Trouble in the Pipeline

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Hardy Boys Casefiles - 26

  Trouble in the Pipeline

  By

  Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 1

  "WILL YOU STEP on it, Frank? We're late." Joe Hardy strained forward against his seat belt and twisted the dial on the radio in their van. His blond hair was still wet and was combed straight back. In clean chinos and a Hawaiian shirt, he was dressed for a party. He found a station he liked and sat back, arms folded, to glare impatiently at his older brother.

  "Calm down," Frank said, turning into a narrow road in a quiet section of Bayport. "Don't you know it's fashionable to be late?"

  "Being late is one thing — missing half the party is another," Joe grumbled.

  Frank chuckled. Put girls and food in front of Joe Hardy, and watch out! Keeping his dark eyes on the road, Frank said, "It'll be good to see Doug. It's been almost three years, between his army stint and then that job in Alaska."

  Joe stirred restlessly, staring out the side window. "We'll be lucky if there's any food left. I know Lisa invited a lot of people."

  "The party is for Doug Hopkins, Joe — not your stomach," said Frank. "I hope we'll be able to get to talk to the guest of honor in the mob scene."

  "We'll find out in a minute." Frank was driving at an easy pace. The road was narrow and curvy as it led through a large suburban development — small houses, each with a "Children at Play" warning on the lawn. The late-summer evening was breezeless and cool. Frank didn't feel like hurrying. His girl, Callie Shaw, couldn't make the party, and he wasn't eager to go without her.

  A car was coming from the opposite direction, and Frank snugged up next to the curb under a streetlight to let it pass. Instead, the green two-door slammed to a stop beside him, and the driver leaned out his window. He wore a gray work shirt and a heavy growth of stubble on his face.

  "Hey, kid," the man asked. "Where's Christensen Drive?"

  "You just passed it," Frank answered. "Three blocks back, make a right, then look for a dead end. We're heading there our — "

  Before he could finish, the guy slammed the car into first. Tires screeching, the car whipped through a tight U-turn, then barreled past the Hardys' van. Frank stared as the car swerved, narrowly missing a little kid's bike that had been left against the curb. The green car roared up onto somebody's lawn, cutting a set of dirt tire tracks through the grass, and disappeared.

  "Those morons!" Joe pounded the dashboard as he watched the taillights flash up the block, then make a shrieking right turn.

  "Did you get their license plate?" Frank asked, his arms crossed on the steering wheel.

  "License plate? I barely saw them!" Joe said.

  Starting the van's engine, Frank said, "Lisa lives on Christensen Drive. We may bump into those guys again."

  "If I catch those bozos, I'll burn rubber, too — right on their heads." He glanced over at Frank. "Well? Aren't we going?"

  "That depends," his older brother replied. "Are we heading for the party, or are you out looking for trouble?"

  "Will you knock it off and get us to Lisa's? We were supposed to be there an hour ago."

  They had to park the van half a block from Lisa Shannon's house because a dozen cars already lined both curbs. They could hear the beat of music pounding down the street as they strolled under the dark canopy of trees. No one noticed them walk in. People were dancing or standing around in groups, talking and laughing. Joe headed straight for the dining room table. Frank watched as his brother slapped together a huge 3 salami and cheese sandwich, and he shook his head.

  With Joe distracted, Frank decided he'd better represent the Hardy family and say hello. He went to look for Lisa or Doug.

  Lisa had gone all out. Her house was jammed. People were there to celebrate Doug's homecoming and the end of summer. Finally, out on the patio, Frank found Doug sitting quietly in the dark on a wicker couch.

  "So, here's the man of the hour!" Frank said, grinning as he sat down next to him.

  Doug looked up and smiled sheepishly, shaking back his light brown hair. He was sitting on the edge of the seat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Always a good athlete in high school, Doug looked even more fit and sturdy than Frank remembered him.

  "How does it feel to be back in civilization?" Frank asked.

  "Okay." Doug shrugged.

  "Well, we're glad to have you back. I guess the size of this bash shows how happy Lisa is."

  "Yeah, it's great." Doug sat back and rubbed his hands together.

