Final Cut

by Franklin W. Dixon

  "Headcase, what is that thing? What are you doing?" asked Joe.

  "Don't look at me," Headcase whispered back. "This is a shotgun mike with a parabolic reflector. It'll pick up a whisper fifty feet away if it's aimed right - Ah, got it!"

  Frank was amazed. "You mean you're listening in on - "

  Shhh! Not now, Frank, I'm concentrating. Well, look who's here!" Headcase said.

  The thin man had returned, bringing J. F. Graham with him.

  After a few minutes of careful listening, Headcase announced to Frank and Joe, "We have a problem here. The film from yesterday's shooting went to a local lab for processing, and they've ruined it. That's a day's work blown - bad news on our schedule. They've decided to air-express all the film from now on to a lab in Los Angeles - at least until they know what went wrong here. Okay, guys, you can relax."

  Frank stared at the long-haired sound man. "Do you listen in on private conversations often?"

  Headcase looked offended. "Hey, what's the big deal? I mean, I'm not blackmailing people or anything! I just like to keep track of what's going on."

  "What if you get caught?" asked Joe.

  Headcase grinned. "So far I haven't been."

  "But if you did?" persisted Joe.

  Headcase shrugged. "With my skills, I'd have no trouble finding another line of work."

  "What other kind of work?" Frank wondered.

  "Oh, I'm pretty good at putting together all kinds of electronic goodies," said Headcase.

  Joe shook his head. "Well, it's your business, I guess."

  "Frank! Joe! Can we see you, please?"

  Jerry Morrall was signaling them to join him, Mel Clifford, J. F. Graham, and the thin man.

  "These are our new production assistants, gentlemen," Morrall said. "Frank and Joe Hardy. Boys, this is Mel Clifford, who runs Bayport Studios, and this is Mr. J. F. Graham, who recommended that you be given jobs here."

  Graham smiled. "You're both interested in television production?"

  "Yes, sir," Frank replied.

  "Getting more interested every minute," said Joe.

  "Splendid!" Graham said. He nodded to the thin man, who nodded back and left quietly. "I think these two young men are just the ones to help us with our problem."

  "Us? How can we help?" Frank asked.

  Jerry Morrall answered. "All the film we shoot today has to be rushed to the airport to be flown air-express to L.A. You guys know your way around here, right?"

  Graham cleared his throat and said, 'I'd better be running along. Nice to meet you, boys." Then he was gone.

  The brothers looked over at Alvin, still leaning back in his chair. "What about him?" Joe wanted to know. "Isn't this his kind of job?"

  "Alvin?" Morrall said. "Oh, no, we have to keep him here in case one of the actors needs to be driven back to the hotel. Well, can you handle this? We'll send Trish along to look after the film itself."

  Joe's face brightened. "It'll be a snap. Right, Frank?"

  "Like he says," Frank agreed, "no problem."

  ***

  Shooting ended a few hours later, and the Hardys met Trish at the stage door, carrying a big stack of film cans.

  "Can I give you a hand with that?" Joe said. He took the cans from her, getting a grateful smile from the girl.

  "How far is it to the airport?" asked Trish, jogging to keep up with the boys.

  Frank shrugged. "Maybe twenty-five miles."

  "That plane leaves in forty-five minutes," said Trish. "Can we make it?"

  "No sweat," Frank assured her, opening the side door to their van, a black beauty with a powerful customized engine. Soon they were on a hilly road, which wrapped itself ribbonlike around some tight curves as it rose and fell.

  "Is this the fastest way to the airport? Why not the highway?" Trish asked from the backseat as Frank whipped the van into a hairpin turn.

  "This time of day, we'd get stuck in rush-hour traffic," answered Joe from the seat next to her. "This way, it'll be clear sailing all - Whoa! Sorry." As the van cornered, he slid against Trish, his seat belt stretching its full length. A second later he slid in the other direction, against the door. The film cans clattered beside him, sliding from side to side.

  "There's no need to floor it, not on this road. Take it easy," Joe said, bracing himself in his seat.

  Frank stared at the road, then at the speedometer, knuckles white as he gripped the wheel.

  "This joyride isn't my idea! Grab something - we've lost our brakes!"

