“Get inside, Isabelle,” Gaston yelled as he raced out of sight around the corner. “We think there are trespassers on the grounds. He’s letting the dogs loose.”
“That’s it,” Joe said. “We’re out of here. Now!” He and Frank stepped from behind the hedge and streaked away from the house.
The bump on Joe’s head throbbed as his legs pounded the ground. He looked around only once, but it was enough. Behind him, taking long, undulating strides, were two huge dogs. Their tongues hung out between pointed teeth, and their eyes were focused right on the teenagers.
Joe felt like prey.
13 And Then There Were Two
* * *
Joe raced toward the garage. Frank was not far behind and unfortunately neither were the dogs. The garage had five large doors, all of them locked.
Joe raced around the side of the building and found a small door at the back. He pushed at it, but it wouldn’t budge. “No time for the picks,” Frank said, running up to join his brother.
“Right!” Joe agreed. The Hardys braced themselves, side by side, their shoulders bowed toward the door. “One… two… three!” Joe yelled. They ran at the door together, and with a grinding screech, it burst in, tearing the lock from the doorjamb.
Once inside the garage, they shoved the broken door back up against the entry. “This’ll buy us a little time,” Frank said. He quickly assessed the huge building. A security light shone from the ceiling. Six antique cars were lined up perfectly. On the side wall there was a door that opened to a smaller room. Above that room was a loft storage area.
“Come on,” Frank said, leading Joe to the small room. It looked like an office. He reached in his pack and took out an old blue baseball cap. He rubbed it over his head and face, and then over Joe’s. Then he scraped it across the floor leading to the small office and threw it behind the desk.
“Grab that box,” he said, pointing to a car-repair tool kit on a nearby table. Then they scrambled up the loft ladder.
“Is this going to work?” Joe asked.
“Not for long, probably,” Frank said. “But maybe long enough. Check out the tool kit.”
As they looked in the kit, they heard the dogs approach the garage. The barking stopped for a few seconds. “They’re sniffing for the trail,” Joe said. He and Frank planned their strategy.
The dogs suddenly burst into the garage, flattening the broken door with their long muscular legs. They sniffed the floor, heading for the small office. Frank gestured to Joe to be ready.
The dogs followed the trail into the office and to Frank’s hat behind the desk. As soon as they were inside the small room, the Hardys dropped down from the loft, armed with tools from the kit, just in case. Joe slammed the door shut, closing the dogs inside the office. Frank got a chair from the corner of the garage and jammed it against the doorknob. Inside, they could hear the dogs tearing into Frank’s hat.
“Okay,” Joe said, “Let’s get out of here.”
As Frank and Joe were racing out of the garage they heard one of the larger doors open. “Let’s get to the woods,” Joe whispered to Frank. They tore across the grounds behind the garage, jumped the metal fence, and bolted for the safety of the trees in the woods surrounding the estate.
The Hardys continued through the woods and finally reached the road. Once there, Joe turned on his GPS device. He punched in Paris, and the GPS told them they were eighteen miles from town. Then it drew a little map, showing them which direction to take.
“Come on, let’s start hiking,” Joe said. “The GPS says this is a pretty direct route. Some cars are bound to come along.”
Only fifteen minutes passed before a farmer with a truckful of produce picked them up. They were at their Metro stop in a half hour, and back in their apartment before midnight.
“I can’t wait to tell Dad about Isabelle and Bergerac,” Frank said as Joe unlocked the door. “I’m not sure which authorities we need to contact here—the local police, or someone higher up. Dad should know exactly who.”
“Well, we definitely have to get in touch with someone about it,” Joe said.
“Before either Victoire or Bergerac pull off something else,” Frank added.
“Auguste and Isabelle—what a creepy combo,” Joe said. “Dad,” he called as they walked to their bedroom. “We’re back, and wait’ll you hear what happened.”
“Dad?” Frank echoed. “Isn’t he home?” He turned to Frank, then continued into Fenton’s room.
He wasn’t there. And there was no note anywhere in the apartment. Frank couldn’t chase away the idea that something wasn’t right. “What do you think?” he asked Joe.
“Seems weird,” Joe answered. “But with this conference, he could be doing any number of things. Maybe there’s some kind of investigative field trip or something—a kind of top-level stakeout.”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Could be. But I think it’s weird too.” He checked the phone messages. “Nothing,” he whispered to Joe as he listened. “One from Jacques. He’s been trying to reach us.” He listened a little longer. “Nothing from Dad so far.”
“That reminds me,” Joe said. “When are we going to tell Jacques we know he’s been lying to us?”
“Tomorrow morning, I—” Frank held up his hand as he listened to the next phone message. “Hold it.” He felt his stomach rise into his throat.
“What is it?” Joe asked.
“It was a message for Dad from one of his friends at the symposium,” Frank said, first hanging up, then dialing. “Dad never showed up this morning. His friend hasn’t seen him all day.”
He got an answer on the second ring. It was the same man who had left the phone message. Frank asked whether his dad had shown up for any of the meetings later that day. Joe could tell from his brother’s face that the news wasn’t good. Finally Frank sort of half smiled and hung up.
