Frank took a rag from the back of the van, wiped off the pen, and wrote down NZE-809. "It was a Massachusetts plate."
"The plot thickens," Joe said. He rubbed his fingers with the rag, trying to wipe off the blue stain. "Unfortunately, so does this ink."
"There's got to be a way to find out whose plate that is." Frank tapped the pen agitatedly on the steering wheel. "Too bad we don't know any Massachusetts cops. They could give us access to the Motor Vehicle Department computer list."
"Well, we're near Chartwell Academy. Maybe there are some genius hackers there still." Joe smiled slyly, remembering how he and Frank had broken a criminal computer ring at the school.
Frank's face brightened. "That's it, Joe!"
"Hey, I was joking. We don't know anybody there. They've all been expelled - "
"Right. But we do know a pretty amazing hacker, and he happens to live in Cambridge, Massachusetts!"
"The Beast!" Joe exclaimed. "Of course!"
"Larry Biester, the pride of the Harvard computer science department," Frank said, grabbing the mobile phone. "He helped us crack an international spy ring, and I think he just might be able to help us with the DMV."
Quickly he dialed the Beast's number from memory. The phone rang twice.
"Hello," Larry's voice said. "I'm not in right now, but if you leave your name ... "
Frank exhaled with disappointment. "He's out."
" ... number and time of day you called, I'll get back to you. Just wait for the beep."
After a faint beep tone Frank said, "Hi, Larry, this is Frank Hardy. It's seven-thirty on Sunday. Call me back right away at - "
"Oh, hi, Frank," Larry's voice interrupted. Frank frowned. "Larry?"
"Yeah, it's me, live. Sounded like a real machine, huh? I'm trying to keep the administration off my tail for a couple of days. They're after me for some money."
"Oh," Frank said. "Listen, Larry, we need your help. I know it's a long shot, but do you think you can break the computer code on the Massachusetts Department of Motor Vehicles? I want to find out who owns a car with plate number - "
"Whoa, whoa! Stop right there!" Larry said. "I'm in enough trouble as it is. If any one of the university bigwigs finds out I've been - uh - free-lancing with the state government, I may be taking a semester off."
"It's important, Larry."
"Yeah? So's my diploma, at least to my parents."
"This has to do with my parents," Frank pressed on. "My mother, to be exact. Someone's kidnapped her. Whoever it is is trying to get my father, too - and they just came after us with a machine gun!"
There was stunned silence on the other side. "Whoa. When do you want the info - yesterday? You got it. Just give me two numbers - the license and your phone."
Frank passed on the numbers, thanked him, and said goodbye.
***
The illuminated digital clock on the dashboard read 12:33 a.m. as Frank exited off onto Marfield Road from the highway. It seemed as though the rest of the world had folded up for the night. The chirping of birds had long since faded away, and all he could hear was the monotonous trill of crickets and the engine's quiet hum. He felt as though he'd be lulled to sleep if it weren't for the cold night air that washed in over him from the shot-out driver's window. Beside him Joe had already fallen victim, bundled up in his jacket. His head lolled lazily to the left against the headrest, and his body bounced slightly with every dip in the road.
Joe had promised not to fall asleep during the five-hour trip, and Frank fought the urge to whack him on the shoulder as a reminder. But he knew that at least one of them should get some rest, so he left his brother alone. Besides, they were bound to reach a motel eventually.
"Eventually" turned out to be about ten minutes. As Frank drove along a sleepy section of Marfield Road a neon sign flashed "Marfield Motor Hotel" in the distance. He blinked twice to make sure it wasn't a mirage, then slowed down.
"'Vacancy,'" he muttered, reading the sign's bottom line.
There was a grunt from Joe's side of the van, then a muffled, slurred voice: "Don't worry. I've got my eyes on the exit signs."
"Well, no need to work so hard anymore," Frank replied. "We're here."
"Huh?" Joe sat up. "Marfield Motor Hotel? How did we - did I fall asleep?"
Frank pulled into the motel's driveway. "Halfway through Connecticut," Frank answered. "But it's okay. I've been enjoying the scenery and the nice, brisk windstorm."
