“Help me?” the man asked.
“You’ve been following me ever since we got on the train,” Frank accused.
“Not likely,” the man replied.
“Yeah, you have,” Joe Hardy said, coming up behind both of them on the stairs. “I saw this guy duck into the stairway a few seconds after you did and followed him.”
“All right then, lads,” the man said, pulling his wallet from his pocket. “The name’s David Young. I’m a private detective.” Young showed them his identification.
“Is that why you carry a gun?” Frank asked, handing back Young’s identification card.
“Right,” Young replied. “I sometimes have to trail dangerous characters,”
“But why are you trailing us?” Joe asked.
“Mr. Jeffries don’t believe in ghosts,” Young explained. “So he hired me to find out what ‘living’ people might be mucking about with his theater.”
“And he thinks it might be us?” Joe asked.
“You’re the blokes what were around when the trouble happened,” Young replied.
“What motive could we possibly have?” Frank asked.
“You’re friends with Dennis Paul,” Young told him.
“So?” Frank said, shrugging.
Young paused before speaking. “Doesn’t matter. From what I seen today and what I found out about you and your dad back in the States, I figure you’re on the up-and-up.”
“What do you know about us and our dad?” Joe demanded.
“That Fenton Hardy is a private detective of some reputation and that you are students at Bayport High in Bayport, New York,” Young replied. “You have some fame as amateur sleuths and have helped crack a number of criminal cases.”
“How did you find all that out so quickly?” Frank asked.
“It’s the information age, eh?” he replied with a smug smile.
“You might try getting information on Emily Anderson,” Joe said gruffly.
“Maybe I have done,” Young shot back. “The police questioned her this morning. She claims she blew the candle out before leaving last night and says someone must have nicked her handkerchief from the dressing table and rubbed greasepaint on it.”
“Nicked?” Joe asked.
“You know, nicked,” Young repeated. “Stole.”
“What about Jennifer Mulhall?” Frank asked.
“Jennifer Mulhall’s dressing room key was missing from her chain,” Young told them. “She don’t know who might have taken it.”
“Where was she last night when the fire broke out?” Joe asked.
“She claims she was home alone, but no one can confirm her alibi,” Young replied.
“I have one more question, Mr. Young,” Frank said. “If I was investigating this case, I wouldn’t give up all that information to a pair of teenagers I had just met. Why did you?”
“Maybe we can help each other,” Young explained, handing Frank his business card. “If you find out anything that might help me solve this business for Mr. Jeffries, give a call.”
With that, Young gave them a nod and descended the steps.
“Wow, I guess Mr. Jeffries is pretty serious about solving this crime,” Joe said.
“One thing Young said bothered me,” Frank said, tapping his finger on the stone wall, thinking. “When we asked him what motive we could have for starting the fire, all he said was ‘You’re friends with Dennis Paul.’ ”
“So Mr. Young might think Mr. Paul had a motive?” Joe guessed.
“Or Mr. Jeffries might think so,” Frank replied. “Until we know for sure, let’s keep whatever we find out about the sabotage to ourselves.”
Joe checked his watch. “Let’s check out the rest of the Tower of London and then catch some supper before the haunted tour.”
The boys viewed the Crown Jewels, an incredible collection of crowns, scepters, jewels, and jewelry that belonged to the British Royal Family.
After checking out the armor collection and the cells where some of the most famous and infamous people in history had been held, Joe and Frank grabbed a shepherd’s pie for dinner at a nearby pub.
Dusk was falling on London by the time Frank and Joe returned to the rendezvous point for their tour. Frank counted a dozen people milling about in small groups, discussing their day—everything from Buckingham Palace to boat trips on the Thames.
“Ghosts!” a deep, booming voice suddenly rang out behind the group. As Frank and the others turned, one woman gasped. A figure stood on a low wall, wearing a black cape and white mask. “This city is full of them. My name is James Bamberg, and I tell you that all you need tonight to see them is an ounce of belief and seven pounds fifty in British sterling.”
