Line of Fire

by Franklin W. Dixon

  "That's what I said." The man shook his head. "Never seen a guy get so popular so long after he moved away. You're the third guys to come asking for him today."

  Joe stared at the janitor. "Somebody else came asking about Vittorio?"

  "Yeah. Big bruiser. Mean looking. I thought he was a bill collector, for sure."

  "Balding guy?" Frank asked. "Scar on his cheek?"

  "That's him." The custodian shivered. "He got pretty mad when I couldn't tell him where Steve was living in Philly." He shrugged. "People from here don't usually leave a forwarding address."

  "When did this second guy show up?" Joe asked.

  The man shrugged again. "It was a while after the kid left. I don't really know."

  "Well, thanks for your help," Frank said, grabbing Joe's arm and heading out of the building.

  "What do we do now?" Joe wanted to know. "Get into the van and get moving," Frank answered.

  They reached the van and brought Callie up to date. "I suspect Denny is heading for Philadelphia," Frank said as he finished his story. "The problem is, so is George. We've got to check it out."

  "Can't the police — " Callie began.

  "What can the cops do?" Joe asked. "Neither of them is suspected of a crime—yet."

  "But he threatened you guys and shot at you," Callie insisted.

  "Proof—we don't have any, and it's our word against his," Joe answered.

  "We need you to organize things on this end," Frank said. "Keep on the lookout for Denny. And maybe you and Barbara can make sure Mrs. Payson gets to the opening of the grand jury."

  "Real exciting," Callie said. Then she shrugged. "But necessary, I guess. I hope you guys catch up with Denny."

  "Before George does," Joe muttered.

  The drive to Philadelphia took a couple of hours. All the way the Hardys' stomachs reminded them that they were missing lunch. Finally, near the Pennsylvania border, Frank pulled the van over at a truck stop.

  "Get some burgers and something to drink for both of us," he told Joe.

  "What are you going to do?" Joe asked.

  Frank got out his lap-top computer and modem, and pointed to a nearby pay phone. "I'm going to talk to a few data bases to see if I can find out anything about a new foreman named Vittorio." He grinned. "We may be running behind in the race, but we might be the first ones to reach the finish. Find Vittorio, and sooner or later, Denny and George will appear."

  By the time Joe came back with the food, Frank was stowing away his computer with a satisfied smile. "I think I have our man. A Stephen Vittorio recently was hired as foreman for a construction project on Market Street." He showed Joe the address. "We should be able to catch him on the job. They won't have knocked off yet."

  Traffic was heavy as they drove through the Philadelphia streets. It slowed the Hardys down, and they had a terrible time finding a parking spot. At last, however, they were walking toward the construction site.

  It was easy enough to find. A huge crane in the middle of the block made a hard-to-miss landmark. The crane's engine roared into life, and a pallet of cinder blocks and sacks of concrete started rising to the upper floor. At the foot of the crane, a man in a hard hat wrote something on a clipboard.

  "Looks as though that guy is in charge around here," Joe said. "Maybe he can steer us in Vittorio's direction."

  Since the sidewalk was blocked off, they had to step into the street to get to the man. He ' looked up from his clipboard as a guy on the second floor of the unfinished building shouted down to him.

  "Hey, Steve," the construction worker yelled, "we need some sweepers up here."

  Frank looked at Joe. "Steve! Maybe he's the guy we're looking for."

  The Hardys quickened their pace. Just as they reached the rear of the crane, they saw someone approaching from the opposite direction. Denny Payson!

  His eyes were fixed on Steve Vittorio as he hurried up.

  "Well, Denny found him," Frank said.

  ' 'I just hope George didn't," Joe muttered.

  As if in answer to Joe's comment, a flash of red light came from across the street.

  "Denny! Duck!" Frank and Joe both yelled.

  Even as they hit the dirt, they realized that the laser, and the two shots that followed, were aimed high over their heads.

  They looked up to see the crane's load start to tilt. The shots had been aimed at the metal cable holding the pallet.

