“Oh, no!” Fenton exclaimed.
Following his father’s gaze through the wind-shield, Joe saw a dark, late-model sedan pull up in front of the Harbor Hotel. A figure dashed out from the doorway through the raindrops.
“That’s Peterson!” Fenton dug an infrared camera out from under his clothes. “Got to get closer if I’m going to get anything halfway clear in this rain.”
Before Joe could say anything, his father had opened the door and stepped out into the rain. Fenton crept down the block in a crouch, virtually disappearing against the cars and vans he passed. Even Joe could barely spot him against the movement of the windshield wipers.
Fenton suddenly froze. Peterson was standing in the street, leaning toward the driver’s window. He had a small package in his hand as he reached in. When his hand came out, he was holding a thick envelope. Ignoring the rain, Peterson ripped the envelope open and riffled the contents. Still crouching, Fenton shot pictures of the transaction with his camera.
That was when the sport utility vehicle came around the corner, swinging wide to avoid Joe’s double-parked van. As the SUV slid back into its lane, the high beams lit up Fenton.
Peterson yelled something, jumping back from the parked sedan like a scalded cat. He had nearly gotten run down by the SUV as it passed.
The sedan’s engine roared to life as it began to pull away. Fenton Hardy passed behind it, camera up to catch a final shot of the license plate. But he must not have been satisfied with that. Fenton dashed across the street toward his sedan. Joe realized that his father must have stashed his car on the street before taking up his homeless disguise.
Fenton already had the remote in his hand. The car gave out a loud chirp as he unlocked the doors. He reached the street-side door—
But the driver of the escaping car must have spotted him about to take up the pursuit. The dark sedan came to a sudden halt. Then, with a screech of rubber, the car began heading back up the block—in reverse!
The big, dark car fishtailed, swerving wildly across the pavement. But there was no doubting where it was aimed.
It was heading straight for Fenton Hardy’s car—or rather, for Fenton Hardy!
3: Pros—and Cons
“Dad!” Joe yelled, even though he knew his voice couldn’t be heard outside the van. He was too far away to help his father, even if he threw the van into gear and floored it. In a split second, Joe tried the only thing possible. He put one hand on the horn and leaned on it with all his might, at the same time flashing his high beams.
Maybe the sudden noise or dazzling light distracted the other driver. Maybe he or she hit an oil spot. But the car backing up rapidly skidded, colliding only with the front fender of Fenton’s car. Fenton had already flung himself toward the sidewalk, rolling over the hood of the car.
Joe’s breath caught in his throat as the two cars came together in a splintering crunch. The attacking sedan suddenly shifted into forward again, wheels shrieking on the pavement. For a second the dark car seemed stuck. Then, with a screech of tearing metal, it pulled free and went careening down the block.
Joe tried to start his own engine, tried to turn the van to cut off the escaping car. He was a hair too late. The dark car was already past him as he swung the van around. His last view of the fence’s getaway came through the rain-speckled passenger door window. The driver of the escaping car cut his turn so sharply, he took the corner on two wheels.
No chance to catch him, Joe thought bitterly. By the time I get this thing turned in the right direction, that guy will have disappeared.
Instead, he pulled the van back into a double-parked position and scanned the area for Peterson. No luck. He went to his dad.
Fenton stood beside his car, shaking his head. One look told Joe why his father hadn’t set off on the fence’s trail. The right front fender of the car was pushed in as if it had been hit with a giant hammer, and the wheel beneath stuck out at a crazy angle.
“I don’t think this is even a job for the body shop,” Fenton said, kicking the tire. “Looks to me like a broken axle.”
He grinned at Joe, wiping rain off his face with the back of his shirt sleeve. “Let’s get back in your ride. No need for both of us to get soaked.”
Fenton climbed in the passenger seat and strapped on his seat belt. He dug a cell phone from under his stained, soaking shirt and hit three digits. “Police? This is Fenton Hardy. I’m a private investigator, looking into the Nugent burglary—Yes, the pearls.”
