The Crowning Terror

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank and Joe had been sitting silently in the pitch-black room. They had remained in their chairs, uncertain of what might be waiting for them in the darkness. Their captors, Frank knew, would come to them soon enough.

  At the click of the door opening, a soft blue light was diffused through the room. First they had heard the footsteps, and seconds later the man stepped in and spoke to them.

  He was not the same man who had brought them in. This man was also dressed in black, but he was shorter and older, with curly black hair receding on both sides, leaving a widow's peak on his forehead. His small, dark eyes were burning, and his mouth was curled in a smirk. In one hand he held a file folder stuffed with papers.

  "Let's not everyone speak all at once, okay?" the man said. "Frank and Joe Hardy. Quite the young adventurers, according to our reports."

  "If we're under arrest, we want to speak to a lawyer," Frank said coldly.

  The man leaned against a wall. "Oh, you're not under arrest," he said, shaking his head. "We only say that so people won't give us any trouble. By the way, my name's Starkey." He held a hand out to Frank, who didn't take it.

  "Then we're free to go?" Joe asked.

  Starkey chuckled. "Wake up and smell the coffee, chum. This is what you call protective custody. I've got a lot of questions about you that I'd like cleared up.

  "Every time there's a spy or a crook running loose, you seem to be around. Some people might think you're more than a little involved in these situations. Like the one today, for instance. Is it just coincidence that you got in the way of my men, just when we were about to nab a master spy?"

  "You're crazy," Joe said. "We're the good guys. We stop crooks and spies. Besides, whoever your 'master spy' is, he had just kidnapped our uncle Hugh."

  "We don't have to tell him anything," Frank interrupted. "He's not the law."

  "Maybe not," Starkey replied cheerfully. "But I sure am the government. So don't think I can't make plenty of trouble for you if you don't get cooperative real fast."

  "If you're really a government agent, get in touch with the Gray Man at the Network," Frank said coldly. There was something in Starkey's manner that irritated him. "He'll vouch for us."

  Starkey pinched his chin with his fingertips, as if pondering what Frank had said. "The Network. Frank, let me tell you what the Network means to me. Their budget and ours come from the same fund. As far as I'm concerned, all they do is leech money from Espionage Resources."

  He gave the Hardys a nasty grin. "So nuts to them and their vouching. You haven't said anything to convince me you and your brother aren't spies, and until you do, don't bet on any help from the Network. They know I'd use any opportunity to convince the boys upstairs to take away their funding.

  "All you and your brother are to the Gray Man right now is an embarrassment." Starkey squared his shoulders and continued. "Let's get back on track. Tell me what you know about Hugh Hunt."

  "This is a joke, right?" Frank said. "My uncle Hugh and my father have known each other for years. He's in insurance. What's all this about?"

  As if he hadn't heard, Starkey flipped through the file. "According to the Network files, you boys are supposed to be pretty smart. Sounds to me like you're lying or you were born yesterday."

  "I don't believe the Network would hand out files on us," Joe said.

  Starkey laughed again. "All I had to do was tell them I caught two of their freelancers mixed up in an espionage ring and they practically rolled over and played dead. Everyone's twitchy about possible double agents these days." His smile suddenly vanished. "I honestly don't think you work for Hugh Hunt, though the evidence could easily be read that way."

  "Work for him?" Joe asked, bewildered. "Do you really think we sell insurance?"

  Starkey stared at him for a long moment. "You really don't know, do you?" The government man was almost laughing by then. "I probably shouldn't tell you anything, but if you're to be of any use to me, you'll have to know."

  "Use?" asked Frank. "What are you talking about?"

  "Don't you hate the light in here? I do," Starkey said, again ignoring Frank. He stretched an arm out, and with a click switched on an overhead light.

  The room was small, about six feet by six feet. It was sparsely furnished with three plain wooden chairs and a small table. On the far wall was the door and a large two-way mirror. Frank couldn't tell if anyone was outside watching and listening or not. Starkey straddled one of the wooden chairs.

  "That's better," Starkey said. "Now, let me tell you a little story about two men. We'll call them Fenton Hardy and Hugh Hunt, okay?"

