038 The Final Scene (10 page)

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.

N
ANCY’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.

Nancy and George searched the apartment for him, afraid of what they might find. After a few minutes they gave up looking.

“I just hope he’s not hurt, considering the fight he must have put up,” Nancy said.

“How can you tell he was in a fight? This could have been robbery or someone searching for something.”

“I don’t think so,” Nancy said. “The place wasn’t searched. None of the drawers have been pulled out, and the cushions on the furniture are still in place. Besides, the VCR is still here. That’s one of the first things a burglar takes.”

“You’re right,” George agreed. “And since Nicholas is nowhere to be seen, I wonder if maybe we have a second kidnap victim.”

Just then there was a knock at the door. Both girls turned and called, “Come in.” Joseph Hughes entered, looking terribly worried.

When he saw the condition of the room, he turned even more pale. “What happened?” he asked.

“We don’t know for sure,” Nancy said, “but it looks as though Nicholas had some trouble.”

Then Nancy found herself wondering what the elderly caretaker was doing there. “Is there some reason you’re here, Joseph?” she asked.

“What?” Joseph stared at her as though in a daze. “Oh, I came here to check on Nicholas. The kids on the picket line were worried about him. He didn’t show up.”

Joseph looked around the room again, then began to murmur to himself. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said. “Nobody was supposed to get hurt. I never meant for—”

“You never meant for what?” George asked, jumping on his words. “What wasn’t supposed to happen?”

“Nothing.” He closed his eyes and shook his head violently. “Nothing . . . I just meant that . . . ”

He opened his eyes and looked around the room again, becoming more agitated by the moment. “Oh, Nicholas. If anything happens to that boy, it’ll be all my fault.”

Nancy walked up to him and caught him by the arm. “Why, Joseph? Why would it be your fault?”

Joseph looked at her as though seeing her for the first time. Then he seemed to realize what he had said. “Never mind,” he said, pulling out of her grasp. “Just never mind.”

He backed away from her toward the bedroom, his hands in front of him as though he were warding off an evil spirit. Nancy wondered what she had said to set him off . . .

Whirling around, Joseph raced into the bedroom, slammed the door, and locked it behind him.

“Joseph, open up!” Nancy shouted as she
pounded on the door. “George, get my purse. I need my picklock. Hurry.”

George brought Nancy’s bag, and in a minute Nancy had found her tool, jimmied the lock, and opened the door.

They raced into the room but found it empty.

“Where is he?” George shouted.

“Over there,” Nancy said, pointing. “The window’s open.”

They ran to the window and squeezed through onto the fire escape. Far below they saw Joseph scurrying down the escape, nimbly jumping from one level to the next.

There was no point in chasing him. He had too great a head start. They both watched the old man as he hit the ground running and disappeared down the nearest alley.

They turned to each other, both of them thinking the same thing.

Nancy was the first to say it. “He sure is spry for such an old fellow!”

“Spry enough to climb around on a catwalk,” George observed.

“Definitely.” Nancy ran back into the living room and grabbed her purse. “Come on. We’ve got to find Bart Anderson. We still can’t prove anything, but when we tell him about
Joseph, he’ll just have to postpone that demolition!”

• • •

Fifteen minutes later the girls stood in Bart Anderson’s outer office.

“I’m telling you for the third time, Mr. Anderson is out.
Out.
You know, not in.” His secretary bristled at Nancy and George as they stood in front of her desk, demanding to see her boss.

“So, why is a dark blue Mercedes parked out front in his space?” Nancy asked. She found that her voice came out sounding far calmer than she felt.

“I don’t know,” the secretary answered. “Maybe he went for a walk somewhere. But he isn’t here. I’ll have to ask you again to leave and stop pestering me. I have work to do.”