Trial and Terror

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe picked the lock to 3C, and the Hardys entered Lee’s apartment. “Still no heat,” Frank said, finding the place even colder than before.

  At the desk, Joe found the manila envelope filled with fan letters that he had seen the day before. “None of them is opened,” Joe said, thumbing quickly through the letters.

  “Any of them from John Q.?” Frank asked.

  “Nope,” Joe replied.

  A bell jingled, causing Joe to jump. Then Joe realized it was Karen Lee’s telephone.

  An answering machine turned on. “Hi, I can’t get to the phone right now,” a recorded message with Lee’s voice said. “Please leave a message.”

  Frank and Joe both turned to the machine.

  “Hello, Karen,” a male voice said on the machine. “My name is Zeke Washington. I’ve sent you several letters in the past few months, but I haven’t heard from you yet. Listen, Karen, in the name of justice, it’s urgent I talk to you about the issue I discussed in my letters. It’s a little complicated getting hold of me, but I left the information on how to do this in all three of my letters. Please, please contact me. Goodbye.”

  Then the man hung up.

  “He said it’s urgent he talk to her in the name of justice,” Frank said thoughtfully. “Do you think this has something to do with the case?”

  “I don’t know,” Joe said, leafing through the fan letters again. “But I do see some letters from a Zeke Washington.”

  Joe showed Frank one of the letters. In the upper lefthand corner of the envelope, the following return address was written:

  Zeke Washington, Inmate 82658

  Ossining Correctional Facility

  Ossining, NY 10562-5498

  “This address is for a state prison about fifty miles north of here,” Frank said. “Sing Sing. Zeke Washington is a prisoner there. What do you suppose he wants?”

  “Why don’t we open his letters?” Joe said.

  Frank ran a finger over the envelope. “It’s tempting,” he said, “but I think we should resist. Even if we sealed them back up, Lee might notice. Opening someone’s mail—at least, if it’s not in the trash—is a federal offense.”

  “Then maybe we could try and contact Zeke ourselves,” Joe suggested.

  “Maybe,” Frank said, setting down the letter.

  After returning the letters to the manila envelope, the Hardys went back to the first floor. From there Frank took a flight of steps down to the basement, and Joe stepped outside onto the stoop.

  There was an intercom box in front of the building with buttons corresponding to every tenant’s name and apartment number. Joe buzzed 1B. Alex’s apartment. No point in letting Alex know he had already been inside the building, Joe figured.

  “Who is it?” a voice spoke through the box.

  “It’s Joe Hardy,” Joe called. “I was in the neighborhood and figured I’d stop by. I’d like to hear a little more about your mystery novels. If you’re not too busy, that is.”

  There was a buzz on the electrical lock, and Joe pushed the front door open. Alex was standing in his doorway on the first floor, wearing jeans and a pullover sweater. “I was just doing some writing,” Alex said with a friendly smile. “But I guess I could spare a fellow writer a few minutes.”

  Joe followed Alex into the apartment, which he noticed was also quite cold. It was only one room with a small kitchen off to the side. Most of the furnishings were of the flea market variety, including a couch that was actually an abandoned car seat. Joe noticed a tattered, multicolored Persian rug on the floor.

  Alex sat by a table with a computer. “My place isn’t too impressive,” Alex said. “Struggling writers aren’t the richest people.”

  Yes, he sure looks as if he could use some extra cash, Joe thought. But how far would he go to get it? Would he try to kill someone?

  “You know what you should do,” Joe said, taking a seat on the car seat couch. “Base a story on the murder attempt in this building.”

  “Great minds think alike,” Alex said. “I’m planning on it. I’ll probably change a few details, though, to make the story more terrifying.”

  “It’s pretty terrifying already,” Joe said.

  Alex leaned forward, fixing his falcon eyes on Joe. “Books tend to sell better if there’s an actual murder,” he almost whispered. “So in my story the victim will really be killed.”

