The Giant Rat of Sumatra

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Contents

  * * *

  1. Joe Plays a Part

  2. Backstage Battle

  3. Set to Fall

  4. The Sign of the Hanged Man

  5. The Dangling Clue

  6. Danger in the Fog

  7. The Fog Thickens

  8. Moriarty’s Curse

  9. Left Hanging

  10. Crossed Circuits

  11. A Deadly Merry-Go-Round

  12. Sherlock Gets His Man

  13. A Shot in the Dark

  14. A Message from the Beyond

  15. The Game’s Afoot

  1 Joe Plays a Part

  * * *

  “Ready for a game of hoops?” Frank Hardy asked his younger brother, Joe, who was galloping down the stairs.

  “I’m always ready,” Joe said as he sat on the last step and tightened the laces of his hightops. “The question is, are you ready for me?”

  “Face it,” Frank said to Joe, who at seventeen was a year younger, “everything you know, you learned from me.”

  As the boys started down the hall, Frank saw that the door to their father’s study was ajar.

  “Dad?” Frank said, putting his head in the doorway. “We’ll be—Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you had a visitor.”

  “Come on in, Frank,” Fenton Hardy said, getting up from his desk. “You, too, Joe. I’d like you to meet Donald O’Lunny.”

  O’Lunny was a man of medium height with a short-cropped gray beard and a deep tan. He was wearing neatly creased jeans and a maroon turtleneck. He stood up and put out his hand.

  Frank’s eyes widened. “O’Lunny? Didn’t you write that new musical about Sherlock Holmes?” he asked as they shook hands. “The Giant Rat of Sumatra.”

  O’Lunny smiled. “That’s right. Are you and your brother theater fans?”

  Joe brushed back his blond hair. “Well, not really,” he admitted. “But we’re crazy about anything that involves mysteries and detectives. And the title is so cool.”

  “Besides,” Frank added, “Dad invited us to come with him to the performance tonight.”

  “I was just telling Donald about some of the cases you two have cracked,” Fenton said.

  Fenton Hardy, a famous private detective, had enlisted the help of his two sons on many tough cases. It had been natural for Frank and Joe to start investigating crimes and solving mysteries on their own. Though they were still teenagers, the brothers had become quite skilled at detective work.

  “I’m impressed with your father’s account of your exploits,” O’Lunny told them. He smiled. “Maybe I’ll base my next musical on your careers—if there is a next one.”

  “What do you mean?” Frank asked.

  “Donald seems to have a problem,” Fenton said. “He came to ask me if I could help. Unfortunately, the case I’m on now is taking me to Seattle first thing in the morning. I suggested that you two might be able to give him a hand.”

  “What’s the matter?” Frank asked. He and Joe settled on the couch and gave the man their full attention.

  “I wish I could tell you,” O’Lunny said. “It’s more a mood than anything. I’ve come to expect things to go wrong with a new production. But this is something else entirely. I hate to say it, but I believe that somebody is deliberately trying to wreck my play.”

  “Who would want to do that?” Frank asked.

  “I wish I knew,” O’Lunny replied, sighing in exasperation. “Like most people, I’ve made a few enemies over the years. But I can’t think of anybody who has it in for me to this extent. It’s driving me crazy.”

  O’Lunny looked from Frank to Joe. “I’d like to have somebody from the outside, somebody with the eye of a detective, take a good look around. What do you say?”

  Frank glanced over at Joe.

  “Why not?” Joe said.

  “Okay,” Frank said. “But we’ll need to spend a lot of time around the theater, and we’ll need a good excuse for doing it.”

  O’Lunny nodded. “I was just thinking about that. I’m acting as co-producer as well as author. What I suggest is that I introduce one of you as my new personal assistant. As for the other . . . well, do you have any objection to performing onstage? Does either one of you have an interest in theater?”

  Joe sat up in his seat. “Acting, you mean? Yeah! That’s for me.”

  “Do you know about the Baker Street Irregulars?” O’Lunny continued. “They’re a bunch of street kids who help Sherlock Holmes in his cases. I think I can convince my director that we need one more of them in the play than we thought.”

