Street Spies

by Franklin W. Dixon

  "Yeah. He was definitely Asian," Joe said. "He looked a lot like the guy who signed for the package in the phony MUX office."

  The light in front of them turned yellow. "Run," Frank commanded brusquely.

  Joe floored the accelerator and dodged through an intersection ahead of a bus that was coming from the right. He glanced at Frank. "What's the big hurry to get down to SpeedWay?"

  Frank frowned. "There was a character in a ski mask with a silencer in that van," he said, "trying to gun Lightfoot down. Now that their scheme's beginning to unravel, they're probably trying to cover their tracks by eliminating the people who've worked for them." He looked at Joe sideways. "They tried to blow you away this afternoon."

  "That's right," Joe said, catching on. "And Gus is probably the only one who can identify the spy at World-Wide! So it stands to reason that they'd go after him next!"

  At the next stoplight, he picked up the mobile phone, dialed his father, and briefly filled him in, trying to play down the part with the gun so they wouldn't get jerked off the case. "We're headed to SpeedWay now," Joe said. He listened a minute, then nodded. "Yeah, we'll be careful," he said, and hung up.

  Frank had the wrapping off now and was staring at an instrument on his lap.

  "What is it?" Joe asked.

  "Some type of receiver," Frank said, studying the instrument carefully. "The reception range appears to be for the bands used in satellite transmission. It may also have an unscrambler."

  "You think it could have military applications?" asked Joe.

  "That's possible," Frank replied. "Anyway, it's a serious piece of equipment."

  They were stalled behind a delivery truck unloading vegetables at a corner grocery. Joe leaned forward and switched on the van's AM radio. An announcer was reading a newscast.

  "A New York City neighborhood was rocked this afternoon by a violent explosion," the announcer said. "According to an eyewitness, the bomb planted on a bicycle was set off by a blond young man in his teens, wearing a fatigue jacket. The young man, believed to be a bicycle messenger, was taken into custody by police. An official police spokesperson refused to comment. However, there was speculation that there may be a connection between this incident and the mayor's get-tough stand on bicycle messengers. The mayor is considering a plan for strictly curtailing the use of bicycles by messengers in Midtown Manhattan. In other news ..."

  Joe turned the radio off. "That's all we need," he said disgustedly. "Talk about a cover being blown. Now the whole world knows."

  "At least they didn't give your real name or say they'd turned you loose," Frank said. "That's something." He put the confiscated radio carefully behind the seat. "Let's just hope we can get to Gus before it's too late."

  Half a block from SpeedWay, on Front Street, Joe spotted a parking spot. "Let's leg it from here," he said, pulling the van against the curb.

  Frank was on Joe's heels as they dashed down the block and through the front door of the dispatch office. Everybody was clustered at the far end of the room, listening to the radio.

  Apollo looked up and brightened as he saw Joe. "Hey, here's Hot Dog!" he exclaimed. "So it wasn't you who got blown up, after all!"

  "Yeah, it was," Joe said. Bruce was sitting at the dispatcher's desk. "Where's Gus?"

  "He's not here," Bruce said.

  "Where can we find Gus?" Frank snapped.

  Bruce's mouth dropped open as he heard the tone in Frank's voice. "He got a phone call and left. If you hurry, you might be able to catch him in the parking garage down the block." Puzzled, he looked from Frank to Joe. "What's going on here, anyway?"

  He received no reply. The brothers turned and dashed out the door and down the street.

  "There he goes," Frank cried as they rounded the corner by the parking garage. He pointed at a hobbling figure who was just entering the garage.

  Seconds later Frank and Joe were inside the garage, too. But there was no sign of Gus.

  "The elevator!" Joe shouted, pointing to a pair of elevator doors in the wall. The numbers above the door were lighting up in succession — 1, 2, 3. At the third floor, the elevator stopped.

  "Upstairs," Frank yelled, racing to the stairway beside the elevator. "Let's hit it!"

  They were almost to the second floor when they heard a heavy door slam and the sounds of a violent struggle. Gus's panicked voice echoed in the concrete stairwell.

  "Get away from me! Get your hands off!"

