Carolyn Keene - Trial By Fire

The phone rang, and Nancy snatched the receiver to her ear. “Renk residence.”

“It’s Ann, Nancy. They were there at the same time, but Mrs. Harvey wouldn’t tell me a thing. In fact, she sounded terrified. She hung up on me. I asked a doctor friend to find out for me.”

“He called Pinebrook?”

“Yes. Mrs. Harvey was there five weeks before Mrs. Renk died, and she went home three weeks afterward.”

“And I just found a photo,” Nancy said, “of my uncle Jon and a nasty character named Philip Reston, the man who snatched me out of the Grand.” She slapped her forehead. “ Now I remember where I’ve seen the name! He’s one of the owners of Gold Star!”

Ann said, “Uh-oh. This is getting better and better, and worse and worse. Nancy, you’d better stay away from that place.”

“I can’t! Now that we’ve established a link between Reston and my uncle? No way! We’re coming down the pike, Ann, I’m sure of it.”

Ann snorted. “If you aren’t careful, the pike will be coming down on you.”

When Nancy arrived at Gold Star late that afternoon, Brownley handed her a hack’s license that looked perfectly legitimate. “Don’t advertise how you got this,” he said, warning her. “That wouldn’t be smart.”

“Okay by me,” Nancy said, popping gum at top speed.

“Take one-six-one,” he said. “Don’t hit any bumps or you’ll bash your head in. It needs shocks. And if you get it dirty, run it through the car wash next door on your way back in. See you at midnight.”

“Is the car wash open at night? That seems odd.”

“Yeah, well, they just keep a skeleton crew on. Must make money or they wouldn’t do it.”

“Do you work twenty-four hours a day?” Nancy then asked, needing to know when she could search his office. “When do you eat?”

“My, my, aren’t we full of questions. What’s it to you when I work?”

“I thought if I was close by, I could bring you a pizza or something. I didn’t mean to bother you, just wanted to help.”

He grinned. “You’re an okay kid. Nobody ever offered before. I have dinner around ten, but don’t make a special trip if you’ve got a fare.”

As Nancy walked through the garage to her assigned car, she saw Jim Dayton getting out of his cab.

“Hi,” he called to her. “Working the evening shift, huh? Tough break.”

“Well, not exactly.” Nancy stopped, and then said, “I asked for it. I need to make some extra money fast.”

“I know what you mean. I’m in between semesters from college now, and I’m doing this to pick up some fast cash myself,” he said. “Oh, my name’s Jim Dayton.”

“Nancy Nickerson. Nice to meet you.”

“Same here. They don’t have too many female drivers around here, you know.”

Nancy quickly glanced at her watch. “And they’ll have one less if I don’t get out of here,” she said smiling. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

“I hope so,” Jim answered. Nancy noticed that his incredibly blue eyes sparkled even in the harsh light of the garage.

Nancy got into the car and started the engine. Too bad this guy’s only temporary, she thought. He’s friendly, and he might know something.

By ten o’clock Nancy had driven over two hundred miles. Her money bag was full, her back was stiff, and her rear end was numb from sitting. But if Brownley was away from his desk, she wouldn’t be sitting much longer.

Turning onto McConnell, she made a pass by the garage to see if the office was empty. It was. Unfortunately, Brownley was standing just outside of it talking to a tall, thin man, who turned just then and glanced out into the street.

“Oh, no!” Nancy whispered.

It was Philip Reston. If he got a close look at her, her life wouldn’t be worth a ten-cent tip.

Nancy eased past the garage so the sound of the motor wouldn’t attract the attention of either man. What should she do? She wasn’t sure whether Brownley had seen her.

Grabbing the mike, she called in. After a second, Brownley answered. “Hey, kid, did you just pass here?”

“Sure, on the way to twenty-five-twelve Bennett. Is something wrong with the radio? I called you three times before you answered.”

“Guess I didn’t hear you,” he said. “I was talking to somebody.”

“Oh. Sorry. Want me to call back?”

“No, I’m finished.” Just what Nancy wanted to hear. “Why don’t you knock off early? Call it a night. Come on in when you’ve finished this run. Nothing’s happening tonight.”

“Will do. One-six-one out.”

She drove a couple of blocks farther and parked long enough to put in the money her imaginary fare would have paid. Then she doubled back, edging around the corner onto McConnell again. Reston was standing by a late-model Buick parked on the street just beyond the garage. It was a dead ringer for the car that had tried to run her over the day before.

To kill more time, Nancy ran the cab through the car wash next door, sitting in the vehicle as it glided through the cycles. It seemed to take much too short a time. Reston was still out front, but she couldn’t put off going in any longer.

The Gold Star sign-a brightly lit rectangle above the broad rollup door-spilled its gaudy light into the cab as she drove under it. From the corner of her eye, Nancy saw Reston staring at her with a puzzled expression.

After a moment’s hesitation, he got in the Buick and started the engine. Nancy’s hand shook slightly as she opened the cab door. But Reston was gone. She’d survived her first shift as a Gold Star cabbie.

“Not bad, Nickerson,” Brownley said, counting her money. “Lay off that gum, and you’ll do even better.”

“I’ll think about it.” Nancy removed the cushion she’d brought from the front seat of the cab. “Where can I leave this?”

He nodded toward a bank of lockers just beyond his office. “Snag one for yourself. You have to supply your own lock, though.”

Nancy walked along the row of lockers, hoping for an empty one as close to the back of the garage as possible. The second and third from the end were available.

She crammed the cushion into one and hunted for a pen to scratch “Ellison” off the strip of adhesive tape that served as the name tag on the locker door. After squeezing “Nickerson” on it, she glanced at the names on either side-Eastman, which had a monster combination lock on the door, and Tyler, with no lock at all.

Nancy stared at it. “T. Tyler.” The doorman at Mrs. Harvey’s building had mentioned a Tyler. The same man? she wondered.

“Hey, Nickerson! Find an empty?” Brownley shouted from the office.

“Uh-yes.” Nancy slammed the door closed and ambled toward the front. Perhaps the next night she’d be able to slip away from her locker and see what else was back there in the dark.

One thing she had been able to see. The white van was gone.

“I don’t understand why you wanted me to come with you,” Ann said as the elevator in Crimson Oaks building two rose to the tenth floor.

“According to the doorman in building four, this Mr. Tyler knows your Mrs. Harvey and knows all about the accident. He may be able to convince Mrs. Harvey to talk to us.”

Ann looked doubtful. “As frightened as she sounded on the phone, it would take a subpoena to make her open up.”

“Even that might not work,” Nancy said, smiling at her. “It hasn’t worked with you.”

The elderly man who answered their knock eyed them with curiosity. He had sandy hair and laugh lines that made his face look permanently happy. “Which one of you did I talk to this morning?” he asked.

“That was me,” Nancy said. “Thank you for seeing us. I’m Nancy Nickerson, and this is Ann Granger.”