  With a metallic twang, the strands parted— and a ton of concrete blocks fell toward them!

  Chapter 10

  Denny Payson threw himself backward. So did Frank and Joe. But the man with least warning was Steve Vittorio. He had barely started moving as the concrete came whistling down.

  Denny's voice was a shriek. "You miserable, murdering — "

  His words were drowned out by the roar of concrete hitting the street. The cinder blocks came down like an urban landslide. Some smashed onto the covered walkway, turning its wooden roof into toothpicks. Other loose blocks crashed into the crane itself, making the whole structure quiver. But most of the blocks came cascading down right in front of the Hardys. Frank and Joe hugged the ground. They coughed in the gritty cloud of concrete dust that mercifully blotted out the scene.

  As the choking cloud settled, they could see a figure rising in the distance. For a wild second, Joe thought he was seeing a ghost. It looked like Denny, but the face and clothes were all white. Then he realized that he was covered with dust and noticed that he and Frank were just as badly covered.

  "Denny!" Yelling the name tore at Joe's grit-clogged throat.

  But Denny was paying no attention to him. He stared wide-eyed and silent at the spot where; Steve Vittorio had stood. It looked as if a giant child had dumped all his blocks in one untidy pile after playtime. But there was nothing playful about what lay buried there.

  Even though they knew it was hopeless, Frank and Joe started pulling the blocks aside, raising another cloud of dust. Joe turned, expecting to see Denny run to help. Instead, he saw his friend tearing like a madman down the street.

  But the construction workers were joining in, shifting the blocks away. Joe stepped back, coughing from the dust. And when he looked up again, he was staring at a heavyset guy helping to clear the debris — he was paying special attention to the concrete bags. Joe couldn't believe it. George!

  Joe nudged Frank. "Look. First he kills Vittorio, then he joins the rescuers. We've got to get the police."

  Frank stared at George. "No. We will — in a minute." Frank watched him a little longer. "He's searching for something." His eyes narrowed. "There were two shots. Suppose one ^missed the cable altogether and wound up in one of those concrete sacks? A spent bullet could be checked by the police ballistics lab. It would be proof that he killed Steve Vittorio."

  He looked eagerly at Joe. "We've got to stop him from finding that bullet. But how?" A slow smile spread over Joe's face. "I'll [ show you. Just follow my lead." } Joe headed across the wreckage, to an area George hadn't searched yet. Several bags of concrete lay around. Miraculously some had held together. Others had spread their contents across the street. Joe stooped over and began poking through them.

  Then he yelled, "Hey, George!"

  The big guy looked up, startled, just in time to see Joe snatch something up from the ground. He pocketed it and smiled. "Too late. I've got your little souvenir."

  George's hand went under his coat. Then he hesitated, glancing around at all the people around him.

  Joe took off running, right into the construction site, with Frank on his heels. They turned for an instant to see George hurrying after them.

  All work had stopped on the site as the workers swarmed to try to rescue Vittorio. The Hardys dashed past a row of concrete pillars, then took a sharp right, hiding behind a rough cinder-block wall.

  "You're sure it was a good idea to leave the safety of the crowd?" Frank asked.

  "We'll lose him in here, then we have to get the cops," Joe said. "I don't thi
nk those hard-hats would believe us if we started telling them about shots and lasers."

  The sound of pounding footsteps behind them made the Hardys push off and start to run again. "Come on. He won't be able to keep up with us," Joe said, breathing hard.

  But somehow, George did stay with them. He didn't draw close enough to risk a shot, but he had the long-barreled pistol with the boxy laser sight mounted on top in his hand.

  "We can't get past that machinery. Let's go over," Joe whispered, pointing to a flight of stairs in the center of the unfinished building. They started up silently, but soon the clang of bare metal gave them away. George came charging after them.

  They started to jump off on the open side of the stairs, then saw the red flash of the laser sight. If they got off, George would have a clear f'shot at them.

  "Didn't think about that," Joe admitted as they pushed themselves up another flight.

