Street Spies

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Hardy Boys Casefiles - 21

  Street Spies

  By

  Franklin W. Dixon

  Chapter 1

  "We're being followed," Joe Hardy whispered over the hum of the elevator.

  His brother Frank glanced around. Except for them, the elevator Was empty. "Followed? By whom?" he asked.

  "By my stomach." Joe put a hand to his midsection. "Feels like it's about five floors below us."

  The high-speed elevator slowed to a stop. The Hardys were on the twentieth floor of the Empire Towers Hotel, just south of Central Park, in Midtown Manhattan. As the door opened, Frank looked in both directions, then stepped off the elevator and turned to the right.

  "The room is this way," he said, taking a hotel key from his pocket and checking the number against the sign on the wall. "Dad said he'd meet us here at one o'clock. He didn't have time to explain on the phone, but said he'd give us the details when he gets here Joe followed Frank down the hall, a long tunnel of carpet and ceiling lined on either side with featureless doors. "Here it is," Frank said, putting the key into the lock.

  As Frank turned the key, the door swung open. At the far end of the hotel room the curtains were pulled back, and the view was breathtaking, stretching almost to the horizon in a green patch - of lawn and trees and silver water.

  "About ten minutes," said Frank, looking at his watch and settling into a chair near the window. His lean, six-foot-one-inch frame filled most of it easily.

  Joe—burlier and built more like a football player—flopped down onto the bed near the door, closed his eyes and wondered why they were there. He and Frank had been trout fishing in Maine — catching their limit every day—when their father, Fenton Hardy, had called and asked them to meet him in New York. Whatever it was, it'd better be good, Joe thought, remembering the way that last trout had tasted, grilled over the coals of a campfire.

  Nevertheless, Joe grinned in anticipation. Whatever his dad was up to, it was likely to be interesting and probably dangerous, to boot. Fenton Hardy had been a detective for the New York City Police Department for years but had quit to handle private cases that intrigued him. In some of those investigations he had involved Joe and Frank. Joe grinned again, remembering the time ... But Joe didn't get to finish the thought. There was a light knock at the door and then the sound of a key turning.

  "Dad?" Joe asked, jumping up. "Come on in — it's open."

  Fenton Hardy stepped into the room, followed by a tall, stern-looking man in an expensive suit and glasses.

  "Frank, Joe," Mr. Hardy said, "I'd like you to meet Charles Chilton.

  Frank stood up and extended his hand eagerly. "President of World-Wide Technologies?" he asked.

  "Yes. I am," Mr. Chilton said with a note of surprise as he shook Frank's hand.

  "I'm Joe Hardy," Joe said, shaking Mr. Chilton's hand. He threw Frank a quick, curious look.

  "Mr. Chilton's one of my heroes," Frank said in answer to his brother's unspoken question. "A few years back he started a little electronics business in his garage. Now it's a world leader in miniaturized transmitters and receivers. I've used a lot of his stuff, and it's really super."

  Fenton Hardy went to the window and stood looking out, his hands in his pockets. After a minute he turned, his face serious. "Mr. Chilton's got a problem," he said. "A new competitor, MUX, Incorporated, has been flooding the market with products designed by World-Wide Technologies."

  "You mean they're stealing WWT's designs?" asked Joe. He whistled. "That could mean a load of money for someone."

  "Not to mention the disaster it could mean for World-Wide," Fenton Hardy said. He sat down in a chair and motioned to Mr. Chilton to sit down, too. "I've just finished a complete security analysis of World-Wide Technologies," he went on. "I'm convinced that there's a leak. Protection from outside interference is top-notch. That's why I'm sure somebody inside the company is pirating designs for MUX."

  "So that's why we're meeting in a hotel room," Frank interjected, brushing a hand through his brown hair. "If it's an inside job, you never know who you can trust."

  Mr. Chilton smiled. "You were right, Fenton. These boys of yours are sharp." He turned to Frank and Joe. "Unfortunately, developing new gadgets means that we have to transport plans from our midtown office to our lab downtown. Then we have to return the prototypes — the first working models of the new devices—back to our midtown office for marketing. It's complicated, but we feel it's worth our being in New York because of the international business we drum up here. It seems as if the designs are being stolen as we move them around."

