Edge of Destruction

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Hardy Boys Casefiles - 05

  Edge of Destruction

  By

  Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 1

  "JOE! WATCH IT!" Frank Hardy grabbed his younger brother's arm; He yanked Joe from the path of a guy in a tuxedo who was charging for the ballroom exit. Until a few minutes before, the wealthy and famous had jammed the mid-Manhattan hotel ballroom for a political gathering. But as the room slowly filled with smoke, the distinguished group was being turned into a panic-stricken mob.

  The purpose of the gathering had been to kick of the mayoral campaign of Chief of Police Samuel Peterson. Right then, though, Peterson's supporters were busy running for exits. Peterson himself remained cool and stood in front of a microphone, trying to calm the crowd. "Don't panic. Exit in an orderly fashion," he instructed.

  He might as well have been talking to himself. As the smoke grew thicker, his voice was drowned out by shouts, screams, curses, and waves of choking sounds.

  “The doors are locked! We're trapped!" a man yelled, his shrieks dissolving into a series of wracking coughs. Soon the guests were fighting to get out.

  The smoke had become so dense that Joe and Frank Hardy, standing side by side, could barely see each other. Frank grabbed a napkin from one of the tables and held it over his face.

  "What do we do?" Joe shouted into his brother's ear. Joe knew he couldn't charge into action. Too many people around him were doing that, and they were only adding to the chaos.

  "Keep cool!" Frank shouted back. But when he tried to figure out how to calm the fear-crazed crowd, he came up with zero. He was ready to admit defeat; all set to tell Joe it was every man for himself. Then he saw he didn't have to.

  "Hey, the smoke's not that thick anymore," he said. "I can even feel the air-conditioning again.”

  Joe nodded. "Somebody must have put out the fire."

  All around them, other people were making the same discovery. The shouting and screaming turned into a buzz as the smoke thinned. The guests were looking slightly sheepish.

  Samuel Peterson's voice could be heard clearly over the microphone then. "The trouble seems to be over now," he said. "As soon as we find out exactly what has happened, we'll make an announcement.”

  A man angrily waved his fist and shouted, "But we're still locked in! What's going on?" As if in answer the doors to the ballroom were smashed open, and police came pouring into the room. "Peterson must have called them," said Frank. "I understand he's in constant radio contact with his men." Peterson talked with an officer for a minute, and then turned back to the microphone. "We still don't know what caused the smoke," he reported. "But no fire's been found. So let's act like New Yorkers and not let this incident throw us." Then, raising his arms enthusiastically, Peterson shouted, "Okay now, everybody, let's get on with the party!" His words were greeted with applause. Then the band members, who had returned to their places, played a smooth rendition of "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." "Nice choice," said Frank.

  "I'd rather hear some Stones," said Joe, not getting the joke. He looked at the guests. "But these people would probably think it was too loud, they look-old." "Old and rich, like Dad told us, most of this crowd have been invited so they'll give big bucks for Peterson's race this fall," Frank said, looking at the formally dressed guests.

  The Hardy boys were wearing suits and ties for the first time that summer. “You have to," their father, Fenton Hardy, had told them when they protested. "That is, if you rant to meet Peterson." The boys wanted to meet Peterson, so they wore ties. And Joe complained the whole time that his was strangling him.

  For years they had heard about the police chief from their father, who often reminisced about when he had worked as a New York City police detective. That was before he'd set out on his own as a private investigator. Peterson had been Mr. Hardy's partner on the force. The Peterson Hardy combination had cracked some of the toughest cases in the department's history.

  Sam Peterson had also cracked some long standing traditions. As the leader of the Guardians, the black police officers' association, Peterson had demonstrated the skills and smarts that eventually got him appointed, chief. The two men had kept in touch, and Hardy was one of the first people Peterson had told about his decision to run for mayor.

  "He's invited me to come to his campaign opener," Fenton Hardy had told Frank and Joe.

  "And he said to bring the two of you along. I've told him a lot about you, like any parent, I can't resist bragging a little about my kids. Anyway, he wants to meet you."

