Evil, Inc.

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “You won’t get away with this,” Frank warned.

  “Won’t we? You doubt the efficiency of Reynard and Company? Then complain to our dear uncle, or at least to his pictures up there.” Pierre and the others backed out of the room, and the heavy oak door swung shut behind them.

  There was the sound of a lock being turned, and then silence.

  “Who could have done it?” muttered’ Frank, his brows furrowed. “Who could have sprung Carlos and then framed us? I need time to figure it all out.”

  “Look, Sherlock, we don’t have time for that. We have to figure out how to escape from her and fast.” The Hardys thought for a moment.

  Frank spoke for both of them when he said, “As far as I can see, there’s nothing we can do but wait.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Joe bitterly. “And like Pierre said, we can amuse ourselves looking at those pictures.”

  “I guess it’s better than nothing.” Frank started walking around the windowless room, looking at one picture after another.

  “You can see how much the Reynards want to butter up their uncle Paul,” Frank said.

  “Yeah, just look at him,” Joe whispered in awe.

  There were full-length paintings of Paul Reynard over the years. Paul Reynard as a boy in short pants on a pony. Paul Reynard as a teenager in a school uniform. Paul Reynard as a young army officer. Paul Reynard as a white-haired gentleman in a tuxedo. There were enlarged newspaper photos of Paul Reynard receiving a medal from a high government official and another of Paul Reynard presiding over a meeting of the board of directors of Reynard and Company with his nephews looking on humbly in the background.

  “I can see why he likes to live in the past,” said Frank. “He has quite a distinguished past to live in.”

  “He looks like he’s still having a good time,” said Joe. “Look at this picture.”

  The picture was a blown-up page from the sports section of a British newspaper. It was dated a few months earlier. On it was a photo of Paul Reynard in formal clothes standing beside a large gray horse with a garland of flowers around its neck and a grinning jockey on its back. The headline at the top of the page read, “French Horse Wins Grand National Steeplechase.”

  Frank leaned forward to read the accompanying story.

  “Hey, this is interesting,” he said. “It’s all about how Paul Reynard has devoted himself to breeding Percheron horses to become steeplechase racers. It seems that centuries ago Percherons used to carry Norman knights into battle, but after that they were used only as farm horses, and in recent years the breed has been dying out. Paul Reynard has turned his family estate in Normandy into a horse-breeding ranch and has now restored the Percherons to their former glory.”

  “His nephews must love that,” said Joe. “It’s kept their uncle busy and out of their hair.”

  Frank was still reading the article. “It says his estate is located close to the town of Bayeux, near the English Channel. The paper calls his arrival on the English racing scene ‘the most devastating invasion since William the Conqueror sailed from that same Norman coast to take over England almost a thousand years ago.”

  “Remind me to write him a fan letter if we ever get out of this alive,” said Joe, with a grimace of impatience at his brother. Leave it to Frank to get involved in picking up some weird information when there were so many more pressing things to do - like coming up with a plan for the moment. The conference room door swung open.

  “We might be able to do more than write him a letter,” said Frank, his eyes lighting up.

  “What do you mean?” asked Joe, who recognized the look on his brother’s face. It was the look that appeared when Frank came up with the solution to an especially difficult problem.

  “This picture has given me an idea,” Frank replied. “Two ideas, actually.” “What are they?” Joe asked eagerly.

  But before Frank could answer, they both heard a sound that cut their conversation off. It was a key being inserted in the lock. “Too late,” groaned Joe, his brief flare of hope dying. Their executioners had arrived.

  Chapter 11

  THERE WAS NO time for Frank to explain his idea, just a few desperate seconds to try it out.

  He grabbed one of the paintings on the wall, and ran to one side of the doorway. Immediately Joe grabbed another, and ran to the other side. When Frank raised the picture high above his head, Joe got the idea. He grinned, then tensed, pressing against the wall as the door swung open.

  Two men entered the room, moving with confidence that came from the guns in their hands. Both were already inside before they hesitated and started to look around for their victims.

