En Garde (Nancy Drew (All New) Girl Detective Book 17) (4 page)

Ned looked baffled. “Because it sounds like he’s training Olympic-quality fencers, and Kovacs isn’t?”

Evaline shook her head. “It’s more than that. Apparently everything between them stems back to the 1976 Olympics in Montreal. They fenced against each other there. I never heard who won. But it seems there was some kind of disagreement. Decades later, they still haven’t gotten over it.” She chuckled. “That must be why the TV newspeople came today. They’ve heard about the crazy feud between those two. Well, their hunch seems to have paid off.” She nodded toward the TV crew, filming away at the edge
of the fencing floor. “They’re bound to get some good footage out of this.”

I don’t know why, but my gut instinct told me there was more going on here than an ancient personal grudge. I couldn’t see Una, so I didn’t know how serious her injury was. But I could see the anxious look on DeLyn’s face. Something told me it was time to get more information.

“Nancy, where are you going?” Bess asked as I climbed down the bleachers.

“I just need to check something out,” I said. “I”ll be right back.”

In a moment I was in the thick of the crowd milling around the fencing strip. Other bouts were still in progress, but the attention of the field house was focused on DeLyn’s fencing strip. Since I’d never been to a fencing match before, I didn’t know if injuries like this were common. Even if they were, though, I had a feeling that people were watching this bout in hopes of a fight between Kovacs and Mourbiers.

As I worked my way deeper into the crowd, I started to feel the back of my neck prickle. Sensing that something was up, I stopped and searched the crowd around me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a familiar figure—a troubling figure. I spun around and spotted
the shapeless brown overcoat, the ratty sneakers, and the stringy dark hair. What was that raggedy guy from the parking lot doing here? And why was he so agitated? His eyes looked dilated with fear, and he bit his lower lip so intently I was afraid he’d soon bleed. Clenching his fists at his sides, rocking from foot to foot, he was like a time bomb ready to go off.

I took a step toward him—and he saw me. His eyes widened and he recoiled, ducking behind the large woman next to him.

Suddenly somebody bumped into me from the other side. Someone else stepped on my foot. And by the time I’d gotten away from the crowd, he’d vanished.

Disappointed, I turned back toward the knot of people surrounding Una. I was close enough now to see the doctor—or at least a man with a medical bag—kneeling beside Una, wrapping white gauze around her forearm. “The gash is long, but it’s not too deep,” I heard him say. “No need for stitches, but you’d better keep it well bandaged.”

I edged closer, ears straining.

“Somehow, the seam on her gauntlet came loose,” the referee said to the doctor. “Her bare arm was exposed to the foil.” He twisted around, looking over his shoulder. “Where is that gauntlet? Paul, do you still have it?”

Paul Mourbiers hustled forward, saying, “Here is
the gauntlet, Gary. I’m not sure it belongs to Una, though. It doesn’t have her name written on it. Una always labels all her equipment with her name. I teach this procedure to all students at my salle.”

The referee took the glove from Mourbiers. He fingered the broken stitching along the side, where the suede palm was attached to the padded cotton of the back and cuff. My fingers itched to get hold of the glove so I could inspect it myself, but I had no official reason to do that. Still, I sidled up closer to the referee. If he happened to lay it down and I happened to pick it up . . .

“This could have broken open during the bout,” the referee mused, staring at the glove. “Those girls were fencing quite vigorously. Stitches do break in the heat of fighting.”

Mourbiers tilted his head, looked down his nose, and raised one eyebrow. “You were under pressure to begin the bout on time, Gary—are you sure you inspected all the equipment beforehand?”

The referee pressed his lips together in an exasperated expression. I guessed he’d dealt with Mourbiers and Kovacs before. “What are you saying, Paul?”

Mourbiers’s dark eyes glittered with suspicion. “Perhaps
someone
substituted this faulty gauntlet, knowing it would split open—and my girl would be hurt.”

The referee stood up, slapping the gauntlet against
his palm. “If you want to lodge a formal complaint, Mourbiers, go ahead. Otherwise, we’re running out of time. The ten-minute time limit is almost up. You’ll have to make a decision. Does your fencer feel ready to continue the bout, or do you want to forfeit?”

Mourbiers’s upper lip twitched slightly, but he restrained himself. He turned to Una, lightly tapping her hand inside the gauze swaddling.