  The look of eagerness on Joe’s face made Frank choke back a laugh. “I think Joe’s just right for the part,” Frank said, grinning. “As for me, I’d rather work offstage.”

  O’Lunny put out his hand again. “Welcome to the cast, Joe,” he said. After glancing at his watch, he added, “I’d better get you over to the theater. You’ll have a lot to do before tonight’s curtain goes up.”

  “I’m ready,” Joe said quickly. He took a step toward the door.

  “Should I come, too?” Frank asked.

  O’Lunny stroked his beard. “Maybe not,” he said slowly. “If I bring both of you in at the same time, people might get suspicious. I’ll spread the word that I have a new assistant starting tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll count on Joe to fill me in on whatever he finds out,” Frank said. He grinned at his brother and said, “You know what they say in show business, Joe. . . . Break a leg!”

  • • •

  As Joe rode down Bayport’s Main Street with O’Lunny, he found himself looking at the old Orpheum Theater in a new way. Soon he’d be acting on its stage.

  O’Lunny parked his little sports coupe in back of the theater, and he and Joe got out. Joe followed O’Lunny up a short flight of metal stairs and through the stage entrance.

  After the bright sunlight, the gloomy backstage area seemed pitch-black. Joe stopped short. Up ahead, about thirty feet away, light spilled from the stage itself. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Joe followed the silhouette of O’Lunny toward the lit area. They stopped just offstage, in the wings.

  A woman and two men were onstage, singing a bouncy song in harmony. As his foot started tapping, Joe strained to follow the words:

  “Kippers and eggs, kippers and eggs,

  Give hope to your heart and spring to your legs.

  Come morning, each Englishman wakes up and begs

  For a jolly big breakfast of kippers and eggs!”

  “How do you like it?” O’Lunny whispered.

  “Terrific,” Joe replied. He looked past him at the singers. One of the men was tall and thin, with a glittering eye and a hook nose. The other was short and stout, with a round face and a bushy mustache. Joe had no trouble guessing that the tall man was playing Sherlock Holmes and the short one was Dr. Watson. The woman had gray hair, pulled back in a bun. Joe figured she was playing Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper.

  When the song ended, the three actors walked over to the far side of the stage and started talking to the rehearsal pianist. A woman with long black hair and Asian features joined them.

  “That’s Charles Battenberg playing Holmes,” O’Lunny said. “And Ewan Gordean as Watson. Celia Hatteras is Mrs. Hudson. Fine actors, all of them. We were lucky to have them here.”

  Joe mentally repeated the names to himself: Battenberg, Gordean, Hatteras. He wanted to take notes, but he wasn’t sure it would fit with his cover. “Who is the woman they’re talking to?” he asked.

  “Li Wei, our composer,” O’Lunny told him. “I’ll introduce you when she’s done going over her notes with the actors. Oh, good. There’s Gilbert Hornby, our producer and director. Gilbert�
�over here!” he called.

  The man who came toward them was over six feet tall but walked with his head bent forward. His wavy gray hair didn’t seem to fit with the thick black eyebrows that almost met in the middle.

  After introductions were made, O’Lunny told Gilbert Hornby that Joe would be one of the Irregulars.

  Hornby raised his eyebrows. “A new cast member on the day the play opens?” he said. “That’s pretty irregular.”

  O’Lunny laughed at the pun and said, “I think the group looks too small now. Joe will fill it out nicely.”

  “Fine, fine,” Hornby said, glancing around. “I’ll get someone to show him the ropes. Susanna?”

  A blond girl of about sixteen joined them. Hornby introduced the actor to Joe. She listened to Hornby’s explanation, then smiled and said, “Hi, Joe. Welcome to the funny farm. I hope you’re as crazed as the rest of us. You’ll never survive otherwise.”

  Hornby took O’Lunny by the elbow and led him away, talking in an undertone.

  “Opening night jitters, I guess,” Susanna said, watching the men walk off. “We’ve all got them. Come on—I’ll take you to meet the gang.”

  “What part do you play?” Joe asked, as they walked down a dark narrow hallway.

