The smile faded from Joe's lips, and he looked bewildered. "Want to get something to drink, Frank?" "Sounds like a good idea," Frank answered.
To the girl he said, "Thanks again for your help." Before she could react, the Hardys moved away from her.
"The sky is bluer in Barcelona!" she shouted desperately, but they were already halfway across the plaza. Curious stares from passersby silenced her.
"What was that about?" Frank wondered aloud. "It almost sounded like some sort of code."
"Beats me," Joe said. "Nice looking, but — " He shook his head and sighed. "Why do I always run into crazy ones?" Wistfully, he glanced over his shoulder for a last look at her.
At first he thought she was waving. Then he realized she was pointing. That's when he saw a man, dressed in a dark suit and sunglasses, step from a doorway.
As he looked around, he saw three similar men moving into position all around the Plaza de la Merced. They were all closing in on the Hardys.
"We've got trouble," Joe yelled. "Head for the limo. Quick!"
Frank nodded and broke into a sprint. In seconds they had reached their car and scrambled into the back seat. The four men were only yards away. "Windows up," Frank ordered. He pressed the button on the window control, but nothing moved. "Driver!" he called. "Get us out of — "
He stopped. Their driver wasn't in the car.
"Are the keys in the ignition?" Frank asked Joe. He glanced out the window. The four men were closing in.
"Nope," Joe replied, leaning over the front seat. His hand scooped down and came back up with a false beard and latex nose in it. "But I found part of our driver."
"A disguise?" Frank's bewilderment changed to anger. "We've been set up!"
A hand thrust through the open car window. In it was a small-caliber pistol. Frank looked up to see a man in sunglasses grinning unpleasantly at him. The man's three companions stood around the car, each guarding one door. Another limousine, with a diplomatic license plate, appeared from around the corner.
In a thick Russian accent the gunman said, "You are to be coming with us. Now."
"Any idea of what's going on?" Joe asked Frank as the men outside began to pull open the doors.
"I'm not sure," Frank said, "but I have this weird notion we're being kidnapped by the KGB!"
Chapter 3
"THE KGB?" SAID Joe. "Well, I hope they get a real kick out of this." He slammed his heel into the unlocked car door, smashing it open. It struck the man outside, knocking him backward into the gunman behind him.
Joe barreled out of the car.
The man standing outside Frank's door raised his gun. Instantly, Frank drove his fist through the open window and into the man's stomach. Caught off guard, the Russian doubled over.
The fourth man swung his pistol toward Frank, but it was too late. Frank caught his wrist and hauled up. The man flew into the car, banging his head against the roof. As he fell away, Frank swung his door open, leaping out of the car.
"This way!" Joe shouted, and Frank followed him toward the corner of the block. Already, the Russians were recovering, and Frank knew they'd be after them in seconds.
"I think we can lose them," Frank told his brother as they ran down a narrow street. Just ahead was a busy intersection. The traffic made it almost impossible to cross. "If we can just get to the other side — "
He scanned the intersection for a break in the traffic, but there was none. The rapid footsteps behind them raced closer, and Frank could hear words muttered in Russian. There was no time to wait, he knew. They had to make their move now.
He hurled himself into traffic. Tires screeched and horns blared as drivers slammed on their brakes. "Turistas locos!" someone yelled, and others joined in. Frank ignored them, focusing on nothing but the other side of the street. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Joe keeping pace with him.
At last they jumped over the far curb. "Made it," Frank said breathlessly.
"Keep running," he told Joe, and both broke into a sprint again. Their gamble hadn't worked too well for them. Traffic had now ground to a stop, and the Russians were crossing the street with ease.
The Hardys reached an alley. Ducking into it, they slowed down. The alley was damp and littered with piles of garbage, and the buildings it ran between were close enough together to shade it from the sun. "Shhh," Frank said. "I'm pretty sure they didn't see us come in. If we're quiet, they might pass by."
As Frank spoke, the Russians appeared at the end of the alley. Frank and Joe crouched against a wall, dropping out of sight behind a garbage pile. Cautiously, they peered over the top of the garbage. They hadn't been spotted.
