The Crowning Terror

by Franklin W. Dixon

Starkey blocked the elevator doors with his body. "Good work, Charlie." He reached back to grab at Frank.

  Joe kicked Starkey forward, knocking him into the hall. The agent in the hall opened fire and the boys ducked to either side as the elevator doors slid shut. The elevator began its descent.

  "How are we going to get out of here, Frank?" Joe asked. "Starkey's men will be all over the lobby." He stared at the gun in his hand and finally put it in his pocket. "We can't shoot our way out."

  "It's a good thing Starkey didn't know we wouldn't have gunned him down," Frank said. "As to getting out, I've been giving it some thought, and — "

  The lights went out and the elevator jolted to a stop.

  It's Starkey," Joe said. "Remember the walkie-talkie on the other guy's belt? He probably called his men downstairs and had them override the elevator. We're trapped."

  Abruptly, the lights came on. The elevator began to move again, but now it moved up. "He's reeling us in," Frank said. "We've got to stop this thing." He pushed the buttons for all the floors between them and Starkey.

  The elevator passed the lit floors without pausing. The override was perfect. They couldn't stop it. With growing despair, Frank watched the number indicator flash with each floor they passed.

  "Joe," he said, "I've got a plan."

  Starkey stood ready as the elevator doors opened, his finger tense on the trigger of the gun he held. Doors fully open, he lunged into the elevator.

  "They're not here!" he screamed in rage.

  "That's impossible!" the balding man said. "The elevator didn't stop, so they couldn't have gotten off. How did they get out?"

  "I don't know," Starkey snarled. He let the doors close again. "Get Mickey out of the room to help. I want every available man checking all the floors between here and the lobby. I'll get them yet."

  He pounded on the elevator call button until another elevator came. "I'll see you downstairs," he called to the balding agent and left.

  Two floors down, the door of the first elevator opened. Frank poked his head out and looked around. "It's safe, Joe. You can come down now."

  Joe dropped through the emergency hatch at the top of the elevator. "Great idea, Frank. Hiding on top of the elevator car bought us some " time, at least. Now where do we go?"

  "To the last place Starkey would expect us to hide," Frank said. "Come on." He opened a window and climbed onto the fire escape. "Starkey's men will make travel through the halls difficult. We'd better take the scenic route."

  They climbed the fire escape for two flights until they came to their room. "Shhh," Frank warned. "Mickey might be coming to right about now."

  "I hope not," Joe said. He tried one window and then another. The second raised easily, and Frank and Joe climbed into the room. "Looks like they dragged him out. We're safe."

  "As long as Starkey doesn't decide to come back, anyway," Frank said. "We better shower up while we have the chance. You want anything from room service?"

  "A steak dinner. I'm famished," Joe said. "But won't that tip Starkey we're here?"

  "I'll run that risk for a meal," Frank replied. He called the hotel kitchen and placed an order, then sank back onto the bed for a fitful nap while Joe took a shower.

  A knock on the door woke him. "Room service," called a youthful voice from outside.

  "I'm not really dressed!" Frank yelled back. "You better let yourself in." If it was really room service, Frank knew, that wouldn't be a problem. If it was Starkey's men, then Frank would have the better defensive position if he stayed away from the door.

  Keys jingled in the door, and Frank squeezed the handle of Starkey's snub-nosed revolver, ready for trouble. Then he saw it. Starkey hadn't left the room unguarded after all. As the door began to swing open, a wire taped to the door at foot level tightened. On one end of the wire was enough thermite to turn the room to fine powder. All that was needed to trigger it was someone coming in or out of the room.

  "No!" Frank screamed as the door swung open and the wire pulled taut.

  Chapter 11

  Frank leapt for the door and slid across the rug. Just before the trip wire stretched to full tension, he ripped it from the door.

  He quickly studied the bomb and realized his guess was correct. So long as the wire wasn't pulled completely taut, the bomb wouldn't ignite. Relieved, he rolled on his back, sprawling across the rug. He found himself staring up at the puzzled bellhop, who carried a tray full of food.

  "Don't mind me," Frank said. "Put it anywhere." As the bellhop set the tray on the foot of the bed, Frank stood and dug his wallet from his pocket. His fingers brushed the crumpled plans to the Carlyle Museum, and he pulled out the paper and threw it on his pillow. The bellhop handed him the check.

