Boardwalk Bust

by Franklin W. Dixon

  But where had it come from?

  We were down by the water—too far from the boardwalk or the pier for someone to have thrown it. And there was no one near us on the beach, at least as far as we could see in this darkness just before dawn. Besides, to make such an impact, that bracelet had to have come from a really far distance….

  Then we heard it—the drone of an engine high above us. I looked up, and there it was: the red blinking lights of an airplane.

  Suddenly, all the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle began to come together in my mind.

  So that was how the pieces of jewelry were finding their way onto the beach!

  “Joe,” I said, “who do we know around here that has a plane?”

  “Bump,” he said, feeling the one on his forehead. “Bump Rankowski.”

  “Exactly. He’s got a whole fleet of planes, he said. He employs pilots to fly them up and down the beach during the day. But what if he paid those pilots extra, in cash, to do a little night work—say at 3 or 4 A.M., digging a couple of holes on the beach?”

  “Could be,” Joe agreed. “And he’s got motive, too, Frank—more tourists on the beach means more advertising business, right?”

  “Not to mention the real motive—that, as the mayor, he’d benefit from a big rise in tourism. It would make him very popular with the local business owners—except, of course, the ones he’s been robbing!”

  “We’ve gotta nail this guy,” Joe said, gritting his teeth and rubbing the swelling bump on his noggin.

  Was this about catching a criminal, or about nailing the guy who kept beating Joe up? I couldn’t tell, but I figured I’d hit the ball into his court for a change.

  “So how are you planning to nail Bump?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re so eager to get him in cuffs, how are you going to do it? You’ve got to have proof remember?”

  Joe frowned, and rubbed his forehead. “Isn’t this proof enough?”

  “Nope.”

  “Yeah. I guess not.”

  I suddenly found myself yawning. It dawned on me that we’d been up all night. It had been a long day, to say the least.

  “Why don’t we sleep on it, Joe?”

  “Sleep?”

  “Yeah, sleep—remember it? I, for one, happen to think better when I’m not dog tired. Besides, Bump—if he’s our guy—thinks we’re dead, right? If we want him to keep thinking that, we’d better get out of sight before sunrise.”

  “We’re going to have to show our faces eventually,” Joe said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “But not until we’ve got a plan.”

  Joe here. So we snuck back to our hotel room without anyone seeing us. It wasn’t hard—at 5 A.M. there aren’t many people out and about. Bump would probably still be out at the airport.

  I got a bag of ice from the machine in the hallway and put it on my face, which was hurting all over.

  Frank was out cold and snoring, but I was so tired that I managed to fall asleep anyway.

  He had set the alarm for 10 A.M. Five hours isn’t much, but I felt a whole lot better when I woke up, I can tell you that.

  Frank went down the hall and got us some breakfast from the vending machines. Donuts and tarts, mmm mmm. Now that’s my kinda breakfast!

  We sat out on beds, eating and trying to come up with a plan of action.

  “We’ve got to be sure it’s him first,” Frank said, munching on a frosted donut.

  “You’re not sure? I’m sure!”

  “I’m pretty sure. But I don’t want us to take down somebody and then find out that they’re innocent. That would compromise ATAC.”

  “All right. So what should we do next?” I asked.

  “Well, I think we should do an Internet search—see if it tells us anything.”

  “Okay. Only we didn’t bring a laptop. What do you want to do? Go to Bump’s office and ask him if we can borrow his computer?”

  I was being sarcastic, obviously. But Frank gets oblivious sometimes, especially when he’s hatching a plan.

  “I was thinking more of the local library,” he said.

  “What if somebody spots us there?”

  “We’ll have to take that chance.”

  “Let’s say it is him, Frank—then what?”

  “Hmmm …”

  Frank massaged his eyes with his palms for a minute, then came up with an idea. “He goes up in his plane at night, right? What if we stow away and go with him?”

  A big smile spread over my face at the thought. Beautiful. We catch him in the act—a couple of ghosts come back to life!

