A Killing in the Market
Page 8
"Where's Mom?" Joe asked, looking around.
"Over at the Halperns," Fenton Hardy said. "They saw us come in and invited us to dinner." He looked at his watch. "To which I'm very late. Gertrude, do you want to come? I know you're welcome."
"No, Fenton, I just want to have a hot bath and sit in my own house and not move."
"See you!" With that, Fenton gave his sister a quick kiss and left.
Frank flicked on the answering machine's replay button. The first message was from Callie.
"Call me when you get in, Frank. I want to know how the day went — "
"So she can tell us how we could have done it better!" Joe said with a chuckle. The boys started walking into the kitchen, but the sound of the next message stopped them in their tracks.
"Hello, Frank and Joe. Justin Spears here. I'm calling to let you know I've come across some startling new information. I don't want to talk over the phone, so I'm having it carried to your house by messenger. He'll be on the three oh-five train to Bayport."
"Carried to our house?" Frank said. "I don't see any sign of — "
"Shhh!" Joe hissed. "The next message is Spears too!"
This time Spears sounded frantic. There was a slamming noise in the background, as if someone were trying to smash in a door. "You've got to get that briefcase — it may still be on the train! I — I don't have much time to talk. Listen closely. The stuff is crucial! It shows that — "
A sudden crash drowned out Spears's voice.
"Nooooo!" Spears screamed. "Let go — grrrraggggh!"
There was the bonk of a phone receiver clattering to the floor. Then all the Hardys could hear were fragmented sounds, like those of a struggle. Things crashing around and gasping, followed by what sounded like someone making horrible choking noises. Then came a dull thud, followed by silence.
Finally, with the cold click of the phone being replaced, the message came to an abrupt end.
Chapter 13
JOE SLAMMED HIS hand down on the phone stand. "I don't believe this! Someone nailing Spears. And what is this about a briefcase?"
Frank yanked the handset off the phone and called New York City Information. "Justin Spears please — a business number." He thought for a moment. "The home phone, too, if you have one." Taking a pencil out of a holder, he wrote down the numbers.
He tried both numbers. No one answered at the office, and he had to leave an urgent message to call him on Spears's home phone machine.
"I don't like the feeling I'm getting," Frank said, replacing the handset. "He's probably lying on the floor of his office!"
Aunt Gertrude put a hand to her chest. "Oh, my goodness," she exclaimed. "Do you really think something happened to him? What can we do?"
"Call the New York City police," Joe suggested.
Suddenly Aunt Gertrude groaned and clutched onto the side of the phone stand. "You know, this is getting to be too much for me. I'd like to lie down."
"I'll help you upstairs," Joe volunteered. He walked Aunt Gertrude to her room while Frank called the police.
By the time Joe came back downstairs, Frank was pacing back and forth. "The three oh-five ..." Frank said, almost to himself. "That was the train we almost took."
"If only we'd known! Spears's messenger could have met us at the station."
Suddenly Frank's eyes widened. "Spears's messenger! Of course! Remember who we saw pushing his way out of the train as if his life depended on it?"
Immediately the image came back to Joe. "Bart," he said. "Spears's assistant! But why?"
"Because he really did feel as if his life depended on it! He recognized Fleckman's goons — they must have been the men who beat him up and trashed Spears's office. So he thought they were after him—or the contents of his briefcase! Do you remember what he had with him as he came out of the train?"
Joe thought back. "Nothing, I think." A look of realization came over his face. "And that's why Spears called — because Bart left the briefcase on the train!"
"The important thing is that it might still be on that train, and we've got to find it!"
Joe looked at his watch. "It's six already. The train goes only as far as Bridgefield. It's been there and gone."
"Yeah, but they must have a lost and found ..."
Frank was out the door before Joe could finish. He jumped into the front seat of the van. Within seconds Joe was next to him and they were on their way to Bridgefield.
"What if someone took it?" Joe asked as they entered the ramp to the highway.
"Let's hope not," Frank answered. "Maybe no one even noticed it."
