High-Speed Showdown

by Franklin W. Dixon

For a long moment, Connie stared silently into space. Then she shook herself and said, “Well, it wasn’t me. Just the idea of touching something carved out of whale ivory makes me sick to my stomach. And I haven’t been away from the house all morning. My mom can vouch for that.”

  “What about Angelo?” Joe asked.

  Connie jumped to her feet. “That’s it! Angelo was right, you’re just trying to discredit our organization. Get out of here, right now!”

  Frank blinked in surprise. Why had Connie just exploded like that? “Now, wait,” he began.

  “No, get out!” Connie repeated, her voice rising. “Before I scream for help!”

  “Okay, okay,” Joe said, getting up from his chair. “We’re out of here.”

  Before leaving, Frank tore a sheet from his notebook and scribbled their phone numbers on it. “If you change your mind, get in touch,” he said.

  As they drove off, Frank said, “Did you notice that she didn’t really get upset until we asked about Angelo? I wonder if he’s the one who’s up to something, and she knows it.”

  Joe’s reply was cut short by the buzz of the cellular phone. Frank picked it up.

  “Listen,” a muffled voice said. “I just spotted somebody messing with the race buoys. If you hurry, you can catch him red-handed.”

  “Who is this?” Frank demanded. The only response was a click. He told Joe what the caller had said.

  “Sounds a little fishy,” Joe said, speeding up. “But what’ll it cost us to check it out?”

  “Go for it,” Frank said.

  Joe parked in the Waterside Inn lot. He and Frank dashed across the street to the marina and sprinted to the slip where Sleuth was tied up. Frank took the helm, while Joe cast off the lines.

  Once the boat was clear of the slip, Frank pushed the throttle forward and steered for the harbor mouth. A couple of hundred yards ahead, a group of windsurfers was crossing his course. The brightly colored sails shone against the blue sky and water.

  Frank started to pull the throttle back, to slow down before passing the windsurfers. Suddenly he let out a startled exclamation.

  “What is it?” Joe demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  “The throttle!” Frank replied. He wiggled the lever back and forth. It moved much too freely. “It’s not responding!”

  The rising whine of the powerful outboard covered Joe’s reply. Frank stared, horrified. The windsurfers were now dead ahead and Frank could not slow down!

  12 Throttle Down!

  * * *

  “Frank, look out!” Joe shouted. “Slow down!”

  By now the group of windsurfers was less than fifty yards away. Some of them, alerted by the roar of Sleuth’s motor, looked around to see where it was coming from. One surfer, in a green and black wetsuit, was so startled that he lost his balance and fell backward into the water.

  “I can’t slow down,” Frank shouted back. “The cable must be broken. Kill the engine, quick!”

  Joe instantly understood. He stood up and lunged back toward the stern of the boat. But just at that moment, Frank put the wheel hard over to port, to avoid the windsurfers. The boat banked sharply. Joe lost his balance and went sprawling to the deck. His head slammed into the siderail.

  For one moment Joe imagined that he was on the football field. Someone on defense had just blindsided him. Then he remembered where he was and what he had to do. He shook his head to clear it, then crawled over the rear bench seat. The manual throttle on the big outboard was under the engine housing and hidden by a thicket of control cables. Joe groped for it, being careful not to touch the hot metal housing, and gave it a hard twist to the left. The motor coughed and died.

  Sleuth settled into the water and began to rock from the effect of its own wake. Joe straightened up and looked around. The windsurfers were now gliding past the starboard beam, near enough for him to see their frightened expressions. Some of them looked angry. That had been close.

  Joe rejoined Frank at the helm. “What happened?” he demanded. “Did the throttle cable break?”

  Frank looked up at him grimly. “No, it came unscrewed,” he replied. “Here, take a look.”

  He held up the end of the cable. Joe studied it. There were fresh scratches on the locking collar. “Somebody must have loosened it until it was just barely on,” he said.

  “And when I pushed it to full ahead, it came off,” Frank said, finishing the thought. “What would you like to bet that that call about somebody messing with the buoys was a hoax, to lure us out onto the water?”

