Evil, Inc.

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Denise smiled as Frank and Joe sat down at the table in the cafe where she was waiting.

  “How do I look?” she said, tossing her red hair back.

  She wore a black blouse, a short black skirt, black fishnet stockings, and pointed black boots with silver buckles.

  “It’s not authentic punk style,” she said, “but I don’t think Carlos will mind. He’s supposed to like pretty girls.”

  “Then he’s sure to like you,” said Joe. Looking at her, he had a hard time believing that someone so attractive could do such ugly things. He had to remind himself it was the Reynards’ business to find people with special talents who would do anything for money. Denise definitely had the special talent for catching a man’s eye. “It’s almost midnight,” said Joe, looking at his watch. “The action must be heating up. Time for us to get moving.”

  Their destination was Hollywood Heaven, the hottest disco in Paris. At the entrance, a doorman with a mohawk, wearing a leather motorcycle jacket, tight blue jeans, and a spike-studded belt shook his head as they approached.

  His head stopped moving when Denise held a five-hundred-franc note in front of his eyes.

  “Entrez,” he said, plucking the bill from her hand and swinging the door open in one swift motion.

  “Money makes life so simple,” said Denise as they entered the strobe-lit, barn like room.

  “And so dangerous-for Carlos Gonzales, anyway,” added Frank, his eyes roaming the crowd, searching for the young man they had seen in the photo. “There he is,” said Joe, pointing quickly. Carlos Gonzales was leaning against the bar, drumming his fingers to the deafening disco beat. “Good eyes,” said Frank. “He was hard to miss with that pair of gorillas shadowing him.”

  Close to Carlos were two large men in red colored wigs and black clothes that didn’t quite fit. They were swaying to the music as if trying to keep their balance on a trembling tightrope. If they were trying to blend into the background, they weren’t doing very well.

  “Now comes the job of separating the boy from the men,” said Denise. She went about her job very well.

  Within five minutes she was dancing with Carlos. Five minutes after that, he had forgotten about the music, waved away his guards, and was leading her to a table for a glass of champagne. Fifteen minutes later, Denise led him over to Frank and Joe, who were standing by a wall, looking bored and indifferent.

  “Sam and Pete, meet Carlos,” said Denise. “Happy to meet you,” said Carlos, smiling. Frank and Joe kept their faces blank, ignoring the hand that Carlos extended.

  “Hey, look, Carlos is okay,” Denise said. “I vouch for him.” “Sure, I’m okay,” Carlos spoke up. “So, you’re okay,” said Frank coldly. “So what do you want?”

  “Well, I hear from this lady that you guys know of a good party we could go to,” Carlos said awkwardly. He might have learned to look tough, but the Hardys could see the uncertainty in his eyes.

  “Yeah,” Frank said, “but we’re talking business here. If you two want to party, we’d be happy to help-but we like to be rewarded for our humanitarian efforts.” He smiled wolfishly.

  “I don’t understand,” Carlos said.

  Joe poked a finger into Carlos’s chest. “Let’s see some money, wimp.” “Oh!” Carlos’s face lit up. “No problem, amigos. Money is something I understand.” Carlos confidently pulled a well-stuffed wallet from his jeans.

  “Are you sure this guy is okay?” Frank asked Denise warily.

  “Don’t worry about him,” she answered.

  “I don’t know.” Joe shook his head. “Some thing about him smells lousy.” He jerked his head at the two bodyguards who still leaned against the bar, careful not to let the rich kid out of their sight. “I got a nose for stuff like that. Just who are those two goons?” “Oh, them,” Carlos said, looking embarrassed. “Don’t worry about them. You see, I made a deal with my father. He promised not to interfere with anything I want to do, just so long as nobody tries to get at his money through me. So, I have guards.”

  “Guards mean law, and law means trouble,” said Joe. “They’ll bum out the party.” Frank and Joe turned away.

  “Come on, guys, give me a break,” said Carlos.

  “Okay, we’ll party-but only if you shake those goons,” said Joe.

  Carlos looked torn. “But - “

  “Okay. I’ll find someone else to party with,” said Denise. She turned away from Carlos, her body already beginning to move to the music.

