The Crisscross Crime

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank turned to see his friend Con Riley. “Boy, am I glad to see you. What’s this all about?”

  Con motioned for the other officers to relax. “There must be some mistake,” he said to everyone. “Cut the lights. I’ll take care of this.”

  At that moment Joe burst from the bank, followed closely by Alex Stendahl.

  “Did you catch the thief?” Stendahl asked breathlessly. “Is that him?”

  Con held up his hand. “No, Mr. Stendahl. Just a false alarm. Go on back inside, now.”

  Stendahl stared hard at Frank for a few seconds before reluctantly going back in. The bank guard followed him, while the remaining Bayport officers got in one of the cruisers and drove off. Con stood with the Hardys next to the open door of the van.

  “Sorry about that, Frank.” Con said.

  Frank rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had gone on. “It’s okay. But how’d I get on Bayport’s Most Wanted list?”

  “Your van,” Con said. “We looked at the surveillance video from First City Bank last night after the false alarm. There was a van just like yours at the scene.”

  “Oh, man,” Joe said. “So when the bank guard saw our van sitting here he figured another robbery was about to go down?”

  “Exactly,” Con said. “Like I said, we made a mistake. I’m sorry we gave you a scare, Frank.”

  Frank decided to come clean about their adventure of the night before. “You didn’t make a mistake,” he said. “That was our van.”

  Con crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Okay, fellas, out with it. I want the whole story.”

  Frank let Joe recount the story of the chase with the black sedan, including the miniaturization of their mother’s car at Ron’s Salvage.

  Con looked at both Hardys angrily. “You should’ve called us about this last night,” he said.

  Joe looked at his shoes. “We wanted hard evidence first,” Frank said.

  “Hard evidence? This changes everything,” Con said. “We thought the same guy set off the First City alarm and then robbed Bayport Savings. Now we’ve got two guys in a black car, an ex-con, and some junkyard owner named Ron Quick. It looks like we’ve either got a whole gang of criminals or just one big wild coincidence.” He sucked in a deep breath, then took off his cap and scratched his head. “Are you sure it was Bart Meredith you saw at the scrap yard?”

  “Positive,” Joe said. “He might be this van Loveren woman’s accomplice,”

  “Did Stendahl tell you about her?” Con asked.

  “He seems pretty sure she set things up,” Joe replied.

  “Well, I’m not as sure as Stendahl,” Con said. “We questioned her last night but didn’t get anything.”

  Frank saw that Con had cooled down. “We were hoping we could get a look at the Bayport Savings tape so we could see for sure if Meredith’s the bank robber,” he said.

  “It doesn’t show much,” Con replied. “But I’ll make you a deal. Come by the station. Bring that video of your chase and I’ll see if I can get you a quick look at the surveillance tape.”

  “Deal,” Joe said.

  Con turned and strode back to his cruiser. “Thanks for the Meredith tip,” he said as he got in. “We’ll check it out. And let me know if you come across anything else, okay?”

  The Hardys didn’t waste any time getting back into the van. “Let’s get out of here before someone else decides I’d look good in a mug shot,” Frank said. “Ready to get the tape from Phil? I want to see what he found before we give it to Con.”

  “I’m with you there,” Joe said. He checked his watch. “It’s only ten. Let’s give Phil more time while we follow up the van Loveren lead.”

  Joe told his brother all the details of his interview with Alex Stendahl.

  “Sounds like there’s a pretty good case against this bank manager. All circumstantial, though,” Frank said when Joe had finished. “It makes sense, too. A dummy like Meredith would definitely need help planning a bank job.”

  Joe retrieved the cell phone from the glove compartment and called information. “There’s an S. van Loveren on High Street,” he reported. “Take the next right.”

  High Street was in one of the fanciest neighborhoods in Bayport. The road curved around to a cliff high above the slate blue bay. Many of the huge houses were surrounded by stone and iron fences.

  “Here it is,” Joe said. “Eight-nineteen High.”

  Frank pulled over and they climbed out. The massive redbrick house sat partly hidden behind trees and thick landscaping. Two stone lions stood guard on either side of an iron gate.

