sandy-haired man with a mustache stepped inside. There was no place to escape his gaze in the small room. “Who are you?” he asked gruffly. “No unauthorized personnel allowed in here.”
Nancy thought quickly. “We, um . . . we’re with the NYU group.”
“Film students,” George added, backing up Nancy’s story.
“Oh. Well, what are you kids doing in here? Your group is over in one of the editing rooms.” He motioned for them to leave. “Down this hall and to the left.”
For a moment, Nancy was flooded with a sense of relief. “Oh. Thank you, sir.” She and George moved toward the door.
But as soon as they were safely out of Oraye Sound and outside again, Nancy’s relief dissolved in a flood of nerves. What if she couldn’t locate Barton before it was too late? Or was it already too late? Who was at the bottom of the sordid mess, and how much did Alan know about it? How safe was Bess if she inadvertently had been caught smack in the middle of a record pirating conspiracy?
Stop! Nancy admonished herself. Standing in the middle of a busy New York street thinkingabout all this wasn’t going to get her any closer to answering the questions that were gnawing at her. She took several breaths, taking the air deep into her body and breathing from her stomach, the way she’d been taught in karate class.
“Okay,” she told George, “the first thing to do is to find out which people have access to the room with the masters in it, and then find out what they know.” Nancy made a beeline for the nearest pay phone, fishing around in her jeans pocket as she ran.
A loud, jarring crackle came out of the earpiece as she picked up the receiver. “Broken.” She slammed down the phone and moved over to the next one. “Good,” she told George. “This one’s got a dial tone.” She pulled her little notebook out of her shoulder bag and quickly turned the pages until she found Roger Gold’s number.
Be home. Please be home. She punched out his number on the pushbutton telephone.
“Hello?” Roger’s voice came over the wire.
“Roger. It’s Nancy Drew. Thank goodness you’re there.”
“Nancy, what’s wrong? Is it about Barton? Do you know where he is?”
“Not yet,” Nancy replied, trying to keep from sounding frightened, “but I think I’ve got my first solid lead.”
“Was he kidnapped?” Roger sounded nervous.
“Yes, I think so.”
“I knew it! No way did Barton go off on his own. He was too involved in those concerts.” Roger paused. “So what do you think’s going on?”
“I think someone’s pirating Bent Fender’s records. And probably other groups’ records, too.”
“Pirating our records?” A string of angry words streamed out of Roger Gold’s normally soft-speaking mouth. Nancy waited for him to calm down. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “Listening to me get mad isn’t going to help Barton, is it?”
“That’s okay, Roger. I’m not exactly a bearer of good tidings. But there is something you can tell me that will help get to the bottom of this.”
“Anything.”
“Who has access to the cabinets in the masters room at Oraye Sound?”
“Well, all the techies—the recording technicians—at Oraye, for starters. And they usually give a key to the musicians who record there.”
“Like you and Barton and the rest of the band?”
“Right. I mean, we do most of our work at our own private studios, but we do some mixing and stuff there sometimes. Yeah.”
“Anyone else?” Nancy asked.
“The top executives at World,” Roger said.
“Harold Marshall?”
A moment of silence, then Roger exploded. “Is that creep in on Barton’s disappearance?”
“Well, he has an interesting reason for why Barton didn’t make the concert.”
“I don’t buy it,” Roger said firmly, after hearing Harold Marshall’s story. “Barton would want the sales of our records to center around our music, not around gossip about where he is. Besides, he doesn’t like
Nancy thought quickly. “We, um . . . we’re with the NYU group.”
“Film students,” George added, backing up Nancy’s story.
“Oh. Well, what are you kids doing in here? Your group is over in one of the editing rooms.” He motioned for them to leave. “Down this hall and to the left.”
For a moment, Nancy was flooded with a sense of relief. “Oh. Thank you, sir.” She and George moved toward the door.
But as soon as they were safely out of Oraye Sound and outside again, Nancy’s relief dissolved in a flood of nerves. What if she couldn’t locate Barton before it was too late? Or was it already too late? Who was at the bottom of the sordid mess, and how much did Alan know about it? How safe was Bess if she inadvertently had been caught smack in the middle of a record pirating conspiracy?
Stop! Nancy admonished herself. Standing in the middle of a busy New York street thinkingabout all this wasn’t going to get her any closer to answering the questions that were gnawing at her. She took several breaths, taking the air deep into her body and breathing from her stomach, the way she’d been taught in karate class.
“Okay,” she told George, “the first thing to do is to find out which people have access to the room with the masters in it, and then find out what they know.” Nancy made a beeline for the nearest pay phone, fishing around in her jeans pocket as she ran.
A loud, jarring crackle came out of the earpiece as she picked up the receiver. “Broken.” She slammed down the phone and moved over to the next one. “Good,” she told George. “This one’s got a dial tone.” She pulled her little notebook out of her shoulder bag and quickly turned the pages until she found Roger Gold’s number.
Be home. Please be home. She punched out his number on the pushbutton telephone.
“Hello?” Roger’s voice came over the wire.
“Roger. It’s Nancy Drew. Thank goodness you’re there.”
“Nancy, what’s wrong? Is it about Barton? Do you know where he is?”
“Not yet,” Nancy replied, trying to keep from sounding frightened, “but I think I’ve got my first solid lead.”
“Was he kidnapped?” Roger sounded nervous.
“Yes, I think so.”
“I knew it! No way did Barton go off on his own. He was too involved in those concerts.” Roger paused. “So what do you think’s going on?”
“I think someone’s pirating Bent Fender’s records. And probably other groups’ records, too.”
“Pirating our records?” A string of angry words streamed out of Roger Gold’s normally soft-speaking mouth. Nancy waited for him to calm down. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “Listening to me get mad isn’t going to help Barton, is it?”
“That’s okay, Roger. I’m not exactly a bearer of good tidings. But there is something you can tell me that will help get to the bottom of this.”
“Anything.”
“Who has access to the cabinets in the masters room at Oraye Sound?”
“Well, all the techies—the recording technicians—at Oraye, for starters. And they usually give a key to the musicians who record there.”
“Like you and Barton and the rest of the band?”
“Right. I mean, we do most of our work at our own private studios, but we do some mixing and stuff there sometimes. Yeah.”
“Anyone else?” Nancy asked.
“The top executives at World,” Roger said.
“Harold Marshall?”
A moment of silence, then Roger exploded. “Is that creep in on Barton’s disappearance?”
“Well, he has an interesting reason for why Barton didn’t make the concert.”
“I don’t buy it,” Roger said firmly, after hearing Harold Marshall’s story. “Barton would want the sales of our records to center around our music, not around gossip about where he is. Besides, he doesn’t like
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