The Castle Conundrum (Hardy Boys)

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “We need to talk,” Frank muttered to Joe.

  “I agree,” Joe muttered back. “Soon.”

  A five-minute walk brought the group to Peyrane. The town was built around the upper slopes of a hill. The stone houses were clustered so close together that their orange tile roofs seemed joined into one huge ripply surface. From window ledges, doorsteps, and balcony railings, pots of bright red geraniums cheered the scene.

  While the others looked around a curio shop, Sophie took Frank and Joe to a small inn. The manager agreed to let them use his shower room.

  “Listen,” Joe said, once they were alone. “I know what you’re thinking. It even makes a screwy kind of sense. But I don’t believe it for a moment.”

  “I don’t want to believe it,” Frank replied. “I like Marie-Laure and Jean-Claude. But face it, whoever rigged that trap had a very small window of opportunity. Five or ten minutes max. And it sounds as if she is the only one in the group who could have taken advantage of it.”

  “Hold it,” Joe said. “Let’s say she’s the only one who left the group. Okay. But on a narrow trail, you go single file. Somebody has to be the caboose. Who’ll notice if you fall back a little? And how long do you need to pull up the warning sign, then break off a tree limb and put it across the path?”

  “I see your point,” Frank said. He stepped into the shower. Over the noise of the water, he added, “We should try to find out who the caboose was. But I’m still going to keep a sharp eye on Marie-Laure.”

  Sophie returned with T-shirts and drawstring pants for them. The T-shirts featured a garish painting of Peyrane’s ocher cliffs and the pants felt like pajamas, but neither Frank nor Joe was in the mood to complain. They rejoined the group. When Luis teased them about their new garb, they took it with good humor.

  “We’ll have lunch first, then tour the town,” Sophie announced. She led them up a stone-paved street and into a low, narrow café. Frank saw only a few small tables inside. Where were they going to sit?

  Sophie waved to the apron-clad man behind the bar and walked through the café. On the other side of a small back room, a door led outside. At the foot of a set of stone steps was a garden. The view extended across the rooftops of the town to the ocher cliffs. An arbor covered with grapevines shaded a long table already set for lunch.

  Joe sidled up to Frank. In a low voice, he said, “According to Gert, Libby was the last in line. He says she held up the group by dawdling.”

  “I’ll check it out,” Frank replied.

  Libby was on the other side of the table. The seat next to her was free. Frank went over and sat down.

  The first course was cut-up fresh vegetables with a spicy mayonnaise. Between bites, Frank and Libby talked about how unusual Peyrane was.

  “Oh, and look what I bought,” Libby said. From her shoulder bag, she pulled out a boxed set of small bottles filled with different shades of ocher. “It’s for a friend in London who’s an art student. Don’t you think she’ll be thrilled with it?”

  “Bound to be,” Frank replied. “That was a spectacular trail we hiked in on, wasn’t it? A little narrow, though. If you’re at the back of the line, you don’t see that much.”

  Libby looked him up and down. “I shouldn’t have thought it was a problem for you,” she said. “You and Joe are so tall. But I certainly know about that. I generally try to be near the front.”

  “Not today?” Frank asked casually.

  “No,” Libby said. “Siri and I got to chatting and fell back a bit. When we realized, we had to move quite briskly to catch up with the others. I’m afraid some of them were rather cross with us.”

  Frank thought this over. Libby and Siri had been together at the back of the line. Neither of them could have set the trap without the other’s noticing. So Marie-Laure was chief suspect again. Unless Libby and Siri were both involved …?

  Frank shook his head. If he didn’t watch it, he would start to suspect everyone!

  After lunch the teens wandered through the winding streets of the town.

  “Oh, look,” Marina said. She pointed into a narrow gap between two houses. A long flight of steps led upward. A small sign read, “… glise—Church,” with an arrow. “Let’s climb to the top. The view must be marvelous.”

  Frank suddenly realized he did not have the plastic bag with his ocher-stained jeans and shirt. He recalled setting it on the ground next to his chair at lunch. It must still be there.