  Frank stared. Was Doug trying to brush him off? Or were the one-word answers a sign of something going on between Doug and Lisa?

  "Everything's okay between you guys?"

  "Sure," said Doug, not changing his expression.

  "Lisa was so proud of you. She talked about your job in Alaska all summer. I guess it's a good way to build up a nest egg."

  If Frank thought he had found an opening, he was in for disappointment. Doug didn't respond.

  "So, how was it?" Frank found himself getting a little embarrassed. "You must be tired of answering that question."

  "It was okay," Doug said flatly.

  "What'd you do?"

  "I worked for a company that maintains the Alaska oil pipeline. I cleared land, cut brush— that kind of thing." Doug turned away, reaching for a soda on the end table.

  "What's the summer like up there?"

  "Pretty warm during the day, but at night it got cold. We were in Prudhoe, you know, up on the north coast—right on the Arctic Ocean. It stayed light all night long. You could read outdoors at any time just by the light from the sun."

  Frank laughed. "That must be weird. I'd have trouble sleeping, I think."

  Doug nodded. "Yeah, at first you do. But you get used to it."

  "Didn't you go up there with one of your army buddies?" Frank asked.

  If Doug had been warming up, that question cooled him down. His face became a mask - only his eyes moved, darting back and forth.

  "I went with my pal Scott. We worked together," he finally answered in a measured beat.

  Lisa Shannon came out onto the patio just then. She was a tall, dark-haired girl with a round face and a brilliant, warm smile. But Frank noticed that she seemed almost timid as she approached Doug. "Want to dance?" she asked after smiling at Frank.

  Doug barely looked up. "No, thanks," he grunted. Lisa raised an eyebrow, smiled slightly, and backed away.

  "Okay. If you change your mind, I'll be in the kitchen, making some dip."

  Frank waited until Lisa had gone. "Come on, Doug, something's bothering you. You're acting as if this were your funeral, not a homecoming."

  Doug shot him a look of pure terror, then he quickly recovered. "Just tired, I guess." He managed a nervous little laugh, but he wasn't acting like the Doug that Frank knew.

  Doug was older than Frank and Joe, but he'd always been very friendly and outgoing. And even though he'd been a few years ahead of them in school, he'd spent a lot of time hanging out at their house and talking to their father. Fenton Hardy had a reputation as one of the best detectives in the country, and Doug was very interested in police work.

  After high school Doug had enlisted in the army, and when his tour of duty was over, he had gone up to Alaska to have one last adventure before settling down. The adventure seemed to have turned Doug into a nervous wreck.

  Frank wasn't about to try interrogating a friend. He stood up and stretched once. "I think I'll try some of that dip. Catch you later." He turned and followed the thumping of the music back into the living room. Joe had finished eating and was now starting to occupy himself with girls. He was dancing with a redheaded one in a white dress. Frank smiled at the girl and tapped Joe on
the shoulder.

  "Can I talk to you?"

  "Not now." Joe made it very clear that he wanted to be left alone.

  Frank raised his shoulders in a shrug and stepped off, thinking that maybe that business with the maniac driver had put Joe on edge.

  Frank headed for the dining room and loaded a paper plate with chips and dip. Then he stepped back out to the patio. Doug was gone, his glass of soda half-empty on the table beside the wicker couch. Frank left his plate and walked around the side of the house to look for Doug.

  The green car that had stopped them for directions was parked on the street, blocking the driveway. The driver and passenger were out of the car, standing on either side of Doug. Both were big, brawny types and loomed over him.

  Whatever Doug said must have annoyed them. The driver suddenly grabbed Doug's arms, pinning them back. The other guy sank his fist into Doug's gut in a vicious body punch.

  Chapter 2

  FRANK WAS SMART. He stepped back into the dancing crowd, grabbed Joe, and hauled him outside.

  "What are you — " Joe began. Then, by the porch lights, he saw the two guys working Doug over. Joe and Frank raced up to them. The driver with the heavy stubble was still holding Doug. Joe grabbed the guy's shoulder and whirled him around. With the goon's grip broken, Doug sagged to the ground, barely conscious. Frank knelt to make sure he was all right as the second guy began to retreat.

