The Deadliest Dare

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Professor Marschall sucked his breath in through his teeth. "Yes, of course. I thought as much."

  Frank got up, avoided stepping on the sleeping cat, and went over to the desk. "Will this really tell you where this paper comes from?"

  The professor pointed to a sample of paper in the book. "You'll notice that this has the same exact watermark. Fortunately for you, it's a unique one — the letters E and B entwined with a leaping stag."

  Frank attempted to read the notes scrawled under the sample — not easy, given the professor's spidery, sloppy handwriting. "Buch-wilder?"

  "Bushmiller." He returned Frank's sheet of paper to him. "This stationery was made exclusively for the Bushmiller Academy here in Bayport."

  "You mean that old ruin up on Woodland Lane?"

  "It was not, much like myself, always a ruin, Frank, my boy. Bushmiller Academy was once a very fine private school — a sort of junior military academy." He grinned. "I believe it made most of its money handling young men who were a bit too devilish for a regular school situation."

  "But Bushmiller Academy hasn't been in operation for years."

  "Thirty-five years, to be exact," answered the professor. "A long and tangled family feud has kept the place empty all this time, and for at least the past ten there hasn't even been a watchman."

  "But there could still be a supply of this particular paper there?"

  Professor Marschall ran a thoughtful hand over his gray beard. "Perhaps," he finally said. "This is an excellent grade of paper. It could last that long, especially if it was in a protected environment — say, locked in a desk."

  Frank stared down at the paper sample on the desk. "Interesting. But it doesn't look like it's locked in a desk anymore. I wonder what else is going on up there?"

  Frank left the professor's house and headed down the rickety front steps and across the weedy, overgrown lawn. The house was on a steep hill on a quiet, side street. A low, lopsided picket fence encircled it.

  Stepping through the creaking white gate, Frank followed the road down to where he'd parked. He'd done Callie a favor that day and picked up her car from the body shop. The Hardys were good customers there — somehow, every one of their cases wound up with a car needing repair work. Frank had decided to use the extra set of wheels to get to Professor Marschall while Joe took the van to Kirkland.

  Frank slowed as he got close to the little green Nova. Something was bothering him.

  Frank's glance took in a wide circle.

  There were only two other cars parked on the block, both of them empty. An old man was slowly pushing a nearly empty shopping cart uphill across the street, a collie dog was drowsing on the front lawn of the neat shingle cottage across the way. There were no other people or animals around.

  The breeze picked up a little, and Frank saw something move by the driver's door of Callie's car. The door was not quite shut. In fact, it couldn't close. The safety belt was dangling out, holding it slightly ajar. The silver buckle glinted.

  Frank's frown deepened. He hadn't locked the car, but he knew he'd shut the door tightly.

  Walking up to the car, he yanked on the door and saw immediately that the glove compartment had been ransacked. Papers, garage receipts, the driver's manual, and a brush and comb belonging to Callie were spilled out on the passenger seat and the floor.

  After scanning the afternoon street again, Frank slid into the driver's seat. He gathered up the scattered stuff, put it back in order, and returned everything to the glove compartment.

  Doesn't seem like they took anything, Frank said to himself.

  He went to thrust the key into the ignition, then hesitated. Instead, he pulled the hood release and got out to check the engine. After a long, slow look, he slammed the hood down.

  "No sign of tampering," he told himself out loud, "and nobody's planted anything."

  Frank got back inside the car and drove off. He turned right at the corner and before too long was on a winding road that cut through a stretch of wooded hills.

  I'm probably getting too suspicious, he thought. Frank shook his head as he drove. Somebody did search the car, sure, but I don't think we're actually involved anybody who'd put a bomb under my - The roar of a powerful car sounded through his thoughts.

  Then came the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. "Uh - oh!"

  Frank stomped on the brake and slid a little lower in his seat.

  I wasn't as paranoid as I thought, he decided as the car screeched along the road. The other car came roaring up behind him.

  Again, the throbbing of its engine was drowned out—this time, by two shots.