  There was something strange about the way Alex had said this. Joe got the impression Alex might be talking about something more real than a book. In a funny sort of way, Joe thought, maybe Alex was saying he was the one who tried to murder Karen Lee. Maybe he was also hinting that he would try it again—and get it right on the second attempt.

  “Do you know who the murderer will be?” Joe asked, meeting Alex’s gaze.

  “I have a good idea,” Alex replied.

  “Who is it?” Joe asked.

  A mysterious smile played across Alex’s lips, then he said, “You’ll have to read the book.”

  “The day it comes out,” Joe said quietly.

  Then Alex looked away from Joe, as if he had just thought of something. He stared out the window, watching the sleet tap against the pane.

  Joe noticed a shoebox on the floor that contained a collection of labeled keys. Joe figured they were keys to all the apartments in the building.

  “How long have you been super here?” Joe asked.

  “About ten years,” Alex said, still looking off. What is he thinking? Joe wondered.

  “How’s the landlord?” Joe asked. “I mean, you know, is he a nice guy to work for?”

  “Uh, Joe, would you excuse me a second?” Alex said, suddenly picking an envelope up off the table. “I got a piece of 1C’s mail by mistake, and I want to slip it under his door.”

  “Go on,” Joe said. “I won’t steal anything.”

  The moment Alex left the apartment, Joe knelt by the Persian rug and began plucking out carpet fibers, making sure to get a sample of each color that was close to beige or gray.

  • • •

  Meanwhile Frank was moving through a darkened storage room in the basement. A dampness crept through the concrete floor and walls, making the room even chillier than the apartments. Using a pen-sized flashlight, Frank saw pieces of lumber, power tools, paint cans, a snow shovel, mops, brooms, and other building maintenance supplies.

  At the far end of the room, he came to a door that was painted scarlet. With a rusty creak, the door opened, and Frank entered.

  The concrete room was bare except for a metal contraption about the size of a compact car. Frank knew this was the boiler. Numerous pipes fed into the boiler, and a small flame danced underneath it.

  Frank played his flashlight over the boiler, searching for the heat control. If the heat was turned off, Frank would know Garfein and Alex were using illegal tactics to get rid of tenants. And if they were willing to turn off the heat in winter, they might be willing to commit murder.

  Then Frank heard footsteps in the storage room. He quickly flipped off his flashlight and hid behind the boiler. Soon he heard what sounded like something being picked up off a shelf, and then the footsteps walked closer.

  With a creak, the door to the boiler room opened. Frank waited. He heard only silence.

  Frank peered around the edge of the boiler. The flames shed just enough light for Frank to make out the shadowy shape of a person.

  “Is there someone in here?” a low voice said.

  Frank now recognized the person as Alex. And he realized Alex was holding a very large ax.

  11 Danger in the Basement

  * * *

  Keeping his foot in the doorway, Alex flipped a switch. A single light bulb illuminated the room.

  “If you’re in here,” Alex said, gripping the ax with both hands, “you’d better tell me now.”

  Frank realized it would be only seconds before Alex found him. “It’s me,” Frank said, stepping out from hiding, his hands in the air.

  “This is
a funny place to be working on a high school journalism assignment,” Alex commented.

  By the light of the boiler flames, Frank could see Alex’s piercing eyes. He decided to tell the truth. “My brother and I suspected Fred Garfein may have ordered you to turn off the heat. As a tactic for driving away the building’s elderly tenants. I came here to check the heat control.”

  Alex let the boiler room door close. “When Garfein told me you guys had visited him,” he said, “I figured something was up. Then when I was talking with Joe in my apartment, I realized you might be somewhere in the building. I have to tell you, Frank, I don’t like prowlers in my basement. I had a few things stolen last month.”

  “Sorry,” Frank said. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “I don’t like liars, either,” Alex said, moving slowly toward Frank. “You see, I get the feeling you’re still not telling me the complete truth.”

  “What am I leaving out?” Frank said, keeping both eyes on the ax.

  A creepy smile crossed Alex’s lips. “Maybe you also suspect Garfein had something to do with the murder attempt on Karen Lee,” he said. “Maybe you also think he paid someone to do it. And maybe you even suspect I’m the one he hired.”