  "Don't you dare drag my dad into this!" Joe snapped.

  Starkey raised his hands in mock surrender and shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of it. That is, unless you boys think there's some reason to." Both Frank and Joe glared silently at him. "Good. Now can I get on with my story?

  "During a war in Southeast Asia, Hardy and Hunt met in the army. Now Hunt was quite a bit older than Hardy and already working for Military Intelligence. Hardy was recruited by Hunt and soon both were partnered, working for M.I. They were one hot team, I tell you, busting spies that no one else even guessed existed. You could base thrillers on these guys. Only they were under oath never to tell anyone about their actions."

  "We know all this," Joe lied, hoping to shatter Starkey's smugness. But the man ignored him. "So what?"

  "So when his hitch was up, Hardy returned to civilian life as a detective." Starkey leaned back. "Meanwhile, the boys upstairs asked Hunt to start up his own counterintelligence service, answerable only to us or the President. They were very convincing. Well, old Hunt's a patriot and not one to turn down an offer from Uncle Sam. So he starts up this spy firm — "

  "No way that happened," Frank interjected. "Our uncle Hugh was in insurance."

  "I really never thought you were a sucker, kid," Starkey said. "You think we have a sign out front saying United States Espionage Resources? Your uncle's insurance company was a front. Just like we all have fronts. To everyone else, we're just ordinary businessmen. That's why they call us secret agents."

  "And the name of your front is Transmutual Indemnity, right?" Frank asked. He smiled as Starkey blinked and nervously licked his lips. Frank had caught him off guard at last.

  "Maybe you guys deserve your rep after all," Starkey said finally. "Mind telling me how you came to that conclusion?"

  "I was willing to believe your story, Mr. Starkey. We visited our uncle Hugh at his office a few times when we were kids, and I don't remember seeing any customers, or signs that there had ever been any," Frank replied. "But I wondered why you were handling this operation. Why not the Network, or Army Intelligence, or even the CIA? There was something in your voice that indicated Hugh's kidnapping was of personal importance to you."

  Frank raised his eyebrows. "So I asked myself why, and only one conclusion makes sense. Assuming your story is true, the agency our uncle founded was probably the United States Espionage Resources. Right?"

  Starkey nodded sullenly.

  "Therefore, his cover is your cover. Transmutual Indemnity," Frank concluded.

  "So that's it," said Joe. "You have to get our uncle back because he's one of you. If you wanted our help, all you had to do was ask."

  At Joe's remark the smirk returned to Starkey's lips. "That's where you're wrong, pal. Yeah, we want Hunt back, and your help would come in handy. But that's all you're right about because I don't think Hugh Hunt was kidnapped."

  "We were there," Frank said, reminding him.

  "When I need memory lessons, I'll ask for them," Starkey replied. "Your uncle quit this agency two years ago, no reasons given. Since then a lot of secrets have been ending up with unfriendly governments. It's obvious that someone with inside contacts is behind it all."

  "What are you saying?" Joe asked.

  Starkey's eyes narrowed, and there was no humor left in his face. "I'm saying your uncle arranged his own kidnapping because it was time to d
isappear! I'm saying if it hadn't been for you, we'd have caught a master spy — a traitor with the experience to organize his own spy ring, and the knowledge to keep us running in circles while he robs this country blind!"

  Starkey jumped up, jabbing his finger in Frank's face.

  "And his name is Hugh Hunt!"

  Chapter 4

  "Uncle Hugh? A traitor? You're lying!" Joe shouted.

  "You and me right now, tough guy," Starkey said, kicking his chair aside as he stood. With both hands, he flagged Joe toward him, ready for a fight.

  Tempted, Joe flexed his fists. Then his hands fell open. Even if he could beat Starkey, he knew, it wouldn't get them out of custody. And getting out was the only way they could help their uncle. "Another time," he said. "What do you want us for?"

