Evil, Inc.

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 3

  “I DON’T BELIEVE it,” said Frank.

  He was looking in a mirror, and a stranger was looking back at him. The stranger’s hair was jet black and spiky, and he wore black pants, combat boots, an earring, and a black T-shirt stenciled with the words The Poison Pens. “Believe me, you look great!” Joe exclaimed. “This is totally crazy.”

  “Come on, don’t try to kid me,” said Joe. “I knew you couldn’t resist a caper like this. I could see that eager gleam in your eyes as soon as the Gray Man told us about this Reynard gang.”

  “I didn’t want to wind up being an only child, that’s all,” said Frank. “No way am I going to get stuck with all the chores around the house. And no way could you have pulled off this masquerade by yourself. It demands a cool head, not a hothead. I can just see you taking a punch at this Reynard guy if he so much as mentions a terrorist bomb.”

  “Save the lectures for later,” said Joe. “Let’s pay for your new wardrobe and get going.”

  After paying for Frank’s clothes, they left the secondhand clothing store with their regular clothes in plastic shopping bags. They took a subway uptown to Grand Central Station, where they put the shopping bags in coin-operated lockers. “We still have a few hours to kill before the meet,” said Frank, looking at his watch. “I know just how to do it,” said Joe. “Follow me.”

  He led Frank out onto Forty-Second Street and westward to the Times Square area until they reached a large, dingy movie house. The movie playing there was titled Punk Peril!

  “We can take a crash audiovisual course in our new roles,” said Joe. “Besides, I hear it’s a pretty good flick.”

  When they left the movie theater an hour and a half later, Frank gave his verdict on the film. “The absolute pits.”

  “Aw, it wasn’t so ‘ said Joe. “The big fight scene with the heavy-metal music getting louder and louder was kind of interesting. “

  “Don’t hold your breath when Academy Award time rolls around,” said Frank. He looked at his watch again. “But now it’s time for us to do our own acting job, and I’ve got a hunch we’re facing some tough critics. If they pan us, the show is going to be over fast. “

  They took a taxi to the Hotel Pierre.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Dupree,” Frank told the desk clerk.

  If the clerk found anything unusual in their appearance, he didn’t show it. It was a point of honor among New Yorkers not to raise an eyebrow over anything short of somebody strolling naked down Fifth Avenue, and maybe not even then.

  “Mr. Dupree is expecting you,” the clerk replied. “You’re to go to his room. It’s number seventeen-oh-five. “

  Frank and Joe rode the elevator up to the seventeenth floor and walked down the elegant corridor until they reached room 1705.

  “Eight o’clock on the nose,” said Joe, looking at his watch. “Zero hour.”

  “Here goes nothing,” said Frank, knocking on the door.

  The door was opened by a large man - a very large man. He was at least six-feet-five and weighed about three hundred pounds.

  His pig like eyes looked the Hardys up and down. Then he motioned them inside. The moment they stepped through the doorway, he shut the door and turned the lock. The next moment, an ugly Beretta pistol was in his hand. “Please excuse Simon for not saying hello,” said a voice from the doorway of another room in the hotel suite. The voice belonged to a lean, tanned, handsome man of about thirty, wearing an elegantly cut white suit and a black shirt. He spoke fluent English with a slight French accent. “Sad to say, Simon lost the power of speech early in life. He has since learned to make actions speak far louder than words. I suggest you do not start any kind of argument with him.”

  “It’s nice to get such a warm welcome,” said Joe sarcastically.

  “It’s going to be hard to do business if there isn’t some mutual trust involved,” added Frank gruffly.

  “There will be plenty of trust as soon as I see your money,” said the man who must have been Mr. Dupree.

  “Oh, sure, the money,” said Joe.

  “Right, the money,” said Frank. “You do have it, don’t you?” asked Dupree, all politeness fading from his voice leaving a core of icy suspicion exposed. “I made it quite clear on the phone. I want to see a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills as a sign of good faith before we go any further.”

  Frank gulped and then grinned. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Kidding?” said the man venomously. “Simon will show you how much I am kidding.”