  Joe buzzed the intercom and waited.

  Frank pointed to a tiny camera perched up in one of the trees. “I’m getting tired of being on tape,” he whispered.

  The intercom crackled with static. “Who’s there, please?” a female voice said.

  Joe looked at his brother. “Who are we this time?”

  Frank pushed the button. “This is Frank and Joe Hardy. We were at Ron’s Salvage last night, and we’ve got some questions for Miss van Loveren.”

  “Miss van Loveren isn’t taking any visitors.”

  Frank started to push the button again.

  “Forget this,” Joe said impatiently. He grabbed his brother by the arm. “Follow me.”

  Joe led Frank down the block, carefully checking for anyone who might be watching them. Even though it was now midmorning, the street seemed deserted except for a dog barking in someone’s backyard.

  Joe found a place where the house was completely hidden from the street. “Give me a boost,” he said.

  “You’re kidding,” Frank whispered. “We can’t just climb over the fence.”

  “Watch me,” Joe said. He leaped high and grabbed the top rung of iron. With a gymnast’s agility, he hoisted himself up and dropped lightly down on the other side. “Coming?” he asked, before disappearing into the foliage.

  Frank sighed. Now he had to follow. As he jumped for the top, he heard the barking again and realized the dog was in the yard they were entering. He reached the top and swung over, rolling forward as he landed to cushion the fall.

  Now it sounded like more than one dog—more like two, maybe three. And they were close. “Joe!” Frank hissed. “Where are you?” He heard animals running—lots of footsteps.

  With a ferocious growl, a black Doberman burst through the bushes less than ten feet from Frank. In two powerful leaps it was on him, fangs bared.

  6 Bad Money

  * * *

  Frank held his forearm out for protection. The big dog slammed into him and Frank tumbled to the ground. His one thought was to protect his neck—he knew the dog would go for his throat.

  He kicked out, finding the dog’s ribs. It yelped in pain, then rushed him again. Frank could smell its hot breath as it bit at him again and again.

  “Off! Off!” Frank heard someone shout. “Off, Mouse! Now!”

  Instantly the dog withdrew.

  Frank looked up to see a young woman with shoulder-length blond hair standing a few yards away. The black Doberman now sat next to her. She held an even bigger dog at bay with a thick leash.

  “Mouse?” Frank muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans to get rid of the dog slobber. “That’s a good name for a ninety-pound dog.”

  “One hundred and ten pounds,” the woman said. The bigger dog lunged as Frank started to get up, but the woman yanked it back sharply. “And this is Bunny.”

  “Figures,” Frank said, checking his arms for cuts. “He looks warm and cuddly.”

  Bunny snarled.

  “You must be Sylvia.” Frank found a rip in his T-shirt, but other than that, he seemed to be okay.

  The woman nodded. “And you must be somebody Hardy.”

  “I’m Frank.” Sylvia looked to be in her early twenties. Frank guessed she’d just gotten back from a jog—she wore running shoes and a navy blue shorts and tank-top outfit. “Where’s my brother?” Frank asked.

  “This way.” Sylvia
led Frank around the hedgerow. “Are you by any chance related to Fenton Hardy?”

  “He’s my dad,” Frank said. “How do you know him?”

  “He did some work for my father last year,” Sylvia said. “My father’s investment company opened an office in Europe, and your father helped with background checks on all the new employees.”

  They stepped into the side yard. There was Joe, perched high in a tree. Another Doberman, this one light brown, sat at the base of the tree, looking up hungrily.

  “Off, Lemmy!” The dog trotted over to Sylvia.

  “Lemmy?”

  “Short for Lemming,” Sylvia said, smiling. “He’s very loyal.”

  Frank grinned. “So loyal he’d follow you over a cliff, right?”

  Joe dropped down from the tree and strode over. “What’s the idea of siccing those dogs on us?” he asked angrily.

  Sylvia’s smile disappeared. “What’s the idea of trespassing on my parents’ property?”

  Frank looked at his brother. “She’s got you there.”

