It wasn't a straight drive to the fairgrounds. Like much of downtown Bayport, the fairgrounds were blocked off from regular traffic for the duration of the race. Frank parked the van about half a mile away and walked the rest of the Instance. He didn't get there until seven o'clock. if He found Martin in the aluminum shed that served as the portable garage for McCoy Racing. writer was talking to Reinhart Voss, the number-two man on the McCoy team. Martin realized Frank and waved him over. "Frank Hardy, right? I wanted to talk to you and your brother. I'm working on the final chapter of McCoy's biography. It may sound gruesome, but I want to get eyewitness descriptions from everybody who saw the crash."
"Let's make a trade," Frank replied. "Answer a few questions for me, and I'll tell you what I know."
"Sounds good. What can I tell you now that you didn't get out of me yesterday? You guys sure ask a lot of questions. Maybe you should be writing a book."
"Will you make royalties off the sales of McCoy's biography?" Frank asked.
"Posthumous autobiography," Martin corrected him. "Sure. For every copy sold, I'll make a few cents. It won't make me rich, but if the hook hits the best-seller charts, I won't have to worry about a paycheck for a while."
"What happens to McCoy's share of the profits now that he's dead? Do you get it all?" The writer eyed Frank suspiciously. "If you're asking if I'd benefit from McCoy's death, my answer is no. Dead or alive, McCoy's share goes to a company called Clarco Industries. It's in contract."
Martin paused and then said, "What are you getting at, anyway? The crash was an accident, wasn't it? Do you know something that I don't?! "Nothing yet," Frank responded. He noticed that it was starting to get dark out. "Listen, it's getting late. I've got to go."
"Okay—but you owe me an interview!" Martin called after him as Frank headed out the door. Somehow the day had gotten away from Frank, The late start threw him off. He jogged back to the van. It was dusk, and he had to turn on his headlights for the drive back to Scott Lavin's garage. He knew that Scott and his crew would be finishing sometime soon, and he wanted to be there when Scott closed up the garage.
Unlike the out-of-town drivers and racing teams that had to make do with temporary arrangements on the fairgrounds, Scott still kept a private garage in Bayport. Frank had noticed a sophisticated burglar alarm system on his earlier visit, and that was what interested him now.
Frank pulled the van into a dark alley across from the garage, took out a pair of binoculars, and waited. Finally three figures emerged. One of them was the mechanic, one was Scott Lavin, and the third was Joe Hardy. Frank felt bad. He was spying on his own brother.
Frank lifted the binoculars and focused on . The burglar alarm control panel was on the side of the garage. Anyone trying to get in couldn't even open the doors for a second without setting off the alarm. Scott opened the control , and Frank shifted the binoculars slightly to in on the control panel. There was a calculator style keypad with an LED display screen at top. Even in the dark, Frank could see the sequence of glowing numbers that Scott quickly pressed in: 3 - 3 - 1 - 4 - 6 - 1. The alarm was activated, ! Scott closed the control box. Frank watched the trio depart and then waited few more minutes. He climbed between the two front seats into the back of the van and opened the tool chest. "Let's see, I'll need the flashlight — and this — " he muttered, taking out a flat case and slipping it into his back pocket. Then he opened the back door of the van, hopped lightly to the ground, and closed the door softly.
He walked across the street casually, approaching Scott's garage as if he owned the place. Frank strolled right up to the burglar alarm and flipped open the control box. He looked around to make sure no one was in sight. Then he turned back to the control panel and punched in the same sequence of numbers Scott had used earlier. 3 - 3 - 1 - 4 - 6 - 1. Finally he pressed the Alarm Off button. The burglar alarm was now deactivated. No problem. Now came the tricky part. The door was locked, of course, but Frank was prepared. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the soft leather case that he had taken from the tool chest. Unsnapping the cover, he opened the case, revealing an assortment of thin metal strips in variety of lengths and widths — a lock-pick set.