  "How do you transmit them?" Frank asked.

  Mr. Chilton smiled again, more thinly. "It's ironic, in a way. We're world leaders in electronic communications, and yet we've found that the fastest way to transmit these designs in New York City is by bicycle."

  "By bicycle?" Frank and Joe asked in unison.

  "Not even over a modem?" Joe asked.

  "No," Frank answered. "It would probably be too easy to tap the line. Right?" Mr. Chilton nodded.

  "Now, this is where you come in," Fenton Hardy said. "The prototypes are carried by bicycle messenger. A firm called SpeedWay Messenger Service handles the job. We suspect that the spy inside the company — whoever he is — uses the messenger service to make the actual transfers. Since nothing appears to be tampered with when it finally arrives at either end, our guess is that the contents are unwrapped, photographed, then carefully rewrapped and sent on their way."

  "So you want us to apply for jobs with this messenger service?" Joe asked, grinning. This wouldn't be a bad assignment. Hot-dogging through rush-hour traffic on a bike could be a real adventure—if he lived to tell about it.

  "Right again," Mr. Hardy said. "Getting jobs should be easy. The turnover in messengers is pretty high." He gave Joe a worried look. "Riding a bicycle in New York is a high-risk business. I hope you'll be careful."

  Joe nodded. "Why don't you just switch messenger companies?" he asked.

  "Because we have to identify the source inside World-Wide," Mr. Chilton said. "If we don't, the spy will just set up a similar operation as soon as things quiet down. Whoever's selling these designs won't be discouraged just because we make things a little difficult for him."

  Frank nodded. "So when do we start?"

  Joe smiled, hearing the eagerness in his brother's voice. Obviously, this was a case that both of them were interested in.

  "As soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, if you can. Messengers provide their own bikes. You'll probably need to find used ones to avoid attracting attention. And you'll have to work independently, for the same reason."

  Frank Hardy glanced at Mr. Chilton, who had stood up and was jingling the coins in his pocket, obviously impatient to move on. "SpeedWay runs shifts around the clock," he said, "so one of you can be backup while the other's on the job. This hotel room can be our command post. You boys can bunk here, too.

  "If you need anything electronic," Mr. Chilton added, "let me know. I can probably get whatever you need — spying devices, transmitters — state of the art."

  "We drove the van down from Bayport," Frank said. "It already has most of the equipment we need." He looked around. "All we'll need here is the phone."

  Mr. Chilton turned to leave. "I hope you can find our spy, whoever he is," he said. "He's hitting us where we're most vulnerable—our new designs. We can't survive in this situation much longer."

  Early the next morning Frank and Joe drove their van to a spot on Front Street, a block or two south of the South Street Seaport, and parked at the curb. Crammed with surveillance and communications equipment, a portable crime lab and a computer, the van was their mobile base of operations.

  The afternoon before
Joe and Frank had gone shopping for used ten-speeds. The two they'd found in a seedy-looking pawnshop on Second Avenue - wouldn't win a beauty contest, but after Joe had spent the evening conditioning them, he was sure they'd perform.

  They'd located the rest of their gear in an army surplus shop — a field jacket for Joe, with a triangular armored-division patch on the shoulder with a picture of a cobra that read "Death from Above." For Frank, a navy turtleneck and a blue denim jacket.

  In the same place they'd found cycling gloves and nylon bags that would serve as messenger bags.

  As Joe unloaded his bike from the van, he was glad for the warmth of his newly acquired field jacket — the breeze off the East River was chilly. He could feel the unfamiliar miniature transmitter taped to his chest under his field jacket.

  "Are you tuned in?" he asked Frank. He lowered his chin and spoke into his collar. "Can you read me?"

  In the back of the van, Frank pulled on the headset. "Loud and clear," he said, turning some dials on the radio equipment in front of him. "Give me a call in a block or two so we can test it for distance. When you get your first assignment, let me know where you're headed and I'll see if I can actually tail you through traffic."

