"Okay, but make it quick," said Joe, already on his way to his room to change.
Five minutes later he was back, wearing a pair of clean but very worn jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
"My good pair of spare jeans is missing," he said. “Guess who must have taken them."
“I found the same thing," said Frank, who had been forced to put on an old pair of corduroys rather than the pressed Levi's he saved for special occasions. When they got downstairs, their aunt Gertrude confirmed their suspicions.
"I don't know what's come over you boys," she said. "Used to be that you wore the same clothes for months, until they had to be peeled off you. Today you come back in fishing clothes, go out in your best jeans, come back in hunting clothes, and now you've made another change."
"It must be a stage we're going through," said Joe. "You could look it up in a psychology book," said Frank, and paused. "Look, Aunt Gertrude, could we ask a little favor?" "What is it?" she said.
"Could we borrow your 'car for the day?" asked Frank. "We have to take a little trip, and ours broke down."
"I don't wonder," said Gertrude with a small sniff of triumph. "I always said you boys were foolish, spending all that time with those ancient cars that Joe digs up. No surprise that they keep breaking down. That's why I keep trading mine in every two years for a new model. I never have the least trouble."
Joe didn't mention that the main reason his aunt never had car trouble was that she never drove over thirty miles an hour and seldom drove more than ten miles at a stretch. He just said, "Well, maybe this has taught us a lesson."
"I certainly hope so," replied Gertrude. "But, anyway, can we borrow your car?" asked Frank.
"Well ... " Gertrude pretended to be thinking it over. But as the Hardys well knew, she had never denied her favorite nephews anything they asked. "If you promise to be careful, and to drive very, very slowly," she said.
"Definitely," said Joe as Gertrude opened up her handbag.
"Of course," said Frank as she handed him the car keys.
It was true what used-car salesmen claimed about cars that were owned by timid, elderly ladies. Aunt Gertrude's car was in great shape, at least at the start of the drive to New York. By the time Joe drove it into the parking lot at La Guardia Airport in New York; several years had been taken off its operating life. But it had done its job. The Hardys were able to catch a shuttle flight to Washington just before the boarding ramp was wheeled away. And less than an hour later, they were hailing a cab at Washington National Airport.
As the cab drove up, Frank said, "Seventy eight sixty-four Ninth Street, Southeast, please and fast. It's an emergency."
The driver turned around to look at them. "You sure you want that address?"
Frank double-checked the address he had written down on a piece of paper. "That's it. Seventy-eight sixty four, Ninth Street, Southeast."
The driver shrugged. "Okay. It's your money," he said in a tone that clearly meant, "It's your funeral."
When they arrived at their destination, the Hardy boys saw why the cabbie had sounded so skeptical.
Seventy-eight sixty-four Ninth Street, South east, was in the middle of the Washington, D.C., slums, the part of the city that visitors to the capital seldom saw or wanted to see. The street was lined with decayed or abandoned buildings, and idle men lounged on street corners or in front of bars, looking as if they were aching to rip off any stranger. The air reeked with poverty and the violence that poverty bred.
"Want me to wait?" the cabbie asked. "You won't be able to hail a cab in this neighborhood. And you might not get one even if you phone."
"We'll take our chances," said Frank as he paid the man. "We might be awhile."
He waited until the cab drove off before he turned to Joe. "I wonder what our chances are. I've got a strong hunch we've fouled up. This doesn't exactly look like official Washington."
"Sure doesn't," said Joe, glancing at 7864 Ninth Street, Southeast. It was a five-story brick building that looked as if it had been built around the turn of the century and not been repaired since. Graffiti was scrawled on its walls, missing panes of glass had been replaced with dirty cardboard in many of its windows, and paint was peeling from its door. "Know what I'm thinking?" "I'm afraid so," said Frank. "We've got the wrong address," said Joe. "Which leaves us - "
"Nowhere." Frank finished his thought glumly. "But we might as well make sure." He pressed the buzzer. The front door was opened by a white-haired man who was clearly the building super. He was wearing paint-splattered, grime covered, tattered denim work clothes. But what was most noticeable was his size. He was at least six-feet-eight and close to three hundred pounds.
