Running on Empty

by Franklin W. Dixon

  ***

  Half an hour later Frank and Joe "Davis" lumbered toward their second-floor room at the Southport Motor Inn. They were tired and worried. They had gained a foothold in Smith's operation, but they weren't any closer to finding Chet.

  Frank unlocked the door and pushed his way into the darkness. Joe flipped on the light.

  Then they froze.

  A man sat in a chair across the room from the door. In one hand he held an open wallet. In the other he held a .357 magnum, its single barrel staring at Frank and Joe in deadly anticipation.

  "Welcome home, Frank and Joe Davis. Or should I say Hardy? Whatever you two yahoos call yourselves, you're under arrest!"

  Chapter 5

  "What are the charges, Detective?" Frank asked, taking in the gold shield gleaming from the man's open wallet.

  The detective stood and put his wallet inside his jacket. He held up his hand and began counting. "Auto theft. Interfering with a police investigation. Using a false name to register at a motel." The detective snorted a laugh.

  "Not funny," Frank said.

  "It's a riot from where I'm standing."

  Joe studied the short and balding detective with the puffy eyes and massive bulldog jaw. Not only did the man have bad manners, but his clothing looked like Salvation Army rejects - matching dark green polyester jacket and slacks, a food-stained paisley print blue tie, and an orange double knit shirt. His walrus mustache held the crumbs of what had probably been his dinner.

  "Just who are you?" Joe asked.

  The man straightened up, a hard look crossing his face. "I'm Detective-Sergeant Terry Cronkite, head of Southport's Auto Theft Division."

  "So? What do you want with us?" Joe asked.

  Cronkite shifted his cold, hard stare to Joe. "I'll tell you what I want from you, wise guy. I want you out of Southport in the next fifteen minutes or I'm booking you into our finest accommodations."

  "How did you know our names and where we were?" Frank asked.

  "I get a call last Saturday from Ed Brooke wanting to file a stolen car report. So, I file it. I return this afternoon for more information, and I find Mr. Brooke climbing the walls with worry because his nephew tried to play cop," Cronkite said. He put his pistol in its shoulder holster. "I trust you two won't do anything foolish."

  "Just finish your story," Joe said.

  Cronkite shrugged. "Anyway, I finally get Mr. Brooke calmed down, and he not only tells me that he thinks this nephew of his - a, uh, Chet Morgan - "

  "Morton," Joe said through clenched teeth.

  "And he's not his real nephew. Mr. Brooke is an old family friend."

  "Yeah. Right." Cronkite took a stick of gum from his pocket, unwrapped it, and put it in his mouth. "Not only is this Morton kid missing, to make matters worse, you two yahoos talk Mr. Brooke into letting you 'pretend' to steal a car for the very people who may have kidnapped Morton!"

  Cronkite rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. He looked from Frank to Joe.

  "And you know what happened to that thirty-five-thousand-dollar car you so politely delivered to Smith and that numbskull assistant of his? They chopped it!" He blew and popped a small bubble.

  "Real comedian, aren't you?" Joe said.

  Cronkite's face turned crimson.

  "Listen, punk. The only reason you and your brother aren't in jail now is because Brooke is a friend of mine and he's worried sick about his nephew. He doesn't need any junior detectives from Bayport botching up my case."

  "We're not 'junior detectives,' Detective," Frank insisted. "We want to find Chet as much if not more than you do. He's our best friend. We've known him all our lives."

  Cronkite's breathing was hard. He continued to stare at Joe, who glared back at him. He glanced at Frank, then returned to Joe. He pulled on his mustache.

  "Yeah. That's what Brooke said."

  Frank was relieved to see some calm return to Cronkite's face.

  "I'm sure you two don't mean any real harm," Cronkite continued, "but this is out of your league. We're talking major serious here."

  "We know that. We wanted Uncle Ed, uh, Mr. Brooke, to call the police, but he was afraid that Smith would harm Chet if the police were involved. We were going to contact you in the morning."

  "We can help you on this one, Detective," Joe added.

  "Uh - uh, no way," Cronkite asserted with a wave of his hand. "That's all I need in my file, that I let a couple of crazy kids from Bayport assist in a police investigation."

  "We're not kids," Joe said.