  “Okay then,” Frank said, obviously noting my approval. “Compromise: We’ll do both: Internet search and stow away.”

  “Deal.”

  We finished eating and headed over to the library. It was just across the street from city hall, so we had to be careful. There was no sign of Bump Rankowski, thank goodness, but those two guys who jumped us on the beach might have been around somewhere.

  We didn’t know what they looked like, but they must have known our faces.

  Of course they wouldn’t be looking for us, because they thought we were dead.

  First time death was in our favor.

  Inside, we went right over to a bank of computers, well-hidden from general view behind a row of bookshelves. Frank sat down and did a search for Bump Rankowski.

  A bunch of stuff came up—about his businesses, his first mayoral campaign, his winning a flying contest….

  “He’s running for reelection in the fall,” Frank pointed out.

  “So?”

  “So, if he wants to get reelected—and he sure seems to like the job—he might be tempted to start a tourist ‘gold rush,’ right?”

  “Totally. I’m convinced, Frank. It’s him. Let’s get out of here and take care of business.”

  “Wait a second. Cool your jets, Joe. There’s no proof in here—not enough to go on.”

  “But Frank—”

  “We’ve got to have more than this,” he insisted.

  Then it hit me.

  “Hey, remember he said Bump wasn’t always his name?”

  “Right! Now what was it … ? Adam? Something with an A …”

  I suddenly remembered. “Arnold!”

  “That’s it!”

  Frank keyed in Arnold Rankowski, and a moment later we hit the jackpot. There was an article from the Sea Bright Gazette, dated 1984, all about the arrest of one Arnold Rankowski on charges of petty thievery—from a jewelry store!

  “Paydirt!” Frank said, and printed out the article.

  There were more, too—our boy Arnold had three more minor offenses to his name.

  No wonder he’d changed it!

  “So here’s our case,” Frank said, gathering all the printouts together. “Three felony arrests along with two misdemeanors. Suspended sentence for the first felony, community service for the second, three months in Rahway State Prison for the third. Nothing since 1985.”

  “How did he ever become mayor?” I said. “Wouldn’t somebody have dragged out his past during the campaign and used it against him?”

  Frank did some more searching.

  “Hang on,” he finally said. “November 7, 1992. Front page of the Ocean Point Gazette: ‘Rankowski Wins in Squeaker.’” He scrolled down and continued reading: “‘Arnold “Bump” Rankowski was elected mayor yesterday with 52 percent of the votes counted. Steve Lyons conceded defeat at 10 P.M. Most observers agreed that Rankowski’s heroic efforts last week in spotting and putting out a potentially devastating fire at the amusement pier helped erase the negative effects of his somewhat shady past.’”

  “I’ll bet he set that fire himself,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him,” Frank agreed. “Bump seems to have a way of manipulating events to suit himself.”

  “I’ll bet he robbed those three jewelry stores, Frank,” I said. “He figured he’d drop the loot on the beach, create a gold rush, and get reelected b
y a landslide!”

  “And Joe, think about this—as mayor, he could have waltzed into police headquarters at any time and pulled the codes for the jewelry stores’ alarm systems off the police computer!”

  “Huh?”

  “Stores with alarm systems hooked in to police and fire headquarters have to provide them with the codes to disable the system.”

  “Ah, I get it,” I said.

  “I think we’re getting a pretty clear picture of Bump Rankowski,” Frank said as he got up.

  “That slimeball. Let’s not forget, he tried to have us killed when he realized we were close to cracking the case!”

  We had our man, all right. All we had to do now was catch him red-handed.

  Tonight was the night—and I could hardly wait.

  17. Up in the Air

  We called a cab to come get us at our hotel and bring us to the Ocean Point Airport. I took the precaution of calling one from Atlantic City. Sure, it was expensive, but there was no way we could be sure the local cab owners weren’t FOB: Friends of Bump.

