High-Speed Showdown

by Franklin W. Dixon

  He took a sheet of paper from his desktop and handed it to the Hardys. Joe peered over Frank’s shoulder and caught his breath. It looked like the leaflet they had seen Connie distributing earlier, but with an important difference. At the bottom, the words Polluters Die were scrawled under a crude skull and crossbones.

  “How did you get this?” Frank asked.

  “It arrived by fax about an hour ago,” Magnusson told him. “Somebody’s idea of a joke, obviously.”

  “Not a very funny one,” Joe pointed out. “Especially if somebody ends up getting hurt.”

  Magnusson stood up and crossed to the window. With his back to them, he said, “You agree that I should take it seriously, then.”

  “I think we should take it seriously,” Frank said. “Listen, sir, what do you think of this? We’ll look into it, very quietly. If it does turn out to be a bad joke, fine. And if not, we’ll have a better idea of what you’re facing and what to do about it. Do you have a photocopier here? I’d like a copy of this.”

  “Why, yes,” Magnusson said, sounding surprised. He took the leaflet and stepped outside. A few moments later, he returned with a photocopy and gave it to Frank.

  “I’d rather people don’t know you’ve been hired to investigate,” Magnusson said. “It’ll only stir things up even more if they know. Is that okay with you?”

  “We prefer working undercover,” Frank said.

  “I’m sure you’re very good at it,” Magnusson replied. “Here, I’ll make out passes for you.”

  He took two tags marked Staff and wrote in their names, then signed them. As he handed them over, he smiled and said, “If anyone asks, just say your dad and I are old friends. My position does carry a few privileges with it, along with far too many headaches. Now, why don’t I take you down to the dock and introduce you to a few people?”

  The crowds on Water Street were thicker now. Most of the people were strolling in the direction of the exposition. Lots of them paused along the way to stare through the fence at the docked racing boats. Frank and Joe showed their new passes to the guard at the gate and followed Magnusson out onto the main pier.

  “You can’t imagine what a complex business it is, organizing a meet like this,” Magnusson remarked, as they walked out between the two lines of slips. “We’ve got almost a hundred entries, broken down into ten different classes. Most of our spectators come out to watch the really big, really fast Open Class boats. But the racers in the A, B, and C classes are every bit as important to the sport. Every bit as exciting, too, in my opinion.”

  “How does it work?” Frank asked. “Do all the boats race at the same time?”

  Magnusson shook his head. “No. You do see that at smaller, one-day meets. But with an event of this size, it would be too dangerous and confusing. For each class we’ll run a series of heats over the next couple of days. Then on Saturday, there’ll be the final of each class. The top boats will have a shot at winning prizes and championship points.”

  “Prizes?” Joe repeated. “You mean, money?”

  “The grand prize winner of the super boats this year will take home a silver trophy and a check for one hundred thousand dollars,” Magnusson replied. “Of course, almost all of the others will just be taking home their memories.”

  And some very hefty bills to pay, Frank thought to himself, as he looked over the sleek, powerful boats on either side of him.

  Joe touched Frank on the arm and said in a low voice, “Look—isn’t that what’s-her-name, who plays the lead on Brisbane Lane?”

  Frank looked. About twenty feet down the dock was a tall, slim young woman in tight blue biking shorts and a bright yellow crop top that set off her mane of tawny blond hair. She was talking to a guy of about thirty-five, with longish black hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. He was wearing very faded jeans and a Baja California T-shirt. Judging by their gestures, Frank didn’t think the two were having a friendly conversation.

  “If it isn’t her, it’s her twin sister,” he told Joe. “Susan Shire, right?”

  Magnusson cut in. “That’s right,” he said. “And that’s Dennis Shire she’s talking to. Her ex-husband. He owns a software company. They’re both real enthusiasts about offshore racing. They were a terrific team when they were still together. Now they’re more like not-so-friendly rivals. Here, let me introduce you.”

  As they drew nearer, Frank heard Dennis say, “You wouldn’t know anything about somebody fouling up the timing of my fuel injection system, would you?”

  “Sure I would,” Susan replied. Frank could hear the sarcasm in her voice. “You can’t lift the hatch on an engine compartment without fouling up something. That’s why, in the old days, I’d handle all our tune-ups. Remember?”

