The London Deception

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe and Frank stayed up another hour, whispering.

  “I feel bad, not telling Chris about the private detective that Mr. Jeffries hired,” Joe said.

  “But what if Mr. Jeffries is right to suspect Mr. Paul?” Frank conjectured. “What if Mr. Paul and Mr. Kije are afraid the show is going to flop and are trying to create reasons to break the contract with Mr. Jeffries and get their rent money back?”

  “You’ve watched Mr. Paul in rehearsal,” Joe insisted. “He wants Innocent Victim to go on more than anyone.”

  “I’ve also noticed that he suddenly appeared after the fire in the dressing room, saying he had been eating a late meal,” Frank reminded Joe. “And he could have been there tonight when the gate almost fell on me.”

  “He said he was meeting with Mr. Kije,” Joe said. “Maybe it’s Mr. Kije we need to investigate.”

  “For the sake of Chris and the show, I think you and I had better get permission to miss school tomorrow, too,” Frank suggested before saying good night and rolling over to sleep.

  • • •

  The next day the Hardys, Chris, and Mr. Paul stopped to grab breakfast at the Lamb and Wolf, a pub just down the street from the Quill Garden Theatre.

  Joe watched Mr. Paul, who stared blankly out the window, clearly crestfallen by the announcement that he would soon be making to the cast and crew of the show.

  Chris checked his watch and suddenly got up from the table. “I’m not hungry. I’ll see you all at the theater.”

  “What’s up with Chris?” Joe wondered.

  “With all the trouble, it’s no wonder he’s anxious,” Mr. Paul replied.

  Frank watched their red-haired friend through the window as Chris hurried down the street. Quill Garden Road bustled with activity. A new café had a Grand Opening banner hanging over the entrance, and the construction crew was working full tilt on the building across from the Quill Garden.

  “Do you know what that’s going to be?” Frank asked Mr. Paul.

  “What?” Mr. Paul asked, preoccupied. “Oh, it’s going to be one of those multiplex cinemas you Americans are so fond of.”

  Joe noticed a white limousine pulling up outside. Two men, one with close-cut black hair and the other with a frizzy mass of blond hair, stepped out of it.

  A commotion erupted by the door as patrons of the pub rose from their seats and crowded around the man with frizzy hair. The black-haired man politely pushed the crowd away from the blond man, then they took a seat together in one of the booths.

  “Is he a rock ’n’ roll star?” Joe asked Mr. Paul.

  Mr. Paul looked over his shoulder. “Bigger than a rock star, he’s a footballer.”

  “A footballer?” Joe asked.

  “A soccer player,” Mr. Paul explained, seemingly unenthused. “John Moeller—he’s a superstar right winger for West Ham United.”

  “Wow, I’ve never seen a soccer player get that kind of reaction,” Frank said.

  “In Europe it’s as big a sport as American football, baseball, or basketball,” Mr. Paul explained. “And its heroes are like royalty.”

  “A soccer match in England,” Joe said, grinning at the idea. “Now, that’s something I’d love to see.”

  “If you come back in six months, you can see him play in the World Cup,” Mr. Paul told him. “England is hosting it this year.”

  Mr. Paul fell silent again, sighed heavily, and stared out the window. Joe could tell it was taxing him to make conversation, so they ate the rest of their meal in relative silence.

  When the Hardys and Mr. Paul walked into the theater lobby a little while later, Corey Lista was waiting.

  “I have the cast and crew assembled, Mr. Paul,” Lista said, then referred to a sheet on his clipboard. “They’re all here except for your son and, of course, Neville Shah.”

  “Thank you, Corey,” Mr. Paul responded, trying to smile.

  Joe saw Emily Anderson on the pay phone at the far end of the lobby and casually walked over to check out the show posters adorning the wall.

  “The show may not go on after all.” Joe overheard her saying in a hushed voice. “I’ll know for sure after this meeting, Ian. You have to stall Schulander for another day.”

  Emily noticed Joe standing nearby and raised her voice. “I’ll ring you up after rehearsal then, yes?”

