“Like Matt Freeman,” Frank said. “He seemed pretty happy that Clarence wasn’t around. I wonder why.”
“It’s obvious,” Joe said. “With Clarence gone, Matt will probably be the new host of ‘The Four O’Clock Scholar.’ I don’t know much about the TV business, but I bet Matt would get a lot more money if he hosted two shows.”
“True,” Frank said. “And it was awfully suspicious that Matt just happened to be in the studio next door when Clarence turned up missing. It could be just a coincidence, though.”
“And what about that Whalen guy?” Joe asked. “He sounded like he was anxious to get Clarence and his show off the air.”
“But he doesn’t have to kidnap him to do it,” Frank replied. “He could just fire him and cancel the show.”
“That makes sense,” Joe said. “But I don’t think we should write him off as a suspect. He could have other reasons for kidnapping Clarence. I think we’d better talk to a few more people around the station tomorrow.”
“Good idea,” Frank said. “In the meantime, let’s go see if some of the gang is still over at Mr. Pizza.”
“Now you’re talking,” Joe said.
Five minutes later, the Hardys walked in the front door of their favorite pizza parlor to find that most of the Bayport High School students who had been at the show had already left for the evening. But Chet Morton was still hunched over a last slice of pizza, and Callie and Iola were sipping soft drinks.
“Hey, Frank,” Callie said. “We thought you guys would never get here. Don’t tell me you’ve gotten caught up in another investigation.”
“How did you guess,” Frank said with a grin as he slid into the chair next to his girlfriend. “I see Chet’s into his second course already.”
“Nah,” Chet said. “I finished the second course a long time ago. This is dessert.”
“So what’s it about?” Iola wanted to know.
“What’s what about?” Joe asked innocently.
“The case,” Iola said impatiently. “What are you investigating? Is Clarence in any danger? Where is he?”
“Why should we tell you?” Joe teased. “You didn’t save us any pizza.”
“Anyway, it’s top secret,” Frank said. “We can’t say anything about it yet.”
“Come on, Frank,” Callie said. “I bet you know all sorts of juicy secrets about why Clarence wasn’t there tonight, exactly the kind of things I’d love to tell all my friends about.”
“And that’s why we can’t tell you,” Joe said. “Because you’d tell all your friends.”
“Okay, okay,” Iola said with a laugh. “But you’d better tell us all about it when it’s over. Or I’ll never talk to you again.”
Chet looked up from his pizza. “Gee, Iola,” he said. “If you keep making promises like that, they may never tell you about the case.”
• • •
The next morning, as the Hardys strode up to the front door of the WBPT studios, Joe saw Ted Whalen in the lobby of the station. The station manager was snapping orders at a nervous-looking receptionist, who was standing behind her desk.
“Uh-oh,” Joe whispered. “I thought Marcy said this guy didn’t pay attention to what’s going on around the station.”
“It looks like he’s making an exception this morning,” Frank said.
Whalen turned and saw the Hardys walk into the lobby. “You two!” he snapped. “I thought I told you to get out and stay out.”
“Look, Mr. Whalen—” Joe began.
“I mean it!” Whalen boomed. “Victoria, show them to the door.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” said the young, blond receptionist, taking Joe by one arm and Frank by the other. She opened the door and gestured them through. As they walked past her, she whispered, “Marcy Simons wants to talk to you. Go in the back door where Terrible Ted here can’t see you.”
“What’s gotten into him?” Joe whispered. “He wasn’t like this when we met him yesterday.”
“Do the names Steve and Debbie ring a bell?” Victoria replied.
Frank shook his head and sighed as Victoria closed the door behind them. “I knew it was a mistake to let that pair help search for Clarence.”
“I wonder what they’ve done now,” Joe said.
“I don’t even want to think about it,” Frank said. “Come on. Let’s find the back door.”
Frank and Joe walked through the parking lot that bordered one side of the building and into a door recessed into a shallow alcove toward the rear. A guard standing just inside the door nodded as the Hardys walked past. Marcy Simons’s office was about fifty feet down the hall.
