038 The Final Scene

by Carolyn Keene

  • • •

  At ten that morning George drove Nancy home from the hospital. Hannah had her tucked into her own bed in no time at all.

  “I can’t believe you disobeyed your doctor’s orders and checked out of the hospital today,” Hannah said, bustling around. “Did your father know you were going to do that?”

  Nancy sighed and laid her head back on the pillow that Hannah had just fluffed. “No.”

  “Well, he’s going to be very angry with you when he finds out,” Hannah said, her hands on her hips.

  “I know,” Nancy said, reaching for the bedside telephone. “That’s why I’m going to call him now and tell him myself before the doctor has a chance to get to him first.”

  “I’ll make you some chicken soup,” Hannah said as she left the bedroom. “And, George, make sure she stays in that bed!”

  George smiled. “Hannah’s famous chicken soup could cure anything from the common cold to bubonic plague,” she said.

  As Nancy dialed her father’s office number, she knew that this time Hannah’s soup would not stop her head and arm from aching.

  Hannah had been right, of course. She probably should have stayed in the hospital. She would have stayed, but she couldn’t help Bess from a hospital bed. And if she didn’t break this case today . . .

  This was the last day. In less than seven hours the theater would be a pile of rubble and Bess would be dead. Time was running out, and Nancy was keenly aware of every passing minute.

  When her father’s secretary put her through to him, Nancy steeled herself for his reaction.

  “You did what?” he roared into the phone when she told him.

  “Dad, I had to. Please try to understand. You wouldn’t stay in the hospital if it were me who was missing.”

  There was silence on the other end. Nancy couldn’t tell if he was still angry or considering her point of view.

  “Dad?”

  “I understand,” he said at last. “That doesn’t mean I approve. Just promise me that you’ll take it easy.”

  “I’ll try.” Nancy hung up the phone.

  “So what’s the plan?” George asked.

  “Hmm?” Nancy bit her lower lip.

  “When you get that look in your eyes, I can tell you’re up to something.”

  Nancy got out of bed, and before slipping into a pair of jeans and a sweater, slipped out of her sling. Her arm was okay but felt a little stiff.

  “Maybe I should be hit on the head more often. I just thought of something we should have done long ago.”

  “So, tell,” said George.

  “We need to go to City Hall to see if we can locate the blueprints of the theater. There might be a hidden room we haven’t searched.”

  The telephone rang, but Nancy knew that Hannah would answer it. A few seconds later Hannah ran up the stairs and knocked on Nancy’s door.

  “It’s for you, Nancy. It’s some man, but he wouldn’t say who.”

  “Thanks, Hannah.” Nancy raced to the phone. “Hello?”

  “I have a suggestion that might help you with your investigation,” the voice said in a raspy whisper.

  “Who are you? Are you the one who took Bess?”

  Nancy frantically grabbed a pencil and began scribbling with her left hand on a nearby notepad. She wrote, “Trace call. Dad’s study phone.” Then she shoved the note into George’s hand.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am or if I have her,” the man said. “Do you want the suggestion or not?”

  “I’ll gladly accept any help you can give me,” she said, trying to prolong the conversation.

  “Okay. I’m only going to say this once. Take another look at your list of suspects. You haven’t considered everyone who has a vested interest in the theater.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said.”

  “Just tell me one thing,” Nancy said breathlessly, “is Bess still in the—”

  But he had already hung up.

  A few moments later George came running back into the bedroom. “They got it,” she exclaimed. “With that new equipment of theirs they traced it right away.”

  “Where was the call coming from?” Nancy asked anxiously.

  George drew a deep breath. “From a telephone at five-twelve East Main Street.”

  The call had come from inside the theater!

  Chapter

  Twelve

  WHAT DO YOU THINK it means, Nancy?” George asked as Nancy rushed her from the bedroom.

  “Shh, George,” Nancy said, putting her finger to her lips. “I don’t want Hannah to hear us. She’ll have a fit if she even knows I’m out of bed.”

  After silently sneaking down the stairs, Nancy opened the front door. She and George quietly slipped out of the house.

  “Whew. Okay,” Nancy said. “There are two possibilities. First, it was the kidnapper himself who called, and he’s still inside the theater—with Bess.”

  “That’s not logical,” George said as she opened the passenger door of the car for Nancy. “Who would throw you onto his scent like that?”

  Nancy thought for a moment. “You’re right. But the second possibility is that someone inside the theater knows more than we do but doesn’t want to come forward.”

  “Like Brady!” George said excitedly. “Or Deirdre!”

  “That could be. I still haven’t ruled out Simon Mueller. Still,” Nancy said slowly, “the caller said we hadn’t considered all the possible suspects. That implies it isn’t Simon. And it means we’re missing something important. But what?”

  “I don’t know, Nan. Whatever it is, we’d better find it soon.”

  • • •

  “I told you they aren’t here,” said the young woman in the city planning office of the River Heights City Hall. “The blueprints you want simply aren’t here.”

  The woman pursed her strawberry red lips and put her hands on her waist as she stared at Nancy and George.

