'No, really," Scott Lavin interjected. "He's fuelling you the truth. We found that device attached to the steering column. The crash was no accident. That thing made it happen." Joe shot Scott a look. Shut up, his eyes said, before you dig our graves any deeper! Frank made a desperate attempt to smoothen with his version. "That's just a theory," he cut in. "What we know? Right? A couple of kids and a frustrated driver with a lump of charcoal for a car. We can't prove anything."
'No, no," Arno countered. "I think that's an excellent theory. You're probably right on track. Excellent work. I never would have thought of that. But you don't mind if I hold on to this for a few days, do you?"
"You mean you'll give it back?" Joe asked doubtfully.
"Look," Arno replied, his words dripping with impatience, "I didn't have anything to do with McCoy's death, but I can't have a murder investigation delaying this race. This may sound cold-hearted to you, but time is money—and I'm only in it for the money."
"So what do you want from us?" Frank asked.
"The videotape your brother stole from my office," Arno said. "I didn't realize it was gone until this morning."
"Why didn't you just call the police?" Joe prodded.
"More questions," Arno snapped. "Just give me the tape and I'll be on my way."
"Aren't you worried that we might have watched it already?" Frank asked.
"There's really not much to see," Arno said. "Besides, it's a professional tape. Wrong format for a home VCR. Now, where is it? I'm getting impatient."
"It's not here!" Joe blurted out. "It's in a safe place."
"Oh, I see." Arno smiled thinly. "So the girl has it." He motioned to the door with the gun. "Come on. We're all going for a little ride."
Arno took his coat and draped it over his arm again, concealing the pistol in his hand. As the four of them headed for the front door they were intercepted by Aunt Gertrude. "Leaving so soon?" she said. "I was just coming to ask if you'd like some coffee or something."
"Why, thank you, ma'am," Arno said, oozing with charm. "But we really must be going now."
"Oh?" Gertrude responded, raising her eyebrows. "It's getting awfully late, boys. Do you really think it's a good idea to go out now?"
"Under the circumstances," Frank said, shifting his gaze from his aunt to the coat slung over the promoter's arm, "I think it's a very good idea."
Joe saw what his brother was trying to do. "A very good idea," he repeated forcefully, his eyes rapidly darting between his aunt and the concealed weapon.
"We'll only be at Callie's house, anyway," Frank added. "You know where to find us."
"Well, then I guess it's all right," Gertrude conceded. "Have a nice time—and don't stay out too late."
"I'll see that they're home by a reasonable hour," Arno assured her as he hustled the Hardys and Scott Lavin out into the yard, prodding Joe with the barrel of the gun.
Frank saw two cars parked in front. One, he knew, belonged to Scott. The other, he reasoned, must be Arno's. It was a two-seater sports car.
"Oh, too bad! Your car's not big enough for all of us," Frank said with mock disappointment. "How about if we take the van and you follow us?"
"Yeah, great idea!" Joe chimed in. "We'll go real slow so you don't get lost."
"Let's all go together," Arno replied, shoving them toward the van.
"I'll drive," Frank stated flatly, heading for the left front door.
"Not so fast!" Arno retorted. Frank's hand was already on the handle. "You and Scott get in back with me," he said, nodding to Frank. "And you," he ordered, poking Joe in the back with the pistol, "drive."
They all climbed into the van, and Joe got behind the wheel. He started the engine, released the emergency brake, and rolled the van down the driveway toward the street. He knew his brother was up to something. He could tell by his tone of voice when he volunteered to drive. Frank's got some kind of plan, he told himself. I just wish I knew what it was!
Frank sat cross-legged on the floor of the van, his gaze never leaving Arno, sizing up the nervous promoter. There was no way he was going to let Arno get his hands on Callie. But it was going to be close, because he didn't want to take any chances in the van. If he tried to take Arno out while they were still moving and something went wrong, they could all be killed. Just have to wait until we get to Callie's house, he told himself, and hope Joe gets my signal.