Joe looked ahead of them at the highway. "Uh - oh," he mumbled.
"The last of rush hour!" Frank grumbled as he pulled into a line of slow-moving cars. "Just what we need."
Frank moved into the left lane, where the traffic was moving the fastest—and that was still slightly more than a crawl.
They sat in frustrated silence for a few minutes, until Joe said, "I just can't figure it out."
"Which part?" Frank asked.
"The main one—who killed Simone. I mean, there are motives all over the place. It's clear that Fleckman might have done it. He did send his goons to kill us. But I'm not convinced Spears is completely innocent either. It seems hard to believe his story that Simone was almost broke when he died."
Frank nodded. "Maybe Fleckman was telling the truth about him. Maybe Simone really was an embezzler, and Spears is hiding his money."
"Not to mention Mrs. Simone. We haven't found any explanation for that scarf, and you said she didn't seem shocked or upset at the Shore Inn when you told her about Simone's death."
"Well, there was no reason for her to be surprised. I mean, I wasn't the first to tell her about his death — she'd already hired Elite Eye by the time I saw her."
"True," Joe admitted.
"What I can't figure out is who could have framed Aunt Gertrude! None of the suspects even knew her." Frank furrowed his brow with exasperation. "Something's missing."
The loose ends all jumbled together in Frank's mind: Fleckman's goons ... Spears's phone call ... those dark, grainy photos ... Mrs. Simone and Clifton ... Clifton. Suddenly Frank's mind went back to the first time he'd met the detective. He thought about the scuffle in Simone's upstairs bedroom— and about a still-unanswered question he had.
The camera. The camera without a flash.
Frank's mind began to race. "Joe," he said in a voice taut with excitement. "Remember when I told you about the camera in Simone's bedroom?"
"Right," Joe answered with a smile. "The one that didn't have the flash."
"Obviously Clifton had set the camera up to photograph the cottage for clues. Now, a flash is great for indoors, but for close-ups, the light is too strong, and you're better off without it."
"Mm - hmm," Joe said, following the explanation. "But you need a lot of sunlight in the room, right?"
"Exactly. But that bedroom was shaded by trees — it was pretty dark in there."
"Well, he probably used some sort of super-high-speed film that can take pictures in the dark." Joe shrugged. "I mean, the pictures would be pretty grainy — "
Frank grinned. "And," he added, "if the film were used outdoors — say on a dark night—the images would be barely recognizable, wouldn't they?"
A look of sudden realization flashed across Joe's face. "So Clifton took those photos at the pier!" he said in a hushed voice. "But how — "
"He must have been on the case before Mrs. Simone called him in. How else could he have taken a picture of Aunt Gertrude and Mr. Simone that night?"
Joe shot a baffled glance toward Frank. "But why would he frame Aunt Gertrude? Unless— Maybe he's working very seriously for Alexandra Simone—covering up a murder. That call!" he exclaimed.
Frank glanced over at him. "What call?"
"The call for Clifton at Mrs. Simone's place— the one she said was urgent. It could have come just after Spears was attacked trying to call us!"
Frank gripped the steering wheel and abruptly swung to the right, straight over the slow lane and into the breakdown lane. "Hang on!" he yelled. "Unless we're very, very lucky, that evidence is probably in Clifton's hands right now!"
A crowd of passengers were spilling out of a train as Frank and Joe pulled up to the Bridgefield station. They got out of the van and looked around. Frank spotted the large hand-painted sign that said Lost and Found. "Bingo! There it is."
Behind the counter at the lost and found was a jovial man with half-glasses perched at the end of his nose. His stringy red hair was parted beside his ear and then combed up over his head to try to cover his baldness. Some of the strands fell loose and hung over his ear as he spoke to Frank and Joe.
"Let me guess, fellas," he said. "You're the ones who left the set of albums by Frontal Lobe on the four twenty - three — "
"Uh, no," Frank said. "Actually, we're here to see if there was anything left on the three oh-five."
The man scratched his head. "Don't know. Yes. Yes, there was. A tan briefcase, I believe."
