Murder at the Mall

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Yeah, but—”

  “So just lay off me, okay?”

  “Whatever, dude.”

  As we walked back toward In the Groove, I told Joe about the poncho I’d found.

  “Sounds like someone wore it up on the roof and then ditched it,” he said, looking thoughtful. “Hmm. I guess it didn’t work too well.”

  “Huh?”

  “The blonde? She got wet all over anyway.”

  “Well, I guess with all the wind …”

  “Yeah, I guess …”

  We were just passing the food court when Joe pointed toward it.

  “I’ve gotta just go check,” he told me. “In case the guy’s still there.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said. The thought of watching Joe learning to make a wrap was just too tempting.

  But of course, no one was left at the food court. All the stalls had their wire gates pulled down. “Man,” Joe said, shaking his head. “I hope I didn’t blow it.”

  “Relax, dude,” I told him. “You got one job, you can always get another.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’ve got a job.”

  “Maybe—or maybe not. If they arrest Steph, who’s to say the shop stays open?”

  “You think she really did it?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “She was plenty mad about the mall getting sold. And from what you said about the graffiti …”

  “Yeah, but something about it isn’t sitting right,” said Joe. He had a look on his face, like he’d swallowed something really bad-tasting. “I can’t put my finger on it, but …”

  “Well try,” I urged. “What, you think those kids had something to do with it?”

  “Maybe. I could see them doing the graffiti, just to get someone else in trouble. But the glass … The way it was cut, it was too professional for kids like that.”

  “Well, let’s put them on our list for tomorrow.”

  “List? We’ve got a list?”

  “Sure we do. Let’s see…. Get here right after school, get me my job back, talk to those kids—if they aren’t too scared to show up after all the commotion.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No, there’s one more thing. One more party we haven’t heard from.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The developer who wants to buy the mall,” he said. “Shangri-La Enterprises. And their nasty lawyer, too.”

  “Ah, you’ve met him?”

  “Yup. I think we should make some time to check out what’s up over at Shangri-La.”

  The police were just winding up their investigation when we got back. The photographers were packing up their equipment, and uniformed officers were fencing off the area of the “accident” with yellow crime-scene tape.

  “Now I can clean up?” Oskar asked Chief Collig.

  The chief nodded. “All right, everyone,” he called out to the others. “Let’s get back to headquarters.”

  The police packed up and took off, leaving one officer behind to stand guard over the crime scene. Oskar started sweeping up the shards and dumping them into his big garbage can on wheels. Every once in a while, he’d bend down and pick up a big piece, holding it carefully in both hands before dropping it into the can.

  He was doing it again now. But wait—that wasn’t some big shard of glass he had in his hands. It was something else … something shiny, and small enough to fit in his hand.

  Oskar examined it closely. He looked up guiltily to see if the cop was watching—which he wasn’t. Then Oskar turned and saw me. He quickly stuffed the shiny object into his pocket.

  “Hey, Oskar!” I shouted.

  Pretending not to hear me, he stuck his broom and dustpan into the can and quickly wheeled it away down the corridor.

  “Oskar, wait up!” I yelled, chasing after him. He quickly abandoned the can and broom and kept on running. Far ahead of me, he turned right, into a corridor.

  I followed him, but by the time I got there, the corridor was empty, and the doors on either side were locked. I decided I would wait for him to come out, betting that there was no other way he could exit those rooms. I walked back down the corridor to the promenade, stepped out of view, and waited.

  Sure enough, a couple of minutes later he tried to sneak out. As he exited the little corridor, I reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Ah!” he cried out, surprised. “What? What you want?”

  “You picked something up, over there where the glass came down. I saw you.”

  “I not take nothing!”

  “I saw you.”

  “What, you want search Oskar? Here! Look—see?”

  He opened all his pockets, to show me that he wasn’t carrying anything—well, except for a dirty hankie and his own wallet. “What, you a policeman or something? What for you follow me? I tell you three times, I not take nothing!”