  “I’m Alice, the Rat’s daughter,” Susanna said.

  Joe looked perplexed. “Isn’t the giant rat an enormous jungle rodent in Southeast Asia?” he asked.

  Susanna laughed. “Nobody knows what the Giant Rat is. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had Watson mention it in the story ‘The Sussex Vampire.’ But Conan Doyle never wrote a book about the Giant Rat. He was teasing his readers, so anyone can have fun imagining what the Giant Rat was. I guess you haven’t read O’Lunny’s script yet.”

  Joe shook his head, and Susanna took a deep breath before explaining the plot. “Okay, the Giant Rat—that’s my dad—used to live in Sumatra. He’s now the boss of a gang of criminals in London’s East End, during Queen Victoria’s day. He has a grand plan for a crime spree, but he’s afraid that it will be foiled by Sherlock Holmes. So he sets a trap for Holmes. But Alice—that’s me—has a crush on Charles, the leader of the Baker Street Irregulars. So when she finds out what her father has planned, she sends a secret warning to Holmes.”

  Joe looked stunned.

  Susanna flashed him a smile. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch on.” She pushed open a door at the end of the hall. On the other side was a big room lit by a ceiling fixture with bare bulbs. It had only two small high windows with bars on them. A couple of battered sofas, a dozen mismatched chairs, and a long scarred dining room table made the room look even shabbier. A counter at the far end held a beat-up coffee maker and paper cups.

  “This is the greenroom,” Susanna said. “It might have been pretty comfortable back in the days of vaudeville.”

  A young man who was slouched on one of the sofas, reading a magazine, looked up. “Hey, Susanna,” he said. “Who’s your friend?”

  Susanna told him Joe’s name and added, “He’s joining the Irregulars, as of tonight. Orders from on high. Joe, meet Hector Arenas. He plays Charles, the fearless leader of the Irregulars. He’ll give you the moves.”

  Hector stood up. He gave Joe the once-over, then asked, “Had much stage experience?”

  “Well, I’ve been in some school plays,” Joe said.

  “Oh, terrific—a novice,” Hector said. “Don’t tell me . . . your sister’s married to Hornby’s cousin’s hairdresser.”

  Joe folded his arms in front of his chest and gazed levelly at Hector. The guy obviously thought Joe had some connections that got him the role, and he seemed to resent it.

  “Never mind,” Hector said. “You don’t have that much to do. You can’t make things much worse than they are already.”

  He headed toward the door. “Come on, Joe,” he said. “We’ll let Martha, the wardrobe mistress, get a look at you. Then Susanna and I can show you what to do and when to do it. I hope you catch on fast. The curtain goes up in about five hours.”

  • • •

  At seven-fifteen, Joe left the theater by the stage door and walked around to the front to meet his family. His brain was swirling with entrances, exits, lines, and cues. Would he remember it all? He hoped so. If the worst happened, he would simply watch Hector and do what he did.

  Frank was already in front of the theater, along with a small crowd. His brown eyes scanned the theatergoers until he spotted Joe. Approaching his brother, Frank said, “You look wiped.”

  “You said it,” Joe replied. “I don’t know why they call these things plays. Being in one is hard work, not play. Where’s everyone else?”

  “Mom and Dad will be right along,” Frank said. “Aunt Gertrude decided to stay home. She said she has better ways to spend an evening than to watch a play about rats.”

  “She’s going to miss my off-Broadway debut?” Joe said. “I’m crushed!”

  Frank chuckled and said, “So—did you get anywhere with the case?”

  Joe said, “I think so. O’Lunny’s right about the mood around here. Everyone’s tense and nervous and expecting some kind of disaster. And Battenberg seems to be the focus of a lot of attention. He’s the guy who plays Holmes. He acts as if he’s suspicious of everybody. I don’t know why yet. Maybe during the performance—”

  Frank and Joe’s parents hurried up just then. “Joe!” Laura Hardy exclaimed. “I can’t believe that my own son is going to perform in a Broadway musical. But shouldn’t you be backstage, getting into your costume?”

  “I’m not on until the middle of the second act,” Joe explained. “So I came out to be with you.”