  “I have to go back,” he told Joe. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Frank knew the café was lower down and to the right from where they were. It would be a waste of time to backtrack along the meandering route the group had followed through town. Frank took the first street that led downhill through the tightly packed houses.

  After a few blocks, the street Frank was on emptied into a wide, bright boulevard. On one side was a solid row of three-story buildings painted in different shades of red, yellow, and orange. The other side looked out across the valley. Frank waited for a few cars to pass. Then he walked across to the opposite sidewalk.

  The ground dropped away steeply. Twenty-five feet below the level of the street was a grassy park dotted with trees, whose top branches were just five feet below Frank. A low wrought iron fence kept pedestrians from straying over the edge.

  Frank was enjoying the view when he heard the high whine of a car engine at full throttle. He looked around. A blue sedan was accelerating in his direction. Thirty feet away, it swerved and jumped the curb onto the sidewalk.

  As the car hurtled straight at Frank, he caught one quick glimpse of the driver. His face was completely hidden behind a black ski mask.

  13

  Monsieur Tarzan

  The blue sedan picked up speed as it darted along the sidewalk. Frank cast one urgent glance around. No time to dash out of the car’s path. Nothing solid to find shelter behind. No chance to escape being run down … except one very long shot.

  Frank took a deep breath and jumped up onto the top rail of the iron fence. For one split second he balanced there. Then he crouched down like a sprinter on the starting blocks. Arms spread to their widest, he flung himself down toward the upper branches of the nearest tree.

  He was still in the air when he heard the grating screech of metal scraping metal. In the distance a horn blared and someone started shouting.

  Frank struck the canopy of leaves and branches feet first. In a flash, he wrapped his left arm around his head to protect his eyes. One sharp twig ripped his new T-shirt. Another left a long scratch on his right arm. Then his fall stopped, and he found himself straddling a thin branch that dipped and swayed with his weight. It felt as if it might break at any moment.

  “Eh bien, Monsieur Tarzan,” an angry voice shouted. “Vous faites quoi l‡, déj‡!”

  Frank took a cautious look in the direction of the ground. A middle-aged man wearing blue work clothes and carrying a rake glared up at him. Frank didn’t catch all his words. He didn’t need to. The accusing finger that gestured downward got the message across.

  “I’m coming down,” Frank called back. To himself, he added, But not too fast, I hope!

  Carefully, he inched along the limb toward the trunk of the tree. Once there, he climbed down until he was six feet or so from the ground. Then he let himself drop the rest of the way.

  The man with the rake was waiting at the base of the tree. He let loose a volley of rapid-fire French, illustrated with an amazing assortment of gestures.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Frank said. He threw in an apologetic smile and a shrug of his shoulders. “It was a matter of life or death. Vie or morte!”

  The workman was not impressed. With a broad sweep of his arm, he pointed toward a nearby park gate. To punctuate the sentence, he stamped his foot.

  Frank left. His knee hurt and the scratch on his arm stung, but he knew how lucky he was. That was no prank he had just survived. Whoever was hiding behind that ski mask had meant to kill him!

>   The street that bordered the park made a wide loop and joined the boulevard. Frank went up the hill and got his bearings. A hundred yards to his right, he saw a crowd gathered around a familiarlooking blue car. He hurried over.

  A bearded man in a brown suit was talking heatedly to a uniformed police officer. From time to time, he pointed at the front fender of the car, which was badly dented and scraped, then appealed to the crowd. The officer nodded and took notes.

  Frank was positive this was the car that had tried to run him over. “Excuse me,” he said. “Do any of you speak English?”

  A young woman in a light summer dress eyed Frank’s torn T-shirt and scratched arm. She said, “I do. Is something wrong?”

  Frank quickly explained what had happened. When she translated his words to the officer, everyone started talking at once.

  The officer held up a hand for silence. Then he spoke to the young woman. “He asks, where and when is this event?” she translated.