  Joe was still miffed. “Your parents’ house? We thought this was your place.”

  Sylvia attached leashes to Bunny and Lemmy. “You thought I could afford a place like this?” she said, giggling. “You must’ve fallen on your head when you jumped the fence.”

  Sylvia started walking toward the house, motioning for Frank and Joe to follow. “My parents spend summers at a cabin in the mountains,” she continued. “I’m house-sitting for them. In the fall I move back to my crummy apartment.”

  “See, Joe,” Frank said. “Nothing suspicious in that.”

  Inside the house, Sylvia let the dogs loose and sent them scampering off.

  “I overheard you guys talking about Dad,” Joe said. “Just because our fathers know each other doesn’t mean there’s nothing crooked going on.”

  Sylvia froze. “Are you talking about the robbery?”

  Joe nodded.

  “Is your father investigating it?”

  “He’s in Switzerland,” Frank said. “But Joe and I had some questions.”

  “That moron Stendahl sent you here, didn’t he?” Sylvia said, leading the Hardys to a book-lined library.

  “You and Stendahl don’t get along?” Joe asked.

  Sylvia sank into an overstuffed chair. “I’m going in this afternoon to tell him I quit.”

  “It’s that bad?” Frank asked.

  “I can’t keep working for someone who thinks I’m a criminal,” Sylvia said. “Besides, he treats his employees like dirt. Even though he’s only president of tiny little Bayport Savings, he pretends to be some kind of jet-setter, flying overseas all the time. He leaves me to do all the work.”

  Frank wandered over to a shelf and looked at the books. They all seemed to be very old. “Stendahl says the bank robber had information only you could’ve given him.”

  “The police have already grilled me about that,” Sylvia said. “I didn’t know anything about it.”

  Joe headed to an antique writing desk against the back wall. “Do you know a guy named Bart Meredith?”

  “Never heard of him.” Sylvia looked at Frank. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  Frank didn’t say anything.

  “I was the one who sounded the alarm. Did Stendahl tell you that?”

  “No,” Joe answered.

  “Well, I did. Stendahl came running out of his office like a chicken with its head cut off. That’s the dumbest thing to do. I stayed in mine and hit the remote alarm at my desk.”

  “But the guy got away,” Frank said.

  “Only because of that false alarm across town at First City,” Sylvia replied. “If they hadn’t been chasing that down they would’ve caught the thief red-handed.”

  Joe lifted up some papers on the desk. There, under the pile, was a pair of crisp new hundred-dollar bills.

  “What are you doing?” Sylvia said, jumping up from the chair. “I didn’t say you could dig through that stuff!”

  “You always leave cash lying around?” Joe asked, holding up the two bills.

  Sylvia seemed relieved. “Oh, is that what you were looking at?” She snatched the bills from Joe. “Those are the newest additions to my collection.”

  “Collection?”

  “Yeah. Here, I’ll show you.” Sylvia opened a file drawer in the desk and removed three or four manila folders. The Hardys watched over her shoulder as she opened the folders, revealing stacks of crisp currency.

  “Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “There must be thousands of dollars in there!”

  “Nope, wrong answer,” Sylvia said, handing the Hardys each a fifty-dollar bill. “Care to guess again?”

  Frank rubbed the bill between his fingers. “Zero,” he said. His fingertips were smudged with green. “It’s worthless counterfeit.”

  “You win!” Sylvia said, pointing at Frank.

  Joe held his bill up to the light. “Where’d you get these?”

  “The bank, of course,” Sylvia said. “You’d be surprised how often customers come in with bad money.”

  “Why would someone try to pass counterfeit bills at a bank?” Frank asked. “That seems pretty stupid.”

  “Oh, most customers have no idea it’s fake,” Sylvia said. “Somebody passed it off on them and they bring it in to deposit into their accounts. They can get pretty sore when the tellers inform them they’ve been ripped off.”

  “That’d be a bummer,” Joe said. “How’d you end up with it?”

  Sylvia blushed. “Technically, we’re supposed to send all counterfeit back to the Federal Reserve. Every now and then, though, I offer to buy the bills from the customer.”

