But the Hardys were faster and in better shape. Frank quickly shifted to cut the gaffer off, and Joe raced after him in pursuit. Seconds later Freed found himself standing, his back against the catwalk's guardrail, with Frank on one side and Joe on the other.
Freed turned toward Joe and feigned a move in that direction, freezing Joe momentarily. Then he whipped around and ran full speed at Frank, ramming him hard with a shoulder. Frank was knocked against the rail, out of breath, and Freed tried to get by toward the ladder, but Frank dove and just caught Freed by the ankle, sending the thug sprawling on the planks.
Both were quickly on their feet, facing each other. Frank lashed out with a right cross. He hit Freed high on the cheekbone, backing him up a step. But Freed closed with him. He placed a foot behind Frank's ankle and tripped him up. Frank landed hard on the catwalk.
Instantly Freed was on Frank, shoving at him and rolling him. He was going to push him off the planks and down to the concrete forty feet below! Frank felt himself sliding toward the edge with nothing to grab on to.
But Joe came in behind Freed and got in a kick behind the knee. Freed's leg buckled and he lost his balance. Frank scrambled away.
Just as Joe was about to lunge forward, Freed pulled out a long and deadly-looking switchblade knife. Both brothers had to retreat just out of Freed's reach. He turned from Frank to Joe, stabbing out with the gleaming blade. Suddenly Joe darted forward, making the thug lunge. Joe then dove low for Freed's legs while at the same instant Frank hit him chest-high from the other side.
The knife went pinwheeling into the air, and Freed hit the deck with Frank on top of him. Cursing under his breath, Freed bucked Frank off and lunged at Joe, who had regained his feet.
"Not this time, Sam," Joe said, stepping out of reach and driving his knee up and into Freed's jaw. The thug collapsed and lay still.
Panting, the brothers grinned at each other. "The coach would be proud of us," said Frank.
"I knew all those scrimmages would come in handy someday," Joe replied. Then he yelled down, "Trish! Find a phone and call the police."
***
That evening after dinner Frank and Joe sat with their father in his office. They leafed through photocopies of Fairburn's old newspaper stories.
Before settling down to this chore, the three had exchanged their information. The brothers had told Fenton about their day, ending with the Bayport police hauling off Sam Freed.
"The fact that someone wants us out of the way seems to put Jim Addison in the clear," Frank observed. "That's what we told Chief Collig."
"But he said that there was nothing to tie Freed to Fairburn's murder," Joe added. "So he was treating it as a separate incident."
"Well," said Frank thoughtfully, "he may have a point. I mean, we've turned up a lot of people who hated Fairburn, but there's no history that we can find between him and Freed."
"What did you hear about Fairburn's past from your buddy in Boston?" asked Joe.
Fenton pulled a piece of paper out of an envelope. "You can read this over later if you like, but here's the gist of it: Fairburn had a reputation back then as a heavy gambler who was always in debt, always borrowing from the other reporters. He was too friendly with some of the criminals that he wrote about, in the opinion of the other police-beat writers."
"Not exactly a model citizen," said Joe.
The three Hardys continued to look through the file of stories. Suddenly Joe stopped and said, "Take a look at these." He gave his brother a handful of clippings.
Frank checked them over. "They're about a gang that pulled off a string of big heists twenty-five years ago," he said to Fenton. "Apparently when they broke up the gang, they never caught the brains of the outfit. The stories identified him only as 'Grallagher.' "
Frank tossed the copies on the desk. "These stories read just like the plot of 'Thieves' Bargain,' " he said. "Exactly like it. There's no way it can be a coincidence."
Joe added, "And this Gallagher is just like Jim Addison's character. The mastermind."
Fenton picked up the stories. "Well, I suppose it figures that an ex-crime reporter would turn to his own old material for a TV script," he said.
"Yeah," said Frank, "but Jim said that when he was first told about the TV pilot, it was completely different from this. Then, when Jim got the script, he saw that Fairburn had changed it. Why?"
Joe shrugged. "Maybe he just thought it was a better story than the other one."