  Fenton scanned the crowd filing through the doors, then looked at his wrist. “Why don’t we take our seats?” he suggested. “We can talk inside.”

  As they crossed the lobby, Joe noticed a group of people leaving the auditorium with angry faces. Joe recognized Arnold Hausner, Bayport’s deputy mayor. What had happened to make him so upset?

  An usher took the Hardys’ tickets and led them down the center aisle to Row L. Then she stopped abruptly, a confused look on her face. The row was full. She glanced at the tickets again, then studied them closely.

  Turning to Fenton, the usher said, “I’m sorry, sir. Would you mind coming with me to the manager’s office?”

  “Is something wrong?” Fenton asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the usher replied. “I’m afraid so. Your tickets are duplicates. They’re no good.”

  2 Backstage Battle

  * * *

  “What do you mean, our tickets are no good?” Frank said in amazement. “That’s impossible!” People already seated were turning to stare. Frank had an impulse to pull his jacket up over his head, like some guy being arrested on the evening news.

  Laura Hardy took Frank’s arm and led him back up the aisle. “I’m sure your father can handle this,” she said.

  Joe and his father were right behind them. Fenton took his cue from his wife and said to the usher, “There must be some mistake. We’re here as guests of Donald O’Lunny, the man who wrote the play. I can’t believe that he would give us worthless tickets instead of house seats.”

  Joe knew that house seats were always available to friends of the actors and other people connected with a play.

  “Yes, sir,” the usher said, her face stony. Frank realized that the Hardys were not the only people who’d been given the wrong seats. The others with the angry faces who he’d seen leaving the auditorium had also had problems. No wonder the usher was so cold. She was in a terrible position. What could have happened?

  “I’m sure the manager will clear this up,” the usher said politely. “If you’ll come with me, please?”

  Fenton rolled his eyes. “Oh, well. Mistakes happen, I guess. Let’s see if we can straighten this one out.”

  The Hardys followed the usher across the lobby. An unhappy crowd had gathered near the door to the manager’s office. A man in a tuxedo stood with his back to the door. He was
being bombarded with angry comments and questions. His forehead gleamed with sweat.

  “This is an outrage,” a stout man in a dark suit proclaimed. “Do you know who I am?”

  “This is Judge Meagher,” the young woman next to him said. “He was personally invited to the opening night by the producer, Mr. Hornby.”

  “I’m sure there’s some explanation for the mix-up,” the man in the tuxedo said. Then, with obvious relief, he added, “Ah—here are Mr. Hornby and Mr. O’Lunny now. They’ll clear this up.”

  The tall gray-haired man with O’Lunny eased through to the front of the crowd. Frank realized that he had to be Hornby, the producer.

  Hornby held up his hands, palms outward. Slowly, the muttering died away. In a raised voice, he said, “I’d like to apologize to all of you. I’m sure you’ve heard this excuse before, but in this case there really does seem to have been a computer error.”

  A few people laughed sympathetically. Someone behind Frank muttered, “Yeah, sure. And the check’s in the mail.”

  “We’re doing everything we can to set matters straight,” Hornby continued. “Our wonderfully gifted playwright, Donald O’Lunny, is here to tell you about that. Donald?”

  O’Lunny looked and sounded flustered. “Yes, well . . .” he began. “We’re holding the curtain while we try to sort this out. We hope that we have enough unsold seats to accommodate all of you. And in any case, you’ll also receive complimentary tickets to a later performance.”

  The man behind Frank murmured, “If there is one.”

  “We’d also like to invite you all to join the company after the show for a champagne reception here in the lobby,” O’Lunny concluded.

  A look of surprise flashed across Hornby’s face. The reception must have been a spur-of-the-moment idea by O’Lunny. Judging by the reaction of the crowd, it was a good one. Most of the angry looks faded, replaced by a chattering eagerness to see the show.

  O’Lunny caught Frank’s eye and nodded. Then he started moving toward the edge of the crowd.

  “Come on,” Frank whispered to Joe. They went up to O’Lunny, who took them by the elbows and led them to an empty corner of the lobby.