  "Hey, Whiskers, what's going on here?" Joe demanded of the guy with the stubble.

  "None of your business," Whiskers snarled, backing up.

  "I think it is," Joe shot back. "You drive like a maniac, now you beat up on a friend of ours. I think the cops — "

  The two strong-armed men began retreating faster. Joe dashed after them, only to be stopped by the driver's heavy boot applied none too gently to his midsection. Frank leapt to his feet and was knocked down instantly by a chop to his throat that left him gasping for air.

  The thugs, at their car by now, jumped in, gunned the engine, and tore off, leaving a strip of rubber on the street.

  "You okay?" Joe asked, helping Frank up.

  "Yeah," Frank rasped. "Another inch and he'd have crushed my throat. How's Doug?"

  Doug struggled to his feet, moving like a broken old man. His lower lip was split. Frank pulled the van down to the driveway, and Joe helped Doug onto the passenger seat. They didn't want any of the partygoers seeing him like that.

  "Who were those guys?" Joe asked.

  Doug shook his head. "Don't wanna tawk," he managed, dribbling blood.

  "Come on, Doug. You've got to tell us. We can help you if you're in trouble." Frank handed Doug a handkerchief. "What did they want?"

  Dabbing at his lip and chin, Doug gave them a you-won't-believe-this look. "They warned me to forget about what happened in Alaska."

  Frank and Joe exchanged glances. What could be so important that two thugs would come all the way to Bayport from Alaska? "Okay. What happened?" Frank asked.

  "Scott and I found out that some managers in the company we were working for were taking bribes. And like stupid idiots, we told a higher-up, thinking he'd want to know. We thought we'd get promotions."

  Joe raised his eyebrows. "Didn't turn out that way?"

  "The guy said he'd investigate — next thing we know, a bunch of thugs grabbed us." Doug looked up at the Hardys, exhausted and terrified. "They threw me on a plane and said if I talked to anyone, anyone at all, they'd kill me." He hung his head. "I don't even know what happened to Scott."

  "You mean he didn't go home?"

  "I called his folks, pretending to be another army buddy. They told me he was still in Alaska. I had overheard some of the guys who grabbed us talking. They were interested in Scott because he knew a lot about explosives. He was a demolitions expert in the army."

  "What's the name of this company you worked for?"

  "Trans-Yukon Mining. But they also do construction and maintenance work on the pipeline. Everyone up there does some."

  "Did those two come from Alaska?"

  "No. They said mutual friends in Alaska sent them to check up on me. When I told them to leave me alone, they — "

  Frank interrupted. "What about those bribes? Who was spreading the money around? And what were they bribing people to do?"

  Doug shook his head. "I don't know. We just happened to overhear these managers talking about their new-found wealth, and they mentioned it was bribe money. They found out we had overheard, decided we knew more than we did, and that was it."

  He looked up at them, miserable. "I thought I wanted to be a cop, but I don't think I could handle it. I can't handle this. Could you — can you go up to Alaska and find Scott — at least find out what happened to him?" he added in a mere whisper. "I'm really scared. You saw. These guys mean business."

  "We'll go," Frank said. "We'll find Scott and get to the bottom of this bribery thing, too. Now, let's get you to a hospital. Then you'd better stay at our house, where you'll be safe until we get back."

  They took Doug to the emergency room and back to their house. Early the next morning the boys were in the air, heading for Alaska.

  "Scott could be anywhere," Frank was saying as the plane droned its way toward Seattle, Washington. "He could be a prisoner, or in hiding. He might even be working for those guys up there by now."

  "He could be dead." Joe cracked his knuckles and looked out at the peaceful blue and white of the cloud-lined sky.

  They changed planes in Seattle, and in Fairbanks, Alaska, changed again. When they finally reached Prudhoe, they'd been in the air for almost twelve hours. They found the nearest motel and crashed. Although it was light outside, the town was in bed. And there was nothing they could do but sleep until morning.