  “Uh-huh. And—Frank, wait,” Joe said. He felt a thrill of excitement. “Whoever made that call had to know the number of our cellular phone. That means we can narrow it down to one of the people in the lobby this morning.”

  “Not quite,” Frank said, with a shake of the head. “I gave Connie our numbers, remember?”

  The thrill died down. “Oh, right,” Joe said. “I forgot. But, hey, that was right before we left her. And the call came through just five minutes or so later. Awfully fast work.”

  “Fast, yeah, but just barely possible,” Frank replied. “If she knew how to contact Angelo, and he was already at the marina, he could have called us, then jiggered the throttle cable. I’m not saying they did it, but we can’t cross them off.”

  It took ten minutes of concentrated work to reattach the throttle cable and motor back to the dock. Joe and Frank jumped out, tied up Sleuth, and went straight to the Earthquest slip. The big rubber boat was there. So was Angelo. He had his back to them, as he rummaged through a jumbled wooden locker.

  “Angelo?” Frank said. “We need to talk.”

  Angelo jumped up and whirled around to face the Hardys. He reached out to close the locker door, but Joe put out an arm and stopped him. On the floor of the locker, peeping out from under a pile of orange life preservers, was a compact but powerful bolt cutter—the exact tool that could have been used to sever the cables on the marker buoys.

  “What do you need that for?” Joe demanded, pointing at the bolt cutter.

  Angelo looked down, then used his heel to kick the tool farther out of sight under the life preservers. “None of your business,” he said sullenly.

  “Somebody messed with our boat this morning,” Frank told him. “You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?”

  “Not a thing. Get lost,” Angelo retorted. He started to turn his back on them. Joe reached out to stop him. But at the first touch of Joe’s hand, Angelo spun back around and knocked Joe’s arm away.

  “Keep your hands off me,” he shouted.

  Joe took a step back and held up his hands, palms outward. “Okay,” he said. “Take it easy.”

  “Angelo, do you know anything about Barry Batten’s medallion?” Frank asked.

  Angelo scowled at him. “I know somebody ought to rip it off his neck and throw it back in the ocean where it belongs,” he replied.

  “Somebody took it from his room this morning,” Joe said.

  “Great!” Angelo said. “But if you clowns think you can pin it on me, you can take a long hike on a short pier.” He turned and walked away.

  “We’re wasting our time with this guy,” Frank muttered, turning his back to Angelo. “Let’s go back to the inn. I’d like to find out if anybody saw him hanging around there earlier today.”

  They left the marina and made their way through the crowds to the inn. As they started up the walk, Joe noticed that a painter had set up her easel on the hill overlooking the inn and the harbor. How long had she been there?

  “I’ll be right back,” Joe murmured to Frank. He crossed the lawn and climbed the slope in long, impatient strides.

  The painter was in her twenties, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a light-colored, paint-stained smock. She gave Joe a cautious glance as he approached, then concentrated on her canvas. Joe looked over her shoulder. The bright colors were applied in wide, strong brush strokes, but he could recognize the harbor, the crowds, and the corner of the inn veranda
.

  “Er, excuse me,” Joe said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but have you been up here for long?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Why do you ask?” she replied.

  “There was a burglary at the inn this morning,” Joe explained. “Supposedly, the crook got into the room from the veranda roof. Since you’ve got a good view of it from up here . . . ”

  The painter frowned in concentration. “I got here about eight,” she said at last. “And I’ve been here all the time since then. I’m sure I would have noticed if anybody had climbed on the porch roof, and I didn’t see anybody.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said. “That’s a big help.”

  He dashed down the slope to rejoin Frank and quickly explained what he had learned.

  “Just as we thought,” Frank said, nodding. “It was an inside job. The open window was to make us believe that the burglar came from outside.”

  Joe had a sudden thought. “Could Barry have done it himself? Hidden the medallion, then arranged for us to find out about the theft?”

  “Of course he could have,” Frank replied. “Nothing easier. But why?”

