"Exactly. Our murderer may be someone who wants to increase his share of that money very badly."
Nolan was silent for a moment. "I won't kid you, Fenton. I could really use my share of that money. But anyone who'd do something like this ... "
Fenton nodded. "We all - all the beneficiaries - have to be especially careful. It might not be a bad idea for you to get out of town for a while."
"I guess you're right - though I'm not sure where I'd go - "
"Well," Fenton said, "I think we ought to talk to the police about that. If you like, I'll speak to them tomorrow."
Frank saw Nolan's face tighten involuntarily. Then he relaxed.
"All right," he said. "I'll leave the details to you." He stood and stretched. "I'm going to turn in now. You three can stay up if you want - "
"No, we'll turn in, too," Fenton said. He looked pointedly at Joe and Frank. "The boys have to get an early start tomorrow - they have work to do at the library."
Frank checked the clock on the wall. It was after eleven, so he decided not to argue with his father - in spite of his desire to talk about the case some more.
They all said good night. Fenton Hardy and Joe each took a twin bed in the smaller bedroom, while Frank settled in on the living room couch.
But he wasn't ready to sleep just yet. He wanted to sort through the day's events before going to bed. That story his father had told - about the arson in which twelve people were killed, and Moran's will - he'd bet the two incidents were somehow connected.
Frank yawned. Suddenly he was having trouble staying awake.
He thought about Hugh Nolan. For someone who supposedly hated Chief Peterson, he sure looked concerned when we told him that the chief had been poisoned. . . .
Frank's eyes snapped open. I must have drifted off, he realized. The clock on the wall said 1:30.
He was thirsty. He got out of bed and walked down the hall to the bathroom to get a drink of water. Then he stepped back out into the hall.
An arm snaked around his neck.
"Don't move," a voice whispered in his ear. "Don't speak. Don't even breathe."
The man's grip tightened, the crook of his arm pressing into Frank's neck. Two or three seconds of pressure, Frank knew, and he would pass out.
Any more than that - and he'd die.
Chapter 7
Frank's first thoughts were that he'd stumbled into the person who'd been killing the beneficiaries and that he was about to become the killer's next victim.
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" The man's viselike grip tightened slightly, prompting Frank to answer.
"My name is Frank Hardy - I'm a guest here," he choked out.
"Hardy?" Frank heard the question in the man's voice, which suddenly sounded much less threatening. "Hold on." The man pulled Frank back a few steps, his grip not slackening for an instant.
A click and the living room lights were snapped on. Frank found himself face-to-face with his attacker: a young man a few years older than himself.
"Frank Hardy," the man said. "Fenton Hardy's oldest son. I've heard a lot about you." He spoke in a clear, unaccented voice and in the light didn't look at all threatening. He had dark hair just like Frank's - a little longer, maybe - and his face seemed somehow familiar. . ..
That was it. Frank snapped his fingers.
"You must be Hugh Nolan's son," he said.
"That's right," the man said. "Ned - Ned Nolan."
He stuck his hand out, and the two of them shook. Frank's other hand went to the back of his neck, to rub some feeling back into the place where Ned had grabbed him.
Ned saw and smiled. "Sorry about that," he said. "But if you walked into your father's apartment after midnight and found somebody tiptoeing around - "
"I understand," Frank said. "You have even more reason to be suspicious today."
Ned frowned. "I don't understand."
"This afternoon, someone tried to kill Chief Peterson."
"What?" Ned's eyes grew wide with surprise.
Just then one of the doors leading into the hall opened, and Joe Hardy stepped through.
His hair was tousled, and he wore only the bottom half of a pair of pajamas.
"Hey," he whispered, glaring at Frank. Keep it down, would you? Between Dad's snoring, and the racket out here ... " His voice trailed off as Joe caught sight of Ned.
"This must be your brother Joe," Ned said smoothly.
"Who're you?" Joe asked.
"I'm Ned Nolan," he said. "Hugh's son." He raised his eyebrows. "The owner of your pajama bottoms. Glad to meet you."