  Hanging up the phone, Emily smiled sweetly at Joe before walking into the theater.

  “Mr. Paul!” Joe heard someone call. The ticket clerk hurried out of the box office, holding an envelope. “Mr. Paul, someone left this on the counter,” the clerk said, handing it to him. “It’s addressed to Mr. Kije.”

  “ ‘From an anonymous donor,’ ” Mr. Paul read the outside of the envelope aloud before opening it.

  As Joe walked beside him, Frank leaned over and whispered. “That’s a strange way to invest in a show.”

  Mr. Paul pulled a check from the envelope, then gasped. “It’s a bank check for three thousand pounds.”

  7 The Anonymous Donor

  * * *

  “Three thousand pounds?” Frank said quietly to Joe. “Exactly how much Mr. Paul said he needed to save the show.”

  “Who did you say left this?” Mr. Paul asked the box office clerk.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone,” she replied, then returned to her post.

  “Well, boys,” Mr. Paul said, smiling genuinely, “maybe we’re not closed yet after all!”

  As the Hardys followed Mr. Paul into the theater and down the side aisle, Joe ran into Jennifer. Joe felt oddly embarrassed encountering his new friend, who had become a suspect since the last time he saw her.

  “Where were you today, Joe?” Jennifer asked. “We haven’t had one disaster, it’s been dull as dirt.”

  “You heard about the fire the night before last?” he asked.

  “Heard about it?” she replied. “I had the police knocking on my door at two o’clock in the morning.”

  “You think someone stole the dressing room key from your chain?” Joe asked.

  “Someone must have,” Jennifer replied, “but I don’t know how.”

  “Have you ever used the key?” Joe asked.

  Jennifer shook her head.

  “Maybe it was never on the chain.” Joe went on. “Who issued you your keys?”

  “Mr. Jeffries,” she replied.

  Frank had stopped to listen and decided to try to provoke a reaction from the young technician. “What were you working on in here last night, Jennifer?”

  Jennifer wrinkled her forehead. “I wasn’t here,” she replied, puzzled. “And the crew knocked off about five-thirty.”

  Joe frowned at Frank. He knew his brother had tried to catch Jennifer off guard and let something slip, but Joe felt sure she wasn’t involved. “We heard someone in here using power tools at about eight last night.”

  “Don’t know, Joe,” Jennifer replied with a shrug. “I locked the place up when I left.”

  “Jennifer, this concerns you, too,” Mr. Paul called from the stage, where he had assembled the cast and crew.

  “If you’re dropping the ax on this show,” Emily said loudly to Mr. Paul, “can we get on with it?”

  As Jennifer started toward the stage, Joe held Frank back a moment. “Instead of questioning Jennifer, why aren’t we talking to Emily Anderson?”

  “I don’t see Ms. Anderson scaling ladders and escaping from rooftops,” Frank replied, watching the refined older woman elegantly pacing across the stage. “Besides, why would the star of a show try to sabotage it?”

  “I overheard her on the phone telling someone named Ian to stall someone named Schulander until she found out whether this show was being canceled,” Joe informed him.

  Frank raised an eyebrow. “That does sound suspicious.”

  Chris came running down the aisle on the other side of the theater. “Sorry I’m late!”

  “All is forgiven today, Chris. An anonymous donor has given us new life,” Mr. Paul said, th
en turned to his stage manager. “Corey, if you would run the scene at the headmaster’s office with Emily and Chris, I need to deliver this check to Mr. Kije and get the deposit to the costumers.”

  “Can’t you just send someone?” Lista asked.

  “No, this I need to do myself,” Mr. Paul replied, then hurried from the theater.

  “Well, if we want to find out about Mr. Kije, here’s our chance,” Joe whispered to Frank.

  “Say, Joe, I need someone to run a spotlight until we get a replacement for Neville,” Jennifer called as she started up the steps.

  “I’ll trail Mr. Paul,” Frank said quietly.

  “What should I do?” Joe asked.

  “Find out what you can about Emily Anderson,” Frank replied. “And learn how to work a spotlight,” he added with a smile, then hurried to catch up with Mr. Paul.

