The Curse of the Ancient Emerald

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “When do you think you’ll finish?” asked Joe.

  “Another week or so.”

  “So soon?” I asked, surprised.

  “Been working on it for a year already.”

  I nodded. “We’ll talk later then.”

  “What do you think?” I asked Joe once we were in the car.

  “I think we wait for him to leave and sneak in through the bathroom window I left unlocked. Then I think we take a look at his e-mails,” he said.

  I blinked, then smiled. “I think I like that plan.”

  We had to wait a couple of hours before Trethaway left his house. We slid down in our seats as he headed off along the street. Then we slipped around the back of his house. We climbed through the window Joe had left open and hurried through to the living room.

  I headed straight for the laptop and opened Trethaway’s e-mail program. I scrolled through his in-box, making sure not to read anything that didn’t seem related to Kruger. I had no desire to pry into the man’s personal life. I already felt uncomfortable doing this; I had to remind myself that Kruger had threatened our family and friends and was going to commit another robbery that very night.

  There were a number of e-mails addressed to someone called Stephen Brody. A quick scan of the messages proved that this was who we were looking for: the Phantom. But as I read further, I got a sense that “Brody” was incredibly reluctant about the whole thing. He frequently asked Trethaway to be let out of the “deal” he had entered into, and each time Trethaway did his best to convince Kruger/Brody that this was a good idea. That it would help him to get his story out. Trethaway mentioned movie rights, TV spin-offs, the works.

  “Check his sent folder,” suggested Joe.

  I switched folders and typed in the e-mail address Trethaway was using to communicate with Kruger/Brody, memorizing it as I did so. The search brought up a list of ninety-eight e-mails.

  I scrolled back to the first one. If I was hoping for a convenient address and telephone number, I was disappointed. Which made sense. They would have created the fake identity before they started exchanging e-mails using this address.

  “Frank!” said Joe urgently. “He’s coming back!”

  Perfect. I started frantically paging through the e-mails, skimming each one for contact details.

  “How much time do I have?” I asked.

  “About a minute, I think,” he replied.

  I frowned and sped up my search even more. Nothing, nothing. Boring. Nothing.

  “Thirty seconds!” said Joe. “We gotta go.”

  “Just a bit longer . . .” There had to be something. Some clue, some—

  There.

  Trethaway had met up with Kruger/Brody at his place of work.

  I noted the address, exited the e-mail program, then closed the laptop. As Joe and I rushed back to the bathroom and were climbing out the window, I noticed a pile of old magazines in the room across the hallway. At that moment I heard Trethaway’s keys in the door, and I sprinted around the side of the house, joining Joe as we ran for our car.

  CONFUSION

  8

  JOE

  FRANK AND I DECIDED OUR best move would be to track down “Stephen Brody” and turn him over to the police. That way, this whole thing could end without anyone getting hurt. We considered telling the police first, but if anything went wrong, the Phantom would be free to carry out his threats against our friends and family. We didn’t want to risk that.

  His place of business, an auto repair shop and salvage yard, was in an industrial area on the outskirts of town. It was filled with old, rusted car frames and piles of worn tires strewn amid weeds and metal barrels. A heavy pounding came from inside the garage itself. Flashes of blue light illuminated the dim interior as somebody used an arc welder.

  Frank nudged me and pointed. Off to the right was a little office partition with glass walls.

  Seated behind the desk was Jack Kruger. He looked just like the guy from the article we’d read about Dad catching him; this guy was just a bit grayer around the temples.

  Adrenaline rushed through me. Here was the guy who’d been giving us such a hard time—the guy who’d set fire to a priceless painting, who had almost killed me with a sword. The office was the perfect place to confront him; there was nowhere for him to go.

  Frank knocked on the door. I tensed, waiting for him to see us and launch into an attack. But all he did was put down the magazine he’d been reading and smile.

  “Hi, there. What can I do for you?”

