Tagged for Terror

by Franklin W. Dixon

  "Just far enough so the plane could take off and land a few times before the bolt snapped," Frank ventured.

  Mapes nodded. "But I can't prove it." He glanced down at his watch. "I have to get going. I just wanted to give you guys a little advice. Stick to your jobs and don't ask a lot of questions about things that are none of your business. You could get hurt."

  Joe's eyes narrowed. "Is that advice or a threat?"

  A troubled look passed over Mapes's face. "Call it whatever you want."

  Joe crawled into his sleeping bag a few minutes after midnight and was fast asleep in less than a minute. It seemed that he had just shut his eyes when a heavy pounding startled him awake. The faint predawn glow in the window told him it was almost time to get up to go to work.

  He pulled the sleeping bag over his head and closed his eyes again, he wasn't going to move until Frank, the human alarm clock, bullied him into getting up.

  The insistent pounding assaulted his ears again.

  "Who is it?" Joe recognized Danny's sleepy voice from the other bedroom. "What do you want?"

  Joe sat up and saw that Frank was out of his sleeping bag. "Come on," Frank whispered. "Let's find out what's going on."

  Joe started to complain as the noisy thud, thud, thud was suddenly joined by the crack of splintering wood. "Somebody's trying to break down the door!" he exclaimed.

  Joe jumped to his feet, too, and raced after his brother to the front door, where they were joined by a startled-looking Danny. A final heavy blow smashed into the door, ripping a chunk of the door frame out of the wall. The door flew open, and a half dozen shadowy figures burst inside.

  Chapter 8

  JOE WAS TENSED for action but didn't make a move. Four men and two women, all armed, faced them. This was not the time for hasty action, considering the intruders were dressed in the uniforms of the Atlanta police.

  "What's the problem?" Frank asked.

  Before anyone could speak, Hank Forrester strode into the room, acting even more self-important than usual.

  "Good job, boys," Forrester said to the police officers.

  Joe wondered how Atlanta's finest men and women felt about being called boys.

  "We have a warrant to search this apartment," Forrester said. "You'll have to let us look the place over."

  "We'll take care of this, Mr. Forrester," one of the female officers said. Forrester, obviously annoyed, stepped back. "Who's Daniel Minifee?" she asked.

  "That's me," Danny replied, stepping forward.

  "What are the grounds for this warrant?" Frank asked the closest officer as the warrant was handed over to Danny.

  "I can tell you," Forrester boasted. "Eddings told me about that bit of evidence you found here. So I did a little checking and found out that Minifee had been arrested for armed robbery once. It happened when he was a minor, and the charges were dismissed, which was why the information didn't show up in the routine check before he was hired."

  "What are you looking for?" Danny asked.

  "Silver tags that we have reason to believe are being used in the luggage — ah, here they are now," Forrester said as a police officer walked up to them carrying the bag full of silver tags.

  "Those aren't mine," Danny protested. He was fully awake now, red-faced and angry. A second police officer displayed a valuable-looking gold watch, a diamond bracelet, and a small ruby ring.

  "I suppose these aren't yours, either," Forrester looked at Danny.

  "N - No—I've never seen them before," Danny sputtered.

  "I believe these items are among those reported missing. Would you like to explain how they got here?" Forrester questioned.

  Danny didn't respond. While Frank and Joe stood by watching helplessly, Danny was read his rights, handcuffed, and led away.

  "I didn't do anything," he yelled back to Frank and Joe.

  They were alone with Forrester now.

  "What I don't understand," Frank said, "is why you went to all this trouble. If Danny is working for the ring, he's probably just a minor player. I thought our goal was to shut down the entire operation and catch the leaders."

  Forrester's chest puffed out. "This is where experience counts, my boy. I know when to make a move and what the results most likely will be."

  "What do you mean?" Joe asked.

  "Minifee should be so scared he'll start talking and give the whole thing away. Even if he doesn't, the ringleaders will think that he has. That should rattle them enough to shut down their operation. We'd like to catch them, but the most important thing is to stop the thefts."