“What do you say, Una?” he asked. “Can you carry on? It would be a shame to forfeit.” He slid a quick glare toward Bela Kovacs.

On the other side of the fencing strip, Kovacs stood with his shoulders hunched high, chin tucked down, and eyes spitting with fury. “Do you intend to file a complaint now?” Kovacs snarled. “Is this the Salle Olympique strategy—to go whining to the authorities whenever a match goes against you?”

Facing him across the mat, Paul Mourbiers was like his mirror image—same clenched fists, same tense neck muscles, same glowering eyes. Sure they were mad at each other before, but now they looked like they were about to explode.

Una climbed to her feet, lifting her bandaged arm gingerly. “It’s better now, Paul, I think I can fence after all . . . ,” she said. She didn’t look too certain to me, but I sensed she’d do anything to break the standoff between the two coaches.

But they scarcely heard her. “What else do you expect us to do?” Mourbiers growled across the mat at his rival. “Rigging the bout—that’s standard operating procedure for you, isn’t it?”

Kovacs’s voice came out half-strangled with rage. “Rigging the bout? Why would I even need to do such a thing? My fencer could beat yours with one hand tied behind her back!”

The referee spun around. “Bela!” he said in a warning voice.

“You accuse me of cheating? Look at your own cheating!” Kovacs sputtered at Mourbiers.

“That’s it!” the ref said firmly. “Yellow card on Salle Budapest! Unsportsmanlike behavior.”

Everyone nearby froze. I could hear DeLyn gasp behind me.

“If you want, we can start fencing again,” Una’s voice piped up shyly.

“Yes, please, we want to finish our bout,” DeLyn protested.

It was like Bela Kovacs had gone deaf from rage. He didn’t respond to the fencers’ offer. Nor did he react to the official’s ruling. His eyes bore intensely into those of his rival. “The only skill you possess to teach your students is the fine art of cheating! You are truly a master at that,” Kovacs yelled. “You’ve polished those skills for decades. Liar! Cheater!”

“Bela, you’ve already been given a warning card,” the referee said. “Watch your language.”

And that’s when Kovacs really lost it. I can’t tell you exactly what he said—he used words I’d never repeat. So let’s just say I’ve never seen or heard an adult flip out like that.

A second official came running over from another bout. He grabbed Kovacs’s shoulder. DeLyn ran to her coach, pleading, “Bela, please, calm down!” But the fencing master kept on shouting obscenities.

Somewhere in the middle of it, the referee called out, “Red card on Salle Budapest! Disqualification! Forfeit!”

“Forfeit?” DeLyn cried out, spinning to face the ref. “But we wanted to restart the bout. Can’t you just let us fence again? I was ahead in the scoring!”

Bela Kovacs tore out of the official’s grasp and hurtled toward Paul Mourbiers. “I’ll get you for this!” he roared.

Kovacs lowered his head like a bull and plowed straight into Mourbiers’s stomach. “Oof!” said Mourbiers, as he bent over and collapsed on the gym floor.

I was shoved aside as the TV cameraman pushed forward, trampling my foot. After struggling to get a better view, I saw the fencing teachers, rolling on the fencing mat like a couple of eight-year-olds. Kovacs and Mourbiers were a tangle of swinging
fists, jabbing elbows, and crunching knees. And the cameraman was getting it all on film.

Mourbiers had his arms over his head, cringing under the Hungarian’s blows. But then, for just a second, I got a look at Mourbiers’s face.

And I could swear he was wearing a grin of triumph.

M
y thoughts flashed back
to what Evaline Waters had said: “Bela may be the one who loses his temper, but Mourbiers deliberately provokes him.” That cunning grin of his aroused my suspicions. Could Mourbiers have planned this fistfight all along?

And if so, why?

Two fencing officials stepped in to pull the coaches off each other. Other officials began to shoo spectators off the fencing floor. The TV cameraman was asked to turn off his camera and harsh lights. Kovacs and Mourbiers were led away to a side area where they could sort out their dispute verbally.

Since I couldn’t follow them without being completely conspicuous, I rejoined my friends. “Wow,
Nancy, did you see them punching each other?” Bess asked.

I nodded. “Yup. At least, Kovacs was punching Mourbiers. It didn’t look to me like Mourbiers was hitting back much.”

“It all got out of hand so quickly,” Ned said.

