Motocross Madness

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Howard was trying to play it cool, but the Hardys saw that Goldberg’s cutting remark had actually needled him. The other people nearby watched the exchange curiously.

  “So, are you sponsoring someone in the race?” Frank asked the collector.

  “I’d rather not say,” Howard replied.

  “He certainly isn’t sponsoring me,” put in a nearby blonde. She was about the Hardys age and very slender, with her hair done up in double braids. “I don’t want you thinking I’m working with Mr. Howard just because I’m standing next to him.”

  “No one was accusing you of that, Ms. Navarro,” Howard said.

  A distinguished man with graying hair and a beard who was on the other side of the girl added, “Elizabeth is in this to win. Aren’t you, dear?”

  “Daaad!” she said, rolling her eyes. “Of course I want to win. You don’t run a race to come in last! One day, you’ll write about me the way you do about Garth Metzger.”

  “What made Metzger so special?” Joe asked.

  “Let me explain,” Trent Howard replied. “Garth Metzger was an old-time motorcycle rider and designer. On the verge of bankruptcy, he came up with an idea for a fabulous, new engine. He sketched those plans down, then made one set of blueprints from them.”

  “I know this part of the story,” Goldberg continued. “Once Metzger completed his engine, he installed it in a cycle and then destroyed the blueprints. People who saw the engine tests said it was the best of its kind, ever. Buyers came from all over to bid on it.”

  “Dad wrote an article about that once, didn’t you, Dad?” Elizabeth said. “Tell what happened next.”

  Richard Navarro seemed reluctant to speak up, so his daughter nudged him. “Well,” he finally said, “Metzger thought he could get more money from the bidders if he won a race with the experimental bike. But something went wrong. He got into a fiery crash during the race and died. The super-engine was destroyed.”

  “It’s ironic,” Goldberg said. “He could have made a fortune, but instead, Metzger died penniless. They sold the contents of his garage. Later, some of those cycle parts got bought by Pops Fernandez, which is how they ended up in this bike here.”

  He pointed to the glittering SD5 displayed before them.

  “So, are you advising your daughter, Richard?” Howard asked Navarro. “Or are you entering the race yourself?”

  “My competing days are behind me,” Rich Navarro said, shaking his head. “I don’t have the stamina for it anymore. I’m sticking with motorcycle magazine writing now. Maybe I could do a story on you, Mr. Howard.”

  Trent Howard frowned. “I’ve had all the publicity I want, thank you very much.”

  “But it would make a great article,” Navarro said. “Wealthy collector turns out for benefit motocross event—”

  “Really, I’m only interested in the bike for historical reasons,” Howard insisted.

  “If you want that bike, we could help you out,” said a voice from the other side of the prize stand. The one who had spoken was a tall, blond man. The woman with her arm around him was nearly as tall, and had short, straight, dark hair.

  “Boy” Joe whispered to Frank, “you can’t even finish a conversation here without someone cutting in.”

  “And who might you two be?” Trent Howard asked, arching one eyebrow at the newcomers.

  The big man and the tall woman shook hands with Trent. “I’m Jules Kendallson,” said the man. “And this is my girl, Sylvia Short.”

  The brothers noticed the irony of a tall woman being named “Short,” but both managed to keep straight faces.

  “We’re freelance riders,” Ms. Short declared.

  “We like winning,” Kendallson said, “but we ain’t big collectors of cycles.”

  “More bikes, more repairs,” Ms. Short added. “Y’know? We’d rather have the cash. How much you offering?”

  Trent Howard cleared his throat. “While I’m somewhat fascinated with the Metzger SD5, I’m not interested in hiring freelance riders at this point.”

  “If you’re keen on getting this bike, Mr. Howard, why didn’t you just buy it from the Fernandezes?” Joe asked.

  “I tried,” Howard said, “but Mr. Fernandez wanted more than I was willing to pay. I may be well-off, but taking on the bulk of Corrine Fernandez’s rehab bills . . . It’s a hefty sum, and I just can’t let all that cash go right now.” He looked at Mr.