Breaking and entering didn't rate high on Frank's list of favorite investigative techniques. If things had gone down differently, he might have had Joe set up a diversion while he searched the place in broad daylight. But he was working alone now, and he didn't have a whole lot of time. In a few days the race would be over, and Scott Lavin would pack up and head out for the next Grand Prix race, probably in another country. Any chance of uncovering evidence would be gone.
Frank wasn't planning on taking anything. He ' was just going to look around—to see if he could find any radio equipment that might provide a link to the mysterious device now in Phil Cohen's workshop.
He worked the lock like an expert. The Bayport police frequently gave home security seminars, complete with demonstrations of the various burglary tools used to break into houses. Frank always made it a point to attend the classes.
The lock mechanism began to turn, and he felt the deadbolt slide back. He slowly turned the doorknob and then eased the door open. He lipped into the garage and closed the door quickly, feeling certain he had avoided detection.
The garage was pitch-black, but Frank wasn't ready to turn on the lights. He didn't want to attract attention. He switched on the flashlight.
abruptly the garage came alive with shadows that wavered and jumped as Frank moved the beam around in the dark, scanning all the unfamiliar machinery. He spotted what appeared to be a pile of electrical equipment and figured that it was as good a place as any to start looking.
Then Frank heard it — a faint noise behind him, like a shoe being scuffed on the cement floor. He stiffened, realizing suddenly that he'd forgotten to lock the door behind him. Pivoting on one foot, he whirled to face whoever it was and caught a blow to the side of his head. He tottered on his feet for a second—then Frank Hardy's world faded to black.
Chapter 5
It was late when Joe Hardy got home. He walked in the front door and headed for the kitchen in search of something to eat. He found his aunt Gertrude making a cup of tea. "Sorry I missed dinner," Joe said as he opened the refrigerator. "Anything left to eat?"
"Well, at least you called," Gertrude said. "Here it is, already past nine, and your brother isn't home yet. He missed dinner and didn't even call. You two went out together this afternoon. What happened?"
"Nothing much." Joe grabbed a loaf of bread and some peanut butter. "We went to see Scott Lavin, and then I hung around to help out with Scott's car. Frank took off in the van. He didn't tell me where he was going. I figured he was headed back here."
"Did you two have a fight?" Gertrude asked, a feint of concern edging into her voice.
Joe took a big bite of his sandwich to buy time while he chose his words. Finally he said, "I wouldn't call it a fight, exactly. We just didn't agree."
"Oh?" Gertrude replied. "And what, exactly, didn't you agree about?"
Just then the telephone rang. Joe jumped up and said, "I'll get it!" And then he muttered under his breath, "Saved by the bell."
"Hardy summer home," Joe spoke into the receiver. "Some are home and some aren't."
"Hi, Joe. Is Frank there?"
Joe recognized the voice right away. "Hey, Phil. No, he's not here. And I don't know where he is. Did you see him at all today?"
"Yeah," Phil said. "He came by this afternoon. There was something he wanted me to check out. Have him call me when he gets in, okay?"
"Sure thing," Joe said. "Say, did Frank tell you where he was going when he left your house? Aunt Gertrude's getting a little worried about him," he added in a soft voice so Gertrude wouldn't overhear.
"No—he just said there was something else he had to do. I doubt if that's much help."
"Maybe more than you think," Joe said. "Thanks, Phil."
He hung up the phone and turned to his aunt. "I've got
to go out again."
"What for?" Gertrude asked suspiciously.
"I think I left something at Scott's place," came the reply as Joe shot out the front door.
"Couldn't it wait until tomorrow?" Gertrude called after him. But there was no answer. Joe was gone.
Joe didn't know where Frank had gone after he'd left Phil, but he had a hunch where his brother might be now. Since Frank had taken the van, Joe had to walk. He could have asked his parents for their car, but he didn't want them asking any questions. Aunt Gertrude's were bad enough.
Besides, he wasn't sure if his hunch was right. And if it was, what was he supposed to tell his aunt? He shook his head as he imagined himself saying, "Gee, Aunt Gertrude, I think Frank's trying to break into Scott's garage, and I just thought I'd go down to see if he needs any help." Somehow he doubted that that would make his aunt feel any better. Of course, the only "help" he intended to give Frank was to try to stop him before it was too late.
