The Genius Thieves

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Hardy Boys Casefiles - 09

  The Genius Thieves

  By

  Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 1

  BOOM - BWAP - BADAP! BABOOM - BWAP - BADAP!

  "Hey, Joe, look at this headline!" "What? I can't hear you, Frank!" BOOM - BWAP - BADAP! BA - BOOM - BWAP - BADAP!

  "Excuse me! Could you turn that down, please?" Frank Hardy called out as he passed a group of Bayport teenagers who were singing and dancing around a huge box radio. It was blaring out the latest hit by the rock group Frontal Lobe. The pounding drumbeat practically shook the sidewalk.

  "NOBODY CAN DO THIS TO ME! OH, BABY, BABY, BABY, LET ME BE! OH, YEAH! OH, NO!"

  "I said — " Frank stopped himself. It was no use; no one could hear him. With a roll of his brown eyes and a shrug of his shoulders, he signaled to his brother, Joe, to meet him at the newsstand.

  Hands over his ears, Joe Hardy walked toward Frank. He shot an angry glance over his shoulder at the group.

  "OO - OOH ... AA - AAH ... UHHHHH!"

  "I can't believe how loud those idiots are playing that radio!" Joe yelled, hoping the group would hear him.

  "Never mind them!" Frank shouted. "I think you'll be more interested in this!" Frank held out a newspaper to his younger brother.

  Dzzzzit! Before Joe could read the headline, a sharp electronic noise came out of the radio. The song sputtered. Then, a sudden puff of smoke— and silence.

  A couple of passersby broke into relieved applause. The teenagers just stared at the dead radio, dumbfounded.

  "Yo, Barry! Some radio—looks like you got ripped off, man!" a skinny kid said.

  Frank's eyes widened and shot down to an article on the front page of his paper. Joe couldn't help but snicker at the sight of the kids bent over the radio, scratching their heads.

  "Let's get out of here," Frank said. He walked off in the direction of the Hardys' house. Joe followed, fighting back laughter.

  Behind them, the street suddenly erupted in commotion. Frank and Joe turned and saw Barry, the owner of the radio, clutching a thin, brown-haired kid by the front of his T-shirt.

  "So you think it's funny, wise guy?" Barry was shouting. His thick neck was red with anger. "You want to see something even funnier? Watch my fist!" He jabbed at the thin kid's chest with his free hand. Then he shoved him backward and let go of his shirt at the same time. Stunned, the kid stumbled.

  "Come on, Muscles, stand up and fight," Barry said, taunting him as he closed in.

  As Barry moved forward, ready to tackle the kid, the kid ducked and ran under Barry's arms and sprinted off.

  "Okay, Joe, the show's over!" Frank said. "Let's get out of here!" They headed home.

  A few minutes later the brothers jogged up the driveway of the Hardy house and into the living room. Frank laid the newspaper on the coffee table and sat on the couch. Joe couldn't stay still. He paced up and down.

  "That guy may have been big, but he couldn't fight. I would have taken him on for the kid."

  Frank shook his head and smiled. "Can I finally get you to look at this newspaper? Now, this is important!"

  Joe looked at the headline.

  WHO'S BLASTING THE BLASTERS? MYSTERIOUS SHORT-CIRCUITER ON THE LOOSE

  "What's the big deal about this?" Joe asked.

  "We saw it happen before our eyes!" answered Frank. "The article says that these box radios have been short-circuiting all over the area—for no apparent reason. Police suspect some sort of remote-control jamming device."

  "Great! Where can I buy one?"

  "Be serious, Joe. If this gets out of hand, who knows what electronic machinery could be tampered with—streetlights, telephones, cash registers — "

  Frank was interrupted by a deep voice. "And maybe even bank vaults."

  The brothers looked up to see their father, Fenton Hardy, coming down the stairs.

  "Hey, Dad," said Frank, "have you seen this story? It's really no joke!"

  "No joke intended. I just got a frantic phone call from Sedgwick Trilby, the president of Bayport Bank and Trust. It seems that someone sprang the computer-coded lock on their vault."

  "What's that got to do with this story?" asked Joe.

