The Genius Thieves

by Franklin W. Dixon

  That next Monday Frank toted his suitcase through the Chartwell campus on the way to the admissions office. In front of him a couple of leaves from a towering maple tree fell on an old statue of the school's founder, George Howe Chartwell. In front of a dorm, Frank stopped to tuck his striped shirt into his brand-new khaki pants.

  For a campus of five hundred students, it seemed awfully quiet, he thought. The kids must have to study all day.

  Suddenly the silence was broken by the sounds of shouting above him. Frank looked up. There appeared to be some sort of a fight going on in one of the fourth-floor rooms; Frank couldn't see much from his angle, but he could hear through the open casement window. There was a blood-curdling shriek, and then, as Frank watched in horror, a body came hurtling down from the open window—falling directly at him!

  Chapter 3

  FRANK THREW HIMSELF off the path and tumbled into a flower bed. He heard the body thud to the ground just beside him.

  He sprang to his feet and immediately heard the sound of laughter.

  In every dorm window, Chartwell students were slapping one another on the back and laughing hysterically.

  Frank rushed over to the limp body and realized what had happened. It was a dummy, dressed in old pants and a wool sweater that said "Winchester School."

  Of course, Frank thought. It's football season, and Winchester is their big rival. "Killing" this dummy must be some sort of crazy prep-school tradition.

  Frank smiled and waved, all the while wondering what kind of weird place he'd gotten himself into. He brushed himself off as well as he could and continued on to the admissions office. He was met at the door by a student with close-cropped hair and horn-rimmed glasses.

  "You must be the transfer student. Kenyon, right?" the student asked, shaking Frank's hand.

  "That's right. And you?"

  "Pierce. Lloyd Pierce. I'm a junior, too. Also a part-time file clerk here, as part of the work-study program. Congratulations on getting into Chartwell. Don't tell anyone, but I saw your exam. Terrific essay!"

  "Thanks," Frank said.

  "Too bad about your brother, though," Lloyd said, continuing. "Anyway, let me introduce you to the admissions officers, and they'll give you your class schedule, room assignment, and linens. And if you ever need anything or have any questions, just call me at five-five-five-two-three-oh-one. All the rooms have phones, and the numbers all begin with five-five-five — " Just then his eyes caught the mud stains on Frank's new pants. "And laundry pickup is on Wednesday," he said with a smile.

  "Oh! I, uh — lost my footing and fell in a flower bed," Frank said. Lloyd seemed all right. If most of the students are like this, he thought, maybe this place isn't so bad after all.

  Frank had arrived too late for his morning classes after going to admissions, but his afternoon classes would begin in an hour and a half. He had plenty of time to drop off his linens and luggage at his dorm, Mansfield Hall.

  Mansfield was a sturdy red-brick building with a solid oak-paneled entrance foyer. Frank had had visions of polite, well-dressed students silently grinding away at homework. But the sound of earsplitting rock 'n' roll rang out instead. Frank went in and walked up to the third floor. The loudest rock was coming from his room.

  "Nobody can do this to me!"

  Frontal Lobe. Just what he needed! With a sigh, he opened the door. Inside, singing and dancing to the music, was a tall, gangly student with an orange headband around a bush of curly hair. Popcorn was spilling out of a large pot on a hot plate in the corner. And in the center of the room, a computer screen flashed a colorful graphics display of a car chase that said "Speed Racer."

  "Uh, hello — hello!" Frank said, practically shouting above the music.

  "Oh, baby, baby, ba — " Suddenly, Frank's roommate stopped singing and saw both Frank and the popcorn. "Uh-oh," he said. With one hand he tried to turn down his cassette player while using the other to save the burning popcorn. Frank put down his suitcase and linens and helped out.

  "It's a good thing you weren't Brad," the roommate said. "He doesn't like Frontal Lobe—"

  A voice behind them interrupted, " 'Doesn't like' isn't really accurate, Arnie. 'Hates passionately' is closer to the truth."

  Frank turned to see a blond, athletic-looking guy wearing tennis whites. "Brad Rogers," he said, extending a hand. "Has my roommate remembered to introduce himself to you?"

