The London Deception

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Can’t we help you attach the set piece to the pipe again?” Joe offered.

  “Right, but we’ve got three hours of paint work to do first,” Jennifer replied. “So go out for a bite and be back at six.”

  • • •

  Frank checked the London phone book and got the address for the Link Talent Agency. “Good luck, Joe. I’ll see you back here at six o’clock,” he said.

  Joe rode on the top deck of a double-decker bus down Whitechapel Road, which became Aldgate High Street. He passed by numerous shops, pubs, and churches, getting off the bus at Commercial Street and walking up to Old Castle Street.

  Joe scratched his head. One-eleven Old Castle Street wasn’t an office building at all, but a narrow, somewhat dilapidated five-story tenement.

  Inside, Joe walked up five flights of stairs and found a door marked 502. From the outside, Joe guessed he would not find a luxury office suite on the other side. He noticed a note pinned to the door: “Kije Enterprises Closed. Call For Appointment.”

  Joe copied down the phone number on the notice and used a pay phone outside to call.

  “You have reached Kije Enterprises, Incorporated,” a man with a foreign accent began on a recorded message. “Please leave your name, number, and the nature of your business at the tone and we shall return your call at our earliest opportunity.”

  “My business?” Joe said quietly to himself. “My business is to find out if you know Dennis Paul has cashed a three-thousand-pound check of yours—”

  Just then Joe heard the tone. “Hi, this is Joe Hardy, I’m a friend of Dennis Paul’s. I need to talk to Mr. Kije about some troubling things happening with the show Innocent Victim.” Joe realized that the only number he could leave was Mr. Paul’s or the one at the theater. He couldn’t risk having Mr. Paul or anyone else at the theater know what he was up to, so he added, “Um, I’ll try calling back.”

  • • •

  Ian Link’s receptionist greeted Frank rather coolly. “Yes, young man, what are you here for?”

  “I wanted to see Mr. Link,” Frank replied.

  “Mr. Link isn’t accepting new clients, and, no, you may not leave your photo and résumé,” the receptionist snipped.

  “I’m not an actor,” Frank replied. “I work for Mr. Schulander.”

  “Oh, well, that’s where Ian is,” the receptionist replied, lightening her tone.

  “Where?” Frank asked.

  “At the Alhambra,” she replied.

  Frank was about to ask what the Alhambra was, then realized the question might blow his cover. “Thank you, I’ll go to the Alhambra,” Frank said instead.

  As he stepped onto the elevator, a man in a sports coat was riding down to the lobby. “Excuse me, what is the Alhambra?” Frank asked.

  The man smiled. “The Alhambra? It’s one of the most prestigious theaters in the West End.”

  By the time he reached the ground floor, Frank had an address and directions and walked swiftly to London’s West End.

  As he walked through the front door of the Alhambra and started to enter the theater, an usher stopped him. “May I help you?”

  “I need to see Ian Link,” Frank replied.

  “This is a closed audition, you’ll have to wait for Mr. Link out here,” the usher told him.

  Frank wanted to get into that theater. He could not only talk to Ian Link, but possibly even Mr. Schulander himself. Remembering the stage door at the Quill Garden, he went around the side of the building. The Alhambra had a stage door, but there was a doorman guarding it.

  After buying some coffee and a turkey sandwich at a nearby store, Frank returned to the stage door.

  “I have an order for Mr. Schulander,” he said to the man at the stage door.

  “How’d you get your work visa?” the man asked.

  Frank was thrown for a moment, then realized he was referring to Frank’s being American. It was very difficult, he had heard, for Americans to get permission to work in England. “Connections” was all Frank replied.

  The man let Frank in, and he followed the narrow corridor until he found the entrance to the stage. Through the main curtain, he heard a conversation going on in the front of the auditorium and stopped to listen.

  “Ian, I would have loved for Emily to do the role,” a man with a deep voice said, “but I find it wholly unethical to pull her from a show to which she’s already committed.”

  “I’m telling you, Mr. Schulander, Innocent Victim is as good as dead before it even opens,” the other man, who Frank assumed was Ian Link, replied. “Hold off casting for just another few days.”

