The Giant Rat of Sumatra

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Two or three, if you can spare them,” Frank replied. He took the bags and rejoined Joe and O’Lunny. With his pocketknife, he carefully scraped some of the white paint into one of the bags, then sealed it.

  “Those spray cans spatter a lot,” Frank explained to O’Lunny. “We’ll be watching for specks of white paint on people’s clothes. If we find them, we’ll be able to compare the chemical composition of the spots with the graffiti.”

  “Yes, I see,” O’Lunny said. “What I don’t see is how you’re going to scrape paint spots off someone’s clothes without being noticed.”

  Joe grinned and said, “We’ll manage. One handy thing about actors is that they change into costumes and leave their own clothes behind in the dressing room.”

  “By the way,” Frank said, “can you let us into the office? We’d like to try solving the mystery of those duplicate tickets.”

  “Of course,” O’Lunny replied. “Come with me. I’ll just warn Tomas that you’ll be in there. We don’t want him trying to arrest you a second time in one night.”

  The Hardys followed O’Lunny to an unmarked door next to the costume room and waited while he unlocked it.

  The cubicle on the other side of the door was just big enough for a couple of chairs, a filing cabinet, and a desk that held a computer, a telephone, and an answering machine.

  “This is just makeshift, of course,” O’Lunny explained. “We took over this room for the duration of our run in Bayport. The real office is in New York. Do you know how to operate this sort of computer? It’s pretty old-fashioned, I’m afraid.”

  “Sure,” Joe said, sitting down at the keyboard. He booted up, waited for the memory check to finish, and called up a directory of files on the hard disk. “I’ll need the password,” he added.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know it,” O’Lunny said. “I never use this machine. Maybe it’s written down somewhere.”

  Frank looked through each drawer of the desk, then took the drawer out to check behind it. Joe turned over the keyboard and the mouse pad. No luck.

  O’Lunny looked at his watch and said, “Listen, fellows, I have to go. First thing tomorrow, I’ll get the password from Mila—the woman who manages the office—and let you know what it is.”

  “We’ll stay a little longer,” Joe said. “There are still a few tricks we can try.”

  After the door had closed behind O’Lunny, Frank turned to Joe and said, “What kinds of tricks? Punching in groups of random letters and hoping one of them works? I’d rather invest my savings in lottery tickets. The odds are better.”

  “The reason most people write down their computer passwords is because they’re afraid they’ll forget them,” Joe said.

  Frank rolled his eyes. “No, duh! So?”

  Joe smiled. “So if they don’t write it down, it’s because they’re not afraid of forgetting it. In other words, it’s something obvious.”

  “Brilliant theory, Joe,” Frank said, “but I’m going to need proof.”

  “Simple,” Joe said. He turned to the computer and clicked on a directory. A box appeared on the screen, demanding the password. He typed something and hit Return. Nothing happened. He typed again. Still nothing. He scratched his neck a moment, then made a third try.

  The box disappeared, replaced by a list of files.

  “Bingo!” Joe exclaimed.

  “That’s the password? Bingo?” Frank asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Joe replied. “First I tried Sumatra. I didn’t bother with Rat because it’s too short. Then I tried Holmes. And when that didn’t work, I tried—”

  “Sherlock!” Frank said. “My brother, the genius,” he added.

  Joe feinted a left to Frank’s midsection. Frank blocked it.

  Turning back to the screen, Joe studied it. “Let’s see . . . CONTRCTS, SUPPLIER, BROADWAY, INSURNCE . . . It sure would be easier if these names could have more than eight letters in them. Okay, here we go—COMPTIX.”

  The subdirectory contained a database file, with the names and addresses of people who were supposed to get complimentary tickets, and a program in BASIC to generate and send the tickets. Joe opened the program. Then he and Frank got down to the demanding task of working out exactly what the program did.

  After twenty minutes hunched over the screen, Frank straightened up. Pointing to one set of commands, he said, “Look, Joe. So far the program selected unsold seats, printed tickets for them, assigned the seats to people on the comp list, and printed cover letters.”

