“Did you keep the bottle beside your bed?” Nancy asked calmly.
Monique nodded, obviously fighting hysteria. “I think somebody put something into that pill! I think somebody tried to kill me!”
Nancy sat down beside the bed. “Can you think of a reason why someone might want to kill you?” she asked.
Monique shook her head. “Not unless it was the blackmailer.” She gulped. “I can’t pay any more. Maybe he got tired of waiting for me to pay and decided to kill me.”
“How much have you paid altogether?” Nancy asked.
“Hundreds of dollars,” Monique moaned. “Maybe as much as five hundred.”
Nancy shook her head. Five hundred dollars was not that much, really. And there was no reason to believe the blackmailer would gain anything from Monique’s death. “What did the letters say?”
“They all said the same thing: Tut the money into a red plastic bag and throw it in the trash can at Nelson’s Column. If you don’t, your mother will find out that you are a forger and a thief.’ It was so long ago,” she added, “and in another city even. I never dreamed anyone would find out about it! I thought I was safe!”
“Why your mother?” Nancy probed.
Monique broke into tears. “My mother is old and sick. News like that could kill her!” She looked up imploringly, tears streaming down her face. “You’ve got to find the blackmailer, Ms. Drew! My mother’s life depends on it, and so does mine!”
“Have you still got the letters?”
“They’re at home.” She turned her head away, sniffling loudly. “You can have them if you want.”
“What about the bottle of sleeping pills?” Nancy stood up to go.
“The police took it, but I know it was empty.” She turned back toward Nancy and smiled weakly. “If you see Ms. Amberton today, please tell her that I’ll be back at work very soon. And thank her for coming to my apartment yesterday and bringing me flowers. They’re beautiful.”
I guess I’ll have to revise my opinion of Ashley Amberton, Nancy thought as she left the room. Lending money to one of the blackmail victims, bringing flowers to a sick employee. Maybe she wasn’t really as unfeeling as she appeared.
Nancy walked down the front stairs, biting her lip with a puzzled frown. It hardly seemed possible that a blackmailer—any blackmailer—would run the risk of discovery over such small amounts of money. And was it only hysteria, or did Monique have reason to believe that she had narrowly escaped being a murder victim?
The chauffeur was waiting outside the hospital to drive Nancy back to the Cherbourg Building. She was silent most of the way, thinking through what she had learned so far. Monique’s story seemed convincing. Nancy was sure she honestly thought she hadn’t taken enough of the sedative to cause any harm. Had someone slipped something else into the bottle?
“I have one more question,” she said, leaning forward to talk to the chauffeur as they wove through the heavy late-afternoon traffic on Université Avenue. “Do you have any idea how the blackmailer could have learned about your drug use?”
Jacques shook his head. “No,” he replied, “but I did spend two years in prison, so I suppose it is a matter of public record.” He hesitated, glancing nervously at Nancy. “I even changed my name from Xavier to Olivier on my application for this job—just to make sure my past was not found out. I don’t know how the blackmailer has managed to trace me.”
“Merci,” Nancy replied. “Oh, and one more thing, Jacques. Please be careful.”
“But why?”
“Because at least one person,” Nancy said slowly, “believes that our blackmailer may also be trying his hand at murder.”
In the lunchroom at the Cherbourg Building, Nancy met with the file clerk, Becky Evans. Becky was a nervous little blonde with large frightened eyes. She kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure nobody was listening.
“I’ve heard about Monique,” Becky whispered. “Is—is she going to be all right?”
Nancy nodded. “She’s still a little groggy, but she’ll be fine in a day or two. I must tell you, though, that Monique suspects that the medication she took was poisoned,” Nancy said, stirring her coffee.