Nancy heard Sherbinski’s heavy footsteps as he moved to another part of the room. Then she heard rustling papers. He must be looking for something, but what?
The footsteps approached again. From behind the bed Nancy could see Sherbinski’s heavy black shoes stop just inches away.
Please don’t let him look down, Nancy thought. Her heart sank as first one plump gray knee, then the other, dropped down to the carpet. He was going to look under the bed! Now he’d find them for sure!
Nancy heard a wheezing cough. Sherbinski stood up with a grunt. He must have changed his mind. Kneeling down was probably too much effort for him. He was very heavy. Though Nancy was relieved, she couldn’t help thinking Sherbinski wouldn’t be much use against a real criminal.
Nancy heard more rustling, more footsteps, then a door slamming and the sound of a bolt turning in the lock.
The room was silent except for the sound of Braddock’s and Nancy’s breathing. Sherbinski was gone. Or was he? Slowly Nancy lifted her head above the edge of the bed. There was no sign of him. Nancy rose and walked around the bed to the door. She looked out through the peephole to see if anyone was in the hall. There was no one there. Gently she turned the doorknob to pull the door open. The door didn’t move. Nancy pulled harder, but the door stayed shut.
Nancy jiggled the bolt above the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge.
Eileen Braddock rose stiffly from behind the bed. “You know,” she joked, “it’s easier writing mysteries than being in them.” Then Braddock noticed the grim look on Nancy’s face. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“The lock is jammed,” Nancy said.
The author shrugged. “Don’t worry, we’ll just call Security and ask them to unlock the door.”
“That was Security,” Nancy responded. “And for all we know, he could be involved in the kidnapping. Then we’d be in even worse trouble than we are now.”
“Oh.” Braddock said. “Well, we’ll just call the front desk and they can send someone.”
“They’ll send Security,” Nancy said.
“Then what are we going to do?” Braddock fretted.
Nancy bit her lip. “I don’t know.” She sniffed the air—smoke again. Sherbinski couldn’t still be in the room, could he?
This smoke smelled different, though. It was heavier than the other smoke. Sootier. Was Sherbinski smoking another brand of cigar? Nancy whirled around, expecting to see the man in the gray uniform. Instead, she saw something much worse.
Will Leonard’s desk was ablaze. Smoke billowed through the room. The flames leaped across the desk to the drapes and began to spread upward.
Eileen Braddock started to cough, and Nancy banged on the door.
“Fire!” Nancy screamed. “Fire!”
But no one answered, and there was no way out!
8
Speeding Terror
Nancy’s eyes were watering so much she could barely see. Grabbing a pillow from the bed, she fanned the air in front of her, trying to get to Will’s desk where she had first seen the flames.
Through the smoke, Nancy could still make out a pile of papers on the desk, crackling and snapping as they rapidly turned to carbon. Nancy sprang across the room.
She yanked the heavy bedspread off Will’s bed, sending clothes and pillows flying. She flung the bedspread over the desk, smothering the flames.
After making sure the fire was out on the desk, Nancy ran to the window. Braddock followed. Together, they tore down the smoking drapes, stamping out the beginning flames with their feet. The heat ate through the soles of their shoes, and sweat poured down their backs, but they ignored the discomfort. When they were sure every last lick of fire was out, Nancy kicked through the charred fabric lying on the blackened carpet. She felt something small and lumpy and nudged it out with the toe of her shoe. It was burnt and crispy, but Nancy could tell what it was—Sherbinski’s cigar.
Nancy picked it up. Pushing a sweaty strand of hair behind her ear, she turned to face Eileen Braddock. “Now it’s time to call Security,” she said.
Eileen Braddock made the call. Moments later the bolt turned in the lock. Ray Sherbinski stood in the doorway of Will Leonard’s room. “You again?” he asked, surprised.
Then Sherbinski noticed Nancy’s soot-blackened face and all the damage in the room. “What happened here?” he asked accusingly, striding into the room. “We could have you kicked out of here for what you’ve just done.”
“Correction,” said Nancy. “For what you’ve just done.”
“Me?” Sherbinski asked. “I just got here.”
“And you just left here less than five minutes ago,” Nancy said. “We saw you.”
“What were you doing here?” Sherbinski asked. “You had no right to be in this room.”
“I think the bigger question is what you were doing here,” Nancy said. “It looks to me like you were here to set a fire. Tell me, Mr. Sherbinski. Did you do it because you knew we were in the room?”
“I didn’t even see you!” Sherbinski blustered. “And I didn’t start any fire.”
Silently Nancy held out the blackened cigar. “Forget something?” she asked.
Sherbinski coughed and sputtered. “Where’d you find that?”
“On the floor where you left it,” Nancy said.
Sherbinski started to sweat, dark patches spotting the light gray of his uniform. “I admit that’s my cigar,” Sherbinski said. “I’m no liar. But I swear to you the whole thing was an accident. I meant to put the cigar out, not set the room on fire.”
“Whether it was an accident or not,” Nancy said, “that still doesn’t explain what you were doing in the room in the first place.”
