The London Deception

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Ms. Anderson, this is Frank Hardy and his brother, Joe,” Chris told her.

  “Oh, yes, the American exchange students,” Emily recalled. “Welcome to our haunted theater.”

  “You saw Lady Quill, I’d wager,” Corey Lista said to Frank.

  “Who’s Lady Quill?” Frank asked.

  “She’s no one,” Jeffries said curtly. “She was the wife of the original owner.”

  “Lord Horatio Quill,” Mr. Paul told the Hardys. “He owned most of the neighborhood a hundred years ago. Not an altogether sound gentleman. He caused quite a scandal among the nobility by allowing his wife to perform onstage.”

  “Why?” Joe wondered.

  “The acting profession was considered beneath the dignity of a noblewoman,” Emily Anderson replied with a wry smile.

  “Lord Quill secretly planned to leave Lady Quill for another woman,” Mr. Paul went on. “So as a final gift to ease her inevitable disappointment—”

  “You mean, to relieve his guilt for being such a cad,” Emily interjected from the stage.

  “Yes, just so,” Mr. Paul agreed. “In any case, in 1909, Lord Quill produced a revival of an Oscar Wilde play—”

  “A Woman of No Importance,” Emily inserted.

  “Yes, so it was,” Mr. Paul said. “In any case—”

  “A vanity production,” Emily interrupted again.

  Frank noticed Mr. Paul’s face flush. He looked suddenly embarrassed.

  “Emily, if you’d like to tell the story, please join us in the balcony,” Mr. Paul said, his mouth tightening in a straight line.

  “What’s a vanity production?” Joe asked.

  “It’s a show that is mounted not because of the merit of the play or the talent of the actors, but because someone has money and wants to show himself off,” Jennifer explained to Joe.

  “Or show his wife off,” Emily added.

  “Reviewers look down their noses at vanity productions, so even if they are good, the reviews tend to be especially critical,” Mr. Paul said.

  “Are reviews that important?” Frank wondered out loud.

  “Oh, yes,” Mr. Paul replied. “They often spell success or failure for a play, and Lord Quill’s production was no exception. The reviews tore Lady Quill’s performance to pieces.”

  “And on that same night, Lord Quill told her of his plans to leave her,” Emily said, staring straight into the fly space above the stage. “So she threw herself from a catwalk and fell to her death on this very stage.”

  “So now she haunts the theater,” Lista added, “cursing other productions out of spite.”

  “If everyone believes the place is haunted,” Frank asked, “why do you keep doing shows here?”

  “Theater people love drama, Frank,” Emily said. “And what’s more dramatic than a haunted theater?”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” Jeffries growled, turning to Mr. Paul. “Don’t think you and Mr. Kije are going to use this to get out of your rental contract.”

  “Mr. Kije has every confidence that Innocent Victim will be a hit,” Mr. Paul snapped back at the theater owner.

  “I’ve heard it all before,” Jeffries replied. “Then one day, the producer realizes the show’s not so funny as he thought, or a star quits, and everyone gets the ‘flop sweats.’ Next thing you know, they’re knocking on my door trying to break their rental agreement and blaming it all on this blooming ghost.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Jeffries,” Mr. Paul said firmly, “this show will go on.”

  Jeffries huffed, turned, and left the balcony, grumbling to himself all the way down the stairs.

  Frank studied the expressions on the faces of the cast and crew. They looked concerned, even fearful, and several private conversations were being muttered back and forth.

  “We’re all tired, I think,” Mr. Paul said, sensing the mood of the group. “Let’s call it a night.”

  “Right, everybody, actors are off tomorrow,” Lista said in a loud, clear voice. “Crew call is nine to five.”

  As the group began to disperse, Joe glanced down at the stage. Emily Anderson was gone.

  “Neville and I will stay behind to clean up, Dennis,” Jennifer offered Mr. Paul.

  “I’m sorry, I cannot,” Shah said. “I will not stay in a theater with a ghost.”

  “Neville, even if this ghost exists, it’s never tried to hurt anyone,” Mr. Paul assured him.