Joe and several others laughed when the guide’s request for payment broke the tension. “We stop at the Quill Garden Theatre, right?” Joe asked as he handed over fifteen pounds to pay for him and Frank.
“You know about Lady Quill, do you?” Bamberg asked in return.
“We heard that she fell to her death from the catwalk above the stage,” Frank replied.
“Fell? Pushed, I say—maybe by Lord Quill himself,” Bamberg countered. “Yes, the cursed theater is our fourth stop, right after we take a breather at the Seven Bells Pub, in the neighborhood where Jack the Ripper once roamed.”
After collecting the ticket fee, Bamberg held aloft a small white flag on the end of a rod and waved it. “Follow this and step lively.”
Bamberg led Frank, Joe, and the other dozen tourists down narrow cobblestone streets and dark alleys, pointing out the ruins of the wall built around the city by the Romans when they invaded England two thousand years ago.
Bamberg paused in front of one ancient building, relating the legend of the spirit believed to be haunting the place, then led the group down cobblestone streets and narrow alleys to another and another.
“This guy sure knows how to creep you out,” Joe whispered to Frank as they walked.
“Do you believe the stories?” Frank asked.
“I believe old buildings have a lot of history in them,” Joe replied. “But not ghosts.”
“After our next stop at the haunted chapel,” Bamberg told the group, “we’ll pause at the Seven Bells for some refreshment.”
“The Seven Bells?” Frank asked.
“The very pub frequented by some of the victims of Jack the Ripper, and maybe even Jack the Ripper himself,” Bamberg replied.
• • •
Inside the Seven Bells, Frank and Joe each ordered a ginger ale as they stood at the crowded bar beside Bamberg.
“What else can you tell us about the Ghost of Quill Garden, Mr. Bamberg?” Joe asked.
“It’s our next stop, lads,” Bamberg replied.
“Yes, sir, but Joe and I want to know a lot more than the others probably want to listen to,” Frank explained.
“And why is that?” the guide asked, tilting his head back quizzically.
“We know the people doing Innocent Victim, the new show that’s rehearsing in the theater,” Frank explained. “Some odd things have been happening. A fire started mysteriously and I got locked in a dressing room. We’re curious to find out how real this ghost might be.”
“That’s some serious business, lads,” Bamberg remarked. “I will tell you a few things, but you’re not to bring them up again during the tour. The Quill Garden has had a number of accidents in it, but so has every other theater. The real curse of the Quill Garden is its being in Spitalfields, an area that most tourists never go to.”
“It seems like a nice enough neighborhood,” Joe pointed out. “A couple of new shops have opened.”
“Yeah, Spitalfields is on the rise, but there’s nothing there yet that would be a big enough tourist draw to make the Quill Garden thrive. So the smarter producers with the bigger, better shows don’t book the theater.”
“And that’s why there hasn’t been a hit there in twenty years,” Joe concluded.
Bamberg nodded as he sipped his pint of al
e.
“So you don’t believe the ghost of Lady Quill haunts the theater,” Frank asked.
“Quite the contrary, lad,” Bamberg replied. “I’m certain she does. But most ghosts don’t do harm to the living. They slam doors, walk about in attics, and appear at windows. They don’t start fires and lock doors.”
Bamberg finished his pint and turned to the others. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’d step outside, the tour will resume in just a minute.”
Bamberg looked around the bar for something.
“One more question,” Joe said. “We know the theater was sold five years ago to Mr. Jeffries, but who sold it?”
“Lord Quill,” Bamberg replied.
“Lord Quill?” Joe repeated, looking at Frank in disbelief. “But he must have died years ago.”
“Titles are handed down from generation to generation,” Bamberg explained, bending down to look on the floor beneath the bar stools. “This was Lord Harold Quill, the grandson of the Lord Quill who built the theater.”
“Why would he want to remain anonymous?” Frank asked.
