The Crisscross Crime

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank and Joe looked at each other. The police were wrong. The Hardys had been chasing the two First City thugs at exactly the time the Bayport robbery had gone down. There was only one explanation.

  “It’s got to be Meredith,” Frank said, clenching his fist. “He robbed Bayport Savings, then came to the junkyard to meet up with his buddies.”

  Joe’s eyes narrowed. “Next time we meet up with him, he won’t get away so easily.”

  4 Caught Stealing?

  * * *

  Frank picked up the video camera from the coffee table and ejected the tape. “I want to see if you recorded the license number.” He put the tape into the VCR and sat back down.

  The tape started with the view out the windshield of their mother’s car. There was a glimpse of the black sedan, then it disappeared from the frame as Frank drove the car out of the strip mall parking lot and on to the street. The picture bobbed up and down, making Joe feel almost seasick.

  Their mother came into the living room and sat down just as the film showed the black sedan careening through the red light and smashing into the station wagon. The video camera had picked up the crunching sound of the impact as well.

  Joe watched his mother, waiting for her reaction. But she sat quietly, her lips set in a tight line.

  They could see the black sedan weaving through traffic ahead. The picture was steadier now, with only an occasional lurch or jolt.

  Joe saw his mother’s expression change. “That’s my car you’re driving, isn’t it?”

  Frank nodded.

  “Oh, I can’t believe this.” Laura Hardy put her head in her hands. “And I thought you were late because the game went long.”

  Frank punched a button on the remote, freezing the picture. The frame stopped with the view out the windshield. The black sedan was only a few car lengths ahead. “Can you read the plate?” he asked Joe.

  Joe got close to the screen. “No, it’s too blurry. All we’ve got on these guys so far is reckless driving.”

  “And leaving the scene of an accident,” Mrs. Hardy added. “They smashed right into that station wagon.”

  Frank started the film again, and the sound of screeching tires and racing engines filled the living room.

  “What show is this?” a bright voice asked.

  The Hardys turned to see Aunt Gertrude standing in the doorway, clutching her purse in front of her. “This program looks much more exciting than my book group.”

  “This is just a short home movie Joe shot this afternoon,” Frank said.

  “Oh, my” was Aunt Gertrude’s reply.

  The video now showed the black sedan hitting the railroad tracks and flying two or three feet into the air. The Hardys’ car followed. The picture jumped with the impact—the ceiling of the car suddenly filled the screen, then a quick flash of Joe’s feet as they landed. The picture focused on the road ahead just in time to see the sedan’s muffler fly past.

  Aunt Gertrude sank into a wing chair, her face pale with fright. “Oh, my,” she said again.

  They all watched as the film showed the bank robbers turn into the junkyard in a cloud of dust. Then the picture went black.

  “Is that it?” Mrs. Hardy asked.

  Joe frowned. “Not quite, Mom. There’s one more thing we’ve got to show you.”

  A few seconds later the picture popped on again, blurry and out of focus. Only a high-pitched whining noise could be heard.

  “What’s that sound?” Laura Hardy asked.

  “It’s called a hydraulic auto compactor,” Frank said grimly.

  “A what?”

  Then the scene became clear. The powerful jaws of the hydraulic press were pinching Mrs. Hardy’s car flat as easily as if it were made of aluminum foil.

  Mrs. Hardy held her hands to her mouth in shock. “My car,” she moaned. “That’s my car getting squashed flat. Were you two inside there?”

  “As you can see,” Joe said. “We got out just fine.”

  “But it was close,” Frank added. “I’m really sorry, Mom. Joe and I are going to catch the guys who did this, I promise.”

  Aunt Gertrude stood up. “I think you should call the police right now. Show them this video.”

  “I have to agree,” Laura Hardy said.

  Joe ejected the cassette from the VCR. “But we don’t have any proof, Mom. I didn’t even get the license plate.”

  “We’ll get the plate number,” Frank said, looking first at Joe, then at his mother. “As soon as we get that, we’ll go talk to Con Riley.”