  "Oh, sorry!" the curly-haired student said. "I'm Arnie Nofziger. You must be Frank."

  "That's right. I transferred from — "

  "Deep River, Montana," Brad said, cutting in. "Yes, we heard all about you. You know, my ancestors settled Snapoose, the town next to yours. Have you heard of the Snapoose Rogerses?"

  "Uh, the name sounds familiar," Frank answered.

  "Of course it does. They own practically everything there," Brad said with a smirk. "What's your next class, Frank?"

  Frank looked at his schedule. "English lit., in about an hour," he said.

  "Me, too. Let me shower and change, and then I'll show you around campus before class. Meanwhile, if you happen to be into the wonderful world of calculators and floppy disks, perhaps you and Arnie can find something to talk about."

  Brad took his towel and went into the hallway toward the showers. Arnie held out his pot of popcorn. "Want some?" he asked.

  Frank looked at the blackened kernels. "No thanks," he said.

  For about five minutes Arnie didn't say a word; he just worked furiously at his computer and ate burned popcorn. Frank made up his empty bed and changed into a clean pair of pants.

  Arnie then swung around quickly in his chair and said, "You know, I can show you around campus, too! I know this place better than Brad ever will. Did you know there's a system of tunnels that connects all the buildings on the entire campus? I'm the only one who knows how they all hook up."

  "Great," said Frank.

  "I can show you the town, too," Arnie continued. "Upperclassmen are allowed limited travel during lunch, which means we can avoid the dining-hall slop and go into Kirkland. There's a Speedy Burger there that has a two-for-one special on Thursdays! And I have a car on campus this semester." A proud grin spread across his face. "I learned how to drive from computer games. My favorite is Speed Racer."

  While Arnie was talking, Brad breezed into the room, his hair soaking wet. "Yes, and that's why no one will ride with him," he said.

  Arnie stood up and thrust out his chin proudly. "That's not true. You'll come into town with me on Thursday for lunch, won't you, Frank?"

  Frank shrugged his shoulders. "Sure, Arnie." He hoped it was the right decision.

  When Brad was ready, he walked with Frank through the campus. "That's the arts center, where you meet the most girls," Brad said, pointing to a new marble-and-glass building. "And there's the science laboratory, where you can get the best sleep. The indoor tennis courts—you can usually find me there. And the student lounge, where there's a party Wednesday night. You'll come, of course."

  "And the computer terminals?" Frank asked, keeping his mind on the mission.

  But Brad wasn't listening. "Oh, yes!" he said. "I almost forgot. Dad and his wife would like to have you for dinner Friday night. They always have to check out my roommates. Dad will send a limo for us, so it'll be easy. You've got to say yes. After bringing Arnie home the last time, I have to show up with someone normal!"

  Frank finally said yes, and the tour of the school ended at the building where their English class met. Brad and Frank went in and sat down. Frank looked around and was surprised to recognize one other face — the student he'd met at the admissions office, Lloyd Pierce.

  The teacher, a Mr. Osborn, was dark-haired with a heavy beard and a potbelly. He peered from behind his wire-rimmed glasses and said, "Now, how many of you have read Shakespeare's Henry the Fifth, Part One?" Immediately hands shot up all around the classroom. Frank looked around in disbelief. He'd barely heard of the play—it had taken him half a year to get through
Hamlet in high school!

  "Good. Just about everyone," the teacher said, continuing. "Tell me, how do you see this play in terms of the current American view of nationalism?" Again, students were bursting to try to answer the question, and Frank felt completely lost.

  He had the same feeling in social studies, and again in math. By the time he went to his last class, chemistry, he was wondering whether entering Chartwell was really the best way to go about solving this case. After all, they had no proof that the criminals were operating out of Chartwell — they only had that one button as a clue.

  The teacher bounded into the room with a confident smile and went straight to the blackboard. "All right," he said. "What I'm about to write will probably look like chicken scratchings, so yell if you don't understand something. My feeling is, if it seems like a stupid question, that means it's probably a good one."

  This teacher was friendly and energetic. Frank liked him immediately. At least he didn't make Frank feel like an idiot.