"That's it!" Joe said. "We're picking it up for a Mr. Justin Spears."
"Be right back." The man whistled as he walked into a back room.
"We got it!" Joe said through clenched teeth, trying to hold back his excitement. "I guess we were wrong about Clifton."
But when the man came back, he was reading from a notepad in his hand. "Looks like Mr. Spears didn't trust you guys!" he said with a chuckle. "It seems he was by just moments ago to pick up his own briefcase."
"Wh - what?" Frank stammered. "That can't be!"
"Hmm, must've been that strange fella my coworker took care of." He looked into the distance over the top of his glasses. "Well now, isn't that him outside, just over there!" He pointed out the window.
Frank and Joe wheeled around to see a man with dark goggles and helmet climb onto a motorcycle. He revved the engine, and with the tires squealing, he took off.
Tucked firmly under his arm was a tan leather briefcase.
Chapter 14
"HE MUST BE HEADING for the highway! Let's get him!" Joe shouted.
He and Frank ran to the van. This time Joe took the driver's seat. He threw the van into reverse and slammed out of the space.
Honnnnk! The bleat of a car horn made Joe screech to a sudden stop. He narrowly missed broadsiding a station wagon.
"Watch it, Joe!" Frank said. "A little less speed will get us there as fast."
Joe had slammed the van into first and spun on some gravel. They had careened toward a thick cement pole. Joe spun the wheel and sped to the exit to find ten motionless cars lined up ahead of them, waiting for a break in the traffic.
"Joe—" Frank said warningly.
"We're going to lose this guy if we don't do something!" Joe passed everyone by driving up on the curb. They entered traffic accompanied by a chorus of honking horns.
Even so, the cyclist had disappeared. "We blew it," Joe said in disgust.
"Okay, we blew it," Frank agreed. "But I've got another plan."
"Like what? This guy is probably halfway to Bayport by now!"
Frank reached for the cellular phone and punched a few numbers in, saying, "Okay, Callie, you wanted to be part of the action? Well, here goes — "
"Callie? Why — "
"She can drive over and wait for him by the entrance ramp. Then she can either tail him or stall him."
Callie said she would set off immediately. As Frank hung up the phone, Joe yanked the steering wheel to the left and sent the van swerving into an opening in the fast lane. "Okay, we're starting to move," he said.
Frank gripped his armrest as Joe jumped from lane to lane. "This might not be so bad after all," Joe said.
"Hey, calm down, Joe!" Frank interrupted. "The cops are out! All we need is to be stopped for reckless driving!"
Joe's eyes darted up ahead of them a quarter of a mile, where a police car had stopped in the breakdown lane, its lights flashing. Joe slowed and stayed in one lane.
As they got nearer the police car, an officer was just climbing back into his cruiser. The person he had stopped was blocked from Frank and Joe's view by a tractor-trailer.
"Somebody probably trying to drive in the breakdown lane," Frank said. "Sound like a familiar trick?" he asked sheepishly.
Joe looked over to his brother and grinned. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the police car drive away. Then the tractor-trailer slowly moved ahead to reveal who the police officer had stopped.
A man standing beside a motorcycle, with a tan briefcase.
"There he is!" Joe said. "Go get the briefcase, Frank!"
Frank wasted no time. He pushed open the door and jumped out of the van.
Cars skidded to a stop and blew their horns as Frank darted between them. The motorcyclist glanced around and did a double-take. Then, tucking the briefcase under his arm, he mounted his bike and kicked it into action.
Frank was only inches behind him. "Oh, no, you don't — " he said, lunging for the briefcase.
But the only thing that Frank grabbed was a handful of gravel. He landed face first on the road as the motorcycle roared off.
"Come on, get in!" came Joe's voice. The van was now beside Frank, in the right lane. Frank jumped through the open door, still shedding gravel. A few cars ahead of them, the motorcycle had pulled into the same lane.
"He's playing it safe," Joe said. "He doesn't want to get stopped again."