Joe listened as his father calmly described his close brush with death. “It was a late-model standard. Here’s the license number.” He then recited a series of letters and numbers from memory.
“Yes, I have photos of the car. I’ll be at my home. For the time being, I’ll leave my car where it is. There’s no way I can drive it. Thank you.”
He cut the connection. “The boys in blue will be looking for that car. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Joe shook his head. “I can’t believe how you could just reel off the license plate, considering what just happened.”
His father gave him a crooked smile. “It’s amazing how the threat of death can concentrate your attention—and your memory.”
“That driver was trying to kill you—squash you like a bug against your own car.” Joe began to get angry. “I didn’t even get a good look at him, her . . . or it.” He turned to his father. “I know who did, though. That burglar, Peterson. We should find him and bring him right to the cops—”
Fenton shook his head. “Long gone by now.”
“But he must have gone up to his room in the hotel. And we’ve been right here at the front door—” Joe began.
“This guy is a burglar, Joe. He knows how to get in and out of windows, how to use fire escapes, roofs . . . you name it.”
“So you lost your pearls and your burglar.”
Fenton shrugged. “Comes with the territory sometimes. That’s not what bothers me.”
“Seeing you almost get killed is what bothers me,” Joe said as he started the van for home.
“I’m more interested in why,” Fenton said. “Peterson is a professional. He’d deal only with pros. And no pro would act like such a cowboy, even over twenty-five grand’s worth of pearls.”
“I’ve heard about guys who’d kill people for less than a quarter of that amount,” Joe objected.
“Apples and oranges,” Fenton replied. “That’s a different branch of the business. No thief would let himself get stuck with a murder rap. It brings too much attention. The cops would be all over it.”
“The papers are full of people getting killed during robberies,” Joe pointed out.
Again, Fenton shook his head. “Amateurs. People pulling a job for the first time, either with no plan or a bad one. When something goes wrong, they panic. That’s not Stinky Peterson’s kind of criminal. When he hit the Nugents’ apartment at the Harbor Pavillion, he knew exactly how long they’d be away. There were no traces of a search—he went straight for the safe. Only the pearls were gone. He didn’t leave a single trace for the cops to connect him with the job. That’s the work of a pro.”
Now it was Joe’s turn to shrug. “Maybe the fence wasn’t a pro. Maybe he was an errand boy who panicked.”
“A scared amateur would have hauled it out of there,” Fenton said. “Trying to take me out was a quick decision . . . and a cold-blooded one.”
“Maybe whoever it was had a criminal record,” Joe suggested. “Maybe they were afraid that if they got caught, they’d get locked up with the key thrown away.”
“And what would happen if they were caught for murder?” Fenton’s face creased in a puzzled frown. “We’re missing something in this, Joe. I don’t know what it is.”
“Yet,” Joe put in.
That managed to get a laugh out of his father, but Fenton was soon serious again. “There’s something more than meets the eye in this whole setup.”
They soon got home, and Fenton wound up throwing most
of his dripping disguise directly into the trash. As he headed to the bathroom for a much-needed shower, he said, “I’m glad that your mother and Gertrude aren’t home yet. I’ll explain it all in the morning.”
• • •
When Joe came down on Saturday morning, he found his mother sitting unhappily over a cup of tea in the kitchen. His dad didn’t look very cheery either. At least he was freshly shaved and wearing a new sweater and casual slacks.
“Why don’t you get your brother?” Fenton said to Joe. “The three of us will go out for breakfast this morning.” He glanced at his wife. “Give your mom a break and a little peace and quiet.”
Joe turned and went right back upstairs. Frank was dressed and coming out of his room. “Dad’s taking us out for breakfast,” Joe announced. “I think Mom’s a little upset about last night—maybe we should use the front door instead of the kitchen.”
The boys came out of the house to find Fenton waiting beside their van.