  Goldberg and added, “I suspect the same is true of Asa, here.”

  “You got that right,” Goldberg replied. “But I would if I could. As it is, I’m happy just to be making a contribution.”

  “As am I,” Howard replied.

  “Yeah, we’re here for that, too,” Kendallson said. Ms. Short and the Navarros nodded in support.

  “Well, I’m sure Corri’s glad to have all of you pulling for her,” Frank said.

  Goldberg, Howard, and the rest nodded again. Then, as if by silent agreement, they all moved away from the prize table.

  “Let’s grab something to eat,” Joe said. “We were so busy rounding up pledges, we didn’t stop for dinner.”

  The brothers made their way to the refreshment table and picked up some snacks and punch. Frank dropped a few dollars into a contribution jar at the end of the buffet.

  “We don’t want them to lose money putting on this party,” he explained.

  “It’s a good turnout,” Joe said. “I hope they do as well with the races. People seem to be having a good time too.” He hooked a thumb to a corner where Corrine Fernandez and Jamal were chatting happily with some other racers.

  Suddenly, a shriek ripped through the air: “Fire!”

  4 Where There Smoke . . .

  * * *

  Everyone was quiet until another voice shouted, “Fire!”

  It was a different voice this time, and neither brother could place it. A billow of black smoke wafted across the ceiling of the room.

  Chaos erupted in the small assembly hall. The crowd began to press for the exits.

  “Everyone stay calm!” Frank called, but no one seemed to be listening.

  Smoke came from behind some curtains near the prize stand and rapidly filled the room. Cries of panic went up as people bumped into one another in the gathering gloom.

  “Jamal! Where are you?” Frank called. He waved some of the smoke away from his face, but still couldn’t see much.

  “Here!” came Jamal’s voice from near the side exit. He coughed as he shouted to the brothers. “Corri and I are stuck!”

  “We’re coming!” Joe said. He and Frank pushed their way through the crowd.

  “Are you two all right?” Frank asked when they reached their friends.

  “If you can help clear the crowd,” Jamal said, “I can wheel Corri out of here.”

  “Sure thing,” Joe said. He and Frank went to work. While being careful not to hurt anyone else, they moved quickly and forcefully toward the door. Jamal and Corri followed right behind. Several times, Frank and Joe paused to help people who had fallen. Soon the Hardys and their friends reached the doorway and went outside.

  “Is everyone okay?” Frank asked.

  Corrine Fernandez coughed hard but nodded that she was all right. Jamal nodded too. “Has anyone seen my brother?” Corri asked.

  The Hardys and Jamal shook their heads.

  “Maybe he’s around front,” Jamal suggested.

  “You go check,” Frank said. “Joe and I will help other people out.”

  The brothers stood near the door, calling to people to help them find their way through the gloom. Fortunately, most folks seemed to have gotten out of the smoky building on their own. The Hardys ventured inside a couple of times, holding their breath while they helped a victim through the thick black smoke.

  After a few minutes, Jamal dashed back around from the other side of the building. With him came Elizabeth Navarro, who looked very worried.

  “Paco and Pops got out okay,” Jamal reported. “In fact, everyone sc
heduled to attend the event is accounted for—”

  “Except my dad,” Elizabeth reported. “No one knows where he is.”

  Joe, who was standing next to the door, called out, “Mr. Navarro! Are you in there! Make a sound if you need help!”

  “Dad! Dad! Can you hear me?” Elizabeth shouted.

  She and the Hardys listened intently, but all they heard was the murmur of the crowd and the sound of distant fire engine sirens.

  “Those rescue workers won’t get here soon enough to help Navarro if he’s trapped,” Frank said.

  Joe nodded his agreement. “It looks like we’ll have to go in.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Jamal offered.

  “No,” Joe said. “No sense three of us risking our lives. You stay here and keep the rest of the party-goers back.” He glanced meaningfully at Elizabeth Navarro, who looked as though she might run inside at any moment.

  “Yeah, okay,” Jamal said.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Navarro,” Frank said. “We’ll get your dad out safely.”

