"Let's just find the guy," Lewis said. "Then we'll worry about what he's done."
And why, Joe added silently.
The basement of the police station was a maze of identical cinder-block corridors. Again, Joe was reminded of high school: any second, he expected to hear bells ring and to see students pour out of classes into the halls. There were even lockers along one wall, he saw.
As they crossed another corridor, Joe heard a noise off to his left. He turned and looked in that direction.
About fifty feet away a man in a white shirt had his back to them. He had long gray hair and was stooped over, and he was pushing a food cart with a coffee pot on top. A police officer was walking next to him, and the two were talking animatedly.
"Hey," Ed said, stopping so suddenly Joe almost crashed into him. "That's my cart!"
"Hey!" Joe yelled. The man in the white shirt and the police officer both turned.
"Stop that man!" Lewis called out.
The officer recognized Lewis. With a puzzled look on his face, he reached for the man walking beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder to detain him.
The man in the white shirt straightened up, and it was as if he'd shed twenty years. He moved like lightning, spinning to free himself from the policeman's grasp. He continued his spin into a side-kick. His foot slammed into the officer's chest, sending him crashing against the wall.
The officer slumped to the ground and lay still.
The man in the white shirt shoved the cart out of his path and raced off down the hallway. The cart smashed into the wall, spilling plastic-wrapped pastries and coffee all over.
"Hey!" Ed yelled." "Look what that guy did!"
"Forget it - go get help," Lewis told Ed, physically turning him around and pointing him in the direction they'd come from.
The second the officer hit the wall, Joe was racing full tilt after his assailant.
As he sped through corridors, Joe quickly realized two things. The man he was chasing was fast - and he couldn't be as old as his stooped-over posture had suggested. Or if he was old, he was in fantastic shape, because Joe, who was anything but slow, was losing ground.
He bore down harder. The corridors were deserted. As Joe ran, the only sounds he was aware of were his own labored breathing and the squeaking of his sneakers on the linoleum floor.
He was still losing ground, though he told himself that all he had to do was keep the man in sight - after all, he was trapped in a police station. How could he possibly escape? Up ahead, Joe saw his quarry disappear to the left, as the corridor they were running down ended.
Joe slowed. Lewis jogged up beside him, breathing heavily.
"He turned down here," Joe said as they came to the end of the corridor.
Off to their left, about twenty feet away, was a bank of elevators - and the mysterious man in the white shirt, who stood there, waiting silently.
"You can't get away," Lewis called out. "Why don't you make it easy on yourself?"
The man said nothing. He seemed completely unconcerned by their presence - as if they couldn't do a thing to stop him, whatever he decided to do.
"Give it up," Joe added, continuing to move toward him. Behind them, he could hear running footsteps - more police, no doubt, coming to help them. "You're outnumbered."
The ghost of a smile crossed the man's lips - and at that second the elevator doors opened.
The man stepped inside quickly.
Joe, who was about five feet away, sprang toward him, just as the door was starting to slide shut.
The man spun into another side-kick. But Joe was ready for it. He sidled out of the way, so the kick only caught him a glancing blow.
It still felt as if he'd been struck with a lead weight. He bounced off the closing elevator door and landed on the floor just outside the car.
Joe struggled to his feet and launched himself into the elevator. Something hard slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind from him. He reached up, trying to grab the man to stop him from getting away. He did manage to clasp something - just as another kick sent him spinning backward through the open elevator door.
Whatever he'd grabbed came with him.
Joe landed on the ground, flat on his back. He looked at what he was holding in his hand, then up at Lewis.
"It's a wig," Joe said, holding up a clump of gray hair. "The guy was wearing a wig."
***
"Stay calm, Chief," Frank said.
"My pills, Frank," Peterson gasped. He was having trouble catching his breath now. "Nitroglycerin - my coat pocket." He reached up with his right arm and shakily pointed to the back of the door.