  The next morning they visited Trans-Yukon Mining. The company's offices were in a drab cinder-block building not far from Prudhoe's busy harbor on the Arctic Ocean. After getting past the receptionist, they found themselves in the outer office of the president of the company.

  "We'd like to see Mr. Hammond." Joe leaned across the secretary's desk, turning on the charm. Frank never ceased to be amazed. Put a pretty girl in front of the guy and he became a different person. Joe's eyes sparkled with warmth and curiosity as he spoke. "My name is Joe Hardy. What's yours?"

  "Cindy," the girl stammered. "Cindy Velikov." Drawn out of herself by the sheer force of Joe's smile, she shook hands. Joe held it for longer than necessary.

  "Pleased to meet you, Cindy." He smiled cheerfully. "Think my brother and I could have a word with your boss?"

  A blush spread across Cindy's pretty face to the roots of her blond hair. "He — he doesn't like being disturbed. Do you have an appointment?"

  "No. But we came all the way from New York to speak to him. We just want a few minutes of his time."

  Cindy's ears perked up. "New York? I've never — Is it really like the pictures?"

  "Oh, bigger!" Joe's hands made sweeping gestures. "Better!"

  Cindy's blue eyes sparkled. "My dream is to live in New York, in one of those tall buildings with a doorman."

  She hit some buttons on the intercom in front of her. "I'll check if Mr. Hammond can see you. Have a seat."

  While they were waiting, Frank leaned over to Joe and whispered in his ear, "Let me handle this, okay? He may be clean, so I'm not going to hit him with everything we know."

  Joe nodded.

  Moments later they found themselves in Mr. Hammond's office. Dark wood paneling that matched the massive desk hid the cinder block here. A man rose, gesturing toward a pair of chairs. "I'm Spike Hammond," he said. "Sit down."

  Hammond had the body of a man who'd done hard physical work all his life. In fact, he looked out of place in this office, as if he'd been stuffed into a suit and lowered in by a crane. His square jaw was balanced by an abundance of tousled red hair that fell low on his sunburned forehead. A scattering of freckles marched across the bridge of his nose.

  "What brings you to Prudhoe?" Ha
mmond asked.

  Frank spoke up. "We're looking for a friend, Scott Sanders. He's supposed to be working for Trans-Yukon."

  Hammond cocked his head to one side, then shook it as he leaned against his desk. "No. I don't recall that he does," he said.

  "Here's a picture." Frank pulled out a snapshot of Scott in his army uniform.

  Hammond took the photo between his thumb and forefinger. "Don't recognize the face, don't remember the name." He handed the picture back.

  "Would you object if we had a look at your records?" Joe sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap. But Frank could hear the determination in his voice.

  "That would be a bit unusual," Hammond said. "We don't normally allow anyone access to that information."

  Frank jumped in. "We understand. But I don't see how you can rely on your memory to recall every name and face that passes through here."

  Hammond chuckled, moving around to the other side of the desk. "I'm not one to forget a face."

  "But we'd like to be sure," Joe interjected.

  "We believe that Scott Sanders did work here and that he's now in some kind of trouble. I hope you'll help us out."

  "I'd like to help." Hammond's forehead wrinkled in sympathy. "But it's company policy. I can't go around opening personnel records."

  Frank took a deep breath. "Mr. Hammond, I'll be honest with you. We got some postcards from Scott, telling us that he was working here, and that he knew some of your managers were taking kickbacks. That's all we know. After a while the postcards stopped, and he didn't come home when he was supposed to. His folks are beginning to get nervous."

  Hammond sat down. "You say this guy thought my managers were taking kickbacks? From whom?"

  "He didn't say," Frank answered truthfully. "I doubt if he knew."

  "Well, that's news to me." Hammond bit off his words. Frank couldn't decide if it was from anger, surprise, or the tension of a guilty conscience. "Thanks for the tip," Hammond said. "I'll look into it immediately." He got up and started to show them out. As they were passing Cindy Velikov she looked up and smiled.

  "Sir, I overheard you say that Scott Sanders never worked here. But I remembered him, and I took the liberty of looking him up." She pointed to her computer screen. Joe moved quickly, not waiting for Hammond's reaction.