  With that, he and his brother plunged back into the smoky building. The Hardys pulled their T-shirts up over their noses in a kind of makeshift smoke filter, but it didn’t do much good. Within moments, their eyes were burning and their lungs were stinging.

  Frank coughed and called, “Mr. Navarro!”

  Before he and Joe had taken five steps, someone stumbled out of the darkness, almost bowling them over. “I’m Navarro,” the man said, coughing. “Which way is the exit?”

  Joe and Frank hurried him back outside.

  “Dad!” Elizabeth said, throwing her arms around her father. “I was so worried!”

  “I’m okay,” Navarro replied. “I just got turned around in the darkness.”

  Moments later, the fire and rescue squad roared up outside the old VFW building. The firefighters moved to quickly control the problem, while the EMTs checked over those who had inhaled too much smoke or had been injured in the stampede. Though Richard Navarro seemed reluctant to receive any attention, Elizabeth dragged her father to see the medics.

  The brothers, Jamal, and Corri made their way around to the front of the building to join the rest of the former partygoers. It was a big, restless crowd. Local TV cameras, and other media reporters, pushed through the throng, taping reactions to the incident.

  The fire department quickly brought the smoke under control. Apparently, the blaze hadn’t been as bad as it had looked. Some old rags in a broom closet near the back hallway had caught fire, and other things stored in the closet had fueled the smoke.

  “It was a lot more smoke than fire,” Chief Hebert reported to the partygoers. “Still, I’m glad you all got out safely.”

  The police showed up and took statements. Many people complained that they’d lost wallets and other valuables.

  “That’s not unusual in this kind of confusion,” Con Riley, one of the attending officers, said. “Chances are, the missing pieces will turn up once the room is cleaned and straightened out.” Still, he dutifully wrote down every lost item in his notebook.

  Pops Fernandez looked worried. He’d been talking almost nonstop to the TV and other media crews since the rescue workers had arrived. “This is terrible,” he whispered to his children, who were resting curbside near the Hardys and Jamal.

  “At least no one was hurt,” Corri said.

  “She’s right,” Paco replied. “And the publicity from the fire may even help promote the race.”

  Mr. Fernandez glared at his son. “What a terrible thing to say. The media are going to eat us alive.”

  “The fire wasn’t your fault,” Joe interjected. “The newspeople are bound to see that.”

  “Maybe,” Mr. Fernandez agreed. He looked apprehensively back at the now-empty building. “Fortunately, it looks like the SD5 wasn’t damaged. That’s the last thing we need on top of everything else.”

  Sensing that the Fernandezes wanted to be alone, the Hardys and Jamal headed back to their cars.

  The brothers said good-bye to Jamal in the parking lot, then returned to their house. Their parents and Aunt Gertrude were already asleep.

  As they headed up to bed, Frank whispered to Joe, “What a day. Corrine nearly got killed by a runaway cycle. Then there was the office burglary. And finally, the fire at the party.” He paused for a minute. “Think it may be more than coincidence?”

  Joe nodded. “Yeah. Let’s not forget the wallets and other things that went missing during the confusion. A fire is a pretty handy distraction for a pickpocket.”

  “Right,” said Frank. “Good thing the SD5 was too big to smuggle out of the club under someone’s coat.”

  “We’ll really have to keep our eyes peeled during this race,” Joe commented. “Otherwise, Corri may never get that rehab she needs.”

  • • •

  Early the next morning, the brothers headed out to the Fernandez dirt track. They’d been assigned a “garage” space—which was more like a medium-sized storage locker in a big, metal building near the race track. Once there, they took some time to tune up their bikes.

  “We should take these out more often,” Joe said. “I really like riding. Remember that time we rode down Bay Road to that house by the cliffs?”

  “That was an adventure,” Frank agreed. “Seems like ages ago.”

  “I know,” Joe said. “Sometimes I feel like we’ve been solving mysteries for the better part of a century. Let’s hope we don’t have to do much detecting during the races, though. We’ll need to concentrate to have any chance of winning.”