  "You know Officer Con Riley in Bayport?" Frank asked.

  "Con? Sure. What about him?"

  "Call him. He'll square with you that Joe and I are legit, that we know what we're doing."

  "Didn't you two hear me? You're not a part of this case, you're through. Period."

  "Then arrest us," Joe insisted.

  "What?"

  Joe stood directly in front of Cronkite. "The way I see it, you're going to have to either arrest us or let us help in some way. We're not returning to Bayport without our friend."

  A heavy burden seemed to weigh on Cronkite's shoulders. He sighed, then threw his hands into the air.

  "All right. I'll phone Con. But that doesn't mean I'm going to open the doors and welcome you yahoos with outstretched arms. I ought to call your bluff and let you spend some time in a Southport holding cell with the other derelicts."

  Cronkite shook his head and reached for the phone.

  Frank motioned Joe over to the opposite side of the room while Cronkite made his call.

  "We've got to convince him that he can't do without us," Frank whispered to Joe.

  "Got any ideas?"

  "Yes," Frank answered.

  Minutes later, Cronkite hung up the phone.

  "You boys have quite a rep for putting bad guys away. I'm impressed."

  "Good," Joe said, excited. "What do you want us to do?"

  "Whoa, cowboy! I didn't say I wanted you two to do anything," Cronkite said, his hands raised. "I just said I was impressed. You may have Con convinced that you're a pair of heroes, but to me you're still two kids interfering in a police investigation."

  "Why haven't you busted Smith's operation before now?" Frank asked. "You obviously know he's chopping cars."

  "Smith is just the icing. We want the whole cake - the fencer, the guy who's actually moving the parts. So far we haven't been able to get anyone undercover to find out who that is."

  Frank rubbed his chin. He looked at Joe, winked, and smiled, then back at Cronkite.

  Innocently, he asked, "You mean that in several months of investigation by the South port Auto Theft Division you haven't been able to accomplish what two junior detectives from Bayport did in a couple of hours?"

  Cronkite's bulldog jaw dropped. "I - I - I ... "

  Frank could tell Joe was stifling a laugh, and he, too, had to control himself.

  "How much longer is it going to take before you get someone on the inside as deep as Joe and I are right now? But that isn't our concern, is it, Joe?" Following Frank's lead, Joe shook his head. "Joe and I have to get back to Bayport, tell Officer Riley how his old buddy passed up an opportunity to shut down one of the biggest chop shop operations in the area. Let's split, Joe."

  They headed for the door. Frank held his breath, hoping his bluff would work.

  "Hey, wait a minute." Cronkite nervously laughed and put himself between the Hardys and the door. "I didn't say you couldn't help somehow. I just needed to be sure, that's all."

  Neither Frank nor Joe returned the detective's plastic smile.

  Cronkite stared at them for a few seconds, sighed, then raised a finger. "Rule Number One: I'm in charge and you follow my orders. Rule Number Two: When in doubt, refer to Rule Number One. Do we understand each other?"

  "Clearly," Frank said.

  "All we want to do is find our friend," Joe added.

  "Okay," Cronkite replied without hesitation. "How is Smith going to contact you if
he needs you?"

  Frank pulled the beeper from his belt and held it up.

  "These modern horse thieves have it easy," Cronkite said, back to his cynical self. "I've got an undercover officer who hasn't been able to get on the inside of Smith's gang yet." Cronkite paused. "Emerson Sauter. A rookie, but a good cop."

  "A rookie?" Frank couldn't believe it.

  "I wouldn't be choosy about my partners, young man," Cronkite replied, one eyebrow cocked. "Officer Sauter was especially chosen for this assignment. You'll find out why tomorrow. Know where Royce's Garage is located?"

  "We can find it," Joe said.

  "That's right - you're 'detectives.' Report to the officer for further instructions at oh-nine-hundred hours, sharp!"

  "Does he use an undercover name?" Frank asked.

  "He?" Then Cronkite laughed. "Oh, no, he uses his real name."

  Frank wondered what Cronkite thought was so funny, but dismissed it as part of the detective's strange sense of humor.

  "You'd better introduce us by our aliases," Frank advised.

  Cronkite nodded as he opened the door. "I still can't believe I'm putting my career into the hands of a couple of junior detectives from Bayport. What a world!"

