, she turned and put her hand on the doorknob.

  But the door wouldn’t open. Nancy tried turning the knob again, pulling, pushing—nothing worked. The door was locked from the outside. She turned and looked at Louie. “Did you lock me in here?” she accused him.

  “Of course not. What would I want with you?” he said. “I have the cash.” Nancy tugged at the door again; the handle felt hot in her hand. Suddenly thick black smoke started seeping into the room from underneath
the door.

  The place was on fire!

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  CURSING IN VIETNAMESE, Louie barged across the room, brushed Nancy aside, and felt the door. “It’s too hot. We’ll die if we go out there!” he exclaimed.

  Nancy covered her mouth with her handkerchief and crouched low to stay under the suffocating blanket of smoke that was quickly filling the room. “Is there another way out?” she asked, her voice muffled.

  “The fire escape!” Louie shouted. Throwing the window open, he climbed out and motioned for Nancy to follow. “Come on!” he yelled, and reached back to pull her out.

  Nancy looked at the old, rusted fire escape. It didn’t look as if it would hold two people, but she had no choice.

  Just as she was about to grab Louie’s hand and climb out of the window, a loud crack—like a gunshot—sounded from below. Louie uttered a low grunt and toppled backward, crashing against the iron railing of the fire escape. A look of surprise and bewilderment spread across his face. Nancy watched in horror as he staggered toward the open window, his hand on his chest. “He’s killing me,” he gasped to Nancy, his eyes wide with pain and shock. Then he went limp.

  Instantly Nancy drew her head back into the smoke-filled inferno. It took every ounce of her strength to fight back the panic that was building inside her. The paint on the metal door was bubbling now as the door got red hot. The fire was just outside and creeping closer with every second!

  She couldn’t go out the fire escape, she realized. That was just what the killer was waiting for her to do.

  There wasn’t much time left. The floorboards were growing hot under Nancy’s feet. Her eyes tearing and burning from the smoke, she scanned the room, frantically searching for another means of escape.

  That was when the photo caught her eye. It was propped on the bureau next to the window, behind some bottles of cheap after-shave. In it, a young Louie posed brigand-style, with a bandolier of bullets crossed over his shoulders and chest and a large knife clenched between his teeth.