  "And I'd like to meet him," said Frank enthusiastically. "From what you've told us about him, he'll make quite a mayor if he manages to get elected."

  “Yeah, and I bet he will be," said Joe. "He's my kind of guy."

  “If you go with me, you have to be prepared to mingle with an older crowd," warned Mr. Hardy. "Big-city politics isn't kid stuff."

  "That's okay. We'll do anything." Joe grinned. "If you want us to, we can dye our hair white at the temples.”

  "And put a little stuffing around our waists." Frank grinned, too, looking pointedly at his father's stomach bulging slightly above his belt.

  Fenton Hardy gave his belly an affectionate pat. "I've got to layoff those chocolate-chip cookies and put in a few more hours at the tennis club." He smiled ruefully. "I'll appoint you my guardians at this affair. Don't let me get near the buffet.”

  Now, standing in the ballroom, Frank said, "Speaking of Dad, let's find out what he thinks caused the smoke."

  "I wonder where he is," said Joe, scanning the room. "Last I saw of him, he was talking to Guido Scalpia."

  "Let's go ask Guido, then," said Frank. "It'll give us a chance to meet him."

  When they finally met and asked the tall, distinguished-looking former Yankee center fielder about their father, he shook his head. "I was talking to him, you know, remembering when he helped catch a crank who was sending me threatening letters. But at the first whiff of smoke coming into the room, your dad went to find out what was going on. You know that all he needs is a scent of mystery and he's off and running. I've always thought he's part bloodhound."

  "You are right about that. But which direction did he head in?" Frank asked.

  "I don't know. Maybe he went outside to help the cops," Guido said.

  Joe headed for the door, calling over his shoulder to his brother, "Let's find out." Outside the ballroom, the two brothers still had no luck. The lobby was swarming with fire fighters and cops, but none of them had seen Fenton Hardy. Most of them did know what he looked like, though.

  "Maybe Peterson can help," said Frank. "It figures Dad must have gone to him when the trouble started."

  They returned to the ballroom and joined the crowd around Peterson. "Hey, kids, where's your dad?" he called before they could ask. "I have some people I want him to meet."

  "Beats us," said Frank. He was beginning to have a slightly uneasy feeling.

  "What's Dad up to?" Joe said, almost to himself. But his thoughts were interrupted by a piercing noise coming from Peterson's breast pocket.

  "A cop is never off duty," the chief said, faking a sigh. Pulling his beeper out, he flicked on the incoming-call switch.

  The voice that came over the beeper was high pitched - obviously a man trying to mask his identity.

  "Hi, chiefy," the voice said, chirping cheerfully. "Don't bother hunting for your pal Fenton Hardy. No way you're going to find him. And unless you do what I say, you'll find him in a way you won't like." The voice paused for the space of a heartbeat, then went on, sounding exultantly happy. "You'll find Fenton Hardy dead, baby. Did you hear me? Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead."

  Chapter 2

  SAMUEL PETERSON'S FACE turned hard as he listene
d to the voice from his beeper. He pressed the talk button. "Who are you?" he demanded. "What have you done with Fenton?"

  "Come on, Chief, you really don't expect me to answer those questions," the voice said. "There's just one question you should be asking.”

  "What's that?" said Peterson.

  "What do I have to do if I want to see Fenton Hardy alive again,” the voice said.

  "Okay, what do I do?" said Peterson. He was trying to keep his voice neutral so it gave no hint of the rage that was building up inside him.

  "Right now, you do nothing. You just wait for me to contact you again. Oh yeah, one other thing. Keep all this to yourself. Believe me you don't want to alert the public. Because if you do, it'll lead to a panic in the city that'll make what happened in your smoke-filled room look like a calm demonstration."

  "A panic” Peterson's voice sounded hoarse. "What do you mean? I don't get the connection."

  "You will, Peterson baby, you will. For the moment, trust me," the voice continued, "and keep your trap shut tight."

  Peterson's eyes were slits of fury. "Okay, you have my word. But when are you going to call again?" A clicking sound and then a buzz of static were all that answered him. The connection had been broken.