  "I can't believe this," Joe muttered as Forrester turned and left the apartment.

  Frank agreed. "I really doubt that a highly profitable, well-organized ring of thieves would shut down because of one small arrest."

  Joe nodded, leading the way into the kitchen. "I'm hungry," he announced. He opened the refrigerator door. A couple of slices of dried-out pizza stared back at him. "But not that hungry."

  Frank didn't seem to hear. He sat down at the kitchen table. "The way I've got it figured is that ticket agents or baggage handlers at airports across the country spot expensive-looking luggage. They put the silver tags on those bags, rerouting them to Hartsfield. Naturally, the luggage is unclaimed so a member of the ring can pick up the bags. They put the luggage in storage until they can get it out of the airport unnoticed."

  "Sounds like a reasonable theory," Joe agreed, "except Eddings told us that bags have stopped disappearing since we arrived. And we haven't been here that long. With bags being sent from all over the country, how could they stop the action that fast?"

  "Easy," Frank explained. "All they have to do is remove the silver tags when the bags arrive here. What you have left is just a bunch of misrouted luggage, which would be taken to the unclaimed luggage area, entered into the computer, and eventually returned to its owners."

  Frank stood up and nodded toward the clock on the wall. "So much for a full night's sleep. We have to report to work soon."

  On the way to work the Hardys stopped at an all-night diner for some breakfast. They shared their disappointment that Danny was involved in the thefts.

  "I couldn't help liking the guy," Joe said as he dumped pepper all over his eggs and greasy hash browns. "And all my instincts told me he was innocent."

  "He says he is, and I'd like to believe him, too," Frank agreed. "But instincts don't count in court. Evidence does. And so far, all the evidence was at his place."

  Joe nodded. "We should both be on the lookout for those silver tags—while they're still attached to the luggage."

  They arrived at the airport a few minutes early. Bob Briggs saw them and motioned them over. "You two mind going on the clock a little early? We're shorthanded and the work is already piling up."

  "Shorthanded?" Frank asked casually.

  "Looks that way. Danny and Ted were both scheduled to start an hour ago, and neither one has shown up or bothered to call."

  Briggs shrugged. "And we have a particularly heavy day today. Anyway, with both of them out, you two will work together. Go ahead and clock in—and thanks."

  "I didn't agree to start early," Joe grumbled, his eye on the doughnut shop across the airport terminal.

  Frank rolled his eyes and changed the subject. "We know where Danny is, but don't you think it's strange that Ted is out today, too?"

  "Maybe he just overslept," Joe responded as he stifled a yawn. "I can understand that."

  "Maybe ..." Frank nodded, lost in thought. "Look over there," he whispered as they approached the baggage area.

  Joe looked in the direction Frank indicated. Among a pile of suitcases was a particularly extravagant piece of luggage. It was a long, slim, and elegantly hand-tooled leather case. Joe guessed it to be one of a kind. He gave out a long, low whistle. "Someone has a nice fishing-rod case here," he commented.

  "Had," Frank pointed out as he tentatively lifted a rather smelly green duffel bag that was weighting down the back end of
the fishing-rod case. "Obviously it's been stolen." He indicated the silver tag attached to the leather handle.

  "Pay dirt!" Joe exclaimed, and began rummaging through the rest of the pile to see if there were any more. Within a few hours they had discovered seven more bags with the distinctive silver tag.

  "No one's taken off the tags," Frank observed.

  "That could be because the guy who's been removing the tags is in jail," Joe replied. "And don't forget, Ted's missing, too. He could also be involved."

  "I've been thinking about that," Frank agreed as he moved two bags marked for Houston to the appropriate conveyor belt. "So, what do we do next?" Joe asked. "I have a plan."

  "Don't say that." Joe eyed his brother warily. "Your plans always have me doing something stupid."