The four Russians were standing on the street, arguing. One pointed into the alley and another pointed down the street. Finally, two of them went down the street.
The other two drew their guns and stepped warily into the alley, slowly moving toward the Hardys. One of the Russians kicked at a garbage pile, scattering it everywhere. He shook his head at his partner, and they cautiously moved closer.
"They must think we're hiding in the garbage," Frank whispered to Joe. "They underestimated us at the car, but I doubt that's going to happen again."
"Let's make it happen," Joe whispered back. As the shadow of a gun fell over his face, he dug into the garbage and flung it into the air. Instinctively, the Russians spun and took aim at the flying rubbish.
Joe rushed between them, catching each of them around the waist with an arm and forcing them back against a wall. Before they could react, Joe threw a punch at the Russian to his left. The man toppled to the ground.
As he whirled to deal with the other one, Joe felt the sharp smack of metal against his temple, and he staggered back, pain exploding behind his eyes. Through the haze he could see the Russian's gun. It was what had hit his head, he knew, and now it was aimed at his chest.
"Hiii-ya!" Frank shouted, and his foot lashed out, kicking the gun from the startled Russian's hand. The heel of Frank's hand smashed into the Russian's jaw, and the man dropped.
Joe rubbed his head, clearing his vision. "Two down, two to go," he said. They ran for the far end of the alley.
"I'd rather we didn't meet the other two again at all," Frank replied. "Let's try to get back to the hotel." "Do you hear something?" Joe asked. Frank listened. Circus music, but distorted, he thought. Tinny, like guitar music. He didn't know what it could be.
The alley opened into the back of a churchyard. "Through here. It'll be quicker," Joe said, and they entered the church. Its high, domed ceiling was painted with angels. Set into the walls were wooden statues of saints.
Frank pulled open the front door of the church, and he and Joe froze.
In the street in front of the church was a parade. The sidewalks were lined with spectators. "Buenos dias," said a voice behind them.
They turned. A priest stood in the aisle, dressed in a traditional black cassock. He smiled at them and said, "Every year we have a street festival at this time. Come! You are welcome to join us."
With a slight bow he closed the doors of the church and led them down the steps to the street. Halfway down, Joe nudged Frank in the ribs.
"Look," Joe said, nodding toward the street.
Frank peered through the crowd, and his heart sank. Across the street, on the other side of the parade, were the other two Russians. They were watching them.
"Keep going," Frank told Joe. "They won't try anything with this many people around, and it'll be easy to lose them in the crowd."
They left the priest and started walking beside the parade. Frank could see the Russians on the other side keeping pace with them. But the brightly dressed marchers and rows of carts pulled by oxen and decorated with streamers and flowers kept the Russians from crossing the street.
"That keeps them in their place," Joe said, laughing. "They'll never get to us."
"We have to go to them sooner or later. Our hotel is in that direction. We'll have to cross over."
A sq
uad of musicians, mostly drummers, followed the lines of carts. Frank stared down the length of the marchers until he saw the end of the street. "It looks like the parade's coming to another plaza. Maybe we can get across there."
On the other side of the street, the Russians shadowed them step for step.
At the plaza, people in traditional Spanish costumes danced on the pavement. Women in long, full dresses, flowers in their hair, twirled arm in arm with men in short vests, white shirts, and tight black slacks.
As the Hardys were passing them, the dancers went into the crowd and pulled spectators into the dance with them. "This way," Frank told Joe. "I have an idea." The Hardys skirted the circle of dancers, watching the Russians move around on the other side.
"Now," Frank said, and he stuck out a hand. A woman caught it and tugged him into the circle. Almost before he knew what was happening, Frank was passed from woman to woman. Dizzy from the spinning, he kept his eye on the Russians as he drew nearer and nearer to them with each step. Behind him, Joe was also dancing, waiting for Frank's next move. As he passed the first Russian, Frank grabbed the man's wrist and pulled him into the dance, handing him to the next woman in the circle. The woman laughed and pulled the Russian along, and Frank stepped out of the dance and into the crowd.
