“Ah, yes! The practical joker! Is that me, too, Miss Drew?”
“No. I’m getting to that. First I want to explain how the gambling worked . . . call it practice for what I’m going to tell the police.”
“Go on.”
“A few days before each Wildcat game you set a ‘line,’ Dr. Riggs. That’s a point spread between the winning and losing teams. Those who bet on the correct side of the line won the amount they wagered. Those who bet on the wrong side of the line paid the amount of their wager, plus a ten-percent ‘vig.’ ”
“Vig?”
“That’s short for vigorish, your commission on the losing bet.”
“I see. Please continue.”
“Well, it was a nice scam. You made a lot of money. But you weren’t satisfied, Dr. Riggs. You wanted more, so eventually you began to set the line low. That made people bet above it, since they knew Emerson would whip their opponents by a bigger margin than the line indicated.”
Nancy paused. Dr. Riggs was no longer packing his gym bag.
“After that,” she went on, “all you had to do was make sure that the final scores fell below the line. You did that with the help of certain Emerson players . . . scholarship students like Mike O’Shea, Andy Hall, and Craig Watson. They shaved points in the final minutes of the games, and the result was lots of extra vig.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, and you shared that money with them in the form of watches, clothes . . . even cash. Mike has two thousand dollars in small bills hidden inside his locker.”
“That’s all very well, Miss Drew, but you still haven’t explained the practical jokes . . . where do they fit in?”
“Oh, those . . . they were staged by the players themselves to account for their jitters—and the shaved points.”
All at once the atmosphere in the room grew menacing. Dr. Riggs regarded her coldly, his mouth set in a tight line.
“Well, well . . . how did you manage to figure out all that?”
“I had a little help,” Nancy confessed, sending a mental thank-you to her father. “I’m not finished, though, Doctor. I still need to tell you who shot out the bus’s tire and who pushed Mike off the roof and—”
“Don’t bother. You’ve already said quite enough, I think.”
Reaching into the top drawer of his desk, the doctor drew out a large revolver. He pointed it at her heart.
“You’re very clever, Nancy Drew. But not clever enough!”
“P-put that down!” Nancy stammered weakly. “Put it down or I’ll scream.”
“You do, and it will be the last sound that ever leaves your mouth.”
He wasn’t kidding, she could see. He really would shoot her! The barrel of the revolver wasn’t wavering in the slightest!
“Now, Miss Drew, it’s my turn to talk,” he said. “I’m going to give you some instructions, and I want you to follow them to the letter. Do you understand?”
Nancy nodded.
“First, walk slowly up to my desk and pick up that pen . . . fine. See that scrap of paper? Yes, that one! I want you to write the following message on it.”
Startled, she looked up at him.
“Oh, come now . . . don’t look so surprised! I know you must have your two friends waiting outside. Here’s the message: False alarm. Go to the student union and wait for me there. Will explain later.”
Nancy wrote the words exactly as he had dictated them. She was signing her death certificate, she knew, but what else could she do?
“Finished? Let me see. Now fold the paper and take two steps backward. Excellent. Don’t move.”
Dr. Riggs walked around his desk to stand next to Nancy. “Move slowly toward the door. I want you to open it just a bit very, very carefully and pass the note to your friends. Don’t say a word. Then shut the door. And remember, I’ll be right behind you.”
Nancy did as she was told. “Now step back and turn around,” Dr. Riggs commanded. “Place your hands on top of your head.”
His gun still trained on her, Dr. Riggs moved back behind his desk. Next he reached for his telephone. A minute later, his call completed, he replaced the receiver.