Joe laughed slightly, then nodded. "Glad to meet you, too."
Ned turned back to Frank. "Is that why you two are here? Because Chief Peterson was attacked?"
Frank nodded. "Not just us - our father's asleep back there, too."
"Your dad invited us to stay tonight," Joe said. "He's the one who lent me your - uh, pajamas."
"Your father's here as well? Good," Ned said firmly. "The more people around, the better. Especially if one of them is Fenton Hardy." He eyed Frank and Joe questioningly. "But I don't quite understand your role."
"Well - " Frank shrugged. "Joe and I were in town, we read about Daniel Carew getting shot, and we just got involved."
"Just like that? You got involved in a murder case?" Ned asked. He didn't seem to believe it.
"Sometimes we try to help our father out," Frank replied. He didn't bother to mention the fact that he and Joe had also handled numerous cases on their own.
"Well, I suppose I can understand it, in this instance," Ned said. "I should probably get more interested in this case myself - seeing how deeply it affects my father. Come on," Nolan turned and headed for the kitchen, motioning Frank and Joe to follow. "Let's sit down and talk. There's a fresh bag of potato chips in the bread drawer if you're interested."
Joe smiled his thanks and opened the drawer Ned pointed to.
"So, tell me about this from the beginning."
Frank started by recounting what had happened when he, Joe, and their father had gone to the reading of Moran's will. He had gotten as far as the shouting match between Tommy Poletti and Daniel Carew when Ned interrupted him.
"I was thinking about going with my father that day, but - " Ned shook his head. "I wasn't sure I could be responsible for my actions with all those people there. After they stymied his career - " He broke off in midsentence and looked across the table. "I guess I'm not making much sense, am I?"
Frank and Joe exchanged a quick glance.
"Yes, you are - we heard about what happened to your dad from our father."
"He got a raw deal," Ned said angrily. "You know, after my mom left, he did everything for me. Everything. So when those people start calling him names ..." His voice trailed off.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Frank offered.
"Yeah," Joe said. Frank saw he was about halfway through the big bag of potato chips already.
"Thanks." Ned smiled. "Anyway, that was all a long time ago. So - you were at Moran's house. What do you think? Are both these killings related to that will?"
"Both these attacks - Chief Peterson didn't die," Frank said, correcting him. "And my gut feeling is - yes, they're related, somehow."
"I don't think Tommy Poletti killed Carew," Joe said. "But it does seem like an awfully big coincidence for the two incidents to come so close together - and at this particular time."
Ned was silent for a moment. "All right - if it isn't a coincidence," he asked, "then who's doing it? Which one of the other beneficiaries?"
Frank ticked off the list on his hand. "We started with Hugh Nolan, Johnny Carew, Daniel Carew, Samuel Peterson, Fenton Hardy, Thomas Poletti, and William Delaney. Daniel Carew is dead, Peterson's been attacked - "
"So - Delaney, then," Joe cut in. "It's got to be him."
"I don't know very much about any of those people," Ned said. "But my money's on Johnny Carew."
"You think he'd shoot
his own son?" Frank asked dubiously.
Ned shrugged. "No, I suppose not. But from what my father's told me, he seems like the most coldhearted of the bunch. And don't forget," he said, "there could be more than one killer."
"Boy, we've been down this road before." Joe yawned and pushed his chair back from the table. "I think I'm going to hit the sack, guys. See you in the morning."
"Good night, Joe," Ned said.
"Good night." Frank leaned forward over the table. "I think the police are going to get a lot more serious about this case - and its connection to Moran's will - now that Chief Peterson's been poisoned."
"I hope so," Ned said. "Have they found any trace of the man who attacked him?"
Frank shrugged. "I don't know yet, but I doubt it. I probably got a better look at him than anyone, and I don't think I'd recognize him if he walked up to me and shook my hand."
"I suppose that's understandable," Ned chuckled. "A white shirt isn't exactly an identifying mark."