  "You can't tip for your meal, sir," the bellhop said. He still watched Frank suspiciously, but Frank smiled mischievously and took the check and pen. With a flourish, he put his signature on the check and handed it back.

  "Can your tip go on that, too?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir," the bellhop said.

  "Write yourself in for a fifty-percent tip," Frank said. "I don't think we'll be needing anything else tonight."

  "Yes, sir!" the bellhop said. The money had driven any doubts from the bellhop's mind. With a slight bow, he left the room, closing the door behind him. Frank turned the safety bolt. If anyone wanted to get in then, they'd have to break down the door to do it.

  "Is it soup yet?" Joe called from the shower. He appeared in the bathroom door, a towel wrapped around him.

  "Yeah, dinner's here," Frank replied. "And that's not all. Look." He bent over and picked up the thermite bomb.

  Joe's jaw dropped. "Starkey?"

  Frank nodded. "A little present, set to fry us and half this hotel."

  "I can see playing for keeps in the espionage racket, but this guy's out of his mind," Joe said. "We've got to put him out of business, Frank, before someone really gets hurt."

  Frank threw himself on the bed and took the lid off one of the plates on the food tray. The aroma of steak and baked potato hit his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply. "I already got a small shot back at him. He's paying for the room, remember? I ordered the most expensive meals and gave the bellhop a whopping tip. I'd like to see Starkey explain that on his budget reports."

  They both laughed. "I guess we'd better get some sleep and find a new hotel in the morning."

  For the first time Frank realized how tired he was. After they finished their meal, Joe took the first watch while Frank slept. He had no dreams, and no one else came to the room.

  They were out of the hotel at seven next morning. None of Starkey's men were anywhere around. It was as if the government man and his ; agents had never existed.

  Half a mile away the Hardys checked into another hotel. At the coffee shop in the lobby, they were eating breakfast when, in the middle of a bite of toast, Joe asked, "Any ideas on what we do now?"

  "Let's see where we are," said Frank, wiping his lips. "We've got Russians who've kidnapped Uncle Hugh to steal a crown for them. We've got a crazed counterespionage agent who's determined to prove Uncle Hugh's a traitor. And we've got some mystery woman — it's anybody's guess whose side she's on. We're stuck in a city three thousand miles from home, and we're being hunted by a government agency that has orders to shoot to kill."

  Joe grimaced. "Do you get the feeling we're out of our depth?"

  "That's putting it mildly," Frank said. "The question is, what do we do about it? We've got to get more information."

  "I vote we get it from Starkey," said Joe. "I'm itching to take a crack at him, just him and me. I know I can make him talk."

  "Yeah, he seems to be at the center of this, more than Uncle Hugh and what's her name— Charity? From the way Starkey's been acting, I know he has more up his sleeve than he's been telling. Of course, we do know where Uncle Hugh and Charity live, but we haven't the faintest idea where to find Starkey."

  "What did he say his agency's cover was?" Joe asked.
"Transmutual Indemnity?"

  "Yep," Frank said. "Same as Uncle Hugh's old company. Of course, he'll be at that office, and we know how to get there."

  Joe grinned. "Let's stake out the place and wait for him to come out."

  Frank chewed his lip, calculating the problems. "It'll be tricky. If we hang around too long, they'll see us. We can't afford to be spotted."

  "Let's check in some yellow pages to see if there are any secondhand clothing stores around. And also the closest place we can buy charcoal."

  At first Frank stared at his brother, puzzled. Then, slowly, he smiled and went to get a phone book.

  "I think that saleswoman wondered what we were up to," Joe said as he walked down Pine Street. He wore an oversize, crumpled suit with stains on it. A battered, floppy hat obscured his face, and two different shoes were on his feet. He tried to ignore the pain in his toes. He had carefully smeared charcoal over his face, giving the impression that he had neither shaved nor washed his face for days.

  "We just should have told her we were going to be bums," Frank replied. He saw a modern concrete office building down the street. A bank was housed on the main floor, he knew, but an upper floor also contained the San Francisco offices of Transmutual Indemnity. "Good luck, and watch yourself."