"What do you want?" he said in a hostile voice, looking meaningfully at the baseball bat he held in one hand.
"Uh, guess we have the wrong address," said Joe, stepping back.
"Yeah, sorry to have disturbed you," added Frank.
"Ain't got no use for strangers 'round here," the man muttered, and slammed the door.
"Well, that's that," said Joe. "We're back to square zero."
"Not quite," replied Frank.
"What do you mean?" asked Joe, with sudden hope. He knew the look in Frank's eyes. He could practically hear wheels spinning in Frank's brain. Frank had seen something. "You notice that guy's work boots?" said Frank.
"No. I was too busy looking at his baseball bat," answered Joe. "Why, Something funny about a super wearing work boots?"
"Nothing funny about ordinary work boots," said Frank. "But those work boots had a high polish. The kind of polish the army likes its men to have. Or the secret service or the CIA or the FBI or any other kind of organization. Some habits are hard to break, and shined shoes is one of them."
"So this guy could work for the Network, and this place could be a front," said Joe, nodding. "It would be a perfect cover."
"It's easy enough to find out," added Joe. "We just have to buzz him again and tell who we are and ask to see the Gray Man."
"Think a second," said Frank. "How can we prove who we are? Our doubles have our IDs."
He looked down at his bandaged thumb. "They even have the thumbprints that are on our IDs. That guy would never let us in."
"We could try to overpower him," said Joe.
But he didn't sound enthusiastic about their chances of overcoming that man-mountain.
"There are some things even karate can't do," agreed Frank. He thought a moment. "But we could fake him out." "What do you mean?" asked Joe.
"I'll show you." Frank picked up an empty bottle that was lying in the litter-filled gutter. Then he walked over to a boy who was standing nearby, looking at the Hardy boys curiously. The boy was about ten years old, wearing worn-out at-the-knees jeans and a ripped T-shirt. His eyes lit up when Frank waved a ten-dollar bill in front of his face.
"Like to earn some easy money?" Frank asked him.
The boy looked hard at the money, then shook his head. "I ain't getting into anything illegal, mister. No way."
"Nothing illegal," said Frank. "And no danger, not if you can run fast."
"Fastest kid in my class," said the boy with pride. "What do you want to do? Put me in some kind of race?"
"That's right," said Frank. "A kind of race. See, the super in that building has been boasting to me how quick he is for his size, and how he doesn't have to lose weight. I want to show him he's wrong. So I'm setting up a test for him. You stand right here, and when he opens the door, make sure he sees you, and then you start running. "
"He won't catch me, not in a million years," said the boy, pocketing the bill.
By now Joe had gotten the idea. "Let me have that bottle," he said to Frank. "I've got a stronger pitching arm than you."
"Just remember to duck out of sight fast," Frank said as Joe started his wind-up.
Joe's throw was perfect. The bottle smashed through a front window, and the Hardy boys were crouched behind a next-door stoop by the time the super
appeared.
The boy was honest - he earned his pay. He waited for the super to spot him, then tore down the street.
The super went after him.
"That white hair has got to be fake." said Joe, watching him. "That guy moves like a pro halfback."
"We'd better move fast, too," said Frank, leading the way through the front door that the enraged guard had neglected to close.
"Wow," said Joe as he looked around him. "Who would have thought it?"
They weren't in a decaying tenement. They were in a modern office complex, with brightly lit corridors leading past rows of gleaming doors. In front of them on the wall was an office directory.
"Could this be it?" said Frank, his eyes scanning the list of names. "Edward Gray, Operations chief. Four twenty-two."
"Sounds worth checking out," Joe replied.
"Let's get in that elevator before somebody comes along and spots us," said Frank.
They entered the small elevator near them and rode to the fourth floor. There they followed the numbers on the doors until they reached422.
"We won't bother to knock," said Frank. "It's a little late in the day to worry about being polite.”
He swung open the door and entered, with Joe right behind him. Joe breathed a sigh of relief. Their gamble had paid off. The Gray Man was sitting there, behind the desk.