  The van skidded through a left turn, and there, headed straight up the hill at them and filling more than its half of the road, was a huge flatbed truck!

  Chapter 5

  The truck looked enormous, lumbering toward them like a modern-day dinosaur. Its air horn hooting angrily was almost drowned out by a scream from Trish behind. Frank struggled to stay cool as he wrestled with the wheel, the clutch, and the gearshift to edge as far as he could to the side of the road. A dense growth of trees left little maneuvering room there though.

  The van was on the dirt shoulder, and tree branches whipped at the windows as it sped by. A heavy branch smashed the right side-view mirror just as the flatbed was on top of them, filling the windshield with its chrome grille.

  The Hardys and Trish braced for the crash, but it never came. Horn still blaring, the truck screamed past, an inch separating it from the van. But Frank had no time to relax; he slammed the shift down into second gear and heard the engine howl in protest. It worked. The van slowed a little, just enough to keep them from flying off the road on the next outside curve. Suddenly the downgrade ended, the road began to climb, and the van slowed even more.

  "Everyone all right back there?" shouted Frank, throat dry and heart pounding.

  "We're okay, I think," his brother yelled. "How about stopping this thing?"

  "I think I see a place up ahead - brace yourselves!"

  To the right of the road was an old turnoff, long abandoned. It ended in a few feet in a thick tangle of undergrowth. Frank dropped into first gear and slowly let out the clutch. The engine screamed as he aimed for the bushes. There was a last screech of tires, a bone-jarring thump, and they stopped with branches scratching at their doors. There was complete silence for a few seconds.

  "Trish? Joe? How you doing?" Frank finally asked, rubbing a tender spot where his ribs had hit the steering wheel.

  "All in one piece, I think," said Joe shakily. "Trish?"

  "I - I - Wait till my heart slows down a little! Frank, if you were trying to impress me with your driving skills, you could have found an easier way!"

  Frank took a deep breath and got out to join Joe in checking out the damage. After a quick inspection, Joe shook his head. "This van isn't going anywhere for a while, except behind a tow truck. The left front end is crumpled in against the wheel and the right side looks like it's been through a war."

  He surveyed the area. There was no sign of anyone - no houses, no lights twinkling in the early twilight.

  Headlights shone around a curve and caught them in the glare, blinding them for a second. They hardly saw the car that pulled up to a stop.

  "What happened? Do you need help?" asked the driver, leaning out his window to take in the crumpled van and its dazed passengers.

  "We had an accident - lost our brakes," Frank replied. "But we're okay. If you could just give us a lift to a phone so we can call a tow, we'd appreciate it."

  "Sure," the man said. "There's a little diner not too far away. Hop in."

  "I'll go," said Joe. "I'll call a garage in town."

  "Call Hector Ellerby, too," added Trish. "He has to know we missed that plane."

  "And call a taxi," Frank said.

  Joe turned back to Frank halfway to the car. "You think this has anything to do with - "

  Frank cut his brother off. "Later, Joe. When we're alone. Right?"

  Frank looked at Trish, who was wearing a puzzled expression, obviously trying to figure out what Joe had been goin
g to say. She kept quiet and didn't ask any questions, though.

  Sometime later the battered van had been hauled away, and Frank, Joe, and Trish were dropped off in front of the Hardy house. "Come on in for a minute, Trish," suggested Frank, "and then we'll get you back to the hotel - or wherever you want to go."

  "Joe said Ellerby wanted me to drop this film at the studio," she replied. "They have to figure out how to get it to L.A. tonight."

  "We'll take you in just a minute," said Joe, and the three entered to find Fenton Hardy waiting.

  "Dad, this is Trish Cochran, she works on the film. She was with us when we had a - "

  "Little accident," Frank finished. "Trish, this is our father, Fenton Hardy."

  "Nice to meet you, Trish," said Fenton. "Is everyone all right?"

  "We're fine, Mr. Hardy," Trish answered.

  "That's good. Trish, will you excuse us for a minute?" Fenton led his sons into the kitchen.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  "There was no fluid in the van's brake cylinder," replied Frank.

  "Was it an accident?" Fenton said.

