Arms and legs pumping furiously, Joe sprinted across the broad plaza. Flame Fiend had a good lead, but Joe was faster and was gaining on him.
Joe saw the crook glance behind him. Then Flame Fiend's left hand flipped open a small black box on the back of his belt. A second later Joe heard a rapid metallic clattering.
Before Joe knew what was happening, he lost his footing and felt his feet shoot up in the air. He slammed into the ground, hard.
The fall knocked the wind from his lungs, and Joe just lay there for a moment. He shook his head to clear it, and when his eyes focused, he caught a flash of movement near the corner of the parking garage. It was Flame Fiend, climbing into a silver van with tinted gray windows. The van roared off as Joe watched in angry frustration.
Fuming, Joe glanced around him and spotted a shiny metal ball lodged in a groove in the pavement. Then he noticed several others.
"Ball bearings," Joe muttered, plucking one of the metal balls from the pavement.
He examined the ball bearings to see if it could give any clue to its origins, but it was featureless. He almost threw it down in disgust. But then he remembered his father's advice that no clue was too small for a good detective. Joe pocketed the ball bearing, got to his feet, and walked briskly back to the lobby.
Frank was standing near the burned pile of display stands, holding a fire extinguisher, when Joe got there. Frank barely noticed Joe's arrival. The stands were no longer burning, Joe saw, but the artwork they'd displayed was reduced to ashes. The room was still smoky, and people had begun to open doors on either end of the lobby to air the space out. A handful of people wearing convention badges milled about, talking excitedly.
"What happened?" Frank asked as Joe joined him.
"They got away. I almost had the one in the red-and-black long Johns, but he dropped a bunch of ball bearings and I slipped on them."
"Cute." Frank grimaced.
"I saved one," Joe went on, "and I got a look at the getaway vehicle."
Frank's expression brightened. "Good going. What was it?"
"A silver van, one of those new ones with a real sleek aerodynamic design. It had a gray-tinted wraparound windshield, so I couldn't see inside."
"Did you get the license number?" Frank asked.
"Nope." Joe shook his head. "The van pulled out too fast."
Using a handkerchief, Frank held up a smoke bomb. "I picked up one of these as evidence," he told Joe. "I hope it'll tell us more about the kidnappers than your ball bearing."
"Is that the smoke bomb Flame Fiend set down in the lobby?" Joe asked.
"Yes." The look on Frank's face grew thoughtful. "Didn't it seem odd that he set that one smoke bomb down so carefully when Dreadnought just flung the others around?"
Joe nodded. "Yeah, I thought so, too."
A sudden babble of voices caused Frank to look up at a small crowd of people that had gathered near them to stare at the smoking ashes of Barry Johns's collection of comic-book artwork. Frank had already moved away when he noticed Chet's friend Tom Gatlin. Gatlin seemed nervous and was looking around furtively. Suddenly he slipped through the Crowd and out of sight.
Frowning, Frank absently rolled the smoke bomb around in his hand. He was about to mention Gatlin's behavior to Joe when an idea struck him.
"Hey, this bomb feels too light," he said, shaking it beside his ear. He heard a rustling sound.
Chet walked up then and eyed him nervously. "Take it easy with that thing," he warned. "It might go off."
"The pin's still in it, Chet," Frank replied as he turned the smoke bomb over to examine the bottom.
Then, as Chet watched uncertainly, Frank grabbed the top of the grenade and began to unscrew it.
"Are you crazy!" Chet exclaimed, but Frank paid no attention. As he suspected, the bomb was hollow. Inside was a small envelope made of metallic silver paper. Frank opened his handkerchief and carefully shook the envelope into it. Touching the metallic paper only with a handkerchief, Frank opened it and withdrew a small square of white paper. Then he set the envelope down beside the hollow grenade and carefully unfolded the paper.
"What's it say, Frank?" Joe asked impatiently.
Frank read silently, then handed the note to Joe with a grim expression.
In neat computer printout type, the note read: Mrs. Barry Johns,
You will give us $500,000 in two days, or your husband's a dead man. We mean business. Ransom-delivery instructions to follow.
