Evil, Inc.

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “And these police are supposed to be the best in France,” said Denise scornfully as they stood under the glow of a streetlight. Night had come and a misty summer rain was falling. “Now you see why it is so easy to work outside the law.” “Where do we go from here?” asked Frank.

  “And how do we get there?” asked Joe. “We can’t exactly hail a taxi.” “You can’t even use the Metro,” said Denise. “You can’t afford it. Or have you forgotten?”

  “That’s right!” exclaimed Frank, clapping a hand to his forehead. “Our money! The wallets! The cops have everything!” “A hundred and fifty thousand bucks,” groaned Joe.

  “I’m glad you are beginning to understand the situation you are in,” said Denise. “You are now without money, and I suspect that you’ll owe a very big explanation to whoever is financing you.” “Look, you’ve got to help us,” said Frank.

  “Can you take us into that building again - maybe we can get the money back,” said Joe.

  “And maybe I am crazy, but I don’t think so,” replied Denise.

  “I’ve heard people say the French are heartless,” commented Frank.

  “Not heartless-merely practical,” said Denise. “But maybe we can find a practical way to get you out of this tight spot.”

  “Get us out of it, and we’ll do anything you want in return,” promised Frank.

  “The first thing I’ll do is get you out of this neighborhood,” said Denise. She walked to a small red car parked a few hundred feet away. “It’s Marcelle’s. She told me where it was and gave me the key.”

  Denise slid into the driver’s seat and motioned for Frank and Joe to get in the back. They drove in silence for a half hour while the Hardys looked out the mist-beaded windows at the blurred black shapes of buildings and the streaky lights of neon signs as they traveled through Paris. Finally, Denise parked the car and got out. Frank and Joe followed her as she began walking briskly.

  “My apartment is twenty blocks away,” she said. “I didn’t want to park too close. The police will search the immediate area where the car is found. “

  They walked the twenty blocks in fifteen minutes. Frank and Joe noticed that the buildings they passed were more and more elegant. The building that Denise lived in was truly luxurious, a mixture of nineteenth-century charm and modern convenience, such as the wrought-iron elevator, which rose swiftly and smoothly to the floor where Denise lived.

  Her apartment was big and beautifully furnished, with floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Frank and Joe looked out one of them to see a broad avenue, and past that, trees illuminated by streetlights.

  “That’s the Bois de Boulogne, the finest park in Paris,” Denise told them.

  “This place must cost a fortune!” exclaimed Frank. “Reynard must give you an awful lot of dough.”

  “Yeah, it must be a great outfit to work for,” Joe chimed in.

  “Perhaps-if you can take the risks,” Denise said coolly. “Wait here. I have to make a phone call - a private one.”

  She went into another room, closing a thick door solidly behind her.

  Joe looked around the living room, at the Persian carpet on the floor, the modern paintings on the wall, the gleaming grand piano. It looked like something out of “Dynasty.”

  “I wonder who ever said crime doesn’t pay?” he said.

  “It does-until you pay for it,” replied Frank.

  “From the looks of things, Reynard has a lot of paying to do,” commented Joe.

  “Right,” said Frank. “It’s easy to see why the Network wants to get to the heart of its operation. Reynard and Company has to be doing an incredible amount of dirty work to make as much dough as it spreads around.”

  “This can only be one kind of money,” said Joe. “Blood money.”

  They stopped talking when they heard the door opening. Denise returned to the living room.

  “I have good news-and bad,” she said.

  “Give us the good news first,” said Frank. “We need some right now.” “I have talked to my employers, and they have agreed to help you.”

  “What an honor,” said Frank. “And to what do we owe this expression of trust? Have they run a background check on us and decided we’re okay?”

  “That wasn’t necessary,” replied Denise. “You see, there is no longer any danger of your going to the police under any circumstances unless you want to commit suicide.” “What do you mean?” said Frank. “Obviously you know something we don’t.”

  “Marcelle called the office a few minutes ago. You weren’t kidding when you said you hit Karl hard. You hit him a little too hard.”