  “That all sounds okay,” Joe said.

  Frank nodded. “Right. But now these lines of code here send a message back to the ticket-sales program saying that those seats are still unsold. So the computer goes right ahead and sells them again. No wonder there were already people in those places when the VIPs showed up!”

  “I guess you’re right,” Joe said. “But wait a minute. Couldn’t it just be a dumb mistake? After all, the seats weren’t sold. They’d been given away.”

  “Possible,” Frank conceded. “Unlikely, though. An earlier subroutine had already marked the places as unavailable. Why go back and change that . . . unless you were deliberately setting out to create a mess?”

  Joe said, “I see your point. So our trickster is somebody who has access to this computer, who knows the password, and who can program in BASIC, which isn’t as common as it used to be a few years ago. It shouldn’t be hard to figure out who it is, just by a process of elimination.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Frank replied. “It looks a little too easy. I can’t believe our bad guy is that careless. I’ve got a feeling that we still have a few surprises in store for us.”

  • • •

  After breakfast the next morning, Joe and Frank drove downtown to the Orpheum. They parked the car in a lot and walked back to the theater. The stage door was unlocked. No one was at the watchman’s desk.

  “Not the greatest security,” Joe remarked. “Anybody could walk into this place and do anything he wanted.”

  They walked down the hall to the office. The door wasn’t locked, but the room was empty. On the screen of the computer, rows of pink pigs with wings flew slowly from one side to the other.

  “Hi,” a voice said from behind them. “Can I help you?”

  Joe and Frank turned. The speaker was a young woman with a long dark brown ponytail and striking blue eyes. She was wearing jeans and a purple knit shirt, and she had a ballpoint pen tucked behind her left ear. Joe thought she looked like a college student . . . probably a theater major.

  Joe introduced himself and Frank.

  “Oh, sure, I heard about you guys,” she said. “I’m Mila. I’m sort of in charge of the office.”

  “That sounds like a big job,” Frank said. “You handle the accounts and ticket sales and everything, all by yourself?”

  Mila laughed. “I may be great, but I’m not that great! The box office is a separate operation, and so is payroll and so on. What I handle here is stuff like rehearsal schedules, promotion, and business. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  “Did you hear about the mix-up with the complimentary tickets last night?” Frank asked. “Mr. O’Lunny asked me to find out how it happened. What was it, some sort of computer error?”

  Mila’s face fell. “I wish I knew,” she said. “I use the computer all the time. But whenever something messes up, I have to shout for help. Luckily, one of the cast member’s an expert.”

  Keeping his voice casual, Joe asked, “Oh? Who’s that?”

  “Hector Arenas,” Mila replied. “When he’s between roles, he works as a programmer.”

  “Hector? The guy who plays the leader of the Irregulars,” Joe asked. “The one Susanna is supposed to be in love with?”

  Mila nodded.

  Before Joe and Frank could ask any more questions, Hornby arrived. He looked at the Hardys in surprise, his eyes bloodshot with circles under them, but he didn’t say anything. He set his briefcase on the table and p
ulled a roll of antacid tablets from his pocket. After chewing one, he said, “Mila, there are a few details I need to go over with you. Will you fellows excuse us?”

  “Sure. See you later,” Joe said. As he and Frank walked down the hall, he added in an undertone, “So Hector’s a professional programmer. And if he helps Mila with the computer, it’s a good bet that he knows the password.”

  Frank frowned. “I know. We should be careful not to jump to conclusions, but it looks as if we’d better keep a close eye on Hector.”

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later rehearsals started. Joe and Frank watched from the wings. Hector was standing half a dozen feet away, waiting for his entrance cue. Susanna was onstage alone.

  The rehearsal pianist played the introductory passage to Susanna’s song. Susanna took a deep breath and opened her mouth. Joe knew the verses well, and waited for the first line.

  But what came out instead was a horrified scream.

  When Joe saw what had terrorized Susanna, his stomach twisted into a knot. The tweed-clad body of Sherlock Holmes was plummeting toward the stage. It jerked to a stop, then swayed in midair. A hangman’s noose was pulled tightly around its neck, and the head dangled lifelessly.