  The airport closed at 11 P.M. I was fairly sure Bump wouldn’t be doing his treasure dumping before then. Trudging through the terminal building with a big sack of jewelry would be pretty hard for anyone to miss.

  Besides, it had been nearly 4 A.M. when Joe got smacked on the head by that bracelet. My bet was that Bump didn’t show up till well after 2 A.M.

  Joe and I waited in the darkness across the road from the terminal until everyone had left for the night, and most of the lights had been turned off Then we ran across the road and hopped the chain-link fence that separated the terminal from the runway.

  It was easy to find Bump’s plane—those shark teeth and eyes stood out even in the semidarkness. You could even make out that the plane was bright red. It almost glowed in the moonlight.

  We had to do this all in a hurry. At any moment a car passing by on the road might shine its headlights right at us—or an airport employee we hadn’t accounted for might decide to check the planes out.

  Anything could happen.

  So we jogged over to Bump’s pride and joy. The canopy was locked—no problem, though. I fished out my pocketknife and jimmied it. Sure, the destroyed lock might make Bump suspicious when he saw it, but if our plan worked, he’d be behind bars before he had a chance to notice.

  We quietly raised the canopy and climbed inside. Only after we’d shut it behind us did we feel we could relax.

  At least for now.

  “Got the camera?” Joe asked.

  I patted the pocket of my windbreaker. The cheap disposable camera ATAC had given us was there, ready and primed for action.

  “Got the night scope? You found it after we got dug out, right?”

  I took it out and gave it to Joe, and he started scanning the airport on the other side of the clear plastic canopy.

  “What’s the use of doing that?” I asked him. “We’ll see the headlights when Bump parks his car.”

  “And what if someone drops him off down the road, and he walks the rest of the way and ends up taking us by surprise?”

  I didn’t think it was too likely, but I agreed that Joe had a point.

  Still, as the hours wore on and there was no sign of Bump Rankowski, it started to get boring—and tiring.

  We were still sleep-deprived, and we had to keep nudging one another to stay awake, especially once it got past 2 A.M.

  When 4 A.M. came and went, Joe began to get really antsy. “He’s not coming. It’s not him. We’ve got this all wrong, Frank.”

  “What?”

  “It’s somebody else—one of our other suspects. That lifeguard, Chucky Whatzizname. Or the tattoo guy, Ricardo. Or one of the Russian guys.”

  “Joe …”

  “I don’t want to waste our time waiting for a guy who’s not coming.”

  “Okay, wait a minute,” I said. “First, I’ll remind you that you’re the one who was so convinced it was Bump, from the minute you got hit with that bracelet. Second, someone’s dropping jewelry out of a plane. Bump has a plane—in fact, he owns a fleet of them. He’s got motive, opportunity, and means.”

  “All right, but now I think I was wrong. He’s still not here, right? What time is it?”

  “Five minutes later than the last time you asked.”

  “Come on, wise guy. What time?”

  “Four ten.”

  “And still no Bump. I rest my case.”

  Wouldn’t you know it, just then a pair of headlights came into view down the road, swinging right toward the airport.

  When the car pulled into the lot and stopped, it was time to hunker down and get ready. We settled ourselves behind the rear seats of the plane, completely hidden from view.

  The canopy opened, and Bump’s sizeable figure appeared in silhouette. I could hear him breathing hard as he settled himself into the pilot’s seat and closed the canopy over his head. “That’s funny,” he mumbled. “Coulda sworn I locked it…. Oh, well.”

  Joe and I looked at each other. We were trying hard not to make a sound. We couldn’t see Bump, but we could hear him going through his checklist, humming a happy little tune as he went.

  That scum, I thought. He thinks he’s killed a couple of kids, and that makes him want to burst into song!

  I knew Joe felt like jumping him then and there, so I put my hand on his arm, reminding him that we had to wait until we had the evidence we needed.

  Bump got the engine going and nosed the Cessna onto the runway. Soon we were airborne—but not without a struggle. With me and Joe on board, the plane was about 300 pounds heavier than Bump realized, and he had to give it a bit more lift than he thought.

