Bits of straw were sucked into the propeller and were shredded. As Frank and Joe pressed back against the barn door, the plane began to move forward.
The propeller, slicing everything in its way, was aimed straight at them.
Chapter 3
"SCRAMBLE," FRANK YELLED, diving to the ground to avoid the whirling blade. Joe rolled under a wing as the plane passed over him.
With a laugh, Charity aimed the remote control at the barn doors again and pressed a button. They swung wide open, and the plane rolled away from the Hardys and out into the night.
"Stop her!" Joe yelled. He leapt for the tail of the plane, which rolled along on a single wheel. He was too late. The biplane was already in the air.
Charity was out of reach.
"It figures she'd be able to fly a plane," Joe said, brushing himself off after his hard landing. "She's an expert at everything else. We'll never catch her."
"Maybe," Frank said, every bit as annoyed as Joe by the escape. "That doesn't mean we shouldn't try. She's obviously been using this place as her base of operations. Maybe she left something behind to trace her by." They went back to the house.
A search of the bedrooms and kitchen turned up nothing. Neither did a check of the record player.
As Joe moved the lamp that had shone on the window, a tiny scrap of paper fluttered out from under the bottom of it and settled near his shoe. He picked it up and studied it. It looked like a duplicate from an order form, with serial numbers on it.
"I think I found something," he called to Frank.
Frank walked over to Joe and took the paper from him. "I'd say it was a piece of a receipt. It looks vaguely familiar, but I'm not sure why or where it's from."
Joe sighed. "One thing I am sure about is that there's nothing else to find here. We'd better get back to town and give them the bad news."
The mood back at the museum was bleak. A line of police officers barricaded both ends of the street that the museum was on, keeping reporters and TV camera crews out. Frank and Joe were let through the barricade and shortly found themselves in the museum curator's office, where Chief Collig sat on a couch, with Officer Con Riley nearby, leaning against a wall. Both sets of eyes were on Renner. Renner was speaking on the phone, but he talked too quietly to be heard across the room. Though good friends, Collig and Riley didn't speak. Right then there was nothing to say.
Riley's eyes rolled up as the Hardys entered the room. Unlike Chief Collig, he had never minded the Hardys helping out on cases, but he also knew that wherever Frank and Joe were, trouble was sure to follow. "Your father know you're here, boys?"
The Hardys' father was Fenton Hardy, a former New York police detective who had become a world-famous private investigator. It wasn't unusual for him to take off across the globe at the drop of a hat—which Frank and Joe sometimes did as well.
"Mom and Dad are in Boston for the week," Joe said. "Dad recommended us for this security gig because he couldn't be here."
Riley grinned. "I suppose he thought it would be easy."
"Wipe that stupid grin off your face," Renner growled as he slammed the phone down.
He pointed to the chief. "I want this man arrested."
All four stared at Renner, stunned. Chief Collig bounced to his feet, angrily asking, "And what am I to be arrested for?"
"You stole the Star," Renner said, glaring at Collig. "You stole it while I was out front talking to these kids." He waved a hand in the direction of the Hardys. "Then they concocted this story about a jewel thief to cover your tracks."
"She was there!" Frank protested.
"Says you," Renner said bluntly. "I didn't see anyone. Suddenly you three were tripping alarms and pulling stunts, till I couldn't tell what was what. But the thief had to be someone who knew how to turn the alarms on and off and who could get to them. That means Collig or me. And I was with the boys."
"It was Charity," Joe said. "We have proof." He held up the scrap of paper. Renner snatched it, studied it for a moment, then crumpled it into a little ball and tossed it back to Joe.
"Stray garbage," the insurance man said. He pointed a finger at Collig again.
Con Riley glared at Renner, his hands on his hips. "There's no evidence against the chief, and he's too fine a man for you to accuse."
"I should have figured you hick-town cops would stick together," Renner snarled back. "But I know what my report is going to say."
"If you think you've got something on me, do whatever you have to," Chief Collig said. "But don't you speak to my officers like that. And don't forget that I'm still chief of police in this town."
