A Killing in the Market

by Franklin W. Dixon

"We ran into two of your men — " Joe began.

  Fleckman waved his hand dismissively. "Hope those goons weren't any trouble to you. Anyway, I wanted you boys here because I want to make you a deal. Anyone helping Eric Clifton in this case is a friend of mine. By the way, sad about Simone, isn't it? Fine man."

  "Some people thought so," said Joe.

  Fleckman raised an eyebrow and gave Joe a piercing glance. "Yes," he said, letting a cautious silence sit in the air for a few seconds. Then he leaned forward, uncovered an ashtray, and stubbed out his cigar. "Let me ask you guys a question. I saw you leaving with Spears. Now, what exactly did he tell you?"

  "Is that why you sent your stooges to abduct us?" Joe snapped. "To grill us about something that isn't your business?"

  "I see we're not going to have fun with this." Fleckman sighed. He leaned over his desk, his eyes shifting from Frank to Joe and back. "Okay, I know Spears must have talked, and I'm sure he gave you the old this-is-between-me-and-you line and I - don't - have - any - proof - but ... Told you I was a swindler, right? I took Simone's clients, blah, blah, blah — "

  "Maybe. Maybe not," Joe replied. "Why? Do you have a different story?"

  "Let me tell you something, kid." Fleckman leaned across his desk. "You don't get to where I am by playing it totally clean. But I'm a nice guy compared to Henry Simone. If you want to know about swindling, good old Henry wrote the book. It's common knowledge in the industry that he came up with the most creative scams. In fact, most of my clients came to me because they felt they'd lost their shirts with Simone."

  "You have any proof to back that up?" Frank asked.

  "I'll bet Spears showed you records on a computer screen, right? That's because he can change the figures easily. If he wants to show that Simone was clean," — he tapped his fingers on the desk as if he were typing — "click, click, click, he presses a few buttons and the records of scams disappear out of Simone's account." His eyes flared with anger. "And into mine! The guy's setting me up to look like a crook while he keeps all the illegal money!"

  "I see," Frank said. "And I suppose you can tell us why Spears would do this to you?"

  "I began suspecting that something was up, and my computer consultant was able to confirm that Spears was tapping into his accounting records." He rose from his chair and began pacing. "But I still can't figure why. Has he been paid off to protect Simone's reputation? Does he have a grudge against me? I just don't know."

  "Seems to me you could just fire him," Frank said.

  Fleckman sat at the edge of his desk. "Very smart — you're good. I'll fire him all right, but first I've got to clean my record, or I'll end up having to explain all this phantom money."

  "And you expect us to help," Frank said matter-of-factly.

  "I need someone who knows Spears, someone who can keep an eye on him, someone he has no reason to distrust. And you can be sure there'll be ample reward for this. Now, I know a couple of snappy young fellows like you can use a hot new car, some jazzy clothes — " He reached into his desk drawer and took out a leather-bound checkbook. "Just name your price—or should I say, consultants' fee!"

  Frank stood up. "Sorry, Mr. Fleckman. We want to search out the truth as much as you do, but we're not working for anyone. We want only to clear our aunt."

  As the brothers walked toward the door, Fleckman followed them. "You're honorable guys," he said, opening the door for them. "I like that. I respect it. Just remember, my offer will be there if you change your minds."

  "We won't," Frank said. With that, he and Joe walked through the reception area and into the hallway.

  Behind them, they could hear Fleckman shouting, "I said a turkey club, Albert! Not a hero!"

  As they walked along, Joe said under his breath, "I guess he's used to people doing whatever he wants."

  "From getting his lunch to trashing someone's office," Frank added. "I don't know if I trust him." They reached the elevator bank and pressed the Down button.

  "I don't know if I trust him or Spears. Both stories have lots of holes. How could Simone have been broke and able to live in semiretire-ment in Bayport? And if Fleckman's records were really sabotaged, why didn't he just hire someone to audit his records and show what Spears was doing to him?"

  "Down!" a voice called out as an elevator door lurched open.

  "Ground floor, please," Frank told the uniformed operator, who shut the door.