  After class the teacher walked up to Frank as he was gathering his books. "Welcome to chemistry class, Frank. I'm Jim Castigan."

  "Your name sounds familiar," said Frank.

  "Yes, I signed your acceptance letter," Castigan said, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he smiled. "You see, I'm also the dean of students, so you can call me if you have any questions at all about Chartwell."

  "Forget Chartwell. How about chemistry?" Frank said.

  Castigan chuckled. "Come to my office hours on Thursday at eleven A. M.," he said. Then he looked at Frank as if he were sizing him up. "And afterward, if you're interested, I usually take these old bones out to the basketball court."

  "Great!" Frank answered. "I'll be there!"

  For the next couple of days Frank almost forgot about the computer crimes. It was all he could do to keep up with his classwork. After all, he wouldn't be much use as an undercover detective at Chartwell if he flunked out.

  On Wednesday night he was buried in a paper-back copy of Henry V while Brad napped. At precisely 8:00 an alarm clock rang, and Brad sprang out of bed. "Okay, all rested up and ready to party!" he said, and then slammed Frank's book shut. "Let's put down Shakespeare and shake things up ourselves!"

  "Sure," Frank said. I might as well, he thought. This'll be a good chance to meet potential suspects.

  They walked to the student lounge, which was in the basement of the athletic building. Halfway there they could begin to hear music blaring and students laughing and talking.

  Inside the packed room Frank recognized quite a few of the students from his classes. In the middle, some were dancing, and along the walls, others sat or tried to squeeze by one another. As they got themselves sodas from a machine, a thin guy with a checked shirt and old jeans came up to Brad.

  "Hey, Brad," he said. "Have you seen Arnie?"

  "No. Oh, Jed, this is our new roommate, Frank Kenyon. Frank, meet Jed Wilson." Frank looked hard at Jed — he had the feeling he'd seen him before. But he couldn't remember when or where.

  Jed barely nodded at Frank before turning back to Brad. "Well, tell him I debugged our new program disk, okay?"

  "Sure, Jed," Brad said. As Jed went back into the crowd, Brad murmured to Frank, "Definitely the other side of the tracks, if you know what I mean. His father fills potholes for a living."

  Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw a hand reaching up for Brad's back pocket. "Watch it, Brad!" he shouted.

  Brad spun around and looked down at a group of students sitting on the floor. One of them was pulling his hand away. He gave Brad a broad grin.

  "Trilby, you crook!" said Brad, laughing. "You'll never have enough money!"

  Trilby. This must be the banker's son Dwight, Frank thought. Brad slapped the guy playfully on the back and walked away. Obviously, they were just kidding around. But Frank kept an eye on Dwight Trilby. He had a jutting jaw and slick, jet-black hair, and he was bragging loudly about something he had done in football practice. Frank noticed immediately that Dwight's blazer had a button missing.

  Dwight did a double-take when he noticed Frank staring at his jacket. "Checking out the merchandise? Let me know if there's something you like," he said sarcastically. His friends laughed nervously.

  This guy looks like trouble, Frank thought. But out loud he said, "Thanks, I will." Then he turned to follow Brad.

  "Hey! New boy! I haven't finished talking to you!"

  Frank's jaw tensed. Cool it, he said to himself. The last thing you need right now is a fight with your major suspect.

  He faced Dwight. "Look, I'm — " he began. But he got no further. One of the dancers gyrating behind him chose that moment to try a triple spin. The kid fell against Frank, making him stumble forward. Some of Frank's soda sloshed out of the can—and splashed down into Dwight's face. "Oh, great," Frank groaned softly.

  With an enraged roar, Dwight rose to face Frank. And rose—and rose some more. The room fell silent, except for the thumping dance music. And Frank found himself staring up at Chartwell Academy's star six-foot-four linebacker.

  "Sorry! It was an accident!" Frank said, although he knew it wouldn't do much good.

  With his left hand, Dwight grabbed Frank's arm and hauled him forward so that their noses were almost touching. "It didn't look like an accident from my perspective," he growled.

  "Listen, I really don't want to fight," Frank said.

  "Oh, no? Well, that's a shame, because I do." And Dwight's right fist shot forward to connect with Frank's jaw.

