Sally’s gone from ‘Nightside’ to an even darker side—and there’s no escape. Watch the rerun as history repeats itself.
“What does it mean?” asked Bess, with a shudder.
“It means,” said Nancy in a low voice, “that our star’s been kidnapped!”
2
An Important Clue
“History will repeat itself?” George asked. “I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I,” said Nancy. “But it looks like we’re getting even more mystery this weekend than we bargained for. We’d better call hotel security.”
Nancy burrowed through the clothing on the floor until she found the phone cord. Pulling it, she dragged the phone out from underneath the bed. Quickly she dialed the hotel operator.
“I’d like to speak to the chief of security, please,” Nancy said. A few seconds later a raspy voice came on the line. “Hello?”
“Yes, hello. My name is Nancy Drew and I’m in Sally Belmont’s room, Suite Twelve-oh-four. One of the bedrooms has been ransacked, and we’ve found a note saying she’s been kidnapped.”
Nancy listened a while, then said, “No, this isn’t a joke . . . Yes, I realize there’s a Mystery Lovers Convention going on . . . No, I don’t know how many phone calls like this you get every year at this time . . .”
Nancy shot Bess and George a look that said, “The guy on the other end of this phone has a serious problem.”
“Listen,” Nancy said, beginning to lose her patience. “This is for real. Come see for yourself. Suite Twelve-oh-four.” Nancy banged the phone down.
“Is someone coming?” Bess asked.
Nancy shrugged. “I hope so. Meanwhile, let’s look for clues. I’ll check in here. Why don’t you two spread out over the other rooms.”
Nancy glanced at Sally Belmont’s clothes lying on the floor. Even though she was alarmed by the star’s disappearance, Nancy couldn’t help marveling at how expensive everything looked.
It must be nice to be a rich, famous TV star, thought Nancy. To have the biggest hotel rooms and expensive clothes and fans hounding you for your autograph. Then Nancy reminded herself that it wouldn’t be nice to be Sally Belmont right now. At this moment Sally was probably tied up in some dark, scary place, and her life was in danger!
Nancy moved into the master bathroom. The bathroom was huge, almost as large as Nancy’s bedroom at home. The walls and floor were covered with white porcelain tile.
“I know what Hannah would say,” thought Nancy. “She’d say a white bathroom is impossible to keep clean because every speck of dust shows. But dust can show footprints and handprints.”
Nancy checked the floor for dust, but it was sparkling clean—except for a small blue dot underneath the sink. Nancy stooped down to see what it was. It was round and made of clear blue plastic.
“It’s a contact lens,” Nancy said aloud. “So that’s the secret behind those famous blue eyes—unless the contact lens belongs to the kidnapper.”
Nancy took a glass of the bathroom shelf, removed the sanitized wrapper, and very carefully placed the lens inside the glass. Then she covered the glass again with the wrapper, and sealed the whole thing tight with a hair elastic lying on the edge of the sink.
George appeared in the bathroom doorway. “I found something,” she said excitedly.
“So did I,” Nancy said, showing George the contact lens in the glass.
“Do you think it belongs to the kidnapper?” George asked.
“That’s what I want to figure out.” Nancy tucked the glass inside her oversized purse. “What did you find?”
George held out a hardcover book titled The Repeating Gunshot. It was written by Eileen Braddock, the famous mystery writer the girls had seen earlier.
“Look inside the front cover,” said George.
Nancy opened the book. The first page had a handwritten inscription:
To Sally—
Thanks for trying. Too bad it didn’t work out.
—Eileen
“Sounds like they know each other,” said George, looking over Nancy’s shoulder.
“It sure does,” Nancy said. “I wonder what Eileen Braddock was talking about,” she added thoughtfully. “What didn’t work out?”
George flipped to the first page of the story. “The Repeating Gunshot was such a great book,” she said. “Did you ever read it?”
Nancy shook her head. “I’ve never read any of them.”
“I’ve read all twenty-seven,” said George.
“I know, you told me,” Nancy said, smiling. “And you love that detective, Fifi Spaghetti—”
“Spinelli,” George corrected her.
Nancy wasn’t listening. She was deep in thought. The book’s inscription seemed friendly enough. But there was the possibility that it referred to something bad that happened between Eileen Braddock and Sally Belmont.