  Bzzzzzt. On the elevator-control panel the light for the third floor flicked on. Joe glanced at it and noticed that the operator passed right by the floor.

  "Aren't you supposed to stop?" Joe asked.

  The man played with the controls, but nothing happened. "Must be broken—" he mumbled.

  Joe looked at Frank. Suddenly he felt very uneasy. They counted off the floors on the indicator light. It flashed to 2, then M.

  And then B, for basement. And then SB, for subbasement. . .

  "Hey, where are you taking us?" Joe demanded.

  Now the man was fiddling energetically with the controls. "Dumb thing won't stop!"

  "I don't believe this," Joe whispered to his brother. "Kidnapped by an elevator!"

  The elevator kept dropping, finally stopping on SB3, three levels below the ground. As the door slid open, Frank and Joe stepped out to look around. They were in a long, dark concrete-block hallway. Behind them they heard the final click as the elevator door slid closed.

  "Sorry, fellas, this elevator is out of service," the operator said. The boys could hear the chuckle in his voice.

  "Thanks a lot," said Frank. "It was a pleasure flying with you."

  With that, Frank and Joe stalked down the hall in search of a flight of stairs.

  Instead, they saw the two men who'd brought them to Fleckman, flanked by two huge men in custodial uniforms.

  Thinking fast, Joe said to the men, "There you are! The elevator is stuck down here, guys. Do you think you can fix—"

  The men began to approach them silently. The brothers backed away.

  "Okay, uh, why don't we run back and wait for you?" Frank and Joe spun around and bolted down the hallway.

  The four men filled the corridor in back of them. In front of them the hallway ended at a door that appeared to be locked.

  "You've got no choice, boys," the goon with the cold voice said. "And unfortunately, neither do we. Come on."

  The men surrounded Frank and Joe, unlocked the door, and led them through dimly lit corridors that wound through the subbasement. Before long they heard a loud grinding noise.

  The Hardys looked at each other. "What's that?" Joe asked.

  "You'll see soon enough," the leader of the men said. "The boss said to dispose of you. So — "

  They'd reached the end of the hallway. Now Frank and Joe could make out the words on the door.

  The sign said Trash Compactor.

  Chapter 10

  A SICKENING METALLIC shriek pierced the air as the man pushed the door open. Frank and Joe looked inside the cramped, dingy room. The walls, which had once been painted white, were now encrusted with cobwebs and dirt. Sour-smelling bags of trash were piled several feet high on the floor.

  And in the middle of the room, an ironclad black machine stretched from the floor to the ceiling, vibrating wildly and letting out an ear-splitting noise.

  "There's your compactor," one of the men answered, hiking up his dark green uniform pants around his overhanging belly. "It's in the middle of a load."

  "What fool turned it on?" the leader barked.

  "I did," the potbellied man said. "You know, Fleckman called only five minutes ago, and I wanted to get a load of trash in before — "

  THWOOMP! CRRRUNCH! As the noise echoed through the room, Joe felt sick to his stomach.

  "You know we can't stop that thing, or put anything in it, once it starts? Where were you when they handed out brains?"

  "W - well, it's coming to the end of the cycle," the custodian said defensively.

  Slowly the noise began t
o subside.

  "I guess we're stopping here to check out the trash on the way upstairs, huh, guys?" Joe asked.

  "We're going upstairs all right," the other maintenance man said with a toothless grin. "But you'll be coming out a lot shorter."

  At that moment the great machine stopped. The leader opened a door in the front of it, releasing an even fouler odor into the room. He pulled out a grotesque three - foot - wide object — a dense, battered-looking combination of paper, folders, metal brackets, and food wrappers, all crushed into a neat little cube.

  Joe swallowed hard. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his brother staring poker-faced at the machine. Joe knew that look. It meant Frank was baffled and was feverishly trying to come up with a plan.

  "All right," the leader said, shifting his eyes from man to man. "Throw 'em in."

  Brawny arms grabbed Frank and Joe, jerking them toward the open door.

  "J - just a minute!" Frank shouted at the top of his lungs. "We've got something Fleckman ought to see!"

  "What are you talking about?" the cold-voiced goon demanded.