  ***

  After a fitful night's rest, the Hardys were up early, heading for Royce's Garage on the other side of Southport. The hotcakes they had ordered for breakfast had been cold and doughy, and Joe was irritable.

  Joe turned the van into the driveway of a run-down building sitting far back off the main road. Various car parts littered most of the driveway, ROYCE'S GARAGE was painted across the large front window.

  Joe had to jockey the van around the trash.

  "This is it? This is the big undercover operation?" Joe stared in disbelief.

  Frank sat up. "Looks more like a war zone than a repair shop."

  "I don't think they put a lot of money or planning into this," Joe said with a groan.

  "Let's meet this Sauter character and see what he has to say for himself."

  Because the bay doors were shut, Frank and Joe walked into the garage's outer office. Joe tried an inner office door, but it was locked.

  The walls of the outer office were cluttered with hot-rod posters and personal photographs. Joe checked out several of the photos. Many were of a pretty girl and classic fifties cars. The girl looked about seventeen or eighteen, her long red hair framing a beautiful face and green eyes. Joe fell in love immediately.

  "Out here," Frank said. "There's a mechanic under a car in one of the bays."

  "Officer Sauter?" Joe asked as they approached the mechanic.

  No answer. They knew he wasn't asleep; they could hear him tinkering under the car.

  "Officer Sauter," Frank called out. "It's Frank and Joe Davis. Detective Cronkite called you last night about us."

  Still no answer.

  "Rudeness seems to be this police department's primary attitude," Joe quipped. "Hey!" he shouted as he kicked the greasy boots of the mechanic.

  The mechanic yelled and whipped out from under the car on the wheeled crawler, leaping up with lightning speed.

  Instinctively, Joe cocked his fist to protect himself. He pulled his punch when He saw that the mechanic was a girl.

  What Joe didn't realize soon enough was that she had flung a heavy pipe wrench straight at his head!

  Chapter 6

  "Look out!" Frank shouted as he shoved Joe aside.

  The heavy pipe wrench bounced on the floor.

  Joe cocked his fist, ready to punch the mechanic.

  "Try it, jerk, and you'll end up eating concrete," the mechanic threatened in a soft but stern tone.

  Joe stared at the mechanic. She was in a defensive karate stance, posed to strike, her baseball cap turned around backward.

  "Come on, macho man," the young woman challenged. "You started this - let's see if you can finish it."

  "Wait a minute," Joe protested, his hands raised. "I'm not going to fight a girl."

  The young woman's green eyes flared. "My gender has nothing to do with this. I'll use you to mop up this floor."

  "What's your problem?" Joe looked to Frank for help, but Frank only seemed amused by his younger brother's predicament.

  "I'll tell you what my problem is," the young woman said slowly. "I just spent the better part of two hours making delicate adjustments to this car's transmission, and your little kick caused me to slip and knock it all out of whack. That's my problem!" The woman pulled a rag from the rear pocket of her coveralls and began wiping red transmission fluid from her hands. "But I guess an ape like you wouldn't know about such things."

  "Wait a minute," Joe began. He glanced at the name stitched over the coveralls's pocket - Emmy. Emmy? "Emerson Sauter? You're a mechanic? I mean, you're a woman?"

  "I'm a cop, too. Got a problem with that? You two from Cronkite?"

  "Yes," Frank said, trying not to smile.

  "Look, if I'd known you were a woman, I wouldn't have kicked you," Joe explained. He turned to Frank. "Whoever heard of a girl named Emerson?"

  Emmy took off her cap, and her red hair fell to her shoulders. The girl in the photos, Joe realized.

  "It just so happens," Emmy finally replied, "that my father named me after Emerson Fittipaldi, the Brazilian race car driver. Not that it's any of your business."

  "Look, we're sorry," Frank apologized, stepping between Emmy and Joe. "I'm Frank Davis. You've already met Joe." Frank stuck out his hand, and Emmy shook it firmly. "Did Cronkite tell you about us?"

  Emmy stomped over to a large stainless-steel sink and began washing the grease from her face and hands.

  "Yes. And I'll tell you both right now, I don't like this arrangement. The last thing I need to do is baby-sit a couple of teenagers."