Marcy, seated behind her desk, looked up at the Hardys as they entered. “I’m glad to see you got in. I guess Ted didn’t catch you.”
“He did,” Frank told her, “but we took an alternate route to your office.”
“Victoria said that Steve and Debbie were responsible for his bad mood,” Joe said. “What happened?”
“Those two loudmouth friends of yours cornered him in his office first thing this morning,” Marcy explained. “They wanted to know where he was at the time of the crime. Needless to say, he had no interest in talking to them. When they wouldn’t leave his office, he had a couple of guards throw them out.”
“But what’s that got to do with us?” Joe asked.
“He thinks Steve and Debbie are working with you,” Marcy said. “He stormed into my office and announced that neither you nor your friends are to be allowed anywhere near the station.”
“Do you want us to leave?” Frank asked.
“Of course not,” Marcy said. “Just steer clear of Ted and make sure that those two overbearing brats keep as low a profile as possible.”
“We’ll do our best,” Frank said.
Marcy leaned back in her chair. “I suppose you want to know what’s new on the Clarence Kellerman front.”
The Hardys nodded.
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing much to report,” Marcy said. “We’ve looked around the building, but there’s no sign of him. If he’s here, he’s very well hidden. The guards are still posted at the doors.”
“What about Clarence’s family?” Joe asked. “Have you talked to them about him?”
“I’m afraid Clarence doesn’t have much in the way of immediate family,” Marcy said. “He was divorced nearly ten years ago. I talked to his ex-wife on the phone last night, and she hasn’t heard from him in ages.”
“What about children?” Frank asked. “Or parents?”
“None of the above,” Marcy said. “He doesn’t have any kids, and his parents died years ago. Believe me, we’ve already checked into that. He lives alone in a house not far from the station. The police went there yesterday and looked around, but they haven’t turned up any clues.”
Frank looked at Joe. “We don’t have a whole lot of leads here, do we? Maybe we’d better talk to some more people around the station.”
Joe nodded and said, “Thanks for filling us in, Marcy. We’ll be around the station if you need us.”
“Good luck,” Marcy said. “Just don’t let Ted Whalen catch you snooping around.”
When they left Marcy’s office, Frank looked at the rows of doorways that lined the hallway. “Well, let’s get back on the trail. Who should we talk to first?”
“Good question,” Joe said. “I—Hey, do you hear something in Studio A?”
Frank cocked an ear toward the studio door. “Yeah. Sounds like a show going on. Want to take a look?”
“Sure,” Joe said. “Something exciting always happens to us when we go into Studio A.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Frank said.
Joe pushed open the studio door, and the Hardys stepped inside. As they had guessed, there was a television show in progress. The first thing Frank and Joe saw was a pair of camera operators training their cameras on a plump man with a mustache who wore a pinstripe suit. The man was holding up a gold chain and del
ivering a line of rapid-fire patter to a microphone dangling from overhead. Frank noticed a sign to one side of the set that read WBPT Home-Shopping Extravaganza.
“This beautiful gold chain,” the plump man said, “can be yours for the incredibly low, ridiculously low, unbelievably low price of just nineteen dollars and ninety-five cents, marked down from two hundred dollars because we believe in bringing you the greatest, the most fantastic, the most mind-boggling bargains we possibly can. We buy wholesale to keep the prices down, which means incredible savings for you. To purchase this beautiful twenty-four-karat gold-finish chain, just call the WBPT Home-Shopping Extravaganza hot line and have your credit card number ready. Our operators are standing by.”
“Here’s your chance,” Frank said to his brother. “I know you’ve always wanted one of those.”
“Sorry,” Joe said. “I didn’t bring my credit card with me. In fact, I don’t even have a credit card.”
“I’m sure he’ll take cash,” Frank said.
One of the camera operators, an older man with thinning hair and close-set eyes, turned and eyed Frank and Joe suspiciously. “You kids will have to leave,” he said. “We’re shooting a live TV show here.”