  “So you are breaking the law,” Joe said.

  Sylvia cringed. “I wish you wouldn’t tell anyone. If I didn’t buy these, the customer would get nothing. And besides, I figure all this counterfeit is safely out of circulation here with me.”

  “Don’t worry,” Frank said. “We won’t tell, will we, Joe?”

  Joe dropped his bill back on the desk. “No, I guess not.”

  Frank picked up another hundred-dollar bill. The ink on this one didn’t bleed. “How can you tell if they’re no good?”

  “Lot’s of ways.” Sylvia opened another folder. “Here’s a real hundred,” she said. “I keep it around for reference.” She held the bill out so Frank could see it. “First of all, the green ink is a special kind that doesn’t photocopy well.”

  “No way! You mean some people make counterfeit bills by putting money in a copy machine?”

  “Sure,” Sylvia said. “It’s actually illegal to photocopy currency unless you enlarge it at least one hundred and fifty percent.”

  “Wild,” Frank said. “What else?”

  Joe tried to act as if he wasn’t interested, but found himself creeping closer to watch. “They make that ink in Switzerland,” he said, remembering his phone conversation with his father.

  “That’s right!” Sylvia said. “I’m impressed.”

  “I know a few things,” Joe said.

  “How about this?” Sylvia asked. She tilted the bill in the light. The number “100” in the lower right-hand corner shifted from green to black.

  “Cool,” Frank said. “It’s like a hologram.”

  Sylvia then opened the center drawer of the desk and found a magnifying glass. She handed it, along with the bill, to Frank. “Look at Ben Franklin’s collar,” she instructed.

  Frank held the glass close. “Joe, you’ve got to see this. There are tiny words written on old Ben’s collar. It says, ‘United States of America.’ ”

  “It takes amazing engraving to make words that small,” Sylvia said. “Here.” She took the bill back and held it up to the light. “Here’s the last thing.”

  Frank looked at the spot where Sylvia’s thumb was pointing, an inch or so to the right of the portrait. There, imbedded in the paper of the bill, was a yellow ribbon only about a sixteenth of an inch wide. On it, tiny letters spelled out “USA 100,
” followed by a little American flag.

  “That ribbon is on twenties and fifties, too,” Sylvia said. “It’s called micro-coding, and it’s woven right into the paper.” She turned to Joe. “You know where the paper comes from, smart guy?”

  Joe shook his head.

  “Canada. In fact, the government stores the micro-coded paper right here in Bayport before they ship it out to the mints. Pretty neat, huh?”

  Joe dismissed Sylvia with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, totally neat,” he said sarcastically. “Thanks for the lesson, but now it’s time for lunch.” He started for the door.

  Frank apologized for Joe’s rudeness. “We’ll let you know when we learn something new,” he said, following his brother out.

  Joe was already sitting in the driver’s seat when Frank got to the van. “You think she’s telling the truth, don’t you, Frank?” he asked.

  Frank handed Joe the keys. “Why would she trip the alarm if she was involved in the robbery? It’s not logical.”

  “It is if she knew the cops would be delayed because of the false alarm at First City,” Joe countered.

  Frank didn’t have an answer to that.

  “We should keep an eye on her,” Joe said. “Meanwhile, let’s grab a sandwich and then get over to Phil’s.”

  After a quick lunch at home, the Hardys jumped back into the van. As they backed out of the driveway, Joe noticed a white pickup truck parked against the curb a block away. What neither Hardy noticed, when Joe put the van in drive and took off down the street, was the pickup truck that pulled away from the curb and followed them.

  7 Vanishing Act

  * * *

  Ten minutes later Joe pulled the van up in front of Phil’s house. A couple of times along the way he’d seen a pickup truck a few cars behind them. Now he checked the side mirrors. He didn’t see the truck anymore.

  “What’s up?” Frank asked as he got out of the van.

  Joe glanced up and down the street. “Nothing,” he said. He joined his brother on the sidewalk. “I thought somebody might be following us. Just getting paranoid, I guess.”