  Frank wasn’t sure if he should back away from this family quarrel or pay particularly close attention. These two were important competitors, after all.

  “Ha!” Dennis said. “That was just to help you feel important. You’d better believe that I always checked everything out afterward.”

  “Susan, Dennis,” Magnusson said. “May I—”

  “In a minute,” Susan said, without looking around. “ ‘Feel important’? You pig! Have you happened to notice who’s been winning races since I had the good sense to dump you? And I’m going to take the cup this weekend, too, don’t worry.”

  Dennis said, “Worry? Fat chance! I’ve got nothing to worry about if you’re the competition. And the only hope you have to win is if you mess up my boat. And don’t you worry, I’m going to be on the lookout for that.”

  “Well, look out for this!” With a sudden movement, Susan put both hands on Dennis’s chest and shoved. Taken by surprise, he stumbled backward a few steps. His ankle caught on the mooring line of the nearest boat. Off balance, he fell back over the edge of the dock. His arms flailed as he tried to grab something to break his fall. Frank heard a distinct thump as the back of the man’s head slammed against the pointed bow of the boat.

  As Frank watched openmouthed, Dennis tumbled limply into the oil-slicked water of the boat slip. Bubbles rose to the surface as he began to sink out of sight.

  3 Just the Fax, Ma’am

  * * *

  “Dennis!” Susan cried, clapping her hands to the sides of her face. “Oh, no! What have I done? Somebody, please, help!”

  Frank had already ripped off his T-shirt and was yanking at the laces of his running shoes. Next to him, Joe was doing the same.

  “No! I’ll go in after him,” Frank said quickly. “You get ready to pull us out.”

  Not waiting for Joe to reply, Frank slipped out of his shoes and ran to the edge of the dock. He made a lightning-quick judgment of distances, then jumped. He landed in the water less than a yard from Dennis, who was obviously still dazed by the blow to his head. He’d slipped just below the surface, and his eyes had rolled upward.

  Two powerful overhand strokes took Frank to his side. He hooked his elbow under the drowning man’s chin and took a quick glance around. Joe was lying flat on the dock half a dozen feet away, reaching out his hands to help. Frank rolled onto his back and used the frog kick to make his way toward Joe. A few more powerful kicks got him and Dennis close to the dock.

  “Okay, Frank, I’ve got him,” Joe said.

  “Great,” Frank replied as he felt Dennis’s weight being lifted from him. “Watch his head. One bump like that is more than enough.”

  Frank swam out of the way and saw that Joe wasn’t alone. Dave Hayman, the young blond guy they’d met a little earlier, was helping lift Dennis onto the dock. A moment later Frank heard Dennis cough loudly, then gasp, “It’s okay, I’m all right. Just give me a second to catch my breath.”

  Relieved, Frank glanced around. He could have hoisted himself directly onto the dock, but he knew better than to try it. He really didn’t want to go home with a crop of ferocious splinters. On the other side of the slip, a wooden ladder extended down into the water. He started swimming toward it, which wasn’t easy with so
dden jeans clinging to his legs.

  Gerald Magnusson was waiting at the head of the ladder. “Well done, Frank,” he said, offering his hand. “Would you like me to find you some dry clothes?”

  “Thanks, I’m okay,” Frank replied. He picked his T-shirt up off the dock and pulled it on over his head, then slipped his feet into his shoes. He felt incredibly grungy after his plunge in the harbor. All he wanted at the moment was to go home to take a long, hot shower.

  Frank saw that Dennis was on his feet, though he kept one hand on Dave’s shoulder for support. Susan, still pale, hurried over to him.

  “Oh, Dennis, darling,” she cried. “Are you sure you’re all right? I can’t believe that happened.”

  Joe looked over at Frank and rolled his eyes. Had Susan forgotten that she was the one who’d shoved her ex-husband into the water?

  “Oh, it happened, all right,” Dennis replied grimly. “Too bad these fellows rescued me. Your trial would have put your photo on page one of every supermarket tabloid in America.”

