The Crowning Terror

by Franklin W. Dixon

  With a smile that made Joe's pulse quicken, the woman pressed back against the balcony railing. Instinctively, Joe knew what she planned. His blood froze.

  "No!" he shouted, running for her. "You can't! We're too high up! It's suicide!"

  She brushed her hair out of her eyes and turned to face forward. Then she jumped off the balcony into the open arms of death.

  Chapter 5

  Horrified, Joe ran to the railing. He didn't want to look at the sidewalk below, didn't want to see the woman lying broken on the concrete. Why did she jump? he wondered. What was her connection to Uncle Hugh? Obviously she had been searching his home, but whose side was she on?

  Forcing himself to gaze over the balcony's edge, Joe scanned the sidewalk. There was nothing there. The woman had vanished. Movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention. He turned to see the woman swinging to the roof of the next building on a nylon cord. The cord was tied to the foot of the balcony railing, Joe noticed. She must have had the cord wrapped around her hand as she fell, and used her momentum to swing her to the next roof. All in the seconds since he had entered the room.

  He had been tricked, and he didn't like it.

  I can still catch her, Joe thought. That building's almost as tall as this one. If I hurry, I'll reach the street at the same time she does, and then we'll find out what this is all about.

  "Joe!" Frank said, standing in the bedroom door. "What happened?"

  Joe pushed past his brother and bolted for the elevator. "I'll explain later," he said breathlessly. "When I get back." Before Frank could reply, Joe dashed out the front door.

  The elevator was back down in the lobby, so Joe frantically ran to the stairs and down to the first floor. He got to the street just in time to see the woman strolling out of the next building. As she glanced around, he ducked back into the doorway. Without noticing him, she walked past him and headed down Market Street, blending into the crowd.

  Joe followed her, using the crowd as cover. She glanced over her shoulder often. She seemed to be looking for someone, but her eyes never locked with his in recognition. Twice she looked right at him, but nothing in her face suggested she knew who he was. At last she relaxed and stopped watching her back. Joe began to close the distance between them.

  At Grant Avenue the woman turned north, walking for several more blocks. Joe continued to follow, but from the other side of the street, barely aware that the architecture was changing. Slowly he noticed that the shops and doorways were closer together than they had been on the other blocks. The style of clothing was still modern, but the language spoken on the street was no longer English. Nor could Joe read all the signs. Some were still in English, but many others were in Chinese.

  He was in Chinatown.

  The woman looked at home there, casually ambling down the street as if she didn't have a care in the world. She stopped, looking in the window of a bakery. Was she checking in the window for his reflection? Joe wondered. Quickly he backtracked to a newsstand on the corner of the block, where he bought a paper. All the time he kept his eyes on the woman, who was still staring at the bakery window.

  Opening the paper, Joe tore a slit in the back page. Casually, he leaned up against a service doorway and pretended to read. But through the slit he could watch the woman without showing his face. He wished she would move again. The longer he remained in one place, the greater his chances of being discovered.

  Two Chinese men sidled out of a tearoom next to the bakery. They were large, taller than the woman, and fat. For a brief second their shapes blotted out hers.

  When they passed, she was gone.

  Joe crumpled the paper in rage, his abrupt movement causing several people to stop and stare at him. Sighing, he tossed the paper into a trash can and tried to push his way through the crowds. There was no point in secrecy now. The woman's disappearance meant that she had spotted him. She had chosen that single moment, when his view was blocked, to make her move.

  There's one consolation, he thought. She can't move in Chinatown any faster than I can because she stands out just as much. She can't have gotten far. I'll catch up to her, and when I do, she had better have some answers.

  He glanced into the bakery as he passed it and skidded to a stop. The woman was inside, buying a pastry. She and the clerk were chatting cheerfully. There was no sign that she suspected anything.

  Good thing Frank wasn't here to see this, Joe thought. I'd never hear the end of it. He had allowed himself to panic and almost blown his cover. At least it hadn't been a dangerous situation where his panic could have meant the difference between life and death.