  “Uh . . . I have no idea,” Joe admitted.

  “When we went upstairs with him and he unlocked his door, how many times did he turn the key?” Frank asked.

  Joe stared off toward the water as he tried to recall. “Hmm . . . I think he just put it in and gave it a half turn. I don’t remember hearing a click.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Frank said. “Which means that he didn’t have the dead bolt on, just the spring latch. Come on—I’d like another look at that door.”

  As they entered the lobby, Joe noticed a crowd clustered around the television set in the far corner of the room. He nudged Frank, and they went over to find out what was going on.

  On the screen, Barry was being interviewed by Peter Singer, the cohost of “Sporting America.” Barry’s boat and Bayport harbor were in the background. Singer was asking, “What does this loss mean to you, Barry?”

  “It means I’m finished with powerboat racing,” Barry replied.

  The gasps from the watchers covered his next few words.

  “ . . . my ancestor’s medallion,” Joe heard. “It’s not that I’m superstitious. It’s a question of family pride and family tradition. When I wore that medallion in a race, I felt I stood for something more than myself. Without it . . . well, it just wouldn’t be the same, that’s all.”

  “Do the police have any leads?” the interviewer asked.

  Barry shrugged. “I haven’t been to the police,” he said. “And as long as I get my medallion back, I’m not planning to press charges. Maybe this is just a very bad joke somebody played on me. I hope so.”

  Dave was in front of Frank. Frank tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, “Is this live?”

  Dave looked at him blankly. Joe realized that he must be in shock, watching his big break going down the drain. When Frank repeated his question, Dave shook his head as if to clear it, then said, “Yeah, I guess so. I don’t know.”

  He turned back to watch the interview. Frank took Joe’s elbow and urged him toward the stairs. When they reached the second floor, Frank said in an undertone, “Barry’s room should be empty. Let’s try that door.”

  They hurried to the end of the corridor, and Frank rapped softly on the door, then listened intently. “Not a peep,” he reported. He reached for his wallet and took out a gas company credit card. Inserting it into the crack between the door and the jamb, he slowly slid it upward until it hit the latch. Joe stopped watching at that point and scanned the corridor. After a long, agonizing moment, he heard a faint click. He turned, just as Frank, grinning, pushed the door open.

  “So much for security,” Frank murmured, as he pulled the door closed again. “Anybody who had access to the inn could have taken the medallion.”

  Joe said, “We’ve been working on the idea that somebody is trying to wreck the races. But what if Barry was the real target all along? He was the favorite to win, after all. Maybe one of the other racers decided to improve his or her chances by getting Barry out of the race.”

  “They couldn’t know that he’d drop out like that,” Frank pointed out. “But it was a cinch that losing his lucky charm would upset him. Maybe you’ve got a point, Joe. Let’s check our answering machine. Maybe somebody’s phoned in a tip.”

  They walked out to the van. Joe dialed their home phone and waited for the machine to pick up. Then he punched in the access code and playback command. Frank passed him a pad and pen.

  “Only one message,” Joe reported, a couple of minutes later. “It was from Claude, Dad’s friend in Vegas. He wants us to call back.”

  “Hmm . . . that’s a pretty sensitive business,” Frank said. “I’d rather not call him from the cellular phone, in case someone eavesdrops. Let’s go by the house to call him back.”

  “Okay,” Joe replied. “But don’t expect me to find such a choice spot to park when we come back.”

  He reached for the ignition key and turned it. But instead of the sound of the starter motor, he heard a long, high-pitched whistle. Joe knew instinctively that that was the sound of something deadly coming from under the hood.

  13 A Booming Case

  * * *

  For one second Joe was too astonished to react. Then he grabbed the door handle, flung the door open, and leaped out. He hit the ground running. The muffled explosion came just as he threw himself to the pavement behind the car in the next slot.

  He pushed himself to his hands and knees and looked around. Frank was sprawled on the grass a dozen feet away. He looked dazed but okay. The van seemed okay, too, except for the dense white smoke billowing out from the engine compartment.