  The building was less and less finished the farther up they went. The next floor they reached had hardly any walls at all, just vast fopen spaces. It would be a killing ground if George caught up with them.

  "We're running out of hiding places," Joe gasped.

  "And stairs," Frank said grimly, looking up. The only other stairs were on the far side of the building. On every floor they'd passed, an empty oil drum had been left for use as a garbage can. Luckily, one was on this floor as well.

  In wordless agreement, the Hardys raced to the drum, turned it on its side, and sent it rolling down the stairs.

  They heard George yell as it came bouncing down, but they knew they had won only a brief delay.

  Chest burning, Joe tore across the wide expanse of concrete, Frank right at his side. Behind them, they could hear George mounting the stairs again. They'd never reach the stairs on the far side of the building.

  Then Frank was grabbing Joe's arm, pulling him off course. He led him to a set of large square holes in the floor, set in the middle of the building. Without letting go of Joe, Frank threw himself over the edge.

  As they dropped, a gunshot rang out over their heads.

  Joe closed his eyes—and suddenly found himself stopping, then bouncing in the air.

  His eyes popped open. He was on a net, which was springing up and down like a trampoline.

  Frank was already on his knees, pulling Joe to the safety of the floor.

  "What?" Joe said as he and his brother started moving again.

  "Elevator shafts," Frank explained, pointing to the hole above them. "They just haven't put the elevators in yet. The safety rules say that ; nets have to be strung across the open shafts every few floors. I figured there had to be at least one net between us and the ground." '

  He pushed Joe back to the stairs. "Now come on, before George decides to drop in on us."

  They dashed across the floor, Joe still shaking his head. "He thinks there'll probably be a net between us and the ground. And people think I'm the crazy one in this team."

  Taking the steps two at a time, they raced down the final flight of stairs. Soon they were back on the first floor.

  "Which way to the van?" Frank asked. "All this running has left me turned around."

  "This way." Joe pointed. "I remember passing those big metal boxes."

  Frank broke into a jog, quickly retracing their path. "We've lost him for now, but we have no idea when he might turn up again."

  They reached the edge of the site, which was now crammed with workers. Mingling with the crowd, they worked their way out to the street.

  "You know," Joe said to Frank, "we can cut right through that building across the way."

  "The warehouse?" Frank said.

  "Yeah. We're parked right on the other side. And anything that will save us a few steps ..."

  "Fine," Frank agreed. "We get in the van, get out of here, then find a pay phone." He smiled grimly at his brother's puzzled expression. "We still have to tell the Philadelphia police to search for a bullet. I think an anonymous call might be better than walking up to one of the cops at the site."

  Joe grinned. "I guess we might have a hard time convincing a cop to take us seriously." Frank's face was still white with concrete dust, except where running sweat had carved little streaks.

  He shrugged. "Well, come on."

  They crossed the street, working their way to the rear of the rapidly gathering crowd. Apparently the workers who'd been lounging in front of the warehouse had either joined the rescuers or were part of the crowd. The Hardys had no problem moving past the open double doors of the warehouse.

  The first floor was huge and cavernous. It reminded Joe of an enlarged, dingier version of the Bayport records room. Bays of shelving stretched twelve feet up to the ceiling, and they were crammed with a jumbled assortment of? packing crates and cardboard boxes. Some of the boxes were broken open, displaying all sorts of paper goods. They even passed a collection of crushed party hats.

  Ahead of them was another set of double doors, also standing ajar. Joe could understand why. The air inside the warehouse was musty, stagnant, and hot. Any breeze would be welcome.

  Joe ran the back of his sleeve across his eyes, trying to wipe away some sweat. It would be good to get into the van. It had air conditioning, and each of them had a change of clothes stowed in a secret compartment under the floorboards.

  He was stepping forward eagerly as they reached the doorway. Then he stopped sharply.

  A large green car was drawn up in front of the door.

  And sitting in it, his pistol aimed straight at the brothers, was George.