  • • •

  Frank followed Mr. Paul at a safe distance, expecting him to hop on a bus or flag down a cab to take him to Mr. Kije’s home or office. Instead, the director and author walked a few blocks and went directly into the First Merchants Bank of England.

  Maybe Mr. Kije is a banker, Frank thought, as he stepped through the revolving doors into the bank lobby.

  Mr. Paul stood in the single line for the tellers. Grabbing a London Herald someone had left on a counter, Frank sat in the customer service waiting area watching Mr. Paul over the top of the newspaper.

  Chris’s father had reached the front of the line. The man behind him tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to an available teller, but Mr. Paul shook his head no and pointed toward a young female teller at a different window.

  From the way the young female teller greeted Mr. Paul when he reached her window, Frank could tell they knew each other, although he couldn’t hear what was being said.

  Frank watched as the young woman took the cashier’s check and began counting out money on the counter. Frank could tell they were large denominations because of the physical size of each bill. He knew that in England, the larger the bill, the more it was worth.

  “Something smells a bit fishy, eh?” someone across the waiting area from Frank said. It was David Young, the private investigator.

  “Maybe she thinks he’s Mr. Kije,” Frank said quietly.

  The teller handed Mr. Paul the money in a large envelope and added, “Have a lovely day, Mr. Paul.”

  “Or maybe she doesn’t,” Young said.

  Frank drew the newspaper in front of his face as Mr. Paul passed him and left the bank.

  “Someone followed us last night after we left the Tower of London,” Frank said, waiting for Young’s reaction.

  “By your tone, I fancy you think it was me,” Young said. “Since I left you and your brother, I’ve been trailing Dennis Paul.”

  “Then you must have been there when he met with Mr. Kije last night,” Frank said, seeing a chance to get an address for the mysterious producer.

  “I followed Dennis Paul to half a dozen quite luxurious homes in Kensington and Mayfair,” Young told him. “He stayed between ten and thirty minutes at each. I checked the addresses and none of the residences, I assure you, was Mr. Kije’s.”

  “Then Chris’s father lied to us,” Frank realized.

  “Don’t be fooled just because he’s someone’s father,” Young said. “Many criminals are, you know.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Mr. Young,” Frank said, rising. “Can I ask you something? Did you tell anyone about our whereabouts last night?”

  “I reported to my employer,” Young replied, rising from his chair. “Told him you were no longer suspects in my book.”

  “Your employer, Mr. Jeffries,” Frank recalled.

  Young nodded, bid Frank goodbye, and left. As Frank headed down the street back toward the theater, his mind raced, trying to fathom why the author and director of Innocent Victim might be trying to sabotage his own production.

  • • •

  Meanwhile, Joe was high up on the catwalk practicing following Chris Paul around the stage with a spotlight four feet long and as thick as a tree trunk.

  “Steady, Joe, move smoothly,” Jennifer instructed over his shoulder. “Now pick up Emily crossing down stage center.”

  “Do you know a friend of Ms. Anderson named Ian?” Joe asked as he tilted the spotlight so that the beam stayed on Emily Anderson as she moved toward the edge of the stage.

  “Ian Link,” Jennifer replied. “But I don’t think he would count as a friend. He’s her agent.”

  “She was talking with him about someone named Schulander,” Joe said. Jennifer’s head cocked back, surprised. “You know him?”

  “Joe, you’re shining the spotlight on Corey Lista, in the third row,” Jennifer warned.

  “Sorry,” Joe said, aiming the beam at Emily Anderson again.

  “I don’t know Schulander personally, but everyone knows of him,” Jennifer explained. “He’s a big producer in the West End.”

  “West End?” Joe asked.

  “London’s version of Broadway,” Jennifer answered. “Schulander’s been holding auditions for his new show these past two weeks.

  “That’s the motive!” Joe blurted out as a thought struck him.

  “What’s the motive?” Jennifer asked.

  Joe hesitated, not wanting to give her too much information. “In the play, I just figured out the killer’s motive.”

  “Your second day at rehearsal and it’s just come to you, has it?” Jennifer kidded.