  There was a resounding whack that Joe recognized immediately. It was the sound of Gus's cane hitting flesh. Then a thud, and a short, gurgling scream. And then a loud clatter, as Gus's cane slid down the stairs and came to rest on the second-floor landing.

  Chapter 12

  "Come on!" Frank yelled as the door slammed' again, the echo reverberating through the stairwell. "We've got to help!"

  But they were too late. A limp body tumbled down the stairs, arms and legs windmilling.

  It was Gus. He lay at their feet, a bloody gash ripped across his face, one leg twisted gro-tesquely under him.

  He wasn't moving.

  Without a second's hesitation, Joe dashed for the third floor landing. As he bolted through the door, he watched as the elevator door slid shut. He ran over and slammed his hand against it in frustration. Over his head, the light flashed on.

  Joe lunged back through the stairwell door and took the stairs down three or four at a time. On the second-floor landing, Frank was kneeling beside Gus, feeling for a pulse. "Get help!" Frank ordered. Without a word, Joe ran down the stairs.

  At the far end of the ground floor opposite the exit, Joe saw a dark figure run through the shadows toward the cream-colored van. The van's door was slammed and its engine roared to life. Joe started to dash toward it but realized he'd never reach it before it pulled away. He'd be an easy target, silhouetted against the exit. He ducked down behind the cars. Let them come to me, he thought. There's only one way out of this place. He felt in his pocket. Yes, it was there — · the last transmitter.

  The van charged down the center lane. Just beyond Joe was the exit. The van would have to slow down for the right turn that would take it out onto the street.

  As the vehicle surged past him, Joe saw the brake lights come on. Hit 'em low, he thought. That's what his football coach always said. He lunged for the back bumper, catching it with both hands.

  As the van skidded around the turn, Joe slammed the transmitter onto the bumper. It clamped fast. Joe released his grip. The van's springs crashed against their stops as the vehicle cleared the exit and disappeared into the street.

  Bugging the van was enough for now. With Gus injured, they'd have to let the gunmen go for the time being. They could pick up the trail later after Gus was in the hospital.

  Painfully, Joe picked himself up. His jeans were dusty and badly scuffed where he'd been dragged. The left arm of his field jacket was ripped and he'd lost a considerable patch of skin on his elbow. Other than that, he didn't feel much worse than he felt after a tough scrimmage.

  There was a pay phone near the garage entrance. Joe ran for it and dialed the emergency number.

  By the time Joe returned to the second floor, Frank had pulled off his turtleneck sweater and was covering Gus with it. "Is he going to make it?" Joe asked worriedly.

  "I don't know," Frank said. "He's unconscious. He's in shock and probably has head injuries." He motioned quickly. "Give me your field jacket. About all I can do here is keep him warm."

  Joe pulled off his jacket and tossed it to Frank. He covered Gus with Joe's jacket and checked the pulse in his neck again. It was weak and rapid, and his breathing was shallow and fluttery.

  The minutes dragged by while Frank and Joe crouched there, watching the injured man. If Gus died without revealing his contact at World-Wide, they might never get to the bottom of this case.

  The Hardys heard the wail of a siren on the street below, then footsteps racing up the stairs.

  Two white-jacketed paramedics rounded th
e landing. They were lugging a first-aid case and a metal gurney.

  The paramedics worked on Gus briefly. One of them turned to Frank and Joe, stethoscope in hand.

  "This is going to be touch and go," he said. "There may be spinal damage. We slid a backboard under him, but we need your help in loading him. He's got to be perfectly level."

  Frank nodded. The four of them knelt beside Gus.

  "Ready? On three," the medic said. "One, two, three."

  Smoothly, they lifted Gus's motionless body onto the gurney's soft white pad. Quickly, the medics strapped him in. They each grabbed a corner of the metal stretcher and carried Gus down the stairs. On the ground floor, the medics unfolded the undercarriage and wheels and pushed Gus to the waiting ambulance.

  "You're welcome to come along," the medic said as they hoisted the gurney through the open back doors and slid it inside.

  "Thanks," Frank said. There was a chance — a slim one, but a chance—that Gus might come to and reveal the name of his attacker. Besides, if the assailant found out Gus was still alive, he might try to finish the job. He and Joe climbed in and swung the doors shut behind them. The siren wailed and they were off.