  “But how can we shake them?” asked Carlos desperately.

  Denise turned back to him. “We only have to lose them for a few minutes-long enough to get away. As soon as we’re outside, we’ll make a break for it. Guys, meet us at the Cafe Duchamp, two blocks from here, in five minutes. Okay?”

  “Okay,” agreed Joe. “But don’t be late-and you two better be alone.” “Trust me,” said Denise.

  “I hate to say it, but Denise is really good at this,” said Frank as he and Joe watched her dance toward the exit with Carlos. The guards followed, pretending to dance, almost tripping over their own feet as they were jostled by the mob that packed the room tighter and tighter as the night wore on.

  “Yeah, everything is going according to plan their plan,” said Joe as he and Frank elbowed their way through the dancers to stay close to the guards. “I hope our plan goes as well.”

  “That comes later,” said Frank. “For the time being we have to follow orders.’”

  Still dancing, Carlos and Denise disappeared out the door. The two guards froze in surprise. Then they charged through the crowd like fullbacks, trying to reach the exit. Frank and Joe were right behind them. They ran out of the building in time to see the guards questioning the doorman, who shrugged his shoulders. However, when money was shoved into his hand, he promptly pointed in the direction that Carlos and Denise had gone.

  The guards ran off at full speed. Frank and Joe waited a couple of seconds, then followed them, knees pumping, feet flying. They kept just enough distance so that the pounding of their combat boots on the pavement wouldn’t alert the guards until they were out of sight of onlookers. Meanwhile, the disco doorman watched the two pairs of men dash off. He never even blinked his eyes. After a year at this job, nothing the customers did surprised him anymore.

  Everything went according to plan. The guards weren’t aware that they were being followed until Frank and Joe stepped up the pace to charge them. The guards stopped on the empty side street and wheeled around, automatically reached for their concealed shoulder holsters. But they were too late.

  The Hardys already had guns in their hands small but deadly Beretta pistols provided by Mr. Goya. The guards saw the weapons gleaming in the light of a streetlamp and, without being asked, raised their hands in the air.

  The Hardys didn’t have to say a word. They motioned with their pistols and their two prisoners turned around. The guards knew the rules of the game. The people who got their guns out first gave the orders.

  Five minutes later the guards were gagged with heavy tape and tied hand and foot with unbreakable nylon cord, all supplied by Mr. Goya. “Now,” Frank said, “we have to put these two away for a while. And that looks like a cozy spot.” He pointed to a nearby trash dumpster. “Yeah,” said Joe. “Trash belongs with trash.”

  Prodding them with their pistols, they forced the two goons up and into the dirty green dumpster and shut the lid with a loud clang. Then they headed for the cafe.

  “I can’t believe this is going so smoothly,” said Joe. “Like clockwork.”

  “That’s the way Reynard’s people are supposed to do things. They provide only the best service,” replied Frank. “Let’s hope we do as good a job when we start working on our own.”

  The Hardys reached the Cafe Duchamp. Carlos and Denise sat at a table, waiting for them. Carlos looked edgy, while Denise tried to take that edge off by giving him melting looks and touching his hand softly with hers.

  Frank and Joe wore big grins as th
ey strode toward the pair. “Ready to go?” Joe asked. “Sure,” said Carlos. “Do we take a taxi?” “No need,” said Frank. “We’ll give you a lift.”

  They left the cafe, heading down a street lined with shops closed for the night toward a large, battered van.

  “This is your van?” said Carlos. “CooL - “

  “And that’s just how you’d better stay-cool,” said Frank, pulling out his pistol. “Please, do not hurt the girl,” Carlos said, stepping in front of Denise.

  “You poor jerk, you still don’t get it,” said Denise, stuffing a gag in his mouth from behind. “Now put your hands behind your back, Don Juan.”

  Bound and gagged, Carlos put up no resistance as the Hardys heaved him into the back of the van.

  Denise locked the door and looked at her watch. “Our package is all tied up-and Goya won’t be picking him up for forty minutes yet. Well, I guess the wait won’t kill the kid.” “No, Goya will take care of that,” said Frank.