  “Jennifer, can I borrow Joe for a minute?” Frank asked, having returned and stepping out onto the balcony below them.

  Jennifer nodded for Joe to let her take over. “Go on then.”

  Frank led Joe through the red velvet curtains and into the lounge on the balcony level. He quickly filled him in about the bank and his encounter with David Young.

  “Mr. Paul just cashed that check written out to Mr. Kije,” Frank told him.

  “Cashed it?” Joe asked.

  “The bank teller may be involved,” Frank explained. “She knew who he was and gave him the money anyway!”

  “You think Mr. Paul is pulling a scam?” Joe wondered.

  “That’s what it looks like,” Frank replied. “We need to find out if Chris told his father where we were going last night.”

  “And don’t forget Mr. Jeffries,” Joe said.

  “Right,” Frank agreed. “If David Young reported our whereabouts to him, he could have followed us, too. But why would Mr. Jeffries hire an investigator to solve a crime that he was involved in?”

  “Then again, what motive could Mr. Paul have?” Joe asked.

  Frank shrugged. “Motive is the key to solving this one, Joe.”

  “Maybe Mr. Paul and Mr. Kije have a joint account at the bank,” Joe suggested.

  “Maybe,” Frank said. “Let’s wait and see what Mr. Paul does with the money.”

  “Speaking of motive,” Joe told Frank. “There is a reason the star might try to sabotage her own production—if she was offered a bigger, better show.” Joe then reminded Frank about the phone conversation he had overheard. “She would have a lawsuit on her hands if she walked away from this show a week before opening,” Joe theorized. “But if the show were canceled, she wouldn’t be breaking her contract.”

  “But could any job offer be big enough to make someone with Ms. Anderson’s reputation resort to sabotage?” Frank challenged.

  “All right, cast!” Mr. Paul’s voice rang through the theater. “Let’s run through the show from the top.”

  Joe and Frank stepped onto the balcony.

  “Joe, I need you back up here,” Jennifer called from the catwalk. “Frank, would you be a love and get me two number forty-seven orange gels from the light storage room?”

  “Sure, Jennifer,” Frank replied, then trotted down the steps, through the theater, and into the stage left wing.

  Emily Anderson had already begun her opening soliloquy, lit only by a spotlight. Frank paused, watching her fro
m the wings. However brusque she could be in person, Ms. Anderson was mesmerizing onstage, drawing you in with her melodic speaking voice and commanding presence.

  Beside Frank a stagehand wearing a wireless headset turned to the technician manning the fly system behind him. “Get ready to fly out the courthouse facade.”

  Chris stepped up beside Frank, ready to make his entrance. “How do you like being back here with us?” he whispered.

  Frank smiled.

  Just as Emily Anderson finished her speech, the stagehand beside Frank gave the cue. “Fly out courthouse, set classroom.”

  Frank watched as the huge set piece was raised high into the air.

  “Why isn’t Emily moving?” Chris muttered.

  Frank saw that Emily Anderson hadn’t moved from the spot where she delivered her opening speech.

  Chris shrugged, puzzled, then walked onstage and took a seat at a desk in the classroom.

  Frank heard a cracking sound from above him. The massive courthouse set piece was giving way directly over the spot where Chris Paul had just sat down!

  8 A Major Setback

  * * *

  “Heads!” Frank shouted, remembering the warning he had heard shouted a couple of days before.

  Chris looked up just as the giant set piece broke away from the cables that were lifting it. He leaped away from his desk a split second before the courthouse facade crashed down on top of the classroom set, tearing through the walls and sending desks splintering in every direction.

  A violent crash of metal behind Frank sent him diving to the floor. The counterweights that had been balancing the one-ton courthouse crashed into the rigging at the base of the fly weight system.

  Screams and gasps were followed by a shout of concern from Mr. Paul as he jumped onto the stage and ran to his son. “Is everyone all right? Is anyone hurt?”

  “I’m fine, Dad,” Chris assured him, then turned to Frank. “Are you all right, mate?”

  Franks ears were ringing, but he was otherwise in one piece. “I’m okay.”