Frank shook his head. "You don't rewrite a script completely just before shooting. It wasn't just a little bit here and there, it was a total rewrite, and that - "
The phone rang and Fenton answered.
"Hello? ... Oh, hello, Con ... Yes. What? ... When? ... I'm going to put you on the speakerphone so you can tell Frank and Joe yourself. Just a moment."
Fenton put down the receiver and punched a button. "It's Con Riley. Okay, Con, go ahead."
The policeman's voice sounded strained. "Hi, Frank, Joe. I've got some bad news for you."
"What's up, Con?" asked Frank.
"Sam Freed was being taken for mug shots and fingerprints, and I don't know how it happened, but he somehow managed to overpower his guards and get away. We haven't been able to find him."
"When was this?" asked Joe.
"A half hour ago," Con replied. "We've got an all-points bulletin out on him, and we're combing the city. I figured you ought to know."
Frank's lips were pressed into a thin line. "Well, thanks for the word, Con," he said. "You'll be sure to keep us posted, right?"
"You can count on it," said the tinny voice over the speaker. "And, Frank? Joe? Stay on your toes. This guy is one mean customer. He really has it in for you two. He put two cops in the hospital, and the last thing they heard him say was that he was going to kill those two Hardy brothers!"
Chapter 11
After Con Riley's call, Frank and Joe waited for their father's reaction. He said, "I guess I don't have to tell you two to watch yourselves until this guy is found."
"We'll be careful," Frank assured him. "But we still have a job to do."
"Right," agreed Joe. "Anyway, tomorrow we'll be working in a huge crowd all day. Freed isn't going to pop up there. I mean, he may be a hood, but he isn't crazy."
***
The next day the crew and cast were set up in downtown Bayport, on a block that had been cleared of traffic for the day. Freed was nowhere around.
"Nobody seems to miss him much," said Joe.
"A nice, friendly guy like that?" cracked Frank. "I can't imagine why."
The scene being shot was a gun battle between the gang and the police. At the end of the battle the gang would be captured, except for the character played by Jim Addison, who'd escape.
Frank and Joe had walkie-talkies. They were stationed on a sidewalk just off camera. They had to keep any passersby or curious onlookers from wandering into a shot. Hector Ellerby had actually spent a whole minute with them giving them instructions.
"Remember, guys, this kind of scene, with a lot of extras and guns and stunts and cars and fightings, costs a bundle of money. And if we have to reshoot any of it because some civilian gets in front of the camera, then it'll cost two bundles. "So watch the walkers and gawkers, and don't fall asleep, okay? I'm counting on you guys."
"We'll stay awake," Frank replied.
"You can trust us," said Joe.
There had been no further word from the Bayport police about Sam Freed. He was still at large. But neither of the Hardys was especially worried about his showing up on location.
"Maybe he's left town," Joe suggested hopefully but not really believing it.
Before any actual shooting, there were several rehearsals. Police cars raced up, cops spilled out, and heavy gunfire erupted between cops and robbers.
Everything had to be organized to the last detail among a hundred performers, three cameras in various locations, and all the other crews.
During breaks between rehe
arsals, Frank and Joe met the special-effects wizard, Max. He was a leathery older man in a baseball cap and sat at a big electronic console, where he could set off the small charges that looked like bullets striking targets by remote control.
The Hardys listened as Headcase explained how the actors were supposed to be "shot." They had very light explosive charges taped to their bodies, which were protected by thin protective shields. In some cases, in close-ups, there would also be plastic bags of stage blood designed to burst when the actor was "hit." Other charges had been fastened to walls, to look like bullets smashing into the walls when they were set off by the man at the console.
The special-effects wizard would control all this. But everything had to be carefully planned and gone over again and again, to reduce the possibility of expensive retakes. Ideally scenes like this were shot only once.
Frank and Joe found it all as interesting as did the "civilians," what the crew called everyone not involved in their line of work.
They watched everything from just out of camera range, on the nearby sidewalks.
"Where's Jim Addison?" Joe asked Jerry Morrall at one point.