  "Ooh." Gus gave a soft moan. Frank was instantly attentive.

  "Who did this?" Frank asked urgently. "Who was it, Gus?"

  Gus's eyelids fluttered. "Oh, it's you, Doc." He coughed painfully, and his chest heaved. Then his eyes flew wide open. Frank nodded in answer to his unspoken question. "That's right," he said. "I've been on the case from the start. If I were you, I'd talk. We're on the same side now."

  "It was a setup," Gus wheezed. "Chung was ... waiting for me." His eyes fluttered closed again.

  "Who's Chung?" Joe demanded. But he got no response. Gus had lapsed into unconsciousness again.

  The ambulance pulled up to the emergency room doors. As the Hardys swung the back doors open, several orderlies dashed up, unloaded Gus, and pushed him into the emergency room. The brothers tried to follow the gurney, but a stern-faced orderly blocked their way.

  "You'll have to wait here," he said.

  "But you don't understand," Joe protested angrily. "He's in danger. Somebody tried to kill him, and they might be back to finish the job."

  "Then you'd better alert hospital security," the orderly said, indicating the reception desk. "They'll have to handle it."

  Frank started to argue, then forced himself to relax. "I guess that's all we can do," he told Joe.

  "At least until Dad gets here." Joe frowned. "He still carries some weight with his old buddies in the police department."

  "Dad?"

  "Sure. I called him right after I called nine one one. He's on his way."

  Minutes later, Fenton Hardy entered the emergency room. He listened while his sons recounted the events in the garage. This time there was no way to hide the danger.·

  "I agree that we need to keep Gus under police protection," he said at last, and went to look for a phone.

  At that moment a masked surgeon came down the hall toward them.

  "Are you the ones who brought in the patient with the head injury?" he asked, removing his surgical mask.

  "We are," Frank said. "How is he?"

  "He's in a deep coma," the surgeon said. "I don't expect him to be conscious for several hours — he may never regain consciousness. We're moving him to intensive care. I'm sorry."

  As the surgeon left, Mr. Hardy returned from the phone. "We're all set. The police will post a guard outside the room."

  "The doctor says that we won't be able to talk with Gus until later," Frank said. His voice was grim. "If at all."

  Mr. Hardy nodded. "We've got to meet with Mr. Chilton," he said. "He was at a meeting when I tried to get him earlier, but he ought to be back by now. He needs to know what he's up against."

  It was almost nine when the three Hardys were finally walking into the president's office at World-Wide Technologies.

  "We've got a serious situation," Mr. Hardy told Mr. Chilton. "Whoever is responsible for stealing your designs has attempted three murders in one afternoon."

  Mr. Chilton stared at them in disbelief. "Three?"

  "Joe was the first," Mr. Hardy said.

  Joe's jaw tightened. "While I was downstairs talking to Tiffany, somebody packed my bicycle seat with plastic explosive. It blew up."

  "Talking to Tiffany?" Mr. Chilton repeated. "You mean, my daughter? Why?"

  The three Hardys looked at one another.

  "Well," Frank responded finally, "you remember that prime suspect we didn't want to tell you about? It was Tiffany."

  "You mean my daughter is involved in this thing?" Mr. Chilton's face was a picture of astonishment and outrage. Was he hurt or angry? Joe couldn't tell.

  "Not in the way we thought at first," Frank said. "It turns out that she was framed, and now she's being blackmailed. She helped us intercept another delivery to help get herself off the hook. That's when Lightfoot, one of the messengers, was nearly — "

  Then Tiffany's in danger as well," Mr. Chilton said, looking hard at Frank.

  Joe gasped. "Tiffany!" he exclaimed remorsefully. "We were so busy with Lightfoot and Gus that we forgot - "

  "She should be at home. Listen, maybe you'd better keep her there for a couple of days until - " Frank started to say.

  "No!" Joe broke in. How could he have forgotten? "She said she was going to work late, getting out some kind of mailing."

  Without a word, Mr. Chilton punched the speaker button on his phone console, then hit three buttons. The Hardys heard two rings. Then there was a sound like a switch hook being depressed—and then a different ring.

