Line of Fire

by Franklin W. Dixon

  "George does a lot of work for me," Crowell said, sitting down again. "Now, tell me about this so-called shooting."

  "Oh, I expect you've already heard about it," Frank said, watching as Crowell's face froze. "I mean, after all, you've got friends on the police force. Somebody was sure to call you."

  Crowell relaxed again. "But I'd like to hear your story."

  "Oh, it's pretty simple." Frank told about the shots and the search. He didn't mention Denny's scrapbook. "Denny is convinced that someone is trying to scare him into silence," Frank concluded. "And I guess I don't need to tell you who he's blaming."

  He stared at Lucius Crowell. "All of a sudden he's accusing you, who's always helped his family, of terrible things. Maybe he has found something, maybe he hasn't. We can't be sure of anything, except the shots and the phone call. Maybe you know something we don't, and if you two talked it out..."

  Lucius Crowell sat very quietly, his eyes Closed. When he opened them, Frank saw that he had failed to convince him.

  "Denny and I have nothing to talk about. If you're a friend of his, you might tell him to watch out where he does his talking."

  "Is that a threat?" Joe demanded.

  Crowell turned to him. With his clenched jaw and glaring eyes, he resembled a frog.

  "I thought Denny might have been scamming us—until now," Joe said. "We'll be watching out for him. Who knows — there may be a case here."

  He looked Crowell straight in the eye. "And if there is a case, we'll get to the bottom of it. Remember the Morrison case. Of course, if there isn't one, then you have nothing to worry about." He grinned.

  Crowell struggled to stay in control. "Is that a threat?" he asked.

  Joe stared at him. "No, just a friendly warning," he said, heading for the door. "Come on, Frank." He stopped at the doorway and looked back at Crowell. "No need to call your 'butler.' We know our way out."

  They walked out of the house, climbed into the van, and started off. The gates swung open automatically as they reached the end of the drive.

  "Well, what did you think?" Joe asked.

  "I'd hate to play poker with him," Frank said, turning the van onto the road. "He doesn't] rattle easily, even when we put the pressure] on."

  "Yeah, but he is hiding something. Denny is right."

  "That's what I think too, brother." Frank didn't sound excited, but Joe could see the gleam in his eyes. They had a case!

  Almost unconsciously, Frank accelerated the van along a straightaway. The engine hummed as they took off.

  Ahead of them, the road curved to the right.

  Frank's foot was just reaching for the brake when a brilliant flash of red caught his eye in the rear-view mirror. It was there for just an instant, then it was gone.

  Frank had just turned his attention away from the mirror when he heard a muffled crack. He glanced up again but didn't see anything in the mirror.

  He had other things to think about, anyway.

  His left rear tire had blown, and the van was now careening wildly across the road!

  Chapter 5

  Frank gripped the wheel harder, trying to steer with the skid and not against it. But now they were spinning wildly, totally out of control. It seemed there was no way they could stay on the road.

  But if they didn't make the curve, they'd crash head-on into a brick wall. One of the mansion owners had apparently decided he didn't want passersby gawking at his grounds and had built a ten-foot-high brick wall around his place. Frank didn't know if it had discouraged gawking, but he knew what would happen if the van hit it. He and Joe would be pancakes.

  Desperately, Frank tried to bring the van under control. The wall came closer as he forced the van to continue its skid. The wall blurred before their eyes. The van's bodywork groaned from the stress. If Frank miscalculated, they'd topple over. ...

  But riding the edges of the tires, Frank managed to keep them upright. With a thud the van fell back solidly on its wheels and tore across the gravel drive leading to a massive steel gate. Finally it plowed through some holly bushes and came to a stop, nosed up against the wall.

  Joe let out a soft, shuddering breath. "That was a very bad time to get a flat," he finally said.

  "It wasn't an accident." Frank pushed his door open and got out to look at the tire.

  "What do you mean?" Joe jumped out and ran around the back to join him.

  "It had help." Frank pointed at the wreckage of the tire. "This is where it tore apart — see this hole here."