  6 Danger in the Fog

  * * *

  Frozen in fear, Susanna stared up at the body, the blood drained from her face. Frank and Joe immediately sprinted out onto the stage.

  Hector was ahead of them. He reached Susanna, put his arm around her shoulders, and walked her away from the awful sight.

  Hornby came running out from the wings. Over the confused shouts and screams, the producer called out, “It’s all right! It’s only a dummy!”

  Frank stared up. Under the deerstalker cap, facial features were merely sketched on flesh-colored cloth. But the rest—the body, arms, and legs—still looked convincing.

  More and more people came crowding out onto the stage. Most of them stood gaping in disbelief. Hornby, looking irritated, turned toward the wings. “Bettina, get that thing down, will you?” he shouted to the stage manager, a woman with short blond hair. A moment later one of the stagehands went scampering up a ladder to the catwalk.

  The dummy started to descend slowly. Frank moved closer, ready to help catch it. Joe was next to him. The dummy’s feet were almost level with Frank’s head before he spotted a thin transparent line tied to one of the ankles.

  Joe saw it, too. “Monofilament fish line,” he murmured. “It’s made of nylon—thin, strong, and practically invisible. I used some a couple of months ago to hang a picture.”

  Frank reached up and caught the line in his hand. From the dummy’s leg, it stretched toward the side of the stage at just above head height. Keeping his hand closed around it, Frank followed it across the stage. The other end was tied to a pipe offstage.

  “What are you doing, Frank?” It was O’Lunny, looking more worried than ever.

  Frank showed him the nylon line. “All our joker had to do was give it a yank, and that dummy came tumbling down,” he explained. “But where did he get the dummy in the first place?”

  “It’s from a scene we cut in rehearsal,” O’Lunny said. “We decided that having a body dangle over the stage on a rope was a cheap effect. Obviously, somebody doesn’t mind cheap effects.”

  Frank looked around. “Whoever did it had to be somewhere under the fishing line at the right moment,” he said. “But it wouldn’t have taken more than a couple of seconds to reach up and pull the line. What gets me mad is that Joe and I were standing just a few feet away. But we were watching Susanna. I don’t know why I can’t remember who was standing in this area. I should.”

  “Don’t be so tough on yourself. You can’t be looking everywhere at once,” O’Lunny said.

  Onstage the murmur of voices grew louder and angrier. O’Lunny glanced over his shoulder and groaned.

  “Uh-oh—Charles is on the warpath again,” he said. “Come on, Frank. We’d better see if I can smooth his ruffled feathers.”

  As Frank and O’Lunny joined the crowd in the middle of the stage, Battenberg announced, “That dummy was meant to represent me. The assault on it was the same as an assault on me.”

  One of the chorus members near Frank muttered, “Don’t we wish.”

  “Now, now, Charles,” Hornby said. “It was just somebody’s idea of a joke, that’s all.”

  “It was a deliberate menace,” Battenberg retorted. He reached down and grabbed the strand of monofilament. “And look at this. Nylon fishing line. I can’t say I’m surprised. We all know which member of the cast is an ardent fisherman, don’t we?”

  Everyone turned to look at Ewan Gordean.

  Gordean’s cheeks turned dark red. “Preposterous,” he snorted. He sounded more than ever like Frank’s idea of Dr. Watson. “Utter nonsense! Really, Charles, you’ve gone too far this time.”

  Battenberg raised one eyebrow. “Indeed?” he said. “Do you deny that you are so besotted with fishing that you keep your rod and tackle in your dressing room? Are you trying to tell us that you never use nylon line of this sort?”

  “Certainly I keep my fishing gear near at hand,” Gordean said cooly. “That way, I can relax any time I get a break from working with you. And every fisherman I know uses monofilament leader. I bought a new spool of it only a few days ago.”

  “So, you admit it!” Battenberg trumpeted.