  “You mean-?” said Frank, already knowing

  the answer from the grim look in Denise’s eyes. “That’s right,” Denise replied. “He’s dead.” “That makes me a murderer!” Frank felt as if someone had smashed him in the solar plexus.

  “And it makes your brother your accomplice,” Denise went on. “But it’s even worse than that.”

  “Yeah,” said Joe, looking as bleak as his brother. “We’re not just murderers. We’re cop killers. ” “Which means we’re finished,” said Frank. “No one can save us. No one.”

  Chapter 8

  “You TWO ARE in luck,” Pierre Reynard told Joe and Frank as they stood before Pierre, Maurice, and Yves. “We can save you.”

  Denise had taken the Hardys to the Reynards’ private office and left them there.

  “What does your company do-work miracles?” asked Frank.

  “You don’t need miracles,” said Pierre. “All you need are a few changes in your appearance, another set of passports, a way to smuggle yourselves out of France, and tickets to Australia, Peru, or anyplace else where the French police or your former associates will not easily track you down.”

  “And you’ll give us those things?” said Frank skeptically.

  “We’ll even give you enough money to resume your business careers-perhaps by buying weapons to sell. We’ll leave that to you. I’m sure you know how to make money. The size of the bankroll you so unfortunately lost is proof of that,” said Pierre. “That’s real generous of you,” said Frank.

  “Reynard and Company is always happy to be of service to its clients, or rather, its former clients,” Pierre told him.

  “Look, let’s stop beating around the bush,” said Joe. “Tell us what you guys want us to do, and we’ll tell you if we want to do it.”

  “You’ll tell us! Don’t make me laugh,” cried Yves Reynard, but the smile on his face had nothing to do with laughter. It was the smile of a crocodile about to enjoy a meal.

  “You have no money. You have no friends. And every cop in France would like to capture you-dead, not alive,” said Maurice. “So you do what we say, or else we throw you out on the street, where you wouldn’t last five minutes.”

  “Pardon my brothers’ bluntness, but they are right, you know,” added Pierre. “Unless, of course, you know someone else who will help you.”

  “You know we don’t,” said Frank.

  The Hardys were on their own, on the wrong side of the law, caught in a trap they had to break out of themselves.

  “Okay, okay, tell us about the job we have to do for you,” said Joe.

  “The job isn’t for us,” said Pierre. “It is for some clients of ours.”

  “Clients?” repeated Joe suspiciously. “Hey, what are you trying to pull?”

  “We are not trying to ‘pull’ anything,” replied Pierre patiently. “Since we are going to be working together, I suggest that you trust us. In business such trust is essential.”

  “Then why not start by trusting us and telling us just what your business is,” countered Frank.

  “Yeah,” said Joe. “Gun running? Revolution? Terrorism? What?”

  “All of them. And more. Yet at the same time, less. None of them, in fact,” said Pierre. “What are you talking about?” asked Frank. “Cut the double talk,” said Joe. “You might think it’s funny, but we don’t.”


  “You might say our business is ‘funny business,’ as you Americans put it,” said Pierre. “You see, we at Reynard and Company don’t plan or carry out crimes ourselves. We merely supply equipment and personnel to people who do.

  “If you need a bomb and someone to set it off, you come to us. If you need a car and a driver to get away from a robbery, you come to us. If you need someone to tap a phone or steal a secret or forge a passport or provide any device or skill for which you might not want to put an ad in the newspaper, you come to us. We supply what you need.”

  Pierre smiled. “You see, a long time ago my brothers and I decided that there are people in every walk of life, whether they are doctors or lawyers, plumbers or politicians, who will sell or do anything for money. When our uncle left control of the firm to us, we made it our business to search out those people and hire them-to be used when needed. Our success speaks for itself. I am not boasting when I say that Reynard and Company is the greatest shopping center in - the entire world of crime today.”

  “And you want to add us to your stock,” said Frank.

  “What if nobody wants us?” asked Joe. “Do you put us on sale for half price?”