  Joe stood up. Frank was on his feet now, too, bending over to brush the grass off his jeans. He looked furious.

  “Are you all right?” Frank asked.

  “I banged my elbow, jumping out of the van,” Joe reported. “Other than that, I’m fine. But I’d like to know the name of the joker who wired that firework to our ignition. I’d like a few minutes alone with him, too.”

  “I’ve got dibs on him after you,” Frank said. He went around to the driver’s side door, reached in, and pulled the hood release. He lifted the hood, then backed away and turned his head to avoid the fumes. It smelled like the Fourth of July.

  Joe, next to him, pointed toward the distributor. “There it is,” he said.

  Wires led from the distributor to a red cardboard tube about six inches long. The black letters on the side read Screamin’ Meemie—Harmless Thrills.

  “Right, I’m thrilled,” Frank remarked. “But look at it this way. It could just as easily have been a real bomb. Somebody wanted to send us a message.”

  “Yeah, and it reads ‘butt out,’” Joe said. “No signature, though. Well, I’d better see about getting rid of this gizmo.”

  While Joe went to get the tool kit, Frank straightened up and looked around. On the other side of the parking lot, a groundskeeper had stopped his riding mower to stare. Frank walked over to him and said, “Hi there.”

  The groundskeeper nodded and said, “Your van okay? For a minute there, I thought it was a real bomb. Some people have a pretty strange sense of humor.”

  “I don’t think there’s any damage,” Frank told him. “I wouldn’t mind knowing who did it, though. You didn’t notice anyone hanging around there, did you?”

  The man scratched his bristly chin. “Not exactly, not to recognize,” he replied slowly. “But I did notice a tow truck double-parked right in front of your van. That was about an hour ago. I figured somebody had car trouble, but then the truck pulled out without anybody in tow.”

  “Did you get a look at the driver?” Frank asked eagerly. “You didn’t see him fiddling with the hood of the van, did you?”

  “Nope. The truck blocked my view,” the groundskeeper told him.

  “How about the truck itself?” Frank continued. “Did
you notice a company name on it?”

  The man shook his head. “Sorry, no. Must have been private. It was dark green, if that’s any help.”

  Newcastle! Frank realized with a jolt. His boat was dark green, and so were his employees’ uniforms. It would have to be checked, but Frank was ready to bet that the tow trucks for Newcastle’s trucking company were dark green, too. He felt his jaw tighten, as he remembered the run-in he and Joe had had with Newcastle’s mechanic, Skip. Had Skip put the firework in the van as a way of getting back at the Hardys? Or was there more to it than that? This clearly called for a conference.

  “Thanks,” Frank said, and hurried back to tell Joe what he had learned.

  Joe saw the possibilities as quickly as Frank had. “How’s this?” Joe said. “Newcastle’s the one I heard making that big bet last night on the phone. But he wants to make absolutely sure he wins. So this guy Skip has been doing a number on some of the other boats. He’s the one who jiggered the oil seal on Barry’s boat the other day and loosened the fuel line on Adelita.”

  “And since he’s Newcastle’s mechanic,” Frank pointed out, “he not only knows what he’s doing, he has a perfect excuse to be out on the dock at all hours. All he needed to do was watch for the right moment. It makes sense, Joe.”

  Frank paused for a moment to sort out his thoughts, then added, “Then, this morning, Gerald told everybody that we’re detectives. Newcastle suddenly realized that we’re not just a couple of guys hanging around, that we’re actively trying to unmask the saboteur . . . his saboteur.”

  “Yeah, and the next thing we know, somebody’s messed with the throttle cable on Sleuth and wired a firecracker to the engine of our van,” Joe said. “Those are both pretty technical jobs, too. It all adds up, Frank, it really does. The question is, how do we prove it?”

  “I don’t know if we can,” Frank admitted. “But we can try to build a case. We already have one witness who can place Skip at Adelita during the most likely time for the sabotage to the fuel line—Connie. And we’ve got a witness who saw a dark green tow truck next to our van. Now we need to find out if Skip drives a truck like that.”