“Why?” Joe pressed.
“Someone was trying to tag me and my dogs for something we didn’t do. I came up here to find out who owned those animals I had been hearing howl at night.”
“So those were your boot prints leading up the stairs?” Chet asked.
“I don’t think so. I just got here,” Daniels replied, patting his dogs on the head. “I guess I do need to prove my innocence,” he said finally. “Come on, Beau! Come on, Clem. Let’s find those huskies.”
“We’ll go with you,” Frank said, checking with Joe and Chet, who both nodded.
“Thanks for the offer,” Daniels said, “but it’s my bacon I’m keeping out of the frying pan. I don’t know who those huskies are running home to or how dangerous he might be.”
“We’ve faced all kinds of criminals, Mr. Daniels,” Frank assured him.
“I believe you, Frank,” Daniels said. “But I’m still going alone.” Daniels smiled, shook their hands, and headed off with Beau and Clem.
“Do we buy his story?” Joe asked his companions after Daniels was gone.
“I do,” Chet replied quickly. “But if he didn’t hide that blanket in the rocks, who did? Mr. Flatts?”
“Flatts wouldn’t have had time to fake a robbery, set a campfire, climb down the mountain to show up at the scene, and climb back up the mountain with us,” Frank pointed out. “The campfire would have been cold.”
“Besides, I’ve never seen him with a cigarette,” Joe added. “He’s in a no-smoking room.”
“So there must be a third person we haven’t uncovered,” Frank assumed.
“Great. Can we finally vacate the area?” Chet asked, staring up at eerie tiers of cells.
“Sure,” Frank replied. “As soon as we check out the room where those huskies came from.”
Joe picked his flashlight up off the basement floor. Though marred with teeth marks, it was still working.
The storage room that had housed the huskies had only an empty bag of dog food. “That could explain why the dogs were howling,” Joe guessed. “They were hungry.”
Frank picked up a huge, worn overcoat that lay on top of a sleeping bag. “Someone’s been camping out here,” he said, shining his light on a heap of opened and empty canned food in the corner.
“Someone extra-extra-extra large,” Chet added, checking the size of the coat.
“Maybe there’s some identification in the pockets,” Joe suggested, reaching into all the pockets. In an inner pocket he found an envelope for an airline ticket. “It’s empty.”
“Check the back, Joe,” Frank said excitedly. Stapled to the envelope were three luggage tags. “A flight from IEV to ASH.”
“The matching stubs to the tags on the luggage in Gus Jons’s house,” Joe guessed.
Frank gave Joe a thumbs-up sign. “Looks like we’ve found the third person.”
• • •
The three boys returned to the old road. Halfway down, they spotted half a dozen flashlights bobbing up through the trees toward them.
“Who is that?” someone called.
Joe recognized Sandy’s voice. “Frank and Joe Hardy and Chet Morton!” he called back.
“You kids are in big trouble,” Jim Craven called back.
The boys hurried to meet up with the search party, which included a number of their friends on the staff.
“Sandy, Katie, Julia, Phil!” Joe called. “Boy, are we glad to see you.”
Ten minutes later when they had reached Daniels’s old campsite, Craven was still railing at them.
“We’re sorry, Mr. Craven,” Frank apologized, “but if you’d let us tell you why we did it, maybe you’d understand.” Frank told Craven about their suspicions that Daniels was being set up and about their encounter at the asylum with the huskies.
“That could explain the ‘wolf’ Mrs. Gregory saw,” Craven agreed. “But who do they belong to?”
Joe told Craven about the luggage tags that matched the ones he saw at Gus Jons’s cabin. “We think Jons is working with someone on the Konawa grounds.”
Frank showed Craven the decoded messages. “I took down the dots and dashes from a message sent from the inn to the asylum.”
Craven stopped hiking to scan the paper.
“We think L.T. might stand for Larry Tringle,” Joe told him.
“This says, ‘Discuss first and fourth brother tomorrow, midnight, lakeside cottages,’ ” Craven said.
“You read Morse code?” Katie asked, impressed.
“Four years in the military,” Craven replied.