  Frank and I glanced at each other uncertainly. This was the right guy, wasn’t it? It certainly looked like the picture of Kruger from the newspaper.

  “Mr. Brody?” said Frank.

  Kruger got up and came around the desk. He lifted his hand. I tensed, but all he did was hold it out for Frank to shake.

  “How can I help you? You got a car that needs fixing?”

  “No,” I said. “No car. Actually, we’re not looking for Mr. Brody.”

  Kruger looked slightly puzzled. “Then who are you looking for?”

  “Jack Kruger,” I said.

  I watched Kruger carefully as I said his name. I expected anger, fury, a sudden attack. But all I saw was sorrow.

  Kruger turned away from us and went back to his desk. “What do you want?” he asked heavily.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” said Frank.

  He nodded. “Money, I suppose. How much?”

  Frank shook his head in confusion. “We don’t want money.”

  “Then what? What will it take for you to leave me alone?”

  “Hey. We’re here to make you leave us alone,” I said.

  Kruger stared at us blankly. Finally he shrugged. “Sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I took out the riddle about the samurai swords and dropped it on the table. He leaned forward and studied it, then looked at us quizzically.

  “It’s a riddle,” he said.

  “Uh . . . yeah,” I said. “You sent it to us.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You did!” I insisted. “You’re the Phantom.”

  “I was the Phantom. This”—he waved his hand—“isn’t me. Are you boys playing a prank?”

  “No, listen. You sent this to us. I’m Joe Hardy, and this is my brother, Frank.”

  That got his attention. He rose slowly from his chair. “Hardy? As in . . . ?”

  “As in Fenton Hardy’s sons,” Frank explained.

  I suddenly realized that Dad was responsible for putting this man away for fifteen years. He was probably going to hold a few grudges about that.

  Frank and I exchanged looks, then took a small step back so we weren’t up against the desk. But Kruger didn’t notice. He hurried around the desk, went straight toward Frank, lifted his arm . . .

  . . . and broke into a huge grin.

  He gripped Frank’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Finally I get to meet Fenton’s sons! He mentioned you, back when he caught me. Apparently he nearly missed your third birthday, Frank, because he was after me.”

  “I’m confused,” I said. “Why are you so happy to find out who we are?”

  Kruger finally released Frank’s hand. “Because getting caught was the best thing that ever happened to me. If it wasn’t for your father, I’d probably be dead. Please, sit down.”

  Frank and I took our seats slowly. To be honest, I was wondering if this was some sort of trick, but Kruger sat back down himself and leaned forward on the desk.

  “I suppose you’re wondering about the name change?” asked Kruger.

  Frank nodded. “That and a number of other things.”

  “Well, I can explain about the first. The thing is, when I was in prison, I realized how wrong I was. I was young when I was the Phantom. I had all these ideas in my head about being a modern-day Robin Hood. Stealing from the rich, that kind of thing.”

  “Robin Hood gave bac
k to the poor,” I pointed out.

  “As did I. It was never made known, but I made sizable anonymous donations to various charities. But still, it was wrong. It took your father to show me that. When I got out of prison, I just wanted a fresh start. I knew I couldn’t change my name legally. So I went to the one person I knew who could help me.”

  “Trethaway,” said Frank.

  “Ah, you’ve met, have you?” Kruger’s face twisted with distaste. “I regret having to go to him, but I had no other choice. He agreed to supply me with a new identity, but only if I’d give him the inside scoop on my life as the Phantom. How I’d planned various heists, that kind of thing. All for this stupid book. I agreed, as long as he kept my new identity secret. Which it looks like he hasn’t.”

  For the first time since we’d been in his office, Kruger looked annoyed.

  “So,” he continued, “the Phantom has not been sending you riddles. Or stealing things. I’m the Phantom. Or, I was. And I assure you, it’s not me.”

  “But . . .” I picked up the riddle. “We saw you—him . . . whoever—at the museum, at the house.”

  “When?”