"Oh, he's not here yet. On a long shot like this, where you can't really see his face, Vic Ritchey can do just as well. Better, maybe."
"How come?" Joe wondered.
Morrall gave one of his ironic smiles. "Well, Ritchey is younger and a little more athletic than Addison, so Addison generally lets Vic do the running around whenever he can. Ritchey really can look amazingly like Jim. Also, it's pretty dull and time-consuming, so Jim would just as soon sit it out." Morrall winked at Joe. "You know what they say, rank has its privileges. First we shoot the whole scene from a distance. What we call the 'master.' And then we start working on reverse angles, point-of- view shots, and close-ups - then Jim'll go to work."
After still more rehearsal, Addison did appear, hopping out of a limo and vanishing into his dressing room trailer. During a break the brothers went to see him and told the actor about Fairburn's old newspaper stories.
"What do you make of it, Jim?" Frank asked. "Does it give you any ideas?"
Addison shook his head - it meant nothing to him. He was too concerned about the scene he had to do to think about anything else.
"Could one of you stick around and go over my lines with me? I'd sure appreciate it."
Just at that moment the Hardys' walkie-talkies crackled, and Trish's voice sounded.
"Frank, Joe, we're about to shoot. Better get to your stations."
"Roger, we copy," said Joe into his mouthpiece. "Sorry, Jim, but we have to hold back the crowds of your admiring fans."
"My fans, huh?" Addison grinned. "Not very likely. But I'll bet you that there's a whole regiment of Preston Lawrence fans there. That's what you get when you play he-men and heroes."
On location Ivan Kandinsky gave his star last-minute instructions. Lawrence listened intently, nodding every few seconds. Then he got into a car and drove off out of camera range.
Kandinsky gave the thumbs-up signal to Hector Ellerby, who had picked up a bullhorn.
"Can I have your attention, everyone? We're about to shoot a very tricky scene, so I want you all to be alert. You people watching over there, please help us out. We're happy to let you watch, but you have to keep absolutely silent while we're doing this and stay where you are. If we have to retake this master shot, it'll be hours before we can get it all ready to go again. Thank you for your cooperation." He put down the bullhorn and picked up his walkie-talkie.
"Cameras ready? Sound? Special effects?" One by one, he checked in with each department and got an okay. Then he picked up the bullhorn.
"Drivers, start the cars! Wait for my signal to move! Lights!"
A battery of floodlights turned what was a bright day even brighter.
"Camera!"
Three cameras began to roll.
"Slate the scene!"
Three assistant camera people ran in front of their cameras carrying slates with the scene number chalked on them and hinged sticks, called clappers, on top. Each assistant held his slate in front of the lens, read off the scene number, clapped the clappers, then ran out of camera range.
"And - action! Go ahead, drivers!" yelled Ellerby.
Half a dozen squad cars came screaming around the corner into the shot, sirens wailing and red lights flashing, and squealed to a stop. Twenty-five actors and extras in police uniforms piled out of the cars and spread out behind them. A window in the building they were facing was shattered, and a gunshot was fired from inside. Then a burst of gunfire crackled as the "cops" and the actors playing the gang, holed up in a building nearby, blazed away at one another with blanks. One bad guy yelped, clutched his chest, and fell halfway out of a window.
Preston Lawrence gave orders and gestured with his hands. Some of the actor/police started charging the building. There was a louder burst of gunfire. Another villain was hit, screamed, and fell all the way out of a window, landing on a thin pad below that was carefully placed just out of camera range. One of the policemen grabbed his shoulder, and fake blood dripped from between his fingers.
Frank and Joe watched the crowd from their stations with one eye but followed the scene with fascination. Joe thought that it went like some kind of super-complex football play, brilliantly run. Frank thought of a really involved chess game.
Since it was obvious that the spectators weren't trying to get too close to the action, the brothers gave more and more of their attention to the action before the cameras.
Joe was so caught up in what he was seeing, he hardly noticed when one shot sounded different from the others. It was sharper, a little louder. Then a chip of the stone from a wall near his head flew off with a whining noise.