"Arggh!" Joe arched his back as he stretched. "I feel like I've been in a trash compactor."
"I'm sure this place will feel like the Taj Mahal by comparison," Frank remarked. He parked the van far from the entrance so the owner wouldn't see the condition of the van. It could be hard to explain why they were riding in a car riddled with bullet holes.
Joe staggered out of the other side and looked around. The parking lot was nearly empty, and the windows of the squat white building stared blankly at them. Every few seconds, when the neon light flashed, the motel glowed purple.
"I'm not so sure about this place," Joe said. "You know, the back of the van isn't that uncomfortable."
"Come on," Frank insisted. "We won't get too far tomorrow if we don't get some sleep." He walked toward the door to the motel office. Above it hung a smaller sign. This one said "Open 24 Hours."
On the road behind them a lone car whizzed by in the dark.
Frank pulled open the screen door and walked into a small, empty room. A dozen or so keys hung from a pegboard behind a long, wood-paneled counter. On top of the counter was a metal bell with a button on top and a squeaking metal fan that blew a weak stream of air.
"Hello," Frank called out, slapping the button. A loud ding pierced the air.
"Yeeaahhh!" came a sudden scream from behind the counter.
"Down, Frank!" Joe shouted.
An unexpected bolt of fear shot through Frank. The two brothers ducked.
Above them a meek voice said, "What's going on? Is anybody there?"
Frank and Joe stood up. Peering over the counter was a short, slender man with wispy hair combed to cover a bald spot. "Uh, sorry about that," Joe said sheepishly. "You scared us. You see, we're kind of tired - "
"Well, that makes three of us," the man said crossly. "Do you boys realize it's almost one in the morning?"
Frank pointed toward the door. "But your sign says twenty-four - "
"Never mind," the man interrupted, pulling out a frayed, vinyl-covered ledger book. "Do you have a reservation?"
"No," Joe answered, "but it doesn't seem like we need - "
"You know, you're lucky. This is the only place in town that has any vacancies tonight." He opened the book and placed a pen inside it. "Sign here."
As Joe picked up the pen the man narrowed his eyes at him. "Say, you're not the fella who called a couple hours ago asking about vacancies, are you?"
"Nope," Joe said, signing two aliases, Peter and Jules Mansfield, just in case.
"All right," the man replied doubtfully, taking a key off the pegboard behind him and throwing it on the counter. "You're in room J. Checkout time is ten. Pay me when you return the key."
"Thank you," Frank said. As the two of them left Joe pointed to the mat in front of the door. The words Courtesy Is Contagious stared up at them.
"I guess the disease has been cured around here," Joe remarked.
Frank peered in the window to see the man disappearing behind the counter again. He followed Joe to room J, which was directly behind the large neon sign. When they shut the door, the room glowed a hideous shade of purple and then darkened as the sign did. Frank flicked on the light to reveal a square room with beige cinder-block walls, two beds, and a table with a phone.
"Taj Mahal, huh?" Joe said, his face suddenly purple. "I'm not so tired."
"Good," Frank replied, opening a drawer in the phone table. "Then you can help me figure out where we're going to look for Dad tomorrow."
He pulled out a phone book and dropped it o
n the bed. It hardly bounced. "I can see it's going to be a comfortable night," Joe mumbled.
Frank and Joe riffled through the phone book. It wasn't hard to find potential places; most of the industry in the area was centered around a few big technological companies. Before long Frank had compiled a short list of names and addresses on a sheet of Marfield Motor Hotel stationery.
"Foreman Aerospace ... the Center for Experimental Research ... Prometheus Computing," Frank said, reading the list. "I think that'll be a good start."
"Anything to get us out of here," Joe yawned. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready for some shut-eye, even if my dreams end up looking purple Frank put away the phone book and lay down on one of the beds. "See you in the morning."
"Yeah," Joe replied, flopping down on his bed. And as his head hit the pillow he was asleep.
***
Brriing!