Even better, the Gray Man's eyes lit up when he saw them.
"Frank and Joe Hardy," he' said. "What a surprise. Good to see you. What can I do for you?" Joe grinned. Their troubles were over.
Except that Frank didn't seem to see it that way.
Joe's mouth dropped open as he saw Frank dash toward the Gray Man. Frank hurtled himself over the desk. He smashed into the Gray Man, toppling him out of his swivel chair. Then he sat on the Gray Man's chest and raised his fist menacingly over his deathly gray face. Frank had gone crazy-or had he?
Suddenly Joe had a horrifying thought, and his blood turned to ice. Was this really Frank, or was this-?
He didn't bother finishing his thought. Instead he moved forward, his fists clenched, as he asked harshly, "Who are you anyway?"
Chapter 10
FRANK, STILL SITTING on the Gray Man's chest, looked up at Joe and grinned. "Relax. I'm still me," he said. "And I haven't gone nuts."
"But-" Joe looked quizzically at the Gray Man, who was unsuccessfully struggling to get out from under Frank.
"I saw him reaching for his desk buzzer," said Frank. "He was going to sound the alarm and bring in guards to haul us away." He looked at the Gray Man, who had given up struggling. "Am I right?"
"You'll never get away with this," the Gray Man said, glaring defiantly at Frank.
"What's gotten into him?" Joe asked his brother. "It's not what's gotten into him. It's who's gotten to him," said Frank. "Our doubles must have arrived here already and convinced him they were us. So when we arrived, he thought we were imposters. Right, Mr. Gray?" "Very clever," said the Gray Man. "But not clever enough to fool me." "See what I mean, Joe?" said Frank. "That's why I didn't want him to call the guards. It would have taken too long to convince everybody that we're really us, especially if they tossed us in jail instead of hearing us out. I couldn't risk that. We have to stop our doubles before they do whatever they're out to do. What are they out to do, Mr. Gray? You must know. What did they come to see you for? We have to know their next move so we can stop it."
"I'm not talking," the Gray Man said, his jaw clenched with determination. "Look, we're us," said Joe. "Can't you tell?"
"I can tell that those are convenient bandages-now we can't check the thumbprints in your files," said the Gray Man. "And I can tell that you're trying to bluff your way through this masquerade even though you've found out I'm on to your game." Joe looked helplessly at Frank. "What can we do? The guy won't listen." " Frank's brows furrowed. Then they relaxed as he made his decision. But the grim look on his face made it clear that he wasn't happy with what he had decided to do.
"We can't waste time talking, Mr. Gray," he said. "We have to take more direct action."
Joe stared with shock as Frank stood up and hauled the Gray Man to his feet. In the same motion, he grabbed the Gray Man's arm and bent it behind him.
The Gray Man couldn't hide a grimace of pain as Frank gave his arm a slight twist.
"Frank!" Joe protested. He didn't mind doing what he had to do in a fight, but this was different. Torture wasn't his thing. He could take it and he had. Handing it out, though, was something else.
Frank ignored him. "Make up your mind fast," Frank said to the Gray Man. His voice was rock hard.
"Look, Frank, we can't - " Joe began.
Frank cut him off sharply. "We do it this way. We don't have a choice." "I don't see why," said Joe, giving his brother a searching look. Maybe he had been right the first time. This couldn't be Frank, who hated to see anyone or anything suffer. "I've got a hunch that what our doubles are planning has to be stopped fast," Frank said impatiently. "If it means playing as rough as they do, that's the price we have to pay. We can't afford to lose time. It's a rotten trade-off, but it's the only option we have."
Frank's words didn't make Joe feel any less queasy, but they did tell Joe that this was his brother. He recognized their logic, the kind of logic that made Frank so different from him. Joe went by his feelings, and told him that torturing a man for any reason was dead wrong. But Frank believed in using his head, and arguing with the way Frank summed up a situation was as hard as arguing that two plus two made five.
All Joe could say was, "Maybe you're right, but I can't watch this." And he turned his face away.