  "A possible connection. After all, both crimes could be the work of the same electronics whiz. I'm on my way to the bank now. Want to come?"

  The three Hardys climbed into Fenton's car and sped over to the bank.

  As they rounded the corner onto Main Street, they saw the hulking old granite building at the far end. Even though the bank had been gutted and renovated on the inside, the facade with the huge marble cornerstone, "Community Savings & Loan 1907" carved into it, had been retained.

  Fenton Hardy pulled up in front of the bank, and immediately a tall, balding man in a gray three-piece suit stepped out the front door to meet him.

  "Hello, Mr. Trilby," Fenton Hardy said. "I'm sure you remember my sons, Frank and Joe."

  Frank thought that Trilby seemed very calm for someone whose bank had just been raided. But it was only an act; his hand vibrated nervously when Frank shook it, and his palm felt clammy.

  He wasted no time in ushering the three Hardys through the marble-tiled main room with its high, vaulted ceiling down to the basement.

  "It was tough modernizing this old building," Trilby said. "But we managed to tuck the most sophisticated computer system into the existing structure. And we made sure our vault was absolutely theft proof. Or so we thought."

  Once in the basement, they walked down a long carpeted hallway at the end of which was a massive steel door, covered with shiny metallic knobs and electronic gauges. It extended twelve feet up to the ceiling.

  "Someone broke into that?" Joe asked.

  "Took two million dollars in cash and shut the door behind him," Trilby said. "Without so much as leaving a fingerprint. The police were here and checked everything out. They didn't say much, but I know Chief Collig — I could tell he was baffled. So I called you in, too, Mr. Hardy."

  "There doesn't seem to be any sign of a breakin," Frank said.

  "No," Trilby answered, "the vault's lock is hooked up to our mainframe computer. It can only be opened by running a coded program. The program picks the right combination and then chooses a new combination afterward."

  "Who has copies of the program disk?" Fenton asked.

  Trilby said, "There's only one copy, and I have it. Someone must have cracked the code and made his own disk."

  Frank and his father listened while Joe began looking around the area. "You must understand," Trilby said, continuing. "I don't want this to get out. The negative publicity would cause a run on the bank. The theft must remain a secret until the crime is solved. The police have assured us of their discretion."

  As Trilby shut the vault, Joe caught a glimpse of something shiny wedged into the crack between the wall and the carpet. He picked it up; it was a brass button attached to a short length of thread. Stamped on the button were the words Chartwell Academy. "Anyone know a crooked preppy who goes to Chartwell?" Joe asked.

  Mr. Trilby cleared his throat. "My son Dwight goes there."

  Fenton knew this could be trouble and proceeded cautiously. "Do you suppose, Mr. Trilby," he said carefully, "that your son would have any reason to — you know, as some sort of act of rebellion — "

  Trilby looked offended. "Absolutely not! I did give him a tour of the bank yesterday, and we did go into the vault. The door is heavy, and Dwight's button may have caught on it while we were struggling to open it." Then he chuckled. "No, my son is devoted to this bank."

  Frank and Joe examined all the metal gadgets on the door. There were a lot of sharp edges; the explanation was plausible. But not enough to let Dwight—or Mr. Trilby�
��off the hook.

  Suddenly a man in shirtsleeves and a tie raced into the room and said, "Excuse me, sir, there's a problem. Our computers went crazy for a few minutes! You know, nonsense letters — "

  "Well, did you fix the problem?" Trilby asked impatiently.

  "Uh, yes, sir, but when the computers came back on, they showed a large transfer of money— out of the bank."

  "How large?" Trilby demanded.

  "Pretty large." The man's eyes glanced nervously around the room — anywhere but at Sedgwick Trilby. "About half a million dollars, sir!"

  Chapter 2

  "I LOOK LIKE who? Oh, come on, Callie, that's ridiculous — wait a minute, who have you been seeing old movies with?" Frank cradled the phone in his shoulder and stretched out on his bed with a smile on his face.

  Just then Joe burst in. "Frank, get off the phone right now! This is important. It's about the bank. And remember, we have to keep this all secret. So tell Callie you'll call her back."

  Reluctantly Frank cut short his conversation with Callie Shaw. "All right, what is it?" he asked Joe.