  The woman came out of the bakery, eating her pastry, and almost bumped into Joe. To his relief, she stared through him as if he weren't there. Letting her get a few steps ahead, he began trailing her again.

  She turned off Grant Avenue and started down an alley. Joe waited on the street. If he followed her into the alley, she would spot him for sure. Patiently, he watched until she reached the other end of the alley and turned onto the far street. The instant she turned the corner, he ran into the alley after her.

  TWo young Chinese in black leather jackets stepped from a doorway along the alley, blocking Joe's way. Before he could back away, two more young men appeared behind him.

  They were all younger than Joe, perhaps sixteen years old. But there was a daring viciousness in their faces that startled him. He looked around for a way out, but in the alley all the doors were closed and the windows barred. From one window a face stared out at him. He had seen him before—the clerk in the bakery.

  The woman had seen him, he realized. Coolly, professionally, she had set this trap for him. And he, fooled into believing he had the situation under control, blundered into it on cue.

  "The lady wants you out of the way," said one of the leather-jacketed boys. "She paid us good for it. Too bad for you she didn't say how." There was a click and a flashing arc of silver, and a switchblade appeared, open and ready, in the boy's hand.

  Joe threw himself into the boy, grabbing his hand and smashing it down on his knee. The boy's hand flew open, and the knife was thrown across the alley, skittering harmlessly onto the pavement. Joe spun, twisting the boy's arm behind his back. He kicked the kid behind his knee. Off-balance, the boy sprawled onto the ground.

  To the other three, Joe said, "Anyone else want to try?"

  The boy he had knocked down was still squeezing his wrist and writhing on the ground. The others looked from him to Joe and back to their friend again. They didn't move, until the face in the window shouted something in Chinese.

  The youths then charged Joe. He easily knocked their fists aside. But there were three of them. Sooner or later one of their punches would connect. As it was, he felt lucky the kids were street hoods and not martial arts masters. He had met those masters before. Frank, trained in martial arts, could hold his own against them. But Joe and his straightforward fighting style were no match for them.

  As he fended off the boys, he glanced around. The way to the other end of the alley was clear. All he needed to do was slow them down long enough to make the run. If he reached the street, he'd be safe.

  Suddenly Joe lashed out, catching the nearest boy with a jab to his jaw. The boy fell back, and Joe swung his arm, catching a second kid on the ear. The third took a clip in the chest from Joe's elbow, and the boy howled in pain.

  Joe spun and ran. But on his second step, someone clasped him around his ankle, pitching him over. He twisted as he fell, and the face of the fourth boy, the one he had taken the knife from, smiled at him. The boy's hand was clamped on Joe's leg. Then Joe's temple smacked the pavement, and darkness began to fold over him.

  A great weight crushed him into the ground, pulling him back to consciousness. The other boys, Joe realized. He opened his eyes, and wished he hadn't. The first boy had found his switchblade. Darkness swirled before Joe's eyes.

  But before the darkness totally swallowed Joe up, he saw the knife pl
unging down.

  Chapter 6

  Frank Hardy eyed his watch. An hour had passed since his brother left the condominium. At first Frank hadn't been worried. It was like Joe to act on impulse and give no explanation. And even in a strange city, Joe was more than capable of taking care of himself.

  Frank had continued to search his uncle's apartment. Aside from the phone messages, he found nothing unusual. But now as the minutes continued to tick past, Frank became increasingly concerned about his brother's safety.

  He waited another fifteen minutes, reading an article in a magazine that he had found on his uncle's coffee table. Still no sign of Joe. He set the magazine on the table and arranged it the way he had found it.

  What was keeping him? Frank wondered. If only Joe had said where he was going! He decided to give his brother five more minutes, and he walked onto the balcony to see if he could spot him returning.

  It was late in the afternoon now, and there were heavy crowds of people below. More than a day, he thought, since his uncle had been kidnapped. As sharp-eyed as he was, Frank couldn't pick a single face out of that throng, not from that height.