  Peterson turned to Frank and Joe. "You kids heard what this joker said, right?" They nodded. "I'm sorry about your dad - really sorry. But you know to keep your mouths shut about it, right?" The chief took a deep breath, shaking his head. "Good thing you two were the only ones within earshot. It'll make security easier."

  "We'll sit tight until we find out what the kidnappers want," Joe said. "Then we can make our move."

  Peterson gave the Hardy boys a tolerant smile. "Look, kids, I know you want to help your father, but I suggest you leave this matter to the police. It's a job for professionals."

  "We're not exactly amateurs," said Joe indignantly. He was about to tell Peterson about some of the cases he and Frank had cracked, but Frank cut him off.

  "We won't get in your way," Frank assured Peterson. "But since he is our father, will you at least keep us posted on what's going on? We can't pretend we're not worried."

  "Okay," said Peterson. "Keep quiet about this for the time being, and I'll let you in on what's going down."

  "Thanks a lot," said Frank politely.

  "Yeah, thanks a million," Joe said sarcastically.

  "Maybe we'll call our mom now," Frank said before Joe could get started. "We'll tell her we're staying in the city. That way she won't get suspicious about Dad not coming home, and we'll be on-hand here if anything comes up."

  "You do that," said Peterson. "I'm heading back to my office, as soon as I can get away from here. Meet me at my car. It's out in front."

  "See you there," said Frank. "And soon," Joe added, as the two boys headed off in search of a pay phone. "Okay, why are you giving in to Peterson?" Joe demanded as soon as they were out of sight. "He treated us like a couple of five year-olds."

  "Look, as far as Peterson is concerned, we're not much better than five-year-olds. A couple of guys still in high school don't rate in his book. He's not about to make us his partners in this case - especially since he's running for mayor. Imagine what the headlines would say if the papers found out: 'Top Cop Turns to Kiddie Corps for Help.' The smart thing for us to do is play dumb. That'll keep Peterson happy until we get enough info to do something on our own."

  Joe thought a second, and then shrugged. "You know, I hate to admit it, but you're probably right." Frank gave him a grin. "But I want one thing understood," Joe went on. "Once we do get any kind of lead, we don't wait for Peterson's okay. We swing into action."

  "Agreed," said Frank. Even if this case hadn't involved their dad's safety, Frank would have been hooked. He could never resist an intriguing mystery.

  From a pay phone in the hotel lobby, Frank called home to Bayport. "Your mother is out at a Bayport beautification meeting," their aunt Gertrude said after answering the phone. Then she added in a worried voice, "I hope nothing's the matter."

  Frank tried to laugh off his aunt's worry. "Hey, nothing's wrong, really. I just called to say that the police chief has invited Dad, Joe and me to stay in the city for a few days. Dad will be giving a lecture at the police academy, and Joe and I are going to get a chance to see how a big-city police department works from the inside."

  "I'll tell your mother," their aunt Gertrude said. "But, Frank, dear - all of you - do be careful. I remember the last time I was in New York - " "I know," Frank cut in. "I promise we'll be careful."

  "I'm sure you will be," she said. "But keep an eye on Joe. He can be so impulsive." "I'll do that," said Frank as he looked up to see Peterson and several uniformed policemen walking out - of the hotel. "I have to hang up now," Frank said quickly. "Dad's signaling that we're moving on to the police chief's office." "That's what I mean about New York," said his aunt Gertrude. "Rush, rush, rush." "Right-and that's what I have to do. Bye," said Frank, hanging up. He headed after Joe, who was following Peterson out of the hotel.

  Back in his office, Peterson loosened his tie and sat down behind his desk. Then he motioned for Frank and Joe to take seats facing him. Joe tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Well," he finally burst out, "what do we do now?" "We do what we were told," said Peterson. "We wait." They didn't have to wait long. Five minutes of tense silence later, the buzzer on Peterson's intercom sounded. "What is it?" Peterson asked. "Someone sent you a package," a cop said.

  "Bring it up right away."

  "What about security?"