“I suppose out of embarrassment,” Bamberg replied without looking up. “The theater had been in the family for a hundred years, but it was such a terrible white elephant that Lord Harold sold it to Jeffries for next to nothing.” Bamberg stood up, turned to them, and spoke rather sharply. “Now if you’d step outside with the others, I have some business to conduct with the pub owner.”
Joe and Frank stepped out into the cold night air. A minute later Bamberg came out of the Seven Bells Pub and hurried down the street, calling over his shoulder, “All right, ladies and gentlemen, on we go.”
Outside the Quill Garden Theatre, as Bamberg began explaining its strange history, Joe became aware of the distant sound of a power tool being used. He looked across the street at a building being renovated, but the place was dark and still. Then Joe realized the sound had to be coming from inside the theater.
“Corey Lista said the crew call was from nine to five today,” Joe whispered to Frank.
Frank nodded.
Joe pointed to his watch. “It’s eight-fifteen, and listen.”
Frank and Joe stepped away from the group and Bamberg’s booming voice.
Frank heard it, too. “Sounds like a drill or a screw gun.”
“Stay with the group,” Bamberg warned them, before returning to his lecture. “It was right here in 1964 that the author of another ill-fated play was struck and killed by a lorry on opening night. The lorry driver swears he saw a figure in white standing over the body, then the figure disappeared.”
“I want to find out who’s in there,” Joe said to Frank, nodding toward the theater.
“Now, if you’ll follow me around the corner to the side alley, I’ll show you the site of another strange incident,” Bamberg said. As the guide led the group into the alley beside the theater, Joe and Frank peeled off and tried the front doors.
“Locked,” Joe said, frowning. “Now what?”
“All the doors lock automatically from the outside,” Frank said, “so I guess we knock.”
Joe banged on the door, and the sound of the power tool stopped immediately. The boys waited for someone to come to the door. A minute passed and they knocked again, but no one came to answer.
“Let’s check the stage door,” Joe suggested.
Joe and Frank walked around the corner into the side alley. The tour group was nowhere to be seen, and the stage door was locked.
“We’d better catch up to the group,” Frank said. “First phone we see, we’ll call about someone being in the theater.”
“But call whom?” Joe asked. “Jennifer? Mr. Jeffries? Mr. Paul?”
“Hard to know who to trust,” Frank said, nodding. “I guess we call the police.”
Joe spotted James Bamberg at the end of the side alley where it intersected with a second alley that ran behind the theater and the other buildings on Quill Garden Road. Bamberg had donned his mask again and was waving his white flag for the boys to follow. “Come on, Frank.”
Joe and Frank hurried after Bamberg, but as they turned the corner into the back alley, they found it completely deserted.
“Look,” Frank said, pointing to the mask and flag lying on the ground.
As Frank stepped forward to pick it up, Joe caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. A white hand in a second floor window pushed against the top of a wrought-iron gate leaning against the building.
The huge, heavy gate tilted forward and began to fall, with Frank standing directly beneath it.
Joe screamed to his brother. “Frank, look out!”
6 The Man in the Abandoned Building
* * *
Joe launched himself toward Frank, tackling him to the ground and rolling with him, just as the gate crashed onto the cobblestones behind them.
A woman across the alley leaned out of her apartment window. “Are you all right?” she asked, then went on without waiting for a response. “I’ve been telling them to haul that gate away before it fell on someone, and now look—”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Joe interrupted, pointing to the window where he had seen the white hand. “Who lives in that flat?” He remembered to use the word flat instead of apartment.
“No one lives in that whole building,” the woman answered. “It’s abandoned.”
Frank had already moved to the back entrance, where he noticed that the door frame was splintered where the door had been jimmied open, possibly with a crow bar. “Someone’s pried open this door, Joe. Come on!”
Joe followed Frank into the abandoned building and up the stairs. The door to the second floor apartment on the alley was open, but no one was there.
