“I was investigating,” Sherbinski said. “You’re the one who told me the guy in this room was kidnapped.”
“Are you sure you weren’t really here to destroy evidence?” Nancy asked.
“I was here to do my job,” Sherbinski insisted. “I told you I’d be back to investigate. And here I am.”
“I thought you believed this whole thing was a stunt set up by us ‘crazy mystery people,” Nancy countered.
“I do,” Sherbinski said. “But it is my job to investigate, no matter what. You said so yourself. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d better call Housekeeping and get this mess cleaned up. And don’t worry. I won’t mention any names.”
“Good,” Nancy said under her breath. “Because your name is on top of my list.”
Sherbinski strode out the door, giving one last nervous look into the room. As Nancy watched the security chief leave, something about him nagged at her brain—something familiar about him.
Eileen Braddock held out the scrap of gray cloth. “Do you want to hold on to this?” she asked. “Now that I’ve seen how good you are at handling detective work, I think you should keep all the evidence.”
As Nancy reached for the gray cloth, it suddenly hit her. The cloth was the same color as Sherbinski’s uniform! Either Sherbinski or some other security person had struggled with Will the day he was kidnapped. Nancy would have to keep a close eye on Sherbinski from now on.
“I don’t know about you,” said Braddock, “but I’m exhausted. I’m going back to my room for a shower and a nap.”
“I thought you wanted to help investigate,” Nancy said.
The author smiled. “You don’t need my help,” she said. “I think if anyone can find Sally and Will, it’s you. I’ll just stick to writing.” Hitching up her sooty sweatpants, Braddock headed for the elevators.
Nancy was feeling pretty tired herself, so she went back to her room. Not bothering to turn on the light, she collapsed on the bed. As she started to doze off, the door opened, and George and Bess entered the room, laughing.
“That female robot detective was the best,” George was saying. “Not only did she think faster than anybody else, she was indestructible.”
“Teflon coated.” Bess giggled and turned on the light. Then she saw Nancy’s sooty face and singed clothing.
“Whoa,” said Bess. “Looks like Nancy could have used a little bit of that Teflon coating. What happened to you?”
Nancy opened her eyes. “There was a fire in Will Leonard’s room,” she said.
George and Bess ran to the bed. “Are you okay?” Bess asked anxiously. “Do you want us to call a doctor?”
“I’m fine,” Nancy replied. “Just a little tired.”
“How did it happen?” George asked.
Nancy told them about running into Eileen Braddock, discovering she didn’t wear blue contact lenses, finding the gray cloth, hiding from Sherbinski, and smelling the deadly cigar.
“Sherbinski sounds pretty suspicious to me,” George said. “He wouldn’t investigate when you asked him to, then he suddenly appears in Will Leonard’s room and sets it on fire! And that piece of gray cloth clinches it as far as I’m concerned. I say Sherbinski’s your man.”
“Me too,” Bess agreed.
“I agree it seems to fit together,” Nancy said. “But, except for Braddock, we haven’t ruled out our other suspects. Like, what was Peter Thornton doing on the set of ‘Cop’ this morning when we got shot at? Why did he run away? And who put the bullets in the gun?”
“What about Matt Ziegler?” George said. “He was the one who invited us to the shoot today. Or should I say shooting.”
“He’s another possibility,” Nancy said. “And we still don’t know enough about Denise Ellingsen to rule her out. There are still too many pieces missing.”
Nancy was interrupted by the ringing phone. George reached to the bedside table to answer it.
“Hello?” George said. Her eyes grew wide. “Ten o’clock? We’ll be there.” She hung up the phone.
“Who was that?” Nancy raised herself up on one elbow.
“I don’t know,” George said. “It was a man, but his voice was muffled, like he was covering the mouthpiece with his hand. He said if we want to find Will and Sally, we should be in the lobby of the Fremont Art Gallery tomorrow at ten A.M.”
“A man!” Bess exclaimed. “That rules out Ellingsen.”
“Not necessarily,” Nancy said. “More than one person might be involved.”
“No matter who it is,” said Bess, “I’m glad they’re finally doing something. All this waiting has been murder.”
George shuddered. “Did you have to use that word?”
• • •
At nine-thirty the next morning the girls stepped out the front doors of the Buckingham Hotel. Almost immediately a black-and-white taxi rounded the semicircular driveway and pulled up alongside them.
“Perfect timing,” Nancy said, opening the back door for her friends. The three crowded into the backseat. “The Fremont Art Gallery,” Nancy told the driver.
The driver just nodded, without turning around. The cab screeched around the corner and took off at high speed, heading for the highway that circled downtown Chicago.
“He’s going a little fast,” Bess said. “Maybe we should ask him to slow down.”
“I’ll say something,” Nancy said.