  That was all the time Frank and Joe needed. The paintings came crashing down on the men with massive force. The canvases ripped on impact, and the heavy frames were forced over the men’s heads and shoulders, pinning their arms to their sides. They kicked and struggled, but it did no good.

  Seconds later, the men collapsed like puppets with their strings cut. They were feeling no pain. The Hardys’ fists had done a good job of knocking them out.

  Frank looked down at them. “Well, we’re not the only ones who’ve been framed now.”

  Joe laughed. “And the Reynards aren’t the only ones with guns on their side.” Joe stooped to grab one man’s weapon, while Frank took the other. “Let’s go get them,” cried Joe.

  Frank shook his head. “And what do we do if we manage to capture them?”

  “We turn them over to the cops and - ” Joe stopped. Then he said, “I see what you mean.”

  “Right. We can’t show ourselves to the police. Not only would they not believe our story, they’d arrest us as cop killers, and our chances of beating the rap would be zilch since we can’t get the Network involved.”

  “So what do we do? Where do we go?” asked Joe, looking with disgust at the now-useless gun in his hand.

  Frank stuck his gun in his pocket. “What we do is go to the only man who can turn the Reynards over to the police and end the criminal activities of Reynard and Company forever. The man who owns it. Paul Reynard himself.” Frank nodded toward the blowup of the news paper story about Paul Reynard’s success as a horse breeder. “It says here that the name of his place in Normandy is-surprise, surprise-Chateau Reynard. Between Bayeux and the coast. Come on. Let’s get out of here fast, before the regular employees start coming to work.”

  “First, though, we need money,” said Joe, stooping over to relieve one of the men of his wallet. “We’ll need tickets, among other things.”

  “These guys are pretty well-heeled for hoods,” said Frank, taking the other wallet and looking at the bills stuffed inside. “Probably got paid in advance for killing us,” said Joe.

  Cautiously the Hardys stepped into the corridor. It was empty.

  “Are they gone?” Joe asked.

  “I’ll bet the Reynards and Denise have gone home to sleep,” whispered Frank.

  “Yeah, they had a hard night’s work,” said Joe as they crept toward the exit. “Funny, we’ve been up all night, and I don’t even feel tired.”

  “There’s nothing like the danger of death to keep you alert,” replied Frank as they reached the deserted reception area. He checked the front door. “We’re in luck. We can unlock it from the inside just by turning this knob.”

  It wasn’t until they reached the Gare St. Lazare-the cavernous old railway station for trains to Normandy, one of many that dotted the French capital - and were aboard the early-morning train for Bayeux, that Joe was able to say, “I guess a little shut-eye wouldn’t hurt now.”

  He leaned back in the upholstered seat and dozed off, watching the scenery gradually change from urban to suburban and finally rural. Joe felt as if he’d been asleep for not more than five minutes when he was shaken awake.

  “Just a few more minutes,” he groaned. “I don’t have any classes until - ” Then he remembered where he was. “We’re here already?”

  “Yup,” said Frank. “Now to
find out where we go from here. We need a map.”

  They found a detailed one in a shop catering to tourists near the medieval cathedral that dominated the town. The map showed the sites of notable buildings in the area. Chateau Reynard was one of them.

  “It’s marked in red,” said Frank. “Let’s see what that means.” He studied the map for a moment longer and said, “It means not open to visitors.”

  Frank and Joe went to the chateau, anyway. They rented bicycles, since there was no chance of two wild-looking punks renting a car without ID. Even the bike shop let them pedal away only after they left a deposit equal to the full value of the bikes.

  Under a broiling sun, sweat soaking their clothes, they biked for almost an hour through gently rolling hills shaded by flowering apple 102

  trees and bright green pastures dotted with cows and horses. They traveled the final two miles on a deserted, winding one-lane asphalt road that turned off just past a crudely lettered wooden signpost reading, Ch. Reynard.