Frank vainly tried to stifle a yawn. He was falling asleep at the table. "I guess I'm a little tired, too."
"It is late," Ned said, nodding. He cleared the table and led the way back into the living room.
"I think your father has my bed," Ned said, staring down the hall.
"I'll flip you for the sofa," Frank offered.
"That lumpy old thing?" Ned shook his head. "It's all yours." He picked up the sofa's back cushions and arranged them into a makeshift mattress. "I'll make do with these."
"Good night, then." Frank said. He settled back onto the couch - and within minutes was fast asleep.
***
Frank woke to the smell of frying bacon and the warmth of the sun in his eyes. He showered, dressed, and went into the kitchen.
Hugh Nolan, Ned Nolan, and Frank's father were sitting around the breakfast table, eating, and reading the morning paper. Joe was there as well, but he had pushed his chair about three feet back from the table and was keeping his eyes away from anything that looked like food.
"Morning, everybody."
"Morning, Frank. Help yourself to bacon and eggs," Hugh Nolan said.
Frank nodded his thanks, even though he wasn't particularly hungry yet.
Joe groaned. "It feels like there's a lead weight in my stomach. I don't think I'll ever be hungry again."
"That's why you're not supposed to eat after midnight," Frank said.
"The papers say the police have released Tommy Poletti," Fenton Hardy said, sipping his coffee.
"They finally figured out he's not guilty," Joe said. "I guessed that all along."
"That also means the police are back to square one in their investigation," Fenton said. "Poletti was their only suspect."
"So they don't know any more about who the killer is," Ned said thoughtfully. "Or who might be next."
The doorbell rang.
Frank and his father exchanged a quick glance.
"You expecting anyone, Hugh?" Fenton asked.
Nolan shook his head.
"I'll get it, Dad," Ned said, standing.
"Careful," Fenton Hardy said, instantly serious. Frank noticed the bulge of a shoulder holster beneath his father's sport jacket.
Ned returned with two men, one tall and thin, the other short and stocky. Both were dressed in suits.
"Fenton Hardy? Hugh Nolan?"
Fenton and Hugh stood.
"I'm Detective Martin," the smaller man said, flashing a badge. "This is Detective Stevens. Could we talk to you for a moment? In private?"
Fenton and Hugh led the men to the living room.
"What's this all about?" Ned asked.
Frank shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."
When the four men returned a couple of minutes later, Fenton Hardy spoke first.
"These men have just come from a meeting with Chief Peterson and the mayor, boys. The word's come down from the top on this one. It's been decided that the three of us - that is, Hugh Nolan, myself, and Chief Peterson - should disappear for a while." He smiled. "I think I know the perfect place, but we'll have to stop at home first."
"Where's that, Dad?" Frank asked.
Fenton shook his head. "It's better that we keep the location secret," he said. "I'll tell your mother that a case has come up for me but that she should expect you and Joe home tonight."
"But, Dad - " Joe began.
Fenton Hardy shook his head firmly. "No buts. You two get to the library and get to work."
"Anytime you're ready," the smaller of the two detectives said. "We'll take you to the chief."
The two older men said their goodbyes - and then, just like that, they were gone.
"I don't like this at all," Frank said, staring out the living room window. On the street below, he saw the four men get into a squad car and drive off.
"Me neither," Joe said.
"What can you do about it?" Ned said. Then, assuming the subject was closed, he switched to another. "So, are you two going to the midtown library today?"
Frank met Joe's eyes, then shook his head.
"We're not leaving the city."
"But your father said - "
Now Frank stared at Ned.
"Whoever's behind the killings - if we assume for the moment that it's one person - he's already managed to infiltrate a precinct station and almost kill the chief of police."
"So?" Ned asked.
"So, what if the killer has a contact inside the police department? There's a great chance he could find our fathers, no matter where they hide." Frank shook his head. "We're not leaving until this killer is caught."
Chapter 8
"All right," Ned said. "What can I do to help?"
"Well," Frank said, "I think a good place to begin is with that list of beneficiaries."