  Con was the Hardys’ friend inside the Bayport Police Department. Unlike Chief Collig, who was sometimes skeptical of the brothers’ activities, Con respected their detective talents and would listen to their story.

  It took a little while to soothe Aunt Gertrude, but soon Frank and Joe were upstairs and ready to turn in for the night.

  “So how do you propose we get that plate number?” Joe asked.

  Frank stood in the doorway of his room, toweling off his brown hair. “Computer enhancement,” he said, hooking the towel over his doorknob. “We’ll drop the tape off at Phil’s tomorrow morning. I also want to find out what really happened at Bayport Savings Bank. One look at their surveillance video should tell us if our hunch about Bart Meredith is right.”

  • • •

  Early the next morning the Hardys were rapping on the double wooden doors leading down to their friend Phil Cohen’s cellar.

  Joe was about to knock a second time when a computerized voice said, “Stand away from the door, please.”

  As Joe jumped back, he heard the all-too-familiar sound of hydraulic whirring. The cellar doors slowly came open, pushed up by two chrome-plated pistons.

  “Radical!” Frank exclaimed.

  The Hardys scrambled down the steps into Phil’s basement. There, seated at his workbench, was their friend.

  “How do you like my new butler?” Phil asked. He put down the soldering iron he was using and pulled off his safety goggles.

  “Pretty cool,” Frank said.

  “If I’m in the middle of something important I don’t have to get up to answer the door,” Phil said.

  “We’ve got something important,” Joe said. He slapped the videotape down on the bench. If there was anyone in Bayport who could do what the Hardys were about to ask, it was Phil. He was a technical genius.

  Phil picked up the tape. “You want me to analyze your pitching motion, Joe?”

  Joe laughed. “I guess it’s a little more serious than that. Did you happen to watch the news last night?”

  Phil nodded.

  “The guys who tried to rob First City Bank are on this tape,” Frank said.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Totally. We need the plate number of the car and anything else you can get.”

  “Tell him about the maps,” Joe said.

  “Oh, right,” Frank said. “At the very end of the tape, there’s footage of some weird maps. We need to see those up close.”

  Phil nodded again. He was always ready to help the Hardys with an investigation. “Give me a few hours,” he said. “I’ll get you something you can use.”

  “We’re counting on it, buddy,” Joe said. “And our mother’s counting on you, too.”

  Phil looked at Frank. “Your mom?”

  “Don’t ask,” Frank said. “Watch the tape, you’ll understand.”

  • • •

  Their next stop was Bayport Savings. The main branch of the bank was in the middle of downtown Bayport, at the corner of a busy intersection right across from the public library, the courthouse, and the Empire Federal Bank.

  No Parking signs lined the street, so Frank pulled the van into the parking lot behind the bank.

  “It’s showtime.” Frank had figured that if they waltzed in asking questions, the bank employees would just call them a couple of kids and tell them to get lost. So the Hardys had formulated a plan.

  Joe came forward from the back of the van. A
lthough it was already burning hot out, he’d dressed like a reporter, in khaki pants, a light blue dress shirt, and brown loafers.

  “Here,” Frank said, holding up a navy blue tie.

  Joe shook his head. “No way. I draw the line at wearing that dog collar.”

  Frank laughed and chucked the tie into the back. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s the cell phone. Make the call.”

  Joe flipped the phone open and punched in seven numbers. A female voice answered. “Good morning. Bayport Savings Bank.”

  “Good morning,” Joe said. “This is Jim Harper, reporter for the Bayport Globe. Is the manager in?”

  The voice on the other end sounded wary. “No, she’s not. May I take a message?”

  “Is there someone else I can talk to about the robbery last night?”

  “I’m sorry. The police are still investigating and they’ve asked us not—”

  “I have information that says your security procedures were lax,” Joe interrupted. He had to think of something to keep her from hanging up on him. “People could very easily have been hurt or killed,” he continued. “I’d think someone there would want to answer my questions before I go to press.”