  Suddenly someone grabbed Frank’s shoulder and spun him around. “What do you think you’re doing?” the man demanded.

  Frank dropped the sandwich, stunned to be face-to-face with Corey Lista.

  10 The Turncoat

  * * *

  “Come on, you,” Lista said, pushing Frank through the curtain and out onto the lip of the stage.

  “What’s happening here?” Schulander asked, standing in the first row of seats with Ian Link.

  “This one here sneaked in through the stage door,” Lista said, grabbing Frank by the arm.

  “What do you mean sneaking in, young man?” Schulander asked.

  “I’m protecting the interests of Mr. Kije,” Frank replied, pulling away from Lista’s grasp. “I had a hunch you were trying to hire away the star of his show.”

  “I told Ian from the beginning that I had no intention of hiring away Emily,” Schulander said, defending himself.

  “But what if Innocent Victim gets scrapped?” Ian Link asked.

  “That’s another matter,” Schulander replied. “But Timothy Jeffries is an old friend. For his sake, I hope it’s a huge hit. I know how desperately he needs one at his theater.”

  “If you’re a friend, why would you hire a stage manager who just quit the show in Mr. Jeffries theater?” Frank asked, nodding toward Lista.

  “Mr. Lista was recommended to me by Mr. Jeffries himself just last night,” Schulander replied.

  “I had every right to quit,” Lista snarled. “I explained the unsafe working conditions to my union, and they gave me their blessing.”

  “You’re telling me you quit this morning and walked into another job this afternoon?” Frank challenged.

  “I saw the writing on the wall, so I had been making inquiries,” Lista replied. “Mr. Jeffries was nice enough to put in a good word.”

  “Well, young man, I wish you the best of luck with your show,” Schulander said, escorting Frank to the stage door. “Now, if you would be so good as to let me attend to mine.”

  • • •

  Frank and Joe met up outside the Quill Garden Theatre just as a light snow was beginning to fall. Joe filled in Frank on Kije Enterprises location in a shoddy apartment building, and the peculiar note hung on the door. Frank then told Joe about his encounter at the Alhambra Theatre.

  “Schulander said Jeffries recommended Lista for the job last night,” Frank told his brother.

  “Why would Jeffries recommend Lista for another job before he had quit his job on Innocent Victim?” Joe wondered as they walked into the theater to get warm.

  “Good question. And you were right about Emily Anderson. She was hoping Innocent Victim was canceled,” Frank told him as they walked down the aisle toward the stage.

  “Hoping it would be canceled and trying to cancel it are two different things,” Emily Anderson said as she stepped from the wings onto the stage. “Yes, I heard you. You might recall, the acoustics in here are excellent.”

  Mr. Paul walked in from the wings behind Emily. “Good news, boys! Emily is still with us. She even apologized for her negative attitude.”

  Emily gave Mr. Paul an astonished look.

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly an apology,” Mr. Paul conceded.

  “I still have no interest in ending my career, or my life, because I get caught in the crossfire of whatever insidious plot is bein
g perpetrated here,” Emily said, walking off toward the dressing rooms. “One more incident, or for that matter, one more accusation,” she added to the Hardys, “and I will break my contract and leave this show whether you sue me or not.”

  After Emily left, Joe asked, “Where are Jennifer and Chris?”

  “Gone after more materials,” Mr. Paul told them. “Apparently, the counterweight system was damaged as well. Repairs will take all night, Jennifer thinks.”

  “We’ll be glad to stay and help,” Frank offered. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, so we don’t have to wake up early for school.”

  “That would be marvelous, boys. Then I can go to the school this evening and arrange to borrow the costumes,” Mr. Paul replied, taking out his key chain. “Here are my keys. Be sure to lock up when you leave.”

  Mr. Paul buttoned up his overcoat, bid the Hardys’ good night, and left.

  “What do we know about repairing counterweight systems?” Joe wondered.

  “The show is still going on, Joe,” Frank told him. “I figure whoever is trying to sabotage Innocent Victim might try again tonight.”