  Susan’s face hardened. “That’s not very funny, Dennis,” she declared. “You know very well that I didn’t mean—”

  Dennis cut in. “To murder me? No, I suppose not. Not in front of all these witnesses, anyway. But I’d better remember to stay out of dark alleys.”

  Susan glared at him, then glared at Dave, as well, who was still supporting Dennis. Frank saw Dave redden and look down at his feet. He must be wondering what he’d gotten into, and how to get out of it.

  Susan turned abruptly and marched away.

  “That wasn’t a very fair accusation, Dennis,” Magnusson said.

  Dennis’s shoulders slumped. “No, I guess not,” he said. He reached up and brushed a lock of damp black hair off his forehead. “I’ll have to apologize . . . but not just yet.”

  He turned to Frank and said, “I owe you one, buddy, you and your friends. I know Dave here, but we haven’t met, have we?”

  Magnusson stepped in and introduced Joe and Frank, adding, “They’re eager to find out more about offshore racing. If you have a little time to give them . . . ”

  “You bet,” Dennis said. “Tell you what—are you guys free around two this afternoon? I’m taking Adelita out for a practice run. How’d you like to come along for the ride?”

  “That’d be great,” Frank said in the same moment that Joe said, “Terrific.”

  “Okay, it’s a date,” Dennis said with a grin. “Two o’clock, slip B-forty-eight. Now, I’d better go get into some dry clothes. Wouldn’t it be awful to blow the big race because I caught a cold?”

  “And I’d better get back to my duties,” Magnusson said. “Frank, Joe, stop by to see me later, if you have a moment.”

  “We’ll do that,” Frank promised.

  As soon as Dennis and Magnusson walked away, Dave turned to Frank and Joe and asked, “Hey, just what went down here? I didn’t want to ask before.”

  “Dennis accused his ex-wife, Susan, of tampering with his boat engine,” Frank explained. “Then she got mad and pushed him, and he tripped and fell in. That’s the second shoving match we’ve seen since we got here. Are these boat races usually so lively?”

  Dave wrinkled his forehead. “Not at all,” he replied. “People do their best to win, sure. That’s what races are about. But once it’s over with, everybody’s usually real buddy-buddy. After all, it’s a pretty small circle, offshore racing. Everybody knows everybody, even though we come from all over the map. These meets are our big chance to see each other. No, there’s definitely something weird going on around here.”

  “Any idea what exactly?” Joe asked.

  “Just a mood,” Dave said with a shake of his head. “I can’t really say more than that.”

  “Well, if you hear anything, will you pass it along to us?” Frank asked. When Dave gave him a curious look, he said, “We don’t want our guests to go home with a bad impression of Bayport.”

  Judging from his expression, Frank could tell that Dave still thought he was a bit off the wall. But Dave nodded and said, “Sure. What are you guys up to now?”

  “I’d better go home and change,” Frank said. “But we’ll come right back. And we’ll keep an eye out for you. This is all new to us, so I’m sure we’re going to have a lot of questions.”

  Dave laughed. “Well, I hope I have a few answers, then. Okay, catch you later.” He turned and walked slowly out along the dock, studying the boats on either side as he went.

  Frank watched him for a few moments, then said, “It must be rough for him, coming to a race like this and not being able to take part in it. Come on, let’s head for home. I don’t mind wet jeans so much, but wet, oily jeans . . . ”

  • • •

  Joe was glancing through the mail when Frank came downstairs after showering and changing. Frank headed straight for the computer and reached for a boxed set of CD-ROMs. Joe recognized it. He and Frank had bought it only a couple of weeks earlier. It was supposed to contain every telephone directory in the entire United States. So far, they hadn’t had a chance to test it.

  “What are you doing?” Joe asked. “Trying to look up some girl you used to know?”

  “This is strictly business,” Frank replied. “The instructions claim we can use this gadget as a reverse directory.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You input a telephone number, and it tells you who it belongs to,” Frank explained. “If it’s listed, of course. You can even search by a particular address, if you want.”

  Joe’s eyes widened. “So if we have a number,” he said, “we can find out not only whose it is, but we can find out who his neighbors are? This is a little scary, Frank.”