  “Over there, just a few minutes ago,” Frank told her. Moments later Frank, the officer, and the man in the brown suit were striding down the sidewalk. The young woman, who introduced herself as Mireille, came along to translate.

  Frank easily found the spot. He pointed out the streaks of blue paint on the iron railing. Down below, the guy with the rake watched dubiously. He made his way up, and he and the officer exchanged a couple of sentences, accompanied by gestures.

  “You are to please come to the gendarmerie,” Mireille told Frank, after another burst of French. “It is about a formal report of the incident.”

  “Okay,” Frank said. “But my friends must be wondering where I am. They’ll be worried.”

  “It will not be long,” Mireille promised.

  The police station was a new building surrounded by a high wall. Four or five blue station wagons with red lights on their roofs were parked in the courtyard. The officer took Frank and Mireille inside and led them to a small, cluttered office. He inserted a form in a battered typewriter.

  “Passeport,” he said. Frank handed it over. After he copied the details, the officer gave it back.

  The interview stretched out. The officer asked a question. Mireille translated it to Frank, then translated his answer to the officer. The officer typed slowly, with two fingers, then asked another question.

  After twenty minutes Frank wondered what would happen if he stood up and walked out. Suddenly, from the outer office, he heard a familiar voice say, “Can you please tell them my brother’s missing?”

  “Hey, Joe!” Frank called. “In here!”

  Frank spent most of the ride back to Fréhel explaining what had happened to him. Everyone had a different reaction to the story.

  “I wish I could have seen you leap into the tree,” Libby said. “You must have been a picture!”

  “That makes two shirts you have ruined today,” Siri said.

  “These French,” Gert said. “They cannot be trusted with anything on wheels.”

  “Oh, come!” Manu protested. “That is unfair.”

  Gert scowled at him. “It is not. Cars, trucks, motorcycles—no matter. I went once to Paris with my high school class. The pollution that week was very bad. The government had barred all motor vehicles from the city. Yet my friend was knocked over and injured by an idiot on roller skates. Anything on wheels, I tell you!”

  Manu gave him a quizzical look but didn’t respond.

  Kevin bumped up the track to the parking area and stopped next to the path. “Terminus Fréhel,” he said in a train announcer’s voice. “All out.”

  Frank and Joe were the last to start up the path. This was their first chance to talk privately since the police station.

  “You’re sure the whole group was together the whole time?” Frank asked.

  “Positive,” Joe answered. “I had them in sight every minute, right up until I went off to look for you. Whoever the guy in the ski mask was, he’s not one of our bunch.”

  “Which leaves Immo-Trust,” Frank said. “How about this? Their inside guy passes the word about our excursion today. One of their other people goes to Peyrane and shadows us.”

  “And steals a car off the street and tries to kill you with it?” Joe said. “I don’t think real estate developers get that kind of training.”

  Frank pounded his palm with his fist. “I know it sounds nutty,” he said. “But somebody did it!”

  “Hmmm … what are the odds two different people tried to harm us the same day?” Joe asked.

  “Meaning what?” Frank replied.

  “Just this,” Joe replied. “I know Marie-Laure wasn’t driving that car. And now I don’t believe she tried to send us over that cliff, either.”

  “I don’t want to believe it,” Frank said. “But we’re very short on good candidates.”

  Jean-Claude was waiting at the top of the path. “Frank, go wash and dress, quickly,” he said. “Our match begins in fifteen minutes.”

  For a moment Frank was baffled. Then he remembered. The pétanque tournament!

  “Look, can’t you get someone else?” he pleaded. “I’ve had a hard day.”

  “The teams were chosen at random,” Jean-Claude reminded him. “It would not be fair to change them now. You will have fun. I guarantee it!”

  An hour later Frank had to agree. The game was fun. He even managed to place some of his balls within scoring distance of the target. It helped, of course, that Jean-Claude was a good player. Their opponents, Gert and Antonio, both played fairly well, too, so the match was not a walkover.