  Joe pulled on his cycling gloves and gave Frank a quick thumbs-up as he rode off down Front Street. Although the nearby Seaport area had been renovated, the buildings right here were pretty rundown. Joe wrinkled his nose as he passed a fish warehouse. A man in a canvas apron was pushing a cart piled high with fish along the sidewalk, a few gulls squawking overhead.

  "Sure stinks around here," Joe said, glancing around to make sure that nobody was looking. They'd probably think he was talking to himself. "Just passed the fish warehouse," he added in explanation, raising his voice so that Frank could hear him over the roar of the cars on the elevated highway to his left along the river. It would probably have been better to have two-way communication so that he could hear Frank as well as talk to him. Maybe they could get that from Mr. Chilton later.

  Next door to the warehouse was a taxi garage, and the building across the street bore a neon sign that announced "Punch's Gym." Next to that was an auto parts store, and beside that was Pete's Bar and Grill. Joe consulted a piece of paper with an address and turned the next corner.

  SpeedWay Messenger Service was located in an old red brick building just off Front Street.

  A small but noisy group of young men in their teens and early twenties were gathered in front. A black youth was sitting on his bike talking and laughing with a boy whose stringy blond hair hung limply from under a ratty watchcap. A kid with dark sunglasses and some Hispanics were lounging on the steps that led up to the office door.

  Joe coasted up to the curb and swung his leg over his bike, expertly stepping off before it stopped. He turned to the nearest kid, a tall, lanky black guy standing at the foot of the steps. A shapeless felt hat was jammed down over his half-closed eyes.

  "Hey, man," Joe said casually, "I hear they're looking for messengers. That right?"

  The youth nodded, coolly surveying Joe and his bike. "Hey, Gus," he shouted over his shoulder, "looks like we've got a live one." Hirning back to Joe, he added, "You gotta talk to the man inside."

  Joe walked his bike up to the wall and leaned it against the brick. Then he climbed the short flight of steps, followed by the black messenger, to the stark and almost empty office.

  On one wall was a big chalkboard, obviously a dispatch board, with names written down one side in grease pencil Lightfoot, Apollo, Slim, Wipe-Out, Gypsy. There was a desk in front of the board. A short, round-shouldered man sat behind the desk. He didn't seem much over thirty, but his face was drawn and pale and his brown hair was thin. He gave Joe a hard look.

  "Yeah?" he grunted.

  "I'm Joe Kincaid," Joe responded, offering his hand. "I'm looking for a job as a messenger."

  The man ignored Joe's hand. "Are you fast?" he snapped.

  "Sure, I'm fast," Joe said confidently. "I rode bikes for years when I was a kid. But then I graduated to motorcycles." He grinned at the man and at the black guy, who was leaning in the doorway, listening. "As a matter of fact, I got pretty good at racing. Even won a few tough ones."

  "Well, New York ain't kid stuff, and it ain't no motorcycle joy ride, either. I can vouch for that." The man shifted in his seat so that one leg stuck out from behind the desk. Joe noticed that he was wearing a leg brace and that a well-used wooden cane was leaning against the wall behind his chair. The man picked up a pencil. "How well do you know the city?"

  "Well enough," Joe said a little defensively. It hadn't occurred to him that he might not get the job. The interview was beginning to feel like the third degree.

  "No skin off my nose if you don't," the man said. "There's no free lunch around here. You get paid by the trip, not by the hour." He half hoisted himself out of his chair. "Lightfoot!" he barked at the guy in the door. "This one thinks he's hot. Check him out!"

  By the time Joe got back outside, Lightfoot was already straddling his bike, a gleaming new Italian racing model that looked as if it must have cost at least six months' pay. Lightfoot jerked his head toward Joe's bike, and Joe got on, feeling a little uncertain. Joe had thought he'd just have to walk in the door and get his first assignment. What had he gotten himself into?

  "Okay, Hot Dog, we'll check you out by racing around the block," Lightfoot said, grinning cockily. He pulled his felt hat even lower over his eyes and took a pair of black gloves out of his hip pocket. He nodded down the street. "We start that way. First one back here wins."