The Human Dreadnought.
Chapter 3
Joe Hardy stared in disbelief at the note in his hand. "This has got to be the weirdest kidnapping I ever heard of.
"It's real, though, unfortunately," Frank said.
Taking the ransom note back from Joe, he set it and the metallic-paper envelope on the floor. He fished around in his shoulder bag and drew out a small black leatherbound notebook and pen. Frank copied the ransom message in the notebook, making notes about the appearance of the envelope and note paper.
The wail of approaching sirens cut through the air. Glancing through the glass-and-chrome doors at the front of the lobby, Joe saw two black-and-white police cars and a couple of red fire trucks rumbling toward the convention center. Soon some San Diego cops were shooing people out of the way of the firemen, who rushed in carrying big-tank fire extinguishers. They relaxed when they realized that, despite all the smoke, the fire was out.
A tall cop with a thin mustache quickly took charge. Frank stowed his notebook, picked up the dummy grenade and ransom note, and walked over to the cop.
"Officer, there's just been a kidnapping!"
"What?" The cop regarded Frank dubiously through dark aviator shades. "We got a call only about a possible fire here. Who got kidnapped?"
Joe stepped up beside his brother. "It was Barry Johns, the guest of honor at this convention," he told the cop.
"I think this is a ransom note for Johns," Frank added. He held out the note and fake smoke bomb to the tall police officer, whose badge said Leinster.
The cop looked annoyed. "You shouldn't disturb evidence. What's your name, kid?"
"Frank Hardy, officer. Look, I can explain why I picked it up. It seemed to be one of the smoke grenades the kidnappers used. I just wanted to get it outside before it went off. But when I picked it up, it felt too light, so I opened it and found this note. But don't worry, I didn't smudge the prints," Frank explained.
Another cop walked up with quick strides. He was a short, very muscular Hispanic officer. Whipping out his own handkerchief, he took the grenade, ransom note, and envelope.
"Hold that stuff for the FBI guys, Mario," Leinster told the other officer.
"Did you get a look at the kidnappers, Mr. Hardy?" Leinster asked.
"I saw their van," Joe volunteered. "It was a new silver panel van with a tinted wraparound windshield."
"Did you see the plates?" Leinster asked sharply.
Joe shook his head. "Sorry. It was too far away."
"Could be that the van's still in the area," Leinster said. "From your description, I'd say it was a Futuro Five Thousand. They're new, not many on the road yet, so it ought to be easy to spot." He reached for the walkie-talkie hooked on his belt and called in the description.
Officer Leinster took down the name of the Hardys' hotel and told them he'd be in touch. As he walked toward his partner, who was standing by the double doors, a bulletin crackled over their radios. The dispatcher described a kidnapping that had just taken place and gave the address: 8311 Lake Baca Drive, the home of a Sydney Kaner. His wife had phoned in the distress call.
Chet was standing a few feet away from the Hardys, watching morosely as the firemen dug through the ashes of Johns's collection. Suddenly his eyes bulged in surprise. "Syd Kaner! He works for Barry Johns!"
Joe and Frank exchanged a startled look.
"Think there's a connection?" Joe asked.
"There's only one way to find out. Let's get over there right away!" Frank and Joe headed for the lobby doo
r, with Chet bringing up the rear, shouting, "Wait for me, fellas!"
They sprinted along the plaza to the garage. As Joe opened the driver's-side door of their rental car, Frank opened the trunk and pulled out a radio with police and emergency bands and a San Diego road atlas. Closing the trunk, Frank dived through the front passenger door as Chet got in the back. They were still buckling their seat belts when Joe threw the car into reverse, backed out, and roared off toward the exit ramp.
"I'll navigate," Frank said, while trying to tune in the police band.
Frank had the radio locked onto the police band by the time Joe reached street level. He directed Joe to turn north on First Avenue, then east on A Street.
Joe wove expertly through the late-afternoon San Diego traffic, following Frank's directions. Within ten minutes they'd left the downtown area and were on the Ocean Beach Freeway, heading toward the suburban neighborhood where, according to their map, Lake Baca Drive was located.
