Trouble Times Two

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Don Wylie’s eyes were on the Hardys. But Frank could see the expression on his son’s face. Kev went pale as all his pride and trust in his father came crashing down. “Dad,” he said in a choked voice.

  Don Wylie turned. “It’s not my fault!” he said again, louder. “I wanted to show your grandfather I was ready for the big leagues. He was only using me as a glorified office boy. But he rigged everything against me. Tri-State would fail if we didn’t expand. I needed money—couldn’t get it from the bank or your grandfather.”

  “But you could get it from Nicolai,” Frank said.

  “I didn’t know where it came from,” Wylie protested. “It was there when I needed it. And when I finally found out, it was too late. Then this Gilliam guy. When Kev told me what he did, I had to tell Nicolai. He said—”

  Wylie’s flood of confessions was cut off as a man came through the rear door. He had a lean, craggy, weather-beaten face—the sort of face that’s lived a rough life. Two bigger men stepped to either side of him. They were silent, brutal—even rougher looking.

  “No more saying anything now,” the stranger said, his voice accented.

  Donald Wylie froze with his mouth open, staring at the newcomer. For Kev, Joe, and Frank though, only one thing had their attention.

  That was the pistol in the man’s hand.

  14: Silent Partner

  Joe Hardy managed to drag his eyes from the pistol barrel to the gunman’s face. “Let me guess,” he said. “You must be Nicolai.”

  The man gave him an ironic bow. “Am very same.” He flashed a smile at Joe. And in this case, it really was flashy. Half of the guy’s teeth had been capped—in stainless steel!

  Nicolai stepped over to Mr. Wylie, who was still seated at the table. The foreigner shook his head. “Donald, Donald,” he said. His accent made the name come out more like “Dahwnalt.”

  “Is this good for business?” Nicolai demanded. “Telling secrets to anyone who comes to our house? I thought you stronger man than this, Donald.”

  Wylie fought to regain some of his old assurance. “When were you going to tell me about that boy, Nicolai?”

  “I wasn’t,” Nicolai replied. “Sometimes is good thing to have silent partner.” His lips curved. But his smile was as hard as his steel teeth. “Better you keep silent.”

  “It’s kidnapping, Nicolai,” Frank said.

  “Call it, rather . . . problem-solving.” Nicolai gave a quick order to his muscle men. Whatever the language was, the enforcers understood it. One dropped a heavy hand on Donald Wylie’s shoulder, urging him up. Then they began herding everyone out the back way.

  “Very trusting people, Americans.” Nicolai smiled as he slipped the gun into his jacket pocket. “They think screen door will protect whole house.”

  Joe marched with his brother in a grimly silent parade around the house. Nicolai stopped by the van. “Who drives?” he asked.

  Frank took out the keys.

  “Good. You and your brother, Mr. Wylie . . . and Yuri.”

  A gun popped into the hand of one of the big enforcers. He gestured for them to get in.

  “What about Kev?” Mr. Wylie asked in a tight voice.

  “Young man rides with Dmitri and me,” Nicolai responded. “Little reminder not to play at being heroes, eh?”

  The second goon took Kev by the arm and led him off to a high-priced sedan parked behind the van. Joe had to admit that the bad guys’ car fit the neighborhood better than his van did.

  “We meet at Donald’s warehouse,” Nicolai said. He took a step toward his car, then turned back. “Please try not to be late.”

  Usually that was just an everyday phrase. But hearing it from the hard-faced man with the synthetic smile . . .

  Joe couldn’t manage to stop a little shiver from running down his spine.

  Frank got behind the wheel of the van. Joe, Mr. Wylie, and the goon called Yuri got in the back.

  Yuri didn’t bother hiding the gun once they were inside. He propped it on his knee, covering his prisoners. Otherwise, he simply sat there, silent, like a large, menacing statue.

  From where Joe was seated he couldn’t get a good look at the route Frank was taking. He also couldn’t see Nicolai’s car.

  Frank seemed to be taking it very easily. The van certainly wasn’t making the trip at top speed. After all, they were out on the edge of town. Getting down to the Harborside area would take a while.