  Starkey brightened. "I like that. Straight to the point." He began to pace the room. "You might be able to help us with a problem. Your 'uncle' wrote the book on this organization. It's his rules we follow, and that puts us at a disadvantage when trying to follow him. He's wise to us and our tricks. We've been trying to put someone close to him to get some hard evidence against him, but — "

  "So you don't have any proof that he is a traitor," Frank interrupted.

  Starkey scowled. "Kids! Always a smart answer for everything." He tapped a thumb against his stomach. "In my line of work we call it a gut feeling."

  I've got the same feeling that we're getting conned here, Frank thought. But he kept that to himself. "Then you want us to get close to our uncle for you," Frank said instead.

  "Right," Starkey said. "Right! You are good, chum. Ever consider a career in espionage?"

  "The way I see it, you've got two more problems," Frank said, ignoring him. "One, we don't know where he is. Kidnappers ran off with him, remember?"

  "My people say he's on a flight to San Francisco," Starkey replied calmly. "He has a condominium there. When he checked onto the plane, he wasn't being held against his will. So he's found. What's the second problem?"

  "We've only seen our uncle outside of Bayport or New York a few times. What are we supposed to do? Waltz up to him in San Francisco and tell him we decided to drop by for a visit a day after he was kidnapped? Won't that make him a bit suspicious?"

  "Risk it," Starkey said. "What you have to remember is that you boys have a rep. Under the circumstances, I don't think Hugh Hunt would expect you to stop looking for him until you found him. He's probably waiting for you to show up. Your problem will be convincing him that you're willing not to pursue his kidnappers. But I have faith in you."

  "Another gut feeling?" Frank quipped. "Can I speak to my brother?"

  "Sure," Starkey said.

  "Alone?"

  "Oh." Starkey nodded and moved to the door. "Sure. Call when you need me." He turned back. "You want the blue light on?"

  The cold expression on the Hardys' faces made him grin. "No? Whatever you want." He vanished through the door, and it clicked shut behind him.

  For a moment Joe bristled with anger. Then he saw the small, dark mass on the ceiling, hidden in the shadow of the overhead light. It was a microphone. Starkey was off somewhere, planning to listen to every word they were going to say.

  "I think Mr. Starkey has made a very convincing case," Frank said. But as he spoke, he pressed his back to the two-way mirror.

  Joe leaned next to his brother. He began to sing, off-key and as loud as he could. As the raucous voice filled the room, Frank whispered in his ear, "It's a setup." Joe nodded and stopped singing.

  "I guess you're right," Joe replied. "Starkey's from the government. He wouldn't lie to us, no matter how obnoxious he is." He chuckled to himself as he thought about what Starkey would be thinking right then. "I keep forgetting what the next verse of that song is."

  As Frank sang it to him, Joe whispered, "What are we going to do?" But he didn't really need an answer. He knew they had only one choice, to play along with Starkey, go to San Francisco, and do what they could for their uncle.

  "We owe it to our country to help bring Uncle Hugh in," Frank answered.

  "You're right," Joe said. There was no more need for sign language. He hammered on the door as hard as he could. "Starkey! Get in here!"

  Starkey reappeared through the door. "All set? Ready to go?"

  "Put us on a plane," Frank replied.

  "Not so fast," Starkey said. "I want to get a couple of things straight. You bring your father in on this and I'll tie him in with your uncle and put away both of them. I don't want you talking to the Network, either. This stays between you and me, got it?"

  "Clear as a bell," Joe muttered. "When do we go?"

  "You'll need a complete briefing, but we can do that on the plane. We have to get you on the first direct flight west."

  "How about Air Force One?" Joe asked sweetly. "I hear the President's not using it today."

  Starkey frowned. "I'd better go with you," he said. "It would be too bad if you two clowns ' screwed up."

  "You can trust us," Frank said reassuringly. But he was lying.

  Though they had visited the city before, San Francisco always seemed slightly alien to Frank and Joe. California was supposed to be warm, the land of sunshine, but San Francisco was always : cold and cloudy, with light fog rolling in off the bay.

  The city looked strange to them, too. Skyscrapers and antique houses were juxtaposed with no apparent thought to planning. It was like walking into a time warp, and with the unsettling weather, slightly sinister. But there was also an excitement about San Francisco, a sense of magic, and Frank and Joe could easily understand its allure.