  “What the—?” I heard him grunt. “What’s wrong with this thing?”

  After a minute, he’d figured out how to get us up to a safe altitude. He circled around, no doubt heading for the beach.

  Two minutes later we heard the pilot’s side canopy window open. Then there was the jingling of the sack of jewels he was carrying with him.

  “Now!” Joe mouthed.

  I sprang up, camera in hand, and fired off three pictures before Bump knew what hit him.

  “What the—? HEY!”

  He dropped the bag and tried to hide his face. The plane yawed and pitched crazily, and Bump had to grab the controls—which kept him from going after us.

  “Who’s that?” he shouted. “Who’s that back there?”

  But we weren’t back there any more. Leapfrogging the seats, we were now right behind him.

  “You!” he gasped.

  “Sorry we’re not dead,” Joe said.

  With that, he grabbed Bump’s left arm, twisting it behind his back. Bump’s right hand came off the controls, and I grabbed it—but only until his foot lashed out and caught me in the head.

  I let go, reeling backward, and the plane did a full, sickening rollover. Joe almost wound up going out the open window.

  And Bump had time to recover his wits.

  He backed into Joe, trying to force him out the window, while flailing at me with his feet.

  The plane was still rolling over, and it was all I could do to steady myself. Finally I twisted around and sat on Bump’s outstretched legs.

  My back was toward him, but now I could grab the throttle and try to steady the plane. I mean, there was no point in catching Bump if we all wound up dead in a plane crash, was there?

  Maybe we should have thought this through a little better.

  But then, this was the fun part.

  Joe was dangling out the window, but Bump was too busy choking me to push him the rest of the way out.

  I elbowed Bump in the ribs until he let go, then swung back around, dodging a punch on the way.

  Joe had managed to fall back into the plane, and Bump was climbing over the seats, headed for the rear. I kept hold of the throttle while Joe faced him down.

  “It’s two against one, Mayor,” Joe said, balling his fists and slowly closing in for the f
inish. “I think you should give up.”

  Bump reached down behind the backseat—right where we’d been crouching down in the dark—and drew out a big, fat pistol.

  “Maybe this evens things up,” he said, pointing it right at Joe’s face.

  18. Defying Gravity

  It was a little too dark, and I was a little too distracted, to tell exactly what kind of pistol was staring me down. Believe me when I tell you, though, that it was plenty big enough to blow my head off.

  Especially from three feet away, which is where Bump was standing.

  Frank was busy with the controls, but if he didn’t do something fast, it wouldn’t matter if we crashed or not.

  But what was he supposed to do? If he made a move, it was the big bang, and good-bye, Joe Hardy!

  “So,” Frank said to Bump, “you’re going to shoot us?”

  “Only if I have to,” Bump answered, wiping the blood off his mouth. “I’d rather not mess up my plane. I’d much prefer it if you boys would jump. You know, I thought you two had washed away with the tide.”

  “We got lucky,” I said.

  Bump laughed. “Right. Well, I guess your luck has just run out.” He cocked the gun. “Now, are you gonna make me shoot you? Or are you gonna cooperate?”

  We didn’t answer. I was pinned down and couldn’t risk moving, and Frank was steering the plane.

  “Out that window will do,” Bump said, pointing to it with one hand while the other held the gun right at me.

  “You first,” he said to Frank.

  I saw Frank’s eyes shift, and I knew what he was thinking. A quick jerk on the throttle, and maybe it would throw Bump off balance enough for us to overpower him.

  But there was no guarantee of success. And if he messed up, I was dead.

  “And no funny business,” Bump said quickly, “or your brother gets a big fat bullet in the head.”

  Obviously, he’d read Frank’s mind, same as I had.

  “Slowly, now,” Bump told him. “Not one false move. Hands off the controls.”

  Frank did as he was told. He gave me a long look, then climbed out the window. Headfirst.