  Joe hated being effectively blind. If he’d been up front with Frank, they might have been able to spot a chance. Maybe they could pull away from Nicolai’s shadow.

  Instead, Joe could only sit and hope he would be ready for any hint from Frank. Maybe he could find some advantage over Yuri.

  Frank’s slow progress could be a setup. Let Yuri get used to a steady speed, and he might settle back. Then, a good tromp on the gas, hit the brakes—

  The guard might be thrown, his aim distracted. Joe would have a chance to jump him. He tried to will himself to look relaxed, but it was hopeless. Joe could feel every muscle tightening in his body. Sneakily, he put more and more weight on his feet. If there was even a ghost of a chance . . .

  Joe glanced over at Mr. Wylie. The businessman sat slumped in his seat, his gray face locked on Joe’s. Donald Wylie’s eyes silently begged Joe not to do anything foolish. The hopelessness of the situation crushed down on Joe like a ton of rubble.

  He’d been dreaming. No move, no matter how fancy or bold, could set them free. Kev was in that other car, a hostage.

  And, perhaps in the Tri-State warehouse, another hostage—Tom Gilliam—awaited them.

  Joe tried telling that to his muscles, but they wouldn’t listen. Nor would they loosen. By the time the van arrived downtown, he was seriously afraid of cramps.

  Finally they came to a stop and Frank turned off the engine. Light was coming through the wind-shield. At least it was brighter than elsewhere in this neighborhood.

  A heavy hand banged against the van door. A hoarse voice shouted something in a foreign language.

  Yuri finally stirred. Still keeping the gun on the prisoners, he jerked a finger toward the door.

  Joe rose stiffly and opened the door. A new goon stood outside, also with a gun in his hand. He was far enough away that Joe couldn’t get at him. The guy’s position also allowed him to cover Frank, who was getting out of the front door.

  Joining his brother, Joe stood blinking in the glare of the floodlights around the building. It was lit up like a Hollywood set. Unfortunately, the streets were deserted. No one was around to see what was going on. No one, that is, except the foreign gang members shoving the prisoners toward the office entrance.

  Joe looked around as he was prodded through the door. Where is old Pops the night watchman when you really need him? Joe thought.

  A moment later he got his answer. The security guard lay on the office floor, unconscious. His cap was gone, and Joe saw a big, swollen bruise on the side of the man’s head.

  But the guard wasn’t the only person in the office. Tom Gilliam and his father, both a bit the worse for wear, stood against a bank of filing cabinets. They were guarded by yet another foreign goon, and a slightly built man with a fleshy face. One whiff and Joe knew him immediately—Stinky Peterson.

  The burglar handled the gun he held as if it were some strange awkward object. “More people?” he said in dismay.

  “More problems,” Nicolai corrected him. “Now they are all in one place.” He paused for a second. “Now I solve them.”

  “Nicolai,” Donald Wylie spoke up. “There’s no problem that can’t be solved with a little talk. You need me—you need my company.”

  He must have been practicing this speech all the way down here, Joe thought. But he sounds like a cartoon of a businessman entering negotiations. Wylie just can’t keep the fear out of his voice.

  Nicolai was in no mood to negotiate. “You become more trouble to me than you are worth, Donald.” He sounded like a man clearing away th
e checkers after the game is over.

  “The police begin to sniff around you.” The gang leader nodded toward the Hardys. “If two boys can get my secrets out of you, what happens when you face real pressure?”

  “Nicolai.” Wylie licked his lips in nervousness. “Please—”

  “Oh yes,” Nicolai cut him off. “Always the same. ‘Nicolai, please. Nicolai, I never tell.’ ” He thrust a grim face into Wylie’s sweating one. “You going to make promises for everyone here? Six people, if you count old guard? He’ll conveniently forget knock on head?”

  The gangster pointed at the Gilliams. “They’ll leave town and never come back?”

  Then he turned on Joe and Frank. “They’ll shut up just to please you?”

  Finally he stood in front of Kev. “And your son . . . Pardon me that I say this, but—” Nicolai looked over at Don Wylie. “He has a big mouth. And now—to me, he looks mad at you.”