  They stood on Market Street, studying a map Starkey had given them. He had flown with them to San Francisco and checked them into their hotel, an old stone fortress of a building. He said it had been a favorite of bankers and presidents in the early part of the century. After he had briefed them, he gave them the map and left.

  Marked on the map was their uncle's condo. Joe hoped it was in one of the turn-of-the-century houses that dotted the street. He loved those restored homes, which evoked a calmer, simpler era.

  "There it is!" Frank said, and Joe's heart sank. The building was modern, made of soulless steel and glass, all sharp edges with none of the gentle frills of the older homes.

  Joe couldn't imagine his father's quiet, slightly stuffy friend living in that high-rise, but his name was beside the door next to the word Penthouse.

  Frank tugged on the door. "Locked—and no doorman, which is just as well."

  Joe studied the lock. It was keyless, with numbers on push buttons. "We can't jimmy this one," he said. "It will open only when you hit the right sequence of numbers."

  "You're right," Frank replied. "With nine numbers to choose from, it's mathematically impossible to guess the sequence. We don't even know how many numbers we need."

  "Excuse me," said a woman's voice. They turned, and Joe's heart leaped into his throat. She was a beauty, her strawberry-blond hair highlighting her fair skin and bright blue eyes. Joe tried to speak, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. No sound came out.

  Joe and Frank stepped aside. The woman moved past them to the door, and then stood staring at them until they turned their backs and went out on the sidewalk. They stood a few feet away and waited until she worked the lock.

  "Did you get a look at her?" Joe whispered.

  "Quiet!" Frank said. The woman stepped inside, the door closing behind her. Frank sprinted for it. But the door clicked shut before he could reach it.

  "Five clicks," Frank said, fingering the lock. "That means she hit five buttons, and each one made a slightly different sound except for the last one, which must have been hit twice in a row. So only four buttons were really used."

  "That's why you shut me up!" Joe said. "You were listening!"

  "Right," Frank said. He hit all the buttons in order, listening carefully to their sounds. "I think I've got it." Cautiously he pressed the five button. Three. Seven. One, and one again. He t
urned the door handle.

  The door swung open. They stepped cautiously into the building. There were couches in the lobby, but no doorman or any sign of a manager. The elevator had just returned after taking the woman to her floor, and its doors silently glided open. The Hardys stepped inside.

  A short ride later the doors opened and they were at their uncle's penthouse.

  "Oh, great!" Joe said. He stared at the lock on Hugh's door, a lock identical to the one on the street. "How are we going to get through this one?"

  "Maybe we'll get lucky, maybe Uncle Hugh doesn't lock his door," Frank replied. He tried to keep his voice light, but he didn't believe what he said. With a chuckle, Joe played along, turning the door handle.

  The door swung open.

  "Uncle Hugh?" Joe mumbled in almost a whisper as they stepped inside. No one answered.

  "Look at this place," Frank said in awe. The condominium was decorated with simple leather couches. Expensive paintings were hung on two walls. The far walls were blocks of windows, offering vast expanses of San Francisco at a glance. "How can Uncle Hugh afford it?"

  "Never mind that!" Joe said, staring out the window. "Take a look at San Francisco from twenty stories up!"

  "We're not here to sightsee," Frank reminded him. "Start looking for something — anything— that will clear Uncle Hugh's name." On a coffee table he found a telephone answering machine and switched it on to listen to the messages. The first one was in Russian.

  "Or we might find something to hang him with," Joe said grimly. "I don't — "

  The sound of something being dragged or pushed across the floor in the next room interrupted him. Silently Joe moved to the door. With a swift kick, he knocked it open, hurling himself into his uncle's bedroom.

  It had been ransacked. The clothes from the closet were tossed on the floor—as were the contents of the bureau drawers. A woman stood on the balcony and faced Joe, a sweep of reddish blond hair partially obscuring her eyes.

  She was the woman who had come into the building before them.

  "Who are you?" Joe asked. "What are you doing here?"