“That message was being sent to Gus Jons from his accomplice at the inn,” Joe said.
“Was it really?” Craven asked.
“Yes! Chet saw Mr. Jons outside the asylum tonight. We followed his boot tracks!” Joe added.
“You couldn’t have. Gus Jons was in the lobby talking to one of the guests most of the evening,” Craven told them.
“Oh,” Joe said, his face flushing a bit.
“Jons was talking to Milo Flatts, right?” Frank guessed.
“Wrong. This is the kind of thing that makes me nervous,” Craven warned them. “I don’t want you stirring up trouble. Sheriff Lyle can sort through all of this without members of my staff—teenagers at that—making accusations about our guests and neighbors.”
“But—” Joe started to protest.
“Yes, sir,” Frank said, cutting off his brother.
“I’m telling you, fall in line or, so help me, you’ll find yourself back home for the summer,” Craven barked, then turned on his heels and started back down the mountain.
“Why did you back down, Frank?” Chet asked.
“We need to collect solid evidence before we ever bring up Jons or any other suspect to Mr. Craven again.”
“If we can trust Mr. Craven,” Joe added. “He’s tried to play down every lead we’ve hit on. Maybe Jim Craven doesn’t want this mystery solved.”
• • •
When Frank and Joe walked into Chet’s room the next morning, their friend was sleepy and grumpy. “It’s only five-thirty, and this is my day off.”
“Chet, we need another favor,” Frank began gently. “It’s your and Joe’s day off, but I need to go to town with Joe to do some research, and we were wondering if you would swap days off with me.”
“When’s your day off?” Chet asked.
“Friday,” Frank replied.
Chet groaned and rolled over. “That’s too far away.”
“We also need you to snoop around here to see what you can dig up on Milo Flatts and Larry Tringle,” Joe added.
Chet raised his head, perking up. “What kind of info?”
“Where they’re from, what people know about their past, anything that could help us connect them to the break-ins,” Joe explained.
“Work a day on maintenance?” Chet pondered aloud. “For the sake of the investigation . . . I’ll do it.”
Frank got into the passenger seat of Katie Haskell’s compact car and looked at Joe, who was behind the wheel. “She’s letting you borrow it for the day?”
“Yeah, she offered. Wasn’t that nice of her?” Joe replied, and turned the ignition key to drive out of the parking lot.
“Joe, in case you haven’t figured it out, Katie has a major crush on you,” Frank said, smiling.
“Are you kidding? She tried to drown me yesterday,” Joe protested.
“That was her way of flirting,” Frank said.
“I already have a girlfriend,” Joe said. “And Iola prefers holding hands to dragging me underwater.”
After a thirty-minute drive, the Hardys reached Main Street, Konawaville, and stopped at the local tobacco shop.
“A gold bear,” the shop owner said, looking at the fragment of foil Frank had handed him. “I don’t recall ever seeing that, and I carry every brand made in America.”
“What about from other countries?” Joe wondered.
“Just a few English brands,” the shop owne
r replied. “You should try one of the big importers in New York City,” he suggested, handing the foil back to Frank.
“Strike one,” Frank said to Joe as they got back into the car. “Let’s hope we have better luck at the library.”
After entering tiny Konawaville Library, Joe stopped at the front desk. “Go ahead and check for airport codes, Frank. I have an idea.”
“May I help you?” the librarian asked Joe.
“Do you have a fax machine?” Joe asked.
“Yes,” the librarian replied, “but we have to charge two dollars per page for you to use it.”
“That’s okay,” Joe said, putting two dollars on the counter. “I’m only faxing one page.” Joe taped the foil to a piece of paper and wrote a quick note of explanation below it.
The librarian produced a cover sheet, and Joe filled it out: “Attention, Fenton Hardy.”
• • •
Frank punched in the subject Airport Codes on one of the library computers and then typed IEV. The response came back a few seconds later—no match.