  Peterson thought a moment. "All right, have it checked out. But make it a rush job."

  Peterson turned from his intercom and explained. “It's routine procedure for our bomb squad to check out all incoming packages."

  "Terrorists?" Frank asked.

  "The threat's there all the time," said Peterson.

  "You think Dad's kidnappers are terrorists?" Joe asked, his voice rising. Just the word terrorist was enough to make his blood boil. Not long before, the girl he had loved, Iola Morton, had fallen victim to a terrorist firebomb. Ever since, Joe had been consumed by a passion for vengeance on terrorists, and now he had to bite his lower lip to keep the rage inside him from bursting out.

  "No use guessing," said Peterson. "I have a hunch that this package will give us an idea."

  The package was already open when the uniformed policeman brought it in and placed it on Peterson's desk. Reaching inside, the police chief pulled out a cassette. "It's a videotape," said Frank. "Where can we play it?"

  "I've got a VCR right here in my office. It's in this cabinet." He walked to the other side of the room and opened a door of the walnut wall unit. He turned back and noticed Frank looking at the tape curiously. "What's the matter? Something wrong with this?" asked Peterson, holding up the tape.

  "Probably not," said Frank. "I've just never seen that brand before. It's some kind of import."

  The chief inserted the cassette into the VCR. The picture quality was extremely good, far above average.

  An image of Joe and Frank's father appeared on the screen, absolutely clear, every detail sharp, and the color lifelike. Lifelike, though, was the wrong word, because Fenton Hardy was lying with his eyes closed and his arms folded over his chest.

  His resting place was the red plush interior of a gleaming wooden coffin. "Those pigs were lying to me," Peterson snarled. He slammed his fist against the wall. "They were keeping me off their trail, stalling for time until they could get away clean. They've all ready killed him!"

  Chapter 3

  THE THREE STARED in horror at the image of Fenton Hardy's corpse.

  "Dead," said Frank in a stunned voice.

  "I can't believe it," said Joe, barely able to choke out the words.

  There was nothing to say, nothing to do. Silently, Peterson and the boys sat alone with their shock and grief. They glued their attention to the picture on the screen, as if by looking at it hard enough they could change what they saw.<
br />
  Suddenly Frank leaped up from his chair and pointed. "Look!" Moving slowly onto the screen was the back of a hand. The hand was curled around something and covered Fenton Hardy's nose and mouth for a minute. Then it turned to display what it was holding.

  "What?" Joe looked puzzled. "A mirror - ?"

  "Yes," Frank said excitedly. "But that's not what's important. Look what's on the mirror."

  Joe looked more closely. "The center is fogged over, some kind of steam." Frank shook his head. "That's not steam, it's condensation caused by breath on the glass." He hesitated. "Dad's breath." "Then he's alive." Joe went limp with relief. "Well, they picked a fine way to tell us that," Peterson-said sharply as the screen went dark. "Maybe they were trying to tell us something else, too," said Frank. "They've told me enough," said Joe. "We have to get after them-fast." "Relax, Joe." Peterson looked tired. "Believe me the department is beginning to move on this. We'll be quietly checking over the whole hotel. That way, we'll find out how your dad was taken out of the place. Then, once we've picked up the trail, we'll follow it and close in. I know you're impatient to find your dad. But trust us. We have our procedures."

  Joe's grimace made it clear what he thought of the ponderous police pace. "Don't forget our agreement," Peterson said, cautioning him. "I don't want you and your brother getting mixed up in all this.” .

  "Right, right," muttered Joe, without even trying to sound as if he meant it.

  Before Peterson could make his point again, the phone rang, and he picked it up. He pressed a button that let the caller's voice be projected into the room.

  "I hope you enjoyed the TV show," the same high pitched voice that had announced the kidnappings.

  "What have you done to Fenton Hardy?" Peterson demanded. "Drugged him? Beaten him unconscious?"

  "What we've done is far more interesting than that," said the voice. "The illustrious investigator has the honor of being the first human guinea pig for a powerful new virus we've developed."

  "Virus?" the chief echoed.