  They parted company at the street corner. Frank began to circle the block as Joe walked up to a trash can and began to paw through it. People walked near him as he dug, and wrinkling their noses, steered clear of him. Joe liked that. It made it easier for him to keep his eyes on the front door of the Transmutual office building.

  By noon Frank had walked around the block a hundred times, and Joe had stretched on a lawn in front of a building across the street from Transmutual. He was pretending to be asleep, but one eye was open, watching everyone who moved on the street. People were swarming out of buildings, going to lunch. A tall, dark-haired man stood in front of the Transmutual building, glancing impatiently at his watch. I've seen him before, Joe thought, but try as he might he could not place him, and he dismissed the feeling.

  At last the man called Mickey came out, his face a mask of rage. A few steps behind him was Starkey. Joe looked up, alarmed.

  Frank had just rounded the far corner and was heading straight toward them. There was no warning Joe could give without blowing his own cover. Nervously he held his breath, watching Frank and waiting for the right moment to spring into action to rescue his brother.

  To Joe's surprise, neither Mickey nor Starkey noticed as Frank walked by them. They were only interested in the dark-haired man. So, I should know him from somewhere, Joe realized. But he couldn't think of the name of the dark-haired man or where he knew him from.

  Mickey turned abruptly and left, and Starkey and the dark-haired man strolled together down the block. They glanced in disgust at Frank and continued walking. When they were half a block on, Frank and Joe both followed, but separately.

  At the corner Joe and Frank met. "That man," Frank whispered breathlessly. "You know who he is?"

  "I've tried to place him, but couldn't," Joe admitted. "I'm sure I've seen him somewhere."

  "You saw him in a limousine last night," Frank continued. "Picture him with a beard and an eye patch."

  Joe blinked. "What? You mean — " "It's Feodor," Frank said. "He's working with Starkey."

  Chapter 12

  "Wait a minute," Joe said. "Starkey working with the Russians? That doesn't make sense."

  "I'm starting to think nothing does anymore," Frank said. "Every time I think I've got a handle on this business, some new wrinkle turns up. It's making me mad, Joe. When I think how people are playing games with Uncle Hugh's life — "

  "We'll get to the bottom of it, Frank. One way or another." Joe kept his eyes on Starkey and Feodor. They walked up to an outdoor cafe and took seats at a table that looked onto the street.

  Frank watched them carefully. Neither man looked as if he had been forced into this meeting. The pair chatted calmly, joking and laughing as the waiter took their order. They looked like old friends.

  "I've got to hear what they're saying," Frank said. Before Joe could stop him, he shambled across the street.

  The restaurant's outdoor cafe almost jutted out onto the sidewalk, which was separated from the tables by a low, wrought-iron fence. Frank shuffled past table after table, slouching and hunching his shoulders, trying to keep his face hidden by his hat and collar.

  "We're set for tomorrow night," Frank heard Feodor say without his Russian accent. As he wandered past their table, neither Starkey nor Feodor paid any attention to him. Feodor poured two glasses of wine, and he and Starkey each took one. "To success," Feodor said.

  Starkey laughed. "To crime," he replied.

  "Speaking of crime," Feodor began. Frank stood by the curb, parallel to their table, digging in trash that had collected in the gutter. From there, he could hear clearly.

  Before Feodor continued, he shouted, "Hey, bum!"

  For a moment Frank considered hurrying off. How had they discovered him? He had made certain he hadn't shown his face. Was it something in the way he moved? he wondered. The way he was dressed? Or perhaps, he thought, Starkey wanted something else. Crossing his fingers, he lowered his head so the hat cast a long shadow on his face, and he turned to face Feodor.

  "You mind, pal?" Feodor asked. "Go mooch somewhere else, huh?"

  Frank nodded, keeping his head down and slamming his fists into his pockets. He moved off. He had come away with just one bit of information. But, he thought, what a piece of info it is.

  From behind him, Frank heard Starkey call, "Take a bath!" He turned to see Starkey and Feodor laughing at him.

  Then Starkey took a narrow manila envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table to Feodor. The dark-haired man picked it up, slit it open, and began to leaf through the contents.

  Suddenly Starkey's expression changed. He angrily grabbed Feodor's hand, forcing him to push the pieces of paper back into the envelope. Feodor's eyes flared and his voice rose, but Frank was now too far away to make out the words.