  Frank glanced into the outside side-view mirror as a bullet tore into it.

  He couldn't see where the next shot was coming from.

  Chapter 8

  The room was small, shadowy, and window-less. It went in and out of focus, as if someone were using a zoom lens—and not doing a very good job with it.

  Joe Hardy wondered what the movie was. Then he realized it wasn't a movie. It was real — painfully real—life.

  He groaned, managed to open his eyes fully, and ran his tongue over his teeth. He discovered, at just about the same time, that he had a horrendous headache and that he was tied to a straight-back wooden chair.

  There was old furniture piled everywhere. Joe saw nests of wooden chairs, a gilded love-seat, rolled-up carpets, huge vases, marble Venuses—one of them had a gold clock built into her stomach—and a lot of dust.

  Nobody else seemed to be in the storeroom, as far as he could tell, but the shadows in the corners could have hidden an army. And the entire supply of light came from a bare forty-watt bulb dangling from a twist of black cord just over his head.

  Since his hands were tied behind him, there was no way to get a look at his wristwatch to find out what time it was. The clock in the Venus's stomach wasn't running. The clock in Joe's stomach told him it had been a long time since he'd had that hot dog in beautiful downtown Kirkland.

  Exactly how long have I been unconscious? Joe wondered, then shrugged. I guess there's no way to tell.

  He gave a tug at his bonds — there was no give at all. Someone had lashed him to the chair with plastic line, and the knots felt strong and tight.

  I wonder if this is the Goodhill Antiques shop, he thought, remembering the truck that had been parked outside the Sinclair place.

  Whoever had knocked out the Sinclair butler had probably done the job on Joe. There was no trace of the butler—apparently he'd been left in the Sinclair estate.

  Joe blinked, his head still throbbing. That made sense. But why had the kidnappers taken Joe along? Why not leave him at the scene of the crime, too? And what about Jeanne Sinclair? She was probably a member of a group of pranksters calling themselves the Circle. She'd gotten scared and alerted Joe and Frank—in a sort of roundabout way.

  Joe had a strong suspicion that the slugger with the blackjack had been at the house either to scare Jeanne Sinclair—or to kidnap her. Either way, he'd walked in at the wrong moment and now he was tangled up in the whole mess, too.

  Okay, so far everything fits together pretty well, Joe told himself. At least as well as my broken head can put it all together.

  But then he stopped and thought. Practical jokers, even slightly dangerous ones, didn't usually go around with blackjacks in their pockets. They didn't knock people out, and they probably wouldn't go in for kidnapping because there wouldn't be much joke in that.

  So who had bopped Joe on the head? Why had he been snatched? Joe knew he'd never find out if he didn't get away.

  Although his head hurt when he turned, Joe looked around, trying to spot something he could use to cut the ropes. A fragment of a vase might do, but the vases were across the room and out of reach. If he'd been closer, he could have knocked one over.

  He glanced to the left, then to the right.

  Sure, he had enough room on each side of him. Joe shifted his weight, first one way, then the other. With luck, and patience
, he could tip this chair over. It was an antique and didn't look all that sturdy. The fall ought to break it, and then he could slip free of the bonds.

  Every time he rocked, the throbbing in his head got worse. He kept at it, anyway.

  Finally, after what felt like half an hour, Joe succeeded in getting the old wooden chair to fall to the right. It hit the cement floor hard. Joe winced at the jolt, jagged little lightning bolts of pain shooting around behind his tight-shut eyes.

  But he also heard the satisfying sound of wood cracking and splintering.

  Joe strained against his bonds. Yes, one arm of the chair was shattered. He could move his right hand. He wiggled, twisted, and succeeded in working free of the twists of plastic line. He stood at last, shedding rope and fragments of chair.

  Glancing at the closed door, Joe grabbed a chair leg and hid in the shadows. He'd made a lot of noise getting free. It was possible somebody would burst in on him.

  But no one appeared.

  Very carefully and quietly Joe picked his way across the room. Finally he reached the single entrance, a blank wooden door.

