A Killing in the Market

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Clifton had called them the night before to tell them Simone was being buried that day. The boys hadn't the heart to tell their aunt—she had wanted to go to the funeral but was still being detained.

  "Last stop, New York!" the conductor's voice rang out. "Remember to take all personal belongings!"

  "Let's go!" Frank said, stepping into the crowd of people jamming the aisle to get out.

  As Joe followed his brother out of the train, he self-consciously pulled down the legs of his dark suit, which were riding up his calves. "I can't figure out what happened to this thing. It fit me last spring."

  "Growing pains," Frank replied.

  When they got onto the platform, Frank led Joe through a warren of tunnels to the subway, which whisked them downtown.

  They emerged four stops later in Greenwich Village, which always reminded Frank of a citified Bayport. Once they got away from the busy avenues, they walked down a quiet residential street of tightly packed brownstone buildings. The late-morning sunlight shining through the leaves of the small trees lining the block dappled the sidewalk. About halfway down the block, people were filing into a building with a small sign that said Moretti Brothers Funeral Home.

  As they crossed the street to the funeral parlor, Frank and Joe noticed two men stop in front of the building. One was thin, dark, and balding, with a neatly tailored blue suit. He looked uncomfortable speaking to the other man, a broad-shouldered guy who strained the seams of an expensively tailored gray suit and chomped on a cigar as he listened.

  A raised voice carried. "It's merely an accounting procedure, Norm," the balding man said. "I do it to adjust cash-flow figures, for tax purposes."

  The other man pulled the cigar out of his mouth and waved it as he spoke. "I wasn't born yesterday, Spears. My assistants are going nuts over this!"

  "Unbelievable," Joe said quietly because they were now ten feet from the men. "Talking about business, even at a funeral."

  " 'Spears,' " Frank whispered. "That's the name that Clifton mentioned."

  At that moment Clifton came out of the funeral parlor, a quizzical look on his face. "Ah, Frank and Joe!" he called out. "Good to see you." He stepped down the stairs, shook their hands, and glanced at the other two men. "Have you all met? Frank—and I assume this is Joe Hardy." Joe nodded. "This is Justin Spears, Mr. Simone's accountant, and Norman Fleckman, one of his close business associates. Frank and Joe are helping me on this case."

  Frank was surprised that Clifton would be so open about it, but Clifton gave him a reassuring look. "These two men have agreed to provide information on Simone and his activities."

  "How do you do?" Spears said, extending his hand.

  Fleckman grunted and made his way up the stairs to the funeral parlor.

  "We just got news that the priest has been delayed in traffic," Clifton said. "There's the big ticker-tape parade downtown for the World Series champs."

  Spears looked at his watch and grimaced. "You know, it's a busy day for me. I'm afraid I'll have to be going after I offer my condolences to Mrs. Simone. By the way, I have something to show you, Eric."

  "Well, I've really got to stick around. My first obligation is to Mrs. Simone. She's very upset. Frank and Joe, why don't you go with Mr. Spears to see what he has?"

  "Of course," Frank said, looking curiously at Clifton.

  As the accountant went in, Clifton held the Hardys back. "I thought you'd like to follow up on him, because if he's guilty, your aunt goes free," he explained. "Also, if he is hiding anything, he may let his guard down with a couple of kids."

  Minutes later the three emerged from the funeral home. Spears led the way to the nearest avenue and hailed a cab to take them all downtown. Soon the low, stately brownstones gave way to Wall Street's huge glass and steel skyscrapers.

  "This whole thing is baffling to me," Spears admitted as they sped down the street. He smiled modestly and adjusted his glasses. "My business is usually so—undramatic, you see. I just push numbers around. But now I've discovered some very suspicious things in my records."

  The cab stopped in front of a thirty-story building with a set of brass-trimmed revolving doors. After Spears paid the cab driver, they all walked into a gleaming marble-walled lobby. Within seconds an elevator brought them to Spears's fifteenth-floor office. There was no secretary in the reception area.

  "I hope my assistant hasn't gone out to lunch yet," Spears said. He turned the large brass knob and pushed against the polished mahogany door, which swung open. "Ah, good. He must be here. Enter, my friends."