"Motive and opportunity?" Joe asked. That was where they usually began when they had a list of suspects - narrow it down by checking to see who had the motive and who had the opportunity.
"They all have the same motive," Ned pointed out. "Moran's money - ten million dollars. That leaves us with opportunity."
Frank shook his head. "The police are probably doing that right now. And they have a lot more than three people to check out alibis," he said.
"Well - if we can't check opportunity, and they all have the same motive - " Joe smiled suddenly. He saw what Frank was getting at. "They might not all have exactly the same motive, right?"
"Right," his brother replied.
"What do you mean?" Ned asked.
"We're talking about ten million dollars here," Frank said. "Which is admittedly a lot of money. But to, say, Tommy Poletti, it's worth more than to Johnny Carew, who's probably got at least that much already."
"I see," Ned replied. "So what do we do now?"
"We find out how much they're worth," Joe said.
Frank nodded. "Exactly."
"How are we going to do that?"
"I've got a couple of ideas," Frank said. "I'll tell you on the way."
He stood to go.
"On the way where?" Ned asked.
"Just north of the Wall Street area," Frank said.
"Hold on," Joe said. "Let me get a little something to eat."
"I thought you were never going to be hungry again," Frank said.
"Well," Joe said, piling a few slices of bacon and a big spoonful of scrambled eggs onto his plate. "Detective work always gives me an appetite."
***
An hour and a half later the three boys were in the waiting room of Vance Johnson's office.
It had been Frank's idea to start digging at the lawyer's for information: impartial information on the people they were most interested in - Billy Delaney and Johnny Carew.
"Mr. Johnson will see you now," Johnson's secretary called out. She led them into the lawyer's office - a large, airy room with high ceilings and a wall of bay windows that looked out onto lower Broadway. Thick, meticulously arranged law volumes lined the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along one wall. A
nother wall was dominated by oil portraits of several very distinguished-looking individuals, and the fourth wall was almost completely hidden by a line of massive oak filing cabinets and an old-fashioned water cooler.
It all seemed very proper and respectable. Yet Joe wondered how much of that respectability Johnson had was genuine. After all, he had been Joshua Moran's lawyer.
Johnson was seated behind the massive oak desk, scanning a single sheet of paper. Other than a small stack of papers piled neatly in front of him, his desk was bare. He rose as the three boys entered.
"Mr. Johnson," Frank said, stepping forward, "thank you for agreeing to see us." He nodded in Ned's direction. "This is Ned Nolan."
"Hugh's son, I assume," Johnson said crisply, shaking hands with all of them. "So, I gather this is about Mr. Moran's will."
"That's right," Joe said. "We - "
"Well then, gentlemen." Johnson laid his palms flat on the table and stared directly at them. "My time is valuable - how may I be of service to you?"
Frank seemed slightly taken aback at his formality. Joe, too, knew that was a bad sign, but Johnson's attitude was understandable. He'd probably been grilled by the police more than once during the last few days and obviously wouldn't welcome more questions - especially from three people he probably saw as little more than overly enthusiastic teenagers. Check that, Joe told himself with a glance at Ned, who was past his teens. Two teenagers.
Joe was trying to think of something witty and charming to say when he noticed a large, framed photo. In the photo Johnson was standing with another, much younger man, whom Joe recognized instantly.
"Hey," Joe blurted out. "That's Tommy Poletti."
"Why, yes. That picture was taken the day after the Rose Bowl, the year Tommy was Heisman winner." Johnson nodded. "USE lost, but Tommy was magnificent."
"Five touchdown passes, nineteen straight completions," Joe said. "I remember watching it." Truthfully, he did. It was one of the first football games he'd seen on television - and still one of the best.
"Greatest single game a quarterback has ever had - in my opinion," Johnson said. "But then, Tommy wouldn't settle for doing any less, once he got to the Rose Bowl. That's just the kind of boy he was. Is. I've been close friends with the family for years - worked for his late father for almost four decades."
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