Frank unhooked the coat and reached into the pocket to pull out a small bottle.
"That's it," the chief said. "Give them to me - quick." He took the bottle from Frank and tried to pop the cap off. But his arm was shaking so badly now that he dropped it on the floor.
"Hurry!"
Frank picked up the bottle and got a pill out. He placed it beneath the chief's tongue.
"It's not working," Peterson said, and now there was panic in his voice.
From his CPR course, Frank knew that whatever panic the chief was feeling was only making his condition worse.
"Try to stay calm," Frank said. "I'll get help." A group of three officers was standing just outside the door. "Call an ambulance!" he yelled. "The chiefs having a heart attack!"
They stared at him for a second, trying to place him.
But before Frank knew it, they were inside the office, snapping out orders. Two pulled the chief to his feet; the third spoke to Frank.
"We'll take a squad car."
The two officers carrying Chief Peterson held him as easily as if he were a baby and practically ran through the station and outside with him.
Would they get to the hospital in time to save him? Frank wondered as he climbed into a squad car. They were following the one carrying the chief. His mind ran on that treadmill until they arrived at the hospital emergency room. He and the police officers he'd ridden with spent half an hour in the waiting room, not knowing anything.
Finally one of the emergency room technicians emerged.
"He's over the worst of it," the man told them. "We seem to have stabilized his heartbeat. Took a long time to do it, though," he said, shaking his head. "Anyway, if you hadn't gotten him here so quickly - "
Someone tapped Frank on the shoulder just then.
Joe was standing there, looking concerned.
"Heard all about it at the station," he said. "How's the chief?"
"He's going to make it." Frank studied his brother, who looked somewhat disheveled. "What happened? Did you run all the way?"
"We had a little excitement of our own," Joe said. He told him about the intruder at the police station. "Anyway, by the time we got out to the street, the guy was gone. And nobody had seen him or anything." Joe shook his head. "Lewis is still trying to figure out why this guy was so anxious to impersonate a coffee vendor ... " His voice trailed off suddenly as he caught the look in his brother's eye.
In Frank's mind, things were starting to click into place. "The chief started having his attack a few minutes after drinking his coffee," he said.
"You think he might have been poisoned?" Joe asked.
"All we can do is find out."
They waited until Peterson's own doctor had arrived and finished briefing the police. Then they pulled her aside and told her about their suspicions.
"Chief Peterson's been very good about taking care of himself," she said thoughtfully. "I'm surprised that this attack came on so suddenly. Let me run a blood test, check for poison. It'll take a couple of hours," she added. "So make yourselves comfortable."
By this time a large crowd of police officers and relatives had assembled outside the emergency room. Among them, Frank caught sight of Detective Lewis and Chief Peterson's wife, Anne. He and Joe crossed to her side and sat down with her, to wait for the test results. Almost two hours to the mi
nute, they had their answer.
"The chief was definitely poisoned," his doctor said. "We found traces of an amphetamine in his system. The drug would have simulated all the symptoms of a heart attack - palpitations, shortness of breath, chest pain, and would probably have been fatal to him, without his nitroglycerin pills and prompt treatment. If you hadn't gotten him here so quickly ... " Her voice trailed off.
Frank thought of the unexpected circumstances that had led him to Brooklyn and to his talk with the chief and what might have happened if he hadn't been there to reach those nitro pills when the chief started having his attack.
"You think this might have something to do with the will?" Joe asked, pulling his brother aside.
Frank pursed his lips. "I do. Granted, there are probably a lot of people who'd like to see the chief dead, but this, right on the heels of Carew getting shot - "
Joe broke in. "I think we'd better call Dad to make sure he's okay."
Frank nodded grimly. "And then we'd better find out a lot more about that man in the white shirt - before he strikes again."
Chapter 6
Frank spent the next forty-five minutes on the phone to Bayport.