  Dropping to one knee, he risked a peek through the rusty keyhole. All he could tell about the next room was that it was also a storeroom, just about as cluttered and poorly lit as the one he was in. No reason to stay here, he decided. To his surprise, the door wasn't locked. Joe turned the knob very slowly, pushed the door open, and crossed into the next room. "Hello, Joe," said a vaguely familiar voice. He spun, giving himself a new pain in his skull. "Jeanne Sinclair," he said.

  A pretty, dark-haired young woman was sitting on an old-fashioned striped sofa. Joe noticed she wasn't tied.

  "So what's the story?" he asked. "Are you really into old-fashioned furniture, or were you just waiting for me to wake up and lead the way out?"

  Jeanne shrugged, staring down at her hands clasped tight in her lap. "I — I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know what to do."

  "Well, we'd better start deciding." Still rubbing his aching head, Joe looked around the tiny room. At the far side was still another wooden door. Joe pointed, asking, "Is that door locked?"

  "That one isn't, no," Jeanne answered. She stayed huddled on the old sofa, her voice low.

  "But the door on the other side of that one is made out of solid steel—and it's locked and bolted."

  ***

  A slug screamed past the driver's-side window of Callie's car. Sliding down low in the driver's seat, Frank stomped the gas pedal.

  This is all I need, he thought as the tops of the trees lining the road blurred into what seemed like a continuous wall. I pick up Callie's car and bring it back full of bullet holes. She'll kill me.

  Another shot rang out as he zigzagged down the road. "What am I thinking?" Frank said out loud. "These guys may kill me!"

  The little Nova shimmied through a tight turn, and squealed as Frank swung it off the road and into a grassy field.

  The car slammed to a stop near a wooded area. Frank grabbed the passenger door, shouldered it open, and bailed out. He hit the ground hard, rolling through the high grass until he got his feet under him and ran for a stand of trees. An old oak's thick trunk provided him with some cover.

  The car that had been chasing him came roaring around the corner. Frank peered from behind a low branch to see a sleek silver sports car with dark-tinted windows screech to a halt. A gloved hand holding a gun thrust through a slit in the passenger window. The unseen gunman fired twice at Frank's abandoned car.

  Frank winced as he saw one of the tires go flat. But he stayed where he was until the pursuit car accelerated and sped away.

  At last he returned to his car and got out the jack and spare tire.

  Either those guys were the world's worst shots, or they just wanted to scare me, he said to himself as he changed the flat. And they did a pretty good job.

  ***

  Frank turned away from the living room window at home, shaking his head. Darkness was closing in.

  His aunt Gertrude came into the room, carrying a ham sandwich on a plate. "You really ought to eat something, Frank," she suggested. "You haven't had any supper — nothing at all since you got home hours ago."

  "It's okay, Aunt Gertrude. I'll wait until Joe shows up."

  "Standing there staring out the window isn't going to bring Joe home any faster." She set the plate on the coffee table.

  "Joe didn't phone while I was out, didn't leave any message?"

  "Honestly, Frank," said his aunt, shaking her head. "You ought to know by now that I'm perfectly capable of remembering messages and conveying them to the various harebrained members of this family."

  She shook her head. "Having spent as many years as I have around Fenton and you two, I'm used to getting cryptic phone calls and strange notes and making sure you get them. Joe didn't phone." She frowned. "The poor boy is on the verge of a serious cold, too. He really ought to be home in bed."

  "Joe doesn't have a cold."

  "He will have one. He was out stomping around in the mud last night until all hours, getting soaked to the skin." She sat on the sofa and watched Frank as he started to pace. "And what were you two up to this afternoon, Frank?"

  "Nothing special," he said. "Although it looks as though someone wants to scare Joe and me off this case."

  "Well, if you're worried that Joe's in danger, shouldn't you call the police?" She picked up his sandwich and took a bite.

  "Aunt Gertrude, I'm not sure this is a police matter. Joe just got delayed—we'll be hearing — "

  The phone rang, and Frank pounced on it before his aunt could reach for it.

