"Nancy! You're drenched!" Bess Marvin wailed one stormy October Friday as her friend Nancy Drew dashed up the steps of the Lakeview University Sports and Recreation Center. A red-and-gold banner, reading Old Can Be Gold, snapped over the entrance in the gusty wind.

Protected from the rain by the portico, Bess had the hood of her pink vinyl raincoat turned down and was fluffing out her straw blond hair. Bess's cousin and Nancy's other best friend, George Fayne, stood beside a large parcel swathed in black plastic trash bags. The three girls had driven to Chicago to check out the antiques and collectibles appraisal show.

Nancy threw back the hood of her slicker and shook out her thick red-blond hair. "My socks may be soaked, but at least this isn't!" The eighteen-year-old produced a blue plastic folder from under her raincoat. Her blue eyes shone with delight as she announced, "My dad's Al Capone Wanted poster is still in perfect condition."

"And the poster's what counts here," Bess declared. "While you were parking, I picked up our admission tickets and a brochure." The corners of several pages were already dog-eared. "There's a guy here who owns Crime Shoppers and Pop Smart. His blurb says he's interested in all sorts of crime memorabilia."

"Let's go for it," Nancy said.

The three friends marched into the state-of-the-art sports facility and lined up to check their coats. A large crowd bearing shopping bags, carryalls, and carefully wrapped bundles milled around the spacious lobby.

Nancy smiled as she glanced at George and Bess in front of her. They were cousins and best friends but so different. Blue-eyed Bess, curvy, fair, and on the short side, was passionate about shopping, clothes, decorating magazines, antiques, and boys -- not necessarily in that order. Tall, slim, athletic, with a mop of short dark curls and sparkling brown eyes, George vastly preferred wilderness camping to hanging out at malls.

George bent over and unwrapped her bundle, revealing a rectangular worn brown leatherette suitcase with metal hardware on the corners. The hardware was dull, rusty, and dented.

"What's that?" Nancy asked as George folded up the trash bags and stuffed them into her jacket pocket.

"An old reel-to-reel tape recorder."

"Where'd you find it?" Bess asked.

"Under the eaves in the attic. I bet it's been there since before we bought the house."

"I hope it didn't get wet," Nancy commented.

"It was all wrapped up. But considering how long it's been up there, it could be moldy and useless."

"Didn't you bother to see if it works?" Bess sounded shocked.

"No, actually," George admitted with a sheepish grin. "I didn't even look for anything to bring until this morning."

Bess sighed and patted her small pink handbag. "I only hope Grandma Marvin's Depression-era bracelet is a treasure. Not that I wouldn't love it even if it's totally worthless," she added, then stepped up to the coat check.

Smiling at the girls, the woman behind the counter took their coats. "Hope you enjoy Old Can Be Gold," she told them, handing Nancy all three tags. "Keep your ticket stubs -- the admission is good for the weekend. And we also have a door-prize drawing every three hours." She checked her watch and made a face. "You missed the last one for today, but starting at ten tomorrow we'll resume the drawings. Prizes are donated by the appraisers and range in value from a couple of bucks up to three hundred dollars. If you like, you can bring your things to those long sorting tables where workers will direct you to the right appraisers. Or you can just browse the show."

"We already know about one appraiser," Bess told her, "so I think we'll head over there."

The girls made their way into the cavernous gymnasium until they were standing in an aisle, staring at a sign: Crime Memorabilia and Pop Culture Treasures.

"I guess this is the place," Nancy said, "though I don't see any appraiser around." As she approached, she saw the table was covered with a green felt cloth. On it she spotted an old fingerprinting kit. The long narrow box was open, its contents protected by an acetate sleeve. Inside the red-and-black checkerboard box was a magnifying glass, a tube of powder, and some papers and other objects. "This must be ancient!" she exclaimed.

"I guess to a girl your age, 1920 seems ancient," a gruff voice interjected. "Hands off unless you want to buy it!"

Annoyed by the speaker's rude tone, Nancy turned and glared. The man was scruffy and bearded. His hair was salt-and-pepper gray, and he smelled unpleasantly of cigarette smoke. He was only a little taller than Nancy, with a wiry build and muscles that bulged under the sleeves of his black T-shirt.

"I wasn't going to touch it," Nancy said.

"Good," the man snapped.

"Anyway, who are you?" Bess inquired sharply.

"Wes Clarke, proprietor of Crime Shoppers." The man's brusque tone had softened slightly. "You can find me online at CrimeShoppers.com or right here in downtown Chicago." He turned to Nancy. "Sorry to be so suspicious, but in my business..." He stroked his beard, then shrugged.

For some reason this guy creeped Nancy out, and she said coolly, "If something's that precious, you should lock it up."

"Oh, the more valuable things are locked up, believe me," he snapped right back. "So what are you girls interested in?"