  But before Dupree could make a motion to Simon, Frank said, “You really thought we’d bring all that loot to meet with a stranger? We’re not a couple of amateurs. We want some sign of your good faith.”

  Dupree considered the matter. Then he nodded. “I concede your point. You will not have to have the money delivered until just before we board the plane at JFK.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Joe. He and Frank exchanged quick glances. Clearly, there was a lot that the two punks had not told the Gray Man, probably because they never intended to go through with the deal.

  “Have your people deliver it to you in front of the Air France terminal in one hour,” said Dupree. “Then we will proceed to Paris to have you checked out. I hope for your sakes that you can produce the money. If you can’t - ” Dupree finished the sentence with a slashing gesture across his throat.

  “Sure we can,” said Joe. “We’ll go get it now.” Dupree smiled. “Do you really think I would let you out of my sight now that you have seen me? What kind of fool do you take me for?” Joe smiled back weakly. “Just testing.”

  “Yeah,” said Frank, producing a sick smile of his own. “We’ll make a phone call and set it up.”

  With a swagger he did not feel, Frank went to the phone and punched out the number that the Gray Man had given him, praying that there would be an answer.

  As the phone rang, he held his breath. Then he let it out with a rush as a voice answered, “Gray here. What’s up?”

  “It’s Frankie boy,” Frank said. “Get the one fifty big ones to the Air France terminal at JFK in an hour. Got it? Otherwise the deal does not go down, and we don’t take off. Got it?”

  “What the - ?” said the Gray Man. “Good,” said Frank, hanging up the phone.

  He turned to Dupree. “See, no sweat,” he said, feeling the sweat pouring out of every pore.

  “It is good that you have such dependable associates,” said Dupree. “The best,” agreed Frank.

  The brothers exchanged glances again. Their lives were in the Gray Man’s hands. It was not a comforting thought.

  An hour later, they stood with Dupree and Simon in front of the Air France terminal, their little confidence now gone. Dupree was glancing at his watch. Simon was patting the bulge of his pistol in his jacket pocket end Frank and Joe were furtively looking for a way out of this no exit death trap. Then a taxi rolled up to the curb. A man in a shabby gray messenger’s outfit got out.

  He had a stubble of gray whiskers on his face and his gray hair was uncombed.

  It took a moment for the Hardys to realize who he was and what the bulging manila envelope he carried was filled with.

  It was the Gray Man with the cash. “There’s Sam,” Frank said to Dupree. “Good old dependable Sam,” added Joe. “Get the money from him and let’s get going,” ordered Dupree.

  “I want to see if he has any messages for us from our partners in this deal,” said Frank.

  “Yeah, we have to talk in private,” said Joe, gesturing for the Gray Man not to come any closer. “Not that we don’t trust you, but we like to keep some things confidential, just like you do.”

  “You have exactly five minutes,” said Dupree, glancing at his gold watch. “It won’t take long,” Frank assured him, and they joined the Gray Man where he was waiting, just out of hearing range of Dupree and Simon.

  “Hey, great to see you,” whispered Frank. “I knew you’d
come through.” The Gray Man’s answer came in a hiss of rage. “You idiots! What are you doing mixed up in this? I should have left you to the mercies of the Reynard agents. Then I’d never have to worry about you gumming up the works again.” “I knew you’d appreciate our risking our lives,” said Joe. “Gratitude like that makes it all worthwhile. “

  “But no thanks, please, no applause, no medals,” said Frank. “Just give us the dough quick, before that hulk’s trigger finger gets itchy.” He saw the anger still in the Gray Man’s eyes and added quickly, “You do have the dough, don’t you?”

  “I do, though I couldn’t exactly take it out of petty cash,” said the Gray Man. “I also have something you kids need even more. A plan to get you out of this jam-unless of course you two boys have any objections.”

  “Who, us?” said Joe. “Enough wisecracking,” said the Gray Man.