  Frank grinned. “It’s the information revolution in action,” he replied. “And as usual, the hardest part will be figuring out how to make it work. Here, why don’t you look over the so-called ‘Quick and E-Z User’s Guide.’”

  After a few minutes of study, Joe said, “I’ve worked out how to look up motels in Montana. Will that help?”

  “Only if that leaflet came from there,” Frank said.

  “And how do we find that out?” Joe demanded.

  Frank showed him the copy of the threatening leaflet Magnusson had received by fax that morning. “You see that tiny line of type at the top?” he said. “Part of it’s the number of the fax machine that sent it. It’s in our area code, so I’m trying to put a name and address to it. Let’s see what happens if I click on that bell icon.”

  “Hey, okay!” Joe exclaimed, peering at the monitor screen over Frank’s shoulder. “Try typing in the number.”

  Frank’s fingers flew. After a tiny pause, the screen rewrote itself. Frank sat back, grinning. “There we go,” he announced. “That fax came from Pinkham’s Pharmacy, in the 1700 block of Calhoun Street. Let’s go find out what Mr. or Ms. Pinkham can tell us about this.”

  As Frank pushed his chair back from the table, Aunt Gertrude appeared in the doorway.

  “Not so fast,” she said. “You boys aren’t going anywhere until I’ve seen you eat a good lunch. There are chicken sandwiches with my special peach chutney all ready for you.”

  Frank and Joe exchanged a look. They knew better than to cross Aunt Gertrude when she was set on feeding them. She was perfectly capable of hiding the keys to the van to keep them home.

  “Uh . . . thanks, Aunt Gertrude,” Joe said.

  “That sounds great,” Frank added. As the words left his mouth, he realized that he meant them.

  Twenty minutes later, comfortably full, the Hardys were on their way. Calhoun Street was just half a mile or so from the marina. They parked in front of Pinkham’s Pharmacy and went inside. From behind the counter, a middle-aged man in a white jacket looked up and said, “May I help you?”

  Frank glanced at his name badge. “I hope so, Mr. Pinkham,” he said with a smile, and showed him the leaflet. “We’re trying to find out who sent us this. He forgot to put his name on it.”

  Pinkham pu
t on his glasses and peered at the leaflet, then shook his head. “Sorry,” he said.

  “It was sent from here, wasn’t it?” Joe asked.

  “Oh, yes, right after I opened this morning,” the druggist replied. “But I can’t tell you who sent it. I found it on the floor under the mail slot, with a couple of dollar bills clipped to it. There was a note that gave the number to fax it to. I thought it was a little odd, to tell you the truth, but I didn’t see the harm in sending it. It was already paid for, after all.”

  At Frank’s request, he found the original of the leaflet and the note with Magnusson’s number. The Hardys studied them, but nothing seemed to point to the sender’s identity.

  They were about to leave when Frank had a thought. “What time did you open this morning?”

  “Nine,” the druggist told him. “But I’m always here by quarter of.”

  As they drove toward the Waterside Inn, Frank said, “So the leaflet had to be put in the mail slot before eight forty-five this morning. I wonder when Connie started passing them out.”

  “Not that early, I bet,” Joe said. “You think she . . . ”

  “We’ll ask her,” Frank replied.

  They found Connie in front of the inn, handing out leaflets. This time she had a helper, a stocky guy with dark hair and thick black eyebrows.

  “Hi, Frank, Joe,” Connie called when she saw the Hardys. “You guys know Angelo Losordo?”

  Joe nodded. “We were in Ms. Vigotsky’s history class together. How’s it going, Angelo?”

  “Okay so far,” Angelo said, with a hint of distrust in his voice.

  Frank took the fax from his pocket and said, “Connie, will you look at this?”

  She glanced at it, then shrugged. “So?”

  “Do you know anything about it?” Joe asked.

  “Sure. It looks like one of our leaflets that somebody scribbled on,” she replied. “So what?

  “Somebody faxed it to the meet office,” Frank replied. “ ‘Polluters die.’ Doesn’t that sound like a threat to you?”

  “Not necessarily. Maybe it just means that pollution kills. Which it does. Anyway, we’ve got nothing to do with this,” Connie insisted. “We don’t have to fax those guys anything. We’re right out here telling them what we have to say.”