Free Very Deadly Yours by Carolyn Keene Page B

better let her do it,” George told Bess. “She has that look in her eyes. Just call us when you get back, Nan.”
    â€œYou know what you could do for me, though,” Nancy said, “is to stop in and see how Ned’s doing. I’d do it myself, but I don’t want him to see me all bruised like this. The doctor doesn’t want me reminding him of the case.”
    â€œWhere do you want us to say you are?” asked George.
    â€œTell him—tell him—oh, just tell him I’ve been delayed. Tell him I promise I’ll call him tonight. And give him my love.”
    â€œSure,” said George with a grin. “We’ll take him some kind of potted plant, too. A nice spidery potted plant is just the thing for an invalid.”
    Nancy laughed. “I can see you’ll do a better job of cheering him up today than I possibly could.”
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    A light rain was falling as Nancy emerged from the lobby of the Record building a couple of hours later. Her second search through the paper’s files had made her more suspicious than ever that “the Glove,” John Engas, had robbed First Lincoln in Chicago.
    â€œHow could you leave the Glove to die?” the man in the restaurant had asked Bess. Obviously he thought the girl he was looking for was some kind of suspect in Engas’s death. And a robber, too? Nancy wondered. If she’d somehow killed Engas and made off with the haul from the bank . . . But how could she have organized a car accident like the one that had killed him?
    Nancy was still puzzling it over as she got into her Mustang and headed for home. But as she pulled out of the parking lot, she noticed a car speeding away from the building in the opposite direction from the way she was going.
    A dark blue sedan with a dented front fender.
    That’s the car that hit Ned! Nancy thought. I’ve got to catch it!
    With a squeal of brakes she turned the Mustang around and took off after the sedan. For about five seconds she thought she had a good chance of catching up to it. Then she reached the main road.
    â€œI don’t believe this,” Nancy muttered. It was four-thirty. What with the beginning of rush hour and the rain—which was now falling more heavily—traffic was unbearably snarled. She could just see the dark blue sedan two blocks ahead of her. It was moving as slowly as her Mustang—but if it managed to break free of this jam before she did, she’d never catch up.
    A red light. Nancy tapped the steering wheel in frustration. In the car next to hers, a man was happily bopping his head back and forth to the beat of his radio, oblivious to the mess of cars around him. He caught her eye and winked, still twitching to the music. Nancy looked away.
    Green light. The Mustang inched forward through the intersection, its wipers swishing monotonously back and forth. Past a group of girls laughing on the sidewalk, a baby being pushed along in a stroller with an umbrella over it, a dog sniffing idly at the curb. Taking advantage of the stalled traffic, an old woman threaded her way across the street between the cars. She gave Nancy a pleasant wave as she passed in front of the Mustang. Nancy waved back, but she was feeling too edgy to smile.
    Was the dark blue sedan pulling out of traffic up there? It was! It had managed to break free ofthe pack and was turning left onto Sycamore Street. Nancy was still trapped behind two intersections—and there was another red light ahead of her. But she couldn’t let the other car get away!
    Nancy thought quickly. Sycamore Street, she knew, led to Monroe Avenue, which in turn led to the expressway. It was safe to assume the other driver was heading that way—he’d be too easy to catch if he stayed in street traffic. If Nancy could make a left turn herself at the next intersection, she could get onto Monroe and—just possibly—catch up with him. But