  “As I told you before-you’re in luck,” said Pierre. “There is someone who wants you, and for a handsome price.”

  “We still need to know what we have to do,” said Frank. “Because there are some things we draw the line at.”

  “Then I suggest you get out your erasers before it is you who are rubbed out,” replied Pierre.

  He pressed a buzzer and spoke over the intercom. “Send Mr. Goya in.”

  He turned to the Hardys. “Try to look as tough as you can. Our client is coming to inspect the goods. ” “Who is this guy?” Joe asked.

  “Mr. Goya is a Basque nationalist; his people want to set up their own country in the Pyrenees Mountains.” Pierre smiled. “Needless to say, Spain and France object.”

  The door opened and Mr. Goya stepped into the room. He stroked his black beard, looking the boys over intently. “These two will do very nicely,” he said.

  Mr. Goya spoke in English, since no one else in the room spoke Basque, and he knew no French and refused to speak Spanish. The Spanish Civil Guard had executed too many of his comrades.

  “Of course, we will have to make certain changes in their appearance,” Pierre Reynard told Mr. Goya. “I would be less than an honest businessman if I did not inform you of that.”

  “I do not want any changes,” replied Mr. Goya. “These two are perfect for this job the way they are.”

  “I assure you, the changes will be small and will in no way decrease the effectiveness of these two young men,” said Pierre soothingly. He sounded like a garage mechanic assuring a customer that a car would need only minor repairs. “You see, the police have an eye out for them, so it will be necessary to alter the color of their hair and give them T-shirts with the name of a different rock group. Once that is done, there is no way for the police to pick them out of the swarm of punk rockers in the city, all with dyed hair and black clothing.”

  “I will have to see the results before I make a down payment,” said Mr. Goya.

  That is fine with us,” said Pierre. “Reynard and Company wants its clients to be completely satisfied.”

  Pierre pressed the intercom button again. “Send in Denise.”

  “Denise is our expert on the younger generation,” he explained to Mr. Goya when Denise appeared.

  After Pierre explained what was needed, Denise looked at the boys critically and said, “I think bright orange hair would be good for Frank, and a nice shade of purple for Joe. We’ll get them a couple of T-shirts spray-painted with the words Death Wish. They’re a hot new group that pretends to commit suicide on stage.”

  “How long will it take?” asked Mr. Goya. “Not more than an hour,” said Denise. “We have an excellent punk hairstylist on our payroll.”

  “And it will all be included in the original price,” said Pierre. “We are not like some firms that give a low estimate and then pad the bill with extras.” “We will see,” said Mr. Goya.

  “Get moving,” Pierre told Denise. “We don’t want to keep Mr. Goya waiting any longer than necessary. He has important work to do.” “Very important,” Mr. Goya agreed.

  The young man to whom Denise took Frank and Joe said the job would be quite quick and easy. “The dye job these two have is the kind that washes right out,” he said, frowning. He gave his own spiked hair an approving pat. “I’ll give them a real one-something that will last.” “Great,” said Frank. “Just what we need.”

  “Yeah, thanks a million,” added Joe. “I have to admit, though, I have some doubts. Purple. I mean, I always figured green was my color.”

  An hour later, when Denise returned the Hardys to the Reynards, Mr. Goya nodded once again. “They are even better than before. I will take them.” Then he looked at Denise. “And what about the girl? Is she available? I can use her, too.”

  “Of course she is available,” said Pierre. “Naturally, there will be a one-third additional charge.”

  “One-fifth,” countered Mr. Goya. “Let us not engage in vulgar haggling,” said Pierre. “Let us say one-fourth.”

  “Done,” said Mr. Goya. He pulled out his wallet and counted out a thick stack of large bills onto the desktop.

  Pierre picked them up and counted them again while Yves and Maurice counted along with him.

  When they were done, they nodded. .

  “I’ll take these people. now, since I’m paying by the day,” said Mr. Goya. “The faster they do the job, the better.”