  “Not open to visitors is putting it mildly,” said Joe, staring at the stone wall surrounding the estate. It was over ten feet high, and on its top, jagged shards of broken glass embedded in concrete glinted in the sunlight. “I guess this is what you call French hospitality.”

  “We’ll have to figure out some way of getting over that wall,” said Frank. “Look, I know you like to make complicated plans and all, but why don’t we try something simple for a change?” suggested Joe.

  “Like what?’”

  “Like this.” Joe walked up to the huge wooden door barring the entrance to the chateau grounds and pulled a rope that set a bell clanging.

  after a couple of minutes, the door swung open a crack The face of a very large man peered out.

  “Do you speak English?” asked Joe.

  “A leetle,” the man said.

  “We’d like to see Mr. Paul Reynard on very important business.”

  “No!” the man growled in the same kind of tone an attack dog might use.

  The door slammed shut, and a moment later the Hardys heard the bolt slide into place.

  “Well, so much for doing things the easy way,” said Joe. “I wonder why the guy was so unfriendly.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if the nephews bribed the old man’s servants to keep strangers away from him,” replied Frank, who was already studying the wall. “Not to mention our purple and orange hair.”

  “Makes sense,” agreed Joe, and joined his brother at the wall. “See any way, over?”

  Frank stared upward a moment longer, then nodded. “I think so. It’s worth trying, anyway. Come on.”

  He walked his bike along the wall away from the door, and Joe followed. The wall went on and on.

  “This estate must be immense,” said Frank.

  “I guess the horses need lots of space to run. Hey, let me in on your plan-unless you’d rather go it alone.”

  “No. I’m going to need your help,” said Frank, finally stopping. “We’re far away from the entrance now, so there’s a good chance no one will spot us when we go over the wall-which is a chance we’ll have to take. I don’t want to wait until dark. The nephews are probably hunting for us already. And that servant who saw us might put them on our trail.”

  “But how do we get over the wall?” asked Joe. “Did I ever tell you that you have a really lousy habit of keeping your plans secret? I think you do it just to make me mad.”

  “You’re right,” Frank said with a grin. “But I will tell you, this plan goes in several stages. First, there’s this.”

  Frank leaned his bike against the wall and told Joe to steady it for him. Then he stood on its seat, emptied the contents of his jacket pockets, and tossed the jacket up, draping it over the top of the wall.

  “That should take the edge off those pieces of glass-I hope,” he said, climbing down from the bike.

  He handed his pistol to Joe, saying, “Keep this for a few minutes. I’ll take this with me.”

  He picked up the compact coil of thin but strong nylon rope left over from tying Carlos and his guards in Paris and jammed it in his pocket.

  “Now stand over here, about three feet from the wall, and make a stirrup with your hands.”

  “I see,” said Joe, the light dawning. He did as Frank instructed, standing near the wall and lacing the fingers of his hands together to form a stirrup. Meanwhile, Frank had backed off to have room to make his run.

  “Now, remember, as soon as my feet hit your hands, give it your best heave-that wall is high.”

  “Don’t worry. Although I don’t see why you always get the fun part,” said Joe. “Because I thought of it first,” replied Frank, and started his run. When he was a few feet from Joe, Frank leaped, his feet smacking into the palms of Joe’s linked hands. At the moment of impact, Joe heaved upward with every ounce of his strength as Frank used Joe’s hands as a springboard. Joe looked upward to see the bottoms of Frank’s feet as they sailed up to the top of the wall.

  “Pretty good,” Joe had to admit. “A little stronger jump would have let you somersault right over, though.”

  Frank carefully lowered himself down the other side. A couple of minutes later, a rock with one end of the nylon cord tied onto it came flying from inside the compound, to land next to Joe.

  He grabbed the cord, tested it to make sure it was firmly secured on the other end, and climbed hand over hand up the side of the wall. Once on top, he lowered himself down the other side until he hung suspended by his fingertips. Then he let go, dropping the rest of the way to the ground.