"You looked so sad about Johns's art collection getting fried, someone would think it was yours, Chet," Joe said, glancing at Chet in the rear-view mirror.
"I'm upset about the waste, Joe," Chet replied. "A whole collection of irreplaceable comic art, gone like that!" He snapped his fingers to punctuate the statement. "There were some real classics in there, some of the most beautiful comics covers of all time."
"I just never realized comic art was so valuable, Chet," Frank said.
"It hasn't always been worth much," Chet pointed out. "For years, and I'm talking two, three, four decades, newspaper syndicates and comic-book companies would just dump artwork in a storeroom until it was full. And then they'd toss it out or burn it."
"Then how did Johns get so much of it?" Frank inquired.
"He got a lot of it from Golden Age artists," Chet told him. "He'd find the artists and get to know them. He'd either buy the artwork for a low price, or they'd give it to him because they liked him."
"And now people pay a lot of money for this stuff?" Joe asked.
"Sure. Collectors like my friend Tom and movie stars and rock - 'n' - roll singers. You'd be surprised. But, hey, if you want a real expert's opinion, ask Tom. He knows more about comic-book art and cartoonists than anyone else I know."
Frank suddenly remembered how strangely Tom had acted right after the fire. He was about to mention it to the others, but then he saw their exit coming up. "Get off here, Joe," he said.
Soon they were traveling through the hilly streets of a pleasant suburban neighborhood. Frank spotted a couple of street signs, then buried his nose in the map again.
"Take a right at the next corner, Joe," he instructed. "Then go down two streets and hang a left. That ought to put us right on Lake Baca Drive."
Chet leaned forward between the Hardys. "I sure hope we don't run into Flame Fiend or Dreadnought again," he said with a worried expression.
"But that's exactly what we want," Frank told him. "Why are you so worried, Chet? What could we be up against?"
Chet leaned back and ticked off the points on his fingers as he spoke. "Let's see - in the comics the Human Dreadnought has superstrength, can run seventy miles an hour, and is invulnerable to anything smaller than an artillery shell."
Joe rolled his eyes. "What about the firebug in the red suit?" he asked.
"Flame Fiend? He can shoot blasts of flame or bursts of blinding light from his hands. He's impervious to fire and bullets and doesn't need to breathe."
Joe slapped the steering wheel and hooted. "Oh, come on, Chet. You can't possibly believe those guys are real?"
Chet replied with a noncommittal shrug.
When Joe turned the corner of Lake Baca Drive, all he saw was another ordinary suburban street lined with neat split-level homes. A minute later, however, he noticed a trio of police cars clustered around a split-level house at the end of the street.
There were tire tracks digging a double arc into the neatly manicured front lawn. An outdoor light had been knocked at a crazy angle, and the front door of the house had been battered in and lay on its side against the inside wall.
"Pull over, Joe," Frank directed, "but not too close to the police cars."
"What's the plan?" Joe asked.
"Just a little eavesdropping on the police band to see what they know," Frank answered.
Just then a green BMW drove slowly past the Kaner house, speeding up as soon as it passed. As the car swung by the Hardys' sedan, Joe got a quick glimpse of the driver, a dark-haired, middle-aged man with a large nose and a sharp profile.
Reports of related crimes poured in over Frank's radio. There was a burst of static; then a loud, tinny voice announced, "This is Charlie One at the intersection of Ashwood Avenue and Lake Murray Boulevard. I've got a make on a van resembling the one reported in the Syd Kaner kidnapping going northeast on Lake Murray." There was another burst of static before an answering voice came on.
"Roger, Charlie One. Pursue suspect vehicle immediately. Backup is en route, and you have eyes in the sky."
Joe heard the faint buzz of beating rotors. He stuck his head out the car window, and quickly spotted a San Diego police helicopter in the sky to the northeast.
The helicopter pilot's voice cut in on the police band. "Charlie One, this is Icarus. I have you and suspect van in sight, going northeast on Lake Murray. Your backup will rendezvous at Mono Lake Drive."
Frank studied the map. "Hey, that van's heading back toward us," he announced.