  Gordean gave him a look of disdain. He said, “Think back a few minutes, Charles . . . if your faculties can handle anything that complicated. When that dummy fell, we were both on the other side of the stage. I was standing right next to you. Whoever made it fall, it certainly wasn’t me . . . and you’re my best witness to that.”

  Battenberg raised his right hand, with his forefinger pointing toward the ceiling. “Aha!” he exclaimed, glaring at Gordean. “That proves it! You contrived to be next to me, while one of your minions did the dirty work. Just as I thought—there’s a conspiracy afoot! But I’ll see to it that you don’t succeed.”

  Someone near Frank said in a stage whisper, “Uh-oh—the Woodchuck’s on the warpath again.”

  A burst of laughter was quickly suppressed. Frank worked out the wordplay. “Chuck” was a nickname for Charles, and “Wood” was a comment on his acting. Clever, Frank thought, as he stole a glance over his shoulder and saw that Will Robertson had made the joke. Gordean’s friend and Battenberg’s understudy . . . and one of the Hardys’ main suspects for the role of saboteur.

  O’Lunny went up to Battenberg, put his hand on his shoulder, and spoke quietly in his ear. Then he did the same to Gordean. After a pause, the two stars of the show walked off the stage—in opposite directions.

  “All right, we’re going on with the rehearsal,” Hornby announced. “Susanna, we’ll come back to your scene in a little while. Why don’t we run through the scene in the warehouse when Will and Jonathan have their fight?”

  Bettina walked into the middle of the crowd. Raising her voice, she said, “Clear the stage, please. All except openers for Act Three, Scene Two.”

  Frank and Joe left the stage right behind Hector and Susanna. Frank saw a chance to find out more about Hector. The actor had the programming skills to mess up the ticket program. But what about motive? Did he have any reason to want the play to fail?

  With Joe right behind him, Frank picked up his pace and drew level with the two young actors.

  “Hi,” Frank said. “It’s never dull around here, is it?”

  Susanna made a wry face. “After the last fifteen minutes, I could use a little dullness,” she said. “I really thought Charles was committing suicide, right there in front of me.”

  The four went into the green room. Three other Irregulars were sprawled on chairs with cans of soda in their hands. They looked up and waved to the new arrivals.

  “These so-called accidents,” Joe remarked, trying to strike up a conversation with the cast. “It’s starting to look like somebody has it in for Battenberg.”

>   “Or for the whole show,” Frank added. “I don’t know how you guys can keep your morale up, with all that’s been happening.”

  From beside the coffee urn, Hector said, “It’s not easy. But what keeps us going is that we know we’ve got a great show and a great cast. All we need to become a gigantic hit is a few little breaks. And we’re going to get the breaks we need. Just wait and see.”

  “I hope so,” Frank said sincerely, wondering what Hector meant about the breaks. Was he part of the conspiracy? Frank sat down on the couch next to Susanna.

  Joe dragged a folding chair over near them and sat down. “I’m no expert, but I think you’ve got a really terrific Holmes,” he said.

  The statement was met with tense silence. “Charles is a good actor,” Hector finally said, in a neutral voice.

  “Oh, come on,” one of the Irregulars said. “You know Will would be a lot better in the part. You said so yourself, just a couple of days ago.”

  Hector’s cheeks darkened. “That was before last night, Max. You have to admit, Charles performs better in front of an audience than in rehearsal.”

  “But is his performance worth a million?” another Irregular asked skeptically.

  Joe’s eyes widened. “A million dollars? Battenberg isn’t being paid that kind of money, is he?”

  Susanna laughed. “No, of course not. This is the theater, not the movies. Max is just talking about a silly rumor. According to Mila, who works in the office, the production company bought a key person insurance policy on Charles. Supposedly the policy pays a million dollars if anything happens to him. Me, I don’t believe it. I think it was either a publicity stunt or a ploy to make him feel more important.”

  “Which is about as necessary as making a London fog feel foggier,” Hector said, with a wry smile.

  “The next scene has fog,” Joe told Frank. “From a machine.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Frank said. He turned to Susanna and asked, “What’s with Battenberg and Gordean? Why are they always at each other?”