Finally Joe pulled the van over to the curb and shut off the engine. "Here we are," he said reluctantly as he set the emergency brake. "You get out first," Arno instructed Joe. 'Then come around and open the back door." Joe hesitated. He glanced at his brother and he saw that glimmer of a wink again. "Go ahead," Frank said. "Do what he says."
Joe started to open the door. "And don't forget the emergency brake," Frank added casually.
Joe stifled a smile as he got out of the van, quietly reaching down and releasing the brake with a smooth motion, unseen by Arno. "Right," he replied. "Almost forgot."
Frank couldn't tell for sure, but he thought Joe had gotten the message. Shifting his attention back to Arno, he waited for his brother to walk around to the back of the van. He had to make sure the promoter was the last one out.
As Joe swung the back door open, Frank said, "After you, Mr. Arno."
Arno shot him a suspicious look, and then smiled. "I'm calling the shots — if you'll pardon the expression — and I think you and Scott should get out first. That way all three of you will be in front of me, where I can see you."
Scott hopped out of the van, and Frank followed. He looked at his brother, and they shared a brief glance.
"Make sure your hands are where I can see them!" Arno barked as he started to climb out.
"Yes, sir!" Joe replied. "They're right here on the door!"
"Not your hands!" Arno snapped. "His nan — "
While Joe distracted the promoter, Frank suddenly whirled around and lunged under Arno, shoving the bumper with both outstretched hands. The van lurched forward, and Arno pitched out headfirst.
This time, Joe didn't wait for him to hit the ground. He jumped out and drove his shoulder deep into the falling man's stomach.
"Woof!" Arno grunted as the wind was knocked out of him and the gun flew out of his hand. But Joe had hit him too low. Their combined momentum flipped Arno over Joe's back, and he landed right next to the weapon.
Arno snatched it up and scrambled to his feet "Nobody move!" he screamed. "Or I start shooting!"
Frank picked himself up off the ground and advanced on the man. "You're not going to shoot anybody," he said calmly. "You've had plenty of chances, and you haven't fired a single shot. Give me the gun before somebody gets hurt."
As Frank reached out to take the weapon, Arno raised it high and swung down at him.
Frank threw his arms in the air, crossing them at the forearms to form an X over his head. He easily deflected the blow and trapped Arno's gun wielding hand between his crossed arms. Then he twisted his body toward the promoter and grabbed hold of him at the wrist and just above the elbow. With a single, fluid motion, Frank flung Arno over his shoulder and onto the pavement.
Frank grasped Arno's wrist with both hands, making sure the gun wasn't pointed at anyone, and quickly moved in to put his foot in the promoter's armpit. "One hard tug," Frank said roughly, "and I'll dislocate your shoulder. I hear it hurts a lot." Arno didn't say anything—but his hand went limp, and the weapon clattered harmlessly on the street.
"Now get up," Frank ordered. "You've got a lot of explaining to do."
Arno staggered to his feet. "You're right," he gasped. Suddenly a shot rang out. Scott whirled in the direction of the sound, and Joe and Frank instinctively dove for cover.
Frank looked up and watched as Arno clutched at his chest, grimacing with pain. Then the promoter crumpled to the ground, blood seeping between his fingers and staining his shirt in a large circle.
Chapter 14
Frank and Joe lay flat on the ground. Out of the corner of his e
ye, Frank could see Scott Lavin crouching behind the van. "Stay where you are!" Frank hissed in a loud whisper. Scott probably wasn't going to move an inch until they pried him off the side of the van with a crowbar, but Frank wanted to make sure everything was under control before he made a move.
Frank turned his head toward Joe, who was lying next to him. "I'm going to see if I can drag Arno out of the line of fire." He started to squirm along the ground to where Arno lay motionless. A loud crack split the air, then a bullet thunked into the pavement, inches from Frank's head. A shard of concrete shrapnel sliced across his cheek, and he flattened and froze.
Pinned down—perfect, Frank thought. He glanced at the promoter again. From the slowly spreading stain on his shirt, Frank could tell that the bullet had hit him in the shoulder. "Mr. Arno!" he called out huskily. "Can you hear me?"