  “Listen closely. When you go through the departure gate, you will be arrested by Network men posing as police who want you for previous crimes. That way we can rescue you without alerting the Reynard agents that they are under surveillance. Got it?” “Great scheme,” said Frank. “Yeah, can’t miss,” added Joe.

  “I hope for your sakes it doesn’t,” said the Gray Man. “We cannot endanger our operations against Reynard any further by continuing to save you from your own clumsy intrusion into this matter. I’m afraid you don’t even think of turning to the Network for help again. I’ve received orders to act as if we do not know you. If this plan fails, you will be totally on your own. “

  “Well, thanks for making that clear,” said Frank.

  “Right,” said Joe. “It makes me feel real warm.”

  The Gray Man shook his head. “It’s out of my hands now. Here,” he said, handing them the manila envelope. “And good luck.” Then he climbed back into the waiting taxi and sped away.

  Rejoining Dupree, Frank extended the envelope to him.

  Dupree shook his head. “Keep it. I am not the one you will have to show the money to, and it is better for me if I do not even touch it. My bosses get rather suspicious when large sums of money are involved, and if any of it is missing, I do not want to be the one who takes the blame.” “Nice bosses you have,” said Joe. “You will be able to judge for yourselves when you meet them,” said Dupree.

  Frank almost felt bad that they wouldn’t get to Paris. He would have liked to pursue this Reynard thing further.

  Joe felt the same way, only more so. Meeting Dupree and his gunman had brought his craving for vengeance against terrorists to the boiling point, and now cold water was being thrown on it. Still, both Hardys figured that staying alive had its advantages. They’d be able to solve mysteries and fight terrorists another day.

  “Almost time to board the plane?” Frank asked.

  “I hope we’re traveling first class,” said Joe. “Considering the dough involved, you should spring for the extra fare.”

  Dupree smiled. “You are traveling better than first class-and you can have anything you want.” “What do you mean?” asked Frank, feeling the first stirring of uneasiness.

  “Follow me,” replied Dupree.

  Exchanging quick, puzzled glances, Frank and Joe followed Dupree down the sidewalk past the entrance to the Air France terminal and to a small door marked Private: Authorized Passengers Only.

  Dupree showed an identity card to a guard at the door, and they were let through.

  “Much more efficient than lining up with the public at the departure gates,” said Dupree. “Have you traveled by private jet before? It is a most enjoyable experience.”

  “Right,” said Joe, with a gulp. “Going through departure gates is for the birds. All those officials. They give me the creeps.”

  Then Frank clapped his/hand to his forehead. “But we forgot our passports. We can’t get out of here or into France without them.”

  “You may have forgotten, but we have not,” said Dupree. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a wad of passports, and flipped through them. “These should match close enough,” he said, tossing two to the Hardys.

  Dupree was right. The bored-looking inspector at the passport control booth for departing private-plane passengers waved-them all through. Waiting on the runway was a Learjet.

  “Climb aboard,” said Dupree. “Don’t be shy about asking for anything you want. Only the best for our customers. So long now.” “You’re not coming?” asked Frank.

  “Not as a passenger,” replied Dupree. “I’m your pilot. Simon is the co-pilot-to prevent any … unpleasantness.”

  Half an hour later, the jet was flying past the eastern tip of Long Island and out over the Atlantic. The Hardys were sitting alone in the luxurious cabin. “Well, here we are,” said Joe. “No rescue,” said Frank. “No Network,” added Joe. “No idea what we’re going to do when we get to Paris,” said Frank.

  A stewardess appeared from a’ galley in the front of the plane. “Can I get you anything to eat?” she asked.

  “I won’t say no to that,” said Joe. He ordered filet mignon with fries and a Coke.

  Frank ordered lobster and a Pepsi.

  While the stewardess was getting their orders, Joe turned to Frank. “This sure beats Katz’s Deli,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” Frank said bleakly. “It reminds me of those old prison movies.” “What do you mean?” Joe asked.

  “You know-the condemned man always gets a great last meal.”