  "Let's take the marked bags to that storage area where I first saw the stash of luggage," Frank continued, oblivious to Joe's protests. "Why? So we can both get hashed on the head this time?" Joe responded Frank smiled and checked his watch. "It's time for our break. Let's go." He began pulling out the silver-tagged bags and placing them on a carousel. Joe reluctantly joined him, admiring the fishing-rod case as he placed it with the others on the belt. They quickly left the loading area, told Briggs they were taking their break, then entered the baggage claim area where passengers were picking up their luggage. Frank spotted an unattended motorized cart and hopped into the driver's seat. Joe jumped on the back as Frank got it going. They drove to the carousel they had just loaded, discreetly but quickly - grabbed the silver-tagged bags and tossed ·them onto the cart. They then drove their stolen cargo to the empty storage room. No one stopped them. No one seemed to notice them.

  They had just put the last piece of luggage in the room and were about to race back to work when Frank heard footsteps behind him. "What do you two think you're doing?" a threatening voice demanded.

  Chapter 9

  JOE DROPPED the bag he was holding and whirled around. His mind was racing, searching for a plausible excuse for why he and his brother were hiding a pile of expensive luggage in an unused storage room.

  "Gina!" Joe gasped the name with relief when he realized she was the one who had caught them in the act. "I'm glad it's only you."

  "Only me?" she said with a slight pout.

  Joe grinned. "You know what I mean."

  Gina frowned as she took in the storage room. "I'm not sure I do. What are you guys doing?"

  "That's a little hard to explain," Frank responded.

  "I think maybe I can figure it out for myself," Gina said. She made a face at Joe. "You're playing detective again, and you left me out."

  "We've got a plan to trap the guys who've been stealing luggage," Joe admitted.

  "We can't say any more than that right now," Frank cut in.

  "Okay," Gina said, obviously disappointed. "But if there's anything I can do to help, just let me know."

  "As a matter of fact, there is," Frank replied as an idea came to him. "Can you get access to the computerized personnel files?"

  Gina's gaze turned away from him and wandered around the room. "Gee, Frank, I don't think so," she said. "My computer access is limited to the reservations system. I doubt if I could get anywhere near the personnel records."

  "Too bad," Frank said. Gina seemed upset by his request, so he decided not to press the issue.

  "Well," Gina said, "I guess I'd better get back to work."

  Joe watched her walk down the corridor. "Too bad she's taken," he muttered, shaking his head.

  "Come on, Joe," Frank called. "We're going to have to find another place to stash this stuff."

  Joe stared at him. "Why?"

  Frank picked up the leather fishing-rod case and tossed it in the cart. "Don't you think it's a little strange that Gina was wandering around the storage area? I don't see too many passengers checking in down here. Do you?"

  "Gina?" Joe reacted in a startled tone. "Come on, Frank. You're starting to think everybody's a suspect."

  "Everybody is a suspect," Frank said flatly. "You forget that sometimes." He picked up another bag and piled it in the back of the cart. "Let's get moving."

  Frank spotted a room full of cleaning supplies and decided that would be a good place to store the luggage. He and Joe hid the stash in a corner behind a couple of waist-high barrels of industrial detergent. Then Joe grabbed some more supplies and stacked them on top of the bags. Unless someone was looking for the bags, they wouldn't be noticed.

  "There's only one thing about this plan that bothers me," Joe remarked as they headed back to work.

  "What's that?" Frank responded.

  Joe looked over at his brother. "What do we do now?"

  "Now we go on a fishing trip," Frank answered. "We dangle the bait to see what kind of fish bites."

  "I see," Joe said, even though he didn't. "And what kind of fishing line do we have tied to this bait?"

  Frank smiled. "One of the oldest lines in the book. 'We've got something you want. How badly do you want it?' "

  Joe returned the smile with a grin of his own. "I get it. We drop a few hints here and there. Then we sit back and wait for the bad guys to come to us."

  There was one problem with the plan, Frank realized at the end of the work shift. "We hardly know the other baggage handlers," he said to Joe as they walked out to the parking lot. "We spent all our time with Danny and Ted. Now Danny's in jail, and Ted's not around.

  Joe nodded. "I made a couple of passing remarks to Cantu and Renshaw, but I wouldn't exactly call them friends."