  "That's funny," Joe said with a puzzled look. "Sounds like the call's being transferred." , "Dad, I'm sorry about all this. Really I am," they heard Tiffany say at last. Joe leaned closer to the speaker. It was Tiffany's voice, but it sounded flat and distant, as if it were recorded.

  110

  Then suddenly another voice came on the line, a flat, mechanical-sounding voice distorted by an echo.

  "WWeee haavve yyourr ddaughtterr," the voice said. "Listen closely, Charles Chilton. We're calling the shots from now on. You will stop your investigation— "Or you will never see Tiffany again — alive!"

  Chapter 13

  The click as the phone was disconnected was momentarily loud in the silence, then it was replaced by the hum of the dial tone. Mr. Chilton switched the speaker off and leaned forward, elbows on his desk, face buried in his hands.

  "So now they've got Tiffany," he said in a resigned voice, his shoulders slumped in despair.

  Joe rose from his chair and pounded his list on Mr. Chilton's desk so hard that the pen set rattled. "You can't give in like that!" he said desperately. "We've got to find her!"

  Mr. Chilton dropped his hands and looked up. His eyes were haunted. "I'm not giving in," he said. "I know the only way to deal with these people—and to get my daughter back—is to fight. It's just that this thing is all my fault! If I hadn't insisted that she work in the mailroom of my company, and then work late tonight to get that mailing out, she'd be safe at home."

  "You had no way of knowing this would happen," Frank said. "We should have kept you better informed of the situation. It's just that things broke so fast, with Lightfoot and Gus — "

  His father looked at him. "It would be a good idea to check on Gus. Now that they've got Tiffany, they won't stop at anything to make sure Gus is taken care of too."

  "Gus?" Mr. Chilton asked, looking bewildered. "Lightfoot?" While Mr. Hardy told Mr. Chilton about the afternoon's events, Frank dialed the hospital. "I need to speak to the nurse in charge of intensive care," he said. A moment later he said, "This is Frank Hardy. I need to know the condition of Gus Ireland, the head injury patient who was admitted late this afternoon."

  Seconds later a different voice came on the line, and Frank turned up the speaker phone. "This is Dr. Thompson, the attending physician," the voice said. "Mr. Ireland regained consciousness a f
ew minutes ago, but he's extremely disoriented."

  ' 'Has he said anything?" Frank asked urgently. "He keeps asking for a doctor. I told him I was a doctor, but he just shakes his head and calls, 'Doc, Doc.' "

  "Doc?" Frank exclaimed. "That's me! I'm on my way!"

  Frank hung up the phone and stood up. "I'm going to see what I can find out from Gus."

  Mr. Hardy stood up, too. "I'll make a search of this building," he said. "And I'll check the answering machine in the mailroom. Maybe I can figure out which office the recording came from." He turned to Mr. Chilton. "I'll join you back here as soon as I'm finished. If the kidnappers call, you may need help with the negotiating."

  Joe closed his eyes. Negotiating! Negotiating for Tiffany's life! The whole thing was unbelievable. He'd just met her. And now her life was in danger. It was too much like Iola.

  He jumped up. He couldn't sit there, wondering what was happening to her. It would drive him crazy.

  "I'm going to make a sweep of the city in the van," he said. "Maybe I can pick up the transmitter's signal." He brightened. "Maybe the guys in the van have Tiffany!"

  "That's a possibility," Mr. Hardy said, looking at both boys. "Good luck — but watch out for yourselves."

  Frank arrived by cab at the hospital just before ten. As he was passing through the outer doors of the emergency room wing, he collided with a white-coated doctor hurrying out.

  "Excuse me," the man muttered, avoiding Frank's gaze.

  Something about the doctor's appearance bothered Frank. He turned back just in time to see the Asian doctor slide into the passenger side of a cream-colored van that had just pulled up at the curb. The van had hardly come to a stop before the engine revved and the vehicle pulled quickly away.

  Frank slammed through the door and out to the curb, but he realized that he had no chance of catching the van. He wheeled and dashed back inside and down the hall to the intensive care ward. The officer posted outside the door looked up in surprise.

  "Frank Hardy," Frank snapped as the officer stood up. "Come with me."

  "Trouble?" the officer asked.