  I had to let him go. He waddled off toward his garbage can and broom. After checking the doors giving off the corridor and finding them both still locked (surprise, surprise), I headed back to where the glass had fallen.

  Oskar had sworn up and down that he was innocent. But he’d taken something, all right—something he’d just ditched in one of those little locked rooms. I was sure he would come back and get it later, when no one was watching.

  “Whoa,” said Joe when I returned. “What was that all about?”

  “Oskar found something,” I said. “Something he didn’t want us, or anybody else, to see.”

  “Now what could that be?” Joe asked. “I wonder …”

  “I think we’ll have to add Oskar to our little list, Joe.”

  “I think you’re right, Frank. I think, in fact, we’ll put him right at the top.”

  7.

  New Angles

  “Oh, come on—dish!” Iola was leaning so far over her side of the table she was practically in my food tray.

  “Easy—down, girl,” I said. “I already told you, Chief Collig swore us to secrecy.”

  “Hey, we’re supposed to be your best friends,” Chet broke in. He was seated next to Iola, opposite Frank. It was going to be impossible to eat lunch if this inquisition didn’t stop soon.

  “Yeah, we can keep a secret,” said Iola. “What’s the matter, don’t you trust us?”

  “Oh, I trust you, all right,” I replied. “I trust you to repeat everything we say, word for word, to every single person you run into between now and doomsday.”

  “Just answer yes or no,” she pleaded, not giving up. “This lady’s a member of a terrorist group.”

  “Define terrorist,” I said.

  “Oh, come on!” she begged. “Everyone says there are these environmental terrorists looking to blow up the mall!”

  “Whoa!” said Frank. “That’s a little out there, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Iola said. “What do you think?”

  “Uh-uh.” Frank shook his head, smiling. “Sorry. Nice try, though.”

  “Rats. Okay,” she went on. “Yes or no—the window was broken deliberately.”

  Frank and I looked at each other. He shrugged. “I guess we can tell them that much,” he said.

  “Okay. Yes,” I revealed.

  “Yay! Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Iola. “Chet? Any questions?”

  “Yeah,” he said, between bites of his salad. “Do you guys think that bunch of kids who hang out by the stairs at the mall had anything to do with it?”

  “We’re going to try and check them out this afternoon,” Frank told him. “Could very well be.”

  “’Cause I know someone else it could be,” he said.

  “Oh yeah? Who?” Frank leaned in closer, paying attention now.

  “There’s this janitor? I don’t know his name, but he’s definitely not right in the head. Talks to himself a lot, always looks like he’s hiding something …”

  “He means that guy Oskar,” I said to Frank.

  “I know that,” he said. “Do I look stupid?”

/>   “I think it’s those kids with the tattoos,” Iola put in. “They give me a hard time every day when I head for the parking lot after my shift.”

  “Hard time?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

  “You know, the usual. Trying to get my attention … asking me for my number.”

  “That’s not a crime, Iola,” Frank said. “At least, not last time I checked.”

  “It’s not a crime to be so annoying?” she asked. “Well, if it isn’t, it should be.”

  “At least they’re not as weird as that janitor,” Chet insisted. “I don’t understand why the police didn’t take him in for questioning. I mean, who has the keys to the roof? He does.”

  “Apparently, whoever did it used Mr. Applegate’s keys,” Frank told them. “He reported them missing from his office drawer last night.”

  “So let’s see,” Iola summed up. “We’ve got the janitor, those kids, and that lady environmentalist. Any other suspects?”

  “Actually, there is one other guy I’ve yet to check out,” I commented.

  “Oh, yeah?” Iola said. “Okay, give.” She batted her eyelashes at me, smiling.

  “He’s this lawyer for a big development corporation. I heard him sort of threatening Mr. Applegate if he didn’t sell the mall.”