  Joe leaned forward. "Looks like a bullet hole."

  "Exactly." Frank's face was grim. "I thought I saw a flash of red in the mirror."

  "A laser sight? You mean Denny?"

  "He's not the only one in town with that kind of sight," Frank said. "There's the guy who played target practice all around our heads."

  "Denny is the only one we know," Joe pointed out. Then he shook his head. "But Denny didn't know where we were going. Anyway, he'd never do something like that." "And all the way into town, I had one eye on the rear-view mirror. I'd have noticed if anyone was following us."

  "So we're dealing with a deadly marksman who reads minds—or — "

  "Or?" Frank said.

  "Crowell's butler, George. He left after we came into the room, and we didn't see him on the way out. And he was toting a gun as big as a cannon under his jacket."

  Frank nodded. "He'd know which way we'd be heading. And that curve in the road is just a short walk from Crowell's mansion." He sighed. "But even if he did shoot at us, he's probably back home by now—with a perfect alibi."

  "You're right." Joe kicked the dead tire. "So how can we prove it, one way or the other?"

  "We might put a word in Con Riley's ear. So he can check him out."

  "Good idea." Joe grinned. Then his grin slipped. "But I bet that George's actions aren't going to be easy to trace."

  Frank shrugged. "We can hope." Then he kicked the dead tire too. "We'd better change this and see about fixing the damage we did. After that, I want to give Callie a call at the Times."

  Callie didn't have good news. "Liz is giving me her investigative reporter act. She doesn't want to reveal her information or her source."

  Frank sighed. "We know her source, and the information will probably be in tomorrow's paper."

  "Maybe not. The reporters aren't having an easy time checking out all of the things Denny's saying. And since he's saying things about Lucius Crowell, they've got to be careful. It might not be a libel suit, but he can get at the paper through the advertisers. However, as a politician and public figure he's in a tight spot — he can't sue for libel because all Denny's doing is challenging his record."

  "Keep trying, Callie. We'll poke around, too."

  Frank hung up the mobile phone. "We have some offices to hit. They're going to be closing soon."

  The state and federal offices were pretty disappointing. "The files on Crowell Chemical and the disaster are pretty thin," Frank complained.

  "Just as well," Joe said as he thumbed through copies. "The gibberish that's here is more than enough for me."

  "They had safety plans," Frank said, putting aside a small pile of papers. "And construction permits. But I can't find out what they were storing in the plant at the time of the disaster. The company's records were lost in the fire. And even these waste permits really don't tell us a lot."

  He tossed the papers from his seat. "There are clues here, hints. I can guess some of the chemicals that might have been there, but that's all it is, pure guesswork. If this is all Denny's got, I don't know what kind of a case he'd have. Unless Crowell was storing them illegally. Without proof, though, Denny is never going to convince anyone of his accusations."

  "Maybe there's more at the town office," Joe suggested. "After all, the town people would be the closest to the disaster."

  Frank nodded. "And under Jack Morrison, they were the most crooked."

  "Maybe Crowell isn't as clean as he'd like people to think."


  But when they arrived at the Bayport town hall, they found a small crowd of news people gathered outside.

  "What's going on here?" Joe asked the group.

  "They're waiting for a press statement," a voice from behind them said.

  The Hardys turned to find Chet Morton leaning against their van, his hands in his pockets. Their heavyset friend wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tie that hung askew from his open collar. He also had a huge grin at their surprised expressions.

  "Chet, what are you doing here?" Joe asked. "And why are you dressed like that?"

  More to the point, Frank asked, "And how did you know about this press conference?"

  "Easy," said Chet, his grin growing. "I work here. The town internship program has me fetching and carrying for Mr. Corrigan, the head clerk."

  "So you know all about the files," Frank said.

  "First thing I had to learn," Chet agreed. "Mr. Corrigan told me I'd be his arms and legs. But he's a nice guy. That's why I'm out here. He asked me if I wanted a late-afternoon snack."

  "Maybe he also wants you to be his stomach," Joe said, patting Chet on the shoulder. "You could make a career out of this."