  Nancy leaned across the narrow counter and tapped her fingers impatiently on its scuffed surface. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. And I’m as upset about it as you are,” she said offhandedly while examining the chipped polish on the nail of her pinky.

  “I doubt that,” Nancy muttered under her breath to George.

  “I trusted that man with those prints, and now look what’s happened,” the young woman said with a bored pout.

  “What man?” Nancy exclaimed.

  “Just some guy. He came in a few days ago and asked to see the blueprints. Then he asked permission to take them down the hall to photocopy them. Our copier was broken, so I let him take them. He brought the envelope back later and left it on the counter. Like a dummy I filed it without looking inside. Apparently he took them with him.” She patted her carefully styled blond hair. “And he seemed so honest, too.”

  “What did he look like?” George asked eagerly.

  “What?” The librarian squinted at George through her heavy blue mascara. “What did he look like? He looked—just regular.”

  “Did you notice anything about him? Like the color of his hair?” Nancy continued.

  “I think it was kind of gray,” she said. “But I’m not really sure. I think he was older, anyway.”

  Nancy was going to push for distinguishing features, but she realized there was no point. The woman seemed to care more about her own appearance than anyone else’s.

  “Why is everyone so interested in the theater all of a sudden?” the young woman asked. “Does it have anything to do with that kidnapping?”

  Nancy looked at George, her pretty face reflecting her concern.

  “Yes,” she said, “it has everything to do with the kidnapping.”

  Nancy led George out of the office and down the hallway.

  “We don’t know much more than we did before,” George said dejectedly.

  “Sure we do. We know someone wants to stop us from finding those blueprints, and that
someone may be older.” Nancy looked at her watch. It was noon.

  George must have noticed the nervous gesture. “We’ve got to think of something, Nancy.”

  “I’m thinking.” Someone older. Haven’t considered all the possibilities. Who would want the plans to the theater? Who else had a motive?

  “Bingo!” she said. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of it before.”

  “Nancy,” George said, grabbing her friend’s arm, “would you care to let me in on it?”

  “Louis Falcone.” Nancy let the words sink in.

  “Nicholas’s grandfather?”

  “We’ve never considered him as a suspect, but what if he’s behind all this? It would make sense. There’s no way he’d want that theater torn down, and he probably knows that building better than anyone.” It was all falling into place.

  “But, Nancy—”

  “There’s no time to waste.”

  Within a few minutes Nancy had looked up Louis Falcone’s address and called Detective Ryan to arrange for him to meet her at the theater later.

  After half an hour’s drive out of River Heights, Nancy and George were in the middle of the country. They took several rural roads and finally turned into Louis Falcone’s driveway. It was lined with plaster sculptures.

  “Just look at this place!” Nancy exclaimed as she and George stepped out of the car and walked across Louis Falcone’s front yard. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “No wonder Nicholas is so proud of his grandfather,” George said. “Can you imagine having the talent to create such beautiful things?”

  Nancy pulled on her friend’s arm. “Now, remember, we’re here to ask him about Nicholas. Then we’ll see if he reveals anything suspicious.”

  “I hate the idea of tricking him like that, Nancy,” George said, shaking her head.

  “It’s the only way, George. Trust me. Besides, it’s all for a good cause. If we don’t figure this out soon, Bess is—”

  “I know, Nancy,” George said. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  Together the girls strolled up the stone walkway to the door of a small cottage. In answer to their knock, the door opened, and the girls found themselves face to face with one of the handsomest older men that either of them had ever met.

  Louis Falcone was tall, with a dark complexion like his grandson. He had a full head of snowy white hair and piercing blue eyes. “Yes?” he asked. His voice was rich and deep.

  “Mr. Louis Falcone?” Nancy asked, though she was sure she had found Nicholas’s grandfather.

  He nodded his silver head. “I am. And who are you?”

  “I’m Nancy Drew, and this is George Fayne. We’re investigating the disappearance of our friend, Bess Marvin. You may have heard about—”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” A guarded look crossed his handsome features. “My grandson told me all about you. How can I help you?”

  “Could we possibly come in, Mr. Falcone? There are a few questions we’d like to ask you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Certainly. Please, come inside.”

  He ushered them into his home, which was as charming and quaint inside as outside. Carved animals of all species adorned his mantle. On the coffee table was the figure of a young man sitting on a tree stump, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting in his hands. He looked very thoughtful and serious.

  “That’s a wonderful sculpture,” George said. “It’s Nicholas, isn’t it?” Mr. Falcone nodded.

  “I think you really caught his personality,” she remarked.

  Mr. Falcone studied the piece as though seeing it for the first time. “Yes. I was pleased with it. Nicholas is such a serious, intense boy. Always has been.”

  It sounded funny to Nancy to hear Nicholas referred to as a boy when he was at least twenty-three years old. She supposed that to his grandfather he would always be a child.

  “So, have you heard any news about your kidnapped friend?” he asked, motioning for them to take a seat on the sofa.

  “No. Unfortunately not,” Nancy said.

  “And I’m now one of the suspects on your list,” he said, looking at Nancy.