  “Right, murder wasn’t part of our deal,” agreed Denise. “That would have cost extra. But Goya will not have any trouble with that. He is very professional. He let us do the kidnapping. If we made a mistake, he would not be at risk.” “Let’s be sure we don’t run any risk now,” said Joe. “Our job is over. Let’s split.” “See you tomorrow morning at Reynard’s,” said Denise.

  “They’d better payoff as promised, or - ” Joe broke off, leaving his threat dangling in empty air.

  “Or what?” asked Denise, smiling. “What could you do to the Reynards? But don’t worry. They will pay. They are good businessmen, and they know how important it is to keep their end of a bargain.” “Yeah, good thing we’re not dealing with crooks,” said Joe as they left the van behind. At the corner, Denise and the Hardys walked off in opposite directions. Frank and Joe turned another corner, then stopped and waited.

  “We’ll give it five minutes before we head back to the van,” Frank whispered.

  “Too bad we can’t call the cops and give them an anonymous tip to get to the van before Goya does,” said Joe.

  “We’ve already been over that,” replied Frank. “The Reynards have spies on the force. They’d find out about the tip and suspect us immediately. We can’t trust the police.”

  “But can we trust Carlos to play ball with us?” asked Joe.

  “I think so,” said Frank. “He’ll be so grateful to be released that he’ll do whatever we ask.”

  “Let’s go over the story again to make sure it holds up,” said Joe. “We tell Carlos we’re undercover police, about to expose a gang of terrorists, right?”

  “That’s right,” Frank answered. “And we’re releasing him to save his life, but we don’t want him to tell anybody that we did it, because that would blow our cover.”

  “So then he’s supposed to issue a statement to the press saying it was Denise who let him go.” Joe paused, looking unhappy. “Look, I can’t do it. The Reynards will kill her.”

  “It would only be justice,” Frank pointed out. “I have a hunch there’s murder somewhere in her background.” “I don’t think so,” said Joe. “She’s so young.”

  “And so pretty,” Frank shot back. “That’s what you really mean.” Joe nodded. “I just don’t want her blood on my hands.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Frank said. “To tell the truth, I feel pretty queasy about it myself.”

  Joe grinned at his brother in gratitude. “I knew you couldn’t do it either. You’re not as cool and calculating as you try to act.” Then Joe’s face lit up. “Hey, how about this?” he cried. “Carlos can tell a story about working free of his bonds, and smashing out of the van on his own. It will make him look like some kind of superhero.”

  Frank picked up on the idea. “We can do some smashing ourselves to make it look real. It might just work.”

  “Let’s go.” Joe led the way, his step springy, as if a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  He and Frank sprinted around one corner and then the other. They looked down the street where the van was parked-still deserted.

  “Carlos,” Frank whispered, rapping on the door of the van. “Boy,” said Joe, “is he gonna be glad to see us.” The Hardys froze as the van door swung open. Carlos wasn’t glad. Carlos wasn’t there at all.

  Chapter 10

  “How COULD CARLOS have escaped?” Mr. Goya demanded.

  “We don’t know, but we will find out,” Pierre Reynard said. His brothers nodded in menacing agreement.

  Mr. Goya was meeting with the Reynards, Denise, and the Hardys in the Reynard offices. When the Hardys had discovered that Carlos was missing, they waited for Mr. Goya to arrive on the scene. As soon as they told him what happened, he phoned the Reynards on an emergency number, and the Reynards immediately ordered this predawn gathering.

  Now Mr. Goya declared, “Certainly, you cannot expect me to pay for this mistake. I demand my down payment back.” “Of course we will return it,” said Pierre. “We are an honest business. Satisfaction guaranteed.”

  He removed an envelope from his desk drawer, gave it one last regretful look, and handed it to Mr. Goya.

  Mr. Goya opened it, counted the bills inside, and said, “Fine.” He rose from his chair. “I will be going now, and leaving this country. France no longer seems so comfortable to me.”

  “But I assure you, if you let us supply you with a different crew-” Pierre began to protest.

  “No thank you,” replied Mr. Goya. “In my business, I cannot afford people who make mistakes. Goodbye.” Putting the money in his pocket, he left the office.

  Pierre waited until he was gone, then he said, “And in our business, we can’t afford dissatisfied customers-or refunds.”

