The Ghostwriter Secret

by Mac Barnett

  “Look, Dana,” said Steve. “I have a hunch, and a hunch is the most powerful thing a detective can have.” Steve was quoting from Bailey Brothers #1, and pretty much every Bailey Brothers after that. “Now, let’s follow that hunch!”

  CHAPTER XXVII

  TWO DETECTIVES

  THE BOYS TOOK A BUS that dropped them off in front of a brown brick building by the water in San Francisco. Streetcars, which looked like they belonged to another century—they were orange and green and blue and had rounded edges and bright white letters— crisscrossed on tracks in the middle of the road. Steve, accustomed to the short buildings and open spaces of Ocean Park, could not stop looking up.

  Steve realized that this was the first time he’d been away from Ocean Park without his mom. He was free. He and Dana could do whatever they wanted—but all Steve wanted to do was to solve this case.

  The sun was setting, and the wind was cold and whipping hard, so Steve took a jacket out of his backpack. Remembering that Dana didn’t have his backpack anymore, and so didn’t have any extra clothes, he handed the jacket to his friend.

  “This is still damp,” Dana said. Steve shook his head.

  They ate pizza from a stand at the Ferry Building, and Steve bought himself a sweatshirt embroidered with a cable car on it from a vendor on the street.

  They were both tired and decided to continue the investigation the next morning. Steve paid cash for a room at a hotel downtown (and had to give the desk clerk an extra fifty bucks to rent the room to a pair of twelve-year-olds). The two boys flopped onto their beds and fell asleep with the TV on.

  The next morning Steve got directions to the Central Police Station, and he and Dana headed out. They arrived at a building that looked like a huge box with little slats for windows. Black-and-white police cruisers and SUVs lined the street for blocks.

  Steve and Dana walked through the front doors and into a chaotic lobby. Officers, some holding cups of coffee, some holding files or stacks of paper, hurried around while bored-looking men and women sat in plastic chairs. Phones rang everywhere, all at once.

  Steve walked up to the desk sergeant and stood on his tiptoes to look a little taller.

  “How can I help you, buddy?” the officer asked.

  “My name is Steve Brixton, and I’d like to talk to someone who investigates organized crime,” said Steve.

  “Why? I mean, what is this regarding?”

  “The kidnapping of an important figure,” said Steve. “It could be a matter of life and death.”

  For a little while the desk sergeant didn’t say anything. Then, “Please sit down. I’ll send someone out to see you.”

  Steve turned and gave Dana a thumbs-up, and they both took a seat.

  Ten minutes later they were still sitting there.

  “I’m hungry,” Dana said. They’d forgotten to eat breakfast.

  “Me too,” said Steve.

  “Is it cool if I go get us some muffins or something while you talk to the police?”

  “Yeah,” said Steve. Dana headed out the door.

  After another five minutes a tall woman came up to the row of chairs. She was dressed in a gray suit, and her hair was pulled back in tight braids.

  “Steve Brixton?” she asked.

  Steve nodded and shook her hand.

  “Detective Stephanie Taylor,” she said. “Nice to meet you. Come with me.”

  Steve rose and followed Detective Taylor through a swinging door, into an elevator, down a long hallway, and into a small office on the station’s sixth floor.

  Detective Taylor took a seat at her desk, and Steve took a chair on the other side.

  “Now,” said the detective, taking out a pad and pen. “What’s going on?”

  “I’d like to see your file on the Bee Syndicate,” he said.

  “The what?’

  “The Bee Syndicate. A crime syndicate I believe is operating out of San Francisco.”

  For a while Detective Taylor didn’t say anything. Then, “You want to tell me a little more about what’s going on, Steve?”

  “I have reason to believe that MacArthur Bart is being held captive by members of the Bee Syndicate, and that his life is in danger.”

  “And who is MacArthur Bart?”

  Steve was shocked. “MacArthur Bart? The writer? He wrote the Bailey Brothers Mysteries.”

  “Oh, those old detective stories?”