  “Sort of? Hmm,” Iola said. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know how lawyers are,” I said. “They can threaten without threatening.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know, but I can’t picture a lawyer in a fancy suit climbing up onto the roof to cut that glass.”

  “Why not?” asked Chet. “Just because lawyers wear suits doesn’t mean they’re afraid of getting dirty.”

  “Or playing dirty tricks,” I added. “We’re going over to see him right after school.”

  After school Frank and I walked out to the parking lot and got on our bikes. As he was about to strap on his helmet, he said, “You know, I think maybe I ought to go straight over to the mall and see what’s going on down there.”

  So we split up, and I pointed my wheels toward downtown Bayport—specifically the Shangri-La Building, a gleaming glass skyscraper on the corner of Main and Broad.

  First I checked the directory on the wall. I saw that Bob Meister’s office was on the thirty-fourth floor. I also saw that the president of Shangri-La Enterprises, LLC, was a Mr. Ralph Eberhardt, whose office was on thirty-five.

  There was a security guard in the lobby, manning a velvet rope that barred the way in for anyone who didn’t have a magnetic ID card. I went up to him and said, “Hi, I’m here to see Mr. Bob Meister.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Um, I’m not sure. I mean, yes, he’s expecting me, but not right at this moment. Could you see if he’s free?”

  The guard punched in a number on his phone. “Name?”

  “Hardy. Joe Hardy. I’m here on behalf of Mr. Arthur Applegate. It’s about the East Side Mall.”

  The guard put the phone down. “Sorry, he’s not picking up,” he reported.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” I said. “I’ll just go up and leave a note with his secretary.”

  He frowned, considering this. “I guess that’d be all right,” he said, handing me a stick-on pass. “Thirty-fourth floor.”

  “Thanks so much.” I slapped the pass onto my shirt and hurried to the elevator before he changed his mind.

  I was going to push thirty-four, but then I thought better of it. Meister wasn’t picking up, so he probably wasn’t there anyway. Besides, I wanted to see his boss even more. I pushed thirty-five instead—the top floor.

  The bell chimed, the doors slid open, and I walked over to a huge, gleaming reception desk. Behind it sat an older woman with granny glasses and frosted hair that was somewhere between gray and blue.

  “Hello,” I said, going up to her. “I’m here to see Mr. Eberhardt.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked, looking me up and down. I’m sure I didn’t look to her like someone who’d have an appointment with her boss.

  “Not exactly,” I replied. “I’m here about the East Side Mall deal. I’m, um, connected with Mr. Applegate, the mall’s current owner, and I just need a few minutes of Mr. Eberhardt’s time.”

  “He’s a very busy man.”

  “Oh, of course. I do appreciate that,” I said.

  “Perhaps if you left your card, he could get back to you?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid that won’t work,” I told her. “It’s very, er, time-sensitive. I just need to see him for a minute, actually. Is he … in there?” I asked, indicating the corner office.

  She’d been around way too long to fall for that one, but I could tell that my hunch was right, because she stood right up and positioned herself between me and the big oak door that led to the corner office.

  “He’s in a meeting right now,” she said. “But let me find out if he’s able to see you afterward.” She put one hand on the doorknob. “Wait right here,” she added, and disappeared inside.

  Well, I knew full well that he wasn’t going to agree to see me. After all, who was I to him, anyway? Oh, sure, I’d dropped Applegate’s name—but this Eberhardt guy was a real big man, and he wouldn’t be talking to anyone except Applegate himself, I was sure.

  So I did the only thing I could do in the situation. Instead of waiting for the receptionist to come out, I followed her in.

  When I slipped through the doorway, she was leaning over her boss’s desk with her back to me, whispering something—no doubt about my being there.

  I couldn’t see who she was talking to, but I didn’t need to. Eberhardt’s office spoke for him—loudly. It was humongous, with glass walls looking out over Bayport and the bay itself. I could even see the East Side Mall in the distance, over beyond the marsh.