  "Don't worry about us," Joe said.

  "I have to worry about you. My life may depend on it." Emmy towel dried her hands. "Let me tell you two this." She was addressing Joe more than she was Frank. "Cronkite has given me full discretion in this case. What I say goes."

  Frank's beeper sounded in a rapid series of staccato chirps, and all three jumped.

  "What's that?" Emmy asked, distrust in her voice and eyes.

  "Smith," Frank explained. He shut off the beeper.

  "I'll call and find out what he wants," Joe volunteered.

  "Phone's on the desk," Emmy shouted after Joe. She threw the garage bay door open and stepped outside.

  "Cronkite should have told us a little more about you," Frank said.

  "Why? Would you have objected to working with a woman?" Emmy leaned against a sleek red and black fastback coupe.

  "No. And don't be so defensive." Frank suddenly realized why he was beginning to like this rookie cop - she reminded him of Callie. The same sparring with Joe, the same quick temper, the same pretty face.

  Emmy shifted. "Sorry."

  "I know we haven't started out on the right footing. Let's begin again." Frank straightened to his full height. He stuck out his hand. "Hi. I'm Frank Davis, undercover car thief and all-around good guy."

  Emmy stared for a moment, then laughed. She grabbed Frank's hand and shook it. "Hi, Frank. I'm Emerson Sauter, your boss."

  They both laughed.

  Joe was annoyed as he joined them outside. He didn't see anything funny.

  "The final test," he said to Frank, ignoring Emmy.

  "Test?" Emmy asked.

  "We're not full members of Smith's little club yet," Frank explained. "We've got to boost one more car and then he'll make us full partners."

  "Not 'we,' " Joe said. "Me. Smith wants me to prove I can pull off a job in broad day light."

  "I don't think it's smart for you two to be stealing cars," Emmy said flatly.

  "Got it covered," Joe said. "I called Uncle Ed, and he's lending us his own car to rip off. A brand-new Cadillac."

  "Wow!" Emmy exclaimed.

  "Uncle Ed's willing to give up his dealership to get Chet back," Joe replied. To Frank he said
, "I'll need you to drop me off at Smith's."

  "No, wait," Emmy spoke up as they headed for the van. "Joe, you take the van to Smith's. Frank, help me check out a salvage yard I think is fencing Smith's chopped parts."

  "Okay with me," Frank replied to Joe's questioning glance.

  Joe didn't like the idea of being separated, and he didn't like being bossed around by a woman.

  "All right. I'll meet you back at the motel." With that, Joe hopped in the van and peeled out of the driveway, dodging various piles of junk.

  "A real hothead," Emmy said.

  "He's just anxious to find Chet. So am I," Frank replied.

  "I don't blame you. I know what it's like to have someone you love taken away from you so suddenly, so violently."

  Frank was startled by the faraway, painful tone in Emmy's voice. He was ready to ask her about it when she turned and walked toward the office.

  "I've got to change. You wait in the car."

  ***

  They headed out of Southport on a road that led into the country. Emmy had slipped into faded blue jeans and an old bowling shirt with Royce's Gear Heads and Gutter Balls embroidered on the back, and a bowling ball smashing into a set of pistons.

  "I'm sorry if I seemed so defensive back at the garage," Emmy said. "I suppose it irks me just knowing you two have gotten into Smith's gang when I've been trying for six months."

  "Beginner's luck," Frank said.

  "Not from what Cronkite told me about you two."

  Frank didn't know why, but he was embarrassed. In many ways, Emmy was a lot like Callie.

  "Where are we going?" Frank asked.

  "Paradise Salvage," Emmy replied. "Although I haven't been able to prove it, I think Max Elburk is moving chopped parts through his salvage hotline."

  "Salvage hotline?"

  "Nearly all the salvage yards across the nation are linked by a special computer hotline. If someone comes in needing a special part and a salvage yard doesn't have it, a manager gets on the modem with his fellow junkers. In a matter of minutes, he has the part ordered and shipped from one of his buddies' salvage yards."

  "I didn't realize junkyards were so high tech."

  "To you they may be junkyards, Frank, but those rusting old heaps of wrecked cars are lined with pure gold Emmy turned off the paved highway and onto a dirt road, dust flying into the air.