  “Let’s see, your checkout time is three A. M.,” said Pierre, looking at his watch, and making a notation on a printed form that he handed to Mr. Goya to sign. “We find this avoids disputes when the final payment is made.” “Did you explain the job to them?” asked Mr. Goya.

  “We’ll leave that to you,” said Pierre. “I assure you, they will do anything you ask. And Reynard and Company backs up its service with an ironclad guarantee.”

  “We stand behind all our people,” said Yves, giving Frank and Joe a meaningful look, and laying a revolver on the desk.

  “We expect them to be very sharp,” added Maurice, as he laid a wicked-looking switchblade beside the gun.

  “I’m sure everyone gets your point,” said Denise, giving frank and Joe a piercing look of her own. “I’m sure nobody will forget it.”

  “Very well. Let’s begin our work,” said Mr. Goya. He led the Hardys and Denise out of the office. They rode the elevator down in silence.

  Not until they were seated in a dingy all-night cafe on a tiny deserted side street was Frank able to ask, “Okay, what are we supposed to do?”

  “Yeah, give us the picture,” said Joe. “What’s the job?”

  “This is the picture and your job,” Goya said in a low voice. He removed a photo from his jacket pocket.

  The Hardys and Denise leaned forward to look at it. They saw a young man wearing a black T-shirt, tight black trousers, and black combat boots, his spiky hair dyed lavender.

  “His name is Carlos Gonzales,” said Mr. Goya. “His father is one of the richest men in Spain and one of the greatest enemies of the Basque people. As you see in the picture, powerful as the father is, he has not been able to stop Carlos from rebelling. Still, he must protect his son from kidnappers. Two detectives dressed like Carlos guard him constantly.

  “Your job will be to separate Carlos from his guards and deliver him to me and a few friends of mine. How you do it is your job, but I’m sure a pretty girl and two such sympathetic-looking young men will have no trouble winning Carlos’s confidence. And I am sure you can do it without a hitch. Our group has dealt with Reynard and Company before and has always been entirely satisfied. “

  “And you will be this time, too,” Denise assured him.

  “Just one thing,” said Frank. “What will you do with Carlos? Hold him for ransom?”

  �
��A very, very big ransom, which his loving father will be happy to pay for the return of his only child,” replied Mr. Goya happily. Then he smiled, as if enjoying a private joke. “And of course we will return Carlos to this man we hate so very much. We will not deprive the father of his right to bury his son.”

  “You’re going to - to kill him?” Frank’s voice rose, then grew hushed.

  “Even if the ransom is paid?” said Joe.

  “Does that bother you?” asked Mr. Goya, giving the Hardys a searching look.

  “Bother these two?” cried Denise. “What a foolish idea, Mr. Goya!” She leaned forward confidentially. “Frank and Joe have killed before. What difference will one more corpse make?”

  Frank and Joe silently exchanged looks. How much deeper into crime would they get? As deep as murder?

  Chapter 9

  THE SUN WAS rising over Paris as Frank and Joe trudged back to their hotel. Mr. Goya had kept them up all night, planning the kidnapping of Carlos Gonzales.

  Above them, the sky turned pink, then a pale and deepening blue. It gave the old buildings of Paris the glow of new life. But the Hardys saw none of it as they reached the chipped stone steps of their hotel.

  “We can’t refuse to go through with this,” said Frank. “The Reynards will kill us in a minute. We know too much about their operation now for them simply to let us go.” Joe nodded. “And we can’t go to the police. Cops don’t cut deals with cop killers.”

  “Right” agreed Frank. “And we sure can’t turn to the Network for help.” He sighed. “We’re criminals on the run - the Reynards are offering us our only chance of escape.”

  “I wish we were back in Bayport right now,” Joe said wistfully. “Dad thinks we’re having a great time in New York.”

  “Instead, we’re kidnapping a kid in Paris.” Frank’s fists clenched. “We have to stop that murder,” he said, “even if it kills us.”

  By the time the Hardys met Denise late that night to carry out the kidnapping, they had a plan of their own.