  “You’re very perceptive,” Frank said.

  “You have to be pretty devious if you’re going to surprise a guy who writes murder mysteries,” Alex said, fixing his intense eyes on Frank.

  With a creak, the door opened.

  “Then I guess I’m pretty devious,” Joe said, standing in the doorway, holding an iron crowbar.

  Alex was startled, Frank relieved.

  “When you didn’t come back right away,” Joe continued, “I realized you might be looking for Frank. I know blood is your favorite color, Alex, but why don’t you put down that ax?”

  Alex was now between the two Hardys. “Why don’t you put down that crowbar?” Alex told Joe.

  “Deal,” Joe told Alex. At the same time, Joe and Alex put their weapons on the ground.

  “Now,” Alex said, holding up his hands, “why don’t we try swapping the truth? Because I think we’ve got some serious misunderstandings here.”

  “Deal,” Frank said. “You go first.”

  “Okay,” Alex said, shoving up the sleeves of his sweater. “Mr. Garfein isn’t crazy about Karen Lee because she’s messing up his renovation plans. But neither he nor I had anything to do with the murder attempt. As far as the heat goes . . . ”

  Alex opened the door of a small metal box mounted on the wall. Aiming his flashlight beam at it, Frank saw a switch between the words On and Off. The switch was obviously turned on.

  “This is the heat control,” Alex explained. “You can plainly see the switch is in the on position. Even though the boiler flames are going, the heat isn’t working because the temperature gauge on the boiler needs to be replaced. I’ve been trying to get the repairmen to come, but they keep canceling on me. Hopefully they’ll be here this afternoon. That’s my truth. Now it’s your turn.”

  In the name of fair play, the Hardys told Alex they were detectives working for the defense of Nick Rodriguez. They revealed everything, except for the fact that they had just broken into Lee’s apartment.

  Alex listened, fascinated. When the tale was done, he said, “So you guys are detectives, huh?”

  “Yes, we are,” Joe answered.

  “Have you worked on many cases?” Alex asked.

  “Plenty,” Frank said.

  “What type?” Alex asked.

  “All types,” Joe said. “Theft, attempted murder, sabotage, kidnapping, dognapping, catnapping.”

  “How old are you?” Alex said.

  “I’m eighteen, he’s seventeen,” Frank replied.

  “Wow!” Alex cried, lighting up with excitement. “You know what I should do? I should write a book about you guys. A real-life profile of the Hardy brothers, teenage detectives. A book like that could really take off. And I’m talking best-seller here. I could make you guys famous!”

  Alex looked from Frank to Joe, as if expecting them to be thrilled with his idea.

  “Do we want to be famous, Frank?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Frank said, matter-of-factly. “We get into enough trouble as it is.”

  Alex looked crushed. “All right, listen,” he said, not letting go of the idea. “Take some time to think this over. Really think about it. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  “In the basement with an ax,” Frank remarked with a grin. “Really, Alex, you should get out more.”

  When the Hardys left the building, daylight was fading and the sleet had stopped, leaving the streets and sidewalks wet. “Well, what do you think—do Garfein and Alex stay on the suspect list?” Joe asked Frank.

  “I guess so,” Frank said, zipping up his coat, “but without the heat angle, there’s still no evidence linking either one of them to the crime.”

  “I got some fibers from a rug in Alex’s apartment,” Joe said. “Maybe those will match up.”

  “We can only hope,” Frank said, checking his watch. “Come on, we’d better put on some speed. We’re supposed to meet Velloni at a quarter past five.”

  On the way to the subway, Frank called Sing Sing prison from a pay phone. He discovered they did have a prisoner named Zeke Washington there. He also learned the next day was a visiting day. The Hardys could meet Washington then.

  It was almost dark by the time the Hardys reached the criminal court building. Rushing up the concrete steps, they ran into Nellie and Myers, who were leaving for dinner, then for a visit with Nick. They both looked exhausted from the day’s trial. Frank and Joe quickly ran through the events of their day.