I stole another glance at Paul Mourbiers, who was dusting off his suit and smoothing back his short auburn hair. He didn’t look too upset. Bela Kovacs was another matter. His hair stuck out in all directions, his eyes were flashing, and his tie was askew. His once-crisp dress shirt gaped open where buttons had popped off during the fight. “Evaline, what was it you said earlier—about Paul Mourbiers provoking Bela Kovacs on purpose?” I asked.

My friend the librarian gave me a shrewd look. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Paul Mourbiers plays that guy like a violin!”

I was surprised—usually Evaline isn’t so cynical about people.

“Bess,” I said slowly, “remember before the match, we were wondering why the TV crew came to this event.”

“Yes,” Bess said. “And George suggested that Bela Kovacs told them about it, to drum up publicity for Salle Budapest.”

Ned shook his head. “Boy, if he did, it backfired on
him. This news coverage will be terrible for his salle’s reputation.”

“I agree,” I said. “But we have no evidence Bela Kovacs called the TV station. Only, I was just thinking—who else might have made such a call?”

Evaline raised her eyebrows. “Paul Mourbiers. He also has a vested interest in attracting publicity for fencing, doesn’t he?”

“Exactly,” I said. “In fact, the way things developed, it couldn’t have worked out better for Salle Olympique.”

“Or worse for Salle Budapest,” Ned finished my thought. “But do you really think Mourbiers would go that far, just to smear a rival?”

I looked over at Evaline. “Ms. Waters, you’ve followed their feud for some time. What do you think?”

The librarian looked troubled. “My goodness, Nancy, I’d hate to think anyone would stoop that low.”

I looked at the fencing floor. Things seemed to have settled down. Fresh bouts were taking place on all the fencing strips. I spotted Kovacs, huddled now at the far end of the field house with George and Damon, but there was no sign of DeLyn. Not that I blamed her. Kovacs’s rotten temper had cost her a victory.

Una sat on her equipment bag, cradling her bandaged arm in her lap, just a few yards away.

Her coach was on the other side of the fencing
floor, talking into the TV reporter’s microphone—smiling and nodding, being very French and very charming.

I got that uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, the one I get when I sense someone’s not playing fair. Had Paul Mourbiers convinced the television station to cover this tournament, knowing all along that he would goad Bela Kovacs into an ugly public fight?

And if so, how far had he gone to make Bela Kovacs look bad?

Had he given his own fencer a damaged gauntlet, knowing that she might get hurt—just for the sake of a little publicity?

Back at home that night, I huddled in an armchair reading, while Hannah did needlepoint and my dad read the paper. The television hummed quietly in the background.

“Why, look, Nancy,” said Hannah. “They’re talking about that fencing tournament you went to today.”

I looked up from my book, suddenly alert. “Oh, no. Turn up the sound, Dad.”

My dad lowered his newspaper and tapped the volume button on the remote control. “That’s right, George is a fencer now. How did she do in her first meet?”

“George? Oh, she lost,” I said, distracted. “Shhh.”

The petite reporter in the pink sweater was on the screen. “We all know about the noble art of fencing,” she began. “What started out as two guys with swords trying to kill each other has been tamed over the centuries into a beautiful sport, with traditions, rules, and courtly ceremony.” The image on the screen showed two fencers I didn’t recognize, touching their swords to their masks and bowing to each other before their bout.

The reporter paused for a beat. “Or has it?”

The camera image switched to a close-up of Bela Kovacs and Paul Mourbiers rolling on the floor, raining blows on each other.

“This was the scene today at a ‘friendly’ fencing meet at the University of River Heights field house,” the reporter said. “Two fencing coaches got into a heated dispute when an equipment malfunction led to an injury for one young woman fencer. Officials penalized Bela Kovacs, of Salle Budapest in River Heights, for ‘going to the mat’ with his colleague Paul Mourbiers, of Salle Olympique in Cutler Falls.”

The camera cut to Mourbiers, being interviewed after the fight. “It is very unfortunate when an adult behaves in such a childish fashion,” he said, pursing his lips and playing up his French accent. “A man who should be a role model for his students—it’s a shame. The officials were correct to disqualify him.”

The reporter asked, “What was the equipment malfunction?”

Mourbiers held up Una’s torn gauntlet. “This glove—we call it a gauntlet—is supposed to protect the sword hand of the fencer during a match,” he explained. “My protégée, Una Merrick—a lovely young girl and a marvelous fencing talent—suffered a bloody gash all up her arm because this gauntlet split open.”