The last man turned to reach for Frank, but Joe caught the man's arm and repeated his brother's trick.
"Run," Frank said, pushing through the crowd. Joe followed, laughing as he thought of the Russians caught among the dancers.
They reached the open street and ran. When they had run several blocks, cutting from street to street, they stopped to catch their breath. No one was following them. "We finally lost them," Frank said. "I figured they'd want to keep a low profile and not cause a scene around the locals. That gave us the edge we needed."
"We'd better not run into those guys again," Joe replied. "I think we're all out of edges. I can't wait to get my hands on Martin and find out what this is all about."
"You think he had something to do with it?"
"He vanishes, our chauffeur does a disappearing act, and suddenly there are goons crawling all over us," Joe said. "Hey, he was supposed to be with us today. Maybe they weren't after us — maybe they were looking for Martin."
"There's only one way to find out." Frank glanced around one last time but saw no sign of the Russians. "Let's get back to the hotel."
They entered the hotel through the back door and climbed the back stairs to the third floor. The walk back had been long and difficult.
"If you want to go to our room, I'll bring Martin around," Joe suggested. "We'll meet you there."
"Fine," Frank said. "He's got a lot of explaining to do." He left Joe and turned the corner, walking down the corridor to their room.
Frank stopped, ducking into a doorway. A policeman was standing in front of their doors. Frank slipped along the corridor, heading back to the stairs.
Joe was waiting, a look of dread on his face. "Frank," he said, "there's a cop in front of Martin's door, and a sign on it saying only police are allowed to enter. What's going on?"
"I don't know," Frank replied. "But we're in the thick of it. The cops are watching our room too." He started down the stairs. "Maybe we can find something out from the front desk."
"Looks like rush hour, doesn't it?" Joe said as they reached the main floor. Dozens of people, guests at the hotel, milled around the lobby. Scattered among them were policemen handing out photographs. Near the front desk were two pretty blondes. "Those are the girls who were on the elevator last night. Maybe they've heard something. Let's go ask — " He started moving toward them.
Frank pulled him back, around a pillar. "Let's not," Frank said. "Look who they're talking to." Joe peered around the pillar. The young women were speaking to a tall, burly man with dark hair. He wore a dark tailored suit and tie. He nodded, recording the girls' words in a small notebook. "Cop?" Joe asked Frank. "Plainclothes," Frank answered. "He's probably the one running the show here."
"Let's go talk to him, then," Joe said, and started around the pillar. The man with the notebook had closed it and turned to the desk clerk.
The man spoke to the clerk in a deep voice that cut through the din. "Hermanos." Joe heard the Spanish word for "brothers." He strained to catch more, and was lucky. The policeman spoke clearly and slowly. He was easy to understand. "They were seen with the man just before the time of death, and were heard making threats against him."
The anxious clerk spoke quickly, but Joe caught something about murder being bad for the hotel.
"It will be over soon," the dark-haired policeman said, "when I arrest Frank and Joseph Hardy for the murder of Martin Chase."
Chapter 4
JOE DUCKED BACK behind the pillar. "Big trouble, Frank," he said. "We've got to get out of here."
Frank glanced over his shoulder at the back door, but it was no longer unguarded. A policeman stood there, checking the tourists who came in. "If we go, we go out the front," Frank muttered. He scanned the lobby. The other guests were chatting with one another, acting as if a party were going on. On the wall to the Hardys' left was a small newsstand. "Follow me," Frank said. "If we act naturally and don't attract any attention, we should be able to pull this off."
Casually, he strolled over to the kiosk, picked out a paper, and handed some coins to the vendor. Frank opened the paper, folding back a page and holding it up so that it blocked the lower half of his face. He turned to face the room.
No one noticed him. The policeman in the dark suit was speaking to the young blond women again. And next to them a uniformed policeman worked on a sketch. He's drawing us from their descriptions, Frank thought. The police will have pictures of us in no time.