  A kid in a black leather jacket raised a hand. "Hey, Lightfoot, aren't you going to tell him about the shortcut?"

  Lightfoot glared at the kid, then tried to look casual. "Oh, yeah, the shortcut." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "There's an alley back there, around the corner. 'Course, if you want, you can go all the way around the block." He coasted into position at the curb.

  "On your mark, get set, go!" someone shouted, and they were off.

  In the back of the van a couple of blocks away, Frank smiled to himself as he adjusted his headset, picturing the start of the race. He wondered how Joe was feeling. This was one time his brother might have bitten off more than he could chew.

  "Come on, Hot Dog, take him!" somebody yelled. Hot Dog? It was a perfect name for Joe.

  Frank leaned forward eagerly, hunched over his receiver, trying to imagine what was happening on the other end of the radio connection.

  For what seemed a long time, he could hear only jumbled street noises — whistles, horns, the roar of passing trucks - together with the whir of tires and the muffled panting of Joe's heavy breathing as he pumped harder and harder. Frank knew Joe, he was giving it everything he had. More than anything in the world, Joe hated to lose.

  Suddenly Frank heard the sound of skidding tires and a sharp, gasping, "Oh, no!" Then his ears were filled with a metallic crash and a solid, bone-crunching thud.

  It was the sound of a bike rider totally wiping out!

  Chapter 2

  In the van Frank pulled his headset closer to his ears and turned up the volume. What was crashed headlong into something? Frank's first impulse was to jump out and find his brother but he forced himself to remain still "Joe," he muttered through clenched teeth even though he knew his brother couldn't hear him. Joe, are you all right?"

  Suddenly Frank's ears were filled with hoarse, raucous laughter.

  "Sorry about that, Hot Dog," came Lightfoot's voice. "Guess I forgot to tell you about that loading dock at the end of the alley.

  That's what you get for being in the lead." More laughter, several voices together this time.

  Then there was a grunt, and Frank heard Joe say sarcastically, "Yeah, Lightfoot, I'll bet you're sorry."

  Frank relaxed a little. Joe's pride would be scraped a little raw, but he sounded okay. Something about Lightfoot's tone of voice, though, made him uneasy. It sounded almost sinister. Had this been an initiation — the
kind of thing a street gang does when somebody new tries to break into the group? Or were the messengers on to them?

  Back in the alley, Joe picked himself up from the asphalt, feeling his ribs and wondering if he hadn't cracked one or two. Dazed, he just stared at his bike. There wasn't any real damage — only the handlebars had been twisted out of alignment. He swallowed the anger he felt at Lightfoot for the potentially deadly joke he had played on him. Joe had hit the brakes just in time to avoid racing full speed into a loading dock at the end of the alley.

  "Hey, Hot Dog!" Joe looked up. A half-dozen messengers were clustered around him. A thin white kid in dark glasses, jeans, and a T-shirt stepped forward to help Joe twist the handlebars back into shape. "They call me Slim," he offered, when the handlebars were straight. He took off his dark glasses and grinned at Joe as the knot of messengers began to break apart.

  "Congratulations, man. You passed. You were way ahead of him, too. That doesn't happen very often."

  "I passed?" Joe was still slightly dazed and more than a little mad.

  "Yeah, it's a trick they play on all the new guys," Slim explained. "They race them into this blind alley, and the ones who come out in one piece get hired." He put his glasses back on before adding, "Personally, I don't think it's such a great idea."

  "That makes two of us," Joe growled. He felt for the mike, wondering if it was still working. Frank had undoubtedly heard the crash—but had he heard anything else? Did he know that Joe was okay?

  Slim gestured. "Come on. Let's get your name on the board in the dispatch office."

  Wheeling his bike, Joe followed Slim through a back door and down a long hallway, past a storage room and into the office where he had applied for the job minutes before.

  Activity had picked up. There were four or five messengers sitting at one end of the room, two of them playing cards, the others sprawled on the floor listening to rock music on a portable radio. Behind them was a row of wooden cubbyholes filled with messenger bags and personal gear. In the corner was an old sofa and table with a hot plate and coffee pot.