  I cleared my throat to let them know I was there. The receptionist spun around so fast I thought she was going to drill a hole in the floor. She gasped in surprise and horror. “Sir, I asked you to wait in the reception area!”

  “It’s all right, Madge. I’ll handle this.”

  Behind the receptionist rose Mr. Ralph Eberhardt, president of Shangri-La Enterprises, LLC. He was tall and well polished—everything from his perfectly groomed silver hair, to his thousand-dollar suit, to the ultrawhite smile pasted on his face. “What can I do for you, Mr….”

  “Hardy. Joe Hardy.” I strode right up to his desk, offering my hand.

  Madge stepped aside, frowning, then marched out of the room, leaving the door open behind her.

  Eberhardt gripped my hand and squeezed it so hard I couldn’t believe it. The pain was intense as my knuckles were ground into each other with the relentless force of his iron grip.

  “Now, Mr. Hardy—what can I do for you?”

  “You can let go of my hand, for starters.”

  Lucky for me, he did. “It’s rude, you know, to barge into someone’s office like this.”

  “I’m sorry, sir—but I knew you wouldn’t see me otherwise.”

  “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

  I didn’t answer that one—it was way too tricky. He had me cornered! What was I going to say to make him talk to me?

  One more glance around the room gave me my answer. There, on the wall above Eberhardt’s desk, was a plaque from the Bayport Policemen’s Benevolent Association, thanking him for his generous contributions.

  “My dad is Fenton Hardy. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

  In Bayport, this is a trick that sometimes works to get me and Frank into places we could never enter otherwise. It worked this time too. I hate to pull rank, but our father knows a lot of Bayport bigwigs.

  “Fenton Hardy? My gosh, I was in his foursome last month, at the charity golf tournament for the Policemen’s Benevolent Association!”

  Eberhardt’s face relaxed into a more human smile, and he clapped me hard on the shoulder. “Wonderful fellow. Chief Collig says he was the best man the New York City Police
Department ever had!”

  He sat back down. “Come to think of it, you look a lot like him. Well, Joe—any son of Fenton Hardy’s is welcome here.”

  “Thanks,” I said, still rubbing my sore hand.

  “Sit down, sit down,” he said, indicating a chair. “So what brings you here, Joe?” All of a sudden, he was as friendly as could be.

  I sat down, but I didn’t smile back. My hand still hurt—and the scary first impression he’d made was still impressing me.

  “I believe Fenton actually mentioned you … and your brother, too. If I remember correctly, he said you were quite the amateur detectives.”

  “Yes … well … I’m actually here about something else.”

  “Oh, good,” he said, chuckling. “I thought maybe you were here to investigate a crime!”

  I laughed along with him, but not too hard. “I have this job after school at the East Side Mall—and I heard rumors that Shangri-La was planning to buy it.”

  He stiffened, and the phony smile was suddenly pasted back onto his face. “And?”

  “Well, is it true?” I asked.

  “May I ask, just where did you hear that?”

  “I, um …” Aw, man—he’d gone and turned it around on me! Suddenly I was the one on the spot. “I dunno. Some kids were talking about it, and how the marsh was going to get paved over and stuff.”

  He laughed, without opening his mouth. “That mosquito-infested disease incubator? I’ll tell you what, Joe—whoever paves that filthy marsh over should be awarded the key to the city. It’s a first-class health hazard.”

  “Um, well, some people say there are endangered species there.”

  “Ever hear of dengue fever? Malaria? West Nile virus? Encephalitis? All diseases bred by mosquitoes.”

  “They could spray for them, I guess,” I suggested.

  “What, and kill the endangered tadpoles?” He laughed again and held out his palms to me. “You see, Joe—there are two sides to every story.”

  “At least two,” I agreed.

  “Now, if—and I stress the word if—Shangri-La were to make an offer on a property like the East Side Mall, it would only be with the idea of transforming a run-down section of Bayport into a new, world-class shopping showplace—a destination for all the better elements of society.”