Joe looked around but saw nothing unusual. He picked up his walkie-talkie and whispered into it, "Frank. Frank. Do you read me?"
Frank was a few yards away, and whispered into his own transmitter, "I read you, Joe, what's - "
Suddenly another loud shot hit home above his head. Before he could duck, a bit of stonework flew, scratching Frank's cheek. He put a hand to his face, and it came away with a smear of blood on it.
He said urgently to his brother, "Joe, take cover right now. Someone's using the noise of the fake gunfire to snipe at us, and he isn't using blanks!"
Chapter 12
While hundreds of onlookers gasped at the fake gunfire and staged fighting, Frank and Joe were caught up in a real fight for their lives.
Joe dove for cover behind a parked car as a bullet smashed the wall right where his head had been a second before. The crowd gasped and pointed but didn't know what was happening only a few feet away. It was just as well, thought Frank, who had knelt behind the shelter of another car. Otherwise the situation could all too easily turn into a general panic.
Joe put his walkie-talkie close to his mouth. "Can you figure out where the sniper's shooting from?" he whispered.
Frank had been scanning the area. "He has to be up on one of the roofs across the street, whoever it is."
Now Joe, also looking from one roof to the next, saw a flash of movement from the one directly across from their sidewalk position. The barrel of a gun suddenly appeared, and somebody's arms and head. But at that distance and angle it was impossible to tell who it was.
"Frank," Joe said softly into his mouthpiece, "did you see the gun?"
"Affirmative," replied Frank. "He seemed to pop up to take another shot, and then realized that we had gone to ground. He knew he didn't have a clear line of fire."
"Let's take him as soon as the scene is done," Joe said, and Frank agreed.
The scene ended, and Kandinsky yelled, "Cut! And print!" as the crowd began to applaud.
The Hardys leapt from their cover and sprinted across the street. Reaching the door of the building where they'd seen the sniper, they ducked inside. The roof was four stories up, and they took the stairs two at a time. At the top of the last flight of steps was the door to
the roof. It was standing slightly ajar.
They paused and, with great care, slowly pushed the metal door open. They leapt back as a burst of automatic fire greeted them.
"Looks like we found the right place," said Frank as they crouched behind the door. "Did you see the shooter?" Joe asked.
"Yeah," replied Frank. "It's Sam Freed."
"Looks like he is crazy after all," said Joe. "How do we handle this?"
"How about if one of us distracts him while the other one jumps him?" suggested Frank.
"Great idea!" Joe snapped. "Let's see, he's got an Uzi or something and we have zip. How do we distract him, with funny stories?"
"The building alongside this one is a story higher," Frank said. "You stay here. Give me exactly one minute and then slam that door open with a lot of noise. I'll come at him from behind, off that taller roof."
Joe replied, "You have to run down four flights of steps here, and then up five flights next door. Let's make it ninety seconds. You're not as young as you used to be."
"And you're not as funny as you think you are," responded Frank. "Okay, ninety seconds. Check your watch, starting - now!"
Frank started down the stairs, and Joe remained in a crouch by the door, keeping his eyes focused on his watch's second hand.
As Frank reached the street, he heard Trish call out to him but didn't answer as he ran into the neighboring building.
He pounded up the five flights and rushed onto the adjoining roof. He moved quietly to the edge and looked over. Freed was squatting with his back to Frank behind a large metal ventilator hood, cradling an Uzi.
As the ninety seconds ended, Joe kicked the metal door open. It swung around and crashed into the wall. He yelled, "Here we come, Freed! Ready or not!" Then he jumped back out of the line of fire. Freed swung his Uzi and fired a burst. The bullets kicked up tar and gravel from the surface of the roof, while others smacked into the stairwell wall, barely missing Joe.
As Joe moved, Frank swung over the edge and dropped the single story down to the other building. Freed was focused on the open doorway. Abruptly he sensed someone was behind him, but before he could turn and fire, Frank hit him with a shoulder in the small of the back. The thug was knocked forward, sprawling to the ground.
Final Cut Page 6