  “Last night and the day before that. Do you have an alibi for those times?”

  “I don’t. My son saw me early in the evening yesterday, but he went out to a party. The day before that I was home sick. Some twenty-four-hour bug.”

  Interesting, I thought. He was still claiming his innocence, but he didn’t have an alibi. So no matter how much this guy objected, he was probably just trying to bluff us. Question was, what to do about it? Make a citizen’s arrest? No proof. Tell the police everything and point them in Kruger’s direction? That was a possibility, but I knew they couldn’t do anything without proof.

  I looked at Frank, but he seemed to be just as lost as I was. He sighed and stood up.

  “Okay, Mr. Brody. Thanks for your time.” He held a hand out for Kruger to shake.

  “Uh, can I rely on your discretion? About my new identity, I mean. I just want to make a fresh start. To get my life back on track.”

  “Your secret’s safe with us.”

  I looked at Frank in surprise. That was news to me. But I didn’t say anything. I shook hands with Kruger, and we left his office.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Frank as we headed to the car.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Wait—you don’t actually believe him, do you?” I asked in disbelief.

  “I’m not sure,” said Frank slowly.

  “Come on, Frank! He was just covering. It has to be him.”

  “But he seemed so . . . sincere.”

  “He’d kinda have to be, Frank. He doesn’t want to go back to jail.”

  “But don’t you think he seemed genuinely confused by the riddle? And he didn’t recognize us when we walked in. I’m sure of it.”

  “No. I’m not buying it. He’s just a good actor, that’s all. Besides, who else could it be if not Kruger?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Frank. “Who stands to profit from the Phantom getting back to work?”

  “You mean, besides that man over there,” I said, pointing at Kruger’s office.

  “Yes,” said Frank, a slight edge to his voice. “Besides him.”

  I thought about it. “I give up.”

  “Maybe someone who’s writing a book about the Phantom? Who would see his book probably become a bestseller if the Phantom started up his old tricks again?”

  I turned to Frank in amazement. “You think it’s Trethaway?”

  Frank shrugged. “I saw something when we were climbing out his bathroom window. It didn’t click at the time, but looking back . . .”

  “What did you see?”

  “A pile of old magazines. Like, this high.” Frank held his hand above his head.

  “Lots of people have piles of old magazines.”

  “Some of these were lying on the floor. Open.”

  “So he reads magazines? Big deal.”

  “Or maybe he cuts them up. To make riddles.” He turned to face me. “Think about it. This could only benefit Trethaway. Any controversy will get him free publicity.”

  “I suppose. You think he’s smart enough to do that? Trethaway, I mean?”

  “What is it Dad always says? ‘If you judge anyone on appearances, you’re already five steps behind them.’ ”

  “Then that makes me, like, twenty steps behind,” I said. “Because I seriously don’t think Trethaway could have done this.”

  Frank and I climbed into the car. “Regardless, it’s an angle we need to look into,” he said as he pulled into the road. I glanced over my shoulder as we drove away. Kruger was standing by a repaired car, watching us leave.

  • • •

  I saw it instantly as we drew up to our house. An envelope lying on the steps.

  I got out of the car and hurried over. It was the same style of envelope, the same writing. I picked it up and pulled out the sheet of paper as Frank joined me.

  Of

  18

  16

  By

  61

  12

  For

  750,000

  11 o’

  I blinked, then looked at Frank. “And now? Is this a riddle?”

  “Must be.”

  “And he expects us to crack this before tonight?”

  “Looks like it.” Frank sighed. “Call Chet and Amber. Ask them to meet us at the Meet Locker. I think we’ll need some help with this.”

  CAUGHT IN THE ACT

  9

  FRANK

  CHET AND AMBER WERE ALREADY waiting at the Locker, Chet tucking into a burger and fries while Amber searched the Internet for clues.

  “Anything?” I asked, slipping into the booth next to her.