"Oooooh," came a low moan in reply. Frank wasn't sure if he had really heard it or just imagined it.
Then it came again, louder this time. Aaaooooh!
It was a police siren—and it was getting close!
Frank heard footsteps running away, a door slamming, and a car engine starting.
Frank and Joe leapt up at the same time. "There he is!" Joe shouted, pointing down the street.
Frank caught a glimpse of the car as it squealed around the corner and out of sight. It was a Lotus sports coupe. And although it was too dark to make out the color, Frank was willing to bet it was silver gray.
The pulsing red and blue lights of a police cruiser came into view. The wail of the siren got painfully loud, and then abruptly stopped as the squad car pulled up to the curb. "That was an awfully fast response," Joe commented, shielding his eyes from the flashing lights as the silhouette of a uniformed figure approached them.
"Not that we're complaining, mind you," frank added. "But who called in the shooting?"
"What shooting?" came the tired voice of Con Riley. "Your aunt phoned the station and said you boys had been kidnapped by some guy with a gun hidden under his coat! Said he was going to nab Callie Shaw next."
The two brothers looked at each other and smiled. Aunt Gertrude had come through in the clutch.
"So where's this dangerous criminal?" Riley asked impatiently.
The smile faded from Frank's lips. "You'd better call an ambulance," he began, taking hold of Riley's arm and guiding him over to the injured promoter. "And you better put out an APB on a silver gray Lotus sports coupe."
The Hardys sat on Callie's front steps, under the eerie yellow glow of the porch light, and filled her in on the evening's events. They idly watched the police forensic team dig out the bullet that had kissed the pavement a hairbreadth from Frank's head. The lights were on in most of the neighbors' houses, and a throng of people in bathrobes, pajamas, and fuzzy slippers were milling around on the sidewalk.
"Most excitement they've had in years," Callie said.
"It's like some weird, late-night costume party," Joe muttered.
They could see that Scott Lavin had just finished giving his statement to one of the police officers. As the last of the police cars finally rolled away, he came across the street to join the threesome. Callie turned to Frank and said, "So now you know Scott wasn't behind all this."
Frank nodded. "And Arno knows something, but he's not talking."
„ "Do you think that bullet he took was meant for us?" Joe asked.
Frank looked at his brother. "It fits the pattern. Therefore, they were just trying to scare us. Now , they're playing for keeps."
"Now all you have to do is figure out who they are," Callie said.
Frank stood up. "Arno claimed there wasn't much to see on the videotape. But why would he go to so much trouble to get it back if there wasn't some crucial evidence in there somewhere?" - "Maybe we should take another look at it," Joe suggested. "And maybe Scott can see something that we couldn't." Frank grinned. "You read my mind, brother."
It was almost dawn when they replayed the tape for what seemed like the zillionth time. "I'm sorry I can't help," Scott finally said. "But we already know what caused the crash. I can't see anything here that will tell us who caused it."
"And I don't see why we have to look at those stupid time codes ticking away at the bottom of the screen," Joe complained. "Isn't there any way to get rid of them?"
"They're permanently encoded on the master tape," Callie explained. "But I can set the machine so the time codes don't appear on the screen."
"That's it!" Frank shouted, jumping out of his chair. "The time codes!" He stepped quickly over to the video cassette machine. Frank had been watching Callie operate the thing for a couple of hours, and he practically had it memorized.
He hit a button on the console and the tape started to play from the beginning. "Not again!" his brother groaned.
Frank hit another button, and the scenes rushed by at a blurring rate. "What are you doing?" Callie asked.
"I'm going to cue up the scene where McCoy enters the tunnel," Frank said. "Right... here!" He pressed a third button, and the car froze on the screen, the cone-shaped nose just edging into the dark mouth of the tunnel. The digital clock at the bottom of the screen stopped, too. The time code was frozen at 00093318.
"Somebody write down the time," Frank ordered.
"I've got it," Callie said, taking a clipboard and a ballpoint pen from one of the shelves. "That's nine minutes, thirty-three seconds, and eighteen hundredths."