  There was a pause. Then, “Hold on a minute, please.”

  The line seemed to go dead. Joe held the phone away from his ear. “I think she cut me off,” he whispered.

  Then another voice came on. “Alex Stendahl speaking.”

  “Mr. Stendahl, hi. This is Jim—”

  “Yes, I know. The voice was curt, but not angry. “You said you had some questions. Come on over and I’ll be happy to talk to you.”

  Joe heard a click. This time the line was really dead. “I’m in,” Joe said.

  “Excellent,” Frank told him. “Find out all you can. If the thief fits Meredith’s description, we’ll know he was working a scam with those two guys we chased from First City.”

  Frank watched his brother jump from the van and walk briskly around to the Main Street entrance of the bank.

  Around front, Joe paused to check his reflection in the smoked-glass double doors. As he adjusted his glasses, a uniformed guard stepped out and held the door open. “Coming in, sir?”

  “Yes, thanks,” Joe said, going in. He noticed that the guard was armed. They must be taking extra precautions since the heist, he thought to himself.

  Red carpet covered the lobby floor, and the rose-colored marble of the columns matched the tellers’ long counter. The first customers of the day were lining up. In the quiet, Joe could hear them gossiping about the robbery.

  The opposite wall was lined with individual glass-walled offices. “Jim Harper here to see Mr. Stendahl,” he said to a young woman behind a desk.

  The woman spoke quietly into an intercom. Almost immediately, a tall man in a gray suit stepped out of the corner office closest to the front door. Joe noticed that he had a bandage over his right eye. “In here, Mr. Harper,” the man said.

  Joe stepped forward to shake hands. The man grasped his hand firmly and drew him into the office, closing the door behind them.

  “Alex Stendahl, bank president,” the man said. “Please, have a seat.”

  Joe settled into a comfortable leather office chair while Stendahl went around and sat behind his massive desk.

  Joe gestured to Stendahl’s bandage. “From yesterday?”

  Stendahl gently touched his forehead with his fingertips. “I’m afraid so. I wish I could say I put up a good fight, but, you know . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Joe smiled sympathetically. “Tell me what happened,” he said.

  • • •

  Back in the van, Frank opened his window, reclined his seat, and kicked back. He wondered how Joe was doing inside. Getting some answers, he hoped.

  His mind started to drift to baseball. The Hardys’ next game was Thursday, the next day. It would be a night game, and Frank was scheduled to pitch. Frank closed his eyes. He loved pitching at night, under the lights.

  Frank heard the wail of police sirens in the distance. He kept his eyes closed and concentrated on the big game.

  The sirens grew louder. I wish they would shut up, Frank thought. The sun shone warm on his face.

  Then Frank sensed a shadow pass. He opened his eyes in time to see a uniformed bank guard a few steps from the van. The man had his hand poised over his gun holster.

  Frank sat up.

  “Freeze!” the guard shouted. “Don’t even blink!”

  In a blast of screaming sirens and squealing tires, two police cruisers charged into the parking lot. One skidded to a stop just inches from Frank’s front bumper. The other pulled around behind.

  “What’s going on?” Frank asked. The flashing lights blinded him.

  An amplified voice came from one of the cruisers. “You, in the van, stick your hands out the window where we can see them. You are under arrest.”

  5 Dog Food

  * * *

  Minutes earlier, inside the bank, Alex Stendahl had been giving Joe all the details of the robbery.

  “The police told us all to keep quiet during the investigation,” Stendahl said. “But I think it’s important the public knows what’s going on. They need to feel safe coming to our bank.”

  “Oh, I definitely agree,” Joe said, taking out a pen and a small spiral notebook.

  Stendahl sat forward, his elbows on his desk. “The police are almost ready to make an arrest,” he announced.