  At the end Jean-Claude said, “Tomorrow will be interesting. A real family affair, eh?”

  “How’s that?” Frank asked.

  “The semifinal. We are down to play Joe and Marie-Laure,” Jean-Claude explained.

  “Er—do you think they’ll still play together?” Frank asked. “After all …”

  Jean-Claude waved his hand. “Bof! That is all in the past,” he said. “Done and forgotten.”

  Frank wondered if Joe knew it was all in the past. Or was he expected simply to guess?

  Just before seven o’clock, the bus from the colonie lurched up the track from the valley and parked. The kids filed off and ran up the path, shouting and laughing. They ranged in age from about eight to twelve. All were wearing blue shorts, yellow T-shirts, and white sailor caps with the brims turned down for shade.

  A charcoal grill had been set up in front of the community center. The tangy smell of cooking sausage wafted down the street. Frank’s mouth began to water.

  Joe joined him. “I got a tip from Manu,” he said. “There are two kinds of sausage on the grill. Watch out for the one called merguez. Sometimes it’s spicy enough to send you into orbit.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said. “Hey, did you hear? We’re playing each other at pétanque tomorrow.”

  “I know,” Joe said. “Marie-Laure told me. She made like I’m her old friend and partner. I didn’t say anything about the way she acted earlier. It felt rude.”

  “I think that was supposed to count as an apology,” Frank said. “Take it or leave it.”

  Sophie brought the kids back from a tour of the village. They lined up for a picnic of sausages, buns, and potato chips. Frank, Joe, and the rest of the TVI bunch fell in behind them. Soon they were all sitting around the square, eating and talking.

  After sunset the talent show started. Siri got a lastminute attack of nerves and refused to go on. Sophie quickly rearranged the order. The kids seemed to like Libby’s folk songs, even though they were in English. And some of them already knew how to do the local folk dance Marie-Laure led.

  When it was time for the Hardys to do their martial arts demonstration, Joe murmured, “Let’s make this good.”

  “You got it, dude,” Frank replied.

  It was good. Both of them put a lot of energy into their leaps and kicks. The kids in the audience gasped when Joe’s leg grazed the side of Frank’s head. They screamed when Frank did a hip throw that lef
t Joe sprawling in the dirt. And they stood up and cheered when, after a lightning series of holds, the brothers jumped to their feet and bowed.

  Frank and Joe grinned and went to sit down next to Welly. The finale was Luis and his clown act. But where was he?

  Suddenly a figure dressed all in white did a cartwheel into the center of the circle and began to juggle. Instead of clubs, he used clear plastic bottles with chemical glowsticks inside. Red, yellow, and green fire spun into the night sky in dizzying patterns, accompanied by the oohs and aahs of the kids.

  After the juggling, Luis began to twist helium balloons into stars, hats, crowns, and a dozen different animals. He tucked smaller glowsticks into the balloons, too. By the time he was done, the thrilled smiles on the kids’ faces were lit by the eerie glow from their own personal balloons.

  At last it was time for the children to leave. From the village, the TVI volunteers watched the dots of colored fire bob down the path to the waiting bus.

  “That was beautiful,” Libby said with a sigh.

  No one had anything to add.

  That night Frank had another dream. He was with the others on the ridge. A spectral figure floated past the windows of the chateau. No, he was in the square. Luis twisted a glowing helium balloon into the shape of a person.

  Luis looked up and met Frank’s eyes. With a deliberate gesture, he twisted the neck of the balloon figure. The head came off in his hand. He let it go. Glowing an eerie green, the detached head floated slowly up, past the trees, into blackness.

  Frank opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. So that was it!

  14

  Breakfast Battle

  Early the next morning Frank got up and touched Joe’s shoulder. “Let’s go for a walk,” he whispered.

  The sun was just peeping over the horizon when they left the house. They walked up to the ridge and sat down on a flat rock that overlooked the valley. First Frank spoke while Joe listened. Then the conversation became more equal. Finally they stood up and walked back to the village.