  Jennifer Mulhall raised her hand. “I beg to differ—Joe and I had to do a trapeze act to save our skins.”

  “And look at my broken wrist,” Shah added, holding up his hand.

  “You got that by falling off a ladder,” Mr. Paul reminded the lighting assistant.

  A thought struck Frank. Neville Shah could be about the same height as the short figure he’d seen in the lighting booth. “Where were you when the accident happened?”

  “Me?” Shah asked. “In the light storage room off stage left. I was looking for gels.”

  “Gels?” Frank asked.

  “You put them over the lights to create different colors,” Jennifer explained.

  “Can anyone verify that you were there?” Mr. Paul asked.

  “Why do you ask?” Shah wondered.

  “Well, you’re one of the few people who knows how to operate the light board,” Mr. Paul replied.

  “Are you accusing me of something?” Shah asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “Someone knew which control turned on the lamp beside Jennifer’s head,” Joe pointed out.

  “Then you are accusing me,” Shah said.

  Corey Lista stepped over. “I’ll be leaving now.”

  “Mr. Lista, where was I when the accident occurred?” Shah asked without taking his eyes off Mr. Paul.

  “Backstage,” Lista replied matter-of-factly. “I saw you run in from the wings.”

  “That’s true,” Chris agreed. “When I was looking for something to cushion your and Jen’s impending fall, I saw Neville come from stage left.”

  Mr. Paul cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sorry if we implied anything. You’re an excellent lighting assistant—”

  “You do not need to apologize,” Shah interrupted, “because I am no longer your lighting assistant. Right now, all that is broken is my wrist. So I quit before worse things happen.”

  With that, Shah walked away.

  “Should I try to stop him?” Jennifer asked.

  “No,” Mr. Paul replied. “He seems to be quite decided.”

  “Strangely decided,” Frank noted. “Like he was looking for a reason to quit.”

  Mr. Paul sighed. “Well, we’ll simply have to replace him.”

  “For tonight, Jennifer, I’d be glad to help you clean up the mess,” Joe said.

  “So will I,” Frank added.

  “Thank you, that would be wonderful,” Mr. Paul said. “Chris, why don’t you stay, too, and see that Frank and Joseph get home safely.”

  Chris agreed, and Mr. Paul bid them all good night. While Chris cleaned up the glass shards from the main floor of the theater, Joe grabbed a wrench and helped Jennifer unfasten the broken lighting units.

  Joe then handed the lighting instruments down to Frank, who was on a ladder in the balcony aisle.

  As Frank took the second light from Joe, he noticed a shiny spot on one of the broken lamps. The spot was slippery to the touch. Rubbing his two fingers together, Frank realized it was some kind of ointment that had a faint oily smell.

  “Jennifer, is there some reason to use grease on a lamp?” Frank asked.

  “No, never,” Jennifer replied. “Why?”

  “The lamps’ blowing may not have been an accident tonight,” Frank told her. “It may have been sabotage.”

  3 The Unknown Saboteur

  * * *

  “Sabotage?” Joe repeated.

  Frank showed Joe and Jennifer the traces of ointment. “It’s some kind of tan-colored ointment.”

  “Looks like greasepaint,” Jennifer said. “It’s a type of st
age makeup.”

  “Could grease paint rubbed on a lamp cause it to blow out?” Joe asked Jennifer.

  “Yes,” Jennifer replied. “Anything with fat or oil in it. The heat from theater lights is so intense, if the natural oil from your skin gets on one, it can be enough to make it blow.”

  “Who would have had a chance to tamper with these lights?” Joe wondered out loud.

  “Neville and I are the only ones who have been handling them,” Jennifer said.

  “I think Joe and I ought to have a talk with Neville Shah,” Frank said, then leaned over the balcony rail. “Chris, do you know where Neville lives?”

  “No,” Chris said and stopped sweeping up the glass. “I know in what direction he goes.”

  “He must be long gone by now,” Joe said, frowning.