The first fifteen minutes he spent reassuring his aunt Gertrude that he and Joe were fine. Then he spent fifteen minutes reassuring his mother that their schoolwork wasn't suffering. Finally he was able to speak to his father and reassure himself that Fenton Hardy was all right. Frank briefed his father on the mysterious goings-on at the police station that afternoon. When Fenton heard Chief Peterson was in the hospital, he decided to drive down to see him. By nine o'clock all three Hardys were assembled in Peterson's hospital room.
"I got here as quickly as I could," Fenton Hardy said. He laid a hand on Samuel Peterson's shoulder. "And I'll have you know I had to miss one of Laura's foreign film festivals to get here."
Peterson laughed. "It's good to see you." The chief still looked a little weak, but he was in good spirits. "And I'm flattered you came just to make sure I was all right."
"I didn't," Fenton said. "I came to see Anne, too." Peterson's wife was sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, holding her husband's hand. Frank thought she looked a little worse than the chief at that point. "And my boys, of course."
"If it wasn't for that one boy of yours," Peterson said, nodding toward Frank, "I might not be here now."
Frank flushed beet red.
"And if it wasn't for the other" - Peterson nodded at Joe now - "we wouldn't have found out that I was poisoned."
Now it was Joe's turn to blush.
"They'll make good detectives someday," Fenton said. His expression turned serious then. "There's actually another reason I rushed in," he said. "After hearing about Daniel Carew, and now this - "
"I know," Peterson said, looking at Frank. I may have been wrong. The Carew killing might have something to do with Moran's will."
"So Poletti has to be innocent," Joe said, thinking fast. "He couldn't have drugged you."
"Maybe. He could have hired someone to poison me," the chief pointed out.
"Or there could be more than one killer among the beneficiaries. More than one person willing to commit murder to increase his share," Fenton put in.
"That's a scary idea," Peterson said. His brow creased as he thought. "First thing tomorrow, I'll see about getting some kind of report together on where all those beneficiaries are - "
"You'll do nothing of the sort!" Anne Peterson said. She looked angry. "Sam Peterson, you're supposed to be taking it easy!"
"You're right, dear. I'll have someone else take care of it." He and Fenton exchanged a hurried glance, and Fenton nodded, indicating he'd pick up the slack.
"You be careful, Fenton. It couldn't hurt to take precautions - "
"I will," Mr. Hardy said. "And I'll call Hugh Nolan, if you like," he offered.
"Good," Peterson said. "Any warning from me and he'd be likely to disregard on principle."
"All right," Fenton said. "We'll get started right away. Good night, Sam. Good night, Anne."
When they got out into the hall, Fenton spoke privately to his sons. He'd rushed right in to see the chief as soon as he'd gotten to the hospital and hadn't had a chance to talk to them yet.
"I'm very proud of both of you" was the first thing he said. "Now, what can you tell me about this man who poisoned the chief?"
"Not much, I'm afraid," Frank said. "He was pretty well disguised."
"Yeah," Joe said. "First time I saw the guy, I thought he was about fifty. But he moved like a young guy. Whoever he was, he was really well trained in karate - or something."
"Something?" Frank asked.
"You know - kung fu, tae kwon do - one of those martial arts. I knew what he was going to do, but I couldn't stop him. It was like I was moving in slow motion the whole time."
Fenton turned to his eldest son. "Frank? Anything else?"
"Not really. Just like Joe, I thought he was a lot older at first, but then - " He shook his head. "I don't know. He could have been twenty-five or fifty-five, I really couldn't tell."
"You said he had blue eyes," Joe offered.
"That's right - I noticed them right away," Frank said. "They were so - " He looked up at his dad. "They were too blue," he said suddenly. "I think we were supposed to notice them."
Fenton nodded. "Probably tinted contact lenses. Sounds like a pro."
"What do we do now?" Frank asked.
"We don't do anything," Fenton said. "I'm going to make sure Hugh Nolan's all right - and then do a little detecting on the case. And you two are getting on the last train back to Bayport."