  "We got papers from Spears — the guy who's trying to foul Fleckman up." Frank was almost babbling as he spread out Spears's printouts on top of a panel connected to the trash compactor by a wire.

  Joe stared at his brother, wide-eyed. Had he gone berserk? Had he truly given up?

  But as he watched Frank spread the printouts with his right hand, he noticed Frank's left hand creeping over to a small switch on the panel.

  The leader, who had been trying to make sense of the accounting gobbledygook, turned back to Frank and said, "Just tell me what this proves and I'll — " His eyes popped wide open. "Hey, what are you doing?"

  Frank lunged and flicked the switch. With a loud chunk! the compactor's door slammed shut.

  A deep humming sound filled the room as the machine started up—with nothing to compact.

  "You rotten — " The leader, followed by the largest of Fleckman's goons, rushed Frank.

  Joe wasted no time. In the confusion he spun around and flicked off the light switch, plunging the room into total darkness. Loud crashes and shouts of pain resounded as Frank and the others tripped over the trash on the floor.

  And in the midst of it all, a high-pitched whistle pierced the air.

  Frank, letting me know where he is, Joe thought. He groped around and found the door and knob. Then, as loud as he could, he let out a whistle of his own.

  In the darkness he heard low stumbling noises.

  "Yeeouch!" came a low, unfamiliar voice.

  "Oof!" came another. A third yell was followed immediately by a fourth.

  "I'm coming, Joe!" Frank's voice called out. In seconds Frank stumbled against his brother, and they both pushed their way through the door.

  As they slammed it behind them, another frustrated yell sounded from inside.

  "I got all four of them," Frank said. "Let's get out of here before one of them gets up."

  Pushing at top speed, they followed the cinder-block hallway to a stairwell. Flinging the door open, they hauled themselves up three flights of dingy stairs until, panting, they stumbled into the building lobby and out the door.

  The honking of horns and the roar of traffic was a welcome sound to their ears as they ran out to the crowded street.

  "How do we get to Elite Eye?" Joe shouted to Frank, close on his heels.

  "I'm not sure! Let's find a phone and call!" Frank answered.

  At the end of the block was a bank of four outdoor pay phones. One of them was empty, and Joe grabbed it. He shoved a quarter into the slot and dialed Clifton's number.

  "I'm sorry, your call requires a twenty-five-cent deposit," a recorded voice droned.

  "But I did deposit—" Joe began to shout. Then he saw the person next to him hang up and walk away from her phone. He reached over and lifted the receiver—and felt a huge hand on his shoulder.

  "Hey, pal, I was on line here!" the guy connected to the hand complained.

  Joe turned all the way around to see a group of harried people waiting for the phones. All were glowering angrily at him — especially the man-mountain who had been first.

  "Never mind, Joe! Follow me!" Frank shouted. He had just spotted a Chinese restaurant and knew a phone would be inside. They rushed inside and Joe once again dialed Clifton.

  "Friendly place, this city—" he said under his breath. "Hello, Joe Hardy for Eric Clifton, please!"

  Immediately he heard, "Yes, Joe, where are you?"

  Joe craned his neck to see the street sign outside. "Rector and Greenwich, down in the financial district. Are we near you?"

  "No. What are you doing down there?"

  "We had a run-in with Fleckman. He knew we were talking to Spears, and — "

  "Fleckman! Who told you to — I should have warned you. Stay clear of that guy. He's ruthless — especially if he needs something from you."

  "Now you tell me," Joe muttered.

  "What's that?"

  "Never mind. Listen, we've got more suspects than we know what to do with. Fleckman tried to kill us, Spears may have lied to us. And you'd better know, we found Alexandra Simone's scarf at Simone's cottage — "

  "What? Alexandra — hmm, you know, I've been having suspicions about her. Listen. Meet me in half an hour at the train station at the gate for Bayport. I think it's time we confronted Mrs. Simone—and on the way there you can tell me about your other evidence. Get a move on and stay away from Fleckman."

  "Right!" Joe slammed down the phone and said, "Follow me, Frank!"