“What?” Joe asked.
“Well, this guy says not to worry—yet. Dad never showed. But the guy says not to contact any of the authorities, that the people in the symposium are already looking into it. He also said that Dad and another guy are working on an actual case to present the final day of the conference. So they think that’s probably where he’s been.”
Joe took a deep breath. “Hey, these guys are masters, right?” Joe said.
“Including Dad.”
“Including Dad,” Joe repeated. “They’re the most qualified to solve this case.” Both were lost in their own thoughts for a few minutes.
“So what do you think?” Joe finally said. “Do we worry or not?”
“Not,” Frank said, going to his computer. “We’re no good to Dad unless we’re on top of our game. That means we need all of our pistons firing. We just might be the best people on the case.”
Frank searched their e-mail in case Fenton had contacted him from another computer. “We got something,” he said. “And it’s from Dad.”
Joe came over to the desk and leaned over his brother’s shoulder to see the screen. “‘See you tomorrow,’” Joe read. “‘I’ll be tied up all night.’”
“I don’t like the way that sounds,” Joe said.
“Agreed,” Frank said in a hushed voice. They were quiet as they finally slipped into their beds. Joe fell asleep quickly, but had bad dreams about his father being tied up.
• • •
Saturday morning, the first buzz of the phone woke Joe out of a restless sleep. He was very jittery—more than ready to move on the case.
By the time he hung up, Frank had already showered and was getting dressed. “It was the volunteer coordinator,” Joe told his brother. “The tournament’s back on. We’re to report to Le Stade tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Frank said. “More ‘accidents’ are being planned—we both know it.”
“How come you didn’t mention what we know about Isabelle and Bergerac to the security conference guy when you talked to him last night?”
“
Because right now, it’s our word against theirs,” Frank said. “All we have now is an overheard conversation—in French—about how they might join forces to bring their cause to the international public, plus a garbled tape by someone they can say isn’t even connected to them. They’d be able to get us for breaking and entering on the boat, trespassing on Bergerac’s property, and breaking the garage door—at least.”
“Bergerac was pretty clear about being into sabotaging the stadium or the tournament or both,” Joe said. “Do we pin him for what’s happened so far? How about the fireworks incident?”
“Probably,” Frank said. “I’d like to talk to Sylvio again. For now, though, let’s say yes.”
“If blowing up the lights was an act of sabotage, we know it wasn’t Victoire,” Joe said. “Isabelle was so mad about someone beating her to the punch.”
“For now, I’d guess Bergerac for that, too,” Frank said. “He never answered when they asked him about it.”
“What about the attack on Coach Sant’Anna?” Joe asked. “Still thinking Monster Montie?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said. “I thought it was Montie for a while. But now that we know that Victoire is really stepping up their activity, I wouldn’t be surprised if the message Coach Sant’Anna left on the floor was a couple of Vs for Victoire. He’s another one I’d like to talk to again. Maybe by now he can tell us what he meant.”
“We need proof,” Joe agreed. “But first we have to check on Dad. We’ve got to know he’s okay.”
“You don’t trust the e-mail message?”
“We both know anyone can send one of those,” Joe said. “And if they use Dad’s computer…”
“The return address would be Dad’s.” Frank finished his brother’s thought. “It would look as if it really did come from Dad.”
“Hey, anybody home?” The Hardys heard Jacques’s voice coming from the front door.
“Let’s keep what we’ve learned quiet,” Frank cautioned Joe as they walked to the door.
“And let’s say nothing about Dad,” Joe added.
Jacques bustled in with sacks of food—sausage rolls, orange juice, and sweet pastries from the patisserie around the corner.
While they ate the three talked about the tournament starting up again. Then, out of the blue, Frank startled Jacques by telling him they found out he’d lied to them.
“Hah!” he said with a grin. “You kids are good!” Then his face flushed and he apologized. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “I was afraid to tell you the truth. I was sure you wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I am an amateur detective myself,” he explained. “That is, I want to be one.”
“That’s your story now,” Joe said. “How do we know you’re not lying again?” Joe asked. He drank his juice in one gulp. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.
“I am not,” Jacques said. “I promise this is the truth. When I found out who you two were, I saw a golden opportunity. I’m embarrassed to tell you this, but I wanted to learn some of your tricks. I can see by your faces that lying was a mistake. Let me make it up to you. Let me continue to help you with this case, and I’ll be able to prove my good intentions.”
“Okay, Jacques,” Frank said. “One of my jobs for today was to interview Montie Roberts. Why don’t you take that one. Find out where he was just before he came to the locker room. Get all the information you can about the message he says he got that told him to show up there in the first place—how it arrived, who he thinks sent it to him. Oh, and ask him if he’s noticed anything missing.” Frank could feel the golden walnut in his pocket.
“You’ve found something. I can tell,” Jacques said. “What is it?”
“Just find out what you can,” Frank said. “We’ll call you later and set up a meeting.”
“You’ve given me a tough assignment,” Jacques said. “Trying to get Monster Montie to talk will be a true test. I’ll pass it with flying colors.” They finished their breakfast and Jacques left.