  "Hey, Chet," Frank cut in, "do you think you could get us in to wherever they keep the files on the Crowell Chemical disaster?"

  "I suppose I could," Chet said. "If you made it worth my while."

  "What's this?" Frank said. "You, almost a public official, asking for a bribe?"

  Chet shrugged. "It's the way things get done around here. Mr. Corrigan has a picture up in his office of him and a pal, Howard Zale, down at Zale's retirement home in Florida. The place looks like something from TV—swimming pool, boat, the works. I guess either Zale never spent a penny he made as fire inspector, or people greased his palm. Now, I was thinking of maybe a pizza .. ."

  ; Joe grinned. "Now, that's a way to get a greasy palm."

  Laughing, Chet pushed himself away from the van. "Come on, guys. It was worth a try."

  He led them around the back of the building and pulled out a key and let them in through a steel door. "Don't make any noise," he whispered as he headed downstairs to the basement. "I don't want to get Corrigan on my case."

  They headed along a dimly lit corridor, then turned into a large room. Row after row of metal shelves filled the space, and each shelf was filled with brown cardboard file boxes, coded with mysterious letters and numbers.

  "This is some system," Frank muttered as he followed Chet. "I'm surprised it's not computerized though."

  "The town keeps talking about it, but they don't like the cost of inputting all the data," Chet explained.

  "I'm more impressed at how you know where the stuff is," said Joe.

  "Oh, it's easier than it looks," Chet said, confidently leading them onward. He stopped at a shelf and pointed. "Right there."

  The Hardys followed his finger to three empty spaces in the middle of the shelf.

  "You wanted to know where the files were kept," Chet said with a grin. "Mr. Corrigan had me pull them this morning. That's what the press conference is about."

  Frank and Joe looked at each other. "Well, I'm glad we didn't pay him the pizza first," Joe finally said.

  "I guess if we want to hear anything about those files, we'll have to wait in line with the press people," Frank said.

  "Sorry, guys," Chet said, heading back toward the door. "You know I'd like to help you out—and Denny, too, of course. I figure this must have something to do with what Denny was saying at the party. But Mr. Corrigan has all the papers in his office — "

  He cut off in midsentence as he heard footsteps in the hallway outside.

  "I don't like this one little bit," a whining voice complained.

  "Corrigan," Chet whispered.

  "You liked taking our money well enough, a rougher voice answered. "So did Zale." Frank and Joe looked at each other. They recognized the voice. It belonged to George, the guy who had greeted them at Crowell's mansion.

  "That was back when Morrison was running the show," Corrigan said. "Zale had lots of pull with Jack. Now, though, they could hang us — " "Don't worry," George said. "You've got the substitute records. Soon, people can look through your records all they like. And all they'll find is that Denny Payson is a liar — or «crazy." He laughed. "Just as soon as the real stuff goes through your shredder."

  Chapter 6

  Joe eased the door open, putting his eye to the slit he'd created. George and a mousy-looking guy in baggy pants — Corrigan, obviously—were heading down the corridor. In their arms were three brown cardboard boxes like the ones from the file shelves.

  George strolled along with one under each arm. Corrigan staggered under the weight of a single box. Looking over his shoulder in annoyance, George slowed his pace to match Corrigan's.

  "They're taking all the files on the Crowell disaster," Chet whispered, peering over Joe's shoulder.

  "And they're taking them to the shredding machine," Frank said. "We've got to stop them. - The only question is how?"

  Joe grinned. "I've got an idea." He leaned forward, whispering in Chet's ear. A slow smile spread over Chet's face. "Fine," he said. "I didn't really want to keep this job anyway."

  As Frank stared in surprise, Chet opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. "Oh, hi, Mr. Corrigan."

  "Oh, ah, Chester." Corrigan's voice sounded flustered. "I thought you were out getting a snack."

  "I decided it was too late," Chet said. "Hey, are you carrying that to the shredding room? Let me help you."

  "That's all right," Corrigan said nervously.