  Starkey threw his napkin on the table and stormed away as Feodor continued to yell. At the corner Frank waited. When Starkey had passed him, he wandered back toward the restaurant. Feodor was still there, gleefully pulling the pieces of paper out again.

  It was cash, Frank saw with a start. He moved by before Feodor saw him again, crossed the street, and hurried back to Joe.

  "Money?" Joe asked when Frank told him what he had seen. "Think it's a shakedown?"

  "No," Frank replied. They walked through San Francisco, discarding their secondhand clothes. "It was more like a payoff. They were all chummy until Feodor started counting the money there at the table. I think Starkey didn't want anyone to see it."

  "Wow," Joe said. "Starkey having Russians on his payroll. Are we talking public or private payroll here?"

  "I don't know," said Frank. "But there's something I do know, Joe. Feodor's not Russian."

  "What?"

  "Feodor's a fake. I heard him speak back there. He's as American as you or I."

  "Are you sure he wasn't just putting it on to blend in?" Joe asked.

  Frank shook his head. "Remember I told you his accent and his pal's kept shifting yesterday? This explains it. They're just pretending to be Russian."

  Puzzled, Joe said, "No, it doesn't explain it. Uncle Hugh spent years behind the Iron Curtain. He'd know the difference between a real and a fake Russian accent, wouldn't he?"

  "He's got to play along. They poisoned him," Frank said. "Joe, he's being set up for something. That's the only thing that makes sense."

  "Then we've got to warn him," Joe decided.

  "No," answered Frank. "We still don't have enough facts. If Uncle Hugh's seen with us, they might just finish him off on the spot. The trouble is, we're still on the edge of things. We've got to force the issue and make people bring the information we need to us. It's the only way we'll be able to piece things together before Un
cle Hugh's time is up."

  "Do you have anything in mind, brother?"

  Frank nodded. "We steal the crown ourselves."

  Joe glared at his brother in stunned disbelief. "You're joking."

  "Why not?" Frank said. "We know what they're after and where it is. We have the plans on how to get to it, and we can pick up the supplies we need at any hardware store. That crown is what they want. We take it, and they'll have to come to us."

  Joe rubbed his chin, thinking for a long time. Finally a smile drew up his mouth. "Frank," he said, "I like your thinking."

  The Carlyle Museum stood on the edge of Golden Gate Park in a tree-lined yard with a gated entrance. Great stone steps led past Greek columns to the main building. Flat and two storied, it seemed out of place with the Greek columns that led up to it.

  Out of place, Frank thought. Like everything else in this business. He was crouching in the bushes in the twilight, and for the hour he had been watching, no one had gone in or out of the museum. He was certain it was empty. Nervously, he fingered the rope he wore coiled around his waist, wishing Joe would hurry up.

  "Boo," Joe whispered behind him, startling Frank. Suppressing a grin, Joe said, "Sorry I'm late. I decided to stop by the library and do some research. Did you get the stuff?"

  Frank held up a knapsack full of equipment and pointed to the rope. "What did you find out?"

  "This is a private museum," Joe said. "It really isn't open to the public except on special occasions." Checking to see that no one was approaching, they dashed from the bushes to the gate, shimmied over it, and dropped flat onto their backs in the grass. As Frank checked to see if anyone had watched them, Joe continued. "The museum puts together cultural exhibits for the State Department. Exhibits are lent out to museums all over the world. Think that that has anything to do with anything?"

  "Maybe," Frank said. "But we don't have time to wonder about it now. Let's go." They stood and crept carefully to the front door of the museum. The twilight was eerily quiet.

  The lock on the door had a nine-key pad instead of a key-and-cylinder lock. "Just like the lock on Uncle Hugh's place," Frank said. "Only this one sounds an alarm as soon as you punch in the wrong combination." He opened the knapsack and pulled out a screwdriver, pliers, rubber gloves, and a length of copper wire. With the screwdriver, he carefully pried off the number one key and the number nine key, exposing the wire inside the lock. He scraped the wire with the pliers until metal showed through the plastic coating. Frank pulled on the rubber gloves, then took the copper wire and touched one end of it to the bare wire on the number one key and the other to the number nine key.