"You won't be much longer if I have anything to say about it," Renner said. "And I will. The insurance company I work for has lots of pull in this state. No yokel cop is going to make fools of them. Collig, you can kiss your job goodbye." He eyed the Hardys. "Now, what about these two?"
"They're free to go," Riley said.
"No, we're not free." Joe gave Renner a look so menacing the insurance guy jumped a step back. "We're going to find Charity, bring back the sapphire, and wreck this little frame you're trying to put around the chief and Frank and me."
"I've got it!" Frank cried. "Joe, where's that scrap of paper?"
As Joe handed him the numbers, Frank went behind the curator's desk and dug out a phone book. "Airlines, airlines ... " he mumbled, running a finger down a column in the Yellow Pages. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"Hi," he said in a cheery voice. "I'm afraid I've destroyed my plane ticket, and all I have left of it is the order number. I think it was with your company. Could you check? ... Thank you." He rattled off the number on the paper.
"Oh. Transcontinent Air. ... I see. Thank you. And that flight was to ... ? Sorry, but my appointment book was destroyed at the same time. I go so many places on business, I can't keep track of them. ... Thanks.
"Of course. Thanks. And the flight is leaving ... It just left. Oh, dear. Is there any other flight I can— When? ... Tomorrow morning? That'd be great. Two tickets, please. ... Hardy. ... Yes. You've been very helpful."
Frank hung up the phone, cold determination on his face. "Let's go, Joe. We have some packing to do."
"Where do you think you're going?" Renner snapped.
"San Diego," Frank said, trailing Joe out of the room. They slammed the door behind them.
Joe Hardy woke the minute the plane touched down on the runway in San Diego. He and Frank both knew that that might be the last time they'd have to sleep in days. They had drifted off as soon as they left New York.
Joe almost wished he hadn't. His rest had been constantly interrupted by nightmares of Charity.
He nudged Frank awake. "I've been thinking—" he began, as the plane rolled up to the terminal, but Frank interrupted him.
"Me, too. Something's not right here." Frank yawned and stretched. "It strikes me that Charity could've escaped from us several times. Why was she so slow?"
"Slow?"
"Sure. First, she dangles on that rope until we see her, then she stays on the scaffolding outside until I get there."
Joe nodded. "And she was way ahead of us in the barn. She could have flown away before we got anywhere near her."
"But instead she closed the doors and played with us," Frank agreed. "Sounds a little like she was trying to make sure we stayed on her trail, doesn't it?"
"You think she left the number for us to find?"
"I don't know. There's only one way to find out."
"Right," Joe said. "Catch Charity." The flight attendants opened the doors, and the passengers started filing out of the plane. Trapped in their seats until the flood of people passed, Frank and Joe watched each of them move by. Finally, when the plane was almost empty, the Hardys got up.
"Here's something else that's funny." Joe lowered his voice. "I just recognized about half a dozen of the people on this plane."
"Me, too," Frank said, frowning. "We've seen their faces in those investigator's u
pdates Dad gets. They're criminals."
"Thieves," Joe added. "Just like Charity. What are they all doing in San Diego at the same time?"
"Do criminals have conventions?" Frank asked jokingly. Then his face grew serious "Something's going on. The question is, what, and what are we going to do?"
They stepped into the terminal. Already the passengers were dispersing, but just ahead Joe saw a familiar hairless head, polished to a shine. "That's a second-story man out of Baltimore, named Chrome Lasker. Why don't we ask him what's going on?"
The Hardys pushed through the crowd, closing in on Lasker. The bald man didn't notice them. He was busy speaking to a guy in a white suit. In profile, the second man had a thick mustache and what looked like tiny, ratlike eyes.
"Lasker," Frank said, clamping a hand on the bald man's shoulder. Without missing a beat, the mustached man clipped Frank with a massive hand, knocking him down. The two men took off running.
"They're heading for the exit," Joe said as he helped Frank to his feet. Frank looked down the corridor where the two men had gone. It ended in double doors.