“Where to?” Frank asked, getting behind the wheel. “There’s that all-you-can-eat pancake place out on the interstate—”
Fenton obviously had a place in mind. Joe watched as he began giving directions that took them downtown.
They soon arrived at a little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop a few blocks from the municipal buildings. On a workday the place would probably be jammed with people having breakfast or looking for a doughnut and coffee to bring to the office. Saturday morning, though, the Hardys just about had the place to themselves.
Frank looked around in puzzlement. “I guess I must have passed this place before,” he said. “But I think this is the first time I’ve ever been inside.”
Joe was more direct. “Okay, Dad. Why are we sitting in a greasy spoon—ouch!” His question was interrupted by a gentle kick in the shins from Fenton as the waitress came their way.
“We’re here because this place makes the best French toast in this part of the state,” Fenton told them. “And you can never get in here on a work-day.”
He ordered French toast and coffee. The boys went for the same, although they had orange juice.
“Fresh squeezed,” the waitress told them when she brought the tray of beverages.
A little while later she appeared with their breakfast—big, thick slabs of hand-sliced bread soaked in egg, fried up, and sprinkled with cinnamon.
“Pretty good,” Joe admitted after chewing his first piece. He lowered his voice. “But the best in this part of the state? There has to be another reason, Dad.”
Fenton’s eyes went to the door as it swung open, ringing an old-fashioned bell. He smiled, and Joe now knew why his dad had rushed them into this place.
A police officer the Hardys knew well took off his uniform cap as he entered the coffee shop. “Hello, Flo,” Con Riley said. “The usual, I guess.”
“Coffee with cream, an apple turnover, and your favorite stool at the counter.” The waitress named Flo seemed to have Con’s standing order memorized.
Obviously Con is a regular at this place, Frank thought. And just as obviously, Dad knows that fact. He wanted to talk to a friendly face from the Bayport force while keeping the meeting unofficial.
“Con!” Fenton said with just the right note of surprise.
The police officer had just glanced at their table when Fenton spoke. Frank watched Con’s face run through several expressions. First came a look of surprise, immediately covered with a poker face. But was there a smile behind that mask?
“Fenton,” Con said. “What brings you downtown on this fine Saturday morning?”
“Just taking the boys out for breakfast,” Fenton replied. Now it was Frank’s turn to hide a smile. Using us for window dressing while you fish for information, he silently corrected.
“There’s plenty of room at our table,” Fenton went on. “Why don’t you join us?”
“Why not?” Con said. “Maybe I’ll even have some of that French toast.”
“Now I know the world has gone upside-down,” Flo said.
“I’ll still have the coffee with cream, though,” Con told her. He sat down with the Hardys, still hiding his smile.
“Heard you had quite an adventure last night.” For a second Con became pure cop. “By the way, we found the car that almost nailed you—abandoned.”
“Stolen, no doubt,” Fenton said.
Con nodded. “The technical boys are going over it right now. It would be nice if they could find something we can use.”
He paused. “We also went to pick up your friend Mr. Peterson. Seems he left his hotel room in a big hurry.” Con’s coffee arrived, and he took a sip. “I understand you have some candid snapshots of Mr. Peterson with a new friend.”
“That’s what almost got Dad turned into road-kill,” Joe interrupted.
“Any pictures of whoever was in that car?” Con was actually leaning across the table.
Fenton shook his head. “The conditions weren’t exactly the best. I couldn’t get a clear image of anything behind the windshield.”
Riley sank back into his seat. “That’s a shame,” he said. “We’d give a lot to get a look at the face of the new boyo in town. All the crooks are in line to sell him their loot.”
He gave Fenton a long look. “They say this guy has national connections.”
4: Warm Welcome
Frank couldn’t help himself. “So, we’ve got a national syndicate of criminals moving into Bayport.” His lips curled in disgust. Joe had given him the full story on what had happened the night before. “If they’re such pros, why did they try to crush Dad against his car? That sounds more like a bunch of joyriding kids suddenly scared of being caught in a stolen car.”