Nancy was tempted to say "nothing" and walk away, but this guy was the only crime specialist at the show. She silently counted to ten, then calmly opened her portfolio. "One of my father's clients gave him this poster some time ago. When I mentioned I was coming here, he suggested I check out the value. You are an appraiser?"

"The best in the field around here," the man said, seemingly oblivious to Nancy's chilly tone. He held out his hand. Reluctantly Nancy passed him the poster. It was black and white, and the old paper was yellowed and fraying at the edges. With surprising care Wes removed it from its clear protective sleeve.

He turned it over, held it closer to his eyes, then let out a snort. "Fake," he pronounced, and gave it back to Nancy. "Sorry, but it's not the genuine article. At least a dozen of these turn up at every show."

Nancy frowned. "How can you tell -- I mean so quickly?"

Wes Clarke narrowed his eyes. "I am an expert. But if you want the details, it's simple. This is computer generated. Nineteen-twenty is pretty ancient when it comes to printing processes. In those days posters were done on presses, with moveable type. This is obviously a photo reproduction."

"But the paper's old," Bess pointed out.

"About a year old, if that," Clarke responded. "It's artificially aged to look old. Believe me, these are pretty good fakes, but they can't fool anyone who knows the first thing about collectibles from the period."

"So it's worthless?" George asked.

"Pretty much. Now, if it were the real thing, it would be worth quite a bit. Maybe even a thousand bucks."

Nancy inserted the poster in the protective sleeve and put it back in her folder. "I'm half tempted to just toss it," she said.

"Don't do that," Wes said. "It's fun to frame and put up in your room, or wherever. Some folks find the gangster era here in Chicago romantic."

Nancy frowned. The idea of bootleggers gunning one another down ranked far down the list of what Nancy considered romantic.

Clarke didn't seem to notice her distaste. "That's what keeps me in business. The next best thing to knowing how to commit the perfect crime is collecting memorabilia from notorious criminals."

"That's weird," Bess said.

"To each his own," Clarke countered, then his eyes lit on George's tape recorder. "That's probably not worth much either -- yet," he told her. "But hold on to it. Another fifty years and it'll be a real collectible. Reel-to-reel machines are going to be as valuable as early nineteenth-century cameras are now." As he spoke, a man with a framed Humphrey Bogart movie poster walked up. The appraiser turned to him, and the girls hurried away.

"Yuck," Bess whispered to Nancy. "That guy was seriously creepy."

Nancy tried to stifle her disappointment. "I hope Dad isn't too let down when I tell him this is a fake."

Next Bess found a Depression-era jewelry appraiser. The woman examined the delicate bracelet Bess had brought. "I'm afraid these stones are only glass, so this probably wouldn't bring more than fifty dollars or so, though it is a very pretty piece. It's a copy of a Diana Toffel design. These red stones would be rubies in a genuine Toffel." Noticing Bess's disappointed face, the woman patted her hand. "But this is still a very nice bracelet."

"Bess Marvin! Is that you?"

Bess turned to her left, where a slender girl with chin-length silky auburn hair was smiling at her. "Lisa?" Bess gasped. "Lisa Perrone -- what are you doing here?" Bess reached out and hugged her friend, then noticed Lisa's red Old Can Be Gold T-shirt. "You work for these people?"

"I'm interning for them for the year. It's part of my work-study job here at Lakeview because the arts and antiques program includes learning appraisal work."

"It must be fun," Bess said enviously, then turned quickly to Nancy and George. "This is Lisa Perrone. She worked in that antique clothing store, Threads and Shreds."

"Right before I started college," Lisa said, offering her hand to Nancy and George. Bess introduced her friends.

"You're not here just for the day?" Lisa asked. "It's a long trip to have to go back tonight."

"We're staying at a dorm. There was a deal for people who came to the show," Nancy told Lisa.

"You've got to stay with me," Lisa said firmly.

"You have space for all three of us?" George asked.

"I have space for ten of you!" Lisa giggled. "I'm living at my aunt and uncle's condo. I save loads of money, which means I don't have to drop out of school."

"I remember you said that money was tight," Bess commiserated.

"But I've landed on my feet big time," Lisa said. "The apartment is a real palace -- on Lake Shore Drive. There are three bedrooms, three baths. Besides, if you guys stay with me, I can show you around a bit."

"You're sure it'll be okay with your aunt and uncle?" Bess asked.

Lisa dismissed Bess's objections with a wave of her hand. "Even if they were here, they wouldn't care. But they're in Malaysia until early next year. I'm apartment sitting, actually. Anyway, tonight there's a really cool party. You guys have to come."

"Far be it from me to pass up a party," Bess said.

"I'm game," George said eagerly.

"Me, too." Nancy grinned. Just the prospect of staying at a comfortable condo rather than in a dorm went a long way toward lifting her spirits.