“Strike two,” Frank said quietly to himself, then glanced away from the monitor, thinking. Two seats down, he saw a twelve-year-old kid at another terminal that displayed a full-color image of Leonardo da Vinci. Frank rose and stepped over. The kid double-clicked on the mouse, and a picture of the Mona Lisa appeared. “This library’s on the Internet?” Frank asked.
The kid looked up at Frank, surprised. “Sure. Isn’t every place?”
The kid helped Frank access the Internet, and soon his net search brought up a list of sites related to the phrase “International Airport Codes.”
• • •
Joe drummed his fingers on the table, waiting for a fax back from his father, Fenton Hardy. The library fax machine beeped, then hummed to life and beeped again as the transmission was completed. The librarian handed the paper to Joe.
“Dear Joe,” the younger Hardy read silently. “I faxed your fax to a tobacco importer in New York City, who faxed me back the answer, which I’m faxing to you. Isn’t modern technology wonderful? Golden Bear is a brand of cigarette manufactured in Russia.”
Joe rushed across the library, running into Frank, who was hurrying toward him. “Frank, I found out that the cigarettes are from Russia!”
“Great, Joe,” Frank said, patting his brother on the shoulder. “I have a hunch about what was in those pet carriers you saw at Gus Jons’s cabin. Siberian huskies, and I mean Siberian.”
“What?” Joe asked.
Frank held up a printout he had pulled off the Internet. “The airport code IEV is for Kiev . . . in Russia!”
8 The Russian Connection
* * *
“What would Gus Jons be doing in Russia?” Joe wondered aloud. “There’s no war going on there right now.”
“We have to find out where Jons has been serving as a mercenary,” Frank said, then snapped his fingers. “The flag!”
“What flag?” Joe asked.
“The little flag sewn over the pocket of his camouflage fatigues,” Frank replied, heading to the librarian’s desk. When he got there, he said, “Excuse me. I need to identify a flag from another nation. Is there a reference book that might have that?”
“Certainly,” the librarian replied. “But I can probably save you some time—I used to teach history. What does the flag look like?”
Frank quickly sketched the flag on a piece of scrap paper. “It had a yellow star in a white circle against a blue background. Kind of like this.”
“I’m surprised you don’t recognize it,” the librarian said. “It’s been in the news enough.”
“What country is it from?” Joe asked.
“Kormia,” the librarian replied.
“Where a civil war has been fought for the last two years,” Joe said, turning to Frank. “Jons was a mercenary in Kormia!”
“Thank you,” Frank told the librarian as he and Joe headed for the door. “Kormia is still a long, long way from Russia,” Frank said. “Why would Jons have gone to Kiev?”
Joe shook his head, got into Katie’s car, and started it up. “The soap!” Joe suddenly remembered. “The return address was from some manufacturer in Kiev.”
“That’s right!” Frank exclaimed. “I’ll bet it’s Gus Jons who’s been making raids on Konawa, trying to recover his shipment from Kiev.”
Joe’s smile faded. He stopped the car on the shoulder. “One problem, Frank. Gus Jons couldn’t have been at the asylum last night with those huskies, leaving wet boot prints. Mr. Craven said he spent most of the night talking to some guest in the lobby.”
Frank frowned. “Could Mr. Craven be lying?”
“I don’t know whom to trust, Frank,” Joe said, pulling the car back onto the road.
“If Jons really was talking all night with someone, and it wasn’t Flatts,” Frank said, “the next step is to find out who it was.”
“I think the key is finding out the secret behind the package from Kiev,” Joe said. “What was in that soap?”
“I have an idea how we can find out,” Frank replied.
• • •
The Hardys found Chet, red-faced and sweaty, sitting on the porch, sucking down bottled water.
“Chet, I thought you were a soda man,” Joe said, dropping onto the bench next to his friend.
“Need water. Heat. Clearing reeds out of drainage ditch,” Chet spoke in broken sentences.
“Are you being funny, or are you too tired to talk?” Frank asked.
“No more maintenance,” Chet said, grabbing Frank by the front of his shirt.
Joe knew Chet was acting but that his exhaustion was real. “Don’t worry, buddy—Frank’s taking over the afternoon shift.”
Chet held up a thumb, leaned back, and sprayed some water over the top of his head to cool down.