“We’d just like to ask the host some questions when the show is over,” Frank said. “It won’t take long.”
The cameraman studied the Hardys for a moment. “Say, aren’t you the kids who caught the Masked Marauder? I remember you guys. Well, I guess it’ll be okay if you stick around.”
“Thanks,” Joe said. “Who’s the guy holding the chain?”
“That’s Fred Dunlap,” the cameraman replied. “He and his brother Al produce and write the home-shopping show by themselves. Whoops, it’s time for me to do a close-up on the chain. Talk to you later.”
When the show ended, Fred Dunlap mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and stepped down off the set. Joe looked toward the stage, where another heavy-set man was stepping out from behind a flat. He looked like a younger version of Fred Dunlap, except that his mustache was reddish in color while Fred’s was brown.
“Al Dunlap?” Joe whispered to Frank, who nodded.
“Excuse me, Mr. Dunlap,” Joe said, stepping into the brightly lit area around the stage. “Do you mind if we talk to you about Clarence Keller-man?”
“Which Mr. Dunlap do you want to talk to?” Al asked. “Me or Fred?”
Fred Dunlap laughed. “We’re always happy to talk about”—he twisted his face into an expression almost identical to Clarence’s familiar goofy smile—“your old buddy Clarence.”
“Hey,” Joe said. “That’s a pretty good impression of Clarence. You sound just like him.”
“I’ve worked around him for a long time,” Fred said, chuckling. “Maybe too long.”
“Actually, we’d like to talk to both of you,” Frank said. “We were wondering when you last saw Mr. Kellerman.”
Al Dunlap wrinkled his forehead as he thought about Frank’s question. Frank decided that Al was the more serious of the two brothers. He hadn’t even cracked a smile at Fred’s imitation of Clarence. But Fred had a carefree and likable air about him.
“He was in the studio yesterday,” Al said finally, “while we were doing our Sunday edition.”
“Yesterday?” Joe asked, becoming excited. “You actually saw Clarence yesterday?”
“Sure,” Fred said, nodding. “I remember seeing him around here for a while, then he said he was going off to the basement to look for props for his show. You know, for one of those crazy stunts he likes to pull.”
“Do you remember what time that was?” Frank asked.
“Early afternoon,” Al said. “Probably about one o’clock or so.”
“Where’s the basement?” Joe asked. “We’d like to take a look around.”
“Just down the hall,” Fred said, gesturing with his hand. “Behind the door marked Storage Area. It’s where they keep old props and stuff.”
“Thanks for your help,” Frank said.
“Anytime, guys,” Fred said heartily.
Frank and Joe left the studio and headed for the basement. “This is the hottest lead we’ve turned up yet,” Frank said. “If Fred and Al Dunlap saw Clarence at one o’clock yesterday afternoon, that means he was still here four hours after the receptionist saw him arrive at nine.”
“Right,” Joe said. “Which means that the Dunlaps may have seen him right before he disappeared. And Clarence told them he was going to the basement. Maybe there’ll be a clue down there.”
“Maybe Clarence himself is in the basement,” Frank added.
The door labeled Storage Area was unlocked. Frank pulled it open and started down the old stone steps inside. The air was musty and damp. The only light came through the door they had just opened.
Behind his brother, Joe said, “I hope there’s a light switch down here somewhere.”
“Me, too,” Frank said. “Maybe we should go back up and get a flashlight.”
Suddenly the door behind Joe slammed shut, and the staircase was plunged into total darkness.
Joe felt his way up the stairs. He grabbed the door and pulled. It wouldn’t move.
“Open the door,” Frank said urgently.
“Impossible,” Joe replied grimly. “I can’t get it open. We’re locked in!”
6 Where There’s Smoke
* * *
“What do you mean, we’re locked in?” Frank asked, groping his way past Joe on the stairs and giving the doorknob a tug.