  But as Frank and Joe stepped into the room, they froze. Spears was right about his assistant being there—but he wasn't going to be of much use. He was sprawled unconscious on the floor on a bed of papers!

  Spears's eyes widened as he took in the wreckage — drawers had been pulled out of filing cabinets, shelves were ripped out of the walls, his desk was overturned. This hadn't been a search. Someone had simply trashed the office.

  Spears gasped when he looked up and saw the wall above his desk. In thick, bold letters, the word beware had been scrawled in blood!

  Chapter 8

  JOE KNELT BESIDE the assistant, who was curled up next to a filing cabinet, his blond hair across his face. There didn't seem to be any cuts or bruises. Joe felt the young man's wrist. "He's got a pulse," he said, then gently shook the man.

  "Wha - what's going on?" The assistant's eyes flickered open, and he jerked himself away from Joe. "Get your hands off me! I swear I'll call the police!"

  "Easy, easy," Joe replied softly. "We're here to help. Mr. Spears is with us."

  "Justin?" the man answered, still dazed. A look of relief washed over his face as he saw his boss.

  "Are you okay, Bart?" Spears asked, and the man nodded. "What happened here?"

  Bart's look of relief disappeared as he sat up and looked around the office. He put his hand to his forehead, obviously in pain, remembering what had happened.

  "I — I don't know," he said. "There was a knock on the outer door, and it was two guys who said they were here to do the annual service on the copier. I let them in, and all of a sudden one of them came after me. So I backed away ... " He looked at the filing cabinet behind him and rubbed the back of his head. "I must have fallen against that."

  As Joe helped Bart into a chair, Spears moved up close to inspect the wall that had been splattered with the word beware. "Some kind of red paint," he said, looking at the foot-high letters. "Someone is trying to scare me."

  "Any idea who?" Frank asked.

  Spears sank into the seat by his desk. "Well, no! I'm an accountant, not a — a boss of the underworld."

  "You don't have any enemies? Anyone you've had a fight with?" Frank pressed.

  "Wait a second!" Joe interjected. "What about that guy who was arguing with you outside the funeral home? What was his name again — Fleckman?"

  Spears thought for a minute. "Norman Fleckman ... " he said, nodding his head. "He's a client of mine. I do his financial records. Actually, we haven't been on good terms lately."

  "Bad enough for him to do this to you?"

  Spears sighed. "Well, I'm really not supposed to reveal client information — "

  "This could be a clue in a murder case, Mr. Spears," Joe prodded. "We're up against a wall, and an innocent person has become the prime suspect."

  Frowning, Spears considered Joe's words. Finally he answered. "Well, I suppose under the circumstances ... " He shrugged once. "I may as well admit to you that I think Fleckman's business dealings are not always—shall we say, the most honest. He used to work with Simone at Thompson Welles, but then he branched off to form his own investment firm when some of the partners began complaining about his tactics." Spears gave a smile. "Simone could be very persuasive in his own quiet way, but Fleckman is much more—aggressive. In fact, so aggressive that he began stealing away some of Simone's clients.

  "I can't prove it, but I think Fleckman got involved in a little bit of swindling.
It seems, from what I've pieced together, that he'd carefully select his victims from among his elderly clients, people who didn't know the market, who depended on him to explain everything to them. He'd tell them their stocks had tumbled — that their money was as good as gone. Get their signature on a paper. But in reality the stocks had actually doubled or tripled. That's how I think it worked, but I can't prove it—yet."

  "I can see what Simone had against Fleckman, but what did Fleckman have against him?" Frank asked.

  "The more clients Simone lost, the angrier he got. So he started to put together bits of information about Fleckman and his shady dealings. I think he threatened to blow the whistle on him."

  "Something bothers me about this," Frank said. "Simone's record had to have been pretty spotless if he was willing to expose Fleckman."

  "That's right," Spears said. "Henry Simone was completely honest."

  "Then why the alias?" Joe asked. "And what did he do with our aunt Gertrude's money?"