  Frank was waiting for him. But he wasn’t alone.

  “Hi,” Frank said. “As you can see, we’re among friends here.”

  Three large pearl-gray horses had walked over to investigate the visitors, clearly hoping for sugar. They nuzzled the pockets of Joe’s jacket. “Sorry, pals,” Joe told them. “Just a couple of pistols.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t need them,” said Frank, as Joe handed him his gun. “Well, we’re over the wall. Now we have to get into the chateau itself.”

  They looked at the chateau, separated from them by a wide pasture. It was a rectangular gray stone building, taller than it was wide. Some distance away were other, lower buildings, probably stables. “It’s a funny shape,” said Joe.

  “That’s the Norman style of building. I remember seeing pictures of it in a book on architecture I read last year.”

  “Someday your head will burst open and a ton of trivia will come pouring out,” said Joe. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

  “Not so fast.” Frank held up his hand in warning. “We’ll have to take it slow. There’s not much cover, and we don’t want to be seen.”

  He crouched down in the high grass. Joe reluctantly did the same. Together, they started creeping toward the chateau, at times actually slithering on their stomachs to get across open areas.

  “Sometimes I think you play it a little too safe,” Joe said, panting as they wiggled into the cover of an apple tree.

  “It’s better to be safe than sorry.” Frank looked over his shoulder at Joe as he led the way to a hedgerow near the chateau.

  At that moment, he saw Joe’s mouth drop open. Then his brother’s whole body froze. He whirled around to find out what Joe was looking at-and he froze, too. He no longer saw the chateau growing larger as they came closer.

  He saw two black holes less than a foot from his eyes. He was staring into a double-barreled shotgun.

  He opened his mouth to say something, but almost immediately he heard the sharp click of the firing hammer being cocked.

  Chapter 12

  “DON’T SHOOT-YET,” said a voice from behind the gunman.

  Frank and Joe looked up. The large man who had turned them away from the chateau was now training a shotgun on them. At his side appeared a man in elegantly cut riding clothes, complete with gleaming leather boots and a riding crop in his hand. The Hardys recognized him instantly. He was Paul Reynard.


  “When Emile told me he had turned away two young American visitors, I reprimanded him for his inhospitality,” said Paul Reynard. “I sent him back to let you in. But he found that you had left. Then, trying to follow you to give you my invitation, he came upon your bikes and guessed you went over the wall. Now I must ask you to explain yourselves, or else you will be turned over to the police.”

  “We’d like nothing better than to explain ourselves,” said Frank, as he and his brother got to their feet, Emile’s shotgun still trained on them.

  “That’s why we came over the wall-to talk to you,” added Joe.

  “You must have something very important to discuss since you went to such trouble,” said Paul Reynard. “Come inside and we will talk. But I am afraid that Emile will have to keep his gun on you. We are a bit suspicious of intruders.”

  When they entered the chateau, the Hardys saw why Paul Reynard was wary of intruders. The outside of the building might have been forbidding gray stone, but the inside was filled with beautiful, costly paintings, furniture, and carpets.

  Paul Reynard took great pride in his home. In fact, he paused to point out some of his more outstanding possessions: a three-hundred-fifty year-old painting by Rubens and a much more modern one by Picasso, a table from the court of Louis XIV, a chair that Napoleon himself once sat on, and a carpet woven in Persia a century ago.

  He was apparently willing to give them a guided tour of the whole chateau, but Frank said, “I don’t mean to seem rude, but there is a lot we have to tell you, and we should do it as quickly as possible.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about proving your innocence,” Paul Reynard said. “I believe it already, just by your reactions to the pieces I pointed out to you. They were not the reactions of thieves, but of polite visitors. You see, I pride myself on being a good judge of character. It is a skill I perfected many years ago. I was an officer in French Army Intelligence in Algeria, and I had to learn to tell the difference between friends and enemies among the natives.” He smiled. “Even though the natives never dressed like les punks.”