  Frank thought, then shrugged. "There's no evidence one way or the other."

  Fenton nodded and then turned to Joe. "Does Trish know about the case?"

  "We haven't said a word to her," Joe said, assuring his father. "But she couldn't be involved."

  "Why not?" Frank asked. "Come on, Joe! I mean, sure she's pretty, but - "

  Joe's face turned red. "That's not what I mean! All right, say someone wanted us out of the way and messed with our brakes. She was right there with us. If we'd been taken out, she'd have been killed, too!"

  "As it stands, we can't be absolutely certain that she's an innocent bystander, so we have to keep her out of this for now," Fenton said. "Now, what else have you got?"

  Frank and Joe quickly filled their father in on what they'd learned, especially from Jerry Morrall. Joe told them about his run-in with Sam Freed.

  "What does this Freed do?" asked Fenton.

  "He's a gaffer," replied Joe. "He moves scenery, furniture - heavy stuff like that."

  Frank said, "He didn't seem all that bad to me. He did get steamed at Joe, but don't forget, he'd just spilled hot coffee on himself."

  "Just steer clear of him - if possible," advised his father.

  "I'm willing if he is," Joe replied.

  "I've been checking Fairburn's past," said Fenton. "He worked as a police-beat reporter for years in Boston. I've phoned a detective I know there, and he's sending me a rundown on the man, plus copies of his big stories. Oh, I'll arrange for a rental car for as long as your van is in the shop, and tonight you can use my car to take Trish where she needs to go."

  "I have a date with Callie," Frank said.

  "I guess that leaves me," said Joe, trying not to sound too eager.

  The three Hardys rejoined Trish, who was curled up on the couch leafing through a magazine.

  "Sorry we took so long," said Frank.

  "That's okay," she said. "I needed a little time to get my self together anyway."

  "I can give you a lift to the studio now," said Joe, grinning at her.

  In the car Joe tried to make small talk with Trish, but it seemed she had no interest in anything but television and movies.

  After they handed the film to Ellerby, he got rid of them instantly.

  "Thanks, kid, gotta get this film on a charter plane we have standing by. Then I gotta see about extras for tomorrow."

  When they pulled up at the corner near the front of the hotel, Joe said to Trish, "If you feel like something to eat, we could - "

  Trish smiled but shook her head. "Can't tonight. I'll just grab something. The editor's going to let me watch while he does some cutting. Isn't that great?"

  "Yeah, wonderful," Joe replied. He hopped out of the car and walked her to the hotel and said good night.

  Joe strolled unhappily back to his father's car and wondered if there was anything other than television that interested Trish. He had his hand on the car door when he felt a steely grip on his shoulder.

  "Nice to run into you again. What do you say we finish our little talk?" a gravelly voice said in his ear.

  Before Joe could move, another hand shot out and grabbed his arm, twisting it painfully behind his back. Joe tried to wrestle free, but he felt a stab of pain in his shoulder as his arm was wrenched even harder.

  "Keep fighting, kid, and I'll break it off."

  Then the goon shoved Joe ahead of him into a dark alley just around the corner.

  Chapter 6

  The alley was a deep U shape, bordered on three sides by the rear walls of the hotel. Joe felt himself being shoved forward and didn't stop until he was smashed up against a brick wall. He tried to clear his head, but things were happening too fast. He heard faint traffic noise, too far away. His arm ached, and his face burned where it had been scraped against the bricks.

  He turned slowly to face his attacker. Freed! Joe knew one thing - he didn't want to fight him right then. He needed to try to get on the man's good side if he was going to be able to stay at the studio and gather information. "I'd forget about that girl if I was you, punk," Freed growled. "Matter of fact, I'd forget about the TV business altogether. I think you ought to take an early retirement - real early. Like, just don't show up tomorrow morning. It ain't your line of work, you know?"

  Joe resisted the impulse to rub his shoulder or check the blood that he could feel warm on his face. He tried to think. Was Freed bullying him just for the fun of it? Or was he delivering a message?

  Joe moved a step away from the wall. "What's the problem anyway?" he demanded. "What's it to you whether I work there or not? I don't get it."