  "Who did she think you looked like?" Joe asked with a sly grin.

  "Never mind."

  "Who?" Joe said, insisting.

  Frank turned red as he said, "The guy who played Superman in the movies."

  Joe choked back a guffaw and said, "Wishful thinking." Before Frank could respond Joe continued. "Now, get this — Trilby called Dad this morning. Since we saw him yesterday, there's been another big heist at the bank!"

  "A breakin?"

  "No, it was through the computers again. Just like yesterday. Somebody jams their program so all the screens just show gibberish. It only lasts a minute or so, and when they get back to normal, huge sums of money have been transferred out."

  "The thieves have tapped into the program's 'electronic transfer' command," Frank replied.

  "You think it's an inside job?" Joe asked.

  "Possibly. But someone could be doing this from the outside with a modem. That would allow a computer hookup through the phone lines."

  Joe's face lit up. "Someone like a very smart computer jock at a prestigious coed boarding school?"

  "Are you thinking of Chartwell Academy by any chance?" Frank asked.

  "I beat you to it," Joe answered. "I mean, we've seen those movies where whiz kids crack computer codes to find out their grades, start nuclear wars — "

  "And Chartwell is supposed to be a school for gifted students."

  "Right! I think we should investigate. Get a job there or — or actually enroll! We could transfer for a while. If we can get in."

  "It might work," Frank said, scratching his chin. "School's only been on for a week. Maybe Dad can pull some strings and get us in. He could talk to the school here and clear it all."

  They rushed downstairs and found their father just as he was getting off the phone.

  "That was Trilby," he said. "He's got a computer expert working on tracing these thefts."

  Frank and Joe explained their idea. Fenton sat down and pondered it for a minute. "I'm not crazy about the idea. But it seems like a good way to investigate this crime," he said. "If someone there is involved."

  "Now we're talking!" Joe said. "But how should we do it? If they find out we're from Bayport, whoever's in charge might suspect something."

  Fenton paced around, and then came up with an idea. "After we clear it with your school — and I do say 'after' — how would you feel about becoming a couple of transfer students from Deep River, Montana?"

  "Deep River, Montana?" Frank asked, laughing. "Why?"

  "An old buddy of mine from the army is a school superintendent there," Fenton answered. "He's always been interested in my detective work. He'd probably be willing to send us fake transcripts, and I know he won't tell a soul."

  Joe turned to Frank and said, "Okay, brother, we better stock up on paper and pencils!"

  "Not so fast," Fenton said. "There's still one thing that can't be faked."

  "What's that?" Frank and Joe asked together.

  "The entrance exam. Don't forget, Chartwell is one of the most competitive schools in the country. And we don't know if they have any places."

  Joe chuckled smugly. "Hey, no sweat! We can handle the test. I'm sure it'll be a breeze."

  "Well, I'm a little less confident than you, Einstein," Frank said. "I think I'll spend some time over at the public library."

  "And I have a feeling you ought to do a little brushing up yourself, Joe," Fenton added.

  "I will," said Joe thoughtfully. "I'll help Frank if he has any questions."

  The next day Frank walked up the stairs of the Bayport Memorial Library. The squat, dull building had long been in need of repair; now it was finally being renovated, and the clatter of the workmen surrounded Frank as he wandered around among the shelves.

  Before long he sat down with a pile of books and started leafing through them. As he struggled through the geometry review, he thought, This little entrance exam is making me sweat more than any test I've ever taken at Bayport. How do I get myself into these things?

  At five o'clock Frank brought his books back to the checkout desk. The librarian, Mr. Douglas, smiled at Frank. "Ah, a well-rounded scholar!" he said. "Perhaps I can suggest a few more, uh, advanced texts for you. More appropriate for college preparation."

  "No thanks," Frank said. As he walked back out to the parking lot he felt thoroughly depressed; his studying had only just begun. He opened the door of the black van that he and Joe shared. The backseat and floor were totally empty; it was impossible to tell that beneath the carpeted floor was a collection of sophisticated crime-fighting equipment: electronic tracking devices, a mobile phone, disguises, a mini-crime lab with a portable computer, and various ropes and climbing gear.

