“That’s very interesting,” Nancy said. It sounded as if Hillary Lane had been confident that she’d have another starring role as curator of the Clinton Park Museum. But, Nancy told herself, it was hard to imagine that she’d threaten to kill for it.
At that moment Hannah returned to the dining room with plates of tossed salad and sat down at the table. “I never stop hearing about Hillary Lane these days,” the housekeeper muttered. “Ever since she got turned down for that curator’s job, she’s been as busy as a bee. I just read in the paper that she’s organizing this year’s dog show for the Clinton Park Humane Society. You can bet your boots it will be a class act, if Hillary Lane is running things.”
Carson Drew nodded. “I believe they’re holding the event this Saturday on the grounds of her house.”
Nancy poked at her salad. Maybe the dog show would be a good excuse to speak with Hillary Lane. She couldn’t help wondering if the heiress had slipped out of the library, past Stone’s closed office door, and into the Tibetan room, where she’d snatched the Golden Horse. Maybe she’d even done it to embarrass the curator. If that was the case, she’d definitely succeeded. And, of course, if Stone ended up being fired, Hillary had another chance at the job.
After dinner Nancy went upstairs and phoned Nelson Stone. “I thought I’d check in with you,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“I’m a bundle of nerves,” he told her. “But I managed to phone Rapid Repair to have my car towed in. They work around the clock, so maybe I’ll have it back by tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s good,” Nancy said. Then she reminded him, “Don’t forget to keep your doors locked and take those other precautions I told you about.”
After saying goodbye to Mr. Stone, Nancy phoned Clinton Park Information for Hillary Lane’s number. She punched the number in, and someone answered on the second ring.
“The Lane residence,” a young woman’s voice said.
“May I speak with Ms. Lane, please?” Nancy asked, wrapping the telephone cord around her index finger.
“I’m sorry,” the woman replied. “Ms. Lane is dining at the moment. May I take a message?”
“This is Nancy Drew—Carson Drew’s daughter,” Nancy explained. “I was wondering whether I could stop by tomorrow to buy a ticket for the dog show.”
The woman hesitated. “Well, I don’t know. I believe the tickets will be sold at the gate on Saturday.”
“I’ll be in the neighborhood tomorrow morning,” Nancy pressed. “I could stop by, if you don’t mind.”
The woman hesitated again. “Well, I guess that would be all right,” she said slowly. “If Ms. Lane knows you, I mean.”
After hanging up, Nancy sat down on the edge of her bed and gazed out the window at the thin crescent moon rising above the treetops. She couldn’t stop thinking about Nelson Stone’s brake pipe. Had it been cut on purpose? Without an expert’s opinion, she didn’t want to jump to conclusions. She decided to pay a visit to Rapid Repair.
Twenty minutes later Nancy was behind the wheel of her blue Mustang. Driving through the streets of River Heights, she turned on the car radio and caught the end of her favorite song. She was still humming when the eight o’clock news came on.
In a matter-of-fact tone the newscaster reported that a precious Tibetan artifact, the Golden Horse, had been stolen from the Clinton Park Museum earlier that day. “The police have stated,” the newscaster continued, “that they have no suspects at the present time.”
Nancy flashed back to Hillary Lane in Nelson Stone’s office. The former actress had seemed so self-assured, as if she owned the place. Her dazzling beauty and self-confidence would probably intimidate most people. Even the hardened Lieutenant Higgins might not consider her a possible suspect.
Nancy drove a few more miles into Clinton Park, then slowed down. She wasn’t planning to stop, but she wanted to get a good look at Nelson Stone’s house as she passed.
The house was in darkness, except for the yellow porch light, which cast shadows on the front lawn. Nancy’s eyes searched each patch of darkness. Then, certain there was no one lurking around the bushes, she pressed down gently on the accelerator and headed toward downtown Clinton Park.
A few minutes later she saw a neon sign that read Rapid Repair—Open 24 Hours.
Nancy drove into the station and parked her car beyond the gas pumps. A single fluorescent light illuminated the office. Opening the door, she heard a country western song playing on the radio.
“Can I help you, miss?” asked a bearded man in blue overalls. He slid a booted foot off the desk and removed an unlit cigar from his mouth.
“I understand you towed Nelson Stone’s car in for repair,” Nancy said, closing the door behind her.
The mechanic raised a dark, bushy eyebrow. “What about it?” he asked, reaching over to turn down the radio.
“I think Mr. Stone’s brake pipe might have been cut on purpose,” Nancy said.
The man put down his coffee cup on the scarred desk. “Yeah?” he asked, frowning.
“There’s a good chance,” Nancy replied. “I was there when the brakes failed. My friend and I took a look under the hood, but I’d like a mechanic’s opinion.”
“The car’s out back in the lot,” the mechanic said, pointing over his shoulder with a greasy thumb. Then, picking up a flashlight, he rose from his chair. “I was going to start working on it right after my coffee break.”
A short while later Nancy and the mechanic were leaning over the engine of Nelson Stone’s car. “I’d say this was cut with a hacksaw,” the mechanic said, inspecting the pipe closely with a flashlight.
“How can you tell?” Nancy asked.
Suddenly the flashlight dimmed. The mechanic banged it against the engine until the beam brightened. “Look,” he said, shining the beam on the metal brake pipe. “You can even see the teeth marks made by the hacksaw blade.”
“Wow!” Nancy whistled softly. “You’re right. I thought that was just corrosion.”
“It usually is with these vintage cars,” he remarked. “Let’s have a look at the other brake pipe.”
Just then the flashlight flickered dimly once again. The mechanic shook it and slapped it against the palm of his hand. “This thing probably needs new batteries,” he said.
Nancy searched her purse. “I usually have a penlight with me,” she said, “but I can’t seem to find it.”
“Maybe Mr. Stone has one in his glove compartment,” the mechanic suggested.
Nancy moved around to the side of the car and opened the front door. But as the interior light flicked on, she jumped back with a gasp of horror.
In the dim light a woman’s body was stretched facedown across the front seat, her head dangling toward the floor!