  “We’re lucky that contestants are limited to 125 cc engines,” Frank said. “Otherwise, the more experienced racers would completely outclass us.” He finished tightening a spark plug.

  The roar of a motorcycle engine caught their attention as Jamal rode up. “I don’t know whether you guys are early birds or late risers,” he said.

  “How come?” Joe asked.

  “Well, you got here before I did,” Jamal said, “so you’re early. On the other hand, you’re still working on your bikes, and the events are nearly ready to start.”

  “You tuned up your bike at home?” Frank deduced.

  “Yep,” Jamal said. “She’s purring like a kitten.”

  “Home tune-ups were out for us,” Joe said.

  “Unless we wanted Aunt Gertrude hovering around while we worked,” Frank added. “And we definitely didn’t. She’s worried about us competing.”

  “I hear you,” Jamal said. “I’m glad my dad is so cool about this kind of thing.”

  “Well, he runs an air taxi service,” Joe said, “which isn’t the safest profession in the world.”

  “We’ve had a few scrapes over the years,” Jamal admitted, “but we’ve always come out on top.” He got off his bike and helped the brothers make a few final adjustments. “They told you I was sharing your garage, right?” he asked. “Three to a ‘cubbyhole’ in this place.”

  “There are a lot more racers than they usually have, I guess,” Frank said.

  “Well, at least we all know one another,” Jamal said. “Some of the other racers are working elbow to elbow with people they either don’t know or don’t like.”

  “Who are Amber Hawk and Ed Henderson sharing with?” Frank asked.

  “Are you kidding?” Jamal replied. “The big names don’t have to share with anyone.”

  “One of the perks of being a big name,” Joe noted.

  “I bet their sponsors are paying for that privilege, though,” Frank said.

  “Let’s hope,” Jamal said. “The Fernandezes can use all the dough they can get. Especially after last night. The VFW is griping about their insurance company not wanting to pay for the fire damage.”

  “Well, that stinks,” Joe said. “What are insurance companies for if they don’t pay for accidents?”

  “Was it an accident, though?” Frank asked rhetorically.

  “Leave that to the police and concentrate on your riding,” Jam
al said. “I saw Ed Henderson working out earlier. He’ll be tough to beat. Acrobatics are his specialty.”

  “I just hope to stay on my bike!” Joe said.

  “We haven’t had much time to practice,” Frank admitted. “And we don’t have a change of seats, like I’ve heard some riders do.”

  “It’s true. A custom seat can make doing aerobatic stunts much easier,” Jamal said.

  “Come on,” Frank said, wiping down his bike one last time. “Let’s get out to the track. The opening ceremonies are starting pretty soon.”

  As Corri had told them, the whoopdedoos had been turned into larger hills for the day’s event. The earthworks weren’t as tall as they would have been for a contest of pure acrobatics, but they were much taller than the bumps on the usual dirt motocross track. The whole Speedway looked as though it were covered with monstrous anthills.

  On their way to the course, the boys ran into Mr. Fernandez chatting with the contestants before the race. “Good luck today,” he said to Marissa Hayday as he headed toward the Hardys and Jamal.

  “Thanks,” Marissa replied. “Good luck to you, too. I hope you make a lot of money.” She turned and walked over to two girls whom the Hardys figured must be her sisters.

  “I’m glad she decided to ride,” Jamal said.

  “Me too,” Mr. Fernandez said, smiling. “Let’s hope last night’s incident is the last of our troubles.”

  “Do the police have any ideas about what caused the fire?” Frank asked.

  “They can’t be sure yet, but they’re thinking someone might have deliberately set it,” Pops replied. “Most of the wallets and watches that went missing never turned up.”

  “So they’re thinking this was some kind of robbery,” Joe said.

  “I hope the media play it that way,” Pops said, “rather than as trouble with the benefit. If we’re lucky, today’s race will turn the publicity bandwagon around. No one’s ever done a competition like this before. And the acrobatic-aerobatic Mixed Freestyle is absolutely unique in the history of motocross. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get up to the announcing stand. See you at the start of the race.”