  Kev wasn’t saying anything. But pure anger radiated off his sullen, silent face.

  Shaking his head, Nicolai went back to Don Wylie. “No, I don’t think you can keep so many people quiet. So we must be like businessmen. Take decisive action. Shut all inconvenient mouths—permanently.”

  “You’re going to kill all of them?” Stinky Peterson was sweating even more heavily. That didn’t make him any sweeter to be around.

  Nicolai didn’t seem to notice the frightful stench. He leaned in until he was nose to nose with the burglar. “You do business with us, you do what we say. If not, you’re just in our way.”

  Peterson turned away, and Joe watched him take in the row of captives. This was what happened to people who got in Nicolai’s way.

  “I guess you’re glad you brought in some of your own boys.” Joe tried hard to ignore the tightness in his throat as he spoke. “The local talent hasn’t been much help to you.”

  “Shut up, you!” Peterson turned so abruptly, droplets of sweat flew off his face. The burglar’s nerve was stretched to the limit. He brought up his gun. But his hand was shaking so badly, there was an even chance he’d miss—even at this close range.

  Nicolai grabbed Peterson’s gun hand, carefully bringing it back down. “No shooting,” he said. “No St. Valentine’s Day like old-fashioned gangsters.”

  He gestured to his thugs. One began pulling file cabinets open. Another produced a square metal can and began pouring its contents over the files.

  The raw, sharp smell of gasoline filled the room.

  “Terrible fires will destroy all records of Tri-State Express,” Nicolai announced. “How sad. All inconvenient witnesses will also die in blaze.”

  “Like that pawnshop owner when his store went up?” Joe couldn’t help himself. He was angry, and words were all he had for weapons.

  Nicolai looked at him for a long, hard moment. “I think you have big mouth, too,” he finally said. “I wonder how you’ll do when all you have to breathe is smoke.”

  “You can’t hope that the police will buy this as an accident,” Frank said.

  “Your police don’t believe pawnshop fire was accident, either,” Nicolai retorted. “But American police need evidence.”

  He pointed to his steel false teeth. “Police back home knocked out the real ones—on suspicion. My business partners couldn’t send packages back home—police were sure to search them. So we found truck drivers, train crews who would work with us. In old days, needed passport to go from one city to another.”

  Nicolai gave them another steel smile. “America is much easier country to do business. Police may suspect much, but it will all be just theories. Did Gilliam and son come to burn place down? Did they get trapped with Donald and his son?”

  He glanced at the Hardys. “Did these boys Hardys come to warn of planned arson? Who can say?” Those steel teeth flashed again in a mirthless smile. “Who’s alive to say?”

  Nicolai shook his head. “The police may wonder many things, but they’ll never know.”

  He gave another command in his slurred native tongue. The muscle men who weren’t preparing the arson began tying up Joe, Frank, and the Wylies.

  “N-Nicolai.” Don Wylie stumbled over the name as his arms were yanked roughly behind him. “We’re not back where you came from now.” The businessman’s hands were bound. Now the goon went to work on his ankles. “We’re in America. There has to be a better way than this. Please, Nicolai. Please!”

  “I have one American dollar for every time I hear ‘Please, Nicolai!’ I could retire. Be very wealthy man.” The gang boss pulled a wadded handkerchief from his pocket. He stuffed it into Wylie’s mouth where he lay on the floor. “Shut up, Donald. Back home, all traitors get is bullet in back of head.”

  The pair of enforcers trussed up Joe and Frank while their partners continued to move through the warehouse. Joe could hear the splashing of gasoline. The raw stench of it drowned out even Stinky Peterson’s reek.

  “Better punishment, I think, to leave informer alive. Let him think about his mistakes as flames come to take him.”

  The huge room outside echoed with the efforts of Nicolai’s arsonists. It has to be full of boxes and packing material, Joe thought. That stuff will go up like the Fourth of July. Did Wylie splurge for a sprinkler system?

  Joe glanced at the unconscious guard. Cheap security—I’ll bet on cheap fire safety, too.

  A shout from the warehouse told Joe that the job was done, even if he didn’t understand the words.