  “Yes! I would think that as a police officer you would have read those.”

  Detective Taylor laughed. “Nope. They always seemed kind of goofy.”

  Steve let it go. They were getting off track.

  “So,” said Detective Taylor. “What is your relation to Mr. Bart?”

  “He’s my favorite writer.”

  “Can you describe him for me?”

  Steve was silent. “I don’t know what he looks like.”

  “You don’t know him?”

  “Not personally.”

  “What makes you think he’s in trouble?”

  “He wrote me a letter.”

  “A letter.”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you sure the letter’s from MacArthur Bart?”

  “Who else would it be from?”

  “And he said that he’d been kidnapped?”

  “No.”

  “Did he mention the Bee Syndicate?”

  “No.” Steve didn’t want to get into all the stuff about the shoot-out and the running from the Ocean Park Police.

  She sighed. “And why would MacArthur Bart write you, Steve?”

  “Because I’m a detective.”

  Detective Taylor put down her pen. “Are you that kid detective who was in the news a few weeks ago?”

  Steve nodded.

  The police officer looked at Steve for a long time. “So what you’re saying is that you got a letter, from a man you’ve never met, saying that he was in trouble, and that all you have is a hunch that he’s being held here in San Francisco by a gang called the Bee Syndicate.”

  “That’s right,” said Steve. “So can I see your files?”

  “Listen, Steve, let me tell you a few things. We are a police department. It’s our job, not a private detective’s, to investigate crimes like kidnapping and organized crime. And we don’t just open our ‘files’ for some kid who walks through our front door.” Detective Taylor made little finger quotes on the word “files.”

  “We definitely don’t open them up for some out-of-town private eye. And finally, and I’m only telling you this because I’m in a good mood today, I have never heard of a criminal outfit called the Bee Syndicate. Which means that they’re not operating here in San Francisco.”

  “That you know of,” said Steve.

  Detective Taylor sighed. “Yeah, that I know of.” Detective Taylor rose. “I’ll walk you outside.”

  Soon Steve was back in the lobby, sitting down next to Dana.

  “How’d it go in there?” Dana asked.

  “Pretty well,” said Steve. “Only I didn’t get any information. Detective Taylor wouldn’t even check in her files.”

  “So now how do we find the Bee Syndicate?” Dana asked.

  “Well, we’ve got to get into those files. I’m thinking that we come back this afternoon, and we say that it’s Take Your Kids to Work Day, and our dad brought us to work, but now we’re lost, so we need to find our dad, and he works in the place where they keep criminal files. Then, once we know where that is, we go and get some police uniforms and fake mustaches, and we—hey, why are you smiling?”

  Dana reached into his pocket and pulled out a yellow piece of paper. “I found this in the phone book.”

  Steve flushed. “But we’re looking for the B-E-E Syndicate.”

  “How do you know? We never saw it written down. Plus the first eight digits of the phone number match.”

  He had a point.

  “Come on,” said Steve. “We could have MacArthur Bart freed today!”

  CHAPTER XXVIII


  THE VIPERS’ DEN

  THEY TOOK A CAB and had the driver drop them off a block away from the address on Alabama Street. This part of town was all warehouses, so the sidewalks were mostly empty. Steve and Dana started walking. Nearby, a truck rumbled and shuddered as it backed into a loading bay. And then, across the street, there it was: 450 Alabama. It was a huge building with big windows lining the second floor and no windows on the first. The front door was bright red. It was the perfect base for a gang of criminals.

  Above the front door was a small plaque that said THE B. SYNDICATE.

  “Wow,” said Dana. “I’m surprised they advertise the fact they’re a crime syndicate.”

  Steve nodded. “A lot of crime syndicates pay off the police and politicians so they can operate right in the open like this. That means these guys are really powerful, really dangerous.”

  As he said those last words, Steve’s excitement turned to anxiety and dread. They were about to go charging into a crime syndicate’s headquarters. He pulled out The Bailey Brothers’ Detective Handbook and opened it up to a section near the end called “Raiding the Hideout.”