  While his brothers smiled grimly, Pierre picked up the phone, spoke a few quick words into it, then hung up.

  “Mr. Goya will not be able to leave France,” he said. “He will not even be able to leave this building. Not alive, anyway.”

  “Well, that’s one way of handling complaints,” said Frank, repressing a shudder. Even Joe, who hated terrorists like poison, felt a chill run through him.

  “Complaints are another thing we cannot afford,” said Pierre. “Like Mr. Goya, we cannot afford people who do not do their jobs.”

  “I hope you are not referring to us,” said Denise. “I assure you, we followed the plan perfectly.”

  “I am not referring to you, Denise,” said Pierre. “You have proven yourself thoroughly capable in all your past assignments. But we do have two new employees about whom we know very little.”

  “Hey, you can’t be talking about us!” exclaimed Frank. “We did everything we were supposed to do.”

  “We sure did,” agreed Joe. “Denise will tell you that. Right, Denise?”

  His look of appeal was met by Denise’s cold gaze. “As far as I know,” she said carefully.

  Pierre glanced at his watch. “Let us find out whether the five A. M. news has anything to say about the affair.”

  He punched a button on his desk, and a TV set lit up on the wall. A woman newscaster was sitting next to a large photo of a young man. The young man was Carlos Gonzales.

  Frank and Joe strained to figure out what the woman was saying, but she spoke too fast for them to understand.

  They turned away from the screen to ask Denise-but the question never left their lips. Denise was pointing a gun at them.

  Frank and Joe wheeled around to face the Reynards. Guns were in their hands as well. “According to the newscaster, Carlos reported that he was set free by the two young men who abducted him in the first place,’ said Pierre. “Who they are and why they did it remains a mystery.”

  “But not to us,” said Denise. “You two must have been fools enough to think you could trust a weakling like Carlos. And worse fools if you hoped to bargain for mercy from the police by setting him free. Obviously, you did not believe us when we told you what the police will do to cop killers. At least we can be sure you did not go t
o the police. If you had, you would be dead.”

  “Good thinking, Denise,” said Pierre, nodding in approval.

  “I try to earn my pay,” replied Denise modestly.

  Joe flashed Frank an apologetic look. This was the pretty girl he hadn’t wanted to endanger?

  Frank didn’t notice Joe. He was too busy looking at the guns trained on them.

  “Hey, you can’t think - ” he began.

  “We don’t think anything,” snapped’ Pierre. “We know.”

  “We also know what to do about it,” said Yves.

  “The only question is how, when, and where,” added Maurice. “And I say here, now, and with this.” He raised the pistol in his hand.

  “Not so fast,” said Pierre, with cool executive authority. “Let us follow proper business procedures and avoid the difficulties that would be caused by going outside established channels. This is a job for our disposal department.”

  “But they’re busy now,” protested Maurice, looking at his pistol and then at the Hardys like a child deprived of a treat.

  “Disposing of Mr. Goya should take them only an hour or so,” said Pierre. “Then they can do the same with these two traitors.”

  “But what do we do with them in the meantime?” asked Yves.

  “Why do you not store them in the corporate boardroom until they are taken?” suggested Denise. “No one ever goes in there - it is used only a few times a year. And it has a good lock on the door.”

  “I can see that you are trying to earn a raise, and you well may get it,” said Pierre, smiling with approval. .

  “The cost of living is going up.” Denise shrugged her shoulders and smiled sweetly in return. Then she motioned with her pistol, herding the Hardys out of the Reynards’ private office.

  The boardroom was furnished with a long, heavy oak table and high-backed oak chairs. Its walls were paneled with oak and its massive door was oak, too. It looked strangely old-fashioned in the otherwise sleek and modern headquarters of Reynard and Company. “Our beloved uncle feels at home here when he comes twice’ a year to preside over our public meetings,” Pierre explained in answer to the Hardys’ unspoken question as they looked around. “We go to great trouble not to interfere with the dream world of the’ respectable past that he lives in, as you can see from those pictures.” He indicated the large framed portraits and photo enlargements that lined the walls. “You can amuse yourself by studying Uncle Paul’s life while you wait for your death.”