Carolyn Keene - This Side of Evil

“It’s frozen!” Nancy exclaimed. She looked at Ned. “Wow! Where did you learn that trick?”

“Freshman chemistry,” Ned replied, staring at the shattered leaf. “This stuff is probably some sort of a liquefied gas.”

“But what kind?” Nancy asked.

“I don’t know—yet,” Ned said thoughtfully. “Actually, the possibilities are pretty limited. When most substances get this cold, they freeze solid.”

“Like the leaf,” Nancy said.

“Yeah. Like the leaf.” Ned leaned closer. “Let’s see. There’s no color—that white steam is probably just the water vapor in the air freezing when it comes in contact with the gas.”

Nancy sniffed. “I don’t smell anything, either.”

“Neither do I,” Ned said, reaching for the box of matches on the stove. “I wonder if it burns.”

Nancy grabbed his arm. “Are you crazy, Nickerson? The air is filled with the stuff. If it’s flammable, this place could go up like a box of fireworks!”

“My bet is that it isn’t,” Ned argued. “But you’re right. We need to be on the safe side.” He got out a long-handled spoon and carefully scooped up a spoonful of the fuming liquid. Carrying the spoon into the other room, he touched a match to it. The flame died immediately. “My bet is that this stuff is liquid nitrogen—it doesn’t burn.”

“Okay, enough with the chemistry lesson,” Nancy said impatiently. “What would have happened if this stuff had gotten in my eyes a few minutes ago?”

Ned looked at her seriously. “You’d probably be blind,” he said. “And you’d need plastic surgery. You’d be badly scarred.”

Nancy shuddered, thinking how narrowly she had escaped. If it hadn’t been for Ned’s quick action . . .

“Who would have access to liquid nitrogen?” she asked, pushing the thought of danger away. “It’s not the kind of stuff you’d find on the drugstore shelf, is it?”

Ned shook his head. “Only chemists, physicists, people who work with low-temperature materials—they’re the ones who’d be likely to have it,” he said. “Like astronomers making artificial comets, or doctors and medical technicians who freeze tissue for microscopic slides, or manufacturers—”

“Doctors!” Nancy interrupted him excitedly. “Plastic surgery! Emile Dandridge is a plastic surgeon!”

“Hey, yeah,” Ned said. “In fact, up until a few years ago, doctors used liquid nitrogen to burn off warts.”

“Then he—or somebody in his office—could have access to it,” Nancy pointed out thoughtfully. “And the same person could have known about Lake Sinclair making those payments for the girl!” She looked at Ned. “Let’s go see how the booby trap was set up. Maybe that’ll give us a clue.”

In the kitchen the puddles of liquid nitrogen were almost completely gone. It had evaporated into the air. Above the stove, the cabinet door was still open. Lying on the top shelf was a large metal Thermos—empty. The Thermos stopper hung suspended from a short string that was fastened to the inside of the cabinet door with a thumbtack.

Nancy climbed up on a chair so she could see onto the top shelf. “There’s a short loop of string around the bottom of the Thermos,” she reported to Ned. “And the loop is tacked to the shelf. When I opened the cabinet door, the string on the lid pulled the stopper out while the loop around the bottom held the Thermos in place. That’s why it tipped over, but didn’t fall.”

“Pretty ingenious,” Ned agreed. “He used the Thermos to make sure that the stuff stayed cold until the stopper was pulled out.”

“Yeah,” Nancy replied, climbing down and brushing off her hands. “The evidence goes up in smoke, and all we’re left with is an empty Thermos and a couple of pieces of string.”

“And, someone hoped, a blind detective,” Ned reminded her. Tenderly, he put his arms around Nancy. “I’m so glad nothing happened,” he whispered. He touched Nancy’s cheek. “I like your face just the way it is.”

“So do I,” Nancy said, leaning against Ned’s chest.

At just that moment, George walked into the kitchen. “Whoops,” she said, sounding flustered. She backed out of the door. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting,” Nancy said as Ned gave her one more quick hug. She followed George into the living room and told her what had happened.

George stared at her friend, dumbstruck. “Oh, Nan,” she whispered, “that’s awful! Somebody tried to blind you—right here, in the apartment!”

“It wasn’t just me,” Nancy said, with a shake of her head. “I mean, either one of you could have opened that cabinet door. The person who set that trap couldn’t have guessed who would stumble on it first. No, whoever set this up wasn’t particular. He was out to get any one of us.”

“So, what do we do next?” Ned asked, crossing his arms.

Nancy looked at George. “Tomorrow,” she declared, “George is going to visit a certain prominent plastic surgeon—about a nose job.”

George’s hand flew to her nose. “A nose job? No way! There’s nothing wrong with my nose!”

Nancy laughed. “That’s just the ploy we’re going to use to get us into Emile Dandridge’s office,” she said, reaching for the phone. “I’ll explain everything later. Oh, maybe I should ask Ms. Amberton to set up the appointment. She could get you in for sure.”

As Nancy dialed, there was a knock on the door. Ned started toward it, but stopped when he saw a piece of folded paper being slipped under the closed door. Ned picked it up and read it, his eyes narrowing. He handed it to Nancy without a word.

Nancy put down the phone and opened the note. “ ‘If you’re not concerned for your own safety, Nancy Drew,’ ” she read out loud, “ ‘perhaps you should worry about your two friends. How would you feel if one of them suddenly disappeared?’ ”

Chapter Seven

Clutching the note in her hand, Nancy leapt to the door and jerked it open. She looked up and down the corridor. The hallway was empty. There was no one in sight.

“Too late,” Nancy said, coming back into the room. “He got away.”

She sat down on the sofa and held the note under the lamp beside her, examining it closely. It was typewritten on a piece of plain cream-colored notepaper with a thin blue line printed down the left margin—nothing very significant there. But as Nancy turned it sideways, against the light, she noticed what seemed to be indentations in the paper.

“Look,” she said, pulling out her magnifying glass, “I think this paper was under another piece of paper when somebody wrote on it. Whatever was written on that top sheet left an impression here.”

“Oh?” Ned asked, leaning over her shoulder. “What does it say?”

“I don’t know,” Nancy said. “I can’t quite make it out.” She glanced up. “We need some tissue paper.”

“I bought a blouse today,” George said. “The salesclerk wrapped it in tissue paper. What are you going to do with it?”

“An old detective trick,” Nancy said. “Let’s try a little scrap.”

George got the tissue paper while Ned found a pencil. Then Nancy put the note down on the coffee table. Carefully, she laid the tissue paper on top of the impressions in the note and rubbed with the side of the pencil lead. As if by magic, the white shapes of letters emerged from a pencil-smudged background.

“Hey, that’s neat,” George exclaimed.

“But what does it say ?” Ned asked.

“There’re numbers,” Nancy replied, peering closer. “Looks like five hundred, and then the letters mg . Then there are some letters I can’t make out, and then m-y-c-i-n .”