“Okay, what was that all about?” Joe asked when the Hardys were alone again. “I don’t remember you saying anything about talking to Montie.”
“I just wanted to get Jacques out of our hair for a while,” Frank admitted. “I figured that would keep him busy, and wouldn’t really affect our case one way or the other. Plus, it’s a good way to find out if he’s telling the truth this time.”
“Okay, boss,” Joe said with a grin. “So what’s our assignment?”
“I’m going to retrace Dad’s route from yesterday morning,” Frank said. “Check with his driver, see if anyone along the way saw anything. I want to know if he was diverted from his route, or if he actually never intended to show up at the symposium.”
“That’s the only part that really bothers me,” Joe said. “If this was something he’d planned, he would have told somebody. I get that he might not have been able to tell us, but someone at the conference should have known.”
“I know,” Frank said. “And I agree.”
“I’ll stake out Isabelle’s place,” Joe said. He pulled out the map and address that Jacques had given them Wednesday. They synchronized their handhelds and agreed to check in with each other every hour.
• • •
By about noon Joe was in the Montmartre district of Paris. A cluster of neighborhoods historically populated with artists, flea markets, and clubs, Montmartre was laid out on a series of steep hills. Joe followed his crude map and finally found Isabelle’s garden apartment on a secluded street.
The apartment was half above street level and half below. Joe could look down into the apartment through the windows just above the sidewalk. He saw no one inside, so he climbed over a wrought-iron fence and scurried along the side to the back.
Cautiously he let himself in. The small apartment was dusty and dark. He crept from room to room. They were all empty. The bedroom was off to the side and was separated from the dining room by a heavy curtain that had been strung across the opening. He peered around the curtain. The coast was clear.
As he stepped around the heavy drape, the brass rings at the top of the curtain moved along an iron rod. The sound of scraping metal was answered with a more animal-like sound; a long, low moan filtered through the closet door.
Joe dropped his backpack, picked up a heavy candlestick, and stepped to the closet. Holding the candlestick high above his head, he flung open the door.
14 Buried with the Bones
* * *
Joe waited behind the door for just a few seconds. Nothing happened. He peeked around the door and saw a few clothes on spindly wire hangers hanging on a rod. On the floor of the closet was a large wooden trunk with leather straps.
Another moan caused him to spring into action. It came from the trunk—and it sounded like a human cry.
Joe dropped the candlestick, undid the leather straps, and pulled up the lid. Stuffed inside the trunk was Isabelle Genet, handcuffed and gagged. Her eyelids fluttered as the light washed over her face.
“Don’t worry,” Joe murmured. “You’ll be okay.” At that point, he didn’t know whether he believed what he was saying or not.
Gently he lifted her out of the trunk and laid her on the bed. He removed the gag, but she said nothing. Her eyelids kept fluttering. They didn’t stay open for more than an instant at a time. Rummaging through his picks, he found one that worked on the handcuffs. Once he got them off, he rubbed her wrists for a moment and then clocked a weak pulse.
Joe phoned for an ambulance and watched over Isabelle until it arrived. The paramedics checked her out and said a few words to Joe, but he didn’t understand them. He could tell by their grim faces, though, that her condition was not good. She didn’t speak.
The medics slipped a couple of IVs into Isabelle’s arm and hustled her away. Joe got the name of the hospital she’d be in, and thanked them. As they left, one of them turned back to Joe and spoke in halting English. “It is good,” she said. “It is good you called. It is good timing.”
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Joe poked around the apartment a little while but found nothing of any value to the case. If people know where she lives, he reasoned, she’s too smart to leave anything incriminating around here. He left the apartment and called his brother on the handheld. Joe told Frank what had happened, and they agreed to meet immediately at the computer café.
Joe got there first and ordered a soda. Frank arrived a half hour later.
“Sorry,” Frank said. “I made another stop.”
“Have you found out anything about Dad?” Joe asked. “Finding Isabelle stuffed in that trunk really threw me. These guys—whoever they are—play rough. We need to find Dad.”
“I know,” Frank agreed. “But I ran into a total dead end this morning. So after you called, I stopped at Jacques’s. We know from everything we heard last night that Victoire had nothing to do with the fireworks sabotage or the exploding lights. The only thing they admitted to was plotting something involving the stands. So someone else must be responsible for the rest.”
“Right,” Joe said, listening intently to his brother. “The fireworks and night lighting both involved computer-controlled systems. The Victoires are such throwbacks, they’re not going to be computer experts. They’re so antitechnology they’re probably not all that tech savvy.”
“So who do we know who is a superhacker?” Frank asked. “He’s also a liar, but the part about being a computer genius is true, because everyone who hangs out here says so.”
“Yeah, but Jacques isn’t the only superhacker in Paris,” Joe pointed out. “Or liar. There’s nothing that connects him with any of this.”
“That’s what I told myself too,” Frank said. “So I stopped by just to get his help. I figured we could have him crank up his computer and hack into the Macri Magnifico database and also into Le Stade’s lighting program. I wanted to see if he could track the sabotage hacker.” Frank’s words were coming fast now. Joe wanted him to cut to the chase, but he knew better than to try to push his brother.
Passport to Danger Page 8