"That's not an exit," Frank said. "It leads to a service area. We've got them cornered. Come on."
They pushed through the double doors into darkness. As the doors slammed shut behind them, each of the Hardys felt something thin and cool wrap around his throat. Frank and Joe felt hot breath raise the hairs on the backs of their necks. The men behind them were taller than they were, and, if they could go by the grip the men had, they were a lot bigger too.
Wires held in strong hands tightened and began to bite into the Hardys' throats, slowly squeezing the life out of them.
Chapter 4
JOE HARDY RAISED a foot and brought it down as hard as he could on the toes of the man strangling him. The man howled and loosened his grip on the wire. Joe rammed an elbow into the man's stomach.
Pain shot through Joe's arm, as if he'd just smashed into a rock. With a grunt and a laugh, the man rapped Joe on the side of the head, knocking the younger Hardy off his feet. The wire caught him around the neck again and tightened.
Joe dangled there, trying to brace his feet again, feeling his weight drag him into the strangling wire. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his lungs burned for air. Nearby, he watched Frank struggle, with no more success than he was having.
Something — a foot, Joe figured—smacked into the back of his knees, knocking his legs out from under him. He knew the man holding the wire wasn't about to let him get his balance again.
There was a click, and instantly light streamed through the darkness and widened. A woman's shadow fell across them, but Joe, almost unconscious, could see nothing. He heard two dull thuds, and air rushed into his lungs as he fell to the floor and the wire slid from his neck.
"Frank!" Joe called as he wobbled to his feet. "You all right?"
Next to him, Frank rolled over and sat up, coughing and rubbing his neck. "I'm okay. What happened?"
Joe looked at his and his brother's attackers lying at their feet. They weren't the men the Hardys had been following, but rather tan, muscular giants. One had a tattoo of an anchor on his forearm. Both were unconscious now, sprawled on the floor.
"Sailors of some sort, I'd guess." Joe's voice croaked out of a throat that still stung from the bite of the wire. "When the doors opened, there was this shadow, and — "
"Charity!" they said at the same time.
"I'm starting to get real tired of her." Frank fumed.
But Joe wasn't listening. He was out the door and back in the main terminal, looking for any sign of Charity. Other planes had unloaded passengers, and the terminal was filled. If Charity was there, Joe realized, she would be well hidden by the crowd.
"Kid!" a voice nearby called out, followed by murmured protests from the passersby on Joe's left. He turned to see what the commotion was about.
A heavyset man with a round face was pushing against the flow of the crowd, jostling people in his hurry to get to Joe. He smiled and waved, and Joe thought about turning tail and running. But it was too late. The cheery man clasped Joe's hand and shook it fiercely. Joe stared at the man, puzzled.
"Kid!" the man cried. "Don't you recognize me? It's Jolly!"
"Jolly?" Joe replied.
The man named Jolly nudged him in the ribs and lowered his voice. "Sure. You remember. That job we pulled on the French Riviera?"
"Oh," Joe answered, smiling nervously. "The French Riviera job. How've you been?"
Jolly winked at him. "I don't blame you for not recognizing me. We only met once, and that was a good ten years ago. But I never forget a face, kid." He ran a finger along Joe's cheek and nodded admiringly. "Great lift job. I can only just make out the scars.
"As for how I've been, well, it's been slow. I was thinking of getting a real job when this came up." For a moment Jolly's face fell into a frown, but then the smile returned. "A score like this should put us both on easy street for the rest of our lives. You want to ride with me to the meet?"
Joe glanced over his shoulder. Frank stood against a wall, watching them with the same puzzled expression that Joe felt he must have. Joe shrugged slightly and caught Frank's eye. Nodding, Frank faded back.
"Sure," Joe said.
Jolly led him out of the airport to the taxi stand, talking about old times and old scores. Joe decided to let Jolly do the talking, since Joe didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about.
He settled back in the cab, listening to Jolly and wondering where they were going.
The cab pulled up in front of a warehouse along the docks on San Diego's Embarcadero. "Sure this is where you want to go?" the driver asked. "This place has been shut down for years."