  “And if they do, we’ll be here,” Joe finished Frank’s thought.

  Frank hopped up in the judge’s high-backed swivel chair on the set and looked out at the hundreds of empty seats in the theater. It was a powerful feeling.

  “Emily Anderson is the only one we’ve got with a motive,” Joe said, sitting on the edge of the stage with his legs dangling down, “but I’m convinced she’s telling the truth.”

  “Don’t forget what a good actress she is,” Frank reminded his younger brother. “Besides, if she isn’t involved, who’s been trying to frame her for the sabotage?”

  “Someone who knew she used greasepaint and lit a red candle in her dressing room,” Joe replied.

  “One of the other actors?” Frank guessed. “But why choose to frame a woman with such an impeccable reputation? What motive—”

  “Motive. That’s it,” Joe interrupted. “Emily Anderson had a motive that could make her a legitimate suspect. Maybe the real saboteur knew that.”

  Frank spun toward Joe in the judge’s chair, “So he chose her to keep anyone investigating from digging for other suspects with other motives.”

  “Good hypothesis, Frank,” Joe exclaimed, “but we still have no idea who we’re talking about.”

  ”There they are, the shirkers!” Chris called as he trudged down the aisle from the back of the theater, coils of rope and cable slung over his shoulder. Jennifer followed, carrying bags.

  They were delighted to find that Frank and Joe would be working with them through the night.

  “There’s a new Indian restaurant that opened around the corner—we can order take-away,” Jennifer suggested. “They have terrific goat curry and tandoori, not to mention the raita, the biryani, the naan, and the mango chutney.”

  “Naan, mango, tandoori, and goat?” Joe repeated. “Whatever you say. Sounds like a nice change from burgers and fries.”

  • • •

  By two-thirty in the morning, the repairs to the counterweight system were complete. Joe stepped into the side alley to get a breath of fresh air and was surprised to find a foot of snow on the ground with the temperature still dropping.

  Frank stepped outside, thumping his chest with his hand as he burped. “Excuse me. That Indian food was spicy.”

  “I thought it was excellent,” Joe said, patting his stomach.

  “The way you scarfed it down, you did a pretty good impression of our buddy Chet Morton,” Frank said.

  “Hey, we both have cast-iron stomachs,” Joe said.

  “Yeah, but in two different sizes,” Frank said, grinning. “Medium and extra large.”

  The Hardys laughed together just as Chris and Jennifer stepped outside.

  “It’s good to hear you laughing,” Chris said. “With all that’s been going on, we haven’t had much time to have fun.”

  “The fun can come later. Right now, the play’s the thing,” Joe told him.

  “My goodness, Joe Hardy quoting Shakespeare?” Chris exclaimed in mock astonishment.

  “I did?” Joe asked.

  “Speaking of no fun, with this snow it’ll be no fun getting home,” Chris said. “Our train stopped running at midnight. We’ll have to take a bus and then walk the rest.”

  “We have a nine o’clock call tomorrow morning. Why don’t we all just sleep here?” Jennifer suggested.

  Frank, Joe, and Chris agreed. After foraging backstage, they created makeshift beds from set furniture and covered themselves with black masking curtains for blankets.

  “I’m glad Jennifer suggested this,” Joe said privately to Frank, after they had bedded down on two sofas.

  “Yeah, well, I kind of figured you liked being around her,” Frank said, smiling.

  “No, not that,” Joe said, blushing slightly. “I’m glad because she wouldn’t have suggested we stay here all night if she was one of the saboteurs.”

  “You’re right, Joe,” Frank said.

  “Hey, you under the tormentor, keep it quiet,” Chris joked to the Hardys from the chaise longue he was lying on.

  “Tormentor?” Joe asked.

  “That’s the type of curtain you’re using for a blanket,” Chris replied. “Tormentors are hung on the sides of the stage behind the proscenium to block the audience’s view of the wings. See, you learn something new from me every day.”

  All four of them chuckled a bit.

  “Good night, gentlemen,” Jennifer called from the other side of the stage, where she was lying on an army cot she had found in the storage area. “You did fine work.”