As Monday's early light broke through the windows Frank dreamed his dad was trying to reach him by phone. It rang and rang, but no one answered it. No matter how hard he tried, Frank couldn't move. His arms were pinned beneath him, his mouth was locked shut. . . .
Brriiing!
Frank reached out and grabbed the phone off its hook. "Hello?" he said, his voice groggy and muffled.
"Rise and shine, lazybones!" a reply came.
Frank shot up in bed. Every last ounce of sleepiness had suddenly vanished.
"Who is it, Frank?" Joe asked, sitting up, too.
"Don't you think you fellows ought to get a move on?" The voice was warbly and mechanical, exactly like the one Frank had heard the day before.
"Who are you?" Frank blurted out.
The answer sent an icy chill up Frank's spine. "Don't waste your time with foolish questions. Your mother has only ten hours left to live."
Chapter 6
Before Frank could say a word a sudden click sounded in his ear.
He slammed the phone down and shot to his feet. "We're out of here!"
"Was it him?" Joe asked, his face taut with disbelief.
"Believe it or not," Frank said, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder.
Joe picked up his bag and followed Frank out the door. "How could he know where we were?"
"Remember what Mr. Congeniality in the motel office told us last night? This was the only place in Marfield with vacancies - and someone just happened to call asking about vacancies a few hours before we arrived. Guess who that must have been. It wouldn't take a genius to realize we'd be staying here."
"Yeah, but there's one problem. How could that guy have known we were in Marfield - unless he bugged our backyard? That's the only place we talked about it!"
"Maybe not," Frank said, rushing down the concrete path to the motel office. "Maybe we talked about it in the van before we knew it was bugged."
Joe shook his head. "No, Frank. I'd remember!"
"Or maybe they tailed us somehow." Frank's voice had an edge now. He was at the office door, and he turned to face his brother. "It doesn't matter, Joe, does it? The most important thing is to get Dad back to Bayport within ten hours. That means we have only about five hours to find him!"
With that he pulled open the screen door. The thin man was still behind the counter, but awake this time. On the wall behind him a clock read 7:45. "Yes, gentlemen, would you like a room?"
Frank put the key on the counter. "Uh, we have one already, sir. Remember? Last night? You were the one who gave us the key. We'd like to check out now."
The man raised his eyebrows. "Ah, yes, of course!" He looked at the keys and gave a little chuckle. "I gave you room J, eh? Oh, dear, I mustn't have been in a very good mood. Sorry about the sign, fellows." Giggling, he reached behind him for his receipt book.
"No problem," Joe said dryly. "It was very - colorful."
That made the man giggle even more. "Oh, yes, I'll bet it was!" He looked at the reservation card. "Please pay this amount, Peter - or are you Jules?"
"Huh?" Joe said.
"Peter," Frank quickly answered, remembering their aliases. He quickly counted out the money and put it on the counter. "Do you have a map of the area?"
Barely containing his mirth, the man took the money with one hand. With the other he pointed to a rack in the corner and turned away. As he went into an inner office behind the counter Frank could hear a little explosion of laughter.
"A comedian," Joe mumbled. "Let's get out of here, Peter."
"Okay, Jules," Frank replied. He grabbed a map from the rack and gave it to Joe. "You're appointed navigator."
They raced out to the van and jumped in. From the passenger seat Joe checked the map. "Hang a right," he said as Frank started up.
The van's rear wheels kicked up gravel.
Leaving the Marfield Motor Hotel behind gave Frank and Joe a fleeting sense of relief that was buried in a stronger, darker anxiety. It was a feeling both boys shared but didn't dare speak about.
For all their skills, they could never hope to match the cunning of one other detective - Fenton Hardy, their father. When Fenton decided to solve a crime no one could do it faster or better.
And when Fenton Hardy decided to remain incognito it was practically impossible for any human being to find him.
***
'A cheerful little place," Joe said, looking out the van window.
A jagged spiral of barbed wire glinted in the morning sunlight on top of a grim, ten-foot- high brick wall that stretched ahead of them for a quarter mile. Frank followed it until he came to a stop sign. There the otherwise solid wall gave way to a metal gate. Beside the gate was a Plexiglas booth with a small white-on- black sign that read "Foreman Aerospace/Authorized Personnel Only."