The motorcyclist dodged from lane to lane, trying to put distance between himself and the Hardys. But Joe skillfully swerved and dodged into spaces between cars.
Finally the motorcyclist pulled onto the dotted white line between the lanes. He sped up, driving with cars on his right and left.
Practically at the same time traffic ground to a dead halt. Angry drivers opened the doors of their cars and moved outside to see what had happened.
Joe punched the dashboard. "Another jam! We've lost him now!"
Frank watched hopelessly as the motorcyclist drew farther away. As he picked up speed, he gave a quick glance over his shoulder, as if to taunt the Hardys.
Thump! All of a sudden the motorcycle skidded to the left, swerving to avoid an open door on the right. The rider hit the car on the left and went flying onto the car's hood.
Frank and Joe watched as the briefcase hurtled into the air and made a crash landing on the ground.
Clutching his stomach, the motorcyclist rolled off the car hood. Frank and Joe both bolted out of the van and ran for the briefcase.
And at the same time, there was a screeching of tires in the traffic going in the opposite direction.
"Frank! Joe!" a familiar voice called out.
The brothers looked to their left. Cars going in the opposite direction were stopping to avoid a collision with a car that had halted in the fast lane — a car driven by Callie! Frank and Joe looked disbelievingly at her as she waved hello.
Around her, motorists blew their horns and screamed heatedly.
In that moment of distraction the motorcyclist had risen to his feet. Frank and Joe dove for the briefcase.
"Got it!" Frank grinned triumphantly as his fingers closed around the leather handle.
"Way to go!" Joe shouted.
Immediately they sprang to their feet, ready to do battle with the motorcyclist.
But he'd disappeared from in front of them. "Wha — Where'd he go?" Joe said, straining to see into the distance.
" Yeeeeaaaagh!" A scream rang out. Frank and Joe turned to their left.
There, where they had just seen Callie, was the motorcyclist, his arm firmly around Callie's neck!
"Don't try anything!" the man called in a gravelly voice, a snub-nosed automatic appearing in his other hand. "I'll use this if I have to." He backed up t
oward his motorcycle, which lay in the center of the road on the double yellow line.
As dozens of motorists stared dumbfounded, the motorcyclist looked at Frank and Joe from behind his dark goggles. Slowly he walked backward, clutching Callie.
"I'm backing up to my bike," he said. "And I expect to be met there by you two young gentlemen—with that briefcase. Understand?"
Frank and Joe hesitated. Immediately the motorcyclist tightened his grip on Callie's throat. She gagged and flailed with her arms, trying to break free.
"Of course, you don't have to listen to me," the man said with a demonic grin. "You can take the briefcase with you. But you'd better say a final goodbye to your little girlfriend—right now!"
Callie's eyes pleaded desperately. But as the man yanked her backward toward the bike, Frank stood, unmoving. With only seconds to decide what to do, Frank seemed to have become paralyzed.
Chapter 15
"FRANK! DO SOMETHING!" Joe whispered harshly.
Frank's eyes jumped to Callie. He tried to think of a scheme, a way to keep both the evidence and save Callie. But he realized there was no choice.
Slowly, he walked toward the motorcyclist, holding the briefcase out to him.
The motorcyclist stopped walking backward. "No bluffing, kid," he threatened. "Or you'll be sorry."
"No bluffing, Clifton," Frank said soberly. He held out the briefcase, but the cyclist made no move to take it. "How did you — "
"You gave yourself away," Frank told him. "Making the assumption that Callie was my girlfriend. A stranger would just as easily have paired her with Joe. But you met us before, at the Shore Inn. So you knew who she went with—and told me who you were, even in that biker disguise with the space helmet on."
"Very clever — but I'm getting the evidence. Take it, Callie," Clifton told his prisoner. "You'll tote it for me." Maintaining his grip on her neck, with the gun still held against her, he continued walking backward.
"Hey! What about her?" Frank asked.
"Don't worry," Clifton said with a sadistic laugh. "You'll get her as soon as I get to my bike. Fair enough?"