  Frank was silent for a moment, lost in thought. "Just because Danny's locked up," he finally said, "doesn't mean he can't talk to anybody. He can have visitors, right?"

  "That's right," Joe agreed. "And if we have a little talk with him, he could pass that information along to somebody else."

  "What are we waiting for?" Frank said. "Let's head over to the jail."

  A short while later Frank parked their car in front of the county jail. It was a cold, imposing hunk of gray concrete. A uniformed police officer at the front desk took their names and told them to wait, nodding toward some uninviting orange molded plastic chairs. A few minutes later he called the Hardys back up to the desk.

  "You're too late," the officer told them. "Your friend's already out on bail."

  "Are you sure?" Joe asked. "I didn't think Danny had enough money to make bail."

  "One of his friends put up the money," the officer responded.

  Frank raised his eyebrows. "Who?"

  "Sorry, we don't give out that information,' the officer responded. "But I can tell you the guy probably had money to burn. He kept asking me how long it was going to take because his Corvette was double-parked outside and he didn't want to get a ticket."

  Joe waited until they were back outside to say, "Something tells me that Danny knows only one person with a Corvette — Ted Nance."

  "The way Nance talked, though," Frank responded, "you'd think he was just as hard up for cash as Danny."

  "I'm surprised Ted would go to the trouble to bail Danny out," Joe said.

  "Unless they're both in this together," Frank ventured. "Ted might be afraid that Danny would talk."

  They drove back to Danny's apartment and discovered that all his personal stuff was gone. His closet was empty, and his textbooks had been cleared out of his bedroom. Frank noted that even the cheap manual typewriter that Danny used for his homework had vanished.

  "Either we're dealing with a very selective and not very bright burglar," Joe said, "or our friend has moved out."

  "My guess is he went back home," Frank said. "What was the name of that town?"

  "Porterville," Joe answered, remembering the name of the high school Danny had graduated from on Forrester's computer.

  Frank rummaged around in his travel bag and pulled out a Georgia road map. "Here it is," he said, pointing to a tiny speck. "It's about ninety miles south of Atlanta." He glanced at his watch. "We'll go down there in the morning."<
br />
  "Ted's family lives right here in Atlanta," Joe responded. "I remember how surprised I was that he lives with them even though he tries hard to reject them. Why don't we visit him tonight?"

  In the phone book, Frank found the Nances' home address. A half hour later the Hardys were getting out of their rental car in front of a three-story, modern brick-and-glass house with a wide, manicured lawn and a fenced-in tennis court.

  "Nice place," Joe remarked as they walked up to the front door. "At least we know that Danny told the truth when he said Ted's family had money."

  He pushed the doorbell, and deep, rich chimes rang inside the large house. A uniformed maid answered the door and let them in after Frank explained that they were Ted's friends. She left them standing on the marble floor of the foyer while she went to announce them.

  Joe tilted his head back and stared at the high, vaulted ceiling. "I'd hate to have to pay to heat this place."

  "This is Atlanta," Frank reminded him. "It never gets very cold here."

  "Oh, right," Joe mumbled.

  A tall woman with white hair, dressed in a tailored gray business suit, came into the entrance hall. "I'm Helena Nance," she introduced herself. "I'm Ted's mother."

  Frank took her outstretched hand. "I'm Frank Hardy, and this is my brother, Joe. We work with Ted at Eddings Air."

  "I see," she said in a reserved tone.

  "Ted didn't show up for work today, and he didn't call in," Joe said. "We wanted to make sure he was all right."

  "He's not sick, if that's what you mean," Mrs. Nance responded. "But I don't know if he's all right. When I got home from my office, I found him throwing some clothes into a suitcase. He seemed very upset about something. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me he was old enough to take care of himself. Then he stormed out of the house. I have no idea where he went!"

  Having failed to locate Ted, Frank thought it was even more important now to find Danny and talk to him. So Frank was up and ready to go at four the next morning.'

  Joe was definitely not ready to go, but Frank dragged him along, anyway. "It's too early," Joe complained as Frank drove south toward Danny's hometown in the predawn haze. "Everybody will still be in bed."