"Sure, I'm sure," Jolly said, handing the driver a twenty-dollar bill. "Keep the change, pal."
As the taxi drove off, Joe looked around. The street was all warehouses, but to the northwest Joe could see the tall buildings of downtown San Diego. Behind the warehouses was the shining blue of San Diego Bay - he could smell the ocean in the air.
"This way," Jolly said, gesturing toward a warehouse with a steel door painted red. "Didn't they give you instructions?"
"Let's just say I had to leave the dump where I was staying in a hurry," Joe lied. "Everything got left behind, including my luggage and the instructions."
"Well, that's one of the hazards," Jolly said. He pulled open the warehouse door.
Joe was expecting darkness inside, but instead the warehouse was filled with a soft blue light. "Come in," said a deep voice. They went in, letting the door close softly behind them.
A tall man stood just inside. He wore an expensive gray silk suit, white-on-white shirt, and a deadly gleam in his eye. A razor-thin scar, dead white, traced a line on his tanned face from the bottom of his left ear to the corner of his mouth. As he turned to face the newcomers, the outline of a large gun in a shoulder holster showed in the fabric of his suit coat.
"Names?" he asked with a faint Hispanic accent.
"I'm Jolly," Jolly said. He clapped a hand on Joe's shoulder. "This is my main man, the Kid. We're expected."
The scarred man nodded but didn't smile. "You're the last. Go in."
Joe and Jolly stepped past him, and the man followed them into the warehouse. A dozen or more men stood there, or sat on crates. No one spoke. Their eyes were riveted on a five-foot projection television screen that hung from the ceiling. The screen, empty of any picture but still on, was the source of the blue light.
The scarred man stepped in front of the screen and clapped his hands twice. All eyes were on him. "Greetings," he said. "I am Chavo. Your host, my employer will join us shortly.
"You, gentlemen—and lady—are the world's finest thieves. Perhaps the best that ever were. You all know why we are gathered here. If we are successful, we will all be rich beyond our wildest dreams. This means that we must work together, without fear of betrayal. Is there anyone here who feels he can't do that?"
A short man
with red hair piped up. "I don't trust anyone I've never met. The name's Brady."
"Everest," the man next to him said.
The next man stood up, the blue light bouncing off his shiny skull, and Joe swallowed hard. It was Chrome Lasker. But Lasker stared straight at Joe and identified himself. There was nothing in his face. Their two-second encounter at the airport hadn't been enough for him to recognize Joe.
" 'Cat' Willeford," said the man sitting on the crate with him, and Joe recognized Willeford as the mustached man who'd been talking to Lasker at the airport.
It went on and on, until everyone had identified himself.
Then Jolly stepped forward, bowing to the crowd as if they were an audience. "The name's Jolly," he said, "specialist in all things - crystal and silver. And this," — he pointed at Joe — "is the Kid."
Everyone was growing bored by then, but at the mention of the Kid's name, all heads popped up, eyeing him.
"You got to a score just before I did," Everest growled.
"Sorry about that," Joe said, clenching his fists. He could feel a fight coming on.
"Forget it," Everest replied, and his scowl turned to a smile. "Just don't cut me out of this one, or ... " He ran a fingernail across his throat, leaving a bright red streak. Joe nodded.
"Don't let him throw you, Kid," Brady said admiringly. "You're a legend. We study your capers.
"Now," Chavo continued, "if there's nothing else ... "
"Don't forget me," said a melodic voice, and Joe's blood ran cold. From the shadows stepped Charity, dressed now in a blouse and skirt. Calmly she strolled across the room, moving toward Joe.
He stood still, not knowing what to do as she said, "Someone here is hiding something."
The rest of the thieves in the room began to move, some nervous, some scowling. Several slipped things out of pockets — knives, blackjacks, brass knuckles — the weapons of their trade. Joe knew that when Charity fingered him, the others would descend on him and tear him to pieces. She kept walking, moving steadily toward him.
"I know," she said as she put her arms around Joe's neck, "who you really are."
Thick as Thieves Page 2