Frank turned into the gate, prompting the guard in the booth to lean into his desk microphone.
"Can I help you?" The guard's voice sounded distant and tinny as it squawked out over a small loudspeaker next to Frank and Joe. Next to the loudspeaker was a grating with the words Speak Here printed underneath.
"Two cheeseburgers, one large fries, a root beer, and a shake," Joe said under his breath.
"I'm sorry," the voice returned.
Frank gave his brother a sharp glance. "Uh, we're here to see Fenton Hardy. We understand he's here on a business trip."
"Who's he visiting?" the guard asked.
"I'm not sure," Frank replied. "But he came in Thursday. I'm sure his name is on the sign-in sheet."
The loudspeaker fell silent for a few seconds. "No, I'm checking all the way back to Monday now, and I don't see any Hardy. That's H - A - R - D - Y."
"Is it possible he could have gotten through another way?" Joe called out.
"No, sir. If the President of the United States came to visit, he'd have to come through this gate, just like you. I'm sorry, but I can't let you in. If there's someone inside you can call - "
"No, thanks," Frank said, cutting him off. "We'll call him at his office. I guess he hasn't left yet. But if he does show up, could you tell him to call the van immediately?"
"Just - the van, sir?"
"He'll know what it means. Thank you."
Frank backed onto the street, staring dully behind him.
"What if he's in there, Frank?" Joe said. "He could be using an alias, he could have pulled some strings ..."
Frank heaved a sigh. "Let's try our luck at the other places before we start second-guessing."
Using the map, Joe guided Frank to the Center for Experimental Research, a boxy, ten-story office building made of glass and steel. They parked at the curb of the building's small, well-kept lawn and walked inside.
A guard stood behind a gray metal desk. On his green khaki uniform was a name tag that read "R. Muldoon." He doodled with a pen in the margins of a half-finished word-hunt game. A telephone and a closed sign-in book sat at one edge of the desk.
"Excuse me," Joe said, "we're here for a meeting with Fenton Hardy. Has he come in today?"
Muldoon didn't look up from his puzzle. "You got a clearance pas
s?"
"Uh, I'm sure Mr. Hardy will give us clearance. Would you check?"
"No clearance, no entry."
Frank stepped forward. "Can't you at least tell us if he's here?"
'No clearance, no entry." Muldoon circled a word that went diagonally across his puzzle.
Joe casually turned the sign-in book around to face him and started flipping through.
Instantly Muldoon's arm shot out and slammed the book shut. "Hey, what do you think this is, some kind of game? I got a job to do, understand? Now get out of here before I call the authorities!"
"Hey, I wouldn't want you to do that," Joe said, looking at him levelly. "You might lose your concentration - then you'd never see the word defective running down the right side of your puzzle."
Muldoon smacked his pen again. "That does it." He lifted the phone and said, "Muldoon here. I've got a situation four at the front desk."
Within seconds a tall, trim man with a mane of silver hair emerged from a door beside the elevators. Walking briskly toward them, he gave a calm, confident smile. "Gentlemen," he called out in a booming bass voice. "What can I do for you?"
"These guys are trying to get in here without no clearance, Mr. Straeger," Muldoon said.
"Without any clearance, Robert," the older man said. "Double negatives fell into disrepute after Shakespeare's time."
Muldoon frowned and looked back at his puzzle.
"Karl Straeger, head of security," the gray-haired man said. He gestured toward a corner of the lobby. "This way, please, gentlemen."
As the three of them walked over Frank said, "Sorry to cause confusion, Mr. Straeger, but we need to talk to Fenton Hardy immediately. We have reason to believe he's in a meeting here."
Straeger mulled over Frank's request. "Hardy - Hardy - the name isn't familiar."
"If you'd just let us look at the sign-in book," Joe insisted.
"Of course," Straeger said. "But I can tell you right now, all visitors' names are logged in my office, and I make it my job to learn every one. After thirty years in this business I've learned how to remember. I assure you that the person you mention has not entered this building."
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