Con Riley shook his head. “For one thing, these aren’t homegrown organized crime types,” he said. “Don’t expect them to act like the fellas you see on TV or in the movies with the homes in the suburbs. Nowadays, some of the worst, most vicious gangs come from outside this country.”
“America—the land of opportunity,” Frank growled.
“Yeah—opportunity to rip off anything that isn’t solidly nailed down,” Joe put in.
Con could only shrug. “Can’t argue with you. It doesn’t even help to catch these characters. Jail time looks like a vacation compared to the way they’d be treated in their own countries. They’re here to make a killing, and they don’t care who gets killed while they do it.”
“Sounds charming,” Fenton Hardy said. “What have you got on them?”
“Not much.” Con made a face. “Most of our . . . usual sources aren’t talking. Could be they’re greedy—this new fence is offering great prices.” He paused. “Or maybe they’re scared. These guys play rough. You heard about the big fire downtown last week?”
“The pawnshop,” Frank said.
“With the owner inside.” Fenton shot a glance at Con. “That was this crew?”
“The deceased was actually running a very profitable fencing operation, and he didn’t want to play by the new rules.” Con lowered his voice. “Here’s something you didn’t hear on the news. The deceased had a dent in his skull that wasn’t accidental.”
“This is Bayport we’re talking about,” Frank protested. “You’re making it sound like Chicago in those old-time gangster movies. You know, where the guys in the loud striped suits fight over who controls the North Side.”
“Even wise guys don’t wear pinstripes anymore,” Con Riley said. “The last mobster I saw was in a purple jogging suit.”
“One hundred percent silk, I suppose,” Fenton Hardy joked.
Con Riley wasn’t laughing. “These clowns stand to rake in a lot of money if they make this thing work,” he said. “And once they prove they can move whatever they steal, our local street crooks will get a lot more active.”
He glanced at Fenton. “You’ll probably end up doing more insurance work.”
The boys’ father was very serious now. “I started out as a cop,” he reminded Con. “So I know what it means when
street punks ‘get active.’ ” He shook his head. “That’s not the way I want my business to grow.”
Fenton’s eyes narrowed in thought. “The big selling point for this new fence is his promise to move the local thieves’ loot out of town. Find the pipeline, and you could easily shut these newcomers down.”
“If we can find the pipeline.” Con looked as if Fenton had jabbed a sore tooth. “We’ve been looking and found exactly zip. Maybe this business is still too small-scale for shipments to turn up.”
He sighed. “Either that, or they’ve got the sort of machine you see on those sci-fi shows. You know, they’re beaming the stuff out.”
The waitress arrived with Con’s breakfast, and he stopped talking. But as he pushed the food around on his plate, it was obvious he’d lost his appetite.
I bet Chief Collig is putting on a full-court press to nail these guys, Frank thought. Not having anything to show for all this effort has to hurt.
Con’s mood affected everyone at the table. They finished their meal in silence, except for the waitress scolding Con for wasting food.
Then they went their separate ways.
• • •
That afternoon Frank was working at his computer when Joe stuck his head in the doorway. “You’ve been hunched over the keyboard since we came home. What’s up?”
Frank looked up from the computer screen and stretched. “More stuff for my social studies fair project. I stumbled across a reference to qui tam cases.”
“Who’s that?” Joe asked. “Some Chinese whistle-blower?”
“It’s part of a Latin phrase. Old-time law is full of this stuff.” Frank read from the screen. “ ‘Qui tam pro domino rege quam pro se ipso in hoc parte sequitur.’ ”
“Oh, that makes it perfectly clear,” Joe said, “if I were Julius Caesar. Why not explain it in English this time?”
“The straight translation would be ‘Who as well as for the king as for himself sues in this matter.’ ”
Trouble Times Two Page 2