  Joe’s jaw dropped. “That wasn’t on the news last night,” he almost blurted out. Then he realized a reporter wouldn’t say something like that. Instead, he said calmly, “They didn’t tell me anything about an arrest.”

  “I know,” Stendahl replied. “Unfortunately it’s one of our own employees. The police hope keeping things quiet will help them find her accomplice.”

  Joe scribbled in his notebook like a good reporter.

  “Her name is Sylvia van Loveren,” Stendahl continued. “She’s the manager here.”

  “Give me all the details you remember.”

  “It happened at a few minutes before six,” Stendahl said. “We close at six, you know.”

  Joe nodded.

  “There were only four of us left—two tellers, Sylvia, and myself. Everyone else had gone home.” Stendahl stood up and walked to the door. He gazed out at the lobby. “The guy was wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black ski mask. He must’ve been carrying the mask in his pocket while he was outside—I don’t know.”

  Joe kept scribbling.

  “He came in through the front door, pulled a gun from the waistband of his jeans, and started shouting,” Stendahl said. “I ran out of the office to try to stop him and he hit me with the barrel of the gun.”

  Stendahl sat back down. “I fell down. I don’t remember much after that. Blood running into my eyes, more shouting. A few minutes later, he was gone.”

  “Is that all the description you can give me?” Joe asked. “How big was he?”

  “I don’t know. Pretty big, I guess.”

  Joe remembered that Meredith had a long ponytail. “Could you see any of his hair? Did it stick out under the mask?”

  Stendahl closed his eyes for a second as if replaying the events. “No. No, I don’t think I saw his hair.”

  “But why are the police about to arrest the manager?”

  Stendahl put his hands flat on his desk. “Because this guy knew everything about our procedures. He knew there would be only four of us here. And,” Stendahl said, nodding out the window at a big building down the street, “he knew Robert’s Department Store had just made a big cash deposit, like they do every Monday afternoon.”

  “A teller could’ve told him those things.”

  “Right,” Stendahl replied. “But he also knew there wouldn’t be any surveillance video.”

  Joe stopped writing. “No video?”

  Stendahl shook his head. “That’s how I know it was Sylvia. She and I are the only ones who know how to operate the surveill
ance system. When I went to show the police the video last night, we discovered that the system had been disabled—the tape was totally blank.”

  “There was nothing?”

  “Nothing. Well, except for the parking lot camera. She must’ve forgotten about that one.”

  Joe put the cap on his pen. “I’d like to see that video.”

  “I wish you could, but the police took it. There wasn’t much on it—just the thief running through the parking lot with his back to the camera.”

  “How about a car?” Joe asked.

  “No, nothing like that. The police think he got away on foot, or had a car parked a few blocks away. That’s what they told me.”

  Joe stood up and shook hands with the bank president. “Thanks for the interview,” he said. “Oh, one more question.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Why would Miss van Loveren set up a bank robbery?”

  Stendahl shrugged. “Who knows? Greed, maybe. She seems to spend a lot of money. You know, designer clothes, a sports car, things like that.”

  Joe whistled. “That’s a lot of cake.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  They could hear sirens in the distance. Stendahl looked out over Joe’s shoulder into the lobby. “Anyway,” he said, going over to hold the door open. “This will be in tomorrow’s paper right? Everything about Miss van Loveren and how the police are going to make an arrest?”

  “Sure,” Joe said. “I’ll get it all in there.”

  Joe left the office. Through the back windows of the bank, he saw two police cars whip into the parking lot.

  Customers in line craned their necks to see what was going on. “Oh, boy,” a little kid said. “They found a real robber!”

  • • •

  “Open the door with your left hand and step out of the van!” the amplified voice boomed.

  Frank did as he was told. The bank guard stepped up quickly and frisked him.

  “He’s clean,” he said so the other officers could hear. He started to cuff Frank.

  “Hold on there!” a familiar voice said. “Hold up—I know this man.”

  The bank guard stepped back as a Bayport officer approached. “Hey, Frank,” the officer said. “You been robbing banks lately?”