Joe wasn't sure what Frank was up to, but he knew his older brother pretty well. If Joe was right, he wanted to get there before anybody else did. He broke into a jog as he backtracked along the route he had taken just a little while earlier. Joe was breathing heavily by the time he reached Scott Lavin's garage. He slowed to a walk about twenty yards from the door and let himself catch his breath as he scanned the area. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he could make out the faint outline of the van in the alley across the street. He headed for the van and tried the door.
Locked. Joe pulled his key chain out of his pocket, fumbling in the dark for the right key. He opened the van door and poked his head inside. Frank wasn't there, but Joe did notice something in the back of the van.
The tool chest was open. Joe climbed inside and over the front seat, switching on the overhead light as he went. He already suspected what he would find in the tool chest — or, more exactly, what he wouldn't find. He was right — the lock-pick set was missing.
Joe climbed out of the van and doubled back across the street in the direction of Scott Lavin's garage. From the middle of the street he could now see that the door to the garage was ajar, even though all the lights were out.
A mental warning alarm went off in Joe's brain. Frank wouldn't be so careless. The slightly open door was as obvious as a flashing neon sign proclaiming, "Burglars at work!" Joe stood at the threshold and tried to get a look inside the garage, but his eyes couldn't penetrate the darkness within. He drew in a deep breath, gritted his teeth, plunged through the door—and almost tripped over his brother's body, slumped on the floor.
Frank Hardy struggled through a fog to see his brother's face staring down at him. "Joe?" he croaked. "What happened?"
Joe was sitting cross-legged on the floor, cradling Frank's head in his lap. "You almost got yourself killed from the looks of it," he said.
"Somebody knocked me out!" Frank exclaimed, struggling to sit up as the mist started to clear from his brain.
"Yeah," Joe agreed. " You did." He pointed to a heavy duty hoist and a racing engine lying on its side on the garage floor, under a single light that he had switched on. "You must have tripped the hoist release by accident, stumbling around in the dark like a blind cat burglar. If you'd been standing a little more to the left, that engine would have done more than just knock you out before it crashed into the floor."
"How did you know where to find me?" Frank asked as Joe helped him get up.
"It wasn't too hard," Joe snapped. "Phil couldn't tell you if there was any connection between that hunk of electronics you found and McCoy's accident, so you came back here, hoping to dig up some other evidence. But you're on the wrong track this time."
Frank rubbed his aching head—and remembered something. "There was somebody else in the garage. I heard him—just before my lights bent out. He whacked me on the side of the head, and then he must have released the engine from the hoist to make it look like an accident." "Just look at that engine," Joe said. "We'll be lucky to get it fixed before the race. You can't blame this on Scott."
' He scowled and stared around the garage. You know, Frank, there are other drivers besides Scott in this race. Maybe somebody did sabotage McCoy's car, but it wasn't Scott." "Maybe I was getting too close to the truth," "Frank persisted, "and Scott trashed his own engine to put me out of commission and throw me off the trail at the same time." Joe's anger blew away his concern for his brother. "You don't give up, do you?" he snouted. "I know Scott Lavin, and I'm telling you he didn't do it!"
"And I might have known I'd find the two of you here," another voice interrupted. Frank and Joe whirled around to see police officer Con Riley. "If there's trouble in Bayport, the Hardy brothers can't be far away." Riley hoisted the service revolver that he had pointed at the Hardys a moment before. "But somehow I can't see the pair of you as car thieves," he continued. "Someone reported seeing a prowler break in here, and I arrive on the scene to find Frank and Joe Hardy. I can't wait to hear the explanation."
If the Hardys had a friend on the Bayport police force, it was Con Riley. Riley would be willing to cut them a little slack, but he wouldn't let them walk away from a breaking and entering charge—at least, not without a really good explanation.