“I mean just what it sounds like I mean,” Joe replied. “Read my lips.”
“I can’t read your lips,” Frank said. “It’s too dark.” The door rattled uselessly as he pulled on the knob. “Yeah, it’s locked all right.”
“Thanks for checking,” Joe muttered. “Nice to see you trust my judgment.”
“What I want to know is, did someone lock us in here on purpose?” Frank asked.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if someone did,” Joe replied. “But right now, I think our first priority should be to try to get out of here.”
The brothers began pounding on the door and shouting. When nobody had come to let them out after five minutes, Frank said, “Forget it, Joe. Either the door’s too thick or no one’s around. Nobody can hear us.”
“That’s just great,” Joe said. “We should be down there looking for Clarence, not groping around in the dark.”
“I think we’d better start looking for a light switch,” Frank said. “If we could see better, we might be able to figure out how to get out of here.”
One side of the staircase on which the Hardys were standing was bordered by a stone wall, the other by a railing. Frank ran his hands along the wall but found only solid stone. The stone felt damp and slightly dirty, like the wall of a cave.
“No luck,” Frank said. “I can’t find a switch.”
“I’ll look down here,” Joe said, making his way carefully down the stairs. At the bottom, he extended his arms in front of himself, feeling his way in the darkness.
“Be careful,” Frank said, following his brother down the stairs. “We don’t know what’s down here.”
“Al and Fred said that there are a lot of old props stored here,” Joe said. “If we can’t find a light switch, maybe we can find something else we can use.”
“Like the key to that door?” Frank asked. “I’ll settle for that,” Joe said.
Frank groped around tentatively. “Ouch,” he said. “I banged into some kind of wire cage.”
“A cage?” Joe asked. “Are they keeping animals down here?”
“I doubt it,” Frank said. “That would be pretty cruel.”
“Here’s some stuff,” Joe said. “Could be props for a TV show. There are some books and an old candleholder and— Hey, this feels like something useful.”
“What is it?” Frank asked. “A telephone to call out of here?”
“No,” Joe replied. “I think it’s an oil lamp. Smells like it has oil in it, too. And—
ah! Here’s a book of matches.”
“Now if you can just find a refrigerator and some food,” Frank said, “we don’t have to worry about getting out. We can just live down here for a few years.”
Joe struck one of the matches. The glow dimly illuminated his face and Frank’s. He lifted the glass cover of the lamp and held the flame to the wick. After about ten seconds, the wick caught the flame and began to glow brightly enough so that Frank and Joe could see some details of the room around them.
The first thing they saw was the cage that Frank had bumped into. The cage was made of wire mesh that was set in a tall metal frame, and it blocked off a portion of the basement. There was a door set in the frame with a large padlock on it. Joe held the lamp up to the cage, but the light wasn’t strong enough to allow them to see what was inside.
Frank and Joe looked around the rest of the basement. The room seemed huge, and most of it was hidden in shadow, too far away to be illuminated by the weak glow of the lamp. All across the visible part of the room, the Hardys could see piles of old boxes and a variety of objects stacked from floor to ceiling. They could make out a collection of chairs and sofas, paintings and table lamps, television monitors and bookcases. A huge blue plush elephant stared out from between two plastic palm trees. A pink plastic flamingo hung upside down in the middle of a child’s jungle gym.
“Wow,” Joe said. “Maybe you weren’t kidding when you said we could move in here. You name it, it looks like they’ve got it in this place.”
“Let’s just concentrate on getting out of here,” Frank said. “This isn’t my idea of a comfortable living space.”
The brothers began to move cautiously around the room. Suddenly, Joe stopped in his tracks.
“Did you just make a funny noise?” he asked his brother.
“No,” Frank said. “I thought you did.”
“It sounded like someone whimpering,” Joe said quietly. “Listen. There it is again.”
The brothers listened carefully. The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere among the vast piles of props.
The brothers stared at each other.
“Clarence!” they both cried at the same time.
The Prime-Time Crime Page 4