  Frank threw his books onto the backseat and drove home. As he pulled into the Hardys' driveway, Joe ran out the front door.

  "Hey, want to go to the movies?" Joe called out.

  "What about studying?" "I've been hitting the books all day. I need a break."

  "Any news about Deep River, Montana?" Frank asked.

  "Yeah, Dad says everything's set with his friend. He's sent the transcripts to Chartwell. We'll be Frank and Joe Kenyon. And Dad called Chartwell to set up our exam for next Thursday.

  They had a couple of transfers,' so they have two places. We'll have to be juniors, though. We're as good as in!"

  "I hope so," Frank said. It was already Thursday—only a week from the test—and he wondered if he could cram enough in. He gave Joe the van keys. "You go ahead."

  "All right," Joe said, shaking his head in disbelief. "But I think you're overdoing the studying bit."

  For the next few days Frank pored over his textbooks. Once in a while Joe sat down and leafed through them, too. But he thought he'd have no trouble passing the test.

  The exam was to be given in a lecture room at Chartwell Academy, in the town of Kirkland. To get there, Frank and Joe had to drive on back roads they never knew existed. The town was only an hour away, but it seemed like light-years. As they approached Kirkland, the landscape began to change. Neat little suburban houses gave way to sprawling old estates with manicured front lawns, surrounded by tall woods. Some of the houses could barely be seen at the end of long, winding driveways.

  "Big bucks, huh?" Joe said.

  "I guess so," answered Frank. "I'll bet the school is just like this."

  Frank was right. In the distance they saw a tall water tower with the name Kirkland on it. They soon reached the entrance gate. Latin words in gold-painted wrought iron were suspended in an arch between two stone pillars, which flanked the drive. Among the words were Academia Chartwelliensis.

  "You need to read Latin just to find the place," muttered Joe.

  Frank drove slowly through the campus as Joe directed him from a map. On both sides of them graceful lindens lined the road. Beyond the trees, neatly dressed students walked to their classes on brick pathways
that meandered through wide, freshly cut lawns. The buildings were all made of brick or stone, and it looked as if they'd been there for hundreds of years.

  They finally found the right lecture hall and were met by an impatient-looking teacher in a tweed coat. "Ah, the Kenyons, I presume," he said. "Welcome to Chartwell. Please sit. You will have two hours for the exam, and we will call you with the results tomorrow."

  Minutes into the exam, Frank realized that his studying hadn't really helped. Numbers, dates, and facts were all jumbled in his mind. At the end, he had to rush to finish the final essay.

  Afterward Frank and Joe got into the van and sat still for a moment, trying to recover. "Well, it wasn't too bad," Joe said, speaking first. "I did all the easy questions and then went back."

  "Good idea." Frank wanted to kick himself for not thinking of that. Sometimes his brother deserved more credit than he gave him, Frank thought. He sat in stony silence as they drove home.

  The next day Frank stayed at home so he wouldn't miss the phone call. Joe disappeared for the day, and when he returned at six o'clock he found his worried brother still close to the phone.

  "You've got to loosen up about this, Frank," Joe said. "We don't have anything to prove. Let's keep our minds on the crime."

  "Competitive spirit, I guess," Frank said. "I'm not really that nerv — "

  Ring - g - g - g! At the sound of the bell, Frank sprang for the phone. Joe had grabbed a bag of pretzels from the cabinet and walked past Frank into the living room to watch TV.

  "Hello?" He heard Frank's voice from the kitchen. "Yes ... oh, great! Thank you ... What! ... No, I'll tell him. Goodbye."

  Frank returned to the living room. Joe looked up from the baseball game he was watching on TV and said, "What'd I tell you? We made it, right?"

  "Sort of," Frank said.

  "What do you mean, 'sort of?" Joe asked, his mouth full of pretzels.

  "Well — I made it. They want me to start on Monday."

  Joe's mouth fell open. "What? I aced that exam! They must have made a mistake!"

  "Call them yourself if you don't believe me," Frank said.

  As Joe stormed into the kitchen and picked up the phone, Frank stretched out and watched an incredible bases-loaded double play.