  “Goodbye, my friends.” Nicolai turned as one of his goons handed him a heavy hammer. The gangster stepped to the office door that led to the street. One sudden swing, and the doorknob was gone.

  “No getting out that way now. I don’t think anyone will notice—not when fire is finished.”

  He followed his men out into the warehouse. Running footsteps echoed back to the prisoners.

  Then came the crackle of flames, quickly building to a roar!

  15: Hot Times

  Wisps of smoke began filtering through the open doorway into the warehouse. Frank Hardy knew they’d just be the vanguard of what would come pouring through in seconds.

  With his wrists and ankles bound, he wriggled like a snake toward the warehouse doorway. Frank twisted on the floor, managing to hook his feet behind the door. One good heave, and the door began to move. Then he could kick at the heavy metal panel until it swung shut.

  “Good,” Joe said, pushing himself to a sitting position. “I’ve breathed enough smoke this week.”

  “That was our only way out!” Kev Wylie’s voice was shrill with fear. “You’ve locked us in!”

  “We wouldn’t last two minutes out there, tied up like this,” Russell Gilliam said. “At least we won’t die of smoke inhalation.”

  “No, we just sit in here till we roast.” From the sound of his voice, Kev had gone from hysterical to hopeless.

  “We still have a chance,” Frank replied sharply. “If we can get loose from these ropes—”

  “Maybe I can help with that.” Tom Gilliam scooted round, digging into his right back pocket. “In here—there’s a box cutter—”

  “Where did you get—” Russ Gilliam groaned in pain from his injured arm as Tom tried to cut through his father’s bonds.

  “Let me help.” Joe inched toward Tom as quickly as he could.

  “Those big guys stashed me in the warehouse, then waited to jump my dad.” Tom skidded his way toward Joe. “While they were busy with him, I managed to slip a cutter into my pocket.”

  “Glad to hear you weren’t carrying it in school.” Joe reached Tom. “That’s contraband.”

  Tom passed him the cutter. Then Joe began sawing at the other boy’s wrists. It wasn’t easy, working with his hands behind his back.

  “Not much use against gangsters with guns,” Tom said. “But now—that did it!”

  The last strands of rope parted under the cutter. Tom took the blade and quickly sliced through Joe’s wrist bonds.

  Then he turned to his dad while
Joe attacked the knots around his ankles.

  Russ Gilliam sighed as his hands were freed. “I got a call as soon as I got home this evening,” he said. “The meet was supposed to be in this office, but they were waiting for me in the warehouse.” He glanced at Tom. “At least some good came of it.”

  Tom slashed his ankles free and went to cut Frank loose. Then he went to Don Wylie.

  As soon as his hands were free, the businessman pulled the gag from his mouth. “We’ve got to get out of here before the whole place goes up!”

  “Which will be all too soon.” Frank was the closest to the door. He could feel the heat coming through. Even though they were now free, there was no hope of running for freedom that way. The whole warehouse was fully ablaze.

  Getting to his feet, Frank scanned the room where they were trapped. This was a working office, not designed to impress. There were three metal desks and dozens of tall file cabinets. One door led to the warehouse. Another door—locked and with its knob smashed—led outside. That was hopeless.

  And then there was a single, dusty, sealed window . . .

  The inside was covered with a steel grating. Peering through the dirty glass, Frank could make out bars along the outside.

  “This looks like the best way out,” he said.

  “Yeah, if we could drive a truck through it.” Kev stared at the heavy metal fittings.

  “So we’ll have to make do with the next-best thing.” Frank began slamming shut the open, gasoline-reeking drawers on one of the file cabinets.

  Joe joined him, helping to manhandle the metal box across the floor.

  “It’s at moments like this that I remember that paper is made from trees.” Joe grunted as he pushed against the steel casing. “You think maybe we should dump some of these files?”

  “If we’re going to use this as a battering ram, we’ll need all the weight we can handle,” Frank replied, a little breathless.

  Now the others caught on. Kev and Don Wylie leaped to assist. So did Tom. Russ Gilliam, favoring his hurt arm, braced a shoulder behind the cabinet and pushed.