"Good," Frank said. He pressed the play button and the car started moving again. When the tape reached the point where the car started to emerge from the other end of the tunnel, he hit the freeze-frame again. Now the time code was 00103252.
"That's ten minutes, thirty-two seconds, and fifty-two hundredths," Callie read off the numbers as she wrote them down.
Scott Lavin frowned. "That's almost a full minute," he said.
"Doesn't seem very long to me," Joe responded. "It's a long tunnel."
"Not when you're going two hundred miles an hour," Frank pointed out, "How long do you think it would take, Scott?"
"Lap time is real important in racing," Scott explained. "So we keep track of time constantly. We know how long it should take us to get through each leg of the course. On my qualifying lap, I took that tunnel in about forty-four seconds. McCoy took fifteen seconds longer," he continued. "For a racing driver, that's forever."
"Long enough to stop and get out of the car?" Frank pressed.
"I guess," Scott said. "But why would he want to?"
Suddenly the answer dawned on Joe, and he was on his feet, pointing at the scene on the television. "So he wouldn't be in it when it went over the cliff!" he exclaimed.
"Then who was driving?" Callie wanted to know.
"McCoy," Frank answered.
"But you just said he wasn't in the car when it crashed," she countered.
"He wasn't," Joe agreed. "He was driving by remote control!" ·
"He faked his own death!" Frank laughed. "He's had us all running in circles!"
"Great theory, guys," Callie said, turning off the television and settling back down in her chair. "But what's his motive?"
"I heard he had some big debts," Scott offered. "Race cars are an expensive habit. McCoy's career was just beginning a downhill slide. He was losing sponsors. Maybe he did it for the insurance."
"I don't think so," Frank murmured. Something had just occurred to him, a conversation he'd had with someone. " "This is the kind of ending publishers dream about,' " he mumbled. " 'The Fast Life and Tragic Death of Angus McCoy'."
He looked up and saw the others were staring at him. "Run that by me again," Joe said, furrowing his brow.
"It was something that writer, T. B. Martin, said," Frank explained. "Remember, Joe?"
Joe nodded. "That's right. He said McCoy's death would make a great ending for the book they were writing together. So maybe McCoy Med his own death to — "
"Turn an unsellable biography into the best-selling story of a racing legend's tra
gic and untimely death?" Frank finished the thought.
"But how would he collect his profits from the book sales?" Callie asked sleepily.
The sun's early rays were slanting in through the small windows set high in the basement walls, near the ceiling. Frank stifled a yawn. "Martin told me McCoy's royalties would go to a company called Clarco Industries. Maybe he can fill us in on the details."
"Does anybody know where to find him?" Scott asked.
Joe squinted through a shaft of light that had fallen across his face as the sun steadily rose in the sky outside. "Right now, he's probably having breakfast," he said. "But I know where he'll be in a couple of hours."
"Where's that?" Frank wanted to know.
"At the starting line of the Bayport Grand Prix," Joe said. "It's race day."
Chapter 15
"It's a beautiful day for a race," Scott said softly as they walked out into the morning sun.
Joe looked at the sad expression on his friend's face. "I'm sorry about your car, Scott. If only we could have—"
"It wasn't your fault," Scott said, cutting him off. "In fact, you may have saved my life. Who knows what would have happened if I was out on the back stretch of the course doing a hundred eighty or a hundred ninety when that engine fire started."
Frank held open the van door while Scott and Callie climbed in. "Maybe it is our fault," Frank said.
"What do you mean?" Scott asked.
"The sabotage to your car was an afterthought. McCoy wanted us to think that somebody was trying to win the race by taking out all the front-runners. But if we hadn't pushed the investigation in the first place, he wouldn't have had to go to all the trouble."
"That's right," Joe agreed, settling in behind the wheel. "The police were more than ready to believe McCoy's crash was an accident. McCoy was afraid that sooner or later we'd stop asking the wrong questions and start asking the right ones."
Joe started the engine, checked the side mirrors, and put the van in gear. "Do you want me to drop you off someplace, Scott?" he asked.
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