  Even the cars were too small to be identified. He stretched out his hand, playing at picking up a black limousine that seemed to him to be the size of a toy. His hand closed on empty air, and he chuckled.

  The chuckle stuck in his throat as the limousine pulled up to the curb in front of the building he was in. Two men in dark suits climbed out, followed by a white-haired man. Frank couldn't see his face, but he knew the white-haired man by the way he moved.

  It was his uncle Hugh! He was coming up.

  Frank ran through the bedroom and living room and slipped out of the apartment. An arrow glowed over the elevator door, signaling that the elevator was on its way up. He ran back into the penthouse. Where could he hide? He thought of closets and immediately dismissed the idea. If suspicious, his uncle and his companions were certain to look in them. Outside, the elevator arrived with the gentle ring of a bell, but a hiding place still eluded Frank. How could he explain his presence to his uncle? He couldn't, he realized. If he tried, his uncle's suspicions would be aroused. Then there would be nothing Frank or Joe could do to help him.

  As the outer lock clicked, Frank decided to hide under the bed. It was obvious and uncomfortable, but they wouldn't immediately see him there. Reaching the bedroom, he dropped to his hands and knees and rolled.

  He slammed into a plank of solid wood beneath the bedspread.

  It was a platform bed, and there was no room for him to hide under it. The clicking of the front door lock stopped, and the door swung open.

  Frank lay on the bedroom floor as a Russian entered the apartment, with his uncle Hugh and another Russian behind him. The first man seemed agitated, flexing his hands before him and rolling his eyes to the ceiling. If Frank moved, or if the Russian lowered his eyes, he would be discovered. Frank held his breath.

  "Speak English," Frank's uncle ordered. But both Russians continued jabbering angrily in their native tongue. Finally the break Frank needed came. As they argued, the Russians turned their backs on the bedroom door. In that instant, Frank was on his feet.

  He slipped inside the bedroom closet and silently slid the door to within an inch of being closed. Now he could hear what was being said in the other room.

  "I told you to speak English, Feodor," Hugh Hunt said. He sounded angry now, too. The voices grew softer, and Frank could hear water being run as glasses were clinked together. They were in the kitchen. For a moment Frank considered making a dash for the front door. If they were all in the kitchen, he could make it. Maybe.

  Too risky. Frank decided to stay where he was.

  Back in the living room Feodor said, "Da, we will speak English for you now, Peregrine." There was a hint of mockery in his thick Russian voice.

  "Don't call me that," Hunt said. His voice sounded closer now; probably he was in the living room as well. "I haven't gone by that name in years. Not since I retired from the business."

  "But you are not retired, are you?" asked a second Russian voice. This one, like the first, sounded strange to Frank, as if the owners were putting on the accents. "You are back in business, da? And thanks to our poison, you are working for us."

  Frank gasped. His uncle wasn't a traitor after all, he realized. He was being forced to work for the Russians, under threat of death.

  Except, he thought, Starkey suspected him before he was poisoned. Other things puzzled Frank. Why did the Russians call his uncle Peregrine? The mystery grew deeper and deeper.

  "Silence, Oleg!" Feodor barked.

  "I'm not sure I should pull this job for you," Hunt said. The anger had drained from his voice, to be replaced by the cool confidence Frank knew so well. "What assurance do I have that the antidote to your poison really exists?"

  Feodor laughed. "You do not. But you must trust us, no? If another forty-eight hours pass, and you do not receive the antidote ... "

  "All right," Hunt replied. "I'll do your dirty work for you. But if you're lying about the antidote, I swear I won't die alone." There was no threat in his voice. Frank could tell that as far as his uncle was concerned, he had merely stated a feet.

  "We do not lie," Feodor said with a hint of fear. "Come. Let us make our plans."

  "Right," his uncle said, and Frank was startled to hear him moving closer. "The sooner we get this over with, the better."

  "You have a plan already?"

  "If your diagram of the museum is accurate, yes," Hunt replied. "Here, I'll give you the rundown, so you can learn your parts."