  Chapter 4

  THE ADDRESS OF Reynard and Company’s Paris office was the Tour Montparnasse. Even though they were across the city, in a shabby hotel on the other side of the Seine River, Frank and Joe could see the office building sticking out on the horizon of the city like a huge sore thumb.

  Joe turned from the fly-specked window. “I say we go directly to those offices.”

  “Dupree told us to wait when he left us here,” Frank said.

  “Come on,” Joe insisted. “We should take the bull by the horns.”

  “For once I agree with you,” said Frank, rolling off the sagging mattress and getting to his feet. “The sooner we get going, the sooner we can find out exactly what Reynard and Company is up to. That’s our only way out of this mess.”

  “Let’s grab a cab right now,” said Joe, eager to get moving.

  “The train would be faster - and cheaper.” Frank jingled the few French coins Dupree had given them. “Besides, the Paris Metro is a lot nicer than the subways back home.”

  Joe grumbled all the way to the Metro, but when they crossed Paris in ten minutes by traveling underground, he was willing to admit that the Metro was okay. Especially when they emerged into the daylight and saw the streets packed with cars in a gigantic traffic jam that everyone around them seemed to accept as normal, even the shouting drivers.

  The elevator that took them fifty floors up to the Reynard offices was high-speed, too. Frank and Joe walked down a hallway until they came to a door with Reynard et Cie - French for Reynard and Companyin gilt letters on it. They opened the door and entered a huge reception area with modern art on the walls and a beautiful receptionist in an expensive dress sitting at a gleaming mahogany desk. The desktop was completely bare except for a vase of flawlessly arranged flowers and a white telephone.

  “I can deduce one thing right away,” Frank said. “Whatever Reynard and Company is doing, it’s doing pretty well.”

  “I’ll say,” agreed Joe in a whisper. “Any business that can afford a receptionist like that is doing just fine.”

  He stood in front of the young woman and gave her his most winning smile. Apparently his bizarre appearance didn’t put her off in the least. She smiled back.

  Frank sighed. Joe would let a pretty girl sidetrack him anytime, anyplace. At least, he reminded himself, that means the old Joe is back. After Iola’s death, he’d wondered if he’d ever see his brother smile like that again. Frank got down to business.

  “Pardon me,” he said to the girl. “Parlez-vous anglais? Do you speak Eng
lish?”

  “But of course,” said the girl with barely a trace of an accent. “Everyone at Reynard speaks English, as well as Spanish, German, and Italian, plus a bit of Japanese. International trade is our business. How may I help you?” “I want to see the boss,” said Frank. “Yeah, take us to your leader,” added Joe, giving her another smile.

  This time she did not respond. Instead she looked them over carefully from their spiky hair to the toes of their combat boots.

  “And what is your business?” she asked, her voice cool and professional. “It’s very confidential,” answered Frank. “We’ll only reveal it to the man at the top.”

  “That Reynard guy,” said Joe. “What’s that dude’s first name? Paul. Paul Reynard.” “I’m sorry, but perhaps if you wrote for an appointment, someone in management might find time to see you,” replied the receptionist in a voice that indicated the conversation was over.

  “Look, this is important,” said Frank. “Let me give you an idea of how important.”

  Frank pulled out the tightly stuffed envelope that the Gray Man had given him. He drew out a thick bundle of large bills and riffled them in front of the receptionist’s nose.

  The receptionist widened her eyes slightly, and her cheeks flushed. Immediately she picked up the phone, punched out a number, and spoke in unintelligibly low and rapid French.

  When she hung up, she looked at the Hardys. “Someone will be out to see you,” she said.

  “I hope he gets a move on,” said Joe. “Time is money, Lots of it. “

  Reynard and Company apparently felt the same way. Joe had hardly finished speaking when a small man in a trim blue suit stepped into the reception area.

  “How can I help you?” he asked with a smile that indicated that the receptionist had told him how thick the bundle of bills was.

  “First you can tell us who you are,” said Frank, putting a hard, cold, suspicious edge in his voice.

  “Charles Duval, in charge of new accounts,” the man replied, extending his hand.

  Frank and Joe ignored it.