  “No, I saw him leaving the theater with his satchel just a minute ago while I was emptying some glass into the dustbin,” Chris informed them.

  “If you’re okay here, Jennifer,” Frank said, “I’m going to take Joe and Chris and try to catch up with Neville.”

  • • •

  Frank, Joe, and Chris exited the theater through the main doors. “He walks in this direction,” Chris said, pointing to his right.

  “But the subway station is that way,” Joe countered, pointing to the left.

  “We call it the tube, Joe,” Chris corrected, dryly joking. “Or the underground.”

  “Tube, underground—it’s still a subway,” Joe joked back.

  “Argue about it in English class,” Frank said, slapping the other two on the shoulders and setting them moving in the direction Chris had pointed.

  As they jogged, Frank checked his watch. It was eleven-fifteen at night. Other than some construction workers renovating a building across from the theater, the streets were nearly deserted.

  “If this were New York City, the streets would still be buzzing with people,” Frank noted.

  “It’s not like we’re in Piccadilly Circus,” Chris explained. “Quill Garden isn’t a big tourist hot spot.”

  The boys reached a main intersection and stopped. Frank looked in all directions. There was no sign of Neville Shah.

  “Sorry, mates,” Chris said. “Don’t know which way to go now.”

  Joe saw a pay phone across the street. “Do you have information here?”

  “What sort of information?” Chris asked, confused.

  “Directory assistance,” Joe clarified.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Chris replied.

  Joe looked to his left. He saw no cars coming so he stepped off the curb.

  “Look out!” Frank shouted, yanking Joe back by the collar of his shirt. A taxi sped by, honking its horn.

  “Remember, Joe,” Frank reminded him, “in London, you have to look right first.”

  Joe nodded. “I keep forgetting they drive on the wrong side of the road here.”

  “We drive on the wrong side of the road?” Chris piped in, ready to argue.

  “Guys? Let’s stick to finding Neville Shah,” Frank reminded them. After looking right then left, they crossed the street.

  “Anyone have a quarter?” Joe asked, quickly adding to Chris. “Twenty pence, I mean?”

  Chris told Joe the number for information and Joe dialed. “Yes, could I please have the address for Neville Shah?”

  “Shah is a very common East Indian name,” Chris warned Frank and Joe. “We must hope there’s only one Neville.”

  “One-seventeen Hayworth Place,” Joe repeated the operator’s information. “Thank you.”

  “Hayworth Place,” Chris said thoughtfully, then nodded to the right. “I should think he would take this route.”

  “There’s a bus stop,” Joe pointed out.

  Chris shook his head. “His home is just across the park. Most probably, he’s on foot.”

  The boys set off running and soon reached the corner of a vast, wooded park that stretched as far as they could see in both directions.

  “When you said park, you meant forest,” Joe said.

  “Yes, Victoria Park is quite large,” Chris agreed.

  “Do you think he would cut through the park this late at night?” Frank asked.

  “I’m certain of it,” Chris said.

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “Because there he is,” Chris replied, pointing toward a man near a statue at the entrance to the park.

  “Neville!” Joe called.

  Shah glanced back at them, then hurried into the shadows.

  The Hardys and Chris hurried after him. Inside the park, Frank saw the silhouette of someone cutting off onto a side path lined with huge trees. “Come on!” Frank shouted.

  Street lamps shed light along the path, but Neville Shah was nowhere to be seen. “He couldn’t have moved that fast,” Joe said quietly. “He must be hiding.”

  “I’ll go down the path, you two split up and go along each side,” Frank instructed.

  Frank walked briskly, scanning for any movement. Joe and Chris did the same, walking parallel to Frank outside the lines of trees. They checked out the bushes and behind every tree, but could find no sign of him.

  “How did he get away?” Joe wondered. “This area is well lit, and we should have seen him.”

  “I’d like to know why he ran when you called him,” Frank added.

  “Maybe he does know something about the lights being sabotaged,” Joe suggested.

  Suddenly Neville Shah dropped to the ground behind them.

  “Neville,” Chris gasped, startled, “you’ll give me a heart attack that way.”