  “Should I turn off this light?” Joe asked, pointing to the one bare bulb on the stand in the middle of the stage.”

  “That’s the work light,” Jennifer told them. “You leave it onstage when everyone leaves the theater so that the stage is never dark.”

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “Superstition,” Jennifer said.

  With that, they settled down to sleep.

  • • •

  When Frank’s eyes opened, the stage was dark and his breath was frosty.

  Joe still slept, curled up on his sofa.

  “Joe!” Frank called in a hushed tone.

  Joe’s eyes blinked open. “Man, it’s freezing in here,” Joe said, sitting up and grabbing his heavy leather jacket.

  “The power must have cut off,” Frank said, feeling for his own jacket and putting it on before walking over to the chaise longue and shaking Chris awake.

  “Don’t tell me it’s morning,” Chris said, groggily.

  “It’s about five A.M.,” Frank replied after hitting the light button on his watch and checking the time.

  Joe walked over to wake Jennifer, but found her cot empty. He suddenly heard a faint, metallic clatter from high above him.

  “I think someone’s up on the catwalk above the stage,” Joe whispered. “Jennifer?”

  There was no answer, and the sound stopped.

  Chris had now gotten up and was flipping light switches in the left wing. “No lights, either.”

  “Where’s the breaker switch?” Joe asked.

  “I have no idea,” Chris replied. “We might find flashlights in the light booth or in Mr. Jeffries’s office.”

  “You two go ahead, I’ll keep looking for Jennifer,” Joe said.

  While Frank and Chris felt along the wall, moving up the side aisle toward the lobby of the theater, Joe started toward the dressing rooms.

  Suddenly Joe heard another sound from high above the stage. A creak, like rusty hinges being forced open. Finding his way to the ladder, he began climbing up into the darkness toward the catwalk.

  • • •

  In the light booth, Frank found a flashlight. “Let’s get down to the lobby to see if we can locate the breaker box,” Frank told Chris.

  “Frank! Chris!” Joe’s voice echoed from somewhere nearby.

  “Sounds li
ke something’s wrong,” Frank said, and hurried in the direction of his brother’s voice.

  • • •

  Up on the catwalk, Joe Hardy squinted, looking at something thin and gray, floating in the darkness. Lights suddenly came on below, illuminating the catwalk enough for Joe to see he was looking at gray light from outside, showing through a crack in the side wall of the stage house.

  “Joe?” Frank’s voice called from far below.

  “I’m up here!” Joe called back.

  Crossing to the end of the catwalk, Joe discovered the light was not coming through a crack, but through a small, rusty metal door that had been left ajar.

  Joe pushed the door open, stepped out, and found himself on the snow-covered roof of the theater.

  New footprints in the snow led toward the edge of the roof where Jennifer Mulhall stood staring down.

  Joe moved toward the edge of the roof. “Jennifer?” Joe called quietly, not wanting to frighten her.

  Jennifer turned to Joe, then shouted, “Watch out! He’s right behind you!”

  11 Hanging by a Thread

  * * *

  A violent shove from behind sent Joe Hardy stumbling forward and over the three-foot retaining wall that bordered the roof.

  Joe grabbed hold of the storm gutter, which tore away from the outer wall of the building under his weight.

  Joe was left dangling six stories above the street, hanging on to the aluminum gutter, one end of which remained uncertainly fastened to the outer wall by an iron brace.

  He tried to get a foothold on the wall, but the gutter had left him hanging too far away to reach.

  “Here!” Jennifer shouted, hanging over the retaining wall while rapidly feeding the metal tape from a tape measure down to Joe.

  Joe grabbed the tape with one hand and wrapped it around his wrist. The edge of the metal tape cut into Joe’s palm as Jennifer began hoisting him up.

  “Joe?” Jennifer cried out.

  She had wrapped the other end of the tape around her own hand to keep it from detaching from the casing, and it was cutting into her skin.

  Joe knew she couldn’t hang on for more than a few seconds, but he could not climb up without letting go of the gutter. His full weight would either break the tape or pull Jennifer off the roof.