They rushed up the central hallway and down the stairs to the main entrance, but the lock on that door was still in place. “Maybe he headed for the roof,” Joe suggested as he led the way back up the stairs.
As the boys reached the door to the roof, Frank again saw that the door had been jimmied open.
Pushing it open, Frank and Joe searched the roof of the abandoned building. On the roof was scattered debris—scraps of lumber, broken glass, and roofing material, but the Hardys found no sign of the person Joe had seen in the window.
Frank looked over the low wall that ran around the perimeter of the roof, but saw no ladder or any other means of escape.
“I don’t get it,” Frank told Joe. “How does this person keep eluding us?”
“Unless he or she is a ghost,” Joe said.
Frank saw a metal shaft sticking out from some debris and pulled it out. “A ghost who uses a crow bar?” Frank said, showing Joe the tiny splinters of wood stuck to the prying end of the bar. “Maybe it’s someone who wants us to think he’s a ghost.”
The boys descended the stairs and left through the rear door. Outside, James Bamberg was waiting, his face red, his expression angry. “Where did you lot go?” he asked the Hardys. “And what do you mean by nicking my mask and guide flag?” he added, pulling the crumpled mask and broken rod from beneath the fallen iron gate.
“We didn’t take them, Mr. Bamberg,” Frank told him.
“I gave the owner of the Seven Bells the what for,” Bamberg went on. “I thought one of his customers had nicked them.”
“Someone wearing that mask and using that rod lured us into a trap,” Frank said.
“I’ve been with the tour group,” Bamberg insisted, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Ask them. I only left them half a minute ago to come searching for you two.”
“Then it must have been someone at the Seven Bells who took it,” Joe deduced. “That means whoever tried to knock you off has been following us this whole time.”
“Knock him off?” Bamberg repeated, confused.
“Maybe David Young, that private investigator, never stopped following us,” Frank guessed.
“You need to speak with a constable,” Bamberg said. “And I need to rejoin my group. If you want to wait in front of t
he theater, I’ll ring the police and send them over.”
• • •
When Detective Inspector Ryan arrived and listened to the Hardys’ story, he acted rather callous about the whole thing. “We get reports approximately once a month about strange sounds in this theater.”
“What about the iron gate that almost turned Frank into a waffle?” Joe asked.
“We get reports twice a month about homeless men sleeping in that abandoned building,” Detective Inspector Ryan replied. “You probably frightened one of them, and he knocked the gate over by accident.”
“Knocked it over by accident? That gate weighs five hundred pounds,” Frank insisted.
“Boys, I’ll look into it,” Detective Inspector Ryan said with an impatient sigh. “Now, why don’t you two get home to bed.”
By the time the Hardys returned to the Pauls’ home, it was nearly ten P.M.
“I had begun to think one of the ghosts of Haunted London had done you in,” Chris joked.
“That’s not far from the truth,” Frank said, and retold the story of their evening.
“Granted, it sounds like someone has it in for you two,” Chris agreed. “But how could he be inside using power tools one minute, and outside wearing the guide’s costume the next?”
“We’re not sure,” Frank admitted.
“Somebody had to have followed us into the Seven Bells,” Joe pointed out, “so there may be an accomplice.”
Just then Mr. Paul walked in, looking glum, his head bowed.
“Dad, where have you been?” Chris asked.
“Meeting with Mr. Kije,” Mr. Paul replied. “The costumers needed half the money in advance.”
“Frank and Joe had another weird encounter outside the Quill Garden—” Chris began to tell him.
“Doesn’t matter, Chris,” Mr. Paul interrupted. “Mr. Kije can’t raise any more money. He’s going to cancel the show.”
Chris’s face dropped, and Joe put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“I’ve had Corey call a special meeting with the cast and crew tomorrow morning to tell them,” Mr. Paul said wearily.
“What about school?” Chris asked.
“Another teacher is covering my classes,” Mr. Paul replied. “The headmaster knows we won’t be there,” he added, then headed up the stairs to bed.
The London Deception Page 4