  Chapter 4

  FRANK HAD SEEN the blow coming, so he was able to twist a little and take it at an angle. When it hit, he let his head snap back, so that Dwight's fist only glanced along his jaw. Still, the impact made his ears ring.

  Frank sagged. Dwight grinned and shifted his hold for another strike. As he felt the movement, Frank brought his own hand up and let it fall in a slicing karate blow to Dwight's wrist.

  With a yell, Dwight let go of Frank. As Frank jumped backward, he saw the murderous expression on the football player's face. There was no way Dwight would let him go now, Frank decided. He'd just have to try to wind it up with as little damage as possible. He sighed. "Oh, well, I tried," he muttered as they squared off.

  Dwight lunged at Frank with a powerful left jab. Frank blocked the punch with his right arm. Then Dwight came back with a strong right. Frank ducked skillfully and Dwight's fist sliced the air. The force of his own weight made him fly into the crowd.

  "Knock it off, Trilby!" Brad called out, and he tried to grab Dwight. But Dwight was steaming, and he threw off Brad's grip in one powerful motion. Frank waited for Dwight across the room in a karate stance.

  "Oh, I hate these martial-arts types," Dwight said under his breath. "I think you'd do better to try prayer instead!" With that, he hurled himself toward Frank in a flying tackle.

  When Frank saw two hundred and fifteen pounds of Grade-A American muscle leaping toward him, he did the only sensible thing. He gracefully stepped out of the way.

  Dwight Trilby went sailing headfirst past Frank and into the jukebox. The speakers gave out a ripping noise as the needle scraped along the record inside the machine.

  The students all rushed to surround Dwight as he lay motionless on the floor. "Is he all right?" someone asked.

  "Is he all right?" said Brad. "What about the jukebox?"

  Brad and some of his friends brought Dwight outside so he could get some fresh air. A female student watched them take Dwight away and looked admiringly at Frank. "Not many people get the best of Trilby," she said.

  Frank gave her a humorless grin. "Yeah, I can see it's going to do wonders for my reputation around here." This was going to make it ten times harder to investigate Dwight Trilby!

  He stride outside with Brad, where Dwight was coming to. Mr. Castigan had been called to the scene and was standing over Dwight.

  "Kenyon!" Castigan called out as he looked up from Dwight. "Are you responsible for this?"


  "In a sense, sir," Frank answered.

  "With all due respect, sir," Brad put in, "I think the jukebox did most of the damage." He grinned at them both and then sauntered back inside.

  Mr. Castigan looked angry for a second and then walked closer to Frank. He winked slyly and said under his breath, "Trilby had it coming. But stay away from him next time, okay? He's been acting pretty strange lately."

  Frank thoughtfully agreed and walked back to Mansfield Hall.

  ***

  Back in Bayport, Joe and Fenton Hardy were picking up new clues in the Bayport Bank and Trust thefts. On Monday and Wednesday there had been two more computer money transfers. Both fit the pattern of the first crimes, except that they were for smaller amounts of money now.

  By Thursday morning Mr. Trilby's patience was wearing thin. "I don't care if you're a board member," he shouted into the phone. "I can't freeze all the money in the bank! I'll have to explain everything to the customers, and they'll all pull their money out. Don't worry, I've got an expert working on it — "

  At that moment, Mr. Trilby's secretary ushered Joe and Fenton into his office. The banker wearily said goodbye to the board member and hung up the phone.

  "We came as soon as we got your call, Mr. Trilby," Fenton Hardy said.

  "Yes, yes, I'm sure," Trilby said hurriedly. "I have some good news, fellows. My computer expert, Waldo McKay, may have cracked the case."

  Joe and Fenton sat down to listen. "These computer pirates have been extremely crafty. They've been waiting until the precise moment that the computer system is on the brink of overloading—which usually happens around lunch-time, when the bank is busiest. Then they strike. Something seems to seize the computer. We don't know what."

  "So it appears to be like any other temporary malfunction," Mr. Hardy said.

  "That's right," Mr. Trilby said. "And so much memory is being tied up in the computer that it's almost impossible to trace the source."