  Three sets of footsteps grew louder. With a start, Frank realized they were entering the bedroom. As quietly as he could, Frank shifted in the closet so that he could peer through the crack.

  They hadn't heard him. His uncle stood in front of the bed next to a tall, dark-haired man with an eye patch and a shorter man. Frank recognized them from the description Joe had given him. They were the men who had kidnapped their uncle.

  Hunt eyed the room and frowned as if he had noticed something was out of place. But the Russians paid no attention. "We are not to be directly involved," the man with the eye patch said. Feodor, by his voice, Frank judged. "We told you that."

  "The museum has too much security," Hunt said. "I can't get it all, so you'll have to take out some of it. The rest I can handle by myself." He smirked. "Of course, I could always bring in some outside help if you like."

  The idea clearly distressed the Russians, and Frank stifled a laugh at the sight of the color draining from their faces.

  "What is the plan?" Feodor asked with an air of resignation.

  As his uncle walked to the closet and slid the door open, Frank backed into the shadows. A trace of light flickered over Frank's face while his uncle reached into the pocket of a suit and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Then the door slid halfway closed again.

  Had his uncle seen him?

  Feodor paced impatiently as Hunt unfolded the paper. The dark-haired Russian stood at the balcony door, then turned to face the room. Frank squatted in the closet, trying to stay out of sight. It was useless. All Feodor had to do was look in his direction. There was nowhere for Frank to run or hide.

  To Frank's relief, Feodor turned again to look out the balcony. He stared down at the street and, with a grunt of anger, stiffened.

  Tied to the railing was a long nylon cord!

  Feodor spun around, drawing his pistol with the silencer. "Someone has been here," he said darkly. "Search the apartment." Then his eyes narrowed. He peered into the darkness of the closet.

  "Come out," he ordered, waving the pistol. "Hands up."

  Frank stepped from the closet with his hands cupped behind his head. If his uncle recognized him, it didn't show in the man's face.

  Feodor's eyes narrowed. "Come here." Frank stepped slowly toward him.

  "Look out!" the Russian named Oleg screamed. Feodor jerked his gaze to Oleg, and in that instant, Frank's ha
nds came out from behind his head.

  The wire hanger Frank had concealed behind him flew like a boomerang from his hand to Feodor's face. Frank knew the slap of metal couldn't hurt the Russian, but Feodor stepped back, stunned, as the hanger struck his forehead.

  With a savage cry, Frank leaped forward, kicking the pistol from Feodor's hands. He spun quickly, smashing his other foot into the big Russian's shoulder. Father toppled. Frank dived at the fallen pistol and scooped it up.

  The click of a gun being drawn sounded behind him. "Please set the pistol down," Oleg said.

  Sighing, Frank turned the gun over to Feodor, who knelt before him with one hand out. There was murder in Feodor's eyes.

  Without a word, Feodor pressed the pistol against Frank's chest.

  "No!" Hunt shouted. Feodor glared at him, and Oleg swung his pistol to cover him. "Don't worry. I won't give you any trouble," he continued calmly. "I just don't want you to kill him here. Take him somewhere else."

  Feodor nodded and smiled. Oleg strolled to the balcony and pulled the cord free from the railing. In moments he had Frank bound with it. Frank's uncle watched impassively, but made no move to intervene.

  "We will drop him off a bridge," Feodor suggested. "Just one more soul taking his own life."

  The three men laughed and led Frank from the apartment.

  Chapter 7

  When Joe Hardy woke, the air smelled of fresh-brewed coffee, and his head was throbbing. He could feel the rough rope that was wrapped around his wrists, which were tied behind him. But he couldn't feel his hands. They were numb because the circulation had been cut off by the rope. His feet were pressed together, and he couldn't move them apart. So they had to be bound, too.

  He felt lucky to be alive.

  He was indoors, lying on an old Persian carpet, staring at a hundred-year-old black marble fireplace. Must be one of the fine old houses of San Francisco, he thought. Everything he could see had the look of a finely crafted antique. Everything except the woman.