  Nicholas’s grandfather had guessed why they were there. She decided to be honest. “Your feelings about the upcoming demolition are a matter of public record,” she said. “And none of us can blame you for wanting to preserve your father’s and your art.”

  Louis Falcone said nothing for a long moment. He only walked over to a small table and picked up a chunk of wood that he had apparently been carving.

  Walking over to the girls, he showed them the piece. “Do you see this?” he asked. “This is just a bit of baroque carving, a shell. It’s only a fancy little curlicue. I’ve been carving on it for two hours. Like this—”

  He took a sharp knife from his pocket, pressed the tip to the wood, and scooped out a small bit of the wood. “When I’m finished carving this,” he said, “I’m going to use it to make a mold. From that mold I can cast dozens of these shells in plaster. Then I paint them gold or silver. Mixed with other shapes I can create those ornate borders that you see all over the theater.”

  He walked back to the table and laid down the wood and chisel. “I began learning my craft back in Italy when I was only six years old. By the time I was fourteen, I was here in the United States working as a master craftsman.”

  “You have a wonderful talent, Mr. Falcone,” George said sincerely.

  “Yes, I have,” he said without pretending to be humble. “But a man only creates a few truly beautiful things in his life. That theater was one of my father’s and my contributions to this world. I spent a long time creating the Royal Palladium. I don’t want to see it destroyed in one day.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Nancy said. Then she asked him pointedly. “Did you kidnap my friend, Mr. Falcone?”

  He returned her steady gaze as he said, “No, Ms. Drew. I didn’t.”

  Nancy swallowed hard. George glanced at Falcone, then gave Nancy a sad and disappointed look.

  “Do you believe me, Ms. Drew?” he asked with a half smile.

  “I think you and your grandson would do almost anything to preserve that building,” Nancy said, baiting him. Carefully watching his reaction, she saw his eyes flash with anger and determination.

  “You’re right, Ms. Drew, we would. And if that makes us suspects on your list, so be it.”

  He stared at her with such intensity that Nancy found herself having to glance away. Her gaze swept Mr. Falcone’s studio, and a photograph, hanging among others on the wall, caught her attention. She stood up and walked over to the wall.

  “This is a picture of you, Nicholas, and Joseph Hughes,” she observed. “I didn’t know that you were friends.”

  “I’ve known Joseph for years,” he said. “He’s a good man.”

  “Do you think Joseph is capable of kidnapping?” Nancy asked him.

  “Joseph is a very capable man,” he said without hesitation. “He has a deep love for the theater, and I’m sure that he would do anything he could to save it. But he’s a kind soul. I can’t imagine that he would hurt anyone.”

  Nancy turned to face him, her eyes trained on his face to watch his reaction to her next question. “George and I went to City Hall less than an hour ago to look at the blueprints of the theater. They’re missing. Do you have any idea who might have taken them?”

  He smiled a half smile and shrugged. “I can’t imagine. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get back to work.”

  Nancy looked at George in frustration. Another dead end, and it was getting later by the minute.

  They said goodbye to Louis Falcone and headed back down the walkway to their car.

  “I think he did it,” George said with conviction.

  “But he denies it, and we haven’t got any proof.” Nancy shook her head sadly.

  “I know. I think if Bart Anderson had been in the room with us, he would have strangled him.”

  “Unfortunately,
that’s not enough.” Nancy sighed. They were headed back to River Heights knowing no more than when they had left. “Hold it! Pull over, George.”

  George slammed on the brakes and pulled into a gas station they were passing. “What’s up?”

  But Nancy was out of the car, heading toward the phone. Within two minutes she had Nicholas Falcone’s address and was back in the car.

  “Let’s go. Fifteen-twelve Rampling.”

  • • •

  “Why do you want to talk to Nicholas again?” George asked as she turned the car down Rampling Street.

  “I want to try to shake him loose. If he knows anything or even suspects anything, now’s the time for him to tell us.”

  They pulled up in front of a modern apartment house, got out of the car, and entered the building as one of the tenants opened the large glass doors. Nancy checked the directory for Nicholas’s apartment number.

  As the mirrored elevator quickly whisked them to the third floor, George looked at Nancy. “I hope he’s home,” she said. “And I also hope you’re wrong. I like Nicholas.”

  “George, I’m sorry. But we can’t afford not to question him,” Nancy said through tight lips.

  They made their way down the carpeted hall to his apartment.

  “Here it is,” Nancy said, pointing to the door on their left, which was slightly ajar. “Hey, look. It’s open.”

  “At least he’s home,” George said, knocking on the door.

  Nancy felt her heart quicken as she waited for Nicholas to answer the door. After a few seconds she decided to knock. Still no answer.

  She glanced up and down the hall, then gently pushed the door open. “I hate to do this, but—”

  The sight that greeted Nancy from inside Nicholas’s apartment made her stop in her tracks.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  NANCY’S EYES TOOK IN the overturned coffee table, the broken lamp, the green plants that lay across the carpet in their spilled dirt.

  “Nicholas!” George called.

  “Nicholas, are you here?” Nancy echoed. But she knew, even as she called his name, that Nicholas wouldn’t answer. She knew that something must have happened to him.