  She shifted over to give me room. “Not yet. There doesn’t seem to be any pattern. It just looks like random numbers.”

  “Except for the last line,” Joe pointed out. “That’s obviously the time we need to solve it by.”

  I checked the last line. 11 o’. Short for eleven o’clock. Fair enough. One point to Joe.

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s break it down.”

  Joe studied the piece of paper. “There is kind of a pattern. Each pair of numbers is preceded by a word. Of 18–16. By 61–12. For 750,000–11 o’.”

  “Could they be referring to biblical passages?” asked Chet around a mouthful of fries.

  The waitress approached while Amber checked her laptop. I ordered a chocolate shake and Joe ordered a club sandwich.

  “I don’t think so,” Amber said eventually. “I mean, they could be. But there’s an 18–16 in the books of Proverbs, Luke, Revelation, Exodus . . . pretty much all of them.”

  “Probably not that,” I said.

  “Combination locks?” suggested Amber.

  “To what?” asked Joe.

  “Safes? Do safety-deposit boxes have codes?” she said.

  I shook my head. “No. Keys.”

  “Map coordinates,” said Joe, sitting upright suddenly.

  I looked at the numbers again. It was a possibility.

  Amber broke the numbers into map coordinates. 18:1:6.611 latitude and -2:7:50.000 longitude. She entered them into a mapping program, but nothing came up.

  This was getting frustrating. I stared at the piece of paper. There was something familiar about the words. Of, by, and for. Where had I heard that before?

  The waitress brought my shake and Joe’s sandwich. He took a bite, then said thoughtfully, “What about an anagram? The words?”

  We spent the next few minutes rearranging of, by, and for, but we didn’t come up with anything helpful. Then we added up the first two sets of numbers, getting 34 and 73, but again, there was nothing we could do with the numbers.

  It was already after four, and we were no closer to solving the puzzle.

  “What about Dad?” Joe suggested.

  “What about him?”

  “Can’t
we phone him? Ask him if he can help?”

  “The Phantom said not to tell the police or Dad. It’s not worth the risk of endangering Mom. Or Aunt Trudy.”

  By this time we had all finished our food and sat in dejected silence, staring at the riddle lying in front of us. Joe pulled some cash out of his wallet and dropped it on the table where the waitress had left the check. The top note was a five-dollar bill; Abraham Lincoln’s face stared at me.

  Amber reached over to collect the money. But before she did, I slapped my hand down on the notes.

  Honest Abe. Sixteenth president of the USA. I grabbed the pen from the table and drew a line through the number 16 on the paper.

  “Of the people, by the people, for the people,” I said.

  Chet stared at me as if I was nuts. But Joe and Amber looked at me with expressions of dawning realization.

  “The Gettysburg Address,” said Joe.

  I looked at the last three numbers: 18, 61, and 12.

  “Quick—the date—the exact date the Civil War began.”

  Amber typed into her laptop. “April 12, 1861,” she answered.

  That just left 750,000. “Are you on the wiki page?”

  Amber nodded.

  “How many people died again?”

  “Seven hundred fifty thousand,” said Amber in an awed voice.

  We all stared at one another, then down at the sheet of paper. We’d cracked the code!

  “I still don’t get it,” said Chet. “The Civil War, sure. But what’s going to get stolen?”

  I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut again. He was right. We still didn’t know the target.

  “It must be something to do with Lincoln?” asked Chet.

  “No,” said Amber. “This is all about the Civil War. Not Lincoln.”

  “Was there anything at the museum?” I asked.

  Joe shook his head. “Not that I saw.”

  Something rang a bell in my mind. The flyer that came in the mail. The Civil War exhibition reopening at the town hall!

  “The Civil War exhibition!” I gasped. “We got a flyer in the mail! It’s been reopened in the town hall. All the stuff went away to be cleaned and restored.”

  “Yeah, but the town hall is right outside the police station,” said Joe doubtfully. “He wouldn’t be that stupid.”