  Almost every case Shawn and Kevin investigate ends in a spectacular raid! And whether the baddies have guns, knives, or brass knuckles, the Bailey Brothers have something they don’t: the element of surprise! By the time the lawbreakers figure out what’s happening, they’ve already been kayoed! So next time you crash a thieves’ den or smugglers’ cove, make like your favorite detective duo: Go through the front door, charging hard and thinking fast.

  “Okay,” said Steve. “Here’s the plan. We go running through the front door. The gangsters will probably be playing cards or having a wrestling match or something. MacArthur Bart will be tied up somewhere, maybe in a back room. So we split up. You lead the bad guys on a chase around the warehouse—”

  “Why me?” Dana asked.

  “Because you’re faster. I’ll go looking for Bart and untie him. Then the two of us will come and find you, and if we have to, we’ll punch our way out of there. It’ll be easier to fight with Bart’s help.”

  “But I thought you said Bart must be really old.”

  “That doesn’t mean he can’t fight.”

  “Why can’t we just call the police?” Dana asked.

  “Because the police don’t believe me! They aren’t interested in this case. And besides, they need warrants and evidence and stuff. We don’t. This is a job for private detectives.”

  Dana nodded.

  “Go!” said Steve.

  They ran for the big red door.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  THE BEES’ NEST

  STEVE HAD A HEAD START and made it to the door first. He kicked it, and it opened fast, with the high-pitched shriek of ungreased hinges. Steve’s momentum carried him a few unsteady steps inside. When he caught his balance, he looked around.

  He was dumbfounded.

  Steve was ready for almost anything, but this was a surprise: In a brightly lit corner of the warehouse, four men sat at four desks, staring at Steve and Dana, their fingers hovering above computer keyboards (except for one of them, who was using a typewriter). Two desks were empty. The rest of the cavernous building was filled with cardboard boxes and stacks of books. Red books. Bailey Brothers books.

  Men worked at desks, wearing bright sweaters and sensible slacks.

  “Can I help you?” asked the man closest to the door.

  This was not part of the plan. Steve and Dana stepped deeper into the room, and Steve looked closely at the men. They were big men, most of them very hairy, three of them bearded. All of them wore khaki slacks and cable-knit sweaters. Each man’s sweater was a different color. One man—the biggest one of them all, a huge, pale man with a bald head and dark black eyebrows—was wearing a sweater whose color could only be described as blue raspberry. None of them looked particularly interested in fighting.

  Steve was so confused he couldn’t move. What was going on here?

  Suddenly a voice came from behind them. “Let me guess: You boys are looking for MacArthur Bart?”

  Steve and Dana wheeled around and found themselves looking up at a tall man with a green sweater and a large scar across his face. How had he snuck up on them? The man put a hand on each boy’s shoulder. His grip was firm.

  “My name is Jack Antrim.” He smiled. “What are your names?”

  “Dana,” said Dana.

  Jack Antrim’s face brightened. “My mother’s name is Dana.”

  Dana exhaled through his nose.

  “And you?” Antrim asked Steve.

  “Carl,” Steve replied. He was going undercover until he figured out who this guy was and what he’d done with MacArthur Bart.

  “Dana, Carl, my office is upstairs. “ He nodded toward a set of steel steps, barely visible on the other side of the warehouse, that led up to a mezzanine. “I think the two of you should come with me.” He spun them around and squeezed their shoulders so hard it hurt. Steve and Dana walked toward the stairs. They didn’t have a choice.

  CHAPTER XXX

  GHOSTWRITERS

  JACK ANTRIM’S OFFICE wasn’t even technically a room: only three walls went from the floor to the ceiling, and the fourth wall stopped halfway, so Steve could see the warehouse below and the men typing away. Steve and Dana sat in dingy chairs. Antrim sat behind his desk, which was in front of a large window, so Steve had to squint when he looked at him.

  “Dana, Carl.” Jack Antrim rubbed his left temple. He paused for an uncomfortable length of time. “You would think after all this time it would get easier, but …” He sighed. “This is the hardest part of my job.”