  “That’s great thinking on the carpet fibers,” Myers said after the update. “Stay on it.”

  “Yes,” Nellie agreed. “Please let us know as soon as you get the crime lab report.”

  “But I don’t want to try for access to Zeke Washington’s letters,” Myers said. “If I know Daggett, she’ll figure out you broke into Lee’s apartment. Then she’d find a way to throw you both in jail. And by the way, next time you make an illegal entry, I don’t need to know about it, either.”

  Joe and Frank exchanged smiles. They both realized that Myers wasn’t exactly scolding them for getting into Lee’s apartment. He was just saying he didn’t want to know about it.

  “What’s on for tomorrow?” Frank asked.

  “I’m calling some witnesses who spoke to Nick on the day of August fourteenth,” Myers said. “They’ll testify that Nick did not seem to be in a frame of mind that would suggest murder. Hopefully the jury will buy it. I’ve also got a specialist coming to point out that hair samples aren’t always reliable.”

  “Is Nick going to testify?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t think it’s wise,” Myers said with a sigh. “I plan to wrap things up tomorrow afternoon. So if you’re going to find something brilliant, it’s got to be fast.”

  “I’ll bet those carpet fibers are going to be what saves my brother,” Nellie said, giving each Hardy a squeeze on the arm. “They just have to be.”

  “Hey, fellas, you’re late!” a voice called. Joe turned to see Lisa Velloni approaching. “Listen,” she said, “I need to get home so I can get to work on the day’s events. Do you guys mind talking with me in my car?”

  “Not unless you plan to punch us,” Joe joked.

  “We have to go,” Frank told Nellie and Myers, “but we’ll check in later tonight.”

  As the Hardys walked with Velloni, the reporter talked about the afternoon in court. “Sure, everyone said good things about Nick,” she said, “but nothing outweighed Nellie’s testimony about Nick telling Karen Lee ‘sometimes I want to kill you.’ That guy is going to prison.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Frank argued.

  Velloni stopped at a small car with plenty of dents and pulled a parking ticket off the windshield. “Let’s go,” she said, wadding up the ticket and stu
ffing it into her coat. Frank sat with Velloni up front, and Joe sat in back.

  After starting the engine, Velloni turned on a radio. But Frank realized it was no ordinary radio. It was a scanner that picked up signals on the police radio system. There was static mixed with cross-talk between police cars and the dispatchers who tell the officers what crimes are in progress and where to go.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Velloni said as she drove down the street, “but I always listen to the police scanner when I drive. When a crisis occurs, I like to be one of the first to know about it.”

  “Why listen to music when you can have this?” Joe said. “This is better than any of those cop shows they have on TV.”

  “Now here’s the way it works,” Velloni said. “You tell me a little about your information, and then I tell you if I think it has any value to me.”

  The Hardys had decided they would loosen Velloni up by giving her some information, then they would try to learn some more about her. “There’s a fan who’s obsessed with Karen Lee,” Joe said. “He writes to her, and we’ve seen him following her. And we think he may have something to do with the attempted murder.”

  “Sorry, I’m not interested,” Velloni said, switching lanes to get past the heavy traffic. “Soap stars are always getting letters from crazy fans. It’s no big deal. The fans are usually shy, quiet types who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Well, I guess you’re more interested in Karen Lee’s side of the story,” Frank said, carefully watching for Velloni’s reaction. “How convenient for you that you already knew her when—”

  “Shh,” Velloni said, turning up the volume on the scanner.

  After a moment, Velloni switched lanes again, causing several horns behind her to honk. “A fire just broke out a few blocks away,” Velloni told the Hardys. “Do you mind if we make a little detour?”

  “Well, I guess—” Frank began.

  “I can’t resist a good catastrophe,” Velloni said, swinging the car into a frightening turn. “And I’ll bet the fire is at one of those garment factories near Chinatown. I’ve been wanting to do a story on how dangerous those old places are.”