  Chapter 11

  The wide central aisle of the warehouse stretched behind Frank and Joe. They knew that running down that open space would only earn them bullets in their backs.

  So, as George got out of his car and rushed the door, Frank darted right, and Joe left.

  Joe sighed as he heard heavy footfalls come after him. Just my luck. Godzilla picks on me again. How did he know where to find us anyway?

  He ducked around several racks of shelves, zigzagging to make sure George couldn't get a clear shot. The strategy seemed to be working, until Joe reached an aisle that was blocked by a forklift truck.

  He had to backtrack. He crept along a line of shelves, straining his eyes and ears for any sight of George. Maybe this could work out. If he could get behind George, he'd be able to sneak out the exit he'd originally been aiming for. Then he could get the cops and nail the killer.

  But it didn't turn out exactly as he had planned. He was behind George, but George knew exactly where he was.

  Joe's first warning came when he heard the snick of a revolver being cocked behind him. He rolled across the floor as the laser's red aiming beam flashed past his face. There was no explosion of gunfire though. George was saving his bullets for a clear shot.

  Rising to his knees, Joe scuttled backward behind the shelter of a storage bay. He retreated across one aisle, heading toward the wall of the warehouse. Maybe he could sneak past George this way. He crept to the side of another bay, preparing to leap across the narrow alley to a third set of shelves.

  Joe peeked around the corner — and found George waiting for him. Again, the laser flashed past his face, and Joe retreated. He decided to work his way toward the central aisle and slip past George that way.

  But when he tried to go down another alley, George was there again, flashing his laser. Joe retreated once more.

  Every time he tried to make a break for it, he ] encountered an aisle patrolled by George. Slowly he realized what was happening. George was positioning himself at the corners of bays, where he could check down two aisles at once. He was using the beam of his laser to block Joe's escape and herd him backward into a corner of the building. Once he had moved Joe back far enough, he would have no cover....

  Joe didn't want to think about it. He had to figure out a way to get past George. Maybe if he showed himself, then stayed in place ... He poked his head out, then pulled it back as the familiar red flash came again. Joe counted
to ten, giving George enough time to move. He peeked around again, and found that George had indeed moved—closer to him.

  The red laser flash was accompanied by a bullet this time. Joe pulled back into a zigzagging retreat again. George's laughter followed him.

  Of course. George would orient on the last point where he'd seen Joe. He'd walk down that alley, since Joe couldn't cross it, checking out the cross alleys so Joe couldn't sneak around. No matter which way Joe tried to go, he'd be cut off from the doors. With George moving in, whichever way Joe went, he would soon end up in a corner.

  It reminded Joe of chess games he'd had with Frank, where he'd be reduced to moving his lone king around the board as Frank's pieces closed in. With every move, there were fewer and fewer safe squares.. . .

  He'd never been able to come out of those games a winner. But this was real. There had to be some way to break out of his box.

  Joe looked up at the wall of the warehouse, had an arrow pointing up, with a sign saying Stairs. He started running for it.

  If he could reach the stairs, he'd break free of the game board. George would have to search three dimensions. If he could just make it upstairs ... There were only six steps to go when he heard the voice behind him saying, "Nice try, kid."

  Slowly Joe turned around. George stood at the bottom of the stairs, his pistol out and ready. It was a chrome-plated revolver, and its barrel looked long enough to reach out and touch Joe on the chest.

  "Let's have it," George said.

  Joe stared at him. "Have what?"

  "Look, don't play cute with me. I want the bullet you picked up."

  Now Joe remembered why George was chasing him. He thought Joe was carrying the bullet that would link him to Vittorio's murder!

  "I don't have it," Joe said.

  The gun was aimed straight at Joe's chest, and George clicked back the hammer. "I saw you pick it up, kid. Don't try to con me."

  "I pretended to pick it up, to scare you off," Joe admitted. "Then we were going to call the cops. My brother's probably doing that right now."

  George cocked an ear and grinned. "I don't hear any sirens, do you? Maybe your brother messed up." His face went cold again. "Start emptying your pockets."