  This wasn’t going at all like Steve expected.

  Jack Antrim took a deep breath. “The men down there are all ghostwriters. Do you know what a ghostwriter is?”

  “Sure,” said Steve. “It’s someone who writes ghost stories.”

  Antrim chuckled gently. “No, but that’s a very good guess, Carl. A ghostwriter—”

  Steve didn’t like Antrim’s chuckling, and he didn’t like being wrong. So he interrupted. “Then is it someone who writes down things ghosts say?” Steve asked.

  “Like a medium,” Dana offered helpfully.

  “No. Ghostwriters are—”

  “You’re not trying to tell me that those guys down there are actually ghosts?”

  “What? No. It doesn’t have anything to do with ghosts, okay? Just listen to me and I’ll tell you. Ghostwriters are people who write under different names, instead of their own. Sometimes they write under names of people who exist—for instance, a famous person might hire a ghostwriter to write their autobiography, and then pretend that they wrote it themselves. But sometimes ghostwriters write under the names of people who don’t exist at all.”

  “So what’s this got to do with MacArthur Bart?”

  “Carl, MacArthur Bart doesn’t exist. He never has. The Bailey Brothers books were written by ghostwriters.”

  A million questions flooded Steve’s skull. It was like his brain was underwater.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  THE TRAIL GOES FRIGID

  “BUT THE SIGN ON THE DOOR SAYS you guys are a syndicate!” said Steve. “Doesn’t that mean you’re criminals?”

  Antrim laughed loudly. “You’ve been reading too many Bailey Brothers books. Yes, we’re a syndicate. A literary syndicate.”

  “What?”

  “We’re a group of ghostwriters who collaborate on books. The B. stands for Bart—our pseudonym. The original Bailey Brothers books were written by a bunch of different ghostwriters: newspapermen, college students, even a Canadian. You didn’t think one man could write fifty-eight books in fifteen years, did you?”

  “Fifty-nine,” said Steve. “You’re forgetting The Bailey Brothers’ Detective Handbook.”

  “That’s right,” said Antrim. His eyes became suddenly sad. “You’re obviously a big fan. This must be hard for you.”

  Steve didn’t say anything.


  “My grandfather, Ed Antrim, started the B. Syndicate. I guess you could say that he’s the real MacArthur Bart, although he died years ago, and he never wrote a single Bailey Brothers book. He hired other people to write them. That way he could publish lots of books very quickly. His writers earned a hundred dollars per book. And my grandfather became a very rich man.”

  “Why doesn’t everyone know about this?”

  “A lot of people do,” said Antrim. “There are books about it. Magazine articles.” He stood and walked over to a large metal filing cabinet. Antrim pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked a drawer and removed a folder, then locked it back up again. “Here, have a look. Of course, most kids who read the books don’t know. It would be bad for business. Kids want a hero, someone to believe in. So most adults let kids believe. It’s harmless, really.”

  Steve was looking through the folder. It was true—the first paragraph of almost every article about the B. Syndicate mentioned that MacArthur Bart didn’t exist. One magazine article was called “The Man Who Was Never There: MacArthur Bart and the Men Behind the Bailey Brothers Mysteries.” Steve was overwhelmed.

  “I know this probably wasn’t what you were expecting. You were probably hoping to meet your favorite writer today. This happens a couple times a year: A kid will track us down, and then I have to break the bad news to him. We try to keep this address a secret, but I guess MacArthur Bart fans tend to be good detectives.” Antrim was looking out the window, but he suddenly turned back toward Steve and Dana. “How did you two find out about us, anyway?”

  “What?” said Steve. “Oh. I called the publishers in New York and they gave me the forwarding address.” Steve lied without knowing why he was lying.

  Antrim frowned. “They’re not supposed to do that.” He wrote something down on a piece of paper.

  “Well, like I said, I’m sorry to disappoint you, boys. But come on,” Antrim said, standing up. “The least I can do is give you a little tour.”