  Spears looked blank. "I don't know. He might have taken an alias to escape Fleckman. Maybe he was beginning to play rough. As for the money ... "

  "Maybe we should examine Simone's records," Frank suggested. "I'd like to see just how honest he was."

  Behind them, Bart had been fiddling with the computer terminal, trying to see if it was still working.

  "Bart, call up Simone's file, will you please?" Spears asked.

  Bart's fingers danced over the keyboard. Instantly the screen showed columns and columns of numbers with the name SIMONE, HENRY above them.

  The four of them sat around the screen as Spears explained the numbers. Every cent was accounted for.

  Spears pressed a few keys and a new set of figures appeared on the screen, with the heading PERSONAL INCOME AND INVESTMENTS. "Unfortunately," Spears explained, "Mr. Simone made a few bad investments for himself and died with very little money of his own."

  Frank and Joe examined the screen. Sure enough, many of Simone's investments showed losses, and his net worth was very little.

  Frank noticed there was no reference to his aunt Gertrude's money going into Simone's account. Where was it? And how could he tell her that her life savings had disappeared?

  "So his ex-wife wouldn't have done him in for his money?" Joe said.

  Spears laughed. "If so, she'd be in for a big surprise."

  So much for Clifton's suspicion about Spears as the next beneficiary, Frank thought. "If you don't mind, Mr. Spears, I'd like a copy of Simone's and Fleckman's records. I'll be discreet and give them back soon. I have a feeling this case is going in a new direction."

  "It's highly irregular, but if you promise to keep them confidential," Spears answered. "Bart, will you please print out a copy?"

  As Frank and Joe left the office with the evidence, they heard the solid click of the office door's deadbolt.

  "Okay, next stop, Elite Eye," Frank said. "I'd like to point out a new suspect to Eric Clifton."

  Joe laughed and glanced through the records as they walked toward the elevator. "Look at this!" he said. "Half of Simone's client accounts were closed out this past week!"

  As Frank reached for the papers, he heard a distant ding.

  "Come on!" he said. Running around the corner toward the elevator, he shouted, "Hold the door, please!"

  At the end of the long cream-colored hallway, two men in suits were leaning against a wall across from the elevator doors. As the doors started to shut, one of them reached out to hold them open.

  Frank and Joe ran into the elevator. "Hey, just in the nick of time," Frank said. "Glad you guys were standing there."

  Frank had assumed the two men would stay on the floor, since they hadn't gotten into the elevator when the doors had first opened. But instead, they walked into the elevator. "We're going down too," one of them said in a cold voice.

  The man pressed M for the main floor and stood against the back of the elevator. His husky friend eyed Frank and Joe silently, one hand in his pocket. The elevator motor hummed as they descended.

  Frank wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the men share an almost imperceptible glance.

  The lights above the elevator door flicked on and off at each floor: 9, 8, 7 ... Suddenly on six Frank reached out and pressed the number 5 on the panel. "Oops," he said. "Almost forgot to press our floor!"

  "What are you — " Joe began, but Frank shot him a silencing glance.

  The door whooshed open on the fifth floor, and Frank stepped out, pulling Joe with him. As Frank set a fast pace down the hallway, they heard the sound of the elevator closing behind them.

  "What was that all about?" Joe demanded.

  "Shhh!" Frank whispered. "Just look for the stairs!"

  Joe wasn't sure what Frank was getting at, but he knew better than to doubt his brother's judgment when it came to quick thinking. He turned around, looking for an exit sign, and immediately saw that they weren't the only ones in the hallway.

  Behind them, racing forward, were the two men from the elevator.

  A few steps ahead of Joe, Frank rounded a corner. "Here it is!" he shouted.

  The brothers shot through the door marked Exit A and scuttled down the cement stairs. The chunk-chunk-chunk of their footsteps was answered by heavier footsteps above them. Taking two steps at a time, Frank and Joe raced past the fourth-, third-, and second-floor landings. From the second floor to the ground level was a stairway, flanked by a smooth metal banister, twice as long as the others. Below them was the door to the lobby.

  "There's only one way to do this," said Joe, hiking himself up onto the banister.

  "Go for it!" Frank replied. "I'll hop on after you!"