"We did come into the city to use the library," Frank pointed out. "And it's a little late to do that now."
Joe smiled. "Looks like you're stuck with us - at least until tomorrow."
Fenton nodded. "All right," he said. "Let's find a hotel. But first, I want to call Hugh Nolan. There's a phone down the hall."
"Dad, wait," Frank said.
Fenton faced his eldest son.
"What happened between Nolan and Peterson that Nolan hates him so much?" Frank asked hesitantly.
"Hate isn't the word I'd use." Fenton shook his head ruefully. "It goes back twenty years - to that case Sam and I had, the one that eventually put Moran away."
"You've never told us anything about it," Frank said.
"For good reason," Fenton replied. "It was a particularly ugly case - one I don't like to think about too much. A fire happened in what used to be one of the worst sections of Brooklyn. Where the Jefferson Heights townhouses are now."
"That neighborhood where Moran lives?" Joe asked incredulously. "That was a bad section of town?"
"It sure was," his father replied. "But the townhouses were planned to change all that. They were supposed to revitalize the whole neighborhood. But there was one small problem - there were already apartments there, with families living in them." He sighed deeply. "It was a mess. The developers were fighting to have the apartments condemned, the families living in them were fighting to stay. All the papers followed it for months. For a while it looked as if the whole deal might fall through.
"Then one night, there was a fire. Half a block of those tenements burned to the ground. Twelve people died. And the Jefferson Heights townhouses got built after all."
"How did you get involved?"
"Sam and I were assigned to the case about two days after the fire, when evidence of arson was discovered. We found out immediately that a lot of the families had been complaining about harassment by the developers for weeks, but nothing had been done. Hugh Nolan was the officer in charge of investigating the original harassment charges.
"I went to Hugh - we'd known each other for some time - and he assured me there was no harassment. Sam felt differently. He thought the developers had paid off Hugh to look the other way. He said as much."
"And you? What did you think?"
"Well - there were a lot of suspicious incidents, but I'm from
the old school. Innocent until proven guilty. And we never found anything linking Hugh with the developers. Then later, Hugh came forward with evidence that helped us prove Josh Moran had ordered those fires, and even Sam had to admit he'd been wrong to accuse Hugh. But it was too late to salvage Hugh's career - the damage had been done."
Joe frowned. "Was that when Moran still worked for Carew?"
Fenton nodded. "That's right. The townhouses were Carew's project - from start to finish. He bankrolled the developers, and we know he had to have ordered Moran to set the fires. Of course, we could never prove any connection there. With all the legal delays and stalling tactics, it took ten years for Moran's case to come to trial. But he did end up behind bars. As for Hugh ..." Fenton sighed. "He took early retirement and missed out on his pension. He wanted Sam to intercede on his behalf, but - "
Frank nodded silently.
"Anyway," Fenton said, checking his watch, "I'd better make that call before it gets too late."
***
Hugh Nolan was fine and happy to hear from Fenton. When he heard they were in town, he insisted on putting them up for the night in his small Lower East Side apartment.
"It's not much," he said, smiling as he led the Hardys into the living room after giving them a brief tour. They all took seats. "But it's home."
"It's a lot better than staying at a hotel," Fenton said. "Thanks."
"You're quite welcome. Now - you never did tell me why you were in town."
Fenton leaned forward in his chair. "Hugh - have you heard about Daniel Carew?"
Nolan grunted his assent. "Sure. Someone should have plugged him ten years ago, if you ask me."
"Be that as it may," Fenton said. He took a deep breath. "There was another incident today. Someone tried to poison Sam Peterson."
"What!"
"Frank and Joe were with him when it happened. That's why I'm here - they called me."
Nolan's face had gone pale. "Sam was poisoned? Is he all right?"
Fenton nodded. "He'll be fine. We just left him." He took a deep breath. "Hugh, we think both incidents might be connected."
"Moran's will, you mean."
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