The chopper pilot's voice cut back on the radio in a crackle of static. "Hey, where'd they go? Charlie One, do you have a visual?"
"Negative," the boys heard Charlie One respond. "The van disappeared down a side street. Can you see anything?"
"No," the chopper pilot responded. "The trees are too thick. I'll circle. Pick a side street, and we'll flush them out."
"I think I know where they're going, Joe," Frank announced.
"And how do you know this when the cops just lost them?" Joe asked.
"I think they'll come out on Lake Ashmere Drive," Frank said excitedly. "On my map, Lake Ashmere intersects with a little access road that runs right out to the highway. It'd make a dandy getaway route."
Joe smiled and threw the car into reverse. "How do I get there?"
Four minutes later Joe had parked their rental car across the mouth of a narrow alley that ran parallel to a steep hill.
Chet leaned forward between the Hardys, a worried expression on his face. "I hope you guys know what you're doing."
Joe smiled. "Relax, Chet. This isn't a comic book, you know. Those crooks may have fancy costumes, but I'm willing to bet they're not immune to a punch in the jaw."
Frank continued to monitor the police band, hearing the growing frustration in the officers' voices as they tried unsuccessfully to locate the fugitive van.
He glanced over at Joe. "All we have to do is hold them up long enough for the police to get here."
"And how are we supposed to do that?" Joe asked.
Before Frank had a chance to answer, Joe saw a silver van barreling down the alley toward them.
"That's the same van that Flame Fiend loaded Johns into at the convention center!" Joe said.
The van screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust, and the door on the driver's side popped open. The Human Dreadnought jumped out, carrying a silver device with a long handle. He charged over to Joe's window and pounded on it. "Move that car, sonny, now."
"No way," Joe said firmly.
"Okay, punk, you asked for it!" the Dreadnought replied in a gravelly voice.
The Dreadnought began battering at the windshield with his fist, bringing his metal-studded gloves down again and again on the glass. The car was rocking with his pounding. Spiderweb cracks appeared in all directions, and the boys could hardly see out.
A second later they heard a scraping sound on the underside of the car, then a series of loud, ratcheting clicks. Frank could see the Dreadnought bent over at the rear passenger-side door.
; Suddenly Frank felt his side of the car being lifted up.
"Hey - he's picking the car up!" Chet shouted.
The boys grabbed at the door handles for support as the car landed on its left side, wobbled in that position for a few seconds, then rolled over onto the roof and rocked from side to side with the boys suspended upside down.
With the blood rushing to his head, Joe could hear another scraping of metal on metal. Then the ratcheting clicks began again, and the car fell on its right side and then onto the wheels. Joe had only a moment to brace himself before the car began its dizzying roll once again. It kept rolling over and over, down the steep hillside, steadily picking up speed.
Chapter 4
This is it, Frank thought, reaching out to steady himself against the jolting of the car. He was ready for the car to burst into flames at any second. Then suddenly the carnival ride stopped, and the car came to a shuddering halt on its broad wheel base.
Frank glanced at his brother and Chet. "You guys okay?" he asked anxiously.
Joe moved his head back and forth gingerly, grimacing a little from the pain of a stiff neck. "I'll be all right."
Chet tried to force a smile and gave a thumbs-up sign. "I can't believe I almost got killed by a comic-book character," he muttered.
"Me either," Joe agreed. Seeing that they were all unhurt, he turned on the ignition to see if by some miracle the car still worked. The engine kicked on with a high-pitched screech that gradually died away, leaving an almost normal engine hum.
Frank was astounded. "Pretty good, considering that battering. Well, if this heap can make it that far, take us back to the spot where the Dreadnought pitched us over the cliff," he told Joe.
Peering through the fractured windshield, Joe drove the battered sedan along the bottom of the hill until he came to a spot where the incline leveled off. He shifted into low and made it back onto the road. In a few minutes they were back to the place where they'd blocked the alley.
Joe and Frank began examining the ground around them, while Chet stood nervously scanning the area.
"You don't think those crooks are still around, do you, Frank?" Chet asked.
The Last Laugh Page 2