"Then it's a deal. There's plenty of parking inside the building." Lisa looked at George's tape recorder. "Hey, is that an old tape recorder?" George nodded. "There's a guy who specializes in old appliances. He'd have a good idea what something like this is worth."

"Probably not much," George said.

Lisa shrugged. "You may be right, but, hey, you never know. One person's junk is another person's treasure. I'll walk you over to the table."

Leading the way, Lisa negotiated the crowd, landing the girls at the end of a short line of collectors hugging a variety of old toasters, mixers, and antique telephones. "You're sure this guy knows about tape recorders?" George whispered.

"One of the appraisers here will," Lisa promised. There were several appraisers behind the table, so George's turn came quickly.

"I know this is a bit of a wreck, but you never know," George told the appraiser with a self-deprecating laugh.

The appraiser returned her smile. He was a pleasant-faced man whose suit hung loosely on his thin frame. He saw Lisa, and his smile stretched from ear to ear. "Friends of yours?" he asked.

"Yes," Lisa answered. "This, by the way, is Dave Leinberger," she told the girls, then turned back to Dave. "I thought this looked kind of unusual." She pointed to the box.

"It does. The carrying case is probably a custom job." The appraiser carefully picked up the case and examined the underside. Then he carefully unsnapped the two metal latches on the front of the case. When he lifted the lid, some of the leatherette crumbled off onto the table.

"It's really in bad shape," George said, but Dave wasn't listening.

"Now, this is something unusual," he murmured. "A custom job. This tape recorder is professional quality." He motioned for the girls to gather round. To Nancy's eye the machine looked pretty normal, if old. There was an empty reel on one side of the machine and a spoke to hold a second reel on the other. A row of knobs ran directly below the reels.

Nancy touched a small brass knob on the front of the case. Until the case had been opened, it wasn't visible. "What's that for?"

"Looks like a drawer of some sort," Lisa said.

"Let's see what's inside." Dave eagerly opened it.

The drawer was lined with a faded and moldy velvetlike fabric. A small, flat, black cardboard box was inside. Dave picked it up, and even though he lifted the cover gingerly, the cardboard began to fall apart in his hands. "This hasn't been stored very well," he remarked with a frown.

Nancy peered into box and saw a spool of tape. "Do you think anything's on it?" she asked.

"Let's see." Dave met Nancy's eyes and grinned. "This is the fun part." He first put the tape in the machine, then plugged the machine in. A little red light lit up on the console.

"It works!" Lisa gasped.

"Maybe," Dave warned. "I'm not sure the mechanism isn't rusted out." He examined the various knobs, then turned one.

Both spools began to revolve; then suddenly a couple of guys' voices came through the speakers. Nancy couldn't quite make out the words. Something about one last shot at it. Then a voice counted, "And a one, and a two, and a three, and--" Suddenly a familiar gravelly voice began barking a version of a song Nancy knew from somewhere.

"I don't believe this!" George gasped. "That sounds like Lou Knight."

"That's right," Bess said. "But I've never heard that version of 'Dark Side Blues,' have you?" She turned to Nancy.

Nancy shook her head. "It sounds sort of weird. And who's that woman?"

"Carey Black, I bet," a gruff voice announced from behind the girls. Nancy turned and saw Wes Clarke standing there. "And I'd bet more than a pretty penny, Dave Leinberger, that this tape is going to prove pretty valuable -- to someone," he added, arching his bushy eyebrows.

Dave eyed Wes cautiously. "You're thinking what I'm thinking," he stated, looking over the heads of the four girls.

"And exactly what are you thinking about my tape?" George asked. "It's Lou Knight, and it sounds like a pretty bad version of that song."

"Bad?" Wes snickered. "I wouldn't put it that way. It's unproduced, as in a missing jam session, though maybe you girls are too young to know about them."

Nancy gritted her teeth. The man was so condescending she wished she could tell him she knew all about this mysterious jam session, but she had never heard of it.

Fortunately Dave spoke up. "Apparently Knight had jam sessions in his garage back when he was still singing with the Mama's Bad Boys band. Lou briefly owned an old farm south of here. He had a whole recording studio set up in the garage."

"This tape sounds like the one he made with Carey Black, who split from the band right around then, then later resurfaced as a punk rock star," Wes added. "If the tape is genuine, it's worth a fortune."

"You're kidding," George said, paling slightly.

"I'm pretty sure it's the real thing. You'll have to check with a music expert, with better equipment than this recorder," Dave told them. "But if the tape is for real, someone -- either a rock music collector or maybe even one of the record companies or the artists -- would get into the bidding for it. There might be copyright problems, but you could claim some stake in it since you found it."

"And how much do you think it's worth?" George asked weakly.

"Thousands of dollars!" Wes declared, eyeing the tape greedily.