"Okay, Mr. Gray," Joe heard Frank say. "Tell us what those guys wanted, and spare yourself a lot of pain."
"Not on your life," the Gray Man shot back.
"Then don't say I didn't warn you," replied Frank.
His eyes still averted, Joe winced in anticipation of what he would hear next.
But what he heard was his brother's defeated voice, "Okay, Mr. Gray, you win. I can't do it. I thought I was tough enough, but I guess I'm not tough that way."
Letting out a deep breath of relief, Joe turned to see that Frank had let the Gray Man go and was standing with his shoulders slumped and a defeated look on his face.
Then Frank's face brightened as the Gray Man put his hand on Frank's shoulder and said, "You win, too, Frank. You've convinced me."
"We have?" said Frank, totally puzzled.
For once Joe could see something that his brother couldn't. "I get it, Mr. Gray. You figured that real imposters wouldn't mind torturing you to get the information they wanted. But we wouldn't. And you were right."
"I know I'm right," said the Gray Man, his usual decisive authority returning to his voice. "You boys have a lot of courage, but there are some things you can't bring yourselves to do which is one of the reasons the Network can never completely rely on you. We, like our enemies, sometimes have to play dirty to win."
"And that's one of the reasons we'd just as soon not get hooked up too tightly with you," said Joe. "We'd rather fight crime our own way, with our own rules." "But right now we're in this fight together," said Frank. "And we have to stop our doubles." "First of all, tell me about those doubles," said Mr. Gray.
"It's a long story," replied Frank. "But to make it short, there's an organization that makes doubles for clients who need them for crime. They made doubles of us, even down to our fingertips, and they forced us to tell them how to contact you."
"But I made you swear never to - " the Gray Man began, and then paused. "I suppose they used torture.” Frank shot Joe a quick glance, then said, "Right, torture. I'd rather not go into the details."
"Don't feel bad," said the Gray Man. "Everybody has his breaking point. Now tell me more about this organization. What is it called? Where's it located?"
Frank was about to answer when Joe cut in quickly, "There's time for that later. Right now, we have to stop our doubles."
Frank nod
ded. "Joe's right. What are they up to? Why did they contact you?"
The Gray Man nodded, too. "We do have to stop them fast, and that'll be hard. They're clever, I have to hand it to them. They contacted me through the computer hook-up and told me they had to see me personally with information they couldn't risk anybody finding out about through electronic eavesdropping.”
"After they got here and after they passed through all the security check to be able to see me alone, they told me they'd gotten wind of a plot that concerned the life of the President him self. But when I asked them what it was, they said they couldn't tell me. And can you guess why?" "I'll take a wild guess," replied Frank.
"Go ahead, Sherlock," said the Gray Man with a smile. "That's what your brother calls you, if I remember correctly." "Our doubles told you that they couldn't trust you because there was an organization that made doubles of key figures and you might be one of them."
The Gray Man tried not to look surprised. "And how did you figure that out?"
"You didn't seem as surprised as you should have when we told you about the Lazarus Group like you'd heard it all before," answered Frank.
"So they're called Lazarus," said the Gray Man, thoughtfully.
"But what did they want with you?" Joe interrupted impatiently.
"Oh, right. Back to the subject at hand," said the Gray Man. "They said they could only speak to the head of the Network because they could be sure that this as one person whose identity this Lazarus group Could not know: You see, I am the only one in the network - and one of only a very few people in the highest level of government who knows who the head is." "And you revealed it to them?" said Frank.
For a second the Gray Man's air of assurance faded. He looked ashamed, apologetic. Then he pulled himself together. "I did. It was a snap decision and I made it. They claimed the President's life hung by a thread, and only the Network head could stop that thread from being snapped very, very soon. So I told them. Or rather, I told you. You see, though I have a lot of doubts about your maturity and efficiency, I have no doubts at all about your honesty." "Thanks," said Joe. "Anyway, there's a good chance we can stop them before they do any damage," said Frank. "You can contact your boss immediately."
The Lazarus Plot Page 6