  "Hello?"

  "Frank?"

  "Oh, hi, Callie," he said. "How are you feeling?" "Okay."

  "Listen, I'll call you back later. Right now I want to keep the line open for a while." "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing, it's just that I'm waiting to hear from Joe." "Is he in trouble?" "I don't think so." "But you aren't certain?" "Well, no."

  "All right, I understand. If you need my help, call. And thanks for returning my car." She hung up.

  Aunt Gertrude picked up the second half of Frank's sandwich. "This could have used a bit more mustard," she said. "Was that Callie thanking you for picking up her car?" "Yes."

  "She's a nice girl. It's a wonder, though, that she puts up with you."

  The phone rang again. Frank caught it on the second ring. "Yes?" "Is that you, Frank?" "Yes, who — "

  "Con Riley. I don't imagine your brother is I home."

  "He isn't, no. But how did you know that?"

  "Do either of you boys know a girl named Jeanne Sinclair?"

  "That's it. She's the one."

  "Huh?"

  "I mean, yes, I know her." That was the voice Frank had been trying to remember, the one he'd thought he recognized when he'd picked up the warning phone call. "Why are you asking about her, Con?"

  "It looks like maybe she's been kidnapped. Unless it's another of those little jokes."

  "How does Joe tie in with this?"

  "The police in Kirkland found your van parked in her driveway. They asked me to check up on him."

  Frank's mind raced as he listened. Joe must have traced the scarf to Jeanne and gone out to her house.

  "There's no sign of the Sinclair girl," Con went on. "Her folks are in Morocco on a vacation, and besides Jeanne, the butler was the only one home this afternoon. He went to answer the door and got rapped on the head. When he came to, he was sprawled on the floor—alone. So he phoned the police."

  "This doesn't sound like a practical joke."

  "I think," said Con, "you'd better come to the station and have a chat with me, Frank."

  "Soon as I can get there," he promised, and hung up.

  His aunt was staring at him. "What is it? Has Joe been hurt?"

  "I don't think so," he told her. "But I have to go out and take a look at something. If Joe phones, tell him to come home." He started for the door. "And if Con Riley calls, tell him I got delayed a
little, but I'll get to him eventually."

  "Are you in trouble with the police, Frank?"

  "No, Aunt Gertrude," Frank said as he ran from the room. "At least, not yet," he added under his breath.

  The night was foggy, and Frank, driving his dad's car, almost missed the turnoff.

  The kidnapping of Jeanne Sinclair had to be connected with the activities of this Circle bunch. And if they were using the old abandoned Bushmiller Academy buildings as a headquarters, then Frank figured he'd be able to find out something there, and with luck, Jeanne and Joe.

  As he drove, Frank fit the little he knew into a theory on his brother's disappearance.

  Joe must have walked in on the kidnapping when he went to the Sinclair home in Kirkland to talk to Jeanne about her scarf and the club.

  But why take Joe? They just knocked the butler out.

  "Riley didn't say anything about a ransom," Frank said to himself, turning the van onto an even narrower hillside road.

  Frank's frown deepened as two new ideas struck him. Maybe, if the Circle guys had kidnapped Jeanne, they knew she was giving away information about them. And if they'd taken Joe Hardy, they knew who was getting the information, as well.

  Frank's lips straightened into a thin, grim line as he continued to mull over the situation. Yes, that was certainly a theory that covered all the available facts.

  He saw the spires of the gray brick buildings of the academy to his right, looming dark in the mist beyond a partially tumbled down stone wall. He drove on by.

  Jeanne had tried to warn them about the Circle—but before they could talk to her, she was kidnapped.

  Frank shrugged. I suppose that's one way to keep us from getting any information from her, he thought.

  But what could she know that was so important? Sure, she could get the other members of this prank club in trouble if she talked, but the trouble they could get into for kidnapping her was a lot worse.

  A quarter of a mile beyond the academy Frank parked the car.

  "No, there's something else going on here," Frank told himself, opening his door. "It's linked with the Circle, but it's a lot more serious."