  With a loud whoop the Hardy brothers slid down to the first floor. When they got to the bottom, Joe hopped off and rammed his shoulder against the metal exit door.

  Whomp! The sound of the impact echoed through the stairwell.

  Joe grunted in pain and staggered back. He tried to push again, but the door wouldn't budge. "What's going on here?"

  He stood back from the door to examine it. "Uh - oh," Frank muttered.

  In the dim light they could read a large metal sign that was screwed into the door. Its red letters said No Re-entry on This Floor. Go to 2.

  A new sound—that of clomping feet—grew loud behind them. They were trapped.

  Chapter 9

  FRANK AND JOE swung around and looked up. The bare light bulb on the second-floor landing created two broad silhouettes as the two men ran down the stairs.

  Joe tensed his body and looked at his brother. "Ready?" he asked.

  "Yeah, let's go for it!"

  Together, Frank and Joe leapt up at the men's legs.

  "Hey, wait!" one of them cried out. He tried to climb back up the stairs, but it was too late. Joe's arms locked around his knees, and the two of them tumbled to the ground-floor landing.

  "Stop!" the man said as Joe pinned him to the ground in a wrestling hold.

  With a muted whomp, Frank and the other man landed on the floor next to them. "What are you guys doing?" Frank's adversary protested. "We didn't do anything to you!"

  Joe's fist was poised in the air. "That's right," the man beneath him said. "And don't think we couldn't mess you up if we wanted to!"

  "Who are you?" Joe demanded.

  "We work for Norman Fleckman," the man said. "He told us to find you and bring you to his office. Peacefully."

  Joe was baffled. "How did he know we were here?"

  "And why didn't you tell us about yourselves before?" Frank added.

  "He overheard you saying you'd go to Spears's office," came the answer. "So we came up and staked out the elevator."

  Frank and Joe got up and brushed themselves off. "What do you think, Frank?" Joe asked.

  "I think we should meet this Fleckman character," Frank answered, picking up the envelope of financial records. He turned back to the two men. "All right, guys, take us to your leader."

  Joe exhaled loudly, pacing back and f
orth on the cool gray carpet of the reception area. He and Frank had just discovered a suspect to get the police investigation moving in a new direction— and get their aunt Gertrude out of jail. But they were stuck in a high-rise tomb, waiting.

  From behind a long desk a young man looked up and said, "Mr. Fleckman should be out any minute now. It's been a long morning."

  Joe just grunted and continued pacing.

  Suddenly a gruff voice sounded over the intercom on the desk. "Albert, I want the Sullivan file right away. Send a memo to Skinner: sell! Get Norita on the phone in Tokyo, tell him the real-estate deal is off, and get me a turkey club and black coffee. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir," the secretary said, rolling his eyes.

  "Late lunch?" Joe asked.

  The secretary shrugged. "One-thirty isn't so late."

  The intercom cracked again. "Oh, and send those kids in here, will you?"

  "There you have it," the young man said dryly. "His highness has spoken. First door on your left."

  Frank and Joe walked into Fleckman's office. Stacks and stacks of papers lay all over the shelves, the floor, the chairs. A phone in one hand and a cigar in the other, Norman Fleckman sat at a desk by the window.

  This place looks almost as bad as Spears's did, Joe thought. And nobody's even ransacked it.

  "What do you mean, pork bellies have bottomed out?" Fleckman shouted into the phone. "You're just trying to dump your bad holdings on me. Nah! Nah, get outta here, Seymour. I don't want to talk to you!"

  With a loud crash he slammed the phone down. "Love that guy, he's a barrel of laughs," he muttered. Then he pressed a button and said, "Albert, no calls."

  Swiveling in his chair, he looked up at Frank and Joe and held out a large brass box. "Cigars?" he offered with a wide, toothy grin.

  "Uh, no thanks," Joe answered.

  "Good boy," Fleckman said, retracting the box. "They'll kill you. Have a seat." He pointed to two overstuffed chairs across from his desk. "Don't mind the mess."

  Frank and Joe each sat on the edge of a chair, the only spots in the room that weren't completely covered with papers.