  “Forgive me,” Shah replied. “Thugs sometimes roam the park at night, so I climbed into a tree for safety.”

  Joe looked at the cast on Shah’s arm and then up at the tree from which he had dropped. “How did you get up there?”

  “I am a good climber,” Shah replied. “Now, what did you mean by ‘the lights being sabotaged’?”

  Frank hesitated. Now that Shah knew what information they were after, it would be difficult to get him to slip up and admit anything. “Jennifer thought you might have seen something. We found traces of greasepaint on the blown lamps.”

  “Why would I want to do such a thing?” Shah reasoned. “I needed this job.”

  “Then why did you quit so quickly?” Joe asked.

  “The ghost,” Shah replied.

  “The ghost is just a legend,” Chris said.

  “I saw her last night, floating near the lighting grid on the ceiling,” Shah countered. “Now I know what she was doing.”

  “The ghost of Lady Quill coated the lights with greasepaint?” Joe asked skeptically.

  “If you do not believe in ghosts, then I suggest you look to the actors,” Shah said. “They are the ones who have use for greasepaint.”

  “Well, if you need the job,” Chris said, “I know we need your lighting talents—if you change your mind.”

  “No, thank you. I have another part-time job to support me. Now good night, and good luck,” Shah said as he walked off into the darkness.

  As Chris and the Hardys headed back to the theater, they discussed the odd events of the evening.

  “I’ve heard of one or two people claiming to see a ghost, but just about everyone who’s stepped into the Quill Garden Theatre has seen this one,” Joe said.

  “I haven’t seen it,” Chris replied, “nor has my father.”

  “I saw someone or something in that lighting booth,” Frank admitted, “but there are other possibilities I’d investigate before jumping to the conclusion it was a ghost.”

  “Like what?” Joe wondered.

  “I would like to see exactly what’s behind that locked door in the booth,” Frank answered. “Then I’ll know more.”

  Back at Quill Garden, the Hardys and Chris ran into Jennifer Mulhall as she was about to lock up.

  “Before you go, do you think you could just unlock the lighting booth for us?” Joe asked, smiling and nodding toward the chain of
keys hooked to her belt.

  “What are you boys up to, eh?” Jennifer wondered.

  “We’re looking for a ghost,” Frank replied.

  “Right. I’ll just lend you the key,” Jennifer said, thumbing through the dozen or more keys she carried. She hesitated.

  Frank saw the concern wash across her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Jennifer said. “I’m just all in. Here’s your key.”

  She unlatched the fastener, pulled a key off her chain, then refastened it. “Just leave the booth open and the key by the dimmer board. I’ll get it in the morning.”

  “What about the main doors?” Chris asked.

  “They’re set to lock automatically from the outside,” Jennifer explained. “So once you’re out, you won’t be able to get back in.”

  “Thank you, Jennifer,” Joe said, smiling again.

  “Cheers,” she said, giving Joe a wink before leaving the theater.

  Joe switched the red work light on in the booth. “Is that enough light?”

  Frank nodded as he put the key into the dead-bolt lock on the back door. After turning the key, he pushed on the door. It opened onto an old wooden staircase with dank, cracking cement walls.

  “Not quite the crushed velvet and sweeping banisters they have in the theater lobby,” Chris joked.

  The stairs were dimly lit by bare lightbulbs. Walking down one flight, they came to a landing with another door.

  “Wonder what these stairs are here for?” Joe asked.

  “Dad said they renovated the balcony after a fire about thirty years ago,” Chris replied.

  “Maybe this used to be the only way to get to the lighting booth?” Frank guessed as he tried to fit his key into the dead-bolt lock on the landing door. “Sorry, no luck.”

  The boys continued down another flight that led them into a long hallway with a low ceiling. At the end of the hallway Chris stopped outside a door across from a short set of steps.

  “We’re beside the stage,” Chris whispered, pointing to the steps. “That door leads to the stage left wing.”

  “Wing?” Joe asked.

  “Where the actors wait to make entrances,” Chris explained. “And where we store scenery.”