Before Frank could say anything, Joe started talking. "I'm working for Scott Lavin, helping him get ready for the race," he said quickly. "I came back to finish up some work." '
Riley glanced at the damaged engine lying on the floor. "Scott's really going to appreciate your dedication," he observed dryly. He looked around some more and said, "I don't see any signs of forced entry, but why don't we give Scott a call and check out your story?"
"Sure." Frank abruptly changed the subject. "Say, Con, do you know if the divers have recovered Angus McCoy's body yet?"
"Not yet, and they probably never will."
"Why? What do you mean?"
"They finally did find the car, but the body wasn't there. They think the currents must have carried it out to sea."
"I don't get it." Joe frowned. "He was strapped in with a double shoulder harness, a lap belt, and leg straps. How could the body go anywhere?"
Riley shrugged. "He was a race car driver and trained to react quickly in emergencies. Maybe he popped the belt releases, hoping he could survive the crash if he didn't go down with the car. Now I think you boys had better make that call to Lavin."
But before they could find a phone, Riley was interrupted by the squawk of his two-way radio.
'All units in the vicinity of the twenty-four-hundred block of Grant Street," the radio blared, "proceed to two-four-oh-two. We have a report of a three-alarm fire. Repeat fire at two-four-oh-two Grant Street."
"That address sounds familiar," Joe said.
"Two-four-oh-two Grant? That's Phil Cohen's house!" Frank shouted. "Phil's house is on fire!"
Chapter 6
"Come on, let's go!" Frank Hardy shouted, sprinting for the van. "We've got to get to Phil's right away!"
Joe and Con were just a split second slower in reacting to the radio report of the fire at Phil's house. Joe followed Riley to his squad car and grabbed the officer's arm before he slipped into the driver's seat. "Look, I know this isn't exactly normal police procedure — but do me a favor."
"Now what?" Riley asked impatiently.
Just then Frank backed the van out of the alley and yelled, "Joe, you coming or not?"
Joe nodded quickly, then turned back to Riley and said, "Phil's our friend, and Frank has his reasons for wanting to get there in a hurry. So how about giving us a police escort on the streets that are blocked off for the race?"
"What?" Riley responded in disbelief.
"Could you lead the way?" Riley stared at him for a moment. "Okay. But only this once!"
Joe smiled and said, "Anything you say, Officer Riley." He dashed over to the van, but instead of going around to the passenger's side, he opened the driver's door and said, "Move over, brother, I'm driving."
Frank didn't have time to protest
. Joe backed up his instruction with a firm shove, then scrambled into the driver's seat. The cruiser was pulling ·way from the curb, lights flashing and siren blaring. Joe slammed the van into gear and took off after it.
"What's the big idea?" Frank complained. "Don't like my driving?"
"No, no," Joe said. "I think you're a great defensive driver, but this calls for a little more aggressive driving. Like racing."
"And you've had so much racing experience since you got your regular license this year," FRank replied sarcastically. "In fact, now that I think about it, I've been driving twice as long as you have!"
"Yeah — but Scott told me about a few racing tricks today," Joe said as he edged the car over into the left lane, braking slightly at the same time. Then he shifted his right foot back to the gas pedal and started to speed up as he followed the police car into a right-hand turn. The maneuver cut the distance between the two vehicles in half.
"Do your braking before the turn," Joe explained as the van continued to pursue Riley's cruiser. "Enter the turn from the far side to reduce the angle and gradually accelerate through the curve—so that you're pretty much at full throttle when you come out of the turn."
"A nice trick—as long as nobody's coming at you in the left lane."
"Okay," Joe admitted. "So it's only practical when all the cars are going the same way—or when the street's blocked off to all traffic."
Joe swung the van all the way over to the far right side of the road. Ahead of them, Riley's police car skidded through a left turn, and the van followed close behind. But instead of skidding, Joe took a low angle into the curve, drifting slightly across the yellow median before nosing back into the right lane.
As they came out of the turn, the van was just about touching the rear bumper of the squad car. "What do you think you're doing now?" Frank burst out, his right foot instinctively reaching for a brake pedal that wasn't there.
Collision Course Page 3