  Without wasting a moment they barged out of the restaurant. "Okay," Joe said, looking around. "Wall Street..." He noticed a crowd of people at a nearby bus stop and asked one of them, "Excuse me, where's the Wall Street subway?"

  He didn't answer Joe. An elderly tourist couple said, "We'll let you use our guidebook if you'll point us toward the World Trade Center."

  While Frank pointed the way, Joe flipped through the downtown street maps. "It's just up this street and a couple of blocks — "

  He looked around—to find himself staring up into the surprised eyes of one of Fleckman's goons. "Thanks!" He handed the tourists their guidebook, then he and Frank raced uphill along the street.

  When they got to the top, they turned a corner to find a crowd filling the street shoulder to shoulder. Hundreds of backs were moving as people craned their necks, trying to watch something the Hardys couldn't see.

  Frank and Joe started back down the hill, but stopped when they noticed all four of Fleckman's goons rushing them. There was only one way to go.

  "Excuse me — excuse me—" Frank and Joe said, pushing their way through the crowd.

  People called out as the Hardys pressed desperately onward: "Hey, knock it off!" "Don't push me, man!" "Where are you going, pal? This is a parade!"

  Sure enough, Joe glanced up to see a motorcade rolling down the street. In front of it was a large banner that said NYC WELCOMES ITS OWN WORLD SERIES CHAMPS! Ticker-tape and computer paper rained down from the skies.

  "I wonder how much of this will end up in a trash compactor," Frank mused, elbowing people right and left.

  In convertible limos baseball players sat waving triumphantly to the crowd. Between the cars walked more of the players, bat boys, front-office people, and others. Everyone was whooping it up. "I don't even recognize half those people!" said Joe. "Maybe we could fit in with them!"

  They burst through the crowd and vaulted over the police barricade that lined the street. "Now, look triumphant!" Joe said as they joined the parade. They marched with a group of celebrating ballplayers, waving and throwing kisses into the crowd.

  The four men had reached the barricade by now, and the potbellied goon ducked under first. He was met on the other side by a large, annoyed policeman, tapping a billy club into his palm.

  After a few blocks Frank and Joe scanned the onlookers and saw no sign of their attackers.

  "Let's get out of here!"
Joe said.

  The two brothers slipped away from the parade and back into the crowd, where they finally made their way toward the subway.

  "All aboard the Bridgefield train, leaving Track Eighteen in one minute!" the voice echoed through the train station.

  "Come on!" Joe called to his brother. "That's the one that stops in Bayport! We've got to get aboard!"

  Frank and Joe hurried to the top of the stairs. The station was especially jammed with people who had come to town for the parade. Below them, a throng of people was scrambling to get into the train before the doors closed. Joe caught a glimpse of Eric Clifton boarding one of the cars.

  "Clifton's in the second car up!" Joe called back to Frank. The two of them tried to make some headway in that direction.

  "Welcome to New York," Joe muttered. "It feels like all I've done today is fight crowds."

  "That may not be all we'll have to fight," Frank said in his ear. "Look who's over there."

  Joe glanced to his right and fell silent. Forcing their way down the stairs and onto the platform were two familiar faces — the goons Fleckman had sent. They were without the custodians this time though; they must have split up. In the crush of the crowd, the jacket one of the thugs wore flapped open—revealing a leather shoulder holster!

  The man pulled his jacket closed and stepped onto the train. In seconds another man squeezed out of the train.

  "That was Bart, Spears's assistant!" Frank said.

  "What's going on here?" Joe asked. He and Frank maneuvered their way halfway down the stairs to get closer to the train. They could just see Clifton sitting right beside the window. They also saw the two goons take seats—right behind him!

  "Clifton!" Joe shouted as he tried to shove his way down to the train.

  The doors closed tight just as Frank and Joe hit the platform.

  "Fleckman knows who Clifton is and what he's investigating," said Frank. "He's probably got those guys after him too!"

  "Clifton!" Frank and Joe shouted, running beside the train as it slowly started up. They pointed wildly to the seat behind him.

  But as the train picked up speed and pulled away, Clifton just stared back at them, looking bewildered. Only Frank and Joe knew that behind him sat two armed killers.