  Freed folded his arms across his massive chest. He looked hard and mean in the dim light. Shadows cut deep hollows in his face. "Listen, junior, I don't have to give you explanations. I don't like your face, and I don't want you around no more. How's that for a reason?"

  Joe grinned at the man. "You sure know how to hurt a guy's feelings. And here I was, hoping we could be buddies and all."

  Freed took a deep breath. "Okay, little man, I guess you don't listen too good. Maybe when I mess up that pretty face of yours, you'll get the message and wise up."

  Joe measured Freed with his eyes. The gaffer was shorter than Joe, but he was solid - about Joe's weight. Joe just hoped he was quicker.

  Freed took a few shuffling steps toward Joe, who circled warily, keeping his distance. He wanted Freed to make the first move.

  "This'll be fun," Freed purred, and swung up a roundhouse right that started from the hip. Joe dodged, and Freed connected with nothing but air, which threw him off balance.

  Joe countered with a straight left that caught Freed square on the nose, drawing a geyser of blood. Joe stepped back, trying to keep some distance between them.

  Freed blinked, lowered his head, and bulled forward, windmilling his thick arms in a hail of hooking punches aimed at Joe's ribs. Joe backpedaled and landed another left - this time on Freed's ear.

  One of Freed's wild punches caught Joe just then in the side. It was only a glancing blow, but it hurt enough to make Joe realize that if the man ever connected with Joe with full force, it would be all over.

  They swapped a few more punches, and suddenly Freed changed tactics. He lunged straight at Joe, ducking a left that Joe threw, and grabbed Joe around the waist. He locked his hands together and began to squeeze. Joe tried to work free, but Freed was too strong.

  Trapped in the bear hug, Joe couldn't breathe. He had to break loose fast. Freed grunted, and lifted Joe off the ground while maintaining the crushing pressure.

  Desperately Joe grabbed a double fistful of Freed's hair and yanked hard. The gaffer let out a bellow, and his hold eased off long enough for Joe to squirm free.

  Gasping, Joe danced back a couple of steps, and Freed charged after him. He threw a wild roundhouse right, and Joe dropped his head. The punch flew over his shoulder and
smashed against the wall. Freed roared in anger and pain.

  When the stocky gaffer rushed forward again, Joe slipped to the side, and Freed flew straight into the wall. For an instant Freed was stunned, unable to keep his guard up. Joe landed first a short left hook to the midsection, and then a right uppercut to Freed's jaw. The gaffer's knees turned to rubber, and he sank slowly to the ground.

  As the man was struggling to get up, Joe bolted and ran for the car. He wanted to consult with Frank. He also wanted to put some mileage between himself and this gorilla.

  But as he opened the car door, he heard Freed's voice from the alley. "Where do you think you're going, punk? We're not done yet!"

  Quickly Joe started the car and put it in gear. As he drove by the mouth of the alley, Freed lunged forward and almost grabbed hold of the door. Joe sped away, watching the powerful form grow small in his rear-view mirror. Good thing he didn't grab that door, he thought to himself, or he'd probably have torn it off.

  ***

  Later that evening, when Frank came home from his date, he eyed the scrapes on his brother's face and whistled.

  "Did you and Trish have a little disagreement?" Frank asked, not cracking a smile.

  Joe shook his head. "Trish had a heavy date to watch film being edited. That girl has a one-track mind, so I dropped her at the hotel. Then, as I was leaving, Sam Freed grabbed me. He's the one I had the disagreement with."

  Frank looked thoughtful. "It looks like you're still in one piece. How did he look?"

  Joe said, "I was lucky. I slowed him down long enough to get away. It would take a lot to stop him. Funny thing, though" - Joe rubbed his arm and winced - "I can't figure out if Freed was just going after me on his own, or if maybe he was told to scare me off."

  Frank replied, "I don't know. Maybe he's still sore about the coffee. Maybe he's interested in Trish himself and doesn't want you hanging around her. Seems like he just took a serious dislike to you."

  Joe felt his ribs to see if he had suffered any injury. "I don't know why. I'm such a nice, friendly guy." Joe frowned. "Seriously, though, the coffee business was just an accident. It wasn't enough to start a war over."