“I’m taking the afternoon shift because we need you to go undercover on the housekeeping crew again,” Frank said.
Chet turned the bottle on Frank, who backed away, laughing.
Joe caught Chet smiling. “Chet! Chet! We know you’re beat,” Joe said, patting him on the back, “but we need you and Julia to find all the Russian soap left at Konawa and replace it with the regular stuff.”
Joe told Chet everything they had discovered in town that day. “Wow! Who knows what could be in that soap,” Chet said, sitting up, his interest and energy revived. “You can count on me.”
“You’re the man, Chet.” Joe grinned.
“Did you find out anything about Flatts or Tringle?” Frank asked.
“I stopped Mrs. Gregory on her way down to arts and crafts,” Chet said. “Mr. Tringle is from Athens, Georgia, and has been coming here for years. He’s a chronic grouch, she says, but he doesn’t seem the type to be involved with criminal activity.”
“We know from some of our other run-ins with crooks that looks can be deceiving,” Joe mentioned.
“Mr. Flatts is new to Konawa this year,” Chet went on. “Mrs. Gregory said the people who sit at his table say he’s very polite but doesn’t talk much about himself. When he does talk, it’s very formal.”
“It’s not just formal, it’s military,” Frank pointed out. “Flatts uses military time and military terminology.”
“Hey, maybe he’s in the military,” Chet remarked.
“Thanks, Chet,” Joe said politely. “I think that’s where Frank was headed with that.”
“Did you tell Mrs. Gregory about the huskies?” Frank asked.
“Yeah, when I described them, she said they sounded exactly like the ‘wolf’ she saw in her cottage,” Chet replied.
“Good work, Chet,” Frank told their friend.
“Thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Chet said, groaning as he pulled himself to his feet. “I have five minutes to eat.”
“I think we ought to eat lunch on the run, Joe, to pay a visit to Gus Jons before I have to go to work,” Frank suggested.
“A visit?” Joe asked.
�
��To ask about his meeting in the lobby last night and about his exciting trip in Russia,” Frank said, clarifying.
“You really think he’ll tell us the truth?” Joe asked.
“Not if he’s involved,” Frank said, “but I think we could learn a lot, even from his lies.”
After buying two sandwiches from the canteen, they drove to Gus Jons’s cabin.
Joe parked and sounded the horn. “I don’t want to be mistaken for a thief again,” he told Frank.
As they approached the cabin, Frank saw that the main door was shut and the pickup truck was nowhere to be seen. “We may be out of luck, Joe.”
Frank knocked on the door. Inside the cabin, a dog started barking.
“Well, his Doberman is home,” Joe joked.
Frank waited awhile, then called, “Mr. Jons?”
More barking, but no Gus Jons. The curtains were drawn over the windows so that the boys couldn’t see in.
“Hold it, Frank,” Joe said, holding very still and listening to the barking. “I hear two dogs.”
“You’re right, Joe,” Frank said. “Either Jons has a second dog or we were right about those big pet carriers you saw. Jons may have some canine visitors from Siberia.”
“Why would he bring them all the way from Russia?” Joe said. “And why use them to snoop around Konawa?”
“Maybe they’re like those police dogs that can sniff out explosives,” Frank guessed. “Only they’re specially trained to track down Russian soap.”
“If we can connect Jons to the huskies who attacked us at the asylum and were used in the break-in at Mrs. Gregory’s, Mr. Craven is going to have to start believing us,” Joe suggested.
“Let’s go get him,” Frank agreed.
• • •
The Hardys pulled up to Jim Craven’s office and were surprised to see a brown pickup truck parked outside.
“That’s Gus Jons’s truck!” Joe exclaimed.
Frank peeked into the cab of the pickup. The Doberman pinscher jumped at him, barking through the opening in the window. “Well, now we know we didn’t hear Jons’s dog at his cabin,” he remarked to Joe.
Craven stepped out of his office, shaking hands with Gus Jons. “I’m glad that’s all settled,” Craven said, smiling.
The Hunt for Four Brothers Page 5