Behind the cover of the paper Frank jerked his head to one side, signaling Joe to make his move. Then Frank began to walk, apparently aimlessly, toward the front door, flipping through his newspaper like a tourist looking for somewhere to go.
Frank walked through the front door and onto the street and breathed a sigh of relief. He tossed the newspaper into a trash basket. Where was Joe? he wondered. Had they finished the sketch and recognized him before he could escape?
No, there was Joe, coming out the door.
"Now what?" Joe asked, joining him in front of the hotel. "All our stuff is in our room, and we can't get to it. What are we going to do?"
Before Frank could answer, a cry of "Alto!" sounded behind them. They turned to see a uniformed policeman with a paper in hand. He spoke to them rapidly in Spanish.
He's got us, Frank thought. That must be our picture in his hand. As if hearing Frank's thoughts, the policeman thrust the paper into their faces and started asking more questions in Spanish.
The picture he held was a photograph of Martin.
"He wants to know if we know the man in the picture," Joe said, and then, to the policeman, 'Wo. Dispenseme. No comprendo."
The policeman nodded, shrugged his shoulders, then went back toward the hotel.
"Come on," Frank said. "Let's hit that cafe where we had breakfast. We can rest and sort things out there."
The Hardys entered the cafe and sat at a back table that was partially hidden by lush green plants. Seconds later a waiter appeared with menus. It was the same waiter who had served them at breakfast, and his lean face brightened when he recognized them.
"You are back," he said slowly in English. "I am Francisco. What may I bring you, my friends?"
"Dos Coca-Colas, porfavor," Joe answered. The waiter spun around and vanished into the kitchen.
"He sure is friendly," Joe said, grinning. "I must have tipped him better than I thought."
"Great." Frank rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Someone else who can recognize us." He looked around the room. Besides the door they had come in through, there was a door to the kitchen. Good, we can reach that easily if we have to, Frank thought. "Why are the cops looking for us anyway?"
Joe stared at his brother. "I thought you heard. They th
ink we killed Martin."
"What?" Frank looked angry. "Where did they get that idea?"
"How should I know?" Joe said. "Maybe we should turn ourselves in. After all, we are innocent."
"I don't think so," Frank responded. "This whole thing is starting to smell like a setup. If someone fingered us for Martin's murder, who knows what evidence they've manufactured? We're not in America, Joe. I have a feeling we'd better be able to prove our innocence before we start talking to any police."
Francisco reappeared with the drinks. "Mind if we sit here a bit?" Frank asked. "We'll order some food in a little while."
"Si!" the waiter said, flashing his smile at them. "Stay as long as you like. Eat! Eat!" He wandered toward the front of the restaurant.
Sure that they were alone again, Joe sipped his drink and said, "You've got a point. We're probably better off on the streets." He chuckled. "Besides, we don't want to make it too easy for the Russians to find us, do we? You don't suppose they set us up?"
Frank shook his head. "There wasn't time. You know who I bet could give us a few answers? Our chauffeur. He's the one who gave us Martin's note. And he led us to the Russians. Maybe he's working for them—at least, his disappearance was awfully well-timed."
"You're right," Joe agreed. "But we don't even know what he looks like. I never got a good look at his face, and his face wasn't his real face anyway. He could be anyone."
"We can't even be sure he's a he," Frank said. "It could possibly have been a woman."
Joe's eyes widened. "You don't suppose that Spanish girl at the plaza ... "
"I doubt it," Frank said with a shrug. "Too slight. The chauffeur's height and build would be hard to fake. No, I'd guess he was a man. I wish he'd had a scar, some peculiar mannerism, something we could identify him with."
"We're not finding him unless he wants to be found," Joe said. "And we can't walk up to the Russians and ask them what's going on. I don't see any way we can help ourselves until we get a handle on the situation."
Suddenly Frank snapped his fingers and said excitedly, "There's one person who might be able to clue us in!" "Who?" Joe asked. "The girl?" A broad grin spread across Frank's face. "Martin."
Too Many Traitors Page 2