  "No, I ought to help." Chet's voice was loud and cheerful. "After all, I'm supposed to be your arms and legs."

  Frank peeked out to see Corrigan and Chet struggling over the box. The head clerk looked over at George. "Ah, why don't you go ahead. I'll be right along," Corrigan said.

  George shrugged and headed quickly down the corridor. As soon as he was out of sight, Chet let go of the box. Corrigan staggered backward, sending files flying.

  Joe pushed the door open. "Hi, we're collecting for the Bayport scrap paper drive. Is that] going to the shredding room?"

  Corrigan jumped back. "What? No!"

  "But you just said this was going to the shredder," Chet said.

  "Here, we'll help you pick this stuff up." Joe bent down and grabbed a handful of papers. So did Frank.

  "You're sure we can't just take that box off your hands?" Joe insisted.

  Corrigan shrank back.

  Then came a roar from down the hall. George came charging toward them.

  "Gee, your friend seems awfully upset," Joe said, heading for the stairs. "Maybe we should be moving along."

  Chet faded back into the file room as Frank and Joe ran for the stairs.

  "Wait a second! Give me those papers!" Corrigan dropped his box and began pursuing the Hardys, quickly joined by George, who put his boxes down too.

  Frank and-Joe threw themselves up the stairs. Behind them they could hear the heavy stomping of George's feet and the rabbity, agitated gasping of Corrigan.

  They were halfway up the last flight of stairs, and Joe began to think that he and Frank might just make it.

  Then George's hamlike hand closed on his ankle.

  ; Caught off-balance, Joe fell, the papers scattering from his hands. He tried to kick himself ffree, but he couldn't get the leverage. George's crushing grip was bad enough, but he was twisting Joe's leg so that his free leg was caught under him.

  "You!" George called up to Frank. "Hold it!"

  Already at the top of the stairs, Frank turned—and froze.

  "If you want your brother to keep this leg, you'd better toss those papers down."

  Frank stared down at Joe, the papers tight in his grasp. "How do I know you'll let him go?"

  "You don't," George said, grinning nastily. "That's the risk you take when you go putting your nose where people don't want it." George twisted Joe's ankle a
little more, and Joe grimaced in pain. "Come on, kid. This leg doesn't have much give left in it."

  Frank stood, undecided what to do. He was too far away to reach Joe before George really hurt him. He looked from the papers in his hand ; to his brother. But despite his pain, Joe winked · at him encouragingly. His eyes went from the papers to George's face.

  Now Frank understood. He slumped his shoulders in defeat. "All right, you win." He raised the papers and came down a step.

  George grinned in triumph, stretching out his left hand. His right hand shifted for a new hold on Joe's leg, preparing for a final, leg-breaking twist.

  But Frank came no closer. He sent the papers he was holding straight into George's face.

  George flinched involuntarily, and Joe, alert for the chance, twisted free. He scrambled up the stairs, intercepting Frank, who was coming down.

  "Come on!" Joe pointed to the door above them.

  "But, the papers — " Frank was jerked backward as Joe tugged on him.

  "Taken care of," Joe gasped.

  Frank joined the retreat, just escaping George's furious lunge.

  The Hardys clambered up the stairs and out the door. Joe grabbed Frank's arm, steering him around to the side of the building.

  Frank risked a quick look behind from the corner. What he saw set him running even harder. "George and Corrigan are still after us," he said.

  "So?" Joe didn't waste any more breath on words.

  "George's reaching into his coat," Frank gasped. "I think he's unlimbering that cannon."

  He looked over at Joe. "This isn't exactly the way I wanted to find out if he has a laser sight." "No sweat," Joe said.

  They had reached the front of the building by then and still they heard George pounding up behind them. But as they charged into the crowd of news people, George fell behind.

  And when Frank realized what was happening on the steps, he froze, too.

  Chet Morton was standing by the front door, two brown file boxes beside him. He kept tossing papers into the hands of the press